#Gods I might not make it to eighteen I’m gonna fucking loose it

[astral-catastrophe]

I’m so fucking done

[fruitcoops]

Night Changes

This isn't based on an ask, but I've had some early-Cap ideas brewing and think about the first time the team heard him laugh a lot. His and James' friendship is so sweet in SW--the beginning of it must have been such a shock to them both. SW credit goes to @lumosinlove!

So maybe James had bitten off more than he could chew. It wasn’t the first time, to be sure, but coaxing (read: drag kicking and screaming) his new teammate out of the carefully-constructed mosaic of scowls that made up his entire personality was proving to be a little more challenging than he previously expected. With most rookies, all it took was some elbow grease and overenthusiastic inclusion in group events to get them to open up—with his brand-new soon-to-be best friend, he had to handle things a little more delicately.

Sirius Black was a puzzle wrapped up in one of those freaky code-breaking machines from World War Two Lily liked to talk about. He was one of the best hockey players James had ever seen, but off the ice he seemed to shut down. The intense focus on his face smoothed out into almost perfect neutrality, and in the four months since he joined the Lions, he had never once smiled for real in front of the team. He sat in his stall and padded up in silence, then went out and kicked ass before following Pascal home like a living shadow.

Naturally, James took it as a personal mission to pry Sirius Black’s closed-off persona open like a stubborn oyster. He tried including Sirius in group events—the rookie went along with a quiet “yeah, sure”, but sat at the table and nursed a single drink for the entire night. He tried getting into friendly banter with him on the ice, but it was like Sirius had never joked with anyone in his life. Hell, he even tried finding him a girlfriend, which tanked harder than the goddamn Titanic.

“Rookie!” James shouted down the hallway.

Sirius jumped and turned around, obviously confused. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” James laughed, jogging over to toss an arm over his shoulders. “What’s up?”

“Not much.”

He waited for Sirius to continue, then rolled his eyes and gave him a friendly shake. “C’mon, man, how was your weekend? Has Dumo coerced you into being a stay-at-home babysitter yet?”

Sirius’ frown deepened. “What? I come with him to practice every day.”

Change tactics, change tactics— “Got any plans for Friday?”

James knew the answer, of course; it was always no or not yet or a simple shake of the head. If he was a less observant man, he would have assumed Sirius didn’t actually want to hang out with the team. But the longing looks toward their easy rhythm and the way he always tilted himself toward locker room conversations told a different story. “None yet,” Sirius said with a shrug.

James gave him a friendly slap on the back. “Good, ‘cause I’m having a party at my place and you’re not allowed to miss it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I want you to be there, duh.” The bewilderment didn’t fade from Sirius’ face, but beneath it—well, maybe James was just seeing things, but he looked almost hopeful. He ruffled Sirius’ hair and headed for the locker room. “Friday at five, rookie! I’ll be waiting!”

--

The week passed in a slog of practices and cold weather. Sirius clammed up more and more as the party drew closer, but James didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered between the rest of them like he was analyzing a play. He would make one hell of a captain someday, if he could just relax a little.

“Hey, rookie, want a ride?” he asked when the big day finally arrived.

“Don’t you want to go home and set up first?” Sirius’ brow furrowed. For an eighteen-year-old kid, he was awfully thoughtful. James couldn’t wait to see him let loose a little. “I wouldn’t want to get in your way.”

“It’s a yes or no question,” he teased, poking the bit of exposed shoulder through the widening hole in Sirius’ under armor.

“I…” He faltered, then the corner of his mouth twitched up. It was the closest thing James had seen to a smile from him yet. One point for Potter. “Sure, Pots. Thanks.”

“No problem. Meet me at my car in five or so, yeah?”

“D’accord.”

“Oho, fancy French,” James laughed, turning back to unlace his skates.

It wasn’t until thirty seconds after Sirius left the room that he remembered he never told the rookie what his car looked like. Horrible, terrible visions of the poor guy wandering around the parking lot—or, god forbid, thinking James had left without him—flashed through his mind. It would undo everything he had been working so hard to build.

“Shit,” he hissed under his breath as he shoved his gear into his duffel with reckless abandon and hurried out of the locker room. His legs would be stiff from trying to run so soon after a grueling drill practice, but it was worth it to save his friend. “Rookie? Hey, Sirius, you still here?”

There was no response. James cursed again and made a beeline for the door to the parking lot. Please, God, don’t let him get lost. I need him to trust me.

“Oh, thank fuck,” he panted as he burst out onto the half-frozen concrete.

Sirius looked up from his phone with a strange expression. “Are you okay?”

“Thought I lost you for a sec.”

“You said to meet at your car, yes?” He glanced between James and the car in sudden worry.

“Yeah, yes, absolutely, I just—” He made an aborted gesture and dug his keys out of his pocket. “I realized I forgot to tell you which one is mine.”

Sirius blinked at him. “I know what your car looks like.”

“How?”

“Because you drive it here every single day and you gave me a ride three weeks ago.”

‘Dumbass’ went unsaid, but James could feel it hanging in the air. He coughed lightly. “Right. Anyway, you can toss your bag wherever and hop in the passenger seat. My place isn’t far from here.”

Sirius took his duffel as he unlocked the car and settled both in the trunk with more care than James’ poor, battered bag had ever seen in its life. That was another thing that confused him about Sirius Black—he was so careful. He walked quietly for someone so tall, and each movement seemed pre-planned.

Each movement, that is, until he tried to get in the car. “Uh, Pots?”

“That’s m—oh.” James covered his mouth to stifle his laughter as Sirius tried to fold himself into the passenger seat and failed miserably. “I’m sorry, my girlfriend was sitting there last. Uh, there’s a lever on your right—yeah, there, just give it a pull and—”

With a harsh ka-chunk, the seat slid all the way back. Both men froze. It took everything in James’ power not to burst out laughing at the deer-in-headlights shock on Sirius’ face.

“Yep, that one,” he managed. “Nice job.”

They drove in relative quiet—James chattered on about weekend plans and hummed to the radio while Sirius watched out the window with the occasional monosyllable response. It took James a bit by surprise how comfortable he was, even without a steady stream of banter. Sirius might have been stubborn and silent and determined to foil all James’ plans at getting him to socialize, but he was calming to be near, like an anchor on unsteady water. Despite his overall quiet air, he was obviously paying attention to every word that left James’ mouth.

“You’re a good guy, y’know that?” he said as they turned onto his street. Sirius glanced over in surprise. “Most people tune me out within, like, five minutes.”

“I’m a good listener.”

James opened his mouth to respond, then paused. “Was that—Sirius Black, was that a joke?”

Something akin to mischief—mischief!—crossed his face. “Maybe.”

“Were you roasting me?” James gaped at him. “Oh my god. The guys are never gonna believe this.”

“Probably not.”

“You sick bastard. They won’t believe me.”

“You can give it a shot,” Sirius said with a shrug as the engine turned off. Pieces began to connect in James’ head as he stared, incredulous, at the rookie he thought would never even crack a smile. Four months of work had not been wasted, as he had feared; every joke, every one-sided conversation, and every attempt to get Sirius involved had been seen and heard and taken to heart. When he thought about it, he wasn’t sure he had ever seen Sirius actively agree to something unless James asked personally.

“We’re friends,” he said aloud, too surprised and too happy to hold it in. Not friends in the way James was with the rest of their loud, over-the-top teammates, but friends all the same.

“Well, yeah,” Sirius said as if it was obvious.

James unbuckled his seatbelt and socked him lightly on the shoulder, barely suppressing a shriek of excitement. “Love you, man. Grab your shit, we’ve got a party to set up.”

----------------

As much as it pained James to say it, having someone around who was six-foot-three was a huge help. There was no blow to his pride as he dragged Lily’s stepstool out; no grudging acceptance that he simply couldn’t reach those last two inches on the wall. Instead, he could foist any and all responsibility on his brand-new best friend in the whole wide world and focus on the things that mattered, like putting anything breakable or important far away from the grubby hands of his inebriated teammates.

His success was still ringing in his ears when the guests finally arrived—throughout the evening, James rode the high of accomplishing his mission to pull Sirius Black into his tight-knit circle. Every minute of those four months was worth it.

Midnight came and went, and by one-thirty in the morning James’ cramped living room was packed with tipsy hockey players in a vague imitation of a circle. “Non, non, I’ve gotta good one,” Dumo said, hiccupping. The room fell quiet as he leaned forward. “What do you call a body of water with a chicken in it?”

“What?” Kasey whispered, starry-eyed like a kid at Christmas.

“A swimming pool.”

The room stayed quiet, and then someone started to laugh. Slowly, they all turned to the source of the noise, and James felt a ripple of shock roll through the team as Sirius snorted. “It’s a swimming pool,” he said around a smile, his accent thick from three drinks. He had a nice laugh; James could get used to hearing it. “Like—poule, like chicken?”

His whole face was alight with happiness. James wasn’t sure whether to cry or cheer. That’s what I’ve been waiting for, he thought. That look, right there. Sirius fit in among the group like a missing piece of their puzzle, snickering away as if he hadn’t been stoically silent a day in his life. His laugh was downright bubbly.

“I don’t think they get it,” Dumo said into the rim of his cup.

Sirius shook his head, trying to catch his breath. “D’accord, so—so ‘chicken’ in French is poule, yeah? So a chicken in a body of water is a swimming poule. Do you get it now?”

A few oh’s of understanding washed over them, but several people continued to stare. “Too drink for this,” Sergei grumbled, though James could see the smile pulling at his mouth as Sirius turned to him with bright eyes.

“But it’s funny!” Sirius protested, so earnest it made James’ heart hurt.

“I think it’s funny, rookie,” he assured him with a clumsy pat on the arm. “And it’s my house, so I say Dumo gets a point this round.”

Kasey hiccupped. “Hey, anyone who makes the rookie laugh gets points in my book. No offense, dude.”

“None taken,” Sirius said, though his cheeks were pink.

James nudged him with his shoulder as Talker started a knock-knock joke. “It’s okay,” he said under his breath.

Sirius picked at the label on his cup. “I know I haven’t been very social,” he muttered.

“It’s okay,” James insisted. “It always takes rookies a while to warm up, so we’re just glad you’re happy. I’m glad my best friend is having a good time at my party.”

A heavy silence fell between them as Sirius looked over, eyebrows raised. “Best friend?”

“What, like you didn’t see this coming?” James slung an arm over his shoulder. “Yes, you French-Canadian nerd, you’re my best friend. And that means I’m your best friend, and there’s no take-backsies.”

“What the hell is a take-backsie?” Sirius laughed. “Did you make that up?”

James grinned. He had the feeling this was the beginning of an excellent friendship.

[pinknatural]

Dean tries, really tries, to think of it as a present. Finally, his dad is letting loose on the ropes a bit, finally letting him hunt on his own. But it’s kinda hard to convince himself when his dad sent him in with the case already figured out, with everything but the manual labor already done. 

It’s more like an errand he wants me to complete, Dean thinks resentfully, digging his shovel into the soft dirt. Happy birthday, go dig up two graves. Have fun! 

Dean huffs and pivots to the grave beside the other one. According to Dean’s research, the nuns had wanted to be buried together, but when the convent found their bodies they hadn’t really gone for that option. They had been buried next to each other, though, which makes Dean’s job just a little bit easier. 

He starts digging, even though he hasn’t finished digging out the first grave. You gotta dig ‘em up at the same time, ‘cause if you gank one then her lover gets angry, and the last thing Dean needs is an angry ghost harassing him while he digs up a grave. He can’t help but think that those other nuns should’ve buried them together. Not just because it would make Dean’s life easier, but because they wanted it. Because they were in love, and they killed themselves, and the convent owed them that much. 

Dean inhales, then exhales, his breath escaping in a little white cloud. It’s chilly, ‘cause it’s January, but it’s not too cold. He’s not wearing gloves or anything but he can still feel his hands. He shifts to the other grave and starts digging. 

He remembers what Charlie at the last school said about what his dad got him for his seventeenth birthday--a new car. Lindsey got a fancy necklace. Jake’s birthday hadn’t come up yet, but he’d been hoping for a dog. All Dean has is blisters on his fingers and a sore back from when the ghost of Sister Felicity threw him into a bookcase while he was retrieving the prayer book the nuns’d passed notes to each other in. That book, which had notes in the margins of their love, is gone now. Dean burned it.

Tears sting at Dean’s eyes. He must’ve been too soft, about Jake. He must’ve--something must’ve given him away. Why else would he be punished like this?

He knows, Dean thinks. He knows, he knows, he knows. It becomes a mantra, moving in time with his shovel. He switches graves. 

It’s just that it’s his birthday. The message--the warning--would’ve gotten across regardless, Dean thinks. But why, of all days, why his birthday? Why can’t Dean have a fucking break for once? 

Seventeen sucks, Dean thinks, hitting the first coffin. He climbs out of the hole and switches to the other one. It supremely sucks. Sixteen you get a drivers’ license, eighteen you can, like, vote or whatever, but seventeen is nothing. Just a bunch of shit. 

He knows, he knows, he knows. 

Dean hits the second coffin and breaks it open. The bones are like the ones in Sister Perpetua’s grave--pale and gross, just like most bones are. Dean doesn’t know why he kind of expected different. He climbs out and throws his shovel aside, picks up the thing of salt. He dumps it on one grave, then the other. Lighter fluid, next. Dean’s done this before. Even if Dad and Sammy are usually here, Dean knows how this goes. 

He takes the matchbook from his pocket, strikes one and drops it, then the other. The graves light up, the flame flickering bright and warm, and Dean thinks he hears screaming. He drops to his knees and whispers, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He realizes that he’s still crying, that tears have run down his face, and for the first time on this supremely shitty birthday, he’s glad to be alone, kneeling between the graves of two women who were in love, twin fires burning bright on either side of him. 

-

Dean wakes up slowly, as he often does these days. There’s a warm blanket around his shoulders, and under that a heavy arm slung over his waist. Sometimes Dean remembers the days he was too antsy to even get under the covers, ready to jump into action at any minute, and it all seems so absurd. 

Light trickles in softly from the window across the room, and the arm around Dean’s waist tightens. Dean turns, slow, smiling already at the sight he knows will greet him. 

Cas is kind of awake, squinting at him but smiling, his hair ruffled and sticking out everywhere, and Dean feels sort of like he might burst. 

“Mmm,” he says. “Good morning.” He stretches his own arm around Cas’s shoulders and draws the man closer to him, Cas’s arm shifting from it’s loose hold to pull their chests together. 

“Happy birthday, Dean,” Cas says, his voice even lower, rough from sleep. Dean grins, tucks his face under Cas’s chin to hide it. 

“Every day’s my birthday when I get to wake up to the best present ever laying in my bed,” Dean says, even though that’s ridiculously sappy and also doesn’t make sense. 

“I am not a present, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean makes a ‘hmm’ noise. 

“I was talking about Miracle, dumbass,” he says, nudging the sleeping dog in question with his toes.

“Of course you were,” Cas says indulgently, like he’s just humoring him. Which is fair, possibly. Dean thinks that Cas spends a lot of time just humoring him. 

“Do you know what time it is?” Dean asks, shifting his arm to touch the back of Cas’s neck, right at the spot where his t-shirt meets his skin.

“It doesn’t matter,” Cas says, holding him tighter like he thinks Dean will get out of bed, which is quite frankly an absurd idea. It’s a Sunday, and it’s his birthday. Dean has nowhere else to be.

“It might, since Sammy’s coming over today,” Dean says, even though Sam and Eileen are coming over in the late afternoon and it’s definitely still morning.

“Well, it’s not time for them to come yet,” Cas says. “We can get up later.”

Dean definitely agrees, and he snuggles back down into Cas, getting even more comfortable. He’s just thinking about falling back asleep, maybe, deciding that this is his best birthday ever, even though it’s only been like ten minutes, when he remembers his worst birthday and has to pause. 

“Dean?” Cas asks. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m…” Dean noses against him, taking a deep breath. “You read my...my dad’s journal?”

“Yes,” Cas says warily. The journal is usually safe, but Cas can get pissy when John Winchester is mentioned. 

“You remember my seventeenth birthday?” Dean asks, and then all of a sudden his angel is trying to squeeze the life out of him. Dean appreciates it, even though he can’t really breathe. 

“I remember,” Cas growls, and Dean pats his shoulder. 

“I was just thinking about how that was the worst, and this is the best,” Dean says, and Cas relaxes his hold a little. “I, uh...that day felt like a huge warning. And now I’m here, with you, and, uh, it’s pretty awesome, not gonna lie.”

“John Winchester deserves to rot in hell for eternity for what he did to you and Sam,” Cas says. “But I am glad to be here with you, and I agree that it’s pretty awesome.”

“I love you,” Dean says, helpess as he always is in the face of Cas’s protectiveness. 

“I love you too,” Cas says, moving a hand to tenderly cradle Dean’s jaw. He begins to guide Dean’s head towards his, and Dean is so sorry to interrupt, but--

“Do you smell pancakes?” he asks, and Cas pauses, considering. 

“Yes,” he says finally. 

“Well, if I’m here in bed, and you’re here in bed, and Miracle, I’m pretty sure, can’t make pancakes, and is also in bed, then who…”

“Jack,” they say together, and Dean laughs. 

“Do we trust Jack with the stove?”

