#As far away as possible like a guilt grenade

[thewalrusespublicist]

Cynthia Lennon truly was gods strongest soldier. Like imagine your husband, your childhood sweetheart, father of your child, the man who carved your name into the churches of Europe as his form of worship. This same man, the man who once wrote you aching letters about wanting to live and be alone with just you, telling you and the world that he can’t be apart from his boy besties for five minutes.

Then barely a year later he gets into a frankly comical amount of LSD, essentially moves in with his most special boy bestie, goes through his multiple affairs in detail with you like a hellish ‘what I did on my holidays’ slideshow, and finally tells you that he wants to leave you by having his mistress/heroin buddy/your former stalker sit on the sofa wearing your dressing gown as you return home from holiday before dragging you through the court until you are broken in every sense. Broken hearted, broken financially and broken homed. You are destitute, in tatters with a little boy he won’t see due to distance and commitment to said former stalker who he is parading round with on a ‘peace and love’ tour whilst filling up rooms with fur coats.

Then a few years later he temporarily splits from his new wife, seems to recover himself slightly and finally trots out a song. A song of apology, contrition, love, devotion, and recommitment full of personal little in jokes and messages. It is a song of love but you can’t understand it because it isn’t to YOU, it mostly isn’t even to HER, but to his FORMER BANDMATE.

HIS. FORMER. BANDMATE.

With hammers. I would have killed him with hammers.

[twoidiotwriters1]

Daughter of Olympus (Leo Valdez xFem!Oc)

A/N: Sorry for the delay! I went insane for a few days but I'm better now -Danny Words: 1,830 Series' Masterlist Previous Chapter / Next Chapter Listen to: 'Die Trying' -by MICHL

XXXV: This Barbie is Consumed by Guilt

"I don't agree," Lily says firmly.

Malcolm looks at her like he wants to stab her. "Get it together!"

"I can't go with my siblings either," I state.

Percy scowls at us, he's frustrated as well. "What are you two up to?"

I look at Jake. "Tell him."

My friend steps forward. "She has Beckendorf's old notebook."

"What notebook?" I pull it out of my bag and show it to Percy. "Hey, these are the bombs we hid in the bus... and the ones we used for the Andromeda!"

"There's more," I say. "Ten grenade designs, and traps that we haven't tried yet. Beck was hoping not to need them at all, but..."

"So you guys are building these?"

"I have a few ready," I pull my dino bag forward. "But they're not enough. If we want to win, I'll have to loot a few places."

"Alright," Percy doesn't hesitate this time. "Beckendorf's creations were always fault-proof, you can make these."

"You can only take three campers with you, though," Annabeth makes an educated guess as to how many people they can spare at the moment.

"Lily, Connor," I can't take Travis or Michael, they're counselors. Same thing with Jake. "Nyssa, you're coming."

Lily and Connor are exceptional pickpocketers, they can loot a store and get you anything you want without having to break windows or set alarms off. Nyssa and I will make lists of all the things we need, and then we'll build as we go. 

We split into two groups: Connor goes with Nyssa, and Lily with me. Before we leave, I hug my brother. As he leans forward I hold him tighter and whisper to him. 

"I know about Achilles."

"We'll talk later," he says. "I promise."

"You better."

The group scatters, but someone runs up to us before we go too far. 

"Hang on!" Michael searches his backpack and pulls out a walkie-talkie. He gives it to Lily. "If something happens, call me. I'll find you."

Lily shakes her head. "You can't—"

"You're like sisters to me," he presses. "I won't turn my back on you now." 

I take the walkie and hug him, part of me doesn't want to let go. 

"Don't get killed," he tightens his grip around me. "You have a title to gain."

"See you in a bit." 

I step back so Lily can hug him, I lock eyes with Mike for a second, we never talked about the kiss and there's no point in doing it now, so I seize Lily's hand, and we walk away.

Ara's suffering from separation anxiety and she hasn't even left camp. She keeps walking around, looking for a problem that may require her to stay, but she's fixed most by now. Even Jason's cabin has been remodeled and furnished, same thing with Aphrodite's.

In short, Ara discovers she's been doing a great job at the worst time possible. And to make things worse, Leo's still avoiding her. Part of her is guilty because she thought that moving back in with his parents wasn't a big deal, but he seemed pretty upset about it.

"I wish I could go with you," Lily sighs as she arranges her armor. 

Ara snorts. "No, you don't."

Her friend smiles. "Yeah, but I wouldn't hate it, you know? Going to school, attending proms and all that..."

Ara wrinkles her nose. "I won't go to prom."

Lily's shocked. "But it's your first school dance!"

"Percy promised he'd take me, but he's obviously not going to, so..."

The dark-haired girl pouts. "We used to daydream about it, Ara. Are you sure it isn't..." her friend pauses. "You're not worried about not having a date, right?"

"I haven't gone to that school at all this year," she reminds her. "I don't know if I have the same classmates as before, or if they even remember me."

Lily rolls her eyes. "I know a short brunette doesn't sound like a lot, but you're a daughter of Olympus, you draw people in like moths to a flame—"

"Wow, that's flattering."

Her friend laughs. "You know what I mean."

Ara shakes her head. "I don't wanna go, Lils. It wouldn't be fun."

"But your mom said—"

"Don't use that against me..." she whines.

"You love dancing!"

"You know what I love? When you win using the bow I made for you," she pushes Lily forward. "Go get that Flag, civetta."

Lily mutters complaints as she walks onward. Ara's so glad to have Lily, she can second-guess many things in life, but her friendship with Lily is not one of them.

Piper walks up to Ara and nudges her arm. "You're not playing?"

Ara shakes her head with a sad smile. "I miss it a lot, but it wouldn't be fair."

Her sister points in Lily's direction. "She's the one who taught you to be sneaky, right?"

"She's like a ghost," Ara grins. "You're lucky to be playing on her team."

"No joke..." Piper lowers her voice. "I'm sorry Leo didn't take the news well, I think that he was looking forward to spending time with us... and you. He's never stayed in one place for long, this was his first chance to do so."

Ara groans, deeply embarrassed. "I'm usually the one who dives right into awkward conversations, I don't know why I find it so hard with him now."

"Maybe 'cause you care a little too much about what he thinks."

Ara ponders this. "I'll talk to him tonight, I promise."

Piper shrugs. "You don't have to promise me that."

"Right," she blushes. "Well, uh, thank you for talking to me, then?"

Piper hugs her sideways. "No problem."

Ara walks up to Chiron and stands next to him. Usually, she waits with him until the game ends, but now he's got something else in mind. 

"You should take this time to brood on your prophecy."

Ara groans, a bit more dramatically this time. "Chiron, honestly, has that ever worked?"

"Aren't you the exception to most rules?"

Her mind drifts to something else. "You didn't want me to leave camp when the war ended, but you agreed to let me go now. Why?"

"Because I'm not your guardian," he sighs. "I'm an... advisor of sorts."

"Alright, advisor," the girl stares at him frowning. "I'm going home while everyone else works. Is that wise or cowardly?"

"Neither. I call it saving the best for last," he replies. "You are our secret weapon. Just because the monsters know you exist now, doesn't mean it'll stop working."

"Then I'm no exception to the rule," she responds smartly. "I'm your last resort."

He smiles knowingly. "We should always give the enemy a chance to retreat before we attack them with, er..."

"Your worst?" She suggests.

"Our best chance at winning," the centaur corrects.

"That isn't a compliment, is it?"

Chiron heaves a sigh. "A child of Olympus rarely gets compliments while they're alive."

She pouts. "Well, I'll go think about my terrible prophecy then, see you..."

As she walks through the forest, she reminisces about the war, not the prophecy. It feels like it was ages ago. Ara's stuck between wishing she could go back, and hoping to never again be who she was before getting her title.

She draws out her compass and looks at it, the needle is steadily pointing in a single direction.

"I heard Annabeth and Malcolm are activating plan twenty-three," Nyssa mentions. "What's that about?"

"All the statues on the island are automatons," Lily explains. "I've been going over the plan with her and Malcolm for weeks—Haven't slept well since, I still remember Ara's dragon..."

"He's just a little rusty!" I argue, but then I notice the dark circles under her eyes. "Have you been eating properly, at least?"

"No. I gave her an apple this morning though," Connor replies.

"How thoughtful of you," I tease him.

"Shut up."

"How come you never bring me food when I skip meals?"

"You could blow me up in flames if I go near one of your crazy inventions."

"Ara hasn't exploded anything in a year, three months, two weeks, and three days," Lily answers immediately. "That's a thing of the past."

"Speaking of," I smirk. "Did you know the Greeks used to throw apples at people they were in love with, Connor?"

"And if the other caught it, it meant the love was reciprocated," Nyssa replies in the same way.

"Next time I throw something, it'll be my knives at you two," Lily warns us.

Ara shouldn't interfere with the game, but this is the best time to hold a private conversation without interruption. She finds Leo exactly where the compass said he'd be, Ara approaches quietly from behind and covers his mouth so he doesn't alert others. 

"It's me!" She whispers as the boy squirms in her arms. "We need to talk!"

Leo snatches her hand away. "Are you insane?" He whispers angrily. "I almost set you on fire!"

"You've been avoiding me, I couldn't risk you sneaking away!" She argues. "I want a chance to explain myself."

"I'm in the middle of a game—"

"Leo," she gives him her best puppy eyes. "Please? I know you're upset and I don't want you to be."

Leo groans, but the blush on his face isn't helping him. "Does it have to be right now?"

Ara shrugs. "I should wait. I'm not allowed to interfere during Capture the Flag..."

"I'll see you at the campfire," he tells her. "Now leave me alone, your face is distracting me."

She chuckles, eyeing him with a playful gaze. "You look adorable in armor, by the way."

"Go away!" He presses, smoke coming out of his ears.

Ara giggles but obliges. Just as she exits the forest, she spots Janus standing near the forges, looking right at her. Her mouth goes dry. "No!"

The god vanishes in a heartbeat. Ara feels her legs wavering under her and she falls to her knees, severely nauseous. She tries to focus on the coldness of the grass, or the strawberry fragrance coming from uphill, but she's having trouble breathing. 

"A crossroad is approaching," says a voice. An echo of a memory. 

"You're incredible at this," Lily points out. "Although you should wear gloves."

My fingers are covered in cuts, the wire's thin and I'm not gentle. "I thought I had them in my bag, but I must've left them in my cabin."

"Where are you putting all of these?"

I point towards the Empire State.

"Why there? The Monsters haven't reached the city."

"You know why," I say without looking up.

Lily takes a moment to respond. "These are all last resorts, aren't they?"

I nod. "If everything else fails, I'm hoping these will kill enough monsters to give us one last chance."

Lily starts a new bomb but stops for a moment. 

"Do you think we have a chance right now?" I look up, and for a moment I think a bird has pooped on her because she's scowling at the sky, then I realize she's trying not to tear up. "I wouldn't mind dying if I knew the rest would have a chance to survive..."

"Don't say it like that," I reply, now also feeling like crying. "This is just starting. Don't say that."

Lily fixes her posture. "Right. Sorry," she sniffs. "I need you to promise me something, though."

"I'm listening."

"I'll be your second in command once you become General," she says determinately. "Where you go, I go."

"You, Mike, and I forever," I nod. "You have my word."

Next Chapter ->

Taglist.

@siriuslysirius1107 @ask-giggles1303 @ash-the-hoarder @im-planning-something-look @bandshirts-andbooks @coolninjapaper @thewaterlily @whenisthefall @1randomcomic @you-bloody-shank @sunflowergraves @owlalex44 @taylordaughter @typicalsolangelolover @writingmia @espressopatronum454 @slytherinnqueen @orbitingpolaris @obxstiles

[clockworkowl]

I don’t know why but I have spent way too much time developing a headcanon about how just about everyone behaves when either they are ill/injured or you/other characters are ill/injured. Will this lead to me actually writing a fic? (the odds aren’t great given how long it’s been since I’ve even written anything with my own characters let alone trying to stay true to the sketch of someone else’s) Who knows, but I guess this is the closest I’ve come to writing anything at all in far too long.

Sholmes:

*I think we can all agree that Sholmes is the absolute worst when he’s sick.

*He’s totally the type who being the slightest bit ill turns into a complete dramatic bitch and hams up the tiniest of colds like he’s about to die from the consumption. He lightly groans as though the effort of extending his arm fully to take a Kleenex out of the box himself is too much. Like my old rat D’onofrio his breathing is fine if he has no idea you are home, but the second he notes your presence every breath is a wheezy death rattle until you come and worry and fuss over him until his attention meter is full up.

*But also as soon as there’s something he actually wants to do he’s magically cured and runs off without even putting on a coat.

*In a modern AU he for some reason spends a lot of time on WebMD either convincing you that his allergy-related headache is a rare usually fatal disease. Or that you probably have a rare malady that is exacerbated by eating pheasant he should probably go ahead and eat your pheasant because he’s only thinking of your health.

* When you are sick it is unpredictable at best, but it depends on how sick you actually are. There will probably be a variety of dubious cures and tinctures which you should probably ignore unless Iris made them.

*He has literally tied Kazuma to a bed (this will make more sense shortly).

*He will also somehow claim to find Ryunosuke’s take all the meds at once approach reasonable.

Kazuma:

*Asogi is also a terrible patient who will drive you to want to drink, but in the opposite fashion to Sholmes.

*He’s the ‘it’s only a flesh wound’ type who will thoroughly ignore any and all evidence of illness or injury claiming he is perfectly fine and hale until he is half dead with it and passes out

*Even after he regains consciousness will continue to argue that he will be in tomorrow he only needs to run it under a cold tap.

*You will have to tie him to a bed to get him to take doctor’s orders, and then he will be sullen about it.

*Once you get him into a room and confiscate clothes he could go outside in where he is sulking he will change tactics and he will order you around a lot trying to make you angry enough to throw your hands up and let him take care of himself, except with Ryunosuke who he knows this won’t work on so he just tries to wheedle him into bringing his clothes back and makes double entendres and suggestive comments about being tied to the bed.

*When it is you who is sick he will become the overbearing one and you won’t be sure whether that is because he worries about you or because it’s revenge for when he was sick.

Ryunosuke:

*Ryunosuke is challenging when he’s ill because he will acknowledge the illness and neither exaggerate or ignore it, but he is too concerned about whether it inconveniences everyone else for him to be ill, so he will try to downplay or hide the fact he’s as sick as he is.

*He’ll try to get well as quick as possible hence doing dumb stuff like taking all the meds at once.

*He can be reasoned with, like you could convince him to go home and take a day off, or that if he shows up sick he’ll get you all sick, but he’ll try to work from home or come back before he’s 100% or he’ll also try to prevent anyone from helping him because he feels like he’s causing extra work or that he might get someone sick.

*Can also be intimidated into being a good patient with the threat of a Susato Takedown or Barok just glaring at him until he caves.

*When you are sick he worries over you and runs around trying to make everything easy for you. Sholmes will take advantage of that to the max, so he must be sent elsewhere to avoid that.

*Once threatened to tie Kazuma to the bed so he would follow doctor’s orders. Once he realized how suggestive that sounded and got flustered he gave up on that plan (even though everyone agreed it was actually the only plan that was likely to be successful.) Now they rib him about it every time either he or Asogi get ill.

Susato:

*Susato is level-headed and actually a fairly good patient to no one’s surprise, provided she is the only one who is ill.

*She will also be worried about being an inconvenience, but has the sense to do what’s needed to get better and then tries to make it up to everyone after even though no one thinks that’s necessary

*She won’t let anyone help her though unless she really needs it. As she doesn’t want them to get sick or to fuss.

*If others are sick she will tend to put them all before her even if she’s sicker, and gets stubborn about this. This has led to at least one occasion of Sholmes dropping the theatrics and Kazuma acting like a model patient at the same time.

* When you’re sick she is no nonsense and actually helpful. She spends a lot of time shooting down Sholmes’ webMD self diagnoses, and makes Ryunosuke give her his prescriptions so she can administer the dosage because she doesn’t have time to drag him to the hospital. She has also had to threaten the Susato takedown on Kazuma more than once if he doesn’t go see the doctor today.

Gina:

*Gina is in the Kazuma mold of patient, except when you finally force her to act like she is as sick as she is, she turns into Sholmes.

*When you are ill she is aggressive about you taking care of yourself and worries, she has a lot of past trauma with people dying from her time trying to take care of her orphan army in the rookeries.

*Is not above threats, guilt-trips, and shooting you with a smoke grenade full of vitamin c or eucalyptus vap-o-rub mist.

*has pickpocketed Ryunosuke’s prescription to give to Susato more than once to avoid him taking them all at once.

Iris-

*When ill Iris is a lot more like Susato, but she totally tries to invent her own tea-based cures, and she will also downplay or hide that she’s sick because she doesn’t want anyone to worry about her, but doesn’t go overboard with it the way Ryunosuke does.

*She is pretty much immune to Sholmes’ theatrics at this point, but sometimes will make up new imaginary web md illnesses that he might have to amuse herself.

*She will mother you with tea-based or soup-based cures which you will be safe consuming and will make you feel better emotionally if not physically, but often physically as well.

*Has also modified one of her smoke grenade guns to fire eucalytpus vap-o-rub mists, and also so they can knock Kazuma or Gina out safely and temporarily so they can be made to convalesce when they are being extra stubborn.

Barok-

* somehow Barok is the best patient of all of them. It’s probably the only time that he is truly polite and courteous with no sarcastic requests for forgiving discourtesies.

*This comes from some combination of Klimt telling him as a boy about a noble’s responsibility to the people of his estate (and his actually taking this concept to heart unlike a lot of nobles) and the sheer number of times he has had to rely on doctor’s, nurses, and staff due to the numerous attempts on his life over the years.

*He will downplay the seriousness of an injury especially out of habit and so as not to worry those who he cares about (though he finds it shocking always that anyone cares about him) but he will always get it seen to and respect orders provided they come from a professional and there are reasons given.

*He will insist that his staff gets things if he needs them and not you, but this is because he wants the staff to feel comfortable and he pays them extra compensation for it. Were he contagious he would not allow them but would pay their wages for them to be away from his home. (This is a big secret and his staff is very loyal to him even without this money. It’s just like the chalices and vintages all the theatrics of it is to fund these families of artisans. Charity without charity.)

*When you are sick, except maybe Sholmes who he just can’t even, he is kind and no nonsense. He thinks you should come to stay in his guest room and been seen by his doctor, that way you’ll get the best care and recover quicker. He’ll have his staff take care of you (but also report back to him if you aren’t being cooperative. He will tell you to think nothing of it, you’re friends and he’s rich and has no family left (except Iris and she doesn’t even live with him) so what else would he do with it, besides it provides wages.

*He is not above intimidating Ryunosuke (sometimes also Gina ) into convalescing as they should.

*This doesn’t work with Kazuma who he had also considered tying to the bed, but instead decided to let him have it his way and then when he got bad enough and passed out took him to the estate anyway and made sure the doctors told him exactly how much longer he had to convalesce than he would have if he’d listened to Barok in the first place.

*He brings this up every single time so they can just skip to the part where Kazuma sulks and is a grouchy patient.

*Is the only person that doesn’t join in with the group pastime of ribbing Ryunosuke about threatening to tie Kazuma to the bed To make him follow doctor’s orders.

[shelby-love]

KELLY SEVERIDE

Skeletons and Whatnot.

Requested: yes

Prompts: none

Warning(s): none

Author’s note: I feel like this is rubbish, but I also feel like it’s not. 50/50 (1.6K words - might come back to edit it tomorrow)

Also you can see how tired I am (it's 4:30AM) I mean what is this title??? GOOD NIGHT.

~

"That's not possible. Check again."

"But I already did! Like a million times!"

"Adam, I swear to God-"

"Alright, alright…" Your colleague mumbled, turning on his chair to run the data yet again.

While he sat on the chair, looking through files he didn't have a clue about, you were leaning against the wall and shaking in your boots. Your heart hammered and your palms felt clammy.

Not possible. I killed him.

"No look it says right there," Adam declared; proud of himself for being able to gather information like this on his own. "Some girl named Lucy Riggs pawned a gun she got off some guy named Jon Prescott.

You squinted your eyes at the information that made no sense. "Get to the point."

Adam visibly swallowed, "Turns out the guy's name isn't Jon. Shocker. It's actually Parker Torres."

Your blood ran cold at his words. A million thoughts raced through your head. You wondered where he was, what he was doing… The questions that evaded your mind are usually normal, but here, when you thought about the dark man of your past, the questions seemed to be anything but normal.

"What about the gun?"

Adam clicked away until a picture of a metallic gun popped out. "Smith & Wesson Model 64 revolver."

Next thing you knew, a chain of vulgar profanities escaped your mouth, and you couldn't stop them. Ruzek's eyes widened ever so slightly at your lack of composure. "Mind telling me what this all about?"

You took a deep breath. "My skeleton escaped the closet."

***

The lack of information you found within the last couple of days was mind blowing. The only lead you had was the gun that wasn't even in your possession, having gotten lost in a misfit of undocumented sales.

Lucy wasn't of help either. The poor girl just wanted to get rid of her husband's gun, saying everything but useful information along the way. "If he wants a gun, then he better get a good one… A new one too! I don't want that piece of garbage in my house. God only knows who used that gun!" Lucy told you, just 48 hours ago. Those exact same words.

She was right about one thing.

That dammed gun went through so many hands and took double more lives.

And you didn't even have a lead.

"You look like crap," Kevin Atwater teased, handing you a steaming cup of coffee.

You didn't even manage to smile, looking at him through your shades that were, so far, doing a great job at concealing the bags under your eyes from the world.

"Rough night?"

"Mhmm."

