#/you know darlin queue bring out the worst in me

[edgeplaymotif]

shots that make me feel sick in the head

[avengerscompound]

It’s You and Me - Chapter 2

It’s You and Me: A Hawkeye Fanfic

Series Masterlist PREVIOUS //

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Clint Barton x  F!Reader

Word Count:  1530

Rating:  E

Warnings:  Mentions of child abuse (including sexual), mentions of underage porn, snakes

Synopsis: You and Clint Barton go way back.  Since you joined the circus as a child, he took it upon himself to keep you away from the people who really wanted to hurt you.  For years the two of you danced a line between dark and light.

When he chooses light the two of you go your separate ways.

Fifteen years later he tracks you down.  Those feelings the two of you shared never went away, but now he is not only an Avengers but a single father.  Can the two of you make it work after all this time when your lives have gone in such different directions?

A series told in flashbacks and current day.

Chapter 2: Then

Clint had heard word about your arrival at the circus before he even saw you.  ‘Did you hear about the new girl?’  ‘Have you seen the new girl?’  ‘What do you know about the new girl?’

The circus was family and that family didn’t take new members very often.  They were picky about who was included.  Many would think that exclusivity would come out of a need for skilled performers.  That the new members would have to have something to bring to the big top. A talent that could be sold.  A new member would need to be able to walk a tightrope or swing on a trapeze.  Or at least have something special about them that people might pay money to see.

That wasn’t true at all.  The only thing you needed to join the Tiboldt Circus was to be desperate.  There was always a skill you could learn that would make you useful to the circus, and there were a lot of roles to fill.  It wasn’t unless you were truly desperate and you had no one else to turn that the circus would take you in.

So before Clint had even seen you, he’d heard all kinds of rumors about you, but the only thing he knew for sure was that you were desperate - because if you weren’t, you wouldn’t be here.

He first spotted you coming out of Jacques’ trailer, frowning and straightening your clothes.  There was at least one rumor about you that had been true.  You were young.  At a guess, Clint would have said fifteen.  You were at that awkward, in-between phase where you were just starting to show the outlines of the adult you’d become, but you definitely were not an adult.  The fact you were coming out of Jacques’ trailer meant you were more desperate than Clint had thought, and it made the archers’ blood boil.

He stormed over to the trailer and slammed the door open.  “What the hell is wrong with you?”  Clint shouted.  Jacques was putting away the camera he’d just used to take your pictures.  He still tried to hide what he was doing with the girls he brought in here.  Everyone knew, but knowing and having evidence were two different things.  “She’s a kid you fucking pervert.”

Jacques looked at Clint incredulously.  “She has to pull her weight and with no skills, that gives her something to do.”

“That’s what you call something to do?”  Clint shouted.  “You’re a disgusting creep.  Leave her out of your fucking bullshit porn ring, you fucking monster.”

Jacques pulled himself up to his full height.  To the small boy who had been beaten by his parents and foster parents, the full six feet and four inches that the Swordsman stood were intimidating.  Now Clint was seventeen and could match Jacques both in height and skill, he was no longer scared of his mentor.  “I promised you that I’d never hit you, Clint,” Jacques snapped.  “Don’t make me a liar.  This is none of your business.  I didn’t do anything she didn’t agree to.”

“And what did you promise her to make her agree to anything, huh?”  Clint snarled back.  “Fucking sicko.”

Jacques poked Clint hard in the sternum.  “You know the rules.  We don’t snitch on family.  Now go sulk about it, like you always do.”

Clint huffed and turned around, slamming the door behind him.  The circus was the safest place he had ever known, but there were times like this he wanted to burn it to the ground.  He stalked off in the direction he had seen you head off in.  Of all the shitty things that the circus pulled, Jacques’ photography was the worst one.  He targeted underage girls, and it made Clint sick to know there was nothing he could do about it that wouldn’t have him kicked out onto the street.

He found you over near the animals getting a little too close to the tigers.  “That looks like as good a way to end it all as any,” Clint said.