“He is God,” Cas says, but that doesn’t sound like a ‘yes’. They look at each other and then sigh, rolling apart so they can get out of bed. 

“We’ll continue this later,” Dean says, pointing at Cas, who nods. 

“Of course,” he says, and he reaches out and grabs Dean’s shirt, pulling him in for a sadly-brief kiss. “Happy birthday.”

Dean beams at him, and then they go downstairs to help their son make pancakes without burning the house down, Miracle bounding down the stairs beside them, and Dean can’t help but agree with his earlier assessment--that this is his best birthday ever. 

(ao3)

[calpalirwin]

True Crime

Loosely based on/inspired by True Crime by Taylor Acorn

Word Count: 2.6k

And away, and away we go!

__

The stars were bright as they stared up at the sky, their eyes blurry. He pressed the last sip of the bottle to her lips and pulled the blanket tighter around them. “Promise me something,” she whispered, her words slow and slurred.

“Anything,” he nodded, lighting a cigarette. 

“Promise me you’ll love me forever.”

“Only if you promise the same.”

She cupped his face in her hands, looking deep into his blue eyes. “Promise.”

“Promise,” he smiled at her before bringing her in for a kiss that tasted like cheap booze, smelled like cheaper cigarettes, and felt like young love that would last lifetimes.

~~~

Y/N woke with a start, the dream replaced with the blaring of the alarm next to her bed. With a groan, she shut off the alarm, wondering if there would ever come a night where she didn’t dream of Lip Gallagher. But after seven months, she wasn’t holding much hope, and the wondering progressed to thoughts of how to come to terms with the fact that this was her life now.

Y/N had no one to blame but herself. Ian had warned her that his brother, while mostly filled with good intentions, was a ticking time bomb of self-destruction, much like all the other Gallaghers. But his charm, sharp wit, and those piercing blue eyes had made it hard for Y/N to resist the older boy. And the almost year they spent together had left her thinking that maybe Ian had been wrong. Maybe she could be the one good thing in Lip’s life that didn’t explode.

But the explosion had happened. And in the fallout, she had lost not only Lip, but herself as well.

As Y/N left her house, out of habit she started to head south. But like every day for the past seven months, she paused thinking if she really wanted to go that way. Any other day she would have turned to go the other way, not risking being in his part of town, not risking going by the places they used to frequent together. But today, she didn’t change her path. The Southside was big enough, and before the fallout she remembered Ian had mentioned his new job at Fiona’s diner. And just because her and Lip weren’t a thing anymore, didn’t mean she had to let go of Ian too. And today, missing her best friend outweighed the risks she’d been avoiding.

She sucked in her breath as she passed by the open field that had been one of her and Lip’s preferred spot to escape to when things got crazy at his house, which was often. She also picked up her pace, but it didn’t matter. The memory replayed anyway.

~~~

“If you could live anywhere, where would you go?” she asked.

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Literally anywhere that’s not here. Why? You wanna run away with me? Train should be coming by soon. We could just hop on, and see where we end up.”

Y/N laughed. “We can’t actually leave, Lip. It’s hypothetical.”

“Well why does it have to be hypothetical? Nobody fuckin’ needs me here. I’m smart, you’re hot. We’d find a way to get by.”

Y/N laughed louder, pushing into his shoulder. “Real funny, Lip.”

“I’m serious. I used to think that maybe I was just fuckin’ useless, but I’m starting to think it’s just this city.”

“It is the city, because you are anything but useless.”

Lip scoffed again. “Nah. All I am here nowadays is another mouth to feed. Another body taking up space. I stopped being useful the minute I turned eighteen, and Frank couldn’t cash a check on my existence anymore. But away from here? Fuck, I could be anybody. A somebody.”

His tone was flat, a simplistic statement of facts. But his eyes betrayed the hurt he still associated with who he thought he was, and the bitter disappointment that he’d never be more than what he was now. “Oh, Lip,” she said softly, cupping his face in one of her palms. “You’re so much more than who they think you are.”

For a brief moment, he leaned into her touch, allowing himself to trust in someone other than himself. “You might be the only one who believes in me.”

“That’s what happens when you love someone, Lip.”

“Again, you might be the only one who does. And trust me, I’m not saying this shit to gain sympathy, or to bring down the mood, or whatever.” His shoulders shrugged, “It’s just the reality of the situation.”

“Well, I love you Philip Gallagher. And if you wanna run away, just say the word, and I will happily follow.”

~~~

The bell on the door jingled as Y/N pushed her way inside Patsy’s Pies. A waitress in a white top tucked into black jeans and an apron tied around her waist told her to have a seat wherever, so Y/N slid into one of the booths along the window. As she glanced around the place, she spotted a busboy cleaning up a nearby table, with bright red hair. “Ian!” she called out, her voice bright.

The busboy turned to the sound, a wide grin breaking out across his face as he recognized her. “Give me two minutes!” he told her before hurriedly going back to his task.

Not even a full two minutes later, Ian was sliding in across from her. “Oh, my God, Y/N! How have you been? I haven’t seen you s- Oh… Right…”

She smiled softly, as she reached across the table to pat her friend’s hand. “I’m okay, Ian. Still hurts, but not as bad as it did. And I’m not here to see him. I came here to see you. See how you’re doing.”

“Oh, I’m good. You know… considering.”

“That’s great, Ian. And it looks like you got a nice routine here. Working out okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not the greatest job in the world. Like I know I have it because it’s how Fiona can keep an eye on me. But better than nothing, I guess. How are things with you?”

“As good as they can be, I guess. Taking some classes at the community college. Nothing extremely brag worthy or anything.”

“So same shit, different day?”

She laughed, “Exactly.” She was about to work up the courage to ask how the rest of the Gallagher clan was doing when the bell on the door jangled, and both their heads turned to the sound.

“Oh, fuck…” Ian groaned at the same time Lip mouthed the words himself.

Y/N steeled herself as Lip walked there way, one of his hands coming to rest on the tabletop. “Y/N. Good to see ya. You look good,” Lip greeted quickly before turning his attention to Ian. “I’m gonna grab Liam, check in with Fi, then we can head out.”

“I’ll do it!” Ian volunteered and shot out of the booth before either Lip or Y/N could protest.

“I-” Lip sighed, rubbing at his face. “Okay…” He sighed again before taking a seat on the edge of the bench seat. “So…” he said, fingers drumming on the wood.

“Don’t,” she cut him off. “We don’t have to do this,” she went on, waving a finger between the two of them. “Make pleasant small talk, or whatever. We can just sit here until Ian comes back, and then you guys can go your way, and I’ll go mine, and it’ll be just like it’s supposed to.”

“Alright, fuck me then…” his defensive snark came out.

“Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you?” she snapped back.

Lip rolled his eyes. “Whatever, Y/N. God forbid I try to be nice to you.”

“See? That’s exactly what I told you not to do. You don’t get to do what you did, and then play the victim, Lip.”

“Do what?! Say hi?!”

“Do anything, Lip! Seven fuckin’ months of radio silence, and the first thing you decide to say to me is ‘hey, you look good’? What fuckin’ shit is that?!”

“So I was just supposed to ignore you?!”

“It was working so far, wasn’t it?! Until you went and ruined it by talking!”

“I ruined it?! You came here- where my family works- but I ruined it?!”

“Yes! Because I was just fine until you came along!”

“Yeah, well so was I!”

“I’m gonna see you at home, Lip…” Ian’s voice piped up, a backpack slung over his shoulder, one of his hands holding Liam’s. “Y/N, it was great to see you. Catch up soon?”

Y/N flashed a smile at the two Gallagher brothers, her demeanor shifting completely. “Of course, Ian. My number’s still the same. Hey, Liam!”

“What do you mean, you’ll see me at home? I’m coming with you,” Lip cut in.

“No,” Ian shook his head. “Liam and I are going home. You two are gonna finish whatever… this is.”

“It is finished,” they both told him.

Ian snorted. “Yeah right… Y/N, if Lip hadn’t walked in when he did, were you going to ask me about him?”

“Yes…” she mumbled.

“And Lip, were you gonna ask me about Y/N the second we left?”

“Yeah, probably…”

“So just talk to each other now, and leave me out of it.”

“I- Fiona would kill me if you left with Liam, and I didn’t go with you, you know that.”

Ian shrugged. “Guess there’s only one thing to do then.”

Lip gave a shake of his head, muttering some curses under his breath. “Fine. C’mon then,” he finally, getting up from the table and motioning for Y/N to follow them.

“Me?” she asked in disbelief. “You’re joking…”

“Really wish I was. But Ian’s right. We should probably finish whatever this is, rather than ignoring it.”

“How mature of you,” she sarcastically crooned at him as she got up. “Let’s go then.”

~~~

The happy chatter around the dinner table in the Gallagher house warmed Y/N. That had been her favorite part about being in their lives. For as chaotic and dysfunctional as they were, the six siblings were always ride or die for each other.

“So,” Lip prompted, once the chatter had died down, and the Gallaghers had disbanded to various parts of the house.

“So?” Y/N asked.

Lip jerked his head in the direction of the back porch. “C’mon, we can talk outside.”

With a huff, she followed him outside, both of them taking a seat on the steps.

“So,” he started again.

“Why?” she demanded, cutting straight to the chase. “Why?” she repeated again, her lip trembling.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s the best you got? You left me there waiting for you, and the best you got is ‘I don’t know’?”

“Don’t be so dramatic… I didn’t leave you there waiting.”

“Oh!” she scoffed, “Right. My bad. You showed up two hours late, said you couldn’t do this, and then left me.”

“Were you really naive enough to think I could leave with you? That I could ever get out of that?” he flung a hand in the direction of the house.

“No,” she said flatly. “No. I was naive enough to think I could trust you to begin with. Ian warned me about you right from the beginning.”

“Yeah, well you should’ve listened. But you were never good at doing what you were told to do now were you? Always doing the opposite just to prove you could.”

“Classic Lip, putting the blame on others for his own screw ups.”

“Aw, I’m sorry,” he mockingly pouted. “Did I ruin your fairytale by being a fuck-up?”

She snarled as she gave him a hard shove with enough force to make him have to stick out his hand to catch himself. “My life was just fine before you came along, and fucked everything up!”

“Well I guess I did you a favor by leaving then, huh?!”

“A favor?! You think you did me a favor by making me fall in love with you, letting me believe we could be something, and then leaving?!”

“You think I left for my own health?! I was in love with you, too!”

“If you loved me, then why did you leave?!”

“Because I’m a fuckin’ fuck-up! It’s what I do! I ruin good things because I don’t believe I deserve them!”

“So your solution was to break your promise to me?! You didn’t have to run away with me, Lip! In case you didn’t notice, I didn’t leave that night either! We could have just kept being us!”

The words shocked the fight out of him. “You didn’t leave?”

Y/N shook her head, the fight leaving her too. “No. I only wanted to leave because you wanted to.”

“That’s fuckin’ stupid. You know that right? Only doing something because of me? It’s stupid to pin your life on anyone, especially when that person is me.”

“I didn’t pin my life on you because I’m dependent on you, Lip. I wasn’t kidding when I said my life was fine before you. It was. My life just happened to be better with you in it. I was happiest with you. And I was stupid enough to believe you when said you felt the same.”

“You know you’re the only one I ever meant that shit to?”

“If you meant it, then you shouldn’t have broken your promise. You should have stayed.”

“Yeah, maybe I should’ve. Or maybe we did everything right, and we still end up here.”

“Guess we’ll never know.”

“Guess so. And hey, I’m sorry alright?”

“I don’t want your apology, Lip. I want you to be the person I thought you were.”

“Yeah, me too. But I am sorry. I guess part of me thought I was protecting you by walking away before I could let you down. Protecting myself by leaving before you could leave me. But it didn’t work. I just made a bigger mess of my life. And hurt you in the crossfire.”

“Did Lip Gallagher just admit to his own screw ups?” she teased lightly.

“Ha-ha,” he laughed humorlessly. “Believe it or not, sometimes I’m not a complete ass.”

“Only sometimes,” she continued to tease.

This time he chuckled a little. “Well, as much as I want to, I can’t go back and fix what I did. And I can tell you I’m sorry all night, but it doesn’t mean you’ll forgive me. And I can’t blame you if you don’t. I mean, it's not like I forgave myself, either. But, kinda glad for running into you, and getting to talk this out. I’ve uh… missed you being around.”

She smiled softly. “Yeah, it was nice. I’ve uh… missed being around you, too.”

“So… where do we go from here? Is this where I swear that I’ve changed, and I’ll do better if you give me a second chance?”

“Is that what you want?”

“I don’t know. Do I want to be with you again? Yes. But I don’t think it’s as simple as that. What if I haven’t changed? What if my life flies off the rails again- which it will- and I push you away again? I can’t guarantee that I won’t hurt you again. That my instinct won’t be to run the minute things get hard.”

“I guess we gotta decide if that’s a risk worth taking.”

“Is it? Am I the risk worth taking again?”

“Oh, Lip…” Y/N said softly, resting her hand against his face the way she used to. Her thumb brushed along his cheekbone as he leaned into the touch, his eyes watching her carefully. “You’re always gonna be my risk worth taking.”

__

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[svnflowervol666]

Little Chubby Bubby coming in y/n’s and Harry’s Bedroom with their Arms and fat belly full of different drawings with a Sharpie and says:”just like Daddy” While Harry is on the edge of Tears cause his Bub just wants to be like him, y/n is loosing her fucking mind over there. 😂

Word Count: 1.2k

It was a sunny little Saturday morning and Y/N and Harry have just been enjoying the morning together in bed because they thought bubs was still asleep and they were soaking up all of the alone time they could get their hands on. Right when Harry’s hands crept under the waistband of Y/N’s panties and they think they might have enough time to love up on each other for a bit and take care of the aching need they have for one another, they hear the pitter patter of tiny feet on the hardwood floor and the turning of their bedroom door handle.

Harry’s quick to retract his hand and act like nothing had been happening and Y/N is quick to tell their son to come over to her side of the bed while Harry situated himself under the covers. Just as bub comes into close view of their mother, Harry hears Y/N’s cries and perks up immediately to check on bub from her side of the bed.

“Bubby, what have you done?” Y/N exclaimed, examining her son’s arms that are covered in black swirls.

All she gets back is a happy squeal and a shout of, “Daddy!”

Their son isn’t speaking very well just yet, only knowing basic phrases like mummy, daddy, and what to say when they want more Cheerios or mango slices on their plate.

Harry’s dumbfounded as well, though he remembers that he forgot to put up bub’s coloring bag in the closet and had left it on his nightstand when he went to tuck him in the night before.

“Shit,” he mumbled, “F’got to put up the markers last night.”

“Jesus, Harry. You can’t forget something like that. What if he chews on one and chokes on the caps?”

“Okay well clearly he’s fine, just a little impromptu art class on his arms. C’mon, bubby. Let’s go take a bath n’ get this offa ya.”

Harry would never say this out loud, but he wanted to chime in and say that it was her suggestion to put an eighteen-month-old in a bed without any railing and had she not insisted that he have a “big boy bed” at such a young age that this probably wouldn’t have happened. She was all about letting them be free and not feel like they were being held back from flourishing, but painting a Picasso on his chunky little arms was not an obstacle she’d expected to encounter. Plus, everything had been going great so far, so it really was Harry’s fault and he decided to just keep his mouth shut.

“You better pray to god that he didn’t color all over the bloody walls, too. You ass.”

Harry feels like he’s in the dog house, so he takes the initiative to clean his son’s arms off himself. When he gets him into the bathroom and strips him of his pull-up and sleep shirt, he erupts in a fit of laughter.

“Baby!” Harry calls for Y/N.

“Ye’ gonna want t’ see this.”

Y/N walks into the bathroom to find her son playfully smacking his round tummy and standing on the counter whilst Harry leans against the marble trying not to keel over from how infectious his giggles are spreading throughout his entire body.

“What?” Y/N asks, clearly not getting what on earth is so funny to Harry.

“Do ye’ see it?”

She scanned their son’s body, noticing that he didn’t only color on his arm but also all over his chest. This’ll take for-fucking-EVER to scrub off, she thought to herself. As hard as she tried to understand what Harry had found so funny, she simply didn’t see it.

“No, H. I really don’t,” she shrugged her shoulders I’m frustrated defeat.

She wished he’d just hurry up and clean up the mess his son had made due to his own irresponsible actions.

Harry huffed at her response and quickly shrugged off the ratty t-shirt he had been sleeping in and stood right next to their son to expose his own chest that was covered in permanent ink and filled with memories of his experiences navigating the world as a young celebrity. He held out both his arm and his bub’s so that Y/N could see that their child was not coloring only mindless patterns on their arms and belly, but that they had a certain muse in mind.

“No. Fucking. Way.”

Their son had tried his absolute hardest to recreate Harry’s tattoos. They could both clearly see the butterfly that sat low on their chest and more so on their belly, the ship that took up the majority of their tiny little bicep, their botched attempt at the naked mermaid that stretched the length of Harry’s forearm. Sure, they were just scribbles and did not resemble anything slightly similar to the ink Harry had on his body, but the effort was clearly visible and quite literally the cutest thing either of them had ever seen.

Y/N and Harry erupted in loud spells of laughter that echoed from the walls of the large master bathroom, making their son chime in as well. He had no idea what they were laughing at, but the fact that they looked happy and were smiling at him made him feel just as jovial.