Kevin didn't know that you no longer lived with Kelly. The temporary solution to your problems turned out to be moving back to your own place. Putting Kelly in harm's way, no matter how much he thought otherwise, was something you didn't want to do. The comfort of his bed and body were replaced by a thin blanked and an uncomfortable dining chair.

Dozens of glass decorations were laid out all over your apartment. On every window still, next to every door… On every surface, really. You slept on the dining chair 5 yards from your front door with a pistol strapped to your back, a shotgun under the chair and a rifle wrapped around your two arms, acting as a teddy bear for every time you dozed off.

Friends from Interpol would call here and there, with nothing more than sad news.

Hank Voight was pulling out every contact from his little notebook, but not even they could solve your years long case.

You wanted to throw up.

"Hey Kev."

"What's up?"

"You still friends with that FBI agent?"

***

"Second floor clear," The grip on your radio loosened after the second you needed to inform your team about your situation had passed and you moved on upstairs. You could hear them respond in the same matter as you held your gun with both hands and carefully climbed up the stairs.

You didn't let a sound slip your lips as you trekked the stairs up to the very last floor, save for the attic. For a drug house, everything was eerily quiet. It didn't feel like someone left in a hasty hurry.

It felt like as though there was no one there in the first place.

Your need to report that to your Sergeant faded away quickly once you saw smoke. It seized your full attention within a few seconds.

Smoke grenade was your first guess. Nasty things but nothing new.

That was, until you took several steps closer and the smell of the source journeyed through your nostrils. It clicked in your head immediately. Three years of being a squad lieutenant's girlfriend can do that to you. The scent of fire is nauseating and sweet, putrid and steaky, or something like leather being tanned over a flame. The smell  of it can be so thick and rich that it's almost a taste. Kelly's words rung in your head, and  you pulled your radio to your mouth.

"Call CFD! There's a fire on the third floor!" You informed, shielding your eyes. "Stand down! I repeat –"

Things went black after those words.

***

"We have a detective trapped on the third floor," Voight informed the first responders. "That's where the fire started."

Wallace nodded, "Squad 3, take the third floor."

Unlike Wallace, who had found his source of information in Voight, Kelly Severide had found it in Jay, who stood on the street visibly stressed. "Jay where's Y/N?"

Jay frowned, "She went to scope ahead. She was on the third floor when the whole place just blew up…"

"She could be unconscious right now," Kelly muttered. "Squad 3 let's go!"

Kelly Severide was already in the burning building when Chief Boden found out just who was trapped upstairs. "Dammit."

***

"Y/N?!"

Kelly's patience was thinning by the second. Knowing that his time is limited and that the place could blow in a stronger matter at any moment, he paced toward your unconscious body expeditiously.

Noticing the angry streak of blood that came from your nose had his heart in his throat. You were twisted in a way not normal for a human body to be in, catching him off guard the moment he laid his eyes on you.

Despite all that, Kelly still swooped in to grasp your limp body in his arms.

The stress of the last few days he went through didn't come close to a match with this very moment. "I'm coming down chief!"

For a moment Wallace wanted to bark back, but he bit his tongue. Love makes people do crazy things.

He knew that better than anyone.

"Get the hoses ready!" Boden announced and turned to the Intelligence.

"She'll be okay."

***

You were okay.

Maybe even better than you thought possible.

"Kelly wake up."

You smiled cheekily at doctor Mannig, who stood by your hospital bed, waiting for Kelly to wake up with the same thin line of patience as you.

You woke him up with a slap to his shoulder.

Natalie was beaming, her eyes sparkled despite the fact that she was the doctor to the most heavily guarded patient in the whole city of Chicago. "I think congratulations are in order."

"What do you mean?"

She winked before handing you the tablet, "You're 11 weeks along Y/N. Congratulations you two."

You shook your head wildly and pressed a palm to your mouth, acting out what your defense mechanism wanted you to do. "Oh God…"

"Really?" Kelly asked next to you. He had already grabbed your hand and gripped it tightly, holding you to the ground of your new reality. "Are you for real?"

She nodded, "The tests don't lie. I'm so happy for you two."

Natalie hugged you both closely before disappearing back into the crowded ER.

"Hey," Kelly murmured, grasping your chin with his index finger and thumb. "What's wrong? You're not happy? I thought…"

You shook your head immediately, stopping him from saying something that was untrue. "No, Kelly… I'm really happy."

Two heartbeats within one body. Your body.

A child that was going to take after you and the man you loved most in this world…

You felt so incredibly lucky at that moment.

Yet so guilty.

"Our baby could've died today…"

Fresh onset of tears attacked your eyes, pushing through until the moisture was dripping down your face, and you tried to muffle the hiccups with your hands. Everything started to make sense.

"Baby you didn't know…" He tried to calm you.

You shook your head violently, dropping his attempts into the water. "I should've known better. We didn't use protection... Then I felt so sick last week."

"Y/N-"

"But I was so obsessed with Parker Torres that-" You couldn't even finish the sentence because the guilt turned into anger. "God I'm so stupid!"

"Babe, look at me," Kelly's voice hardened yet the hands with which he cupped your face were gentle and comforting. "You didn't know, so none of this is your fault. If you knowingly went in there that's when it would have been your fault."

He kissed your tears away and gave you the softest smile ever. "Do you want to have this baby with me? Because if you don't, we can…"

You stopped him with a kiss.

You were venerable in the moment of the kiss, yet you never felt more at home. In this kiss is the promise of years of love and the sweetness of life. No one mattered at that moment. Not Parker… Not anyone. Only you two and the vow you just shared.

The next few weeks will be hard, that much you knew. You were introduced to a new reality and priorities shifted. The hunt for your skeleton will continue in the hands of the people you trust most and as months go by the light will greet the darkness of your tunnel.

But the next few years, you see nothing but light and happiness.

No skeletons to torture your life, but a baby and a soulmate to make it better.

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MASTERLIST

[thewhumperinwhite]

And Then You Kill Me (part 5)

story masterpost

TW for: referenced dubcon; guilt and self-hatred; suicidal behavior; angst and misunderstandings; under-negotiated sexual behavior. Nothing directly nsfw here but it is very much The Morning After.

@whumpitywhumpwhump @favwhumpstuff

----

Usually, the morning after he eats, Karim sits on the roof with a cup of coffee and watches the sun rise.

It’s half indulgence and half penance. He can’t actually drink the coffee, which makes the smell exactly halfway between comfort and torture. And, depending on the…volume, he guesses, of the person he’s fed from, he can only stand the sun for about an hour on a clear day. Though sometimes he stays longer than that, to feel it prickle and burn against his skin. It depends on how much he feels like a thief, how much his mouth still tastes like lies.

This morning, of course, is different.

On the one hand, he isn’t as full as he normally is. It’s cloudy out, but he still needs the sunglasses he borrowed from Diana ages ago, that take up half his face; and he pulls a cap down low over his ears and forehead, too, for good measure.

On the other hand, he didn’t say a thing last night that wasn’t true, and that feels so good he’s almost drunk on it.

There’s warmth in his belly that’s more than blood.

Karim leans forward, cradling the still-hot mug against his chest, and squints down at the street below him. There’s a little shop on the corner, where he goes for batteries sometimes; they sell some simple groceries. Karim’s never had a reason to buy them before. He can’t think of any reason he’d like better than this.

----

Art wakes up with a screaming headache and absolutely no idea where he is.

Which. What he’s learning—what it feels like it’s taking him forever to learn—is that no matter how many times you wake up naked on someone else’s couch and don’t remember how you got there, it never gets easier or better.

And then he does remember. And that’s much worse.

----

Karim pauses inside the door, in the act of setting down the single bag of food and drink he’s bought. He’s just realized that orange juice belongs in the refrigerator, and he doesn’t actually have one of those. He doesn’t eat, and it hadn’t seemed worth the electricity.

Possibly the boy can drink it all in one go? It’s been so long since Karim’s drunk anything that comes out of a bottle, he isn’t actually sure how much—

He’s still standing there, in the doorway, holding Diana’s sunglasses in one hand and the carton in the other, and then a lamp hits him in the side of his head.

It doesn’t hit hard enough to rock him backward, but it does crack in half, and land at his feet in three big pieces.

Karim stares for a moment, down at the wreckage, and then up to the bathroom doorway, where the boy he picked up from the docks is standing. He’s wearing his sweatshirt again, and he’s trembling.

“What was that for?” says Karim. The boy’s face twists.

“We had a deal,” the boy says, and that’s when Karim realizes that the boy is shaking because he’s very, very angry.

“…Huh?” Karim says. It’s the wrong answer, apparently; the boy makes an unintelligible noise and lunges for a ceramic vase sitting on a nearby end table. Karim scrambles to set the orange juice and sunglasses down (Diana likes these glasses, and she’s terrifying when she’s angry) and throw his hands up in surrender. “Woah—Hey wait!” The boy pauses, holding the vase like a grenade. He’s swaying slightly under its weight. Presumably like someone who’s lost about a liter and a half of blood. Karim kind of can’t believe he’s even on his feet right now.

“…I bought you some orange juice,” Karim says, hesitantly. “The internet says it’s good for—”

The boy throws the vase.

“Oh my god!” Karim says, ducking into the kitchen, more by instinct than any actual fear of injury. (He is full of blood and almost indestructible; and also the boy aims like someone who has lost thirty percent of their blood by volume.) “What is your problem?”

The boy gapes at Karim, and has to grab the bathroom doorway to steady himself.

“My problem,” he gasps, sounding like he wants to shout it but is too out of breath. “Did I fucking stutter last night, you asshole?” He presses his hand to his temple and closes his eyes; his head must feel like a rotten melon by now. “What part of dead by sunrise was too fucking complicated for you?”

Karim blinks at the boy. Feels borrowed blood rise into his cheeks.

“Oh, that,” Karim says. “I, um…” He has no idea what to say. “…Sorry?”

His apology—which is half-hearted, admittedly; for once it hadn’t even occurred to him to feel guilty about this—hits the boy like a blow to the stomach, and the boy covers his face with one hand and slides down the bathroom doorframe until he’s sitting in a little heap on the floor. Wearing his still-damp sweatshirt and nothing else, his bare legs splayed out to either side. He looks—small, and less alive, and ah yes, there’s the guilt Karim has been missing.

“—so fucking stupid,” the boy mutters, into his hand.

Karim puts the juice down on the counter. He wants to move closer, but that cannot possibly be what the boy wants right now.

“God dammit,” the boy says, and he turns away from Karim, and climbs forward, easing himself back up to his feet against the wall. “Fuck this,” he says, and then Karim realizes he’s crawling-stumbling-falling toward the door, like he’s going to leave that way, swaying and half-naked.

“Woah,” Karim says, darting out to catch at the boy’s shoulder, “Hold on a s—”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” the boy spits, spinning away from Karim’s touch. His back is against the front door again, like it was when he opened up so sweet and easy under Karim’s mouth and hands—what, six hours ago? Less? The boy is incandescent with rage for a second, his eyes—they’re green, an ordinary alive-person green, shot through with brown, and achingly pretty—almost glowing with it, and then his face shutters like an empty house and he says, voice cold and precise, “Get out of my way.”

Karim hadn’t even realized he was in his way. But the door opens in, so the boy really can’t get out unless Karim moves. Karim holds his hands up instead, leaning back out of the boy’s space.

“Just—just wait a second, okay?” Karim says. He tries to pitch his voice as low and nonthreatening as possible, like he isn’t looming over the boy whether he wants to or not. “Let’s just—can we just talk about this for a second.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” the boy says. He’s supporting himself against the door, but if Karim didn’t already know he wouldn’t guess how unsteady on his feet the boy is; his voice is steady and flat and colder than Father’s basement in January. “It’s my own fault for being so fucking dumb and gullible, fair enough, glad that worked out for you, now back the fuck off.” That last part is said with so much sudden venom that Karim actually does stumble back a step without really meaning to.

“Gullible,” Karim repeats stupidly, like if he can understand just one word of what the boy is yelling at him this will all make sense suddenly. And then—suddenly—it does, and he gapes at the boy.

“Wait,” Karim says. “Do you—you think I was lying?” He almost expects the boy to deny it, except the boy is still giving him that same flat, blank look (with incomprehensible emotion underneath it, disgust and anger and maybe even hurt). “What—why on earth would I have—”

The boy looks at him. There are splotches of color in his cheeks, and his eyes are slightly too bright, and when Karim stares at him he tugs the hem of his sweatshirt down just a little farther, like he’s trying to cover his ass.

Karim takes a step back, dropping his hands to his sides.

“I wasn’t,” he says, nonsensically. “This is—Boy. I swear to you. I did not say a single thing last night that wasn’t true.”

There are big raised welts on either side of the boy’s throat, where Karim’s fangs went into him last night. The boy must have seen them, if he was in the bathroom; his reflection works just fine. They don’t look like hickeys or bruises or anything other than what they are. There’s no way the boy shouldn’t believe him, this one time when he only took what was given willingly, and not even all of that. There’s no way—

“Then explain it to me, asshole,” the boy says, and his voice is shaky with unshed tears. “Explain the world where everything you said is true, and I’m not dead yet.”

Karim wants—Karim wants. Karim wants to reach out and touch the boy. Karim wants to hold the boy gently, wants to wrap him up in something warm and safe until he tells him why he talks that way, why he wants to give his life—this thing he has that Karim doesn’t, that Karim won’t ever again—away so badly his voice trembles like that whenever he talks about it.

“It’s,” Karim says. His Father is always in despair about how bad he is with words. “Well, it’s just—I like you.”

Karim hasn’t told a lie in almost eight hours, now. This isn’t a lie, either.

The boy’s eyes go wide, surprise and then fear and then anger, and then without warning he dives down, flops onto his knees, grabs a shard of the shattered vase, and jerks it toward his own throat.

“No!” Karim grabs the boy’s wrist, too hard; it creaks alarmingly in his grasp, but the jagged ceramic piece falls from his hand and clatters to the ground. He wants to let go—the boy is far too still, his eyes too wide, and Karim already knows his wrist will bruise—but he can’t. There’s too much broken pottery and glass, and the boy is such a fragile thing.

The boy stares up at Karim. He is kneeling wide-eyed at Karim’s feet, and Karim can hear his shallow too-fast breath and his hummingbird heart, and it is almost more than he can bear.

The boy doesn’t scream, though; he doesn’t even call Karim a monster, or any of the other things Karim deserves. What he says, his voice tight, is, “They’ll find me,” and then, soft and desperate, meeting Karim’s light bulb eyes with his pretty dull alive ones, “Please.”

Karim doesn’t let go of the boy’s wrist. He gets carefully to his knees beside him, instead, meeting the boy’s gaze like it doesn’t even hurt.

“I’ve been killing in this city for nine years now,” he says, and there’s fear in the boy’s eyes, but still no fear of him. “They’ve never caught me.”

The boy’s eyes flicker. Karim has no idea with what. But this is the moment. He throws caution to the winds.

“Give me a week,” he says.

The boy stares at him.

“I like you,” he says again. The boy’s pounding heart hasn’t sped or slowed, so Karim keeps going. “You’re—I’ve never met anyone like you.” That’s true, like everything else he’s said, but he knows the boy won’t like it, so he presses ahead, fighting hard not to trip over his words. “I want to spend a week with you. Not to—we can do whatever you want. I won’t touch any way you don’t want me to. I know how to hide in this city better than anyone, no one will know where you are. And at the end of the week—” He swallows; he doesn’t want this to be a lie, but also the thought of it turns his stomach; he makes himself say it anyway. “And at the end of the week, I’ll kill you any way you ask me to. I promise.”

There’s a too-long moment of silence. The boy’s heart flutters painfully, and neither of them blink.

“…a week,” the boy says slowly, after an eternity.

Karim nods, maybe frantically.

The boy pulls his hand delicately out of Karim’s grip; Karim, useless heart pounding, lets him.

“For a week,” the boy says, “you’d better give me the flashiest murder scene in history.”

Karim grins, so hard it almost hurts his face. “Flashy,” he says, giddy and stupid. “I can do that.”

[waatermelon-sugaar]

Cold

Pairing = Santiago x reader

Summary = You get too cold on a mission and there’s only one bed in the building where you have to camp out for a couple of days...

Warnings = Fluff, mutual pining, near death situation (??kinda - I mean there’s danger), partial nudity (non-sexual but with sexy pining), huddling for warmth, only one bed, many many compromising positions

Word count = 6458

A/N - so this is my first fic i’ve ever finished! Eeee!!! I’m quite pleased with it, but please let me know what you all think! Also it combines two of my favourite fic tropes ever because of course it does haha. 

Edit = Now cross-posted to AO3!

Masterlist

You were in trouble. Feeling the chill setting in your bones, it was harder and harder to lift your legs. Your teeth were now only occasionally chattering, and it was only the shivers running up and down your body which reassured you that you didn’t have hypothermia. Yet. 

The path you and Pope had found wound through the trees as you walked towards the setting sun. Despite the ferocious cold, you couldn’t help but admire the landscape you were in, the dark contrast of the tree bark offsetting the brillant, deadly white. Snow hung from every available surface, causing branches to hang low with the weight. 

You were more used to the warm - it was weird completing a bust in Canada of all places. But it had been going so well, all the drugs and money accounted for, no surprises, all packed up to fly out when the surrounding forest became alive. The timing had been misjudged or miscounted, you had no idea, all you knew was that the 6 of you had to get out of the building as fast as possible. 

You’d instinctively found Pope to your left when the first shot had rang out, and amid all the chaos and shouting the two of you were running outside, taking down anyone in your way, not stopping to see if the others had followed you.

Gradually the popping sounds of gunfire and hand grenades had become muffled as it began to snow. You waited as long and as close to the house as you dared, but hadn’t seen the others. Restraining Pope from running back inside to find Catfish and the others had broken your heart, all you’d wanted was to run back in with Pope and find them, but the logical side of your brain knew that you shouldn’t.

“Pope! No!” Your shouts were hushed as you pushed at Pope, you didn’t dare grab someone’s attention, but Pope needed to listen to you, he had a wild look in his eyes that you’d only seen once before. “If you go back you’re as good as dead and no use to anyone!”

You’d fought with Pope before, you’d fought against all the boys in training sessions and knew their moves almost as well as they did. You’d yet to fight against one of them in real life, and it shocked you that although Pope’s moves wouldn’t seriously hurt you, he still wasn’t listening.

You knocked behind his right knee, conscious that the left one had only just healed from the previous mission, causing Pope to fall to the floor. He was still struggling against you, all lithe hard muscle and intent. Holding one arm around his neck to gently constrict his airways, you pushed down on his shoulders, forcing him to remain kneeling on the ground, your body blocking his view of the house as he glared at your stomach.

“Listen!” He stopped struggling against you but his shoulders still held all his tension as you put your mouth next to his ear. “They’re good at what they do, they might have got out. We need to reach the rendezvous position - they’ll meet us there. They don’t need us killing ourselves when they might be fine.”

Deciding to risk letting go of you, you relaxed your hold, kneeling in front of him as you grasp his shoulders, Pope sinking back onto his heels, his eyes finally focusing on you, still agitated. “You think they’ve got out?”

“They’re good agents, I trust them. You have to as well.” Pope knew you were talking sense. He also knew that you were good at pushing emotion down on a mission, not feeling things until afterwards. The number of times he’d comforted you back home, the way you looked before you were about to cry, how you dealt with guilt, fingers picking at your nail beds… he shook his head, not wanting to think of that now.

Instead he focused on your face now, your mouth set in a line, eyes gazing into his, waiting for him to confirm the exit route. When he nodded, you exhaled, and the two of you stood, setting off to the east.

As the day had continued it had begun to snow, harder and harder, until you realised that you were lost. Ditching your heavier packs and only taking the bare minimum had made it easier to walk however the temperature continued to drop, and worry chewed in your mind as you kept going, unsure of where you were heading until Pope had spotted the small cabin across the way.

As the sun set further and further beyond the horizon, turning the sky a deep purple, making it harder and harder to see, although it had thankfully stopped snowing. “Pope,” God your voice was hoarse. Had it always been so hard to open your mouth? The air that hit the back of your throat was painful, but you tried again. “Santiago!” A couple of steps in front of you, Santi turned.

The bottom half of his face was covered by a balaclava, which only served to make his eyes more intense as they looked you over. He was cold too; you could see it in the way he held himself, shoulders lifted and bent knees. The little skin you could see had lost a lot of its warmth, and now you’d caught up to him you could see that ice crystals clung to his eyebrows and eyelashes.

“Santi, w-wh-where - how far is th-this house?” Your mouth was stiff and the effort it took to move your tongue had never been so immense. Your voice was quiet, and as the two of you continued moving, you missed the concerned look Pope shot at you, instead concentrating on one foot in front of the other, despite how fuzzy your brain felt. “It shouldn’t be long now. May-maybe half an hour?” Pope was trying as hard as you were to push down his shivers, but you merely nodded in reply, not trusting your voice.

You shifted the small pack on your back as something dug into you, and the lapse in concentration on where you were going caused you to stumble. Pope was talking to you again, warm words washing over you but not going in. You were too cold to concentrate, your steps becoming heavier, and you felt like you might fall forward into the snow and never get up again.

You’re glad the two of you had made the decision to ditch your heavier packs once it had started snowing, the weight would probably cause you to topple over. Both you and Pope had pulled the hood up of your dark jackets, but it didn’t help alleviate the fogginess that was growing in your mind.

A dull pressure from the cold had begun at the base of your head, sending a throbbing through your skull. You became aware that Santi was holding onto your elbow, supporting you, though when he had begun, you couldn’t have said. And then you were standing in front of a building as your teeth continued to chatter and violent shivers tore their way up and down your body. More like a shack, the building was small and made entirely of wood, a warm brown, that looked so inviting.