You spun around and assumed a defensive position.  Clint was reminded of a wolverine for a moment.  Small but all teeth and claws.  It spoke a lot about what you must have been through that you were so young and so ready to fight.

“They’re tame aren’t they?”  You asked.

“Not that tame,” Clint replied.  “They need to get to know you first.”

“Oh,” you said, disappointment etched on your features.

“You like animals, huh?”  Clint asked.

You backed away from him a little, getting closer still to the tigers.  Clint held his hands up and stepped back.  “Seriously, kid,” he said.  “I know your experience might say otherwise, but those guys are the bigger threat.  I’m not going to touch you, okay?”

“Lots of people say that,” you said.

“Did Jacques touch you?”  Clint asked.

You looked at him with your eyes narrowed, sizing him up for a moment, before shaking your head.

“Took your pictures though, right?”  He asked.

He didn’t need to elaborate.  You knew what he meant by taking your pictures and you dropped your eyes and nodded.

“You shouldn’t have let him do that,” Clint said.

“He said I had to if I wanted to stay,” you said.  “Said it would just be pictures of me.  Nothing else.  And you and I both know there are worse things than some pictures.”

Clint sighed and nodded.  “Yeah, unfortunately, I do,” he agreed.  “But you don’t gotta do that.  They just want you to contribute.  That’s all.  They tried to get me to do things I didn’t want to do.  So I learned archery instead.”

You looked at him suspiciously.  “What could I do?  I don’t know how to do anything.”

“I could teach you,” Clint said.  “Acrobatics.  How to fight.  Make it so no one ever touches you again.  Unless you want them to.”

You didn’t say anything.  To be honest, Clint hadn’t expected you to.  He knew what it was like to be in your position.  Back then he would hide behind Barney and let him do all the talking and make all the decisions.  Clint had been so angry and mistrustful back then.  To be fair, that hadn’t changed too much.  With all the criminal activity that happened here, he still didn’t trust the people he considered family.  He still held on to a lot of anger too and it would come out in violent bursts of rage without a target to aim it at.

But he wanted to be better and to do better, and maybe he could save you from the shit that this place could drag you into and have it just be a safe spot.

“I get it,” Clint said with a nod.  “You don’t trust me.  I wouldn’t either.  But, I’ll be around.  And if you like I can talk to someone who works with the animals.  You can start by helping them out.”

“You’d do that?”  You asked.

Clint nodded.  “Yeah.  We aren’t all shit.  But you’ll probably be shoveling a lot of it.”

You laughed.  It didn’t last long.  More of a puff of air than anything.  But for a brief moment, a smile passed over your face, and it had been the first one he’d seen you wear.

“Just… keep away from Jacques,” Clint said.  “You don’t answer to him.  He’s not the boss here.”

You nodded again and seemed to go to say something, though you quickly changed your mind when two women appeared around the side of the tent.  Side-by-side they could have been sisters, standing the same height, with a similar complexion.  Even their hair was a similar color, though one’s sat in long, tight curls and the other was shorter and straighter.  The main difference between them was the woman on the right was covered in tattoos and the one on the left had unblemished skin.  She also carried a large python that had curled its way around her.

“Clint, there you are,” the tattooed woman said.  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“I’ve been around,” Clint said, trying to play it cool.  He’d had a crush on Eden for a while now, and recently it seemed to be reciprocated.  “Eden, Zelda this is… uhh…”  He paused and looked at you, realizing he didn’t know your name.  Thankfully you took the queue and quickly gave it to the two women.  “Zelda, you think you might have anything for her to do?  She likes animals.”

“You okay with snakes, sweetie?”  Zelda asked.

“Oh yeah,” you said, quickly.  “I think they’re really cool.”

“Come with me then,” she said.  “You can help me with the snakes.  Maybe I’ll talk to Tarrax or Major -” she looked over at Clint.  “Cleaning up elephant shit won’t be enough for long, you know?”

Clint nodded.  “I know.”

You followed after Zelda and Clint turned his attention to Eden.  “So you were looking for me, huh?”