“Bubby wanted t’ be just like his old man,” Harry managed to squeeze out in between his gut-wrenching laughs.

“Jesus Christ. Stay there and don’t move.”

Harry held his aching stomach and tried to catch his breathe whilst Y/N ran back into their bedroom to grab her phone. She quickly snapped a few photos of the two boys in front of her. In the photo, you can almost see tears in Harry’s eyes from how hard he had been laughing, and bub is smiling as hard as ever like he always does whenever his parents are near.

“Gonna be honest, H,” Y/N started as she walked over to them to inspect their son’s artwork closely.

“Some of these are better than yours. I think his swallows might have you beat.”

“Oh, shut up woman,” Harry playfully smacked Y/N on the bum before lifting the toddler from the bathroom counter and placing them in the tub that was now full and slightly steaming.

Y/N kissed both of their heads and let the two of them be in the tub, going back to their room to cozy back up in the bed that was still warm from hers and Harry’s (almost) hot and heavy rendezvous. She started laughing again as she pulled up the photo of her son and Harry, then decided everyone deserved to see a treat like this to brighten up their weekend.

After sending the photo to everyone in their family, to which Gemma called her in hysterics to tell her how hard she was laughing, she took to Instagram.

“In case any of you had any doubt that he isn’t Harry’s spawn,” she typed as the caption before posting the photo for all to see, knowing good and well that she was going to damn near break the internet with a photo like that.

Right as she felt herself dozing off and trying to give in to the sweet tempting to go back to sleep, she heard Harry playfully shouting at their son to stop splashing him, and a roaring giggle rip through bub’s chest.

Even though Harry produced absolute wankers for children that color with permanent marker all over their body at 7 o’clock in the morning, Y/N loved her perfect life and wouldn’t have preferred it any other way.

[heli0s-writes]

VIII. Never is a Promise*

Summary: The last installment. A sweet ending for two dummies. NSFW Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader A/N: I have loved writing this! Thank you for all your support

Slow Like Honey Masterpost

Your relationship becomes a complicated affair. There are various intricacies to navigate now that school is back in session and Sarah has returned. Your schedule is identical to his daughter’s, so there isn’t a lot of time either of you have to spend alone.

It’s good, at first, because you are still wary of jumping in too quickly. But then by the end of the first week, you can’t help but crave the physical intimacy a relationship provides, especially now that you have it once more.  

In the afternoons that Steve comes to pick Sarah up, he looks at you with a smile at your cone before he pulls away. You keep him at arm’s length to separate your personal and professional life, and to not confuse Sarah. As far as she knows, you and Steve are friends; you don’t spend the night, and he doesn’t kiss you goodbye.

If she were ever to come to school and announce that you stayed the night in her father’s room, you’d probably fire yourself.

So, your weeknights are spent at your apartment, texting, calling briefly, pining for each other even though he’s only a 15-minute car ride away.  

Weekends are spent at the park or movies, trips to the children’s museum, and then making dinner together. He brushes up against your elbow while you wash vegetables, noses your shoulder when Sarah turns around. Once, when you were both sure Sarah had fallen asleep, you sneaked over to him on the couch, but then she called out from her room and you scrambled off. You haven’t been brave enough to let him try again.

At the end of the second week, you’re wound so tightly, you feel like you could spring loose any second.

Friday comes to an end and you are organizing the mess your classroom has become during the week and pulling out the necessary items for the next one. There are handfuls of manipulatives to be sorted, folders to be organized, crayons to pick up, and inexplicable smudges found in all sorts of places. Damn it, how do they do this?

A knock on your door draws your attention away from the frustrating state of your desk. Looking up, you see Steve leaning against the doorframe, fingers on the handle as he peeks in coyly.  

“Hey, you,” he calls, and your heart swells in your chest at the sight of him before it speeds up, panicked.

“What are you doing here?” You ask quickly, motioning for him to come in and shut the door. “You shouldn’t be here! Where’s Sarah?”

“She’s spending the night at a friend’s house… I wanted to surprise you.” He closes the door with a quiet click just in time as the teacher down the hall shoots you a goodbye, voice echoing. “Wanna go to dinner?”

Wordlessly, he begins to clear the clutter from your desk, placing them neatly on the shelves before he returns to stand with his hip against the frame. Suddenly, the urgency of cleaning slithers away. Stacking your papers and zipping up your bag, you laugh, “Is that your way of asking me on a date?”

He takes the bag from you and slings it over his shoulder. On you, it looks comically large. On him, quite the opposite; he looks like Billy Madison going back to first grade. “Depends… is that your way of saying yes?”

--

Dinner is casual at a greasy little diner you have been craving for. It’s a mom-n-pop kind of place, old booths and ripped cushions, unassuming hole-in-the-wall near the edge of downtown where every menu item is a hit. The burger is so stuffed it slides right out of your hands and you have to hold it upside down for a good bite—a trick you learned from a student. Steve crunches on golden tater tots and you suck on mouthfuls of thick strawberry milkshake.  

“So— youch! Good! Cold! Uuuuugh…” You mumble when the brain-freeze catches you. “Wanna little?”

He laughs and leans over the table, kissing the sweet cream from your lips and leaving behind a warm impression of his mouth. It tingles all over your tongue and rushes to every inch of your face. “Yum. Very good, baby.” Steve says with a smirk as he rubs his thumb over his bottom lip.

You roll your eyes, “Alright, Steve,” You can play this game, “I feel like you’re sending me lots of hints. Should we knock out a quickie in the men’s room?” Your resolve is weak, and you burst out into laughter at the thought of two adults going at it in a dingy old tiled restroom.

His eyebrows raise in surprise, but he stops to squint at you, “Don’t tease me, I’ll do it; I’ll do you.”

Jesus Christ in heaven, your stomach is either aching from laughing too much, eating too much, or because Steve is staring at you like he could devour you whole—and because he just said he would do you—like he might be eighteen and head over heels in love.

“Can we—”

Like a repeat of the first night you spent at his house, you’re already packed up with your purse over your shoulder, and way ahead of him. You’re out the door and halfway into your car before Steve catches up.

“This time,” You breathe, “You’re staying the night with me.”  

-

Suffice to say you’ve been daydreaming about this moment almost every day for the past seemingly endless few weeks. Steve seems to be more desperate, even calling you on the short drive back just to tell you how excited he is, how he’s been so good, waiting to be with you again.  

You make him hang up because it’s still twenty minutes away and you joke that you can’t spend another second listening to dirty talk.  

“I’m excited, too.” You admit, and the groan he sends on the other line is enough to make your thighs clench.

He’s almost bouncing by the time you reach your door, chewing on his lip and staring at you intently. You warn him that you have neighbors and he needs to calm down, but it falls on deaf ears as he only smiles wider.

And then, his hands are scooping you up, his foot kicking the door closed, and he drops you on the couch without another word, palming your arms and waist and falling to his knees. His beard rubs against your calf as he finds his way up your legs, hand sliding beneath your skirt to squeeze the inside of your thighs.

“Steve,” you stutter, “Let me wash up and get out of my work clothes, at least.”

“Uh-uh. Can’t wait.” Your skirt is rucked up, bunching around your hips while he unbuckles his belt, the faint clink of its metal registering in your ears. “Gotta get this off you.” His undressing is left unattended as he fumbles to yank your zipper down.

He doesn’t know what he wants to do first; it’s only three minutes in but he wants all of it—of you— right now. His head is empty, foggy, yet so full of possibilities.  

Steve latches his mouth to yours, slips his tongue in, slides off your skirt and blouse, breaking away for just a second to pull it off your head. “Bed.” He commands, and then picks you up again while you giggle in his arms.

The bedroom is glowing with Christmas lights, something he has always found a little endearing and so perfectly you. Tonight, their colors shimmer and warm your skin, turns you rosy and ethereal in the darkness, a flower unfurling under his heated gaze. He tugs the collar of his shirt over his head and glides right out from under it before kicking off his pants.  

And then he’s crawling over to you, hot and needy, and moaning when your bodies meet. Through the thin layer of underclothes, you feel him. His eyes shine purple under the decorations, rolling back as he shifts and grinds into your center.

“Jesus...” Steve hisses, “Fuck me. You feel so good.”  

There’s nothing you can say either way, the mass of him overtakes every thought or comment. His big hands roam every inch of your body, his thigh spreads your legs apart, quickly being replaced with rubbing and eager fingers. You let him work, leaning into his touch. He leaves kisses down your sternum, yanking off the bralette before returning to each breast, flicking his tongue over your nipple. Left and right, he moves back and forth as if he’s trying to be attentive to both at the same time.  

He is everywhere, but he wants more. He pleads with obscene phrases, whines with intimate oaths, mouthfuls of expressions that nearly shock you. Steve Rogers, your returned lover, known to be so often pleasant, talks so filthy and fierce you might catch fire.

You shimmy out of your underwear, letting him have it.

“I’m gonna turn you inside out, baby.” He vows, slipping his fingers inside, pushing in knuckle deep, arm flexed straight and against you. It becomes the fixture that keeps you on earth even though it feels like you could float right up to the heavens. Weeks have passed without feeling each other, and now that you have the chance, your body demands him.

You want to touch him, too.

Rolling him over with a bit of a struggle because Steve is stubborn like that, you press yourself flat against his chest, wiggle your hips over his, let him slide between your thighs. With one hand over your back, you grip him from behind and rub him until he’s slick.

This is as much foreplay as either of you will get— you’re desperate and impatient for him.

“Oh fuck...” He groans, “Fuck.”

“Turn me inside out, Rogers?”

“Can’t say I have any complaints, hon-- ” The husky chuckle is cut off when you push him in, tilting your hips until he bottoms out, completely encased. His skin breaks out into goosebumps as he arches up, groaning, heavy lidded and watching you. “God, baby. You look so good.”

You had forgotten how he feels, buried like this, like he could live inside of you— stiff and big and perfect. The blood coursing through your veins burns torrid and sears into every bit, pooling slippery and wet until it’s drenching. You rock on top of him, gripping his chest and arm, back and forth and panting for breath. Steve kisses your palms and wrists, placing one hand on the small of your back and sitting up until you’re flush with your ankles crossed around his waist.

The position harkens back to your first time, months ago, the two of you blind with affection and want for each other as you fumbled around in his bed.

He is flushed under the lights, still holding tightly to your side, sliding you back and forth, hitting so deeply it almost hurts. Steve’s hands run the length of your thighs before palming your ass to pull you closer, bucking.  

“Come on.” He grunts, “Little more, honey. So fucking good.” He latches onto your neck, licks at the sensitive skin beneath your ear and makes you tremble all over. “That’s my girl.” He repeats it again when you clamp down harder. “Do you like that? Being my girl?”

“God…” you mutter, a little embarrassed because apparently that’s what does it for you. It’s something about the way he says it and the way he holds onto you like a lifeline with his strong arms.  

It’s the way it is after two weeks aching for him, knowing he is yours to have, but not having him. It’s the breaking of your will, crushed and shattered with every plunge and withdraw.

“My girl,” a smile presses into your cheek, “So good. So fucking tight for me.” You could weep with the coil in your belly twisting tightly on the edge of snapping.

“I’m—Steve— gonna— come,” you moan, nails digging into his back. The two of you melting together, clawing, mouths open, tongues touching. It’s messy, sticky, and sweaty, but the way he burns is sweet.

“Look at me,” Steve urges your fluttering eyes, peppering kisses to your jaw as he soaks in the way your lips part dreamily. “I love you so much. Come for me, baby.”

You’re done for, crying out in the warm heat of the room, seizing him by his shoulders and then down his back and pressing crescent shaped indents in his skin. He watches you shake and whimper, licking his teeth as pleasure stirs him harder. Your wrap him in pulses, make it tougher for him to wedge his way out and in, and he loves it, feeling the new sensation all the way up to his eyes.  

With a grunt and a string of expletives that might have surprised you before tonight, Steve wrenches himself out, pumps himself three, four, times and spills creamy with a gasp over your stomach and hip. “Fuck.” He hisses, “God damn.”

Everything is blushing rose, damp with the scent of your exertion and him, wet and salty on your body. The lights look like flowers dappling alien luminance, casting shadows over his open mouth. Steve kisses you, slow and silent, again and again, one hand on your spine and the other on your thigh to keep you close.

“I love you.” He breathes against your lips, “I love you. And I’m gonna keep lovin’ you, baby. Until you want me to stop, and even then, I’ll still love you.”

Your nose stings with a rush of emotion, eyes squeezing shut when your voice seeps out as a whimper, cheek pressed to his shoulder.

“Don’t break my heart, Rogers.” You plead.

With a shake of his head, Steve kisses you once more, “Never again. I promise.”  

--

His love returns in constantly cresting waves, drowning you every second with adoration and devotion and you can’t fathom how Peggy did it—how she loved something else more than him. It’s been weeks and weeks and he has shown you nothing but his goodness.

No, he’s not perfect. He’s a mess, as he’s admitted, he’s irritable and peevish at times, he dives headfirst into everything and gets himself worked up before burning out.  

But in the end, he comes back and apologizes. He’s always the first to admit his mistakes and always eager to talk it through, change, make it better, make it good again.  

You watch him flourish with his new and unwinding schedule as he finds more time to pursue his hobbies- painting, ceramics, experimenting with newer recipes and introducing them on the days he comes in. Every chance you get, you thank Sam for accepting the position. Sam thanks you back for keeping Steve out of the café.

He volunteers more at the school, too. He goes with Sarah on her field trips, takes her with him, teaches her to paint and bake and it shows when shines at school, comes out of her moods, glows again.  

Her teacher pulls you aside one day. “Thank you.” She says quietly during the end of your planning period while her students work diligently. “She’s the sweetest little thing, and… thank you.” You smile instead of answer, because you don’t feel like you did anything. But then, Christine’s mouth pulls itself tight, the corner lifting. “They’re lucky to have you.”

Slow dread sets in as you rummage around your brain, unsure of how much she knows, or how much anyone else knows. But then she looks back through the window of her class and she says goodbye with a wink. Your heart is pounding when you return to your line of kids, waiting patiently.

You run the information in your head again, paranoid the rest of the day any time a co-worker glances your way. Christine probably knows. Heather probably—definitely-- knows. She doesn’t mention it ever, because she understands your reasons, but does she mention it to other people?

Will it ultimately spread like a virus until everyone becomes infected with the knowledge that you are dating Steve Rogers?

It completely fucks with your head, rips you out of your element, and at the end of the day you’ve completely enclosed yourself in the terror that when people look at you, they see someone disreputable. You’ve even forgotten completely that it’s your birthday and Steve has asked you to come by for dinner and cake.

By the time you leave your classroom, the entire school seems to be empty. The hallways echo with your somber footsteps and you nearly jump out of your skin when your phone rings.

“Honey?” Steve asks with concern, “Where are you? It’s almost seven.”

“Oh shit! I’m so sorry… I just—I’m so--something funny kind of happened and I’m freaking out.”

“Take a breath, okay? Drive safe and let me know when you’re here. Sarah’s worried bout ya.”

“Yeah. Sorry! Tell her I’m on my way.”  

The windows are dark when you arrive, and you’re confused as to why. The house across the street is packed with cars lined up like sardines and you struggled to find a decent spot, resulting in the stressful task of parallel parking between a grey sedan and a minivan. Stupid neighborhood parties on a stupid Thursday.

“Steve?” You call from the door when you find that it’s unlocked, wandering down the hall to find the switch. “Have you turned crotchety again? The electricity bill is not that high!”

A flash of light blinds you briefly as a chorus of “Surprise! Happy Birthday!” explodes from the living room. You scream and jump backwards, dropping your purse with a clatter.

Sarah runs up and hurdles into your arms. This time, you catch her, but her bottom slips from your grasp and she continues to slide down the length of your body until she’s planted once more. “Happy Birthday!” She yells, “Did I scare you!?”  

“Yes!” You cry, staring out into the sea of your co-workers’ eyes, expectant and joyful. “What- what is everyone doing here?” For a fleeting and terrible moment, you can’t help but think god damn it everyone knows!

Your heart clobbers your ribcage as your eyes roam the room, in awe and a bit of anxiety. Crinkled streamers hang from each corner to the middle of the ceiling fan- pastel pink and ginger orange and buttery yellow, like an array of sherbet. Around the perimeter are filled up silver birthday balloons with helium and tied delicate ribbons to each.  

You don’t know what to say or do as your tongue sits uselessly inside the cavern of your dry mouth.

But then, a balmy glow from around the kitchen corner arrives and your racing heart leaps at the sight of Steve carrying the cake. Sarah bobs back and forth, clapping her hands together in anticipation.

“Happy Birthday.” He smiles behind a curtain of candles and then the room breaks out into a convivial song—twenty voices vocalizing in unison. When they stop and end the tune with scattered applause, you catch Heather wiping her eyes and Christine clapping her hand over her heart.  

The rest of the first-grade team is there, too, grinning with damp cheeks. The receptionist at the front desk who you worked with your first year. Ms. Sweetwater, Edward’s mom, other parents from last year and one from this year.  

Jesus, even the principal—Evelyn Graham-- stands, sniffling behind the sofa chair.

Sam and Marnie, crooked smiles plastered on sweetly.  