You didn’t notice much else as Pope led you inside, sitting you down on the bed before disappearing. You were sure you saw his lips move, but you couldn’t remember. Everything was such a big effort and if you lay down on this bed with its cool inviting sheets, everything would fade away. You knew it would. All you could think about was the thin, needle-like points of pain shooting through your head, eradicating anything else.

When Pope returned, he was carrying neatly chopped wood, which he dropped to one side as he began to clean up the fireplace, clearing out old ash, charcoal and dust, before placing the wood down and neatly arranging the twigs so that the whole thing would light. Careful not to disturb the small pile of ash he’d made on the hearth, Pope set light to the fire. Watching carefully for a minute to ensure it had caught, he turned back to you.

You were still sitting in the same place Pope had put you, and he couldn’t help the pang of worry over your core temperature. You had easily bypassed the mild stage of hypothermia, he knew that much, if your confusion and lack of motor control was anything to go by, but beyond that, he wasn’t sure of the symptoms.

Making his way over to you, he began to unwrap you from your coat, pulling down your hood and untucking your plaits, and if his fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary on your cold hair, you didn’t notice. Hanging your coat on the hook by the door, hoping it would dry by the time you needed it tomorrow, he picked his own coat from the floor and placed it next to yours.

Santi removed your boots, and outer trousers, deciding to leave you in your thermal underwear, as the fire had not yet fully warmed the room. He scooped snow outside into a pan, placing it on the stove above the fire and not trusting the rusty looking tap in the corner. Returning back to you, he wrapped the blanket that had been at the foot of the bed around your shoulders, tucking you in before leading you to the fire.

Pope could still see that your lips had lost their colour and the skin on your face was cool to the touch. Leaving you there, Pope busied himself making soup for the two of you, using the water created from the snow and stirring in soup from a packet. The water began to bubble, and gradually Pope found himself relaxing as the room began to warm up.

Dishing the soup into two bowls, he sat down in front of you noted with happiness that a bit of colour had come back into your cheeks. You were still shivering, but not so much, and your eyes seemed a fraction more alert. “Careful, it’s hot” he warns you, and is gratified to see a small smile, causing his heart to stutter in his chest. “Thanks Santi.” It’s easier to speak now, though your voice is still quiet from a lack of energy.

The pressure at the base of your neck had lifted slightly, but the headache was still present. As you sipped at the soup, you could feel it inside you, almost burning down your throat and gently warming your stomach. The fire was getting hotter, and almost burning your skin, yet you didn’t feel any warmer inside and kept shivering. Moving away slightly, the cool air in the rest of the room soothed you slightly, and you concentrated on not spilling any more of your soup.  

Eventually you’d finished eating and it was all you could do to keep your eyes open. Pope tugged the bowl from your hands and helped you into the bed, tucking the duvet under you, reminiscent of how your parents had done to you as a child. You blearily watched through tired eyes as he loaded the fire with enough wood to last the night and turned the stove off. Before you knew it, the bed was dipping on the other side and Pope was taking his outer layer of jumpers off, leaving him in the same style thermals that you were wearing.

Closing your eyes, you tried to go to sleep, but it seems your body did not want to. Your feet felt like blocks of ice, and you tried to rub them together without annoying Pope. Placing your cool hands under your armpits you try to warm them that way but to little success. Maybe you should have some more soup...

“Hey,” you turn, opening your eyes to see Pope looking at you, and you shiver, unable to keep eye contact. Your legs are still cold, and you once again try and rub them together to warm them up. “Take your clothes off” he commands quietly. The words hang in the space between you, only interrupted by the occasional crack from the fire still burning behind you. You laugh lightly to try and dispel the tension. “You know, I thought you were a sw-sweet t-t-talker when-n it comes to the ladies” You’re desperately trying to ignore the chattering of your teeth as you talk, and in the dim orange lighting you merely see Pope raise a singular, very sexy, eyebrow.

And then he’s moving, sitting up as he pulls his top off and drops it somewhere behind him, causing you to swallow when he starts to remove his thermal trousers. And when he’s done, he turns to you and “Your turn. You’ll warm up faster. I’ll be a massive hot water bottle for you.”

And you nod, because there’s nothing else to do, and because of course that was why he wanted you to take your clothes off, and you sit up, trying to ignore the tiny pang of disappointment in your chest. As you’re pulling your top above your head you suddenly feel a little embarrassed about the sports bra you’re wearing, and although it would be uncomfortable, you kind of wish you had something a little nicer on.

You copy his previous movements as you take your leggings off, your movements as fast as you can as the air in the room is still cold, sending more shivers through you and causing your hands to tremble. And again, you try to ignore the feeling of disappointment as he resolutely doesn’t look at you until you’re safely under the covers again. You try to tell yourself that it’s good that he respects you enough to not take advantage of you while you're vulnerable, that it’s unfeminist of you to want him to, because he should respect you as a person, he should respect your privacy.  

And by wanting him to look at you in a sexual way, despite this being a distinctly non-sexual situation, are you playing into rape culture? Or lad culture? Your brain hurts just thinking about it, and you try to push it out of your mind when Pope speaks again.

“Is this ok?” His words are only a little louder than a breath when the two of you face each other again. And again you can only nod as he opens his arms, and you move forward, trying to take a deep breath to calm yourself as your heart feels as though it will burst out of your chest.

You gently put your head in the space between his neck and the pillow, trying not to put too much weight on the arm underneath you. And you can smell his aftershave that he uses, still clinging to his skin, a pleasant contrast to the smoke from the fire. Your nose is buried in the crook of his neck, your lips nearly touching his skin and if you leaned forward just a centimetre more… But there’s more than that primal urge, his skin is so warm on your face, you can feel the heat transferred from his skin to your cool cheeks, relaxing you as you intermittently shake from the cold.

And then he brings his other arm around you, pulling you closer and closer, and all you can feel is Santi. His rough fingers curling into your back as he holds you as close as he can, and you can feel the muscle under his soft warm chest. You can feel how his heart beats, the steady thump calming you.

You bring your legs in, and nearly jump when they touch Santi’s, the hair tickling you a little. And your arm is over his side, and your fingers are dancing softly up and down his back, occasionally catching a scar as you stroke him. And if you apply a little more pressure, just so, he hums, low at the base of his throat, and you think you’d almost miss the sound if your ears weren’t so close to his vocal cords.

And he’s so warm, and so comfy, and god he smells so good, despite not having had a shower for 24 hours. And your breath begins to even out and your eyes start to droop, and Santi rests his chin delicately on the top of your head as your hand starts to slow. You’re both exhausted, the day has been longer than you’d anticipated and the two of you fall asleep curled together.

When you wake early in the morning, you realise that during the night the two of you had moved so that you were spooning, but you weren’t as close anymore. When you realised this, you began to carefully scoot backwards, not wanting to wake Santi, but wanting to feel his warmth again. As your back touches his chest he automatically moves, reaching his arm over so his hand is on the little pouch at the bottom of your stomach. The movement brings a small smile to your face, especially when you realise that you’re no longer shivering, and you feel warm again.

And you never want to move anywhere ever again. If this was how you died, you’d be happy. Lying in Santi’s arms after he’d warmed you up the night before, still too groggy to worry about the day ahead, you fell back asleep.

When you wake the second time, the sun has fully risen and is beaming through the gaps in the shutters which cover the small dusty windows. The light illuminates more dust notes floating in the air and for the first time you take note of your surroundings. You’ve clearly stumbled across a hunter’s cabin, if the numerous antlers and deer heads on the wall are anything to go by, and you’re surprised that you didn’t notice them last night. You can see the pile of blankets by the still-smouldering fire where you sat last night, the soup bowls abandoned haphazardly to one side.

The fireplace was split in two, one side for an open fire, and the other for a stove, where you could see Pope’s back as he busied himself and a rich smell of porridge filled the room. He hadn’t put his clothes back on, and your eyes unwillingly drop to admire his bum, encased in his boxers. Ripping your eyes away, you look instead at how the room itself was split into two, with the bed at the back, creating the illusion of a bedroom, while a kitchen style was created by the combination of the fire, stove, and table. The deer theme continued here, antlers extending from the tops of the chairs, creating what looked like many poor attempts to recreate the iron throne.

There’s a slight bite to the air, a kind of crisp chill that you only feel after it’s freshly snowed, and when you sit to get out of bed, you hiss sharply when your bare feet touch the cold floor. At the noise, Pope turns around, his hair still a little mussed from sleep. “Sleep alright?” He asks, and you suddenly feel exposed as his eyes look at you and then resolutely focus on a spot above your shoulder. “Yeah so much better. You’re the best hot water bottle I’ve ever had, can I take you home with me?” You’re only teasing and yet when Pope replies “I don’t go home with just anyone, you know,” you lean down as heat rushes through your body and you pull yesterday’s clothes on, trying not to show how hot under the collar Pope can make you. Especially when he’s basically naked.

Once your socks are on, you can just about bear to walk over the cold wooden floor and join Pope at the stove, watching him divide the porridge into two portions. On one he pours an extremely generous amount of honey, while the other he leaves plain. Giving you the one with the honey, he sits at the table. “Is there any reason you gave me more honey than porridge?” You ask as you stir it in, sitting opposite him, and trying not to think about his hands, clasped around his bowl, and how nice those hands felt on you last night.

He scoffs before he replies, “Because you need the sugar.” There’s a pregnant pause before he elaborates. “You were too cold last night. You need to get your energy back up.” And despite the excessive amounts of honey, the porridge is nice, warming you, and Pope’s right, you do feel better and more alert once you’ve finished it. 

Not that you’d tell him as such. Although… “I actually wanted to say thanks for yesterday.” Pushing the bowl away, you lean on your elbows on the table and look at Santi, admiring the way his salt and pepper curls are in more disarray than usual. “You saved my life, thank you.” He looks back, his gaze steady. “You know I’ve got your six, however that might be.” You stand, collecting the breakfast bowls and leaning for the soup bowls too. “Well. Thanks anyway. And you know I’ve got yours too, right?”

He smiled in thanks, and you moved on. “What’s the plan? Do we know where we are?” Pope shook his head, “There’s a map next to the door, but it’s too old to see where we are.” He put his feet up onto the chair opposite him. “I’ve sent out a rescue signal on our trackers though so hopefully someone will come get us.”

You nod, and a sudden wave of tiredness over takes you, so instead of washing the bowls, you place them in the sink and sit back on the bed. You closed your eyes, only meaning to rest them for a minute, when you heard Santi begin to make a lot of noise. Frowning, you watch him as he puts his jacket, trousers and boots back on. “Where are you going?” You gesture out the window “It’s snowing again - I don’t think you’ll see much.”

“I know but I want to check the area. There must be a road or something nearby.” And with that he’s gone, shutting the door behind you and leaving you alone in a warm, if slightly creepy, house. Letting yourself have another second of rest, you forced yourself to get up and poke around. You knew it could easily be 2 hours until you were picked up but it could be 2 days or longer and you needed to know the food situation.

The cupboards were dusty but packed full of canned foods which didn’t go out of date for another year, causing your heart to relax a little and the ball of worry in your stomach to unknot a little. You made yourself a mug of watery hot chocolate to keep you going, adding a little powdered milk to create the illusion of decadence.

You knew it freaked Santi out, not knowing where you were or what to expect, so you didn’t worry too much while he took his time outside, knowing his need for control wouldn’t let him rest until he was 100% happy. That didn’t stop you from worrying about Santi though. He hadn’t been as bad as you yesterday but that didn’t mean he was invincible. When he came back, you’d make him a hot chocolate.

Before you knew it, slight shivers were running up and down your body again, and when you glanced at the fire you realised that it had gone out, so you set to work cleaning out the ash, and replacing the charcoaled wood. Your gloves were grey by the time you finished, but you kept them on. You’d need them when you went outside for more wood. The wood had been neatly chopped and piled into an outdoor shed, which involved pulling on your boots. Groaning at the thought of the effort involved ahead, you shut your eyes for the briefest second.

____________________

By the time the fire was built, you were sweating, but pleased. It had caught well, and although it wasn’t neat, you were proud of yourself. Dropping your gloves to the floor, you got to work on lunch, a stew with an assortment of vegetables from tins which hadn’t looked very appetising but once you’d added some spices the tomato base had started to smell better.

Stirring in water you left it to bubble a little while longer, picking up your gloves and stomping outside. Your breath came out shaky, considering you’d long taken your jacket off and were just wearing your thermals. Beating your gloves against the wall, you attempted to shake the ash off them. “What did those gloves do to you?”

You turned to see Santi approaching, his eyes crinkled from his grin, and glittering as he tried not to laugh. “Well if you must know, they didn’t keep my hands warm today. Or yesterday” you added as an afterthought, trying not to let it show how relieved you were to see him again. You were pouting as you grumbled, though the effect was ruined by a laugh that bubbled out of you after a second. Examining your gloves, you gave up, admitting defeat that they’ll have ash on them until you could get them in a washing machine.

“Did you find anything?” You were only brave enough to ask once the two of you were seated and eating. “Not really. A dirt track leading to a road leading to nowhere. The only signs were to places I’d never heard of.” You snorted, “As if you’ve heard of any towns in Canada.”

“I could name places in Canada.” He protested, but you shook your head. “Not a chance! Name one?” He was smirking now, leaning forwards slightly. “Vancouver.”

You shook your head. “Doesn’t count. That’s a city.” You could see the flicker of panic as he struggled to think of a town not a city. Finally he let out a growl, tugging on his hair in frustration, both of which sent a flood of heat to your stomach as you imagined your fingers in his salt and pepper curls, pulling that noise from him. “Fine! I can only think of Quebec, happy?” He took another spoonful of stew. “This is good by the way, what’s in it?” You opened your mouth to reply when he cut you off. “And anyway, I bet you can’t name a Canadian town.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Want to bet?”

Santi narrowed his eyes as he pointed his spoon at you. “What are we betting?” You grinned as you jumped up, opening the door to one of the cupboards where’d you found a delicious looking bag of marshmallows. His eyes widened greedily at the sight. “No way! We’re not betting those, you clearly know at least one town.”

“Ok let’s say we split these - what will you give me if I know a town?” His eyes flicked up and down you as he appraised you, giving you a pleasant thrill, liking the way he looked at you. “You don’t know a town.” He was drawing his words out slightly, elongating them to exaggerate, playing at sounding confident, trying to see if you were bluffing. “Ok, if I don’t know a town, you can have all these marshmallows. If I do, I get to have the bed to myself tonight.”

You weren’t quite sure why you said that, but the knowledge that Santi would be in the same bed as you again tonight, except this time you wouldn’t be able to touch him was looking to be more than you could bear. “And where will I sleep?” Santi was holding your gaze now, and you knew he was interested. “By the fire,” you shrugged, “Put a few blankets down…” Trailing off, you didn’t dare break eye contact, until Santi finally stuck his hand out. You grasped it, smirking, until he said “Three towns. And if I find out you made one up, 10,000 push ups.”

“You underestimate me Garcia.” Racking your brains for the best names, you began. “Number 1 - Witless Bay - maybe you should visit,” you teased as he scowled slightly. “Number 2 - Big Beaver and number 3 - Spuzzum!”

“No way are they real!” The two of you continued to lightly bicker, Santi swearing he was going to look them up the first chance he got as the afternoon continued and the fire once again beginning to burn itself out.

When you peer out the window, you can’t see further than 20 meters and deciding you didn’t fancy venturing outside, you asked Santi to go out for more wood, promising that you wouldn’t open the packet until he was in the room, that you would save the marshmallows for after dinner.  

You had said that, but surely one marshmallow wouldn’t hurt? You had self control, you could stop after eating one. You were resolutely not looking at the packet at this point, as if turning your nose up wouldn’t make you want to break your promise.

Luckily at that moment Pope walked in, jacket bundled tight under his neck and stamping his boots in the doorway. “Ooh shut the door, all the warm air’s going out.” you hissed as a draft hit you and you crossed your arms. “Aww sorry, darling,” Santi teased you, “is it a waste of energy?” He laughed as you scowled slightly.

“Well actually, yes” you shivered, “and it’s making me cold Pope.” That last sentence was nearly a whine, and you gave him your best puppy dog eyes as you looked up at him. He was still smirking as he took his time piling up the wood and taking his jacket off before closing the door. The cheek of this man!

Huffing in indignation, you grabbed the packet of marshmallows and began to speak “Well if I’m going to get cold again, I may as well just eat all these marshmallows by myself. I don’t sha-” You shrieked as Pope whirled around at your words and began to chase towards you.

Scrabbling to get to your feet in time, you made a dash for the bed and yelped as Pope grabbed at the back of your shirt, struggling to get a hold. You tripped on one of your boots, stubbing your toe, causing you to curse and drop the bag on the floor. Pope was too fast for you, scooping to get a hold before you could react. He took a step backwards, holding the bag tauntingly below his face. “You” you growled, as Santi smirked, sure that he had the upper hand, “give them back now!” And with that you launched yourself at Pope, who definitely hadn’t been expecting that and stumbled back, falling atop the bed.

Straddling Pope’s waist, you leaned forward and grabbed the marshmallows easily, even as Santi attempted to hold the bag out of your reach. Grinning down at him, and holding the bag aloft, you suddenly realised the position the two of you were in, especially when Pope attempted to grab the bag back, and, failing that, rested his hand on your waist.

And, oh, how easy would it be to just move your hips down and grind a little. How easy would it be to lean forwards and kiss Santi on his plump lips. His dark eyes were watching you closely, and you swallowed at the sudden pressure of the situation. But if Pope could treat you with respect, then you could definitely respect him and the friendship the two of you had.

So you pushed yourself off him, looking at the fire as you awkwardly flicked your plaits away from your face. You bustle over to the stove, missing the disappointed look that flashes across his face. Pulling out a can of chopped tomatoes, you fiddle with the opener as you turn back around. “Should we eat dinner first?” Santi nods, sighing as he supposes that actual adults would eat dinner first. He has a strange look in his eyes as he watches you pour the tomatoes into a frying pan, switching the hob on and rooting through the cupboards as you try and think of a recipe with what’s available.

“What are you making?” Santi still hasn’t moved from the bed, propping himself up with his elbows as you pull out varying cans, each with their own unappetising label. “Dunno. Another stew type thing I guess. There’s some sweetcorn here, and some canned sausages, aanndd… ahaha! ‘New chopped and peeled potatoes in water’ Urgh” Placing the numerous tins on the floor next to you, you continue nosing around. “Doesn’t that sound disgusting?” Your voice is muffled somewhat when you put your head into the cupboard to look at products in the back but Pope wholeheartedly agrees.

After dinner, which had tasted better than it both sounded and looked, you’d toasted your marshmallows. You felt a bit cruel as you snuggled nicely into the big bed, starfishing as much as you could, while Santi lay out a small pile of blankets on the floor next to the fire.

Sleep would have come easily to you, exhausted as you were, but it seemed Santi couldn’t get comfortable, tossing and turning and huffing as he did so. “Santi, if you’re going to keep me awake on the floor I think I’d rather if you slept in the bed.” You rolled to the side of the bed, watching as Santi sat up so fast, you were worried he’d snap something. “Really?” His voice sounded so pathetic, you felt horribly mean for making him sleep on the floor.

Until he stood up and you saw that he wasn’t wearing any thermals. Again. And this time he was turned towards you and you could see the outline of everything, causing you to swallow heavily and look away, face feeling so hot you could have been burned. Just friends, you remind yourself, we’re just friends.

And when Santi got into bed next to you, you could feel him shift and relax into the mattress as it dipped under his weight. And why was this so much more awkward than it was last night? Maybe, a snide voice began, it’s because last night, you were on the brink of death. And tonight, you’re a sad, sad girl who has a crush on her best friend.

“Baby, come here.” Santiago’s husky voice seems like it comes out of nowhere, and you blink at the ceiling. Baby? Turning to face him again, you’re kind of surprised to see his arms open again like they were last night. He wants to cuddle? Again? Even though he doesn’t have to? Baby? And it’s so silent, the only sound the fire crackling behind you.

But you move forwards anyway because this is Santiago, who are you to say no? Maybe he’ll call me Baby again. Santi tugs you towards him, wrapping his arms around you, and you press your face into the crook of his neck again, clenching your eyes tightly shut, praying that this isn’t a dream. And then you lift your head because “How do you still smell so nice?” And you realise your mistake too late, because although the movement puts more space between you, you’re now  because now your face is level with his, and far too little space between the two of you.

But then his eyes drop to your lips and suddenly everything falls neatly into place. Why you and Santi had been in so many compromising positions over the last couple of days. All those lingering touches and glances. How Santi would do anything for you. How he always told you the truth, even when you didn’t want to hear it. How he remembered details about you. How you made him laugh. How he made you laugh.

And so you leaned forwards and kissed him.

It’s a peck of a kiss, you’re not brave enough to do anything else, maybe lasting for a second before you’re pushing off from him, putting distance between your bodies, the voice in your head screaming ‘Idiot!’ at you over and over.

Until one of Santi’s hands are on the back of your head, pulling you back towards him and you let him, leaning forwards and you’re kissing again.

But properly this time. This isn’t some PG-rated, playground kiss that 12 year olds gave each other during a game of spin the bottle. This was a real kiss, your eyes are closed and your mouth is moving against Santi’s like it’s found its home.

Your mouths are open and his hands move to rest on your waist and yours are in his hair. And it’s too much. But not enough. Distantly a helicopter whirs overhead and you hook one leg over his waist, your foot pressing into his bum, pulling him closer to you. And you can feel him. All of him. He’s clearly just as into this as you are and the two of you keep kissing as you tug on his hair. He groans into your mouth before moving down your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin until he finds the spot which causes you to gasp out his name.

You keep moving against each other and it’s so good and the helicopter whirs overhead once more. You gasp as it clicks in your mind and you push at Santi’s shoulders as he keeps kissing your shoulders, “You’re so beautiful,” Santi groans and you want him to continue so badly, but if that helicopter is here for you, which it must be after two days of silence, you don’t want to found in this position.