Eden smirked and approached him.  “Was thinking we could go into the town.  See what trouble we can get into.”

Clint held out his elbow out to her.  “Darlin’, knowing you, it will be quite a lot.”

// NEXT

[kinkykinard]

19 with Bones and plus size reader?

Enjoy, love!

Prompt in italics.

It’s graduation day and you’re pacing nervously around the waiting area where you and the rest of the cadets are getting ready to walk the stage and receive your degrees.  You absolutely hate being up in front of other people, and having to go up there to shake hands with the admiral and receive your degree - in a dress uniform no less - is the stuff of nightmares.

Smoothing your hands down over your uniform, which you’re terrified is bunching and wrinkling up in all of the worst places as it hugs your curves, you take a slow, shaky breath and try to remind yourself that it’ll all be over quickly.  Unfortunately, you know that you’re somewhere near the middle of the list of graduates, and you know you’re going to have to stand there, stewing in your own discomfort and anxiety for a while yet before you can make an escape and change into something less fitted.You jump and yelp a moment later when you feel a hand land on your shoulder.  Spinning around, nearly toppling over from the momentum of your haste, you find yourself being steadied by a familiar face.  Blushing slightly as you straighten up and take a small step back, you drop your arms to your sides.“Nervous?”  Leonard McCoy asks you softly, taking in your discomfiture.You shrug your shoulders, averting your gaze.“I’ll just be glad when it’s over,” you mumble.  “I’m dying to get out of this uniform.”You can feel Leonard’s frown as his gaze sweeps you.“Well, if it’s any consolation, I think you look great,” he offers.  “The uniform suits you, and it brings out your eyes.”You smile faintly, your gaze still downcast, and stiffen a bit as the hand on your shoulder begins to travel downward, stopping just below your elbow.  You finally look up, curious, and see Leonard regarding you with a warm, kind expression.“Can I hold your hand?”  He asks.  “Just until we’re called up?”

You’re not used to the kind of attention he’s giving you and at first it throws you for a bit of a loop.  Panicking a little on the inside, echoes of times past where you’d been led on just to be made fun of for falling for it reverberating around in your head, you swallow thickly.  You say nothing, but Leonard’s a brilliant observer.“Let me earn your trust, sugar,” Leonard says gently.  “Let me make you feel a little better.”You pause another moment and finally nod, splaying your fingers as he slips his hand lower still and twines his fingers in with yours.  The warmth of his palm is welcome against your cool, clammy skin and the squeeze of reassurance he gives you belies genuineness.  He tugs on your hand gently, leading you toward the queue that’s forming off side of the stage as people begin to get organized.“Let’s go get ‘em,” he encourages.  “You’ve got this, darlin’.”

[edgeplaymotif]

This ones been sitting in my drafts for a month it’s time she sees the light of day

[edgeplaymotif]

gingeh tea. green tea. honey! water. boiled. take it off. yesssss.

[kinkykinard]

Finding Home

Fandom: Star Trek (AOS/TOS). Pairing:  ReaderXBones. Prompt: Requested by Anon – reader is triggered by something and breaks down, and Bones is there to comfort them. Word Count: 3619. Warnings: anxiety, panic attack. Rating: Teen+. Author’s Note: Being triggered into a full-blown panic attack is something I would not wish on even my worst enemies.  I know there are a lot of you out there who have anxieties, past traumas haunting you, and PTSD.  It’s so hard to deal with.  If you ever, EVER need to talk, I’m always here to listen.  Shout out to @starshiphufflebadger for helping inspire me for this fic, too!  The actual trigger and situation preceding it were her ideas.  Flashbacks in the story are denoted in italics.