“Make a wish.” Your mind draws a blank as you stare into his face. “Candles are melting on the ganache, sweetheart. I worked real hard for that glaze.”

A sob breaks its way free from your throat, “You’re such a dummy.” You whisper to his widening grin, Sarah giggling at her father’s expense. With his chin, he urges you on, tears rolling down your face like melted candlewax. Then, slowly, because the chocolate varnish is starting to look like it might completely crust over with opaque grey speckles, you take a breath and extinguish the flames.

Cheers and whoops fill your ears and you bury your face in your palms. Steve holds the cake closer to his chest, tilts his face down to meet the top of your head, but sneaks a kiss to your cheek instead. “I’ll be right back.”

Heather touches your elbow when Steve dips away into the kitchen. With one hand on her hip, she raises her eyebrow, “Didn’t I tell ya?” She asks with a wink, making you roll your eyes dramatically. “Honey, that man is struck by you. And it is plain as day to see.”

“Guess it must be if everyone is here.” You gesture to the mingling crowd, all smiles when they glance your way.  

“The boy’s hard to miss!” Sam calls.

Evelyn approaches you with a friendly shrug, “He certainly doesn’t smile at me like that during carline.” She teases and your face turns the exact color as the raspberries that Steve brings out on top of the cake.

“Alright, who’s ready?” He asks, oblivious to the conversation surrounding him.

Thick, fluffy slices are served on cute little ceramic plates from the café and everyone collectively seems to sigh when they take the first bite. Sam sticks close to you, letting you know that the party has been in the works for the past week. Steve petitioned Heather first about the surprise and she was happy to be on-board, passing the news around your workplace covertly.

It astonishes you the way everyone is so supportive. Edward’s mom gives you a new pair of homemade earrings in the shape of croissants and you put them on straight away. Steve claps his hands together and vows that next week, Cap&Co is going to have a croissant special. It makes the whole room laugh. You’re still bashful and nervous, wringing your hands together and chewing on a soft raspberry quietly while Sarah sits on Steve’s hip, face smeared with chocolate.

People begin to leave around nine, waving goodbye and giving you hugs. Heather squeezes you by the door and pats your shoulder, “You deserve this, girl.”

Evelyn is right there behind her, “You’re a wonderful teacher. And a wonderful person. We’re all so glad to see you happy. We’ve known all along. It’s…” she laughs, “It’s been very obvious to us.”  

A part of you feels like she’s not talking entirely about your relationship—more about your ability and potential. You swell with pride and a little with embarrassment because it seems like you’ve missed the glaring truth all this time: you are cared for here. You have more than just your job and yourself—you have a whole damn community who isn’t looking to gossip and undermine.

They see you.

And Steve has brought it all to light.

Gazing back down the walkway into the dining room where he stands next to Sam, giving tips and pointers about the ganache, you shake your head with a smile. Evelyn slips out the door quietly and leaves you to your thoughts.

You’re not even aware of Sarah as she slides over to tug on your blouse playfully.

“Does this mean you can spend the night now?” She asks.

“Huh?”

“Ya know… cause you’re daddy’s girlfriend?” A cluster of giggles escapes her and she blushes head to toe as if the very word itself is something taboo.

You blush too, but shove it away as you roughly grab her by the middle and sling her onto your hip, “You know what, Sarah!” You act indignant, “Little miss smarty mouth!”

She’s screeching and thrashing in your arms, hollering laughter down the path as you stomp back to the living room and deposit her onto the couch. Sam and Steve quirk their heads over when you descend to tickle her. “You’re gonna get it!” You threaten, and she replies only with “Girlfriend! Girlfriend! You and daddy sitting in a tree! K-I-S—”

You shriek and smother her with a cushion. This child will be the death of you, you swear it.

“Are you killin’ my kid?” Steve asks from the dining room.

“No.” You say calmly, “Just, a friendly game of put-the-pillow-on-Sarah’s-face.”  

She resurfaces to continue the song and you smother yourself with the pillow this time.

-

Moonlight shimmers in from the open window. Sarah has been tucked in, the house is quiet and still, warmth lingering from the laughter that radiated only hours ago. The Little Mermaid was attempted again, but Sarah couldn’t keep her eyes open past the first song.  

You and Steve saved it once more for another night and made way to bed where he shows you a card Bucky and Natasha sent in the mail. He had forgotten all about it in the bustle of the celebration.  

The front is decorated cutely— fat honeybees float on daisies, speech bubbles conglomerating to read HapBEE Birthday!

On the inside, in surprisingly delicate penmanship, it reads:

Happy Birthday from two people you have only met once….

Hope he’s doing good by you and making it special. We’re excited to meet you and thank you for making that stupid boy so happy. If he ever gives you any more trouble, just let me know— he’s always been slow on the draw. And Natasha will kick his ass no sweat.

-Bucky and Nat

Steve watches you read the card under the lamplight, laughing before tucking it away on the end table. “They’re great.” You say softly, licking your lips with a minty tongue and scooting back down under the comforter. “I’d love to see Natasha kick your ass.”

He laughs too, because it’s the truth. You yawn and lean over to tug the light off, smiling when he grunts from the shifting of your weight on top of his torso. His eyes take a second to readjust, but he follows your blue shadow back over to your side of his bed. Your side. It makes him pinch his lips together with joy.

He doesn’t know how someone can light up a room like you, just sitting there in his t-shirt, doing nothing but smile. “Honey,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t want to disturb the moment but can’t help himself. He just wants to see you looking at him.

“Yeah?” You turn your head ever so slightly, peek up under flared lashes— sleepy eyes struggling to stay awake— still sparkling. “What is it?”

“Honey, I love you.” Is all he can manage. Everything else seems to fade away.

And then you smile, a slow curling of your soft lips, cupid’s bow catching a moonbeam. You smile so sweetly his heart stops in his chest. The world comes rushing back with your tired sigh and your small hand linking itself with his. One beat, two beats, steadily, heavily, his blood pulses again when you kiss his cheek and murmur,

“I love you, too.”

[sapphicmsmarvel]

SG: Livewire JR

masterlist

the first story in my livewire jr series! 

Okay so this is a marvel x dc crossover, the reader is an inhuman (as well as Leslie because you two are sisters in this) and instead of the terrigen crystals transforming the inhuman person, the electrocution and supergirls DNA helped transform Leslie. 

And you, transformed before Leslie so she hates you. You are also more powerful than her. 

(For those who never watched Agents of SHIELD, inhumans are a breed of humans who have alien DNA in them. And the powers get awakened by terrigen crystals, terrigen crystals can get attached to any person, but only inhumans survive. And they will survive as a normal person with powers or become a monster)

The reader is also related to Lincoln from AOS. Spoiler warning for those who have not watched the entirety of season 3 of AOS. 

Idk i just think this backstory is cool! And it was really freaking fun to write! This story has been in my head for (not joking) three years and i finally got to write it!! 

(also im totally rewriting the end of the livewire episode, it fits my story better😂)

You learned to be invisible. 

Being an Inhuman with a psycho power hungry family that abused you both physically and mentally as well as emotionally; you learned to hide in plain sight. 

Your brother, the only person you loved in your shithole family died. His girlfriend, Daisy, went AWOL after and then you left SHIELD.

There was nothing without Lincoln, you wanted a fresh start so you moved to National City. Fitzsimmons had tried reaching out but you told them you’d come back if they needed help but you couldn’t be around somewhere that Lincoln lived. 

Your parents told you to keep an eye on Leslie, so you went to National City and that was your version of following your parents rules. 

Once Leslie fucked up and you could send her away, you would be from your helicopter parents. 

Leslie was the loose canon that always listened to mommy and daddy. You listened and followed what they said, and you were good at it. Being evil. Lincoln….Lincoln challenged and then broke away when he was eighteen and took you with him. Showed you that being evil wasn’t okay and neither was hurting innocents. Then years and years later, Daisy taught you more good morals to have. 

She became the sister you were proud to have, she still called you sister-in-law even though Lincoln was gone and they didn’t get married. 

Your heart sank, you flipped over your phone, it had a clear case and there was a polaroid of you, Lincoln and Daisy. Gemma took it, you three were smiling cheesily. 

You looked up at National City’s version of Times Square. It was your sister’s photo.The headline read, “Radio star injured in near helicopter crash, Supergirl saves the day.” You sighed. 

Damnit. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You hated hospitals, the smell, the suffocating walls and feeling of death. You would need to take about five showers after this. 

You walked passed a cute girl in glasses with Leslie’s boss. She was blonde and had adorable blushy cheeks. They went redder when you smiled at her, and when you walked away you looked over your shoulder and caught her staring at you. You winked as you turned the corner. 

Your dating life in National City has been scarce. It was fun to flirt, it made you feel happy that somebody paid attention to you since your parents didn’t. 

That happy feeling diminished when you walked into her room. 

Leslie was gone. 

You walked around the room, the thing about having lightning as your power and in your DNA was that you could detect amounts in the air, like static. And there was a smell to you, it was metal. 

It reeked of metal and the static choked your throat. You quickly fled the room and walked as quickly as you could down the halls. Trying to follow the smell like a dog. Leslie was considered a disappointment in your family. 

The terrigen didn’t work for her, she was considered a dud. But you guess this crash awakened something. Something powerful in a horrible person.

You had work to do. 

---------------------------------------------------------

Daisy had taught you a few things about hacking. You traced her cell signal all day, random power surges in the city, her credit and debit cards. Anything.

It was late at night when she started heading towards CatCo. You raced to get there, if you didn’t, Cat was gonna die. 

You hacked into the security cameras at CatCo from your phone, Supergirl and Cat were in Cat’s office. Cat Grant was most likely the first target on Leslie’s list. Supergirl might be next, you knew that Supergirl would be hard to kill but Leslie was hellbent on hating her. 

Even sexualized her on her radio show, it was disgusting. Especially coming from another woman. 

You traveled through the electric wired through the building and popped in at the doorway of the office. But with Supergirls hearing, she heard you. She spun around, her cape following dramatically. She pushed Cat Grant behind her. Her eyes, glowing. 

“Easy, laser eyes, relax. I’m not a threat.” You held out your hands, showing you had no visible weapons, she didn’t know of what ran in your veins just yet. 

“Who are you and why are you here? Office hours are closed.” Cat said. 

“If you think I work for your office, you truly are unobservant for a boss. I would think someone of your social status would make sure she knew everyone in her building to insure your own safety.” 

“You really aren’t helping your case, as far as I’m concerned you are a threat.” Supergirl stood her ground, which wasn’t surprising to you. 

You sighed. “I’m Leslie’s sister.” You said to Supergirl. “And I want her locked up as much as you do.” 

They both stopped in their tracks and spun around, shock coloring their faces. Cat Grant walked towards you. “What? Leslie doesn’t have a sister. She never mentioned one to me and I was her mentor.” 

“Yeah, Les doesn’t enjoy the fact that we share a father so it’s not shocking that she never mentioned me.” You shrugged then stepped closer to Cat, Supergirl eyed you. “Relax, I’m here to stop Leslie.” 

“You knew about her powers?!” 

“Yeah, in fact, Supergirl, I have the same exact powers Leslie has.” You swallowed, ignoring nerves. 

“How is that possible?” Supergirl asked. 

“I’m what they call an Inhuman. Thousands of years ago aliens came to earth and mated with humans. There are thousands, possibly millions of Inhumans out there who have no idea what they are.”

“And your point?” Cat asked. 

“My point is, we aren’t well known. But, my other point was, use me to lure Leslie or something.” “Use you?” “Leslie has always had a problem with me. She was desperate for not only our parents approval but our brothers. Then, he died. She moved to National City, I followed because she’s got a lot of anger issues and sooner or later, she’d come in contact with terrigen and maybe it would work this time.” You stepped closer to Supergirl, “or some other alien component that reformed her DNA and made her a monster with anger problems.”

“Am I supposed to apologize for saving peoples lives?” Kara asked, getting in your face. 

“No, but if you would’ve let her die then my life would be a hell of a lot easier.” You hissed.

“What a sweet sentiment sissy,” you heard that bitches voice, you all spun to face the many, many TV screens on Cats wall.

“Leslie, the people you’re hurting are innocent.” You said, 

“Innocent?!” She laughed, “you’re standing with Cat Grant, she is not innocent.” 

You looked at Cat Grant, “I feel like Cat was more nurturing to you than our own mother.” You deadpanned. 

“I gave her one hug.” Cat recalled. 

“Yeah, that makes you more nurturing than our mother.” You said. 

Then Leslie let out a blast. You all flew back, you bashed into the glass wall, Supergirl went flying out the doorway and then Cat fell onto the couch. Then Leslie went for Cat. 

You pulled energy from the lightbulbs in the room, and then shot in front of Cat, putting a forcefield in front of her. “Oh my God,” Cat said, gasping at the sight of you in front of her. You heard Supergirl walk closer and then pause. 

The room was lit up in purple and blue. Leslie’s powers were blue, yours were purple. Your eyes glowed like hers. It was a terrifying sight, and you knew it.

You used your leg strength to push her back, she flew into Cat’s desk. You leaned down and gently but quickly got Cat back on her feet. You rushed towards Supergirl who was still staring at you in shock at your powers, “I told you, I wasn’t a threat to you.” 

Then Leslie threw a bolt at Supergirl, and while you knew that she could handle herself, you wouldn’t let her get hurt. Or anyone get hurt at the hands of Leslie ever again. You pushed Supergirl and Cat Grant out of the way as you shot out at Leslie. You kept the power streaming at her powerfully as she got pushed back, “negative on negative, sista.” You said, “doesn’t work out too well.” 

She screamed in agony as you pushed her further into the floor, you pushed her further into the ground, “call your friends.” You said to Supergirl. “She’s getting locked up, for good.” 

“Too much of a pussy to kill me.” Leslie choked. 

You gritted your teeth, and used your free hand to deck her. 

She fell to the floor with a thud, your knuckles throbbed as you watched blood come out of her mouth. You sighed, then used your electricity to form a net around her to hold her. 

“I called someone to come get her,” Supergirl said. “I didn’t know...her powers could do that.” She said, gesturing to the net. 

“She can’t.” You said, kicking the bottom of her boot. “I can because I’m stronger than her.” 

Supergirl nodded, “respect.” 

Cat went to the hospital (with a lot of pushing) while you guys waited for Leslie to be taken away. Your makeshift jail cell glowing as Supergirl asked you, “how’d you take her down?” 

You folded your arms, “science. Negative on negative energy never goes well.”

“And you seriously want her put away?” Her head cocked, it was adorable. She was like a cute puppy.

You nodded, “my family sucks ass.” You deadpanned, “Leslie was the worst of them, the only relative I got along with was my brother.” 

“You said he died.” 

You nodded, “he saved the freaking world and nobody knew it.” Tears rimmed your eyes, Lincoln was always a sore subject. “He’s a hero, and I promised him once that I’d take down Leslie if her powers ever happened.” You sighed, wiping away your tears. “I guess I have no purpose now,” you shrugged, chuckling to yourself out of sadness. “My parents are psychopaths, my brother is dead and my sister is locked up forever.” 

“Do you want another purpose?” She asked walking up to you as DEO people came up the elevator with tech to transport her. 

You looked at her, “yeah, I do.” 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Three months later: 

Kara and you were having a platonic (to your sadness) picnic on the top of CatCo. Cat Grant knew of your abilities and your superhero name, Sparks.

In your opinion, you thought it was cheesy, but you’re starting to enjoy Cat and she has kept your secret. You had a mask on your face now when you were Sparks. So you could still walk around without having a disguise.

You also knew that Kara was Supergirl because you two worked together. She told you the second you signed on to the role of being the darker hero of National City. 

Yes, they called you ‘the night to Supergirl’s day.’ People said you were ‘the ‘evil’ version of Supergirl’. To be fair, you did have different attack methods than Kara did and you did admit that you were not as kind-hearted as Kara was. You did not believe everyone was good like she did. 

It was one of the things you loved about her. Her good soul. You were surrounded in darkness your entire life, as well as sheer evil, your parents were not kind people. 

“So,” Kara said munching on cheese. “You never told me something.” 

“Hmm?” You asked, you thought you had told Kara everything.  

“How did your brother save the world?” 

You scoffed, looking at the sunset, “there was this creature, Hive, he was a sort of virus thing I guess. I’m honestly not too sure what he was. Nothing could kill him, guns, superpowers, lethal injection, absolutely nothing. He could adapt to any planet but he needed a planet for his power.  So, Lincoln trapped him in a space shuttle, then drove them both into space and blew it up. He kept Hive from making this world into something horrible. Nobody will ever know. Our parents found out and said he was a disgrace for killing something like that. They said Hive was amazing.” You wiped your tears. 

“You never talk about your parents,” Kara said fiddling with her glasses, she did that whenever she was anxious. 

“That’s for a reason.” You said, eating the baguette with homemade pizza deep. Cooking helped you cope. 

“You can talk about it with me if you want.” She offered. 

You smiled lightly, “my parents are cruel people Kara. The thing with our lineage is that we are perceived as villains. Even at the refugee camp that my brother and I sought solace at, those people feared us because of our ancestors. They had a right to, my family did awful things. My parents raised me to be evil, Leslie is the only one who turned out how they wanted but she was messy.” You grimaced, “they said she did things sloppy, and brash. I was neat, I did what mommy and daddy said until Lincoln showed me the issues.” 