“Santi, stop, we have to stop!” Santi immediately pulls away from you, his brow furrowing as he looks at your face. “What is it?”

You’re sure that the grin on your face is a dopey one but you can’t help it, he’s so cute. “There’s a chopper outside.” Santi sits up just as the door opens to reveal a grinning Frankie. “They’re in here!” he hollers behind him. “Cuddling and -” his gaze lands on you and his eyes drop a couple of inches below yours and he laughs a little, “Ironhead and Redfly, you owe me 15 big ones!”

Santi’s head snaps to look at you as well, and your hand flys up to touch the area he’d been kissing, which has the beginnings of a soreness that only comes from a hickey. You groan and let yourself fall back onto the pillows. The ride back was going to be hell.

Fin x

God this started as a comfort fic when the heating went out in my house - I didn’t think it’d get this far but I’m so pleased to have finished my first fic, please give me feedback good or bad I want to know! I know the ending was weak but didn’t know how to make it better so any tips would be appreciated! Also if anyone knows how to think of titles please please please help me

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[virgil-writes]

ash & soot

Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him. (Heisenberg x OC)

on AO3: chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four | chapter five | chapter six | chapter seven (ao3 only) | chapter eight | chapter nine | chapter ten | chapter eleven

chapter 11 - fever dream

trigger warning, body horror and blood, lots of blood. around 3.8K words.

He knew he had overstayed his welcome by the tiredness in her eyes, a stab of guilt very close to piercing through his skin though he resisted. He had struck a nerve without meaning to, his flirting and prodding taken too far, what he intended to bring them closer making her recoil instead. Heisenberg had left her cabin with shoulders slumped and heart heavy, but the way she had bid him goodbye told him everything would be just fine. It was all forgotten by the time he turned the corner to go further into the forest, all suppressed under a boot-clad stomp. He would not consider how he might have personally hurt her, how he might have dug in too deep and crossed the few lines she had established. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a stupid little voice told him that he cared, even if he didn’t mean to, and there was only so much he could ignore it before it bubbled to the surface. He had dealt with worse. Keeping feelings and memories buried was a skill he had developed over almost a hundred years.

Her feelings were not important right now, he reminded himself, because the plan took all precedence. There would be no more village if Miranda saw her plans fulfilled, no little witch to offend and no metal man to call stupid nicknames. Maybe once they were free he would be interested in truly making friends, sitting down to talk things through and giving her time to answer his questions, not when he pressed but when she was ready. Bah, who was he kidding? He was not a man meant to play house, to have healthy relationships that were based on dialogue and mutual understanding with. He was the worst friend a person could have. She could die mad.

Still, perhaps there were lines he would better not cross, at least to keep her complacent. From the very beginning he had intended to keep her in the dark as much as possible, only tell her what was strictly necessary to have her help him. Learn what she could truly do, exploit it as covertly as possible, then unceremoniously dump her so he could finally fight his battles. Get from point A to point B, make himself an ally, but not a friend. She was a tool, as were all others, living or dead. He would see his ambition realized. He would set himself free.

Hours bled into days and into a week before he saw her again. His days once again become a blur of planning and building, head empty if not for the thoughts of revenge and the rage that fueled him ever onward. Research at the factory was going smoothly enough, problems here and there. Miranda was mostly out of his hair, as was Alcina, having finally given up after he told her, time and again, that nothing other than lycans inhabited the woods. Some power failures in Eins were a true head-scratcher, night after night of writing and drawing, assembling and disassembling. It was a good way to pass the time. Sturm was still a failure, a project put on the back burner until the right inspiration hit him.

It all reached a boiling point not soon after, stress catching up to him when a mining drill down the mine shafts malfunctioned and exploded, the cave-in cutting off a whole team of haulers and all the resources they had gathered. The bodies soon began to rot and the stench filled the vents, crept through tunnels to find him in all rooms he thought he could hide in. Night and day his soldiers would drill and get nowhere, night and day he would work to see no returns. He had descended into a fit of rage that brought out the worst within him, his transformation no longer his to control after the first few minutes of thrashing and shouting. It hurt as much this time as it did every other, flesh tearing and pulsing and twisting and expanding, tendons pulled, muscles sore, skin stretching far beyond what it should ever be able to. Pain seared through every inch of him, a gust of flame where his blood should be. It burned unbearably hot while chilling him to the bone with the sheer horror of it.

His conscience would never fully slip him in those moments. He would not recognize himself in the mirror, his appearance no longer that of a man, but he was still him, still a genius of engineering, still a silver fox that could charm the pants off of anyone if he wanted to. At least that was what he told himself, though there was definitely and underlying hunger that he could not suppress, that was not entirely his. Not for meat like the Duke’s, not for blood like Alcina’s. Not at all physical, but gnawing on his bones nonetheless. A need for violence, for terror, to destroy everything and crush everyone. Turn every living being to a pulp and make art with the carnage, paint the walls red and hang their insides from the ceiling. His fingers itched for it even when they no longer existed, his heart pulsating with rage and anticipation. It was hard to keep himself in check sometimes, to stop the spiral that brought him ever downward, towards the blackened waters of oblivion that he felt were always so dangerously close to consuming him. He would be no better than any of them if he gave in, he repeated it as a mantra, no better than the family of abominations who consumed flesh and drank blood like the finest wine, no better than the lycans who toyed with the villagers only to eviscerate them and then suck the marrow out of their bones. But how would it feel, a small voice asked in the back of his mind, to be so free, to let his rage flow with the blood he spilled, vindication for thousands of days of suffering. He could almost taste it, feel his sins washed away by the sacrifice, dangerously within reach, so very tempting. Every time he resisted, and every time it became harder to do so.

He can’t remember the last time he’d lost control, the last time he’d blacked out and woken up a day later in his birthday suit and covered in guts that weren’t his. He can’t remember if it had been yesterday or last year or thirty years ago, but he remembers the feeling all too well, the sickening soft touch of tissue, foul smelling bits of flesh underneath his nails. He could never know who, or why, or how, and could only hope he hadn’t blown his cover, hadn’t killed someone Mother would miss. The last time, he never quite managed to wash the contents of the poor soul’s stomach from his hair, the stench nauseating. It had been the first time he had taken scissors to his hair and cut it with a fury and desperation he did not know he possessed. Ther uneven strands only served to remind him that his monstrous self was but a failed project away, looming in the darkness, a return to the bloody roots Miranda had ingrained within him on that operating table all those years ago.

Fists slam against the table in an attempt to let off some steam as he curses his temper, his family, that crow bitch for ruining him forever. But it only serves to stoke the fires, to anger him further, cloth rips as he yells and everything goes downhill from there.

These moments between man and beast are always the most difficult, the ones that seem to last forever, the ones that plague him with so many thoughts he feels his head will explode. Would an army be enough to stop her? Hundreds upon hundreds of lost souls hanging overhead, conveyor belts transporting his army on an endless display of his greatest accomplishments. He could only hope enough of his machines would survive the waves of lycans she would throw at them; he could practically see it, teeth bared and eyes gaunt, claws reaching to grab onto something, anything that would give it purchase, an armor plate, perhaps the tube that kept the soldier’s blood pumping. One after the other the lycans would fall, until they had become too many, a pile of writhing half-humans feasting on its disgusting prey. He could practically hear it, and every exploded reactor chipped away a sliver of his confidence - and his sanity.

He never intended to get involved, never intended to join the battle and cut through monsters. His eyes had always been set on Mother, Mother and the stupid lieutenants she called her children. Moreau crying for it all to stop, Donna cowering with Angie behind moldy wings. Alcina would be the only one to face him head on, he knew, and finally he would be able to tear her apart with her own nails. He would then pluck one out to shoot it right at the dollmaker’s face, right onto the squirming parasite that inhabited the half of her face where her eye ought to be. To Moreau he would give a present, a grenade for him to swallow whether he felt hungry or not, a tasty last meal for the disgusting fish man who scraped the bottom of the muddy river. As for Miranda, he hoped it was enough, he was enough, all of his experimentations and studying and training coming together to make him unstoppable. Only time would tell, and with each passing day he grew wearier, and the beast stronger.

But what did he have to lose?

His mind barely registered his actions as he made his way out of the factory, a bundle of papers tucked under his arm, hammer and cigar long forgotten. The world greeted him with a sheen of milky fog, of faded colors that threatened to jump at him in full vibrancy at a moment’s notice, threatened to overwhelm his already weakened perception. His tendons pulled and muscles ached with each agonizing step, left knee and elbow burning like he had shoved them inside a furnace and forgotten to take them out. His head hurt worse than the most gruesome of hangovers, light swimming in his eyes and creating a dozen blind spots that could lead him to any number of traps. Beads of perspiration had gathered on his brow despite the cold, the kind of feverish sweat that keeps you awake at night and makes you see stars and aliens, eyes rolling back but somehow wide open in a never ending fever dream. He had grown accustomed to it, the high of growing into a behemoth of flesh and steel, and the lows that came with it when it was all over and he had to return to being a shell of a man with enough rage to make the devil jealous.

Most times he would lie face down against the factory floor, let the stone ease him into restless sleep, until some hauler tripped over him and decided to drag him along and out of the way. It had become so common he had instructed them for it, too, to leave him at his quarters and then carry on working, so that he could also carry on working as soon as this hurdle was over with. But then sometimes the fever grew so hot he would stumble out into the yard to find the nearest mound of snow to flop onto, and he could swear he could hear it fizzle under his skin.

This time he had taken to walking, the only thing in his mind as his body protested and he pretended not to listen, one foot after the other, though he had no clue where they would take him. His wounds bled as they always did, a new collection of scars every time he transformed and the metal lodged itself deep within his flesh, left a trail behind as he made his way down towards the river, the trees his only support. It was then he heard it, the faintest of whispers, the most alluring of laughs. He raised his head to catch a glimpse of her, running away to hide from him, inviting him to chase her and catch her, lay her on a bed of twigs and thorns and explore her endless delights.

His little witch in the woods, naked under the moonlight just like he had imagined, standing right in the middle of the bridge that shook more violently than ever before. She did not seem to mind the cold, did not care about her dignity, her cheeks flushed and desire in her eyes as she called to him, and he could not help but follow.

He had stumbled on the last plank, foot stuck between a rusty nail and loose splinter just as he was about to catch her, when he reached out his hand and felt her hair slipping between his fingers. His face had hit the ground before he could register what happened, his little witch gone, a mouthful of snow and dirt all he had, papers scattering in the wind with the fall.

In his clarity he could hear the shuffling of feet in the distance, the frantic sniffing as the wolfmen smelled its prey in the air. Dozens of pairs of eyes watched him from behind the trees, hungry, desperate, waiting for his conscience to slip, for him to never get up, for him to stop walking, to heed their call and fall into their trap. The anxious tingle on his fingertips tells him he’s on edge, that fear creeps up his bones and into his blood and out of his pores like the sweetest of perfumes. But his bones hurt, so very much that there is no space for anything else in his mind. He picks himself up and walks, walks like he has a purpose, like he knows where to go and just what to say. Heisenberg no longer strode with the confidence of a man who knows there is nothing in this world more dangerous than himself, but with the sensation of being so small, so insignificant, a bundle of flesh and blood that could be torn and consumed. All that was left was the hope, the knowledge that something old prowled the woods, older than himself, something immensely powerful that meant him no harm.

He cannot tell if the sigh of relief stays only in his head when he sees the fence in the distance, rounds the yard lightning fast for a feverish man, the sound of his steps crunching the snow almost comical as he tried to run faster than his legs could take him. He catches himself on the porch railing before his teeth can hit the wood as he stumbles once again. There is no fear, only humor in his laughter, because he has made it, reached the safe haven of that decrepit cabin hidden between the mountains.

The witch stood at the porch, basket of laundry at her hip as she made her way out the door, an improvised clothesline strung between a post and a lantern hook. She was not startled this time, the expression on her face telling him he was expected, the smell coming from inside the cabin making his stomach rumble. He tries not to stare too long, not to pay attention to her beautiful features; every second they seem more twisted, a sinister smile, a hole where her face should be, a multitude of eyes, a pair of antlers. The disappointment was perhaps the worst of all, the look of disgust in her eyes. He cannot tell apart reality and dream and at this point he would prefer not to.

She blinked once, twice, confusion adorning her features as she looked him up and down but surely failed to understand just why Karl Heisenberg had dragged himself all the way up to her home wounded, naked except for his trench coat and hat, and looking like a man so high he could see beyond time. He had no shame left in him, between his confidence and the fever, and despite the weirdness of the situation, she was unfazed after the first few seconds, even when she lifted his chin to look him in the eye and he recoiled like an injured beast. If she hounded him for answers, she would get none. She would be lucky if he managed to mutter his own name.

He can’t tell if he had found the sanity to greet her, mind relaxing and patting itself in the back for successfully bringing him to his destination. She sets the basket down and walks towards him to come fetch him, one hand on his shoulder and the other settling on his waist as she guided him inside, and he cannot help but notice there are fingers and toes where her laundry should be, a bountiful, but gruesome harvest. A warning light flashes in his head when the cabin looks different, hands and organs and heads displayed in a macabre backdrop of blood and guts. He is shaking like a leaf when she sits him down on the couch, papers (papers?) taken away from him to be placed on the dinner table, and only when he motioned to grab them did he notice his hand was long gone, blown away like it had been caught in a shrapnel blast. He bites down on his lip as a last ditch attempt not to scream in horror, teary eyed and hurting. An entire mess and a half, with no explanation to give either him or her, but she did not seem to mind, busy grabbing her tools (saw, knife, cutters), wearing the bloodshed like a cape that was made to fit her.

She left him unattended but a moment before returning with the same box of supplies she had used when they first met (surely the tools she had hid within her apron pockets), cloth and antiseptic and the promise that this would burn, bad. He had half a mind to tell her not to worry, to let him bleed and heal on his own like he knew he would. He meant to tell her it was all good, and he had lost that hand before, and the leg, and the blood, and the sanity. It hurt but would not kill him, nothing could, even though he had tried. Instead he said nothing, for he had vastly overestimated his capabilities, less than half a mind at this point, pain and fear sloshing within him like a furious tide. The hat was the first to come off, and he tried to ignore how gentle her touch felt when she brushed back his hair to get a better look at his face.

“Are you still with us, my lord?” Her voice was but an echo inside his head, light as a feather as he rested against the couch and felt sleep tugging at his conscience, though the shock would not let him go. He is unsure whether he is asleep or awake after that, if the feeling of her fingers tracing over his skin are a hallucination or reality, but he sees it clearly regardless, feels it just the same. He taps his foot on the floor impatiently and notices that it is wet, it is all wet, the waters come in through the open door and flood every nook and cranny, only a matter of time before they are both drowned. Not water, no, blood, viscous, fresh, warm blood.

His trench coat is gently pushed off his shoulders, blood staining the throw that lined the couch but getting lost in the scenery, and dexterous fingers run over his scars, find their way to the open wounds speckled on his skin like a starry sky. Her touch was gentle but it hurt regardless, the haze in his mind imprisoning him in what felt like a perpetual state of suffering. The burning turned instead to the raw sensation of being torn apart, the flesh of his abdomen rending impossibly under her ministrations. He looks down to see her hand has disappeared on him, no, in him, the corners of her mouth stretched into an impossible smile. He is fully gone when something tugs at him, within him, bile gathering in his throat at the thought, at the feeling of having someone poke around his insides - again.

It is then that it all hits him, laughter explodes and he bellows - he has finally died. He sees it now, how it was all an illusion, and in reality he had been splayed in the snow all this time, blood pooling around his body and inviting all manner of predators to feast on him when the bones of the earth failed to claim him so many times before. A clever lycan had found a nice open spot to wedge its claws in and pull his guts out to munch on, another tore unceremoniously through to the same effect, and his visions of the witch were nothing but a pleasant mirage his brain had decided to afford him, a small mercy as he bid his consciousness goodbye at long last.

Tree tops and the dark sky are all he sees when he opens his eyes. At least he’d go in style, he thought with a snicker, and the hallucinations of her hands on him just like he’d fantasized spurred something within and made him stand to attention. What a fitting end, open and spilled like a bag of grain, guts wrapped around the papers he had brought with like an exotic crimson ribbon, and the biggest hard-on he had ever had.

[lady-daydream]

Random Headcanons about MacCready Fallout 4 - (Part 1)

He has an extremely fast reaction time, with equally fast reflects to match. Naturally, this fast reaction time was due to him always being alert while in the Commonwealth and in Capital Wasteland. However, this reaction time sometimes puts people on edge as he always seems to know when a glass will fall or when an enemy is behind a wall before anyone else can hear or see them. This mixed with his extremely high survival instinct means he almost always seems to have an awareness and the upper hand in many scenarios. He has even somehow dodging incoming (and fatal) bullets without thinking. He clocked it down to luck. However, this little skill of his does not fully show itself until he is seen with Duncan. If Duncan is even close to falling over his hand is already there to balance him. Duncan's about to drop a toy, MacCready has already got it. Maccready has an almost sixth sense, meaning he seems to just know when Duncan is about to cry. He does make an effort to not be overbearing to Duncan however even if it is only from a distance he is always making sure his son is okay. This skill however has also saved sole in multiple occasions; from catching them before their footing went lose while having to climb the remains of a pre-war building, to kicking a grenade from them before pushing them both to cover. Sole always jokes about it being his Spider Sense.

 As much as MacCready may seem like a muscle head. He has a strange need and desire to learn. He knows he is not extremely intelligent like Curie or Nick. But he still enjoys learning thing or understanding information he knows will help him survive. Some examples being, when he first left little lamplight when he was 16, he found reading helped him take his mind off things. He did however have difficulty making out most of the story, so he forced himself to learn. When he met Lucy, he had a good hang of reading, but she helped him whenever he got stumped as well as teaching him to write. Duncan’s name was actual plucked from Shakespeare's play Macbeth which she would use to help him learn. After Lucy's death, he became a farmer. He tried to find any books and advice to help him. He is a generally skilled farmer and was somehow able to make things grow just due to learning skills from precious farmers and pre-war books. When Duncan feel ill, Maccready not only asked as many doctors as he could about the disease but also tried to read as much as he could about it. He picked up not only some useful medical skills and understandings but also found he is one of the few that can follow Curies’ topical rants about medical science with being completely confused.  

However, much he likes to read, he also prefers comic books due to them being easier to read when its late and he was exhausted. He also found them easier to follow when he was younger. He also enjoys reading them to Duncan, collecting new ones whenever he can just to see Duncan’s face light up whenever he was reading him a story.

MacCready has a form of colour-blindness called Achromatopsia. This means he is unable to see colour, and only sees things in shades of black, white and grey. Due to having this as a child he quickly adapted and tried to the best of his ability to learn the different shades of grey as the colours people would associate them with. Though he has never seen colour he wishes that he could in order to see if Duncan has his mothers or his own eyes. He also prefers the night to the day due the sensitivity brought one by this condition as well as growing up in little lamplight meaning that his eyes have difficulty adjusting to light. On the other hand, he does see better in the dark slightly better than the average person. From the little he has read about it as well as what Curie later discussed with him, this form of colour blindness is genetic however is extremely rare. This however does not stump his fear that Duncan would have his colour-blindness. Curie quickly explained that Duncan is still able to see in colour even if he couldn't and quickly helped soothe that fear. He enjoys sitting with Duncan and asking him to describe the sunset and the colours he can see. While with Lucy, and later with Sole both will happily help mention a colour if he needs them to however, they do not help unless asked knowing assuming he is helpless he finds belittling. When Maccready asks however what eye colour he has Sole happily told him that he had blue eyes and that Duncan had Brown eyes.

MacCready pretended to be NCR. Due to them being more situational in the Mojave, people were more likely to just accept he was a soldier from a war far from the Capital Wasteland than ask questions. He found out about the NCR from a group of ex-soldiers turned caravan guards that mentioned a group of sharp shooters within the NCR and how they never seemed to miss. So, he stuck with that cover when lying to Lucy.

Due to this if MacCready ever met Boone, their interactions would be a mixture of reactions. Boone having a general disliking for anyone who pretends to be NCR without fighting, with this angering him is enough for him to want to start a fight. This paired with Macready’s underlining guilt about lying however not liking to back down from a fight if there isn't another option might lead to both avoiding each other out of awkwardness if Boone was unaware, or a fight if Macready's lie was known to Boone and things become confrontational. Both however could understand loss. And on the event, both shared a drink or went on watch together, both would be able to understand each other better than most. With Boone envying Macready's drive to survive due to his son, while Maccready admiring Boone’s determination even if it were for revenge. Deep down he knowing that if he could destroy ever feral ghoul, he would in a heartbeat without second thought.

 MacCready is a pretty good cards player. and has been able to win himself a bed for the night or drinks on the house more than once. He wants to learn card tricks however due to years of shooting and living in the harshness of the Capital Wasteland his fingers are to Callous and numb to do most of the more detailed and intricate tricks.

 MacCready has a habit of watching and observing as well as learning about his targets before he would kill them. He made it almost a habit of learning routines, people or things his target would interact with in order to as quickly as possible to make sure he knew where they would be when his sights landed. He got his reputation for a reason and he isn't know for being a cold-hearted son of a bitch when he needs to be. This became hyper focused after Lucy however, with him observing Feral Ghouls to understand them. From learning their movement pattern to how fast they are at attacking to how they interact with other feral ghouls. After failing to get Duncan's cure the first time from the Medtek Laboratory he used to sit, watching the hoards outside the place from a safe distance days on end ,hoping to find a time that would be safest to go.

 He has the patience of a saint. He can sit in a place for days on end waiting for a target. He would sometimes sit in Daisy's shop and act as security, not moving unless something kicked of. When he is like this is breathing slows to an almost silent rate, and he almost seems to be away in his own thoughts, with a single movement bringing him back. Daisy used to joke saying he was more a guard dog than a bodyguard.