Finding Home You’re sitting across the table from Leonard in the mess hall, picking at your replicated dinner as the two of you engage in small talk about your respective days.  You roll your eyes as he goes off on a rant about the red-shirts again, and you gently remind him that his job would be awfully boring if the operations crew never got themselves injured.  He reluctantly agrees and falls silent, letting you go on about your work in the geology lab instead. “So there used to be an ocean there?” the doctor asks, turning the facts you’ve given him over in his mind. You smile as he makes the connection and feel a flush of pride for him – he’s clearly been listening to you when you’ve talked about work, whereas most people tune you out as you bore them to tears. “Right,” you say with a nod.  “You remembered that pale-colored sediments are indicative of deposition and lithification in anoxic environments! It’s so nice to know that someone actually listens to me sometimes.”

He grins at you and takes a bite of his dessert: peach cobbler, his favorite. “You’ve got a lot of interesting things to say, darlin’,” he says with a wink.  “Some people just refuse to be educated.” You blush at his words, the compliment warming you, the unspoken acknowledgment of your brilliance making you feel giddy. You’re just wondering how to reply to his words when a sudden, high-pitched deafening noise fills your ears. Dropping your utensils, you clasp your hands over your ears to drown out some of the noise, glancing around frantically. Moments later, a bright, strobing, red and white light joins the fray, overwhelming your vision.  You feel your chest tighten reflexively, putting your heart and lungs in a vice as panic suddenly overwhelms you.  The fire alarm brings you immediately back to the worst night of your life and the panic of those around you fades into the background as your own anxiety paralyzes you. You’re eight years old.  You’re in the back seat of your parents’ car with your twin sister, on your way home from dinner with some friends in the next town over. It’s pitch black and just below freezing outside.  A torrential rain is pounding on the roof of the car and ice is beginning to form on the road.  The lights on the highway are few and far between, and you hear your dad mention something about it getting really slippery. The next thing you know, the inside of the car is illuminated in bright white by the headlights of a transport truck barreling toward your car, out of control.  You hear screaming and a colossal crunching noise, and the last thing you remember is pain as your seat belt bites into your chest and belly, holding you in place as the car is thrown off of the road and rolls down a steep hillside before coming to a rest at the bottom of the slope. You’re crying, scared and confused as bright red and white lights flash in the night around you – ambulance lights illuminating the tree tops overhead as you’re carried up the slope your car had rolled down by paramedics, strapped to a hard board of some kind and unable to move. One of the men is trying to reassure you, but he won’t tell you where your mom, dad, or sister are and it’s terrifying you. Two days later, you wake up in a hospital with a doctor standing over you, examining what you quickly realize is a cast on your leg that covers from your toes to the top of your thigh.  One of your arms is in a cast, too, and everything hurts.  You’re crying as the doctor finishes his exam, begging for your mom and dad. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” the doctor says gently, putting a hand on your shoulder.  “They were hurt very badly in the accident.  We did everything we could, but we couldn’t save them. They’re gone.” Your sister is gone, too, you find out moments later.  There’s no one left but you.  You’re alone – completely and utterly – and the last memory you have of your family is that of their screams and their faces, contorted in  of panic, illuminated by the lights of that transport truck. “Y/N!”  A familiar voice calls over the din of the fire alarm.  “Talk to me, sweetheart!” Your chest constricts even more at the term on endearment – the same one the doctor had used when he’d broken the news to you all those years ago – and all you can do is drag in ragged, shallow breaths as a strong pair of hands grips your shoulders.  You can’t see through your tears and your head is swimming, dizziness and a gnawing physical agony drawing you closer and closer to passing out with each moment. “Come on, we need to move,” the voice beckons again.  “I’ve got you.” Recognition breaks through the fog of sheer panic that’s blanketing you – the voice belongs to Leonard McCoy.  