“What were the issues?” 

“Killed anyone who went against them. I thought, since I was raised that way, it was normal. Then I met a woman named Daisy, she showed me that killing willing nilly was bad-don’t look at me like that, I was raised way and I fixed my attitude when I was thirteen.” You scolded as she gave you a look. 

“My parents….they think I’ll come around, but I will never be that way again. I hated it. It always felt wrong to me, but my parents called me broken, stupid, ignorant. They’d beat me around if I didn’t hurt someone.” 

“How many have you hurt?” 

“I used words not violence, I killed two people and I still know their names, I still know how it felt. It was awful. I still think I’m a bad person, isn’t that crazy? I think I’m crazy for not being a sociopath or psychopath.” 

“It shows you have a soul.” Kara answered, “it shows you are no longer that person, that you’ve not only grown from your mistakes, but you learned from them.” 

You shuddered a breath, “I never want to kill again, I can fight to defend with no problem but I will not kill again if I don’t have to. But I will kill if someone's safety is in jeopardy, no problem.” 

Kara grabbed your hand, “you give me hope.” 

You scoffed, “I give you hope? Babygirl you need a new role model.” 

She blushed at the nickname, it made you feel better to flirt with her, but at the same time broke your heart because you were falling hard for her. You didn’t flirt with anyone. You flirted with the girl you really, really liked. 

The girl who stuck her neck out for you. Who vouched for you and gave you this amazing life. You couldn’t mess this up.

[imagining-supernatural]

The Backstory

Part 15 of Seventy Percent

Series Summary: When you left on your trip to Vegas, you’d planned on letting loose for one last weekend before heading back to reality and getting your affairs in order so your best friend wouldn’t be left cleaning up your mess when your cancer finally ended your life. What you hadn’t counted on was waking up married to a celebrity who has a knight-in-shining-armor complex, connections with an oncologist, and amazing insurance…

Chapter Summary: You and Sebastian sit down and you finally tell him about your past

Word Count: 1,757

HGTV was playing in the background, but neither you nor Seb were paying attention. You were curled together in the recliner with a heavy blanket over your legs. He still had a few hours before he had to head out to his interview with Jimmy Fallon, so this was the best time to tell him about your past. Enough time that he could process everything and not be too burdened during his interview, but not enough time that the two of you would drag out every damn detail. There were parts that you wouldn’t tell him, but most of it, you wanted him to know.

You just had to figure out how to start.

“You grew up in Wyoming, right?” He prompted, as if sensing that you were stuck before you had even begun.

“Yeah.” You sighed heavily, shoring up your courage. “It was just me, my sister, and my parents. If I have any cousins or aunts, I don’t know about them. My, uh, my dad was… you know what? I’m just gonna say everything really quick to get it all out there. I think that’ll be easier.”

He nodded, rubbing his hand along your spine. You tucked your head into his neck, hoping that the lack of eye contact would make it even easier.

“Alright. Ever since I can remember, my dad has been an alcoholic. Abusive too, but I didn’t realize until later. He took out most of it on my mom and sister, since she was older. But then, uh, my sister, Eliza, moved out when she turned sixteen and it was just me and my mom.”

“How old were you?” he asked in a pained whisper.

“Eight. She’s eight years older than me. He died when our house caught fire when I was sixteen. Cigarette left burning. His fault.” Your voice broke on the last two words, but you powered through. “Luckily mom was in lockup for the night for drunk and disorderly or something and I was staying with Jaz. That was… it’s fucked up to say, but that was the best day of my life.”

His hand moved up your back and settled on the back of your head, holding you closer. That simple action drew a wave of tears to your eyes that had you blinking quickly, trying to hold them back. God, you didn’t deserve him.

Remembering the truth of that day… you really didn’t deserve him.

“Um, so that left me and my mom. She… She was an alcoholic too, but more of a neglectful alcoholic. Thank god for Jasmin and her family. I don’t know what I would have done without them. They kept me alive and sane until I was old enough to get a job and basically support myself a few months after my dad died. I thought it was over, then. Up until then, my family was just that trash family that other people in town gossiped about to feel better about themselves. I got some pitying looks, and that was it.

“Then my sister went and got arrested. Everyone expected me to take in her two sons when she was convicted and sentenced to life in prison.”

“What did she do?”

A bitter laugh escaped your throat. “Fucking murdered her boyfriend. Abused her kids. Assaulted a police officer. She… she didn’t have a friend like Jaz. Or a support system like Jaz’s family. But that’s still no excuse. None at all. They’re her kids. She knew what it was like to grow up being a punching bag. She…” In an effort to control your budding anger, you took a deep breath and turned your face into Seb’s neck for a second, letting his familiar scent calm you.

“So when she was sentenced to twenty-five to life, the entire town assumed I would adopt the kids. I mean, they were my nephews and all, but everyone was acting like it was my responsibility to raise them. But… But I was barely eighteen. I couldn’t even take care of myself and I didn’t want to put them in a position where I—where I might snap like she did. It wasn’t fair to them. And they were young enough that they were adopted fairly quickly and now they’re with some family down in Georgia growing up with cute little Southern accents. Their parents send me letters sometimes. Pictures too. The boys are happy. And I know I made the right decision, but if you listen to what everyone else said, then you’d start thinking I was a selfish bitch who didn’t respect family values as if they’d all forgotten the kind of values my family taught me. I-I-I know I made the right choice. They’re happy. So fuck what everyone else thought.”

“People make far too many judgments based on far too few facts,” Sebastian whispered against your hair.

“And far too many assumptions,” you mumbled.

He held you in silence for a few minutes, just stroking your hair.

“You know what the worst thing someone said to me was?” You asked a bit later, after your heartbeat had calmed down from its angry beating. “When word got out that I had cancer, someone from my hometown told me that God gave me cancer as punishment for not adopting my nephews. For thinking someone else could raise them better than their own blood. Years later and they still couldn’t let it go.”

Not that they were entirely wrong. Your cancer might have been punishment from God, but not because you didn’t adopt your nephews. There were far worse things you’d done.

“That’s—” He couldn’t even find a word to describe how that made him felt. And you completely understood.

“Rude? Horribly offensive? Fucking ignorant? Welcome to small town Wyoming where the bible rules and if you say you’ve never shot a gun you’ll be shunned until you do.”

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetie, that’s… God that’s horrible.”

“People suck,” you said simply. “I just… I wanted you to know. You know, in case this shit hits the news or whatever. And also… Also, I just wanted you to know. I wanted to tell you. Regardless.”

He slid his hand to your chin and tilted your head up until you were falling into his blue eyes. “Thank you, Y/N. Thank for telling me; trusting me.”

“Thank you for being someone who doesn’t suck,” you responded in a weak effort to lighten the mood.

You only had a second to register his soft smile before he leaned forward and brushed his lips against your cheek. “I always knew you were strong. I mean, to go through cancer treatment like this… but now?” His thumb rubbed against your cheek, nearly touching your lips. Your eyes closed at his touch, face leaning into his palm. “Sweetheart, I think you’re the strongest person I think I’ve ever met.”

Just as you were about to argue his statement, he leaned forward again. This time his lips brushed just at the corner of your mouth and lingered, wiping away every single word you’d ever known. He finally pulled away a hairsbreadth and the air between you two was super-charged. All it would take was a tilt of your head and you’d be kissing him properly.

But you couldn’t do it. You just couldn’t.

After a moment more, he drew back, pausing only to press his lips to your forehead briefly. “So, your sister and mom are still alive?”

“No.” Your voice was surprisingly strong. Barely wavering. “My sister’s still in prison, but my mom died a few months after I turned sixteen. Another reason the town seems to hate me. They think if I’d stuck around more, she wouldn’t have killed herself but that wasn’t my job. I was a kid. It wasn’t my job to keep my parent alive.”

“Killed herself?”

“Drunk herself to death, I guess.” It was an explanation you’d said many times before. One that wasn’t entirely accurate, but the closest to the truth you could get. “Suicide wasn’t the official cause of death, but I knew. She drunk too much. I think she was shooting up with something, too. They called it an accidental overdose. Said if I’d been there, I might have been able to call 911 and save her. But they didn’t know us. They didn’t know what happened in that house. I… I don’t blame her. She didn’t want to be saved. She let him break her. My sister became him.”

“And you? What do you think you did?”

“I think… I think… I don’t know. I made a lot of bad decisions in college, but that’s just college. I think I would have turned out differently if I hadn’t spent so much time with Jaz’s family. But even then… I don’t know, Seb. I just know that I never wanted to make anyone feel like I did. It took me my entire college career with campus therapists to work through shit. And there’s some things I haven’t told anyone. And I’m going to be working through everything for the rest of my life. I know that. I think I just became more aware. Aware what kind of affect my words might have on someone else. I’m cautious about everything. Maybe that’s why I went into data security. I didn’t have anyone, really, to protect me.” By this point you’d practically forgotten you weren’t alone. You were just musing aloud. Putting together parts of your therapy sessions with your own emotions.

It was something you’d never done.

Even in therapy, you hadn’t opened up all the way.

But here? With someone you’d met a month ago?

Here, you felt safe. Loved, even.

“What about Jasmin?”

“She tried. But her family was amazing. She just couldn’t understand my family. She was always sympathetic, but never really knew how to help. And, honestly, I wouldn’t ever want her to know how to help. I never want her to be in the position to understand.”

“I guess I get that.”

“’Sides, this way I had her to pull me out. She pushed me to move on. Helped me figure out how to… not become them.”

Silence, once again, fell. Even telling the barest bones of your past had exhausted you and you couldn’t move from Seb’s lap even if you wanted to.

It was nearly a half hour later when he spoke in a soft voice, his words drawing a soft laugh from you. “At least I don’t have to go through the meet the parents shtick.”

Think that’s all of it? The worst of it? 

CHAPTER 16: THE FIRST PAPARAZZI AMBUSH

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Slow Mover

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E/NSFW Word count: 12k

Summary:

When Ned backed out on rooming with Peter during their first year of college, MJ felt like it was no big deal to take his place. Now that she's about to lose it, she's confronting the fact that she may have grown attached... and not to the apartment.

Monday, February 1st

I’m gonna pack my things and leave you behind/This feeing’s old and I know/That I’ve made up my mind ― “I Love You So” (The Walters)

MJ’s been thinking about moving out for awhile. As far as roommates go, Peter’s a slob, not that she has a frame of reference since they’re only in their first year of college and she declined student residence in favour of splitting a lease with her Academic Decathlon underling.

If the term ‘underling’ seems harsh, it’s not. Peter’s earned her disdain in more ways than there are Disney Dalmatians. He mashes down the nibs of her Faber-Castell markers making hasty grocery lists on the post-its that inevitably breeze off their fridge door. He falls through the window almost every time he gets in late from Spidey-patrol and the thud wakes her up. He has socks everywhere. She has never seen so many. Fucking. Socks.

This was supposed to be him and Ned, she knows―his actual best friend, not the friend reluctantly given the designation because... why, again? How she won Peter’s friendship isn’t immediately clear. Except Ned decided to commute from home in a last-minute fit of separation anxiety. This was after Peter signed a lease but before the online application for student residence opened. MJ shrugged and said she’d help them out because the little walk-up is close to campus and about on par with what the college charges for housing. For Peter, the draw is the privacy to sneak in and out in his superhero getup. For MJ, it’s the quiet of not sleeping within the same four walls as a noisy roommate, on a floor packed with students, in a building of eighteen-year-olds who’ve just left the nest and are ready to party.

But, like she’s noted, Peter’s the worst.

It’s the first of February, with only two full months plus exams left in the term, and she’s still telling herself she might just cut and run. Very likely, she and Peter have the last good landlord in New York City (or the woman knows how fast she could rent their apartment with so many students, tourists, and other career transients coming and going) because they were told upfront that they could move out at either the end of the month or right in the middle, provided they gave two weeks of notice. When the 1st and the 15th of every month roll around, MJ re-evaluates. Obviously, she hasn’t dropped Peter on his ass yet, but she could. She has options. She’s met a handful of people in her figure drawing and art history classes who are living together on two floors of a ramshackle historic house somewhere that’s basically turned into an artist’s colony and one more person would be nothing to them. MJ could absolutely move in. The socializing demands would be an adjustment, but it’s a short sprint to exam season and she’ll be burrowing into a library study room at that point anyway.

Today’s another first of the month, another chance to announce she’s jumping ship. After considering everything during her walk back to the apartment from her afternoon class, MJ’s decided she’ll probably stay. She never records the factors that inform her decision, preferring to leave no trace. Put it down to her love of mystery and conspiracy, or her five solid months of rooming with a guy who leads a double life. Either way, her vast internal ordering system that leaves no physical sign drives Peter nuts. That’s why she continues to use it.

“Hey, loser, I’m home!” she shouts, twisting her key out of the lock and closing the door behind her.

MJ doesn’t see him right away, but she knows he’s here. His class schedule is as familiar as her own and she knows he’s just as hesitant as she is to engage with people―even people he’s friendly with in class―outside of school. He’ll be here. No need to rush the encounter.

She kicks off her slushy boots, hangs her coat, shoves her hat down the sleeve, and heads to her room. A living space and kitchen that are practically one and the same was evidently the trade-off the boys were willing to make for two bedrooms when they chose this apartment. Whatever. MJ isn’t dying for any meal that requires more than a foot and a half of counter space. And the bedroom all to herself is nice. Peter got the one with the window for his nefarious late-night purposes (saving people and shit), so her room’s away from exterior walls and beside the bathroom. She nearly always gets to the shower first and when she doesn’t... at least being a slow showerer isn’t one of Peter’s faults.

Hefting her textbooks and notebooks from her bag one by one, MJ assesses which she’ll need for homework tonight. Yikes, maybe it should be an exclusively laptop evening; she has a midterm paper coming up and the task of assembling citable articles from scholarly journals beckons in a voice that’s been shredded through a cheese grater. Mmm, cheese. She touches her stomach. Snack first?

Once she’s let her hair down to straggle around her shoulders and swapped her jeans for pj bottoms, MJ plods back into communal territory. She can hear Peter talking in his room through his door, probably on the phone. Part of her wants to knock and tell him to say hi to his aunt for her. The more persuasive part of her wants cheese. She shuffles onward.

He comes sliding into the kitchen like a young Tom Cruise, but with pants―god, the mental comparison is so embarrassingly bad that it’s making her start to blush―as MJ’s arranging a slice of cheddar on a cracker. The fact that Peter so clearly wants to tell her something encourages her to bite down and, mouth full of crunching food, cut him off with, “’Sup?”

“I just got off the phone with Ned,” he informs her. His arms are dramatically apart like this news is in any way important or unusual.

Treating him with heavily sarcastic seriousness, she plants an elbow on the counter and leans towards him like she’s fascinated.

“And Lego’s teaming up with Tesla to build a driveable, electric Millennium Falcon that roars like Chewbacca when you hit the gas,” she predicts.

Peter’s mouth hangs open for a moment and it’s adora―it’s amusing. Like, she wants to laugh at him. Because he looks like a dork. This nerd is so easy to bait.

“Oh my god, I wish. Get out of my fantasies.”

Her elbow almost slips off the counter. She finishes chewing, chastened by how she could’ve just bit her tongue in a grisly household accident.

“Spit it out then,” she suggests, because now Peter’s grinning, waiting for her to ask. “I don’t have another guess.”

Her roommate takes a deep breath to ready himself for something and she narrows her eyes.

“Well, you know how you keep talking about those people you know and their big house and how they maybe have a room or part of a room or something?”

MJ rolls her eyes.

“I mentioned it once, Parker.”

“Oh, well, I remember you saying that. I―well,” he interrupts himself, “Ned and I wondered if that was something you were still considering.”

She has no idea where he’s going with this.

“I have no idea where you’re going with this.”

Peter comes close to vibrating for a minute before he just blurts it out.

“Ned’s moving in! Or, he could be, if you were moving out. Shit,” he mutters, expression falling. “We’re not trying to force you out. It’s just that you said you might want to, and Ned’s been thinking about moving closer to campus for exams and―”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” MJ agrees, nodding quickly. “You guys are idiots for not thinking of that sooner.”

Are they? Was it them being idiots that kept Ned at home? No, that was anxiety. Was it them being idiots that made Peter wholeheartedly welcome MJ as a roommate? No, that was... Ok, she doesn’t have an answer for that one, but she’s already said her thing about idiots, so she scoops her plate of cheese and crackers off the counter and slips past the confused face of her roommate, muttering about peer-reviewed academic sources.

It’s infuriating and unfair, as MJ numbly abandons her snack on her desk and sinks to the floor of her bedroom with her head in her hands, that the instant she agreed to move out was the same instant she noticed how cute her soon-to-be ex-roommate looks in sock-feet.

 Tuesday, February 2nd

Is there more to this urge that lies in me/’Cause it feels like there’s something I can’t see/But I don’t know what it means ― “Patience” (Hollow Coves)

“You have your key, right?” Peter checks. It’s twenty after seven in the morning and MJ’s hustling him out their apartment door ahead of her. Honestly, she’s trying to kick the back of his shoes to speed him up, but Spider-Roommate’s a little too agile.

“Right here,” she assures him, flashing him the key ring in her hand.