 He met Daisy while he was still with Lucy when they travelled to Good neighbour before Duncan was born. She was helping unload caravan supplies and Lucy volunteered them both to help her. It was only a brief encounter but when Daisy spotted MacCready years later looking like he had aged many more years than had passed without the chirpy Lucy by his side she put two and two together. Though he does not remember meeting Daisy before Goodneighbour they quickly found it easier talking to each other. Though he would never admit it, he saw Daisy as an almost aunt figure. With him even telling her everything from Lying to Lucy, To Duncan, to the Gunners and even Little lamp light. Daisy would never tell anyone anything MacCready said to her in confidence, and even keeps the one-time Maccready came to here almost in tears after being unable to get the Medtek cure, covered in Injures a secret. Knowing that he would not want anyone seeing him in a weakened state. She always says he has a free spare bed above her shop if he needs it. And in return, if Daisy ever needs Macready's skill set for anything, he will do it with very little questions asked. She even helps him with anything he is reading with her love of books and pre-war knowledge meaning she has a little collection of books she will let him borrow as well as the understanding of pre-war words and their meanings.

MacCready likes anything Elvis created, and finds all his songs enjoyable. Though to many of his holotapes exist, he has had the luck to listen to a few. He hums them when he is doing some repetitive tasks such as cleaning his weapon or Collecting his bullets. His favourites are Blue Suede Shoes which he likes to teach and sing with Duncan. (Though he cannot dance to save his life), as well as Return to sender and if I can dream.

Sorry this has to be in a few parts, I’ve just moved to university so haven't had a lot of time. The other parts will be following shortly.

This one is for you @thatwolfnamednyla and @strawberrymilkuwo who both agree that Maccready deserves some attention and love. He is personally my joint favourite companion in all the fallout games, and he after having him as a companion I don't pick anyone else. 

I'm sorry in advance if their are many spelling mistakes please comment if you see any so I can correct them. :) If anyone has any suggestions/ imagine/ headcannons please just message me or comment and I will try and write it as quickly and to the best as my ability. I hope everyone has an amazing day, love you all <3

[purple-martin111]

The Sacrifices We Make

Read on Archive of Our Own

Chapters: 3/? Fandom: Fallout 4 Rating: Mature Warnings: The Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor Characters: Paladin Danse, Female Sole Survivor, Arthur Maxson, Scribe Haylen Additional Tags: Post-Blind Betrayal, Hurt/Comfort, Trauma, Depression, Anxiety, Guilt, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Heavy Angst, Abuse, Mental Health Issues

Chapter 3 - The Road to Righteousness

"Well hold on, my darling This mess was yours, Now your mess is mine" -Mess is Mine, Vance Joy-

“I’ll see you on the other side…”

BANG!

Darkness exploded around her and Jackie shot up from her bedroll.

“Danse?!” She cried, feverishly groping for her rifle or her Pip-Boy, anything to help fend off whatever had jolted her awake.

“Soldier?”  It came out forceful and frantic as Danse clanked through the room, “What is it? What’s the matter?” 

“I-I don’t know... I can’t breathe!”  Jackie panted, her pounding heart threatening to strangle her. “Something’s wrong!” 

Unable to control her racing thoughts, Jackie trembled and clung to her bedroll. She was convinced she’d perish in a fit of hysteria or at the very least, die of embarrassment. In an attempt to conceal her shameful state and regain some semblance of control, she pressed her face into her hands,

“You’re alright.”  

She nearly leapt out of her skin at Danse’s hand on her shoulder and his voice in her ear. So consumed by her irrational fear, she hadn’t even heard him exit his power armor. It stood looming at the edge of the room and Danse... Danse was so near that Jackie was suddenly overwhelmed by all the emotions she’d been trying so hard to bury since leaving the vault. All the pain and heartache, her insurmountable grief, leaked from the little box she’d haphazardly stuffed them away in. 

“It’s not real, you’re safe. It’ll pass, just breathe.” 

Danse had taken a knee beside her and his grip, firm on her shoulder, moored her to reality. At least until she met his gaze and those heartbreakingly familiar brown eyes shattered her sanity. It took everything in her not to clamber into his arms and weep away her troubles. Instead Jackie clutched at his uniform and squeezed her eyes shut to block out the haunting reminder and hold back the tears caught just behind her lids. 

Nate, she missed him so goddamn much it hurt. But Danse...right now, Danse would have to do. She let his soft, calming words sooth her aching heart and slowly the panic subsided. Left with only an echo, Jackie’s hands fall into her lap. Broken and hollow, she grasped at the ghosts of her former life splintering in the parallels of her mind. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered and pawed at her face, wiping at tears or the flush of shame she didn’t know. 

“This is common among soldiers.” His hand lingered on her shoulder, a gentle reminder that despite her madness, Danse still had her back. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

Jackie just stared at her hands. There was sadness in Danse’s voice, a resonance of understanding that made her wonder about his own mental state. She wasn’t blind. She’d seen how he struggled. How he kept himself endlessly busy, avoiding sleep or rest so he didn’t have to confront his own demons. Danse carried the weight of the wasteland on his shoulders and clearly he cared about her. He was a tough nut to crack, but underneath it all he was kind and a good man. 

All Jackie had done since enlisting was repay his kindness in cruelty. She had been insubordinate at best and nothing short of a cold-hearted bitch at worst. 

“I haven’t treated you fairly,” she admitted, “I’ve been angry and so caught up in myself. You...” she nervously wrung her hands together as she trailed off, “you were an easy target.” 

Danse shifted to lean his elbow on his knee. “Sometimes trauma makes us do things we aren’t proud of.” 

“Doesn’t give me the right to be nasty.” She glanced over at him and was met with the faintest of smiles. 

“Is that an apology I hear, soldier?”  

“I-ah…,” she tittered to herself, “yeah, I suppose it is.” 

Danse continued grinning and knocked his shoulder against hers, "I appreciate the sentiment.” 

She leaned into him, wishing he could give her so much more than just fleeting touches. “Thanks,” she muttered and pulled away before her emotions got the better of her again, “I can take watch if you want.” 

“Negative,” his fingers brushed against her shoulder as he stood to retreat back to his armor, waiting until he was safely encased inside before continuing, “but you can sit with me if you’d like.” 

Just breathe.

Jackie’s chest ached at the recollection of that moment. Danse…he was the only thing worth fighting for in this world, the only thing keeping her breathing. He was her lifeblood and if he died at the hands of the Brotherhood for her mistakes, they might as well kill her too. 

This was her fault. She should have done more, fought harder, told Maxson where he could shove it and walked away. Should have run and never looked back and taken Danse somewhere far away. Somewhere near the sea where they could watch the sunrise and hear the waves crashing upon the sand in the evening. Leave it all behind and allow the Commonwealth to fall to its own demises. Jackie, however, had been selfish and naive in thinking that she and Danse could live in peace without retribution.

Despite her shaking hands and pounding pulse, she refused to be consumed by panic. It rattled her bones, scratching at her skull like the parasite it was, but Jackie pushed herself forward. She forced her feet to carry her across the room to where she had dumped her duffle bag the night before. Hastily, she stripped of her night clothes and plucked a clean uniform from her pack, dressing with little regard to her personal appearance. 

Unkempt and unhinged, her hair was a rat’s nest of wheat colored straw and her face a dirty, tear stained mess, but it would have to do. She would have to do.

With a sigh and a final glance around the room, she jabbed the elevator call button. As she waited for its descent she paced, attempting to formulate a plan. A plan that didn’t involve her solo assault on the Brotherhood stronghold or the very real possibility that she would be forced to murder their Elder. 

Shit. 

Staggered by the consequences of Danse’s actions, she stumbled to a halt. If she intended to survive this, she was going to have to bring down the Brotherhood--alone. If by some stroke of dumb luck she was successful, then what? The Commonwealth would crumble at the sudden power vacuum. 

Dammit Danse! 

Jackie slammed her fist against the elevator door just as it clanged open and she was left standing there, messaging her forehead between her fingers. She didn’t know what the hell she was going to do but she slung her duffle bag over her shoulder and snatched up her rifle nonetheless.  She would make it up as she went and wished to whatever gods were still listening that they didn’t end up dead. 

The elevator made an agonizingly slow ascent to the surface and Jackie prayed that she was wrong. She prayed that Danse had just gone to patrol the perimeter or ventured to a nearby settlement for supplies and he would be waiting for her in the vestibule of the bunker. But, when the elevator finally rattled to the surface, Jackie was greeted with darkness and the stark absence of Danse. 

The bunker entrance was empty, and quiet midsummer twilight greeted her as she stepped out into the wasteland. Her heart skipped a stuttering beat at the sight. Perhaps luck was still on her side because in the cover of night and concealed in her armor, Danse might still be alive.

In the distance, the sun peeked over the horizon, painting the skyline in faint wisps of pink and orange. The sunrise lazily eclipsed the deep blues and black of night while she headed east to the unofficial extraction point. As she walked on, she rooted around in her bag, searching for the signal grenade she’d stashed away in case of emergency. 

It didn’t take long to reach the designated location, a vacant stretch of broken road behind the old ironworks factory. She threw down the signal grenade and watched as the plume of smoke circled up into the heavens. Not so patiently she waited for the distant hum of the vertibird’s engines to break the silence.

Minutes crept by and before long the sun breached the horizon. With it, came the feeling of failure. Not once had she bothered to check in with Danse last night to assess his own mental state. His deteriorating physical health had been an obvious sign of his instability, yet Jackie had failed to acknowledge it. Instead, she burdened him with her insignificant troubles and neglected to reciprocate his kindness. Perhaps if she had, she wouldn’t be in this situation.

She had promised to be there for him, help him heal, and secretly she had vowed to love him. Then in the face of hardship, she’d abandoned him. Jackie couldn’t breathe and before she could stop it, tears were tumbling down her cheeks. She had betrayed him when he had needed her the most. 

The crippling intensity of her guilt sliced at her ribs, threatening to tear her apart. It would have been better, easier for them both, if she had just endured the pain of letting Danse go. Allowed him to move on and live out his days in peace. After everything he’d been through, he at least deserved that much.

The ground groaned beneath her feet as she paced in an attempt to occupy her mind and halt the hemorrhaging of her spiraling thoughts. Her gut churned, bile rising in her throat and she commanded her body to be still. Her urge to vomit quelled just in time to hear the familiar whirl of a vertibird’s engines approaching. Earth and grass whipped about and dirt was violently kicked up with the aircraft’s impending landing. Jackie covered her face with her arms, attempting to shield herself from the dust storm. As soon as the vertibird’s landing gear made contact with the ground she hoisted herself up into the troop load, despite the sickening feeling that still lingered.

A familiar face, clad in aviators and arrogance, greeted her when she clambered inside. It was always the same Lancer who retrieved her. The same pilot who had run transport for Danse and his team and who had taken Maxson to the bunker. He was the only one authorized for extraction from this location and even though words had never been exchanged, Jackie knew he knew and she wondered what price he had paid to keep their secret. 

He handed her a headset as she scooted by to sit in the co-pilot’s seat, the roar of the engines drowned out when she slipped it on. 

“Paladin,” His voice crackled through the earpiece, followed by a terse nod and salute. 

“Geers.” Jackie returned the gesture out of habit. 

For a moment Geers watched her, taking in her obviously disheveled state, but chose not to comment, “Ma’am, you’ve got orders to report to the Command Deck immediately upon arrival.” 

“Wonderful,” she scowled, “who did I piss on this time to be owed the pleasure?” 

A knowing look passed between them before he spoke, “The Elder knows where you go when you disappear.” 

Jackie said nothing and stared at her feet, the knots in her stomach twisting tighter. 

Geers allowed the void of conversation to stretch on before he added, “Maxson thought you weren’t coming back this time.” 

And there it was, the painful reminder of her violation. 

“Yeah, that was the plan, but...” She could feel his eyes on her, pitying her, questioning her. 

“...but what?” he dared to ask.

None of your goddamn business. 

Jackie wanted to snap at him. Put him in his place and maintain the distance held within the chain of command, but she bit her tongue because it was rude and Geers was one of the few people trusted. 

She twisted her hands together and mused her bottom lip. Should she tell him the truth? The truth would likely get him killed so Jackie decided on a half-truth. “There's been a recent development that requires my immediate attention back on the Prydwen.”  

Static hissed in the coms while Geers watched her with a frown hovering upon his brow. “You told him about Maxson...didn’t you?” he pressed her with the demand and sharp angel of his eyes when she didn’t immediately respond. “Jackie--” 

“Just take me back,” she snapped. It wasn’t a request, she was done playing games. Every second she spent dicking around with Geers put Danse at risk, they needed to leave--now.  

Geers cursed under his breath and Jackie could hear the eyeroll as he turned back to jab at the instrumentation panel. 

“Whiskey, golf, echo, seven, this is Lancer-Knight Geers en route to the Prywden.” 

Static droned in her ears, her stomach lurching when he abruptly jerked the stick to get them in the air. 

“Acknowledged, what’s your status Lancer?” the voice on the other end asked. 

“All’s quiet here.” Geers glanced over at Jackie, looking more smug than was appropriate for the situation. “But mission objective delta juliette is a go. Standby and I’ll brief you on our arrival.” 

More static and then finally air traffic control came back, “Roger that. You’ve been cleared for landing in bay two upon your arrival.”

“Roger out,” Geers responded and flipped a switch, cutting out the static.

Jackie regarded him with cinched brows, Geers wasn’t one for formalities. “What was that about?”

“Just…” he shrugged and peered over his sunglasses, “maybe you don’t have to do everything on your own.”

She shifted in her seat to fix him a hard glare. “I don’t think you comprehend the gravity of the situation.”

“And I think you underestimate my power of persuasion.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she scoffed.

“You’ll just have to trust me,” he smirked and turned his attention back to the horizon, “that maybe you--and Danse--still have some friends in the Brotherhood.”

God, she wanted to smack that stupid little grin right off his face. Somehow though, she managed to restrain herself and not feed his ego with the dignity of a response. Instead, she closed her eyes and hoped that whatever half-baked plan Geers had cooked up didn’t get them all killed.

[spacesuitsforemergency]

The Rise of Iron Maiden

Chapter 2: So, You Want to be an Avenger?

Word Count: 2.8k

Original Request by: @amateurwriterbigdreamer

Previous Chapter: A Wizard, A Guardian and an Avenger Walk Into A Bar

Next Chapter: We’re in the Endgame Now

A/N: I put as much Eduardo and Y/N moments in as I could, hope you like it! Please comment what you like so far! Also the snap is in the next chapter.....

“There’s Dr. Strange.” You whisper to Peter and Eduardo, masks now off. The doctor is floating horizontally, surrounded by 2 foot long glassy needles. The alien is interrogating him, trying to get ahold of the Stone. He starts preaching about Thanos, and his plan to wipe out half the universe. You all exchange glances, shocked by the weight of the mission.

“Mr. Stark is gonna kill us.” Peter whispers to you.

“Dad will kill me cause I dragged you along. I’ll take the blow.” You shrug.

All 3 of you gasp when something touches you from behind, making you tumble out of your hiding spot. Your dads head snaps around so fast you hear his neck crack, and the amount of sheer rage on his face makes you want to hide.

“It was just the docs stupid cloak!” Peter grumbles as Tony storms over to you guys.

“What are you doing here?!” He hisses, staring at you for an explanation.

“Don’t get mad at them, I literally forced them to come with me.” You defend your friends.

“Y/N Stark, what did I tell you? This is way too dangerous for you kids!” He glared down at you.

“Dad, we couldn’t just-“

“I don’t wanna hear it.” He shook his head, bottom jaw jutting out in frustration. “Y/N, you’re supposed to be responsible. You were supposed to get back home. I told your mother you were back on earth, she’s going to kill us both if we don’t die up here.”

“I am responsible! Why do you think I’m here? I’m not just going to sit back and let Thanos kill half the population!” You argue.

“Don't pretend like you thought this through. You could not have possibly thought this through.” He points a finger on your face.

You open your mouth to snap at him, but a pained yell from Dr. Strange diverts your attention.

“We do not have time for this.” Eduardo says.

“Kids right, we got a situation.” Tony nods, then turns to you. “See him down there? He's in trouble. Since you’re so ready, what's your plan? Go.”

”Okay we’re gonna...” you lean over to scan the ship, then an idea pops into your head. “Have you guys seen that really old movie, Aliens?”

After you told them the plan, you took your positions. You and your dad flew over to distract the alien guy, El Dorado and Spider-Man stayed in the hiding spot.

“Painful aren't they? They were originally designed for microsurgery. And any one of them...” the alien asked Dr. Strange, then turned to us. “...Could end your friend's life in an instant.”

“I gotta tell you, he's not really my friend. Saving his life is more a professional courtesy.” Your dad shrugs.

“You've saved nothing. Your powers are inconsequential compared to mine.” The alien slowly approached you.

“Yeah, but the kids have seen more movies.”

You turn and blast an opening in the ship, and it begins to suck everything out with depressurization. The alien gets pulled out, and Dr. Strange begins to gets blown towards the hole. Spider-Man grabs him with his webs, El Dorado holding onto a strand of webbing and holding him back. The webbing breaks, sending them out of the opening. Just before Spider-Man and the wizard get sucked out, metal spider legs shoot out of his back and brace him. You fly over and pull them back inside, while Iron Man quickly sprays nanites onto the hole to seal it.

“We've gotta turn this ship around.” Dr. Strange stands up, his Cloak returning to its place among his shoulders.

“Yeah. Now he wants to run. Great plan.” Tony retracts his helmet.

“No, I want to protect the stone.”

They begin to argue, Spider-Man also joining in a few times. You roll your eyes as Eduardo teleports beside you, taking your armored hand in his.

“What’s wrong?” Eduardo whispers to you.

“Nothing.” You grumpily mutter.

“I know somethings wrong cause you stop with the sarcasm when you’re upset. Talk to me, Corazon.” He leans down and kisses you on your temple.

“You heard what’s Thanos’ plan is.” You sigh, turning to face him, away from the argument. “He’s gonna wipe out half of...everything. Everyone.”

“No, he’s not.” He shakes his head.

“What do you mean that alien dude just said-“

“He’s not going to because we’re going to stop him.” Eduardo presses a finger to your lips to silence you. “Thanos won’t even know what hit him. Okay?”

“But-“

“Okay?” He says, tone slightly more stern.

“...okay.”

“Do you trust me?” He asks, grinning and pulling you closer to him by your waist.

“Of course I do.” You smile, craning your neck up to kiss him.

“And who are you?” Dr. Strange’s voice raises. You both look over, seeing them all staring at you and Eduardo.

“El Dorado.” Eduardo says, teleporting you both over to them.

“Iron Maiden.” You cross your arms.

“Like...the band?” He raises an eyebrow at you.

“Yeah, we don’t have time for this. This flying doughnut is probably flying us straight to so base.” Your dad interrupts.

“Can we control it?” El Dorado asks as the adults move towards the controls.

“Fly us home?” Dr. Strange asks, though he doesn’t get a response. “Stark?”

“Yeah. I heard you.” Tony mumbles. “I'm thinking...I'm not so sure we should.”

“Under no circumstance can we bring the Time Stone to Thanos. I don't think you quite understand what's at stake here.” Strange scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief.

They start to argue over what to do next, go back to earth or fly straight to Thanos. You and your teammates exchanged glances, all shrugging to each other. Your attention snaps back to Iron Man as he approaches you, and all 3 of you expect another scolding. Instead, he goes and taps each of your shoulders.

“Alright, kids. You’re Avengers now.” He says, guilt and regret clouding his eyes. None of you really take notice, too excited that you’re now official Avengers instead of just a team of inexperienced kids.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Peter piped up. All of you look out the large window, seeing that you’re approaching a planet.

“I think we’re here.” Dr. Strange mutters.

“Shit. We’re about to crash.” Tony curses, rushing to a steering gimbal. “Y/N, get the other. Follow my lead. Move at the same time.”

You rush over and grab the other one, mirroring every move your father makes. The ship heads straight for the center of what looks like a giant game of jacks.

“You might want to turn!” Eduardo yelps as Peter clings onto him.

“Turn! Turn!” Peter shrieks to the both of you.

You mimic your dads movements as Dr. Strange steps between the two of you, summoning a shield of some sort. Eduardo and Peter scream as the ship roughly crashes to the surface, and you nearly fall over from the impact. The ship tilts to one side, thankfully only leaning and not toppling onto its side. Dr. Strange helps up Tony, while Eduardo teleports to you and lifts you to your feet.

“Let me just say, if aliens wind up implanting eggs in my chest or something, and I eat one of you, I'm sorry.” Spider-Man says, hanging from the ceiling.

“I don't wanna hear another single pop culture out of you for the rest of the trip. You understand? Any of you, for that matter.” Tony points at each one of you.

“I'm trying to say that.. something is coming.” Peter says.

You watch as something rolls to the center of the circle you all have formed, and the grenade pushes you all back when it explodes.

“Thanos!” A deep voice booms, and you watch as 3 people appear in the doorway.

A large man with pale blue skin and red tattoos throws a blade at Dr. Strange, who easily deflected it and he Cloak wraps around the mans face. Another man in a mask tosses a disc towards you and your dad, pinning both of you to the ground. A bug lady goes for Spider-Man, who screams and wraps her in webbing. Eduardo goes for the man in the mask, dodging blasts from his gun. Iron pulls free from the magnet, but you still struggle against its hold. You watch as the masked man wraps El Dorado in a head lock, blaster pointed at Spider-Man, also held to the floor by a magnet. Iron Man has the tattooed man pinned under his foot, Dr. Strange had shields up and ready to fight.