You fight to control your breathing as the flashbacks continue, throwing you back into the fray of the emotions you felt on the day you lost your family, the acuity of the feelings erasing the years that have passed in which you’ve had time to grieve and freshening the pain. You’re too breathless to even yelp as you’re swept off of your feet and carried out of the mess hall in Dr. McCoy’s arms. He’s speaking to you, trying to break through your panic, but to no avail.  You cling to him desperately, your chest heaving as he joins the queue of people calmly leaving the mess hall to get to their assigned muster points.  Everyone is moving quickly and in an orderly fashion, and it doesn’t take long for the doctor to carry you out of the mess and into the hallway.  Unfortunately, it’s more of the same thing and in an even smaller space, and your grip on Leonard tightens as the sensory overload drives your panic further. You’re burying your head in his chest, trying to calm the assault on your senses, and you don’t even notice that he’s barking at people to get out of his way, citing a medical emergency.  He rushes you to the nearest muster point, holding you to his chest and wishing he could get you somewhere private and secure but knowing he needs to stay put until the alert is called off.  He murmurs to you softly, but loudly enough that you can hear him over the din. Seconds stretch into minutes and you feel like you’re on the verge of passing out.  Eventually, though, the lights stop flashing and the normal bright-whites at the top of the corridor come back on.  The sirens stop blaring and an announcement by the chief of engineering, Mr. Scott himself, comes on overhead. “Sorry ‘bout tha’, folks!  Mandatory fire drill.  Well done – you can all carry on with your day now.” The doctor swears under his breath as he turns with you still in his arms, immediately striding toward med bay. “Hold on, darlin’,” he reassures you.  “I’ll give you something to help calm you down right away, just try to breathe for me.” “No!”  You cry weakly, pulling harder on his tunic.  “I don’t w-want to go to medical.  Please!” Your anxiety and desperation push him in the opposite direction and against his better judgment.  He brings you to the turbo lift instead, still pushing through crowds of crew members milling about in the wake of the fire drill.  Those standing in front of the doors part to let the two of you through and the doors slide closed in your wake, leaving you alone in the lift. “I’m taking you back to my room, sweetheart,” the doctor promises.  “But you’re going to have to work with me to control your breathing, okay?  Can you please try that?” By way of response, you attempt to drag in a breath.  It’s probably a good sign that you’re able to focus on his words even a little bit, but the little spark of good is lost in a sea of grief and anxiety and you only get so far as to take a slightly deeper breath in, holding it as the lift stops on your floor. You hold it, your body beginning to tremble from the lack of oxygen, until you can’t bear it anymore and then you breathe out in a rush, sawing another breath in raggedly as you reach Leonard’s quarters. The door opens for the two of you and the doctor immediately carries you over to his bed, setting you gently down on the mattress.  You refuse to let go of his tunic, holding yet another breath as you claw at him. The gentle thump of his knuckles against your sternum serves as a tactile reminder for you to breathe and you gasp again, this time keeping up the rhythm of inhale, exhale as Leonard reaches up to gently extricate your hands from his shirt, holding onto them with his own instead. “Talk to me, sweetheart,” he murmurs gently, squeezing your hands to give you something tangible to hold onto.  “What’s happening?” You shake your head as your anxiety suddenly becomes compounded by shame.  Tugging your arms against the grasp he has on your hands, you try to pull away but he doesn’t give in.  You begin to feel trapped and your fear spirals, your breathing almost immediately becoming uncontrollable all together.  You’re breathing in great, gasping sobs, barely getting any air, and thankfully Leonard realizes what’s happened. “Okay, okay, darlin’,” he soothes, letting go of your wrists and watching you pull away and put your back to him so he can’t see your face.  “Hey, Y/N, listen to me: breathe.” His voice is much more urgent now, his tone a little sharper, but it’s enough to break through your terror.  It takes you a minute or two to get your breathing under control again, but when you do, it’s coming easier than it was before your anxiety had precipitated a minute ago.  Leonard soothes you softly, his hand rubbing your hip as you lie facing away from him. “That’s a good girl,” he says quietly.  “Just keep that up.  In… and out.  You’re doing great.” He's not asking about what set you into a tailspin, and for that you’re eternally grateful.  