“I just didn’t want you to be―”

“I know, loser.”

She observes as he hefts his backpack onto his shoulder and reaches past her to pull the door shut after them. He locks up and drops his key into his backpack. The solo key. Right in there, with all the other crap Peter keeps crammed inside. Half the time, when he has class and she doesn’t, she hears him arrive home and gets up to let him in. (Has she been listening for him? Not consciously.) Otherwise, he’s fumbling through his bag for ages for that key. Hilarious that he thinks he needs to take care of her like this, when she’s the one who’s been doing that for him.

Caring in a loose sense. Not actual caring. Just, making something more convenient.

They walk down the stairs. MJ’s instinct is always to hang back―like she’s trailing him or trying not to be seen with him―but Peter always slows down to her pace, never making it a thing. By this point in the year, their steps are in sync. The rhythmic thumps are an excuse not to speak. For her, anyway.

It’s early and MJ doesn’t have class until tonight. The explanation she’s been going with since this little morning ritual started is that it gives her more time to get shit done and keeps her established sleep schedule from getting fucked up on days that she has to be on campus before noon. The number of steps they descend together has grown familiar beneath the soles of her sneakers, she knows every little gouge in the wall. With Ned moving in, the number of days left for MJ to do this is suddenly pretty small. She’s nervous about it; she’s never been one for countdowns. Pulling her wool cardigan closed, she crosses her arms over her chest like she’s holding herself in and tucks her hands into her armpits.

“Have a good morning,” Peter says, moving quickly across the cramped lobby to push the outer door open. “See ya.”

She feels him glance back at her, but she doesn’t return the look.

“Yep.”

Alone, MJ turns to their shared mailbox. Another benefit of a key ring: carrying multiple keys at one time without the risk of losing any of them. She opens it up, extracts their measly haul, and flips through as she climbs the stairs back to the apartment. The journey feels a lot farther when she’s heading up―could be the roommate that makes the difference, or only gravity.

Halfway up, she has to pause. It’s just junk mail, addressed to Peter, but she realizes she’s going to miss getting mail with his name on it.

 Wednesday, February 3rd

Maybe you and I could live together if we ever learn to ease the tension ― “You & I” (Colony House)

Ned’s over when MJ gets home. Today’s the longest day of her week―six hours of class back-to-back, followed by an hour and a half of the work study she signed up for because her scholarship doesn’t cover rent outside of student residence. It’s just papering bulletin boards with student council notices, and the mundanity of the work is nice, but she’s reached her quota for expending effort today; she accepts Ned’s high-five as she drags her feet past the couch and heads to her room, lying face-down on her bed until it feels like she’s whole again.

Gradually (very gradually), she rolls onto her side and grabs her warped copy of Moll Flanders off the bedside table. Something about a woman living an extremely precarious life calms her. MJ’s breathing becomes slow and silent, but she stops herself after 15 pages. If she keeps reading, she’ll fall asleep. Instead, she sits up and trades her socks for the cozier version wedged under her mattress. She has a secret fear that Peter will steal them. He’s gotten a covetous look in the past, so she’s taking precautions.

She pulls her laptop to her instead of going to her laptop and tidies up the Works Cited page on her in-progress paper. This task of thoughtless precision is the only school-related thing she feels like tackling for the rest of the day. All of today’s classes are either of the Monday-Wednesday variety or once a week, so MJ isn’t in a rush to get the readings done. She stops to think, pulling up the digital copy of her planner, and stares at the test she has marked down for next week. Hmm. It’s before her paper’s due, meaning studying for it won’t be taking priority, but the test format is a mix of multiple choice and short answer. The class―a sociology course―is graded on a curve and she’s in there with a bunch of students from non-writing programs who are consistently shit at short answer questions. As long as she refreshes her memory about the material being tested, the grading curve will push her competent written answers to the head of the class. It’s all about working the system.

During her time alone in the apartment yesterday, MJ hammered out a thesis and introductory paragraph. Now, she approaches them ruthlessly to see if she can streamline. This is the most critical part; actually writing the paper is just her hands flying across the keyboard, tossing in quotations like air-dropped care packages to her primary source-obsessed professor.

No, no, her brain is rejecting it. She’s done enough today. She doesn’t exactly want to socialize, but Peter and Ned are generally good about letting her quietly stew in their company without expecting much from her. MJ heads to the bathroom to wake herself up by washing her face, then out into the living room.

“What are you nerds doing?”

Half of the reason for her question is just to scare them (not that that’ll actually work on Mr. Super-senses over there) because she can see they’re about to put a movie on. Peter spins around to look at her while Ned rises from the couch. Privately, MJ thinks it’s kind of nice how Ned feels so at home here, where Peter is. Then again, it is about to become his home. Fuck, she needs to talk to the art people about that room.

“We were just gonna watch Alien,” Peter offers.

“Again? Didn’t you tell me you guys did an Alien marathon over winter break?”

He smiles like he’s been caught and it’s cu―funny.

“Yeah, and Ned’s making hot chocolate.”

“Oh yeah?” MJ watches Ned stride purposefully into their tiny kitchen. “Finally making yourself useful?”

He waves a dismissive hand at her and she snorts a laugh. They’ve gotten to this good friendship place of brotherly/sisterly teasing.

“You wanna watch?” Peter asks, calling her attention back to him. She weighs her looming essay against the full day behind her.

“Ok.”

“Hot chocolate, MJ?” Ned immediately asks.

“Well, since you’re determined to be such a good host.”

Ned grins and turns back to the kitchen. MJ leans against the wall, watching Peter put the movie in―not watching, just, like, observing―then glances at Ned. He hasn’t made much progress with their drinks. A mismatched trio of mugs is on the counter and... that’s it.

“You need a hand?” she asks, pushing off the wall.

“Where’s the kettle? Didn’t it used to be in this drawer?”

Ned points into the sliding drawer at their heap of assorted pots and pans.

“It did,” MJ explains. “But that one broke, so we bought a new one. A new one, WHICH WE’RE HOPING NOT TO BREAK BY DROPPING IT INTO THE DRAWER THIS TIME, RIGHT, PETER?”

Her roommate gives a sheepish laugh.

“Our new one’s tucked behind the toaster,” she tells Ned, directing him with a jerk of her chin.

“You guys are buying appliances together,” Ned chuckles. “That’s adorable.”

It’s a somnambulant walk to the couch, where MJ huddles in the corner and zones out for most of the movie.

 Thursday, February 4th

You burn through my mind, again and again, again/And again and again ― “Luna” (Bombay Bicycle Club)

Feeling a burst of resolve before the weekend, possibly in rebellion against Wednesday evening’s confusing feelings, MJ decides to text one of her art classmates re: the spare room. Somehow, what she ends up texting is a question about their prof’s office hours. Which MJ already knows the answer to.

Another thing she does is read the same page of her art history textbook over and over and over and over.

 Friday, February 5th

You’re the only one worth seeing/The only place worth being ― “Cold Cold Man” (Saint Motel)

Peter’s class finishes an hour before MJ’s, yet he always dithers with his packing, so they end up leaving the apartment for their trip back to Queens (courtesy of public transit) at the same time. Traveling with him is one of the less flawed aspects of a friendship with Peter Parker. He won’t glare manspreaders out of their prime seats like MJ would, but he knows the shortest routes and, while train and bus timetables never line up well for her, Peter’s memorized and mastered the schedule. They never wait around.

Also, there’s, like, a bubble of chill around him. No one in their vicinity behaves like a violent asshole―not verbally, not physically. Is it some kind of Spider-Man thing? Is Peter’s skin emitting a sedative to keep the other passengers relaxed? MJ isn’t relaxed. She sways into him multiple times, their overstuffed backpacks knocking together, and he smiles at her, unbothered, as her heart revs ineffectually like a remote-control car someone’s trying to urge up a steep slope.

They walk the last two blocks to the spot where their paths diverge. There’s enough sunshine that the light snow that fell overnight has already been transformed into the slimy grit crunched beneath their boots. Her bag’s beyond heavy at this point, but she knows, at any sign of lag, he’ll offer to carry it for her and she just can’t deal with that shit right now. ‘That shit’ being Peter’s thoughtfulness. MJ just... she needs a day, two days, to remember that she knows how to live without Peter always in the next room. Without joint ownership of a fucking kettle.

“So, text me when you wanna head back on Sunday and we’ll go together?”

MJ frowns. It isn’t clear if the question is the timing for the return trip or if they’ll be making it as a party of two. She shrugs.

“If that works for you.”

“Ok, awesome.”

She nods though it doesn’t feel like a situation where the word ‘awesome’ is called for.

“Later, nerd,” MJ says, aiming for her mom’s as she marches away.

“Hey, MJ?”

She glances back. Peter’s still standing there, plaintive look on his face, hands clutching the straps of his backpack. He never wears gloves. She keeps telling him to wear gloves. Is she supposed to be responsible for Spider-Man’s frostbite? What a pain in the ass this guy is.

Her attention’s enough to get him to continue.

“It’s ok, right? It’s ok about Ned moving in? It’s just, you were kind of quiet during the movie the other night and we didn’t talk much yesterday either...”

With a deep breath, MJ walks back to him.

“I’m just busy,” she says, meeting his eye, then letting her gaze drift off. “Big essay coming up.”

“...And about Ned?”

“Oh yeah, that makes sense, like I said. Did you forget?” It’s maybe the shittiest attempt at teasing someone ever made, but MJ doesn’t really tease Peter.

“But it’s not, like, bothering you or anything, is it? I mean, you don’t regret agreeing?”

Do you? she wants to ask and doesn’t.

“I’m fine, Parker, stop worrying about it,” she says instead. “If you bring this up again after Ned moves in with you, I’m going to have to come back to the apartment and booby-trap it, Home Alone-style.”

He smiles.

“Harsh.”

“Alright,” MJ concedes, “Parent Trap-style, like they did to the cabin. No swinging paint cans, just buckets of molasses.”

“Deal. Consider my silence bought.”

“I didn’t buy your silence, nerd, I ensured it through coercion. Aren’t you supposed to have experience dealing with bad guys? Yikes.”

Peter starts laughing and, incredibly, she does too, the two of them stalled on the corner.

“Ned’ll keep me out of trouble.”

“Yeah, well, he better,” she says easily. Too easily. Jesus, what the hell is she saying? “Because, uh, I need you alive long enough to pull off the Parent Trap thing.”

Shit, she made an offhanded reference to the possibility of his being murdered. Nice. Really great stuff. He won’t want her out on the 15th now―he’ll never want her back in the apartment with him again.

“Of course.”

Peter glances down, but when his face tilts back up, he’s smiling at her. Why the fuck does it feel like they’re saying goodbye forever? MJ nods an awkward farewell to end this strangeness. That’s when Peter moves towards her and she freezes. What’s he doing? They don’t have a secret handshake like he and Ned do. He catches himself when his arms start to lift and looks horrified.

“Sorry,” Peter blurts. “I don’t know what... I was going to hug you.” He laughs self-consciously. “That’d be weird, right?”

“And it’s managing to get weirder without even happening.”

He takes a step back, but MJ surges forward impulsively. She tucks her chin over his shoulder, her hands squeezing his sides because the backpack makes a full embrace impossible―Peter’s backpack is helping her make wiser choices than her own brain.

“Bye,” she says, soft and fast, and turns, jogging to catch the light.

 Saturday, February 6th

The longing never ends/Letting go of ways that we changed, still I pretend ― “Fire Flower” (Summer Salt)

Her gram comes over for dinner. Or, more like MJ and her mom pick her gram up from the apartment she shares with her sister and bring her back for dinner. Ever since Gram’s wife (they never made it official, but that doesn’t change who these women were to each other) died, she’s been living with her sister, but MJ’s great-aunt, 79 years old as she is, has a hot date tonight, so Gram has made time for them in her busy schedule. She’s a real jokester about that in the car, about how she’s missing Westworld for them. When MJ shoots back that she can and has watched Westworld any time she wants (she’s pretty sure Gram’s on her third rewatch of season one), her mom shoots her a look from the driver’s seat. When she adds that Gram only watches because she has a crush on Thandie Newton, they have to roll down the windows to let a little of the laughter out.

Her mom won’t let her wash dishes during her first visit home for over a month, but she has nothing against MJ drying them. As they work, Gram sits at the kitchen table and asks her all about school. Asks if she’s still drawing naked people (yes, Gram, the figure-drawing class runs all year), asks if Financial Aid’s trying to snatch her scholarship back (no, Gram, but I’ll call you if they try anything).

“And are you still living with that boy?”

Normally, MJ would laugh this question off, same as the others. Normally. Her hands still, holding a mug wrapped in a dampening tea towel.

“What’d you say, honey?”

Gram’s a little deaf and not used to MJ not firing an answer back immediately. She assumed she didn’t hear the response, not that MJ didn’t give one. MJ thinks for a second. Probably better not to alarm her gram with news of her upcoming change of living situation. She doesn’t want to be worried about and, technically, she is still living with ‘that boy’ for another eight days.

“Yes, Gram. Peter.”

“His name is not one of the things I need to know about him. I just need to know that he’s not getting in the way of your ascent to greatness.”

MJ smiles and finishes drying the mug.

“Nobody’s going to do that.”

“Good girl. And you feel safe there?”

“Gram, he’s an Avenger.”

Yeah, maybe that’s top-secret information. Whatever. Who’s her gram going to tell?

“I don’t mean do you think he’d pull you out if the building fell down―”

“Nice image, Mom,” MJ’s mother contributes with a roll of her eyes.

“―I mean how are you handling sharing a space with a boy who’s in love with you?”

MJ’s drying a fistful of silverware and it spills out of her grip, scattering across the counter. A lone spoon plops back into the sink’s soapy water. She clears her throat and reaches for the cutlery. Reaches even farther for her composure.

“He’s not, and what would that have to do with safety?”

“Let me tell you, he most certainly is.” Apparently, Gram’s rejecting the question. She never wastes her own time on words she can’t be bothered to speak.

“A boy and a girl can room together without there being... feelings,” MJ points out. It’s irritation that’s making her blush. Irritation at herself for being wrong-footed by her gram over Peter freaking Parker.

“Yes, they can, but I’m not talking about ‘a boy and a girl,’ I’m talking about Peter and yourself.”

“I think getting a Netflix account has made you suspicious,” MJ gently accuses. “What’ve you been watching on there?”

“None of your business.”

Gram changes the subject, letting her off the hook, but the next time MJ turns to look at her, Gram gives her a wink.

Well, she can think what she likes, even theorize aloud. Doesn’t make her right. If it’s between Peter and MJ, her own feelings are the ones that make her feel unsafe, unbalanced, unprepared. Maybe he’s considerate with her, maybe he’s kind to the point of being sweet (when she lets him be), but that’s Peter. That’s just Peter.

 Sunday, February 7th

You know I like you a lot, but/It still hits me like a rock ― “Hits Me Like a Rock” (CSS)

MJ’s breaking her promise to stay for lunch, bailing right after breakfast. She tells her mom she’d rather get back into school mode. Plus, she’ll be home for the week-long study break before midterms; only a week away. What she won’t think about is the possibility that she’ll be using her studying time for learning-to-cope-without-Peter-in-the-next-room time instead.

She doesn’t text him, by the way. Why cut his weekend short? True, escorting her home isn’t his responsibility, but he’d find some way to feel obligated. Definitely a Spider-Man thing. If only his overdeveloped sense of responsibility carried over into the putting his socks away department. Which is what she comes home to: Peter’s socks just inside the door of their apartment. On the floor, peeking out of every pair of his shoes like a grubby Beatrix Potter scene. MJ has no memory of things looking so dire when she left (they left―together). Must’ve been distracted by trying to remember if she had her transit pass, or whether her mom had asked her to bring anything home for dinner.

The sidewalks have become slushy again and, based on the wet spot near the toe of her left sock, she needs to re-waterproof her boots. For now, she troops straight to her bedroom, holding her dripping boots in one hand and a paper towel beneath them with her other. MJ settles them over the heat vent in her room. As she switches to dry socks, she eyes the boots like they should’ve known better.

It’s a cozy, forgetful few hours of solitude. Her paper’s due Thursday and the body of it isn’t exactly taking shape; she’s straining against the traditional essay format and finding it messy going, even though it feels like she’s on the right track. High school has underprepared her for this and overprepared her for things like... robotics. It’s amazing how few people give a fuck about robotics when she’s sitting in a lecture on the Dutch masters.

Peter never remembers to shut his bedroom door and, without trying to look, MJ gets a glimpse from the hall, right through his room and out the window, of snow lazily starting to fall when she rises to get a glass of water. The call of hot water is strong, but she showered his morning before breakfast. The best she can do is snuggle into bed and languidly run a highlighter over some readings for Tuesday.

MJ finds out she fell asleep when she wakes up to Peter’s disbelieving shriek. The sound isn’t loud, but it has her up and fighting her way out of her blankets to stumble into the hallway at the same time her roommate comes sliding into it from the kitchen. He sighs in relief. Spins, clutching his hair. That’s a little much, she thinks. What a fucking dork.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, ignoring how good it feels to see him again. Again? They were apart a day.

“You never texted me and then, and then―” He gestures behind him. “―your boots weren’t at the door.”

“They were soaked,” MJ explains slowly. “They’re drying in my room.”