“Alright, everybody, stay where you are... chill the F out.” The masked man retracts the helmet, revealing a normal human face. “I'm gonna ask you this one time. Where's Gamora?”

“Yeah, I'll do you one better. Who's Gamora?” Tony also retracts his helmet.

“I'll do you one better! Why is Gamora?” The tattooed man bellows from beneath your father.

“Tell me where my girl is, or I swear to you, I'm gonna French-fry these little freaks.” The previously masked man signals to Spider-Man and El Dorado.

“Hey man, that’s racist.” Eduardo quips, but shuts up when the blaster is pointed to his head.

“Let's do it! You shoot my guy, I blast him. Let's go!” Iron Man extends a canon out of his armor, pointing it down to the tattooed man.

“Dad!” You snap.

“What?!” Eduardo and Peter both whimper.

“Do it, Quill! I can take it.” The tattooed guy says, full of confidence.

“No, he can’t take it!” The big lady calls.

“She’s right, you can’t.” Dr. Strange deadpanned.

“Oh yeah? You don't wanna tell me where she is? That's fine. I'll kill all 5 of you and beat it out of Thanos myself.” He starts to activate his blaster, still pointed at Eduardo’s head. “Starting with you.”

“No!” You shout, trying to pull yourself off the ground.

“Wait, what? Thanos?” Dr. Strange squinted. “Alright, let me ask you this one time: What master do you serve?”

“What master do I serve? What am I supposed to say? Jesus?” The guy laughs.

“You’re from earth?” You ask.

“I'm not from Earth. I'm from Missouri.” He looks at you.

“Yeah, that’s on earth, dipshit.” Tony snapped.

“So, you’re not with Thanos?” Peter asked timidly.

“With Thanos?” The guy lowers his weapon momentarily, indignantly scowling. “No, I'm here to kill Thanos! He took my girl- Wai- who are you?”

“We’re the Avengers, el boludo.” Eduardo stated, still weary of the gun pointed at him.

“You’re the ones Thor told us about!” The bug lady exclaims.

“You know Thor?” Tony asked.

“Yeah. Tall guy, not that good-looking, needed saving.” He lowered the gun and let go of El Dorado. “So, you’re after Thanos too?”

“No.” You say sarcastically. “Now can you get me off of this thing?”

“Right.” He nods, pressing something and deactivating the magnetic fields for you and Peter. Iron Man steps off of the big guy, who then walks over to the big lady and mask dude.

“Boys, you can come in now.” One of them says into a com. Two guys walk in, and your jaw drops at who it is.

“Tye?! Jaime?!” You, Eduardo and Peter all exclaim.

“Oh shit-“ Tye winced when he saw Tony.

“You guys too? Seriously?” Tony says with a straight face, which is never a good sign.

“You guys know each other?” The mask guy asked them.

“You know them?” Eduardo points. “He tried to kill me!”

“So this looks bad...” Jaime says, pulling Tye back, who tried to avoid the confrontation. “We got trapped on a ship, they helped us out.”

“How did you get trapped on a ship too?!” Tony shouted, about to burst a blood vessel.

“How many children do you have?” Dr. Strange asked judgementally.

“Just these ones.” Tony seethed. “And they’re all disobedient and just like me, apparently.”

“Why are you guys up here too?” Jaime asked you.

“We got trapped too.” Peter and Eduardo look at you.

“We’ve been over this, it was for a good reason!” You defend yourself, before turning to the 3 people Tye and Jaime were with. “Now, who the hell are you guys?”

“We’re the Guardians of the Galaxy.” The mask guy grinned proudly. “Call me Star Lord, little lady. This is Drax and Mantis.”

“Great. Now that we’re through with formalities, we should come up with a proper plan.” Dr. Strange said.

“Agreed. Let’s go scope the place out. You’re all grounded when we get back home, I hope you know that.” Tony gestures to the 5 of you as you walk together behind the adults.

“Guess what, gomías?” Eduardo turns to Tye and Jaime.

“You guys have food that isn’t in a silver plastic bag and freeze dried?” Tye asked hopefully.

“No. We got crowned Avengers, and you didn’t!” Eduardo sang.

“What? No fair! Mr. Stark!” Jaime ran ahead to them.

“So did you guys actually get stuck on a ship?” Peter asked Tye.

“No, Jaime kidnapped me.” Tye rolled his eyes.

“Interesting.” Peter narrowed his eyes at you, as Eduardo snickered.

“Oh, shut up!” You playfully shove Peter, before you emerge form the ship.

“The heck happened to this planet? It's eight degrees off its axis. Gravitational pull is all over the place.” Star Lord thinks out loud, holding out some sort of measuring device.

“Yeah, we got one advantage. He's coming to us. We'll use it. All right, I have a plan.” Tony days as you all join him. “Or at least the beginnings of one. It's pretty simple. We draw him in, pin him down, get what we need. Definitely don't wanna dance with this guy. We just want the gauntlet so-“

Drax yawns, your dad stopping mid sentence to stare judging at him.

“Are you yawning? In the middle of this, while I'm breaking it down? Huh? Did you-did you hear what I said?” Your dad asks, flabbergasted.

“I stopped listening when you said ‘we need a plan’.” Drax mumbled.

“Okay, Mr. Clean is on his own page.” Tony shook his head.

“Yeah...” Tye pursed his lips, glancing at his best friend.

“See winging it isn’t really what they...do.” Jaime scratches the back of his neck.

“Uh, what exactly is it that they do?” Peter asked.

“Kick names, take ass.” Mantis says with the confidence of a drunk man.

“Yes, that’s right.” Drax agreed.

You all stare blankly at them in disbelief, then to turn to Star Lord, who grins cockily.

“Alright, just get over here, please. Mr. Lord, can you get your folks to circle up?” Tony sighs.

“Mr. Lord.” Star Lord snickers as he signals for Mantis and Drax to come closer. “Star Lord is fine. Or Quill, I suppose.”

“We gotta coalesce. 'Cause if all we come at him with is a plucky attitude-“

“Dude, don't call us plucky. We don't know what it means.” Star Lord scoffs, your dad staring at him in utter disbelief. “Alright, we're optimistic, yes. I like your plan. Except it sucks, so let me do the plan, and that way it might be really good.”

Your dad opens his mouth to respond, before Drax pipes up again.

“Tell the children about the dance off to save the universe.”

“That’s...it’s nothing.” Quill shrugs, brushing it off casually.

“Like in Footloose?” Eduardo asked from beside you.

“Exactly like Footloose.” Star Lord smiled excitedly. “Is it still the greatest movie in history?”

“It never was.” Tye mumbled, Jaime elbowing him.

“Don’t encourage this.” You scold them.

“You know, Tye. I was going to adopt you. Not anymore, sonny.” Quill stuck his nose in the air, offended.

“Oh no. Whatever will I do?” Tye deadpanned.

“He’s my kid, anyways.” Tony says, before mumbling to you. “We're getting no help from Flash Gordon here.”

“Flash Gordon? That’s a compliment by the way. Don’t forget, I’m half human.” Quill points to each and every one of you. “So that 50% of me that’s stupid? That’s 100% you.”

“Your math is blowing my mind.” Your dad looks ready to tear Quills head off.

“Excuse me, but...does your friend often do that?” Mantis cleared her throat.

You all fall silent as you look past her to Dr. Strange. He’s sitting cross legged, floating in the air. His head is jerking rapidly from side to side, blurring but it appears as if he’s looking for something.

“Strange! We alright?” Tony shouts, as you slowly approach and gently grab his arm.

His eyes snap open as he falls to the ground, letting out a cry.

“Hey, you’re okay.” You say in your most comforting tone.

“You’re back, you’re alright.” Tony crouches down next to you as the others gather from a short distance away.

“Hey, what was that?” Peter asked.

“I went forward in time to view alternate futures. To see all the possible outcomes of the coming conflict.” Dr. Strange pants.

“How many did you see?” Eduardo asked as he stood beside you.

“14,000,605.”

“And how many did we win?” You ask.

Your heart aches and your stomach drops at the look on his face, hopelessness flashing in the wizards eyes. You grab Eduardo’s hand as dread washes over you.

“One.”

[gumx395]

Til Death Do We Part

A (embarrassingly late) part of a Shobbs fic exchange with @unusalkitten. Hope it was worth the wait!

                                                        --

Luke walked into the large, cold room. Out of instinct, he quickly assessed the room, identifying any potential threats and recognizing all possible exits. He could never be too careful, especially in anything concerning Deckard Shaw. He knew that even in death that guy had the ability to create a world of problems for Luke.

As expected, there were far less people than one would expect at a typical wake. Luke knew Deckard wasn’t much for close friendships, and he definitely didn’t expect the Shaw family to gather all in one place. They knew better than to let themselves be sitting ducks.

Luke stood in the doorway, surveying the kind of people that had taken the time to grieve the infamous Deckard Shaw. Luke lifted an eyebrow at the small gaggle of young attractive women weeping by the casket. Of course. He held back a chuckle, remembering where he was. Luke scanned over the scattering of what he was sure were either government agents or criminal mob bosses who likely only came to make sure Deckard was actually dead. Beyond these two odd groups of mourners, the only other people there that Luke knew were the Toretto gang. At the moment they were milling around off to the side, talking amongst themselves. They all had serious, somber faces, which Luke figured was more than anyone could ask of them, considering their very…….complicated history with the Brit. Dom looked over and gave him a quick nod, and Luke took that as an invitation to join them.

Letty came up to him and gave him as tight of a hug as she could while seven months pregnant. Dom, ever the subdued man he’s always been, settled for a hand on the shoulder.

“Sup Hobbs. Sam’s not with you?”

Luke shook his head. “Naw. Didn’t wanna put her through all this. She’s staying with her Aunt Linda.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. We left Brian with Letty’s family.” Dom glances over at the casket and shook his head. “Can’t seem to wrap my head around the idea of him really being dead. A part of me still expects this to be some sort of trick.”

Letty chuckled at that. “Definitely seems like something the guy would try to pull.”

Luke shook his head. “I wouldn’t believe it either if I hadn’t seen the autopsy report with my own eyes. Guess the Brit wasn’t as invincible as he thought he was.”

As the wake began and everyone moved to find their seats, one of the people that Luke was sure was a government agent walked to the front and began to speak. Luke ended up tuning most of it out. It was almost amusing, knowing none of these people knew anything about who Deckard Shaw really was anyways. Luke knew they were just going to repeat the same standard, vague platitudes everyone says when someone they didn’t know and didn’t like very well passed away. When everyone had heard the news about Deckard’s death and that there was going to be a funeral, Dom and Letty had asked Luke why he hadn’t wanted to speak himself, but he brushed them off, telling them he couldn’t find the words, which wasn’t a total lie. Unless he was talking smack, Luke wasn’t really great with his words, and the person he would usually talk smack with was Deckard himself. Luke found himself reminiscing about all the times he and Deckard had gone back and forth. Early on in knowing each other their smack talk was almost always done out of malice, but once they grew closer and fonder of each other it just became a way to see who could come up with the cleverest comeback. Either way, it would always somehow end with them closer than they were before.

Luke came back to the present when everyone around him began to get up and get ready to head out to the cemetery. Letty came up to him and put a comforting hand on his arm. “C’mon, you can ride with us. You shouldn’t have to be alone right now.”

Luke gave her a thankful smile and shook his head. “I’ll be right there. I think I just need a moment.”

Dom nodded, a knowing look in his eye, and led his family out of the room.

Luke slowly made his way up to the casket and looked down at Deckard’s calm, lifeless face. He had never seen Deckard’s face so still. He leaned down slowly and said,

“Get up asshat, I know you’re not dead.”

Deckard’s eyes flew open and his signature sneer came back to his face.

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock, you want a cookie for figuring it out?” Luke rolled his eyes as he helped Deckard out of the casket.

“Nice touch with the models crying over your body by the way.”

Deckard smirked. “What can I say, I tend to leave a lasting memory.”

Before Luke could respond with his own witty reply, Deckard grabbed him by the back of the neck and brought their lips together in a resounding kiss. Luke melted into it, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend. It had been a while since he’d gotten a chance to hold Deckard in his arms.

Suddenly remembering why they were there in the first place, Luke pulled back and gave Deckard a serious look.

“So you wanna let me know what’s going on and who’s after you? Is it Eteon again or something?”

“Nah, nothing big like that. Just a run of the mill drug lord I needed the element of surprise over. Still, I could use a hand if you’re not too busy, twinkletoes.”

Luke grinned, pulled two guns out of the inside of his jacket and winked at Deckard. “Why else do you think I’m here, princess?” Look nodded his head towards one of the doors. “C’mon, I caught a glimpse of an exit out the back.”

Before he could hand over one of his guns, Deckard opened up the bottom half of the casket to reveal a whole armory of weapons, from handguns to machine guns to grenades.

Luke shook his head with a smile. Should have expected the Brit to always be armed to teeth.

Once Deckard had managed to holster every gun and explosive possible onto his body they quickly moved through the back of the mortuary.

“So I take it you let the family in on the scheme?”

Deckard huffed a laugh. “If I ever die for real, they’re gonna know it. We’ve each ‘died’ at least five times by now.”

“What are you guys keeping track or something?”

“More like keeping score. I’m closing in on Owen, the little shit, but none of us have gotten close to mum’s count.”

Luke laughed to himself, entirely unsurprised at the Shaw family antics at this point. He looked through the last door out of the building and, once he was sure the coast was clear, signaled for Deckard to follow him outside.

So do you got a car waiting for you out here or something?”

“Course not. Too obvious. We’re taking your piece of junk.” Deckard said, already walking towards Luke’s truck.

“So your plan entirely banked on me figuring out that you weren’t dead?”

Deckard had already somehow managed to get Luke’s passenger side open, despite the fact that it had been locked. “I thought you’d be flattered. That’s giving you a lot of credit there, pea brain.”

Before Deckard could climb into the passenger seat Luke suddenly grabbed him by the arm. “Hey!” Deckard shot him a questioning look. Understandable, considering they had worked together on so many missions at this point that they had fallen into this easy flow.

“Thanks for not being dead.”

While Luke had figured out in his head what Deckard’s plan was pretty effortlessly, the entire time he couldn’t get rid of that fear in his chest rising at the idea that this time was the real deal and Deckard was really never coming back.

Luke knew where this fear was coming from. He’ll never forgot the first time Deckard faked his own death for a mission they were both on. That time, he had to see Deckard “die” with his own eyes. Long before Luke knew Deckard well enough to know that faking his own death was a card he liked to keep up his sleeve and wasn’t scared of using, Luke had been devastated at the thought of not being there in time to save Deckard. He had gone through such guilt and grief at the time, before he had even come close to understanding the full extent of what he felt for the Brit, and it had haunted him to this day.

Deckard, practically able to read Luke’s mind at this point, gave him a warm, comforting look.

“Hey, don’t worry huh? I’m not dying anytime soon. There ain’t a man alive that can take me down. You should know, you’ve tried several times haven’t ya twinkletoes.”

Deckard gave him a wink that Luke received with a wide grin.

They both hopped into the car, ready to take on whatever mess was waiting for them.

[piddies0709]

Thoughts and Predictions of SUF finals

Soooo... Last two episodes before the final were quite a doozy and I think I might try to take a break from seeing anything SU related on Tumblr, knowing full well how (ironically) black and white the fan base can be. I also know for some, this will not sit well with them and leave a really bad taste in their mouth. And I can’t change your own thoughts as to whether you guys consider this to be a “bad” writing decision or not. But I would like to stay away from as many angry posts on the matter as much as possible. I can only take so much rage filled opinions venting on a show like this. Yeesh, it’s like the “9″ fandom all over again...

Major Spoilers Ahead

So in Mr. Universe, Steven learns about why his father left his old home in the first place. Greg grew up with very strict parents and as a result of his own rebellion, he got his named changed (which came from a song) and ran away. Never looking back. Very similar to what his mother did. Steven is understandably pissed by this, knowing what it has resulted in. Though I wouldn’t call Greg a bad father for this. He defiantly screwed up here. This results in the in Steven breaking the steering wheel and crashing the van.Thankfully Greg and Steven come out of this okay, but Steven has now placed “another brick in his wall” so to speak. Which leads to the episode “Fragments” And let me first say, what a fitting title that is. Not just for what literally happens at the end but also the metaphorically as well.  Steven is breaking apart his relations with everyone around him. Especially with his family and the only person he feels can help him with this problem. The one who triggered his diamond powers in the first place. Jasper. Who is quite honestly the last person you should ever take advise from, since she's basically Animal Mother from Full Metal Jacket. All she needed was some one to throw hand grenades at her for the rest of her life and that hand grenade in this case was Steven. This really brings the first episode of this season into perspective. As I had a really bad feeling that nothing good was going to come out of this fight. Yet still not prepared for when it finally did happen. And quite frankly, both Steven and Jasper are at fault here. Jasper for continuously egging on Steven’s aggrieve powers and Steven for letting all his “Demons” take control and shattering Jasper.

Like I said before, nothing good was going to come out of this. It’s one thing to release your anger and let it out on something, but it’s another when that anger goes too far and ends up hurting someone... And boy did Steven find that one out that hard way. Thankfully, he was able to bring Jasper back. So while her “death” wasn’t permanent, That won’t change the guilt Steven is feeling over what he just did. While some may argue that this is just being edgy for the sake of edgy. I don’t see it that way. I think this was a real wake up call for Steven, to see just how dangerous he’s becoming. Still he ain’t out of the woods just yet. Jasper after being brought back, isn’t angered over being shattered. In shock yes, but now finally respects Steven as “her diamond” which is really the last thing Steven needs right now.

Also is anyone else getting Why So Blue vibes from this?

Which leads to my predictions for the last four episodes. Keep in mind these are just guesses of what I think could happen. 

Starting with Homeworld Bound, I have a feeling this is where the Pink hued White Diamond comes into play. After what happened Steven goes to Homeworld, feeling he’s done enough damage on Earth. Most likely we’ll see Spinel in this one. Either to have some kind of roll in this or she could just be a cameo. But I’m certain we might see her. At some point during the climax to this episode Steven and White could get into an heated argument that causes the both of them to turn pink. As White has explained Pink was a part of her that she needed to repress and we’ve seen White herself go off color like this before on a more smaller scale. But this fight will not be so small. And if that corruption theory is anything to go off on, I think this little visit will be the second to the last nail in the coffin. Which can only end with Steven going back to Earth.  Which leads to “Everything is Fine” this is where I think Steven will probably get an intervention from all his friends and family. Confronting him to open up about what is going on with him. Which during that time, his powers could be going haywire at this point, trying to dodge the subject. This is the episode I think the corruption could happen. Towards the end. That lead to “I’m My Own Monster.” which is pretty self explanatory both in a literal and metaphoric sense. Most likely corrupted Steven going on a Godzilla rampage while everyone he’s ever known and helped all come together to help him. And then there’s The Future which could be everyone saving Steven from himself somehow and an epilogue in where he will probably leave Beach City to find himself so to speak. 

But thats just my two sense on the matter. To quote a Pink Floyd song here.

“Shine on You crazy Diamond”

[fuckyeahharryhart]

PART 5 FAN FIC

KINGSMAN III: REDACTED

Summary: Harry Hart reminisces about his own military past with the British Armed Forces. He recalls the tenent that enabled him to survive as a member of the22nd Special Air Service Regiment (SAS), a unit of United Kingdom Special Forces.

WORD COUNT: 3377

Notes: These later chapters have had less time to plan - kind of literally trying things on to see what fits... :)

-----

In person, Harry Hart was also a man who had to make impossible decisions under unrelenting pressure. He had done it many times, during his time in the British Armed Forces, not just Kingsman. Many thought him to be cold and unfeeling in these instances. But even within these circumstances, he was still Harry Hart. Brave, dependable, strong and honourable. He was an advocate, a protector, an anchor. A rock within the Kingsman agency. Everything a mentor and leader should be. If fellow agents found themselves more and more often at his side, they would catch themselves beginning to wonder about the man who wore the impeccably tailored suit. The man behind the smooth, deep, steady voice. About the man himself. The man whose code name was Galahad.

He was an agent that lived up to his handle.  It was a noble name. Courageous. A name for a figure renowned for his gallantry and purity. A name bestowed upon the most perfect of all knights. It befitted him.

Harry was a gentleman through and through. It was impossible for him to be anything else. He was not only a gentleman in traditional terms, an upholder of chivalry, civility, well-mannered and unerringly polite. He was also a gentle man. This would seem incongruous with his work. However, it was part of the reason he was exceedingly good at his job. As soon as the work was done, the target neutralised, the mission complete, he let it all go. Letting any hardness or indifference fall away. Completely. He consistently put his life and the lives of others on the line, many times in very unpleasant circumstances, to say the least. To maintain a sense of balance, to maintain his sanity, not to speak of his humanity, the moment he took off his glasses, he was no longer Agent Galahad, he was Harry Hart.

Deadly assassins were not typically regarded as gentle. But Harry was not by nature a violent man. Neither was he destructive or combative, unlike many of his contemporaries who were drawn to the work because of its brutal nature. Harry was a Kingsman agent because he believed strongly in their purpose to uphold the good and protect the innocent, but also because he was just exceptionally good at the work. The art of spy craft and engagement. Exceedingly good. Disconcertingly good. In the same way one might be a talented piano player, or dancer or an artist. Like Gwendolyn mentioned, it was part a part of him.

He never questioned these skills. He considered them as natural to his character as his height or his brown eyes. He lived them for the majority of his life. He applied them in a manner that would best serve himself and the greater good.

Though he never spoke of it, most of his experience prior to Kingsman, he received during his training and deployment in the British Armed Forces. When he left the military, he was an officer of the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment (SAS), a unit of United Kingdom Special Forces, a highly trained and specialised division of the British Army.