You’re just not ready to talk about it yet, not while the adrenaline is coursing through you, making your body work overtime, driving you to what feels like the brink of madness. “Just going to check your pulse here, darlin’,” Leonard explains a moment later and you nod, feeling him stop his petting and reach for your wrist instead. As he measures your heart rate, you reach up with your shaky other hand, wiping your tears away before any more of them soak into his blankets.  The moisture that’s landed on the fabric already, however, is liberating his comforting scent – rosewood, cinnamon, and disinfectant; an odd but strangely endearing combination that puts you at ease a little with its familiarity. You feel him release your wrist a moment later and his hand is immediately back at your side, his thumb stroking your hipbone lightly in a slow, soothing rhythm that you find yourself attempting to match your breathing to now that you’re thinking a little bit more clearly. “Keep doing what you’re doing,” he encourages you.  “You’re okay, Y/N.” You nod slowly, trying your best to believe him, and you close your eyes.  You’re more tired than you’ve ever been in the wake of the worst of the anxiety, but even as you begin to settle, you find yourself unable to sleep.  You just keep breathing with Leonard rhythmically stroking your hip and eventually moving up to pet your hair instead.  His touch is like an anxiety pill and you find the feelings melting away, leaving you calmer with every passing moment. After a half hour or so, your tears dry up and you turn over so you’re on your back, turning your head to face Leonard. His expression is unendingly sympathetic and his caring almost breaks you again, but you manage to hold it together. You take a shaky breath, averting your gaze a little, and reach out to twine your fingers together with his. “Can you pull up my personnel file?”  You ask him. He looks a little confused, but he reaches out and plucks his PADD up off of the bedside table nevertheless, unlocking the screen and typing your details with his free hand, the tablet balanced on his lap. “Look through my pre-admission psych evaluation,” you instruct him.  “I just… I’m not ready to talk about it right now, but it’s all in there.” Leonard nods, accessing the pertinent part of your file, reading in silence for several long minutes.  You don’t know exactly what’s written in the paperwork, but you know that your whole life history is summarized in its pages for him to see.  You can’t bear to watch him, his shocked and pained expressions, and so you glance away, your eyes tracing the riveting on the ceiling as you try to catch up on some deep breathing.  You feel sick to your stomach from all of the emotion and you run a hand through your hair, shivering from the exertion of it all.  It’s at that moment that Leonard looks up and he frowns, reaching out to gently stroke your forehead. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs quietly.  “I had no idea.” You nod. “I don’t talk about it much,” you offer. “Sometimes I just get flashbacks. Certain sounds or sights will trigger those memories and…” You gesture to yourself, to the state that you’re in with your hair disheveled and your face splotchy from the crying. Leonard sets his PADD aside and leans forward to gently kiss your forehead. “Those lights,” you croak.  “When the flashing started… it reminded me of the headlights I saw just before we were hit.  It was like I was right back there again.” He nods and smooths your hair down, taming the locks that have liberated themselves from your hair tie.  Gently trailing his fingertips over your cheek, he slips his hand down along your jawline and neck, resting his palm ultimately on your chest, the weight of it reassuring you and giving you something to hold onto as you navigate your way out of the swirling maelstrom of emotions. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” you whisper, closing your eyes against the onslaught of shame you’re suddenly feeling. “Oh, Y/N, no,” he says softly.  “Don’t say that, sugar.  I’m glad I was here for you.” Your shivering is growing increasingly violent, your body’s coping mechanisms becoming strained by your tiredness.  You swallow thickly, choking back a fresh wave of tears, and sigh. “I want you to get some rest,” the doctor expresses.  “You’ve been through a lot today.” “I don’t know if I can sleep right now,” you mumble, wrapping your arms around yourself in an attempt to chase away the trembling. “Well, why don’t you get changed out of your uniform first, see how you feel,” he suggests, moving to stand up, leaving the spot on your chest that his palm has vacated feeling cool. You shift around, sitting up as he crosses the room and opens the closet door, reaching for something on the rack above the hangers.  You watch him as he pulls a couple of articles of clothing out and returns to your side, holding them out to you. “They’re going to be way too long for you, but they’ll be comfortable,” Leonard says lightly.  “Go on and get changed, I’ll bring you some tea.” You shakily get to your feet as he heads to the kitchenette, slowly peeling off your dress and folding it carefully.  You set it aside and unclip your bra.  Your boots come off last but your socks stay on to keep your feet warm as you step into sweatpants that are far longer and looser than is reasonable.  Stooping down, you roll up the bottoms of each leg so your feet can touch the floor unhindered and you roll up the waistband, too, securing it with a tug on the strings and a tight bow.  With that done, you slip the shirt he’s given you over your head, rolling up the sleeves, too, reveling in its softness. Leonard returns as you finish up and he sets the tea mug he’s brought with him down on the bedside table, gesturing to the bed.  He folds down the blankets, encouraging you wordlessly to crawl beneath them, and pulls them up again once you’re settled.  He stands over your seated form, his gaze lingering on the dark circles under your eyes as you fidget with the blanket in your lap. “Drink that, it’ll help,” he instructs you quietly, his tone soothing.  “I’ll be right back.” As he retreats, you pick up the mug and sniff at the tea in it, making a face.  It smells unappetizing, but you know that whatever it is will settle your stomach and help calm you; Leonard always deliberately picks what sort of herbal tea he brings you when you’re not feeling your best, usually with good results. Taking a tentative sip, you groan – it tastes even worse than it smells.  Still, you manage to choke down half a mug full before Leonard returns and he smiles proudly at you as you set the remainder aside. “How’s that?”  He asks, taking a seat at your side and setting his med kit down in his lap. “Better,” you admit, feeling the nausea beginning to settle. “Good,” Leonard says, his tone relieved. “Now, feel free to say no because as your boyfriend I don’t want to push you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, but as your doctor, I’d really like to give you something to help relax you and put you to sleep.  You need your rest, darlin’, and it’ll help that headache, too.” You furrow your eyebrows, confused because you hadn’t mentioned your headache, but you quickly realize that you’re rubbing your neck, trying to ease the tension in the muscles there.  Leonard has always been extremely perceptive and you can’t help but smile softly.  You hesitate a few moments, your anxiety paradoxically pushing you not to accept the offer of an anxiolytic, but you eventually nod. “Thank you,” he says gratefully, his relief evident on his features, the for being reasonable hanging unspoken in the air.  “Okay, darlin’, lie down for me.” You acquiesce easily, shuffling down the length of the bed until you can lie back with your head on the pillow.  Leonard is smiling softly at you as he unzips his kit, his practiced hands pulling out the appropriate vial and assembling the hypo within seconds.  You turn your head to the side, away from him, and squeeze your eyes shut in anticipation of the hypo.  The sting is preceded by a gently stroke of his fingers, and followed by a careful rubbing. “Mmm,” you sigh, turning your head back to face him again and blinking your tired eyes open to meet his beautiful hazel gaze.  “Thanks, Lee. You always know how to take care of me.” He chuckles, the sound reverberating in your ears and warming you as the medication begins to steal away vestiges of your consciousness. “I love you, Y/N,” he murmurs in response. “I’m here.  I’ll always be here.” You hum softly in acknowledgement of his words as you’re drawn into slumber.  As your body relaxes and your breathing evens out, Leonard’s hand slips to your neck, his fingertips resting at the pulse point there, counting the now-slower beats to reassure himself that you’re alright.   He’s still by your side when the first of the night’s many bad dreams claim you a while later.  He shakes you awake gently and pulls you tight to his chest, murmuring reassurances as he presses kisses into your hair.  He’s warm, vital, and grounding as you fight to remember that you’re not that child anymore, that orphan without a tie to anyone.  He’s there and he’s alive, as the heartbeat thumping softly in your ear where your head is pressed to his chest tells you. Every time you lie back down to try to sleep again, you remind yourself that he’ll still be there when you wake up, and eventually, as though your mind has heard the reassurances enough, you drift off one more time and stay that way until the chime of Leonard’s alarm wakes you up in the morning.  Fear grips you for only a second before you come to feel the arms around you and you realize that those flashbacks, those nightmares hold no power over you now; you’re home.

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