Peter’s still getting over... whatever this is that’s happening to him.

“Your boots are always at the door.”

She looks at him carefully, surprised to discover he seems to be coming down from genuine panic.

“Are you ok?”

He does an odd shrugging motion and approaches her.

“I’m ok.”

“Do you need a―”

Peter claps his arms around her and MJ goes immobile.

“Yeah, I did,” he agrees.

She’s trying to figure out when she should tell him she planned to end that sentence with ‘doctor.’ Or something else, even. Something that would calm him. Only... he does seem calm. Feel calm. His hands are spread on her back. His body’s sturdy enough to pull her in and push her back out again with his every breath when he’s hugging her like this, but at least they’re slow breaths. It’s actually kind of ok. Nice. Warm. Confusing.

Before MJ can wrap her arms around his neck, caught up in this intermission from the Parker and Jones: Roommates and Nothing More sitcom, Peter puts his hands firmly on her waist and steps away from her. Then glances down to see where his hands are and drops them.

“S-sorry. I... I was... I overreacted.”

“I’m fine,” she says with what’s supposed to be a shrug but manifests as a twitch. “I’m good. Nobody murdered me on my way home. So...” Idiotically, MJ chucks him on the shoulder in a mortifyingly fatherly manner. “Thanks for keeping the streets safe, Spider-Man.”

“Uh, yeah, you’re welcome. Glad you’re safe.”

Peter’s red-faced, swinging his arms, looking at her and then not looking at her, as she retreats back into her room and closes the door.

Not safe. MJ is not safe.

 Monday, February 8th

I’ll speak a little louder, I’ll even shout/You know that I’m proud and I can’t get the words out ― “Everywhere” (Fleetwood Mac)

She’s wasting the one-hour gap she has between classes. It’s supposed to be for eating lunch and, these days, either studying for tomorrow’s test or adding something brilliant to her paper. It isn’t supposed to be for eating lunch with a couple of nerds who’ve braved the art building to join her. Ned’s awe of the building makes MJ start to smile before he changes topics to the reason he and Peter are actually barging into her schedule―discussion of Ned’s move-in.

Based on their landlord’s 1st and 15th rule, Ned will be an official renter seven days from now. To the boys, it therefore makes sense for Ned to be taking over that day. And to MJ too, of course. It totally makes sense to MJ. The 15th is also the first day of their break week, so there won’t be classes to plan around. Nothing could be more straightforward! MJ can get her stuff packed up this weekend (the 13th-14th) and have her mom pick her up in the car the next day to relocate her to her new living space. Which―fuck―she’s definitely going to text her classmate about. When asked about her living plans directly, she smiles and spoons hot soup into her mouth.

She’s good with it. Ned’s good with it. Peter’s... holding things up. He claims he’s only wondering if they need more time before Ned moves in because he doesn’t want anyone’s boxes to get mixed up. Ned pipes up with information on his thorough labelling technique. MJ just watches Peter. His eyes flick to her more than once, like she’s going to protest, maybe? She wouldn’t. She doesn’t want to screw this up for them. Rooming together is what these two losers wanted from the start. The only thing she has to do is step aside. Fine, she can manage that.

“And we’ll just... see each other around,” Peter says as the three of them are finishing lunch.

But he doesn’t say it to Ned, obviously. Not to Ned, who will be living across the narrow hallway from him in a week. He’s looking right at MJ. Damn his gentle, baby-animal eyes. She hadn’t really thought about this. When would she see Peter? They’re in different programs with classes in different buildings. Their schedules overlap in a way that was convenient for eating dinner together most nights, not in a way that means they’ll bump into each other on campus during their downtime. They’re overachievers who haven’t been able to sustain friendships outside of school. Except for with Ned. Except for with each other.

When Peter does this incomprehensible motion that, in another universe, might look like he was reaching for her hand, MJ nods in agreement. Then, as her eyes start to well without her permission, pretends to have burnt the roof of her mouth on her final spoonful of soup.

It’s been cold for half an hour.

 Tuesday, February 9th

Bless your body, bless your soul/Pray for peace and self-control ― “The World We Live In” (The Killers)

MJ isn’t sweating because she’s retroactively stressed about the test. The test went fine. She prepared; in fact, she overprepared―devoting her entire morning and too much of the afternoon to revision when she should’ve been working on her fucking paper. That’s why she hurried back. That’s why she’s sweaty and ready for a hot shower. It’ll refresh and refocus her and she’ll bang out a few paragraphs of the paper tonight, a few tomorrow (even though it’s the longest day of her week; she’s putting the nightmarish reality out of her mind for now), and have time to proofread the whole thing Thursday morning before she turns it in.

It’s a plan and she loves it. MJ heads to her room, vaguely noticing that Peter’s bedroom door is shut. Huh, maybe he’s hunkered down to do some studying of his own. She dumps her backpack and flings off her sweatshirt and, you know what, her t-shirt too when it wants to cling to the sweatshirt and be removed at the same time. The bathroom’s right next to her room.

MJ darts over in her bra and the sweatpants she wore to take her test and opens the door.

Just as Peter flips the bathroom light on.

She twists away and slams her back into the hallway wall. Jesus Christ. Blinking won’t wipe away the sight of Peter standing there with a towel tucked around his hips. Just the towel. Just that one towel. Fuck, she has to handle this somehow. The situation, that is.

“Sorry,” MJ blurts. “The light was off and, and I didn’t think and―”

“I like to shower in the dark. It kinda lets my senses rest and―”

“I finished my test early so you probably weren’t expecting me home and―”

“―then I needed the light on to shave because I cut myself enough with it on to have zero desire to attempt shaving my face in the dark and―”

Her heart’s pounding so loudly that between that sound and her own words, she’s barely catching any of what Peter’s saying.

“Such an invasion of privacy,” she sighs out in conclusion. He falls silent too. The bathroom door’s still open and a warm radiance stretches the width of the hall; MJ wants to reach her fingertips out and let them glow.

“So,” Peter says, urgency draining into timidity, “your test went well?”

“Yeah.” Looking down at her bare feet on the carpet of the hallway they still share, MJ smiles. “You cut yourself shaving?”

“You can laugh if you want.”

His tone isn’t offended and she knows he wouldn’t mind if she did laugh. Probably wouldn’t be surprised. She isn’t... she isn’t soft with him.

“I was just wondering why I’ve never noticed.”

“Oh, well, the cuts heal up pretty fast. They’re small cuts. I’m not that bad at shaving.” Peter clears his throat and she’s standing there yet, listening. “Plus, we don’t get close.”

A terrible, awkward, one-note laugh rips out of MJ.

“True.”

But her roommate doesn’t join in.

“We’re never close,” he says quietly. She shivers.

MJ’s back in her bedroom with the door shut―leaning against it―in a second. Maybe Peter started to move when she moved. Maybe he stepped out into the hallway with his raggedy towel and his squeaky-clean skin and the flush on his face from the steam because he heard her and thought she might be coming his way instead of hiding like a coward. She can’t know without witnessing it. His footsteps never make a sound.

 Wednesday, February 10th

It’s hard to know which way to go/Come and find me, come and find me ― “Between Days” (Far Caspian)

Clearly, despite her best intentions, MJ is giving off a vibe. Not her regular approach with caution vibe. No, no. She doesn’t know where that withering aura of distance has gone, but she’s lost it and the atmosphere around her has changed as smoothly as the colours in a mood ring. It must have, because Peter hugs her for the second time this week, pulling her into an abrupt embrace before she heads off to campus in the morning.

This is supposed to be the thing about roommates, right? Always invading your space. Only, through the decaying brick wall of her denial, she sees that this isn’t the same thing. He’s not rummaging through her search history or eating her groceries (besides―fuck―they’re kind of their groceries, like the whole kettle situation); he’s initiating moments of physical affection. MJ knows the hugs are affectionate and not perfunctory. If it were otherwise, if they were the kind of automatic hugs that happen in less established friendships upon every meeting and farewell, Peter and MJ would always have done them and it wouldn’t feel so momentous that, suddenly, he’s electing to hold her.

He doesn’t try it when she gets home. That’s a good thing. She’s tired and not so much cooking dinner as microwaving an assortment of shit from the fridge for the sloppy meal that will sustain her through wrapping up the final section of her midterm paper and writing the conclusion. Peter’s sitting on the couch with a textbook in his lap when she gives him a sharp wave and goes to her bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her.

The final section is an uphill (if the hill’s a ski slope slicked over by ice rain―and also there’s an avalanche rumbling down from the submit) battle that takes until nearly 10pm to complete. MJ’s focus is hanging by a thread and she’s rerouting all of her energy to keeping her brain on task. That means no getting up to hunt up a chocolate bar or make a cup of coffee. She can do this. She just has to force herself through to the end. It’s one more paragraph, or maybe a big one and a small final final one of a line or two, to bring home her argument with a little more flair.

MJ pushes ahead, but apparently, the scale of her determination hasn’t left enough space for her memory to function, because she’s mixing up the order of her sub-points, and she’s missing the first part of her thesis entirely. She keeps scrolling―up-down, up-down―to refer to the part she’s already written. It’s coherent, and that should be helping her now, but fucking stress or something is making her concentration worse the harder she tries.

She lives lightly in the apartment. She’s tidy and contained and quiet. The sound of frustration she makes as it feels like this whole assignment is unraveling (has she fucked it up from the beginning? Should she start over completely? Oh god, it’s eleven o’clock! How is it eleven?!) is hellish. MJ’s head slumps to her desk and she starts weeping. Why is this so hard? She’s tired.

It’s possible that she doesn’t hear his knock, but Peter barges into her room. She gets herself to sit up and wipe her fingers under her eyes, her palms over her wet cheeks.

“It’s not―” Coming together, she wants to say. Fair, she wants to say.

“I know,” Peter interrupts, walking over to her chair. “How ‘bout you step away from that for a minute?”

He puts his hand out to her and MJ sniffles as she stares at it. She slaps her palm to his and he holds on, pulling her up. Probably to guide her towards the TV or the kitchen for a hot drink, but MJ steps into him instead, her head on his shoulder, her nose against his neck.

It’s the smell she’s smelt when she hangs her coat on the hook next to his, when she sits on the couch and can tell he’s recently sat in the same spot. Normally, this is a following smell―the scent of coming upon him after he’s gone. Shock that it’s become a now smell makes MJ jerk back, realizing what she’s doing. She’s never practiced friendly hugs. She doesn’t know how to do them. Peter, on the other hand, hugs people all the time―mainly Ned and his aunt―and yet his failings are equal to hers. There’s nothing pal-like in how he puts his hands on her or flexes his arms around her or gently gathers her closer. When he lets her step back, she sort of wishes he hadn’t. But she’s not thinking. Fucking paper.

MJ swivels and sits on the edge of her mattress.

“I can’t end it,” she tells him bluntly.

Peter’s eyebrows raise... hopefully?

“No?”

She shakes her head.

“My introduction’s solid, but I’m getting lost somewhere in the middle trying to recap it.”

“Oh. Oh. Well, you could maybe― Is it ok if I sit down?” She nods. He continues, glancing sideways at her, a foot of space between them. “You could read it out loud? To me?”

“The whole essay?”

“If that’s what you need.”

MJ narrows her eyes at him.

“Parker, don’t you have your own work to do?”

He shrugs.

“I handed in a report today and I have a quiz on Friday. The grading for that class is, like, fifty percent quizzes. Pretty sure my prof just didn’t want to have to make up an exam.”

“Then my real question is, why do you want to do this?”

Why is she pushing him? MJ doesn’t know. Honestly, she’d prefer if it she shut up right about now and quit trying to get rid of her roommate. Her handsome, academically-capable roommate, sitting next to her on her bed. The only other time he’s touched her bed was when he helped her move it in here in September.

“Because it’s too soon to rewatch Alien?” She catches Peter’s eye and grants him a smirk as he laughs at his own joke. “Go,” he encourages, nodding towards her laptop. “Read it.”

With an indulgent sign, MJ lifts her computer from her desk to her lap. She mumbles a little at first; even if it’s a stupid paper rather than creative writing, they’re her words and she’s speaking them aloud for him to hear. But three paragraphs in, she glances over and Peter’s leaning back on his hands with his eyes closed. MJ almost snaps at him for not listening―incredible how fast the stress will flare up and demand an outlet―until she realizes he’s concentrating, eyebrows pulling together as she continues. Immediately after that, she stumbles over a full fucking sentence, but she comes out the other side with a steadier, louder voice.

When she reaches the end of what she has written, Peter nods and opens his eyes.

“I think―” he starts, but MJ shushes him.

Frantically, her hands trip and clack across her keyboard. The conclusion pours out, word after word after word. One big paragraph and a small final final one for flair. The second she’s done typing, MJ saves the document, puts her laptop back on her desk, and falls backwards onto her bed.

She takes three deep breaths, then says, “Now I just have to edit it.”

“Don’t I get to hear your conclusion?”

“In a minute.”

Peter drops onto his back beside her and sighs like he’s being denied something he really wanted. She rolls her eyes at him. What a nerd.

Their arms brush. He bounces his foot. Her back cracks when she pushes her shoulder into the mattress. She looks at him and gets the feeling that she just missed him looking at her.

“I’m waiting,” he whispers, and MJ laughs.

“Let it breathe, Parker. I just finished it.”

“Can you pass me that blanket then? I’m getting cold.”

“It’s like a hundred degrees in here,” she argues, but she thumps the blanket folded across her bed onto her roommate’s stomach.

After a minute of watching him get cozy, MJ’s jealous.

“Give me some of that.”

He lets her tug it over. The blanket’s big (Gram made it that way), but she’s pretty sure Peter moves closer with it.

She tucks her legs up and catches site of his watch as she arranges herself. A bit after midnight. Quarter-after. At quarter-after, she’ll get up, evict the dork from her room, and edit. MJ closes her eyes.

 Thursday, February 11th

I had a dream that I kissed your lips and it felt so true/Then I woke up as a nervous wreck and I fell for you ― “Fell for You” (Green Day)

They’ve made up for three years of nearly hug-less friendship in one night; MJ wakes up slowly to find her arms around Peter, and his around her. She keeps her eyes half-open. Evidently, they clung in their sleep, facing each other, and she’s never been so comfortable. But things are going to get uncomfortable any second when Peter stirs. She almost doesn’t want him to. Then, he shifts and she feels his erection against her thigh where it’s slotted between his. MJ tries to cautiously extract her leg―heart pounding in her ears―and Peter lifts his bowed head. His bleary brown eyes meet hers.

“Hi.” His voice is like rug burn.

“I have to edit my paper,” she remembers.

She’s waking up more now, noticing the light in her room. Not the lamp she left on last night, but the morning light that generally brightens the space, coming from Peter’s window across the hall. She puts her hand down to push herself up to a sitting position and it lands on his upper arm. In a blink, his hand’s gripping her arm, preventing a topple. Wow, those reflexes are something. MJ glances shyly down into her roommate’s face.

“Paper,” she says again.

“Right.”

He sits up quickly beside her―hair all sticking up at the back of his head―and she pretends not to notice him notice his erection.

“I’ll, uh, maybe I’ll see you for breakfast?”

MJ nods without looking at him and hears Peter stumble backwards out of her room, kicking away the blanket that’s tangled around his foot. He closes the door behind him and she does not see him at breakfast. The awkward energy from the situation that she doesn’t really take time to process sends her headlong into edits. When she does make it to the kitchen, it’s with her paper tucked inside a presentation folder and her hand snatching a store-bought muffin off the counter. She can hear the shower running and is grateful that she won’t have to face Peter yet.

No, that doesn’t happen until she’s on campus, between classes; she’s handed in her assignment without incident and it’s a huge relief. Not only does Peter know her schedule as well she knows his, apparently, but he also knows exactly where she’ll be on her break. She almost bumps into him coming around the corner of a building.

It feels like she’s seeing a one-night stand in the light of day―except they didn’t sleep together and MJ already saw him in the light of day. It’s just such a contrast between this morning and now. For one thing, they’re upright. For another, they’re both fully awake.

She offers an uncertain, close-lipped smile as they exchange ‘hi’s.

“Um,” MJ starts, “what’re you doing here, Peter?”

“Oh, I just wanted to find out how it went. With your essay.”

“Well, I turned it in and I can’t really tell you more than that until I get it back.”

They stare at each other for a minute before Peter goes, “Right. Right, right, right.”

“You wanna... walk with me?”

“Sure. I have class in twenty minutes, and I have to get over to the other end of campus, but―”

“Go!”

“You sure?”

“Yes! Go, you moron. What are you doing here?”

“I was gonna bring you...” He pats his pockets and she knows it’ll be fruitless before he tells her. If whatever Peter needs isn’t already in his hand, he’s forgotten it somewhere. This is a Rule of Peter. “A chocolate bar. I forgot it.”

She smiles.

“That’s ok.”

“I thought you might need the energy since it was a pretty late night.”

The girl walking past them darts an interested glance in their direction. MJ glares at her, but Peter really could’ve phrased that to sound more innocent. Because it was innocent. Wasn’t it? A couple of students collapse from the exhaustion of midterm assignments. That’s not a clever romantic setup, it’s overwork thanks to a system designed to crank them through the academia factory and spit them out at the end with a degree.

“Yeah. Um, I’ll survive,” she promises. “You better get to class.”