If Kingsman was the buffer that had honed and polished Harry Hart into the refined gentleman agent he was today, the SAS was chisel that first carved the man out of the potential stone. The SAS Special Forces had much in common with Kingsman.  Special operations were already a part of his lifestyle. Much like the agents of Kingsman, the men of SAS were especially designated, organised, selected, trained and equipped. They utilised unconventional techniques and modes of employment.

The 22nd Special Air Service Regiment was responsible for covert reconnaissance, counter-terrorism, direct action, unconventional warfare and hostage rescue. Much of the information and actions regarding the SAS were highly classified, and were never commented on by the British government nor the Ministry of Defence due to the sensitivity of their operations. For Harry, discretion was not just advised, it was demanded.

He operated behind enemy lines, avoiding direct combat and detection by the enemy. He led commando operations, highly mobile , highly intense surprise raids. His role frequently involved covert direction of air and missile attacks, in areas deep behind enemy lines, placement of remotely monitored sensors and guerrilla operations.

The similarities only went so far. SAS utilised more traditional weapons of combat and warfare, riffles, machine guns, flash bangs, grenades. Whereas Kingsman had the freedom to me more creative, or constraints that made it necessary for additional ingenuity with it’s artillery, often fashioning gentlemanly accessories into lethal weapons. The SAS formal dress khaki uniforms weren’t as stylish and well tailored as Kingsman’s suits, but he did note that as SAS, the cap badge on his sand coloured beret depicted a downward pointing Excalibur, a sword wreathed in flames. Perhaps the sword was a foreshadow of his future as one of the twelve Kingsman’s knights.

If any of his colleagues were to know of his history with the SAS, the would probably respond with confusion. It wasn’t that they didn’t believe Harry Hart to to have the necessary skills. It was that they couldn’t imagine, their stylish, debonair, perfectly appointed quintessential gentleman secret agent in any other role other than Galahad. They were much more familiar with Harry in a Kingsman suit, taking out thugs with his weaponised brolly, rather than the iconic black overalls and the S6 British Army respirator of the SAS, carrying a Heckler and Koch MP5A3, or a C8 Carbine assault rifle, as well as any other item or weapon he might need in battle.

For those agents that were employed long enough with Kingsman, or heard stories passed around the years, it was suspected that Harry was a part of the Counter Revolutionary Blue team for Operation Nimrod during the Iranian Embassy siege. In 1980, from April 30th for a period of 6 days, a band of six heavily armed men overtook the Iranian Embassy in London. 26 people were held hostage. On the last day, after days of unsuccessful negotiations, the gunmen executed a hostage and threw his dead body from the Embassy windows. On that day, the SAS, implemented Operation Nimrod by abseiling from the roof of the embassy and breaking the windows for entry. The raid was over in just over 15 minutes. They were able to rescue all but one hostage and killed all but one of the six hostage takers. No one could confirm whether he had been involved or not. No one had the nerve or balls to ask Harry directly.

The last time Harry was on a mission of similar nature, was the capture of Falcon, a terrorist in the Middle East. He, Merlin and their recruits at the time, James and Lee, fast roped into enemy territory.  Fast roping, also known as Fast Rope Insertion Extraction System (FRIES), was a technique for descending a thick rope to access difficult locations by air. It useful for Kingsman to deploy agents into enemy territories where their helicopter could not touch down. Unfortunately, that was the mission where Harry’s mistake cost Eggsy’s father’s life. That was the last time anyone ever saw the sight of Harry in a combat jumpsuit and respirator for a mission.

“Who Dares Wins.” It was the motto of the SAS unit of the British Army Special Forces. During his time in the service, this motto was the catalyst for many dangerous operations. In regards to Kingsman, he also found it appropriate as spies weren’t in the business of truth.

The selection for the Special Forces was as brutal as Kingsman recruitment, just in different ways.They would, however, fight for the title of the most dangerous job interview in the world. SAS selection was reported to be one of the most demanding military training courses in the world with a pass rate of less than 10%. It was a six-month test of strength, endurance, and resolve over the Brecon Beacons and Elan Valley in Wales, and in the jungle of Belize. With SERE Survive, Evade, Resist, Escape training to be the most psychologically challenging aspect. A Kingsman recruit had a one in 12 chance of securing said spot. It was also a test of strength, endurance and resolve mostly over the land and sky of London and the surrounding country side. It also included some fairly challenging psychological tests including one with a train tunnel with a false floor and another with a puppy and a gun. Many candidates failed out at this point. It took about the same amount of time.

In the field, he was indispensable. His experience in the military prepared him for life as a spy. He was exceptional at nearly every aspect of being an agent as he was as a soldier. Harry was able to fit seamlessly into Kingsman’s ranks because he already had specialised skills and experience. He was a highly-trained operative, specialised in sufficiency, stealth, speed, and tactical coordination. If there was a man designed to be a Kingsman agent, Harry Hart would be that man.

——

He did not get any enjoyment from destruction, violence or bloodshed. However, he was not opposed to participating or even instigating moments of sheer mayhem. During the course of his time at Kingsman, he had obliterated many targets and had amassed a shockingly high body count. He didn’t carry any guilt or blame, nor did he celebrate the bloodshed that resulted in their victory over a target. Harry simply accepted violence as part and parcel to the work of a Kingsman agent. To be limited, when possible, though, not altogether unavoidable.

Emotions played an important role in how he operated in life, in the greater world around him. Emotions were a path to a deeper understanding of one’s self and one’s relationships with others. They motivated one’s actions or inactions.  Feelings, along with survival instincts were key to one’s decision making processes. But when there was too much or when the emotion was overwhelming, as it could be in extreme cases of conflict or in the chaos of combat, it could make a soldier dysfunction. One of the tenets that had allowed him to not only survive, but to thrive in the military was “be smart now, feel later.”

Part of his success in the SAS was due to his ability to “switch off” his emotions on-demand in moments of chaos or conflict; combat, crises and other high stress activities, basically his entire time in service. He carried this over to his work at Kingsman. His ambivalence allowed him to remain cool, composed and collected in some very unnerving, seemingly impossible situations. In these instances, when other agents might panic, freeze, or be blinded by outrage, fall victim to their own anger and lose control, time would almost freeze for Harry. Allowing him very few precious moments to hyper focus on every minute detail of the circumstance they faced. His senses would sharpen, his mind would calm, his heart rate would slow and remain steady and even. His mind would become a blank slate where every piece of information crucial to their survival was at his fingertips. Irrelevant information fell by the wayside. Emotion was set aside. Sentimentality had no place. Feelings were insignificant.

Agents who accompanied Harry on the field and found themselves is one of these dire situations, would attest to this severe, drastic, unyielding and unfamiliar Agent Galahad. Someone who could evidently act without regard for their safety, well-being, or even survival. At times, even purposely placing them in even more danger or putting another agents lives on the line as if they were inconsequential to him. He would act as if it was nothing to leave behind an injured agent if it could protect the mission. It was as if they were as insignificant to him as an empty clip, a weapon that no longer had any use to him. To be discarded and tossed aside. During these times, Harry would be the cold, dispassionate, ruthless killer that was his reputation.

It was in these hard, stone-faced moments, where he fell into a meditative state or even hypnotised himself in the matter of seconds. Sometimes, only a split second was needed for him to see the solution, the way out, the answer that would get them out of what seemed like a “death and death” situation.

Emotions defined his humanity. But it also could get in the way when he needed to be operative. Thus, on occasion, he had to defer his humanity and be cold and analytical in the field, just as he had been in battle.

In these crucial moments, he needed to see all his available choices and not just what his state of emotions gravitated toward. The more severe an emotional response was expected from any given situation, the more likely it could negatively impact his ability to resolve a difficult task, complication or crisis.

Occasionally, that solution had to disregard his agents humanity, for that sentimentality would surely cloud his judgement, make him hesitate or doubt himself at the most critical moment. They could no longer be considered friends, or even colleagues. It was necessary to strip them of their identity, regard them without pity or remorse. As collateral damage. How hard would it be to achieve this state with family or loved ones, he thought. It was in these times that pure logic had to drive his actions and not be directed by his emotions.

Emotional detachment meant that he could focus and think clearly and act with precision in matters of life and death.

In these moments, there was space in his mind for nothing else except the situation at hand. And without fail, often past the point of all hope lost, no more options, no more cards to play, he would act in a manuever that was incomprehensible to them. Unthinkable. A tactic unfathomable and impossible for anyone else but Harry. Everyone, even the agent he seemingly had no problem disregarding, would come out alive. Often disbelieving, shell-shocked, nerves shot, not unscathed. Confused and outraged. But alive. Agents who experienced this side of Harry Hart, while they continued to admire and respect him, their esteem would now also carry a touch of reverence, incredulity, and awe.

Soldiers and agents not personally involved or had no emotional interest in their work, were able to perform their jobs better. It was a form of professional detachment.

It was not that he was unfeeling. Quite the opposite. It was as if he felt too much. His ability to remove and distance himself from situations was one of the main reasons he was so successful as an agent and continued to be so. Without this survival skill, the inevitable, at times, devastating losses he had faced, and would no doubt face in the future, would break even a better man. Though one would be hard pressed to find a man better than Harry.

What was seen as dispassionate, emotionless indifference was a preservation mechanism, designed to fiercely safeguard and defend a singularly compassionate soul, with a deep reverence for human life, and an immeasurable capacity to love.

But he had never been put in as difficult a position as Merlin.

———

There were not many stories that affected Harry on both a personal and professional level, but in terms of having a difficult past lead you down the path of becoming a spy, he found hers to be the most compelling. He was, not only impressed by her skills as an agent, he was moved by her emotional resilience, fortitude, courage, and most of all, like she said her mother had, her grit.

This was a young woman, whose odds were not just against her, they were set up for her to fail and fail hard. Who was able to overcome the most brutal experiences that anyone can face, let alone a child, and come out, not only adjusted, but stronger for her experience. The last time he had witnessed such strong will and raw, natural talent, was Eggsy.  And Eggsy’s father.

He sensed what she was going to ask. What would be the ramifications if she were to join Kingsman? They could certainly use the manpower. Their ranks had been severely depleted since the Golden Circle. Merlin’s expertise and guidance was missed almost as much as they missed the man himself. He understood why Merlin, Hamish, sent her away. A constant reminder of not only the lives he lost, but also the terrible way they were taken from him. A reminder of the life he had sacrificed so much for. The constant fear for her safety. Every time she was out in the field, wondering if he had to prepare for another situation like his wife. For Harry and Eggsy, she would always be a reminder of the friend they lost and the sacrifice he made.

He softened. How would it be, to have everyone send you away because your presence would only be a painful reminder of loss?

Eggsy turned to face him, looking absurdly forlorn as well. Like she was a lost puppy that he wanted to keep.

She smoothed her hair away from her face, brushing the length of it behind her while she squared up her shoulders.

She spoke frankly. “You are the last link that I have to my father. I want to take his place.”

When neither of them replied. She added plainly.

“You clearly have some issued that need to be addressed.” Referring to the car with the shooters and that someone was actively trying to kill them.

“It looks like you could use the help.”

Harry, in his most grave and serious voice, a voice that made even Eggsy straighten up.

“This decision on your part, should not be taken easily or lightly.” He watched her intently. He leaned forward to emphasis his point. “Do you understand all of the ramifications of your choice? You could find yourself in the exact same situation you were in when you were a child. Is that a possibility you can handle?”

Also leaning forward, she matched the seriousness of his tone.

“I have no family, no connections, no ties. I have nothing of value that can be used against me. I’m a trained and experienced agent. I was raised Kingsman and there is nothing of your organization that has been hidden from me. I understand very well.”

Not anything of value now, Harry thought. But considering the future? Yet Harry himself was of the same mentality as Merlin and his wife. Nothing came out of acting now for an eventuality that may never materialise.

There was silence from the two men. She certainly wasn’t going to plead or beg. She had done her part. She told her story. If they couldn’t recognise her value, she would leave right then and there.

She tried to hide her sarcasm, but she wasn’t sure if she succeeded. She leaned back into her booth, crossed her arms over her chest. With a bit of added confrontation.

“I’ve just saved your lives. What else do I have to do to prove myself?”

Harry contemplated. Eggsy contemplated the same. Even though they didn’t know what the other was thinking, they were both thinking the same. We are agreed. For Merlin.

Harry faced her again and with all of nobility, chivalry and honour that was based on centuries of tradition. “Welcome to Kingsman.”

Gwendolyn, in equal measures of dignity and respect. “Thank you.”

Now that was done, she thought, with a little more drama than she expected, but it had all been manageable.

“So it seems we have a problem. How can I help?”

And with that simple question, Gwendolyn found herself within the ranks of Kingsman.

----

Notes:

Thanks for reading! Comments, suggestions feedback always welcome and appreciated. Even if it's just to say Hi!

[king-finnigan]

17. War au and 60. Poor timed confession, geraskier.

*bill wurtz voice* it’s time for world war 1!

***

There aren’t many upsides to being stuck in the trenches on the front line of a great war (so great it’ll end all wars, people keep saying), but at least Jaskier gets to spend more time with his childhood friend, Geralt.

They had drifted apart after graduating at age 18. Jaskier had gone to college to study English Literature, and Geralt had started working on his dad’s horse farm in the countryside. They had still occasionally sent each other letters during the years they spent apart, but they had become scarcer and scarcer, until Jaskier recieved the last letter, about two years ago. 

They hadn’t spoken to each other since, each keeping their head low, working as hard as possible in the face of the growing conflicts in mainland Europe. Then, about a year ago, the war had officially started.

Jaskier had hesitated to sign up to be drafted, at first, but he was an able-bodied young man, and who was he to refuse to serve his country? So, a month after England had declared war, he had gone to downtown Oxford to enlist.

It was then that, by some lucky coincidence, or by the hand of Destiny herself, he had seen Geralt again, for the first time in years. He’s still not sure how Geralt had ended up in Oxford to enlist, seeing as his dad’s horse farm was closer to London, after all. But still, he shouldn’t look a gifted horse in the mouth and all that.

And that’s how they had ended up here and now. After a rigorous training in England, they had been sent off to Belgium, to serve their country by...

Sitting in a bunch of muddy trenches.

This really isn’t what he expected of the front line, honestly, after all the terrible, scary stories the drill sergeants had told them during training. This is almost... quiet even. Boring.

He’s been here for about a month now, and nothing has happened so far. Of course, he shouldn’t complain - it’s not like he wants to die a gruesome death, but there’s only so much you can do in the trenches until you run out of things to do, stuff to talk about.

Of course, not with Geralt. He could never grow tired of talking with Geralt. Though, to be fair, he’s the one that does most of the talking, really. His friend has never exactly been the talkative type, but he’s never minded that. 

He sighs, leaning his head back against the dirt of the trench wall as he sits in the mud. It’s autumn, and it’s been raining quite a bit, so he’s used to the mud by now.

Today, though, the sun is shining, bright in the blue sky above him. He wonders what he’ll see if he were to look over the edge, wonders what No Man’s Land looks like today, but he decides against it - he doesn’t want to get shot in the head by the enemy soldiers in the trenches on the other side, after all.

He looks to his side as Geralt sits next to him. “It’s sunny.” A pretty obvious statement, but after all these years of being Geralt’s friend, Jaskier knows the other man is trying to start a conversation - supplying him with something to talk about.

“That it is, my friend.” He sighs. “Remember when we were fifteen, and we went to the lake after it had rained?”

Geralt nods. “I remember.”

It had been an autumn day just like this, a sunny saturday afternoon after it had rained all morning. Jaskier had knocked on Geralt’s door, and together they had gone to the lake to do their homework together. He remembers sitting cross-legged opposite Geralt in the wet grass, knees touching, not caring about the stains in his trousers his mum would definitely scold him for later.

Really, when he’s with Geralt, he can’t care less about anything or anyone else in the world, except for the two of them.

He remembers how close they had been, he remembers the way the sunlight had danced on Geralt’s perpetually silver locks - something he had inherited from his father. He remembers the way butterflies had fluttered in the pit of his stomach, he remembers the way he had wanted nothing more than to lean forward and kiss the other boy.

And he remembers the guilt that had flared up in his chest when he realized what he’d been thinking, the shame that had made heat rise to his cheeks.

He shouldn’t think like that. It’s not right, kissing boys.

And even if it was, Geralt doesn’t feel the same way, anyways. Never has, never will.

They sit in silence now, lost in the memories of that one saturday afternoon. 

Jaskier sighs. “It’s quiet out there.”

“It always is.”

He snorts. “Yeah. Quite a contrast with the horror stories they told us back home, isn’t it?”

“Hmm.” Geralt seems distracted, some sense of nostalgia in his amber eyes, and Jaskier supposes he’s still thinking about that saturday afternoon when they were fifteen, or maybe he’s thinking about home. 

He cocks his head as a question presents itself to him - finally something they haven’t talked about yet, even though he’s heard plenty of other soldiers talking about it. 

“So, Geralt, have you got a girl at home?”

“Hmm?” His friend looks up, pulled out of his musings, and Jaskier raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “Oh. No, too busy for that on the farm. You?”

“Nah, haven’t gotten around to that yet.”

“Why not?” There is no judgement in Geralt’s voice, only curiosity, and Jaskier shrugs.

“Just...” he shrugs again “haven’t gotten around to that,” he repeats.

It’s then that he hears shouting nearby, and he perks up, grabbing his gun from where it had been standing against the dirt wall next to him.

Things move quickly after that.

He’s barely clambered to his feet when an explosion shakes the ground, the screaming of his fellow soldiers filling his ears, and he leans one hand against the side of the trench in an effort to remain upright. 

More shouting fills his ears as he sees one of his comrades, Istredd, loading up the machine gun, starting to fire into No Man’s Land. 

“What’s going on?” he shouts at Istredd, who simply shakes his head, the white of his eyes clearly visible around his brown irises.

“The Germans, they’re trying to cross No Man’s Land!” Istredd shouts back, before turning back to the gun, jaw clenched in concentration as he shoots.

“Right,” Jaskier mumbles, “right.” He’s been trained for this, he should be able to handle it, but the fear is gripping at him, numbing his limbs, rendering him unable to move, even as another shell explodes, closer this time.

He stumbles a bit as Geralt pushes him, his own rifle clutched in one hand. “Come on, Jaskier! Let’s go, we need to get out of here!”

He nods, feet stammering as he starts walking. Another grenade explodes, this time about ten yards away from him, and he’s thrown on the ground, his upper arm alight with pain. 

He groans, sitting up, pushing away the fabric of his jacket to reveal a cut underneath. His breath catches in his throat at the sight of blood, hands trembling. 

“Hey.” He looks up at Geralt’s soft voice, as his friend crouches over him, the left side of his face slightly bloody and scraped, covered in mud. “Let me see.” He softly pushes Jaskier’s hands away, tearing open the fabric of his jacket to get a better look at the wound.

“It’s just a flesh wound, it’s very superficial. You probably got hit by a piece of the shell. It’s gonna be okay, you’re okay.”

Another shell explodes nearby, and he cringes away from the noise, ears ringing. It’s now or never, he suddenly thinks, a weird sense of bravery washing over him. 

“Geralt?” His friend looks up from his wound, amber eyes concerned. Now or never, Jaskier. “I love you.”

Geralt huffs, eyes incredulous, and Jaskier gets a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Of course his friend doesn’t feel the same. Not only that, but Geralt will report him, like every good soldier should, and Jaskier will get fired without honour, at best. 

“Jaskier,” his friend sighs, “you could not have chosen a worse time to tell me that.”

“What?” he manages to choke out, as Geralt looks around them. There’s no one in sight, Jaskier realizes. 

Suddenly, two large hands cradle his face, Geralt’s lips pressing against his own, and he’s floating and falling at the same time, breath stolen out of his lungs.

Then, the moment is over, just like that, and Geralt stands up, pulling Jaskier to his feet. “Come on,” his friend- his love says, taking his hand, pulling him into the direction of gunfire, “let’s end this war so we can go home. Together.”

***

Send me two prompts from this list and I’ll write a short drabble for them!

[pinnithin-writes]

Good Jokes

Chapter 9

The next day brought sharks and gunfire, squids and murder. Dr. Coomer, with newfound vigor from the previous night’s rest, was racking up a pretty impressive kill count, growing in power as more of his clones were eliminated. Tommy drifted away in his head most of the morning, dwelling on his father’s words and the guilt that came with them.

He kept an eye on Benrey, as always, but there was little need to. The entity had chosen to cooperate for the most part, aside from pestering Gordon every step of the way. Gordon had learned to just go along with Benrey’s gags, giving him space to blow off some steam until he got bored. It was a surprisingly effective method of dealing with the guy, and Tommy once again found himself struck by not only Gordon’s strength and tenacity, but his remarkable resourcefulness. Maybe that doctorate from MIT really was worth something.

Controlling the entity (as far as the entity would allow himself to be controlled) was pretty much the only win they had that day. The rest of their journey had them swimming through drowned, claustrophobic tunnels, avoiding the jaws of the creatures that slithered within. Tommy wasn’t a fan, but Gordon outright hated it, coughing and spluttering every time they surfaced, waterlogged and exhausted.

The adrenaline in Gordon’s blood was pretty much the only thing keeping him moving, yet he fought on, intent on making his way to the Lambda Lab. Right. The Lambda Lab. Find the lab, close the rift, and then they could all go home.

Tommy very, very badly wanted to go home.

When Gordon nearly had a panic attack after mistaking a soda can for a grenade, Tommy finally pried himself out of his mental fog. Knock it off, dude. Now wasn’t the time to zone out and brood. People could die, and one of them in particular did not have the ability to regenerate himself if that happened.

Bubby and Benrey had begun whispering among themselves, which was a cause for concern. Tommy listened in when he could and caught mostly insults -  something he was inclined to dismiss - but the way Benrey’s eyes glinted when Tommy looked his way didn’t quite sit right.

“Can’t friends talk?” Bubby had asked hotly.

That was it. Benrey didn’t have friends. Tommy let his gaze slide away, swallowing his words but keeping his suspicions close.

After rendering a perfectly good server room completely useless, they came upon one of Dr. Coomer’s clones, who had posted himself up outside a heavy lead door. He actually recognized Gordon, which was unexpected. You’re the guy in the HEV suit, he told them. We’ve been tracking your progress, he told them.

Dr. Coomer scratched his chin and swept the group with a troubled look. “Gordon, that means you’ve been leading the military to us this whole time,” he concluded.

“What? But - I mean I can’t even take it off.” Gordon gave himself an up-and-down gesture.

“Oh,” Benrey noted flatly. “Maybe you need to die.”

“What?” Gordon demanded. “I don’t need to die.”

Benrey responded by nonchalantly raising his firearm. He pulled the trigger and contents of the clone’s skull splattered against the wall. Gordon took a step back, nauseated.

“I was gonna ask him a very valuable question,” he uttered, averting his gaze.

“I’ve absorbed his power, Gordon,” Coomer brightly informed him. “Ask me.”

Tommy was staring hard at Benrey as Gordon went back and forth with Dr. Coomer about the possibility of ditching the suit. The entity’s pupils were haloed with reflected light as he returned his gaze, baring his razor smile in a challenge. Tommy didn’t say anything, his eyes wandering instead to the peculiarly shaped door. Something radiated from the back of his skull as he studied it, as if the heavy barricade itself were a warning.

“This door is ominous,” he murmured.

When the science team all cast him curious looks, he realized he had spoken his thoughts aloud. “It’s shaped like a B,’ he elaborated. “What could that mean? ‘Buh’ door?” That was a silly thing to say, he thought in retrospect, but it was what came out of his mouth.

Gordon gave him a mystified smile. “‘Buh’ door?” he repeated.

“No, I think those are glasses,” Benrey said.

Gordon shook his head, passing a glance between them. “What are any of you saying?”

Tommy raised his eyebrows at Gordon, smiling despite his unease. “Buh,” he reiterated, just to make him wheeze with laughter.

Benrey and Bubby began repeating the sound, too, and Tommy wasn’t sure if they were having fun or mocking him. At this point, both options were plausible.

Gordon was still grinning. His teeth were so even; he had definitely been a braces kid. “Working on your phonics, Tommy?”

Sure. Yeah. That was it. Most people didn’t look at a B-shaped entryway and immediately feel a crawling beneath their skin. Well, except for some very particular interior designers, perhaps. He held Gordon’s gaze and didn’t respond.

Dr. Coomer, restless, was already heading through the door. “The B stands for ‘bye!’” he called cheerfully.

The room that followed was freezing, the floors slick with ice. The creatures within were a low threat, slipping and sliding around as they were on the frozen surface, but that meant the team of scientists was equally ineffective at shooting them.

“Whoah, guys, it’s icy!” Gordon called, flinging his arms out for balance.  

“It’s cold as hell in here.” Bubby observed with exasperation. He fired at an alien, corrected his aim, and fired again.

Tommy made a deal with the laws of physics for a brief time, allowing him to traverse the frozen room with relative stability. Benrey was more brazen and simply sauntered on through as if the ice wasn’t even there, paying the creatures no mind as he went. Weirdly enough, they seemed to be ignoring him back. Before Tommy could think on that much longer, Gordon’s excited voice drew his attention.

“You guys like ice skating?” he asked, eyes alight as he slid across the room. “I was never one for it. I don’t got really good balance.”

Laughing with delight, breath fogging in the chilly air, Gordon whirled with his arms above his head in a wobbly pirouette. Tommy watched him, unable to keep the smile off his face as he did. The fact that Gordon was still finding joy after almost three days in this hellscape nearly made the ice melt beneath Tommy’s feet.

Bubby’s irritated voice came from around a pillar. “Gordon, now is not the time for jokes.”

With some effort, Gordon stopped spinning. “Bro, lemme have a little fun,” he shot back. “It’s serious, but like-”

“My life is in danger!”

“So is mine!” Gordon insisted. “But like, when you guys have fun, when you’re fucking with me-”

“Your technique is sloppy, Gordon,” Dr. Coomer chimed in, sliding into the vicinity with a flourish. “Perhaps we should practice once we get out of the Black Mesa facility.”

Gordon’s smile returned in earnest. “Oh?” he asked. “Show me your form.”

The old man spread his arms wide, as if gearing up for a complicated maneuver, and then collapsed dramatically onto the icy floor. Tommy bit down on his knuckles to hide his laughter while Gordon waved him off, chuckling.

The three of them caught up to Benrey and Bubby, Gordon keeping up his skating routine as he went. Tommy trailed after him, gunning down encroaching extraterrestrials so the guy could have his fun. At one point, Gordon spun and stretched out a hand to Tommy, bowed at the waist, mouth quirking in wordless invitation.

Tommy paused, staring at his open palm, wishing more than anything that he could take it. Just forget about the creatures and the soldiers and the rift in space for one fucking second and let himself get swept away by this charming gentleman in front of him. He felt his throat tighten. He positively ached for it.

Declining with a polite smile, he shook his head. Perhaps once this nightmare was over, when they were no longer concerned about staying alive. Something to look forward to, something to make horrors they fought through worth it. Tommy owed him a dance. For now, however, he offered Gordon something he could always give.

“B stands for ‘below freezing,’” he quipped.

Gordon laughed, warm and genuine, and withdrew his hand. “Oh, now I get it.”

---

The price they paid for seeing the sky again was an onslaught of new adversaries. They were fast . Bubby scouted up ahead and immediately scampered back to the group, a wild look on his face as he murmured, “Oh my god.”

Gordon was peering around a crate, eyes narrowed. “Did you see that?” he asked. “Was that a woman?”

Tommy’s eyes could barely track their movements, agile as they were. They didn’t really look like anything to him, much less women, and he was about to turn his head to say so when Coomer charged ahead of them with fervor.

“Look out, Gordon!” the scientist exclaimed.“Hotted boobs up ahead! Tits, big ones!”

Gordon’s subsequent shriek of laughter was so forceful he almost misfired his weapon. Beside him, Tommy could hardly keep it together enough to provide cover fire. When Gordon sprinted after him, calling a hesitant, “Dr. Coomer, I don’t think that was very respectful,” he lost it all over again.

Bubby and Dr. Coomer took out the majority of the nimble creatures, while Gordon mostly missed his shots and Benrey slouched indifferently through the crossfire. After checking themselves over for injury (and a moment of questionable target practice on some moths), they found the surface access switch and kept moving.

Tommy felt that dark prickle near the base of his skull again as he habitually brought up the rear. They were going the right way, right?

“I’m a little nervous,” Gordon said, vocalizing Tommy’s unease. “What about the airstrikes?”

Oh, right, that was a good point, too. The threat of heavy military artillery sometimes slipped Tommy’s mind. Perhaps they could find another route to the lab.

“What’s there to be nervous about?” Bubby asked, striding ahead with confidence. “We’re going home.”

Benrey idled in the back next to Tommy, fingers laced behind his head like he was lounging in a hammock. “Look at all - all that room,” he said, shooting Tommy a sly look. “We’re going on a mystery walk.”

Nothing about that sounded good to Tommy, and he was suddenly on edge. He gave Benrey a piercing stare, but the entity only showed him his shark teeth and meandered after the party. Tommy followed, pulse on the upswing.

“Gordon, if you play it carefully, this will cut down our travel to the Lambda Lab by about three hours,” Dr. Coomer declared.

“Down to thirteen minutes!” Bubby added.

“Oh,” Gordon remarked, taken aback by such fortuitous news. “That’s the whole duration. That’s the entire thing.”

“Yes!” Bubby went on excitedly. He pointed to a room down the hall. “And look, there’s even a medical station in there.”

Gordon considered. He had taken a few hits in the last fight. Nothing life threatening - Tommy had made sure of that - but it was likely still painful. “A med station… I could probably-”

“Medical stations can be used to recover from wounds, Gordon,” Coomer interrupted helpfully.

Benrey was apostrophe shaped as he lounged against the doorway. “Wow,” he murmured, tossing a look inside the adjacent room. “They got TV and Blu-ray… high definition…”

Gordon waved him off in disregard. “We don’t need that. I’m-

“They got a couch,” Benrey added, as if this would sweeten the deal.

“I’m not interested.”

“I heard Blu-ray is better than DVD,” Tommy couldn’t help commenting dryly.

He didn’t like this. This was weird. Well, on par for Benrey, but Bubby’s firm insistence that Gordon enter the room before he did was setting off alarm bells in his head. His fingers tightened around the grip of his handgun.

Gordon was still bickering with the two of them, hampered by the semantics of laser disc technology. Tommy quietly moved closer, darting his eyes around the area for anything indicative of danger. He caught the gaze of Dr. Coomer, who was just standing there patiently with an idle hand on his crossbow. He looked unbothered as the argument escalated.

Benrey’s eyes were beginning to flash in a wordless threat. He leered at Gordon, revealing his pointed teeth. “You wanna go in?” He was no longer asking. “Please?”

Gordon, who had learned by now to pick his battles with the entity, relented. “Alright,” he sighed. “Okay. I guess… I’m gonna go for it.”

Something was wrong. Something was wrong. Something was wrong, wrong, wrong. Panic shuddered like a javelin down Tommy’s spine, and as he reached out a hand to pull Gordon back, the lights cut out. Some outside force locked onto Tommy, pinning him to his position in space like an insect on a corkboard.

Gordon faltered. “Okay, uh, who’s fucking with me?”

“What the hell?” Bubby asked, voice lined with a facetious edge. “What is happening?”

Benrey, on the other hand, sounded like he was having the time of his life. “Ohhh, it’s dark in here,” he groaned, barely attempting to hide his glee.

Tommy, nerves alive, fought against whatever had nailed him to the spot. This didn’t happen. Tommy didn’t just get stuck, and there was a very short list of beings who could make him do so against his will. He cast his gaze around frantically for any clue of what was happening, but it was so dark he may as well have been blindfolded.

Gordon was irritated now. “Who the fuck knocked out the lights?”

Dr. Coomer’s response was as neutral as it was useless. “Hello, Go- Has anyone seen Mr. Freeman?”

Heavy footsteps came barreling at them, accompanied by Bubby’s cry of, “there he is - get him!”

There was the sound of impact. The rush of air being forced from a pair of lungs. Then… Tommy didn’t remember much of what happened next.

Shouting. There was plenty of that. Tommy thought maybe he yelled something, but he couldn’t be sure. All he could register fully were the sounds of Gordon crying out in pain and the feeling of his own doomed grief as his muscles failed to work.

And help. Help. Gordon was pleading for help, and Tommy thought his heart would stop if he had to listen to it anymore.

The blade cleaving through bone was the loudest sound in the world.

Gordon fell horrifically silent. The scent of blood saturated the air like a stain. Tommy’s stomach bottomed out as he heard the soft slide of a body being dragged away.

“Now, gentlemen,” Dr. Coomer’s voice echoed off the darkened walls, “let’s get out of here before they peel us apart.”

Footsteps dispersed as the team made itself scarce. Whatever had been holding Tommy in place finally released him, and he dropped numbly to the floor, trembling in the dreadful aftershock. His hands slicked through blood and he almost threw up. The truth, heavy and unrepentant, settled in on his shoulders.

He was alone.

Alone.

Alone.

Chapter 8 <-----> Chapter 10

[taywitchcrafts]

Exception

Requested by: @kingpattillo Prompt: “I don't like people, but you’re an exception” Pairing: Michael Jones/Gavin Free Word Count: 2180 A/N: I’m sorry this is sorta angsty I apparently don’t know how to write anything without angst shjdg it does end fluffy though, promise!! ********** The day they met, Michael decided he hated Gavin. He was loud, obnoxious and clumsy as all hell. Michael wasn't entirely sure Gavin didn't push his buttons on purpose. He seemed like the kind of asshole to do that. The bird noises, the stupid British slang words that made no sense, the way he screeched constantly and made his voice high pitched. Michael just wanted to stick a thumb through his fucking eye and tell him to shut it. But he was useful to the crew, so he tolerated him. Mostly. He wasn't exactly known for being mild-tempered. The way he saw it, the few black eyes he gave him were a warning, and the Brit would eventually get the message and leave him alone. Except, he never did.

********** "Michael" Oh, for fuck's sake. Why did he have to say Michael's name like that? "What do you want, Gavin." "Will you play a game with me?" "Why would I do that?" "Because I'm bored?" "But I'm not, and I'm already playing a game." He gestured to the switch in his hand, the soft cheerful music of his paused Pokemon game filling the momentary silence. "But you could be playing a game with me instead!" "Again, why would I want to do that?" "Because we're friends." "Where the fuck did you get that idea!" "We're not friends?" Gavin's tone was shocked and sad, the look on his face was like he'd just watched Michael kick a puppy- or like he was the puppy Michael had kicked- and Michael wanted to kick himself for feeling bad. He hated Gavin, why did seeing him sad get to him?? He pushed it aside. "No, Gavin. You never noticed that I hate you? Are you seriously that fucking stupid?!" His voice was raised a little, allowing his anger to squash his other feelings as he so often did. It was better to be angry than to be weak, he told himself. He'd never let himself be weak again. "Why don't you like me?" "I don't like people in general, Gavin. And you're the worst of all of them." "...Michael" Jesus, the one time he said it right and he sounded like he was 3 seconds from crying while doing it. "What, Gavin?" He turned back to look at him, but he was already walking away. Thank God, he thought. At least I don't have to deal with him crying. But he couldn't concentrate anymore, a pang of unfamiliar guilt gnawing at him. Fucking Gavin. ********** The heist going wrong wasn't his fault, not really. Sometimes shit just goes wrong. None of the others had known the motion detector was there either. But Gavin was so used to it being his fault, to being shouted at and blamed (usually by Michael), that when nobody blamed him for things he started to do it himself. They all tried their best to reassure the Brit, all attempts unsuccessful. Michael was the only one who didn't try. He didn't want to be cruel- Gavin had actually been super helpful on the heist-but he still didn't like him, and wasn't thrilled at the idea of comforting him. That is, until he got up at about 3am to get a glass of water, and saw a light on in Gavin's room. He poked his head around the door and saw the man huddled in a corner, a blanket around his shoulders. Michael hadn't really seen Gavin since the heist, which was three days before, but it looked like he hadn't slept at all. Gavin didn't even notice him, too caught up in worrying about what went wrong and self-blame. It wasn't until 5 minutes later when Michael appeared in front of him, a hot cup of tea in his hands, that Gavin broke out of his trance-like state. "Michael?" He knelt in front of him, handing him the tea. "I still don't like you, but you gotta stop blaming yourself. Shit happens. Things go wrong. Snap the fuck out of it. We need you." It wasn't exactly nice, but Gavin understood that he was trying. "...Thanks." "Get some sleep." And he was gone. Gavin didn't know when he'd learned how he liked his tea, but paired with the semi-reassuring words he'd just received, it settled him enough to finally fall asleep. He didn't even get to his bed, and Jack found him the next morning passed out in the corner of his room, an empty mug next to his feet. ********** Geoff had tried so hard to avoid pairing Gavin and Michael up, he knew they'd be a great team if they could work past their issues, but he also knew that Michael was far too stubborn for that. Gavin's personality seemed hand designed to piss Michael off, and nobody would dream of asking him to change. Michael would simply have to adapt, however long it took. But this heist needed them together. Gavin was, essentially, the bait. They knew if he fucked something up, he'd distract anyone on the rest of the Crew's scent. And if that didn't work-or if Gavin miraculously didn't screw up- Michael had a fair amount of explosives in his armoury. Michael made no attempt to mask his irritation at the pairing. Sure, the crew needed Gavin, but Michael didn't want to work with him. Jeremy or Ryan would also be down to fuck shit up, and they could at least tolerate Gavin. Goddamn it. ********** "What if," Oh, this will be good Michael thinks, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Your toenails could grow to be as long as your legs?" "Are you fucking kidding me?" "What?" "We're in the middle of a heist! Is that seriously what you're thinking about right now?" "I'm bored! We've been here for like an hour. When will the others be ready?" "When they're ready. The UD isn't a fucking easy target. Now shut up so we ca-" Just then, they both received a text from Geoff. "Alright, it's time. You remember the plan?" "Yeah, I'm tripping the alarms, right?" Michael nods. "I'll be right behind you, promise." Gavin smiled at him- why was that so distracting??- before smashing the glass of the bank doors. Well, that's one way to trip the alarms. They weren't in their normal disguises, so nobody would question why members of the FAHC were being so sloppy, and they needed the cops there as soon as possible. Maybe Gavin thought this through? Not too likely. "How are we gonna get into the vault?" Michael smiled, waving some dynamite he pulled out of his bag. "Won't that damage the money?" "The money isn't the goal, idiot. We just need them to think it is." Sirens had begun to sound in the distance just as the door blew, and they made quick work of grabbing what looked like a reasonable amount of money before making their way back to the foyer. They were well and truly surrounded, but this wasn't even half of the cops in the city. Definitely not enough to keep the others from being caught. "Dude, get back!" Michael shouted as he threw one of his grenades into the foyer. This served the double purpose of keeping the cops outside of the building- they wouldn't enter with the knowledge that they had explosives- and ensuring that plenty of backup would be called. What he hadn't accounted for was Gavin being a little too slow, and it wasn't until he heard the Brits pained scream that he realised he'd been caught in the blast. "GAVIN!" He screamed, code names and hidden identities completely forgotten. He hurried to the younger man's side, way more panicked than someone who hates him should be. "I'm okay Michael. Just... Just caught my arm a little." He was struggling to breathe through the pain, and Michael was at a loss at what to do. Upon further inspection, the injury wasn't as bad as he'd feared. Rather than the explosion catching Gavin directly, it seemed that his arm had been burned. It was still pretty terrible, and the smell of burning flesh was almost overwhelming, but Michael couldn't bring himself to care about anything but getting Gavin to safety. "Just hold on a minute, Gav. I'm gonna call Jack." Their escape plan had hinged on Gavin being able to drive, which obviously wouldn't happen now. After a short conversation, the UD heist was called off, and the Crew on their way. Michael still hadn't stopped apologising when they arrived, even though Gavin had passed out from the pain. None of them had ever seen him like this. ********** Gavin spent the next 3 weeks in bed, much of it against his own will. The young man had always had too much energy, and bed rest ironically left him restless. This was the usual for Gavin when he was injured. The real surprise came from Michael, who spent those weeks at the end of Gavin's bed, even when he slept. He brought him food and helped him eat, he dressed his wounds, he played games with Gavin when he got bored. They all knew that this was guilt, that Michael was letting the feeling that Gavin was hurt because he didn't do good enough eat away at him, and none of them could convince him otherwise. It wasn't until the fourth week, when he sat outside the bathroom while Gavin was showering and got shouted at to "just bugger off, Michael!" that he left his side. After that incident, he was nicer to Gavin. It seemed a mixture of guilt and proximity had led to, at the very least, some form of respect between the two. ********** They grew closer as time passed, though it wasn't particularly obvious. When Michael shouted at Gavin, it wasn't mean or borne from hatred anymore. He was still angry at Gavin, he would probably never stop being irritated by him, but he also saw the hilarity of Gavin's clumsy foolishness, and they would be laughing with each other 5 minutes later. Michael would play games with Gavin if he was asked, and launching himself across the table to wrestle with him became a rarer, much more playful occurrence. They still didn't work together a lot, not many heists called for a pairing quite as dangerously explosive as theirs, and Michael would still fuck Gavin over if doing so wouldn't seriously harm him or the heist. Their dynamic was the same in many ways, but where there was anger and hatred before, a friendship had begun to form. Only Michael and Gavin really knew it was more than that. ********** Was Michael really about to do this? Had their relationship even gotten this far yet? They'd kissed a few times, and Gavin had fallen asleep on his shoulder more than once. This was... Well, it was something a boyfriend would do and they hadn't decided whether that's what they were just yet. But he knew Gavin wouldn't mind. He knocked softly. "Michael? What's wrong?" "Just uh... nothing it's stu-" "Michael..." He sounded concerned as he took Michael's face into his hands. His eyes were a little red, and he looked like he hadn't slept much in a while. "Tell me." "I just had a nightmare... didn't wanna be alone" He mumbled, a little embarrassed. Michael hated showing his softer side, hated being vulnerable. Sometimes it was necessary, he knew that, but that never made it any better. "The Liberty decoy job again?" "Yeah..." Gavin pulled him through the door and onto the bed, kissing him softly. "You don't have to worry about that anymore, okay? I'm here and I'm not hurt. Promise." "Can I stay tonight?" "You can stay every night, I like having you around." Michael smiled, reaching down to take Gavin's hand in his. "Hey, Gav?" "Yeah?" This was definitely too much too soon, but he'd realised months ago and he had to tell him or he didn't think he'd ever work up the courage. No time like the present, right? "I love you." A cheeky grin spread across Gavin's face. "Really? I thought you didn't like people." His tone was mocking, but Michael knew he was just doing his thing, taking every opportunity he had to be a little shit. "I don't like people. But you're an exception." There was a few seconds of silence, and Gavin looked down at their hands, gently rubbing his thumb over Michael's knuckles. "I love you too, Michael." He looked back up, placing a gentle, loving kiss on Michael's lips before pressing their foreheads together. "I'm glad you don't hate me anymore" He whispered, after a few minutes of silence. "Me too." The pair would eventually fall asleep- as close as they could possibly be- but for now they were both content to sit like this, listening to the other breathe softly and hoping that they got to do this for the rest of their lives. For the first time in his life, Michael was glad he'd had a nightmare that night. Being this close to Gavin made it more than worth it.