Peter takes a few steps and turns back like he’s struggling with something, wanting to speak.

“Seriously, Parker,” MJ insists. “If you’re late, I’ll almost feel bad.”

This is supposed to be the part where he laughs, but her roommate just looks conflicted as he walks away from her.

He almost brought her a chocolate bar. God, she is so fucked.

 Friday, February 12th

That’s not just friendship, that’s romance too/You like music we can dance to ― “I’ll Try Anything Once” (The Strokes)

“Have you been waiting long?” MJ asks when she leaves class and Peter’s standing right outside, hands in his pockets.

He scrunches his face up and turns to fall into step with her as they leave the building, then campus.

“It sounds better if I say, ‘no,’ right?”

She laughs and looks over at him.

“If you do, I’m going to assume that, on top of finishing class an hour before I do, you were also let out early.”

“It’s that obvious I’m trying that hard?” he asks with a sheepish smile.

What. MJ can’t respond.

After a minute, Peter sighs.

“I might as well tell you that my prof said we didn’t have to come today.”

“You didn’t actually have to be on campus at all?”

“No.”

“So, you’re just here...”

He nods at her implied ‘for me.’

“We’re on break now,” Peter reminds her. “Let me walk home with my roommate.”

“Might as well. Last chance.”

She feels him staring at her, but MJ does her best to look straight ahead as they walk back to their apartment.

He’s on the phone with Ned later, sitting on the arm of the couch in their living room. MJ starts putting her things together, neat piles of books and folded clothes that’ll be easier to pack tomorrow and Sunday. She leaves her door open. It used to annoy her (or she lied to herself that it did), how often Peter and Ned talk on the phone―don’t they know their generation isn’t supposed to do that anymore?―and the fact that her roommate’s soft voice carries so well through their apartment. Ok, fine, it doesn’t carry that well, she just listens for it. She can admit it now, in her bedroom, standing near the doorway to hear his happy voice.

Peter’s flopped backwards, off the arm and onto the couch and still talking animatedly to his best friend, when MJ emerges from her room. She walks directly to the couch and drops her balled-up cozy socks onto his stomach, fleeing before he can attempt to catch her eye.

 Saturday, February 13th

This is not a test, welcome to the party/I’ve been on my best behaviour, but I think it’s time/ You saw the other side ― “Best of Me” (Amanda Marshall)

MJ ruthlessly scours the apartment for every article of her clothing that could possibly be dirty. It’s not a tough job; unlike Peter, she mostly keeps her stuff in her bedroom. She has a sack for carrying her laundry to their building’s first-floor machines (because an actual laundry basket takes up too much space with its defined corners) and she stuffs it, lugging everything down there before breakfast. Waiting around is kind of nice because none of the other tenants have shown up yet. Plus, like always, MJ has a book. She transfers her load from the washer to the dryer and leans back against the wall, flipping through a yellowed, soft-paged copy of The Joy Luck Club.

Since she’s been doing laundry down here all year (except for when she goes home for the weekends and winter break), MJ knows the ways of these machines. Which is why it’s so disturbing when the dryer halts five minutes before its cycle should be ending. Unwatched, she jabs at the settings, but the machine’s completely crapped out, so MJ starts hauling her laundry back into the sack. The small stuff―socks, underwear, t-shirts―has dried, but her sweatshirts are still damp. Unfortunately, with the stress of assignments, the sweatshirts are what she’s primarily lived in the past few weeks, meaning all four of them were in there at once, and all four of them are too damp to put on.

She laughs bitterly at herself; at the last second, she’d even taken off the sweatshirt she had on over her tank top.

To stay warm and keep herself from running into anyone, MJ pounds up the stairs and slips into her apartment. She can pack up the dry clothes and hang the sweatshirts off her doorframe, her chair, wherever else seems suitable, until they dry. She’s flinging one over the shower rod when Peter comes walking down the hall and pokes his head in.

“The dryer...” she starts to explain, positioning her sweatshirt, but Peter disappears. MJ rolls her eyes.

In a minute, though, he’s back. When she turns to leave the bathroom, her roommate thrusts one of his own sweatshirts at her.

“Peter,” she sighs, “stop trying to take care of me.”

“Ok, I will after this.” He shakes the sweatshirt at her. “Put it on.”

“What are you trying to do, nerd? Mark me as your territory? Quit being such a Neanderthal.”

With a smirk, MJ brushes by him, but Peter tries to lay the sweatshirt over her shoulder. She shrieks a laugh, ducking to escape it, and suddenly her roommate has his arms around her waist, picking her up with her back to his chest.

“You’re gonna be cold,” he huffs, leaning backward as she squirms.

“I’ll get a blanket!”

“A blanket will get in the way while you’re packing!”

“I’ll cope! Let me go pack!”

“Just wear! My! Sweatshirt!”

She goes limp and he sets her on her feet.

“I surrender,” MJ declares.

“Good.”

Peter bends to pick up the sweatshirt she’s shaken off with all their goofing around, breaking his hold on her, and she bolts for the living room yelling, “Sike!”

Logically, she’s aware that she can’t outrun Spider-Man, but a giddy mania pushes her to attempt it. He tackles her into the back of their couch before she can clamber over. Well, it’s sort of a tackle. Actually, Peter’s barely touching her, but he’s behind her with his hands gripping the back of the couch to either side of her hips.

“There,” she says, feeling him at her back, “you saved me from being cold.” MJ turns with a prepared smile; as the silliness fades away, the way his exhalations hit her back felt too much like tension. She meets his eye, straightening up because he’s so close. What did he say? They’re never close? “I’ll just jog up and down the hall every so―”

Peter kisses her mouth.

Just as she begins to lean into it, brain swirling and spiking with confusion, he steps back. Then again. Again, again, again. He spins at the hall and goes right to his bedroom.

MJ doesn’t know what to do, so she stands there a few minutes, face working its way through a series of expressions dictated by the imaginary conversation she and her roommate are having in her head. The one they have because he stays put two goddamn seconds after planting one on her. His sweatshirt’s on the floor near the kitchen. MJ walks over and yanks it on, feeling vulnerable and bewildered.

Eventually, she plods back to her room.

It’s a shock when Peter knocks on her door a while later. She left it open, which was terrifying. She just figured, with this being the end, truly the end, she would allow whatever was going to happen to happen. If the kiss was an awkward misunderstanding, MJ will be leaving that behind with all the rest of her conflicted feelings two days from now.

“What’s up, Parker?” she asks, not turning around to face him. She’s packing up her printer, stuffing it back into the box it came in and taping it closed.

“Do you need any help?”

“Not really. You can help carry my mattress out of here when my mom comes on Monday though.”

She’s anticipating a quip rather than an evasion. Peter Parker is the kind of friend who will voluntarily carry your shit when you move. But he doesn’t give her either.

“You’re really going.”

Slightly annoyed, MJ turns to stare at him.

“Yeah, I’m really going. Hence the packing. It was your idea, remember?”

“It was easier when I thought you didn’t want to be here.”

She laughs the fakest laugh of her life.

“I don’t want to be here. You make loud phone calls and, and you come in late at night and you have socks everywhere. I think you might actually own every sock every human being has ever lost.”

He frowns at her.

“You never mentioned any of that. In the five months we’ve lived together, you never asked me to speak more quietly or put more effort into containing my clothes to my room.”

“Well,” MJ shoots back in exasperation, “now you know!”

“Are you mad at me for offering your room to Ned?”

“Peter...” She gives him a desperate look. It’s too late for this. Doesn’t he fucking get that? MJ exhales a sharp breath. “Peter, I’m moving out on Monday.”

“What if you didn’t?”

He’s being such an idiot. Everything is arranged. She can’t stay now that Ned’s about to come bounding in with his Lego and his best-friendship to be a better match for Peter’s roommate that she ever was.

“I texted my classmate on Monday about the room. It’s mine. I’m moving out of here, Ned’s moving in. Everything’s settled.”

“Could we unsettle it?”

Peter walks into her room, right up to her. His eyes are pleading and she doesn’t want him to see that this little trick of his works just as well on her as on anyone else. That she’s susceptible to him. That’s not who they are to each other; she’s made a very good career of being his sarcastic, distant friend.

“You just don’t like change,” MJ tells him. “You didn’t mean it.” The kiss. “It was just a misguided attempt to keep me here. Nothing more.” She crosses her arms.

“You’re gonna hate hearing this, but you’re wrong.”

“Maybe I’m right and you haven’t figured it out yet.”

Peter shakes his head.

“It can’t be just me who’s felt different since I told you Ned’s moving in. Something’s changed.”

She rolls her eyes.

“You think you’re an expert on my feelings because you saw me cry in a moment of stress.”

“And you saw me half-naked!”

MJ glances away in frustration and because she doesn’t want him to see her reliving that memory.

“Being first year roommates,” she starts after a long pause, “is a condition. It’s a state of being that’s meant to change.”

“Good! I want to change it! I want us to be more than roommates. MJ, why can’t this be easy?”

“Because you noticed me last week and I’ve had a crush on you since we were fifteen!” she blurts out. “And don’t goddamn ask me why I didn’t say anything because not everyone’s brave like you, Peter. Ok? Not everyone’s Spider-Man. Some of us are just the roommate across the hall. Let me fucking get over this in peace!”

“Sure,” he says, looking down. “Got it.”

Peter nods definitively and twists away. Reaching her doorway, he turns his head slightly.

“Just so you know, you only have me beat by a year.”

 Sunday, February 14th

By tomorrow I’ll be leaving/By tomorrow I’ll be gone/If you want to tell me something/You had better make it strong ― “Coming Down” (Dum Dum Girls)

On one hand, her mind knows the late-night assignment-finishing sessions are over for a while. On the other, it won’t let her sleep. MJ tosses and turns until almost four in the morning before she gets out of bed. In the dark, the only thing she can find to throw on over her pajama top is Peter’s sweatshirt, so she does.

Her thoughts felt so clear while she was lying down, but now that she’s up, things are hazy again. Did Peter really confess that he’s been interested in her since they were sixteen? Does that piece of information make her feel as mixed-up and, somehow, cheated as it did when he said it? Two morons in one apartment. Ned’s got a lot to live up to.

MJ leaves her room and crosses the hall to where Peter’s door is ajar, letting out a sliver of blue-white light. He’s probably sleeping. He won’t hear her coming if he’s sleeping. If he’s sleeping, she bargains with herself, she’ll turn right around and go back to bed. She eases the door open. Peter’s bedding rustles as he rolls over to face her.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she mumbles. Fuck. Worst possible icebreaker in this situation.

“If I invite you in,” he wonders, voice groggy with insomnia, “are you going to push me away again?”

“No.”

“So do you believe what I said?”

MJ sighs.

“I’m trying to.”

Peter waits a minute, then pushes himself up in bed to sit with his back against the wall.

“You can come over here if you want.”

She hesitates for less time than her reluctant nature wants her to. Putting her hand out low, MJ feels for the end of the bed and sits down. It’s miles from him. We’re never close, he said.

“You’re wearing my sweatshirt,” he notes when she doesn’t say anything.

“Don’t start with that again,” she warns, but it’s light. This time, he waits her out until MJ’s compelled to speak into their silence. She begins at a whisper. “Caring about you is really hard. When we were in high school, I sort of felt my role was the unnecessary third wheel to you and Ned, and it still feels like that. Like, I think about you and I worry when I don’t hear you come home at night and, yeah, Peter, I was hurt when you sprung the Ned’s-moving-in thing on me.”

“To be fair,” Peter chimes in, “I never thought there was a reason that shouldn’t happen. I thought this whole living together thing was just a favour you were doing me. So, when Ned brought it up, I thought, finally, I can give MJ a way out.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, well, so are you.”

MJ smiles down at her lap.

“I have to tell you all of it, ok?” Peter asks softly.

Her heart’s pounding too hard. The light in the room isn’t moonlight, just the glow of someone in the next build over’s TV through the curtains. MJ only looks at him when the mattress shifts; he’s getting out of bed, wearing a dorky shirt and plaid bottoms.

“Tell me all of it,” she prompts when he stops in front of her, looking like he’s forgotten his lines.

“MJ, I love you.”

It sounds so right, but at the same time, she’s so scared. It’s a painful thing, looking up at Peter’s face. One half aglow.

“So, that’s all of it,” she says, trying to digest his confession without being too distracted by the depth of his expression.

He laughs shortly at himself.

“Not quite.”

And he kneels.

“What the fuck, Peter,” she gasps, jolting backwards.

“I don’t have a ring because I really haven’t thought this part out,” Peter says. MJ can’t say anything. Her throat, tongue, and lips are all broken. “I just know that I can’t let you go. You promised your new roommates you were coming, and I promised Ned he was moving in here, and that’s fine. It doesn’t matter where you’re living, I’m going to love you. I can wait to get married, or even engaged for real, but I couldn’t wait any longer for you to know how I feel. That’s all of it.”

She’s stunned. He looks exposed and terrified, like he’s holding his skin open, waiting for her to snap his ribs one by one before ripping his heart out. It takes long seconds, many of them, for MJ to shift forward until she slides off the bed to sit in front of her roommate. She takes his hand.

“We are engaged for real.”

With a relieved burst of laughter, Peter grabs the back of her head and kisses her hard. Oh, she’ll put stipulations on later―no ring before graduation, no wedding until they’re both employed full-time―but right now, she’s following Spider-Man’s example and reacting on instinct.

“Oh, and I love you too,” she adds between kisses.

His hands slide down her back. Everything about the way he’s touching her says: finally. Maybe they’re skipping a step, the one where one of them asks the other out and they go on dates and meet each other’s families. But they kind of have done those things. They’ve been living together since the fall, eating dinner together most nights, easing each other’s tiny stresses most days. They know each other’s secrets and coffee orders. They know, period.

MJ loops her arms behind his neck to hold him against her while they kiss, but when they start to lean sideways, it’s Peter who mutters, “bed.”

He repeats it as a question and she nods, hands clasped in his as they help each other to their feet. It’s so simple, this part. Peter draws back the covers and they tumble and rearrange. Murmured admissions of inexperience and the way he blushes when she asks about protection―not because he hasn’t bought any, but because he has.

“You know we’re fucked if this part’s no good, right?” she checks. She’s only partly joking. “We’ve staked everything on this.”

“This is just you and me,” he replies. “Same as everything else.”

MJ has this vague plan to leave his sweatshirt on if he doesn’t say anything about it, but by the time they’ve shimmied each other out of their pajama bottoms, she’s ten thousand degrees. So she wriggles free of the sweatshirt and the t-shirt she sleeps in and Peter hugs her tight to him. He can’t be real. She puts her arms tentatively around his back, expecting her hands to pass right through him. But he’s solid and warm and on top of her, shaking slightly when MJ runs her fingers through his hair.

She keeps it up, smoothing his hair and stroking the back of his neck, as Peter’s mouth finds her collarbone, as his hand runs down her stomach to tuck between her legs. The hitch in her breathing makes him groan and bite down on her nipple. When she lifts her hips, he rubs her more fiercely. She orgasms digging her fingers into his chest―the other hand clammy against his hair line, maybe from her palm, maybe from his skin.

Chest heaving, he tells her they don’t have to do any more if she doesn’t want to. MJ reaches between their panting bodies and takes hold of his erection. Looks into his eyes as she moves her grip up and down. Convinced, Peter rolls off of her to bang open the drawer of his bedside table. She stacks his pillows, shuffling up higher, and when he returns to her, she raises her knees to cage him in. They both watch his hands put the condom on.

The next few minutes are measured in the evolving rhythms of their breathing. Peter works himself in and out of her incrementally, so much tension in his arms and back where her needy hands grasp. She needs him―it’s a miraculous revelation. That he’s been an essential part of her life, piece of her existence, and that it’s ok for her to need him, not just dispassionately or critically observe the best and worst of him. She holds him tighter and he clutches her thigh, pushing in all the way. This feeling is as much of a stranger to her as she’s been to herself.

Peter’s still for a minute. Quietly, he says, “We actually did this.”

“Yeah,” MJ agrees, tracing his spine.

Suddenly moving together takes priority over the disbelieving laughter they began to volley back and forth. She rocks her hips with and against his thrusts and it’s like they’re fighting to push the same swing from opposite sides―the movements don’t match up at first, but eventually, an instinctive force takes over and the swing swings. Peter breathes hard into her neck; MJ hooks her legs up around his hips. Single-mindedly, they grope for just the right speed, just the right pressure. He kisses her neck and her eyes roll back as she holds his face there.

When he drags against her, catching her clit, MJ uses her legs to make sure those electrifying passes continue. But Peter can tell from the sounds she’s making too, she thinks. Though brief and disconnected, her cries are climbing in pitch. He picks up the pace when she asks him to. Soon, soon, soon, there. MJ pulls him down to her, arms around his neck, and climaxes with her forehead pressed to his shoulder. Her roommate, boyfriend, fiancé, swears and speeds up even more; it’s a few seconds of a sensation that buzzes more than thumps or thrums and then he’s curling his arms under her, grabbing the back of her neck.

Peter shifts off of her and, when she doesn’t immediately come with him, gathers her to him. Of course, then he remembers about the condom and gets up anyway. MJ snuggles into the warmth he leaves. After a minute, he pulls back the covers to join her again and they share a shy reintroduction, slipping back into their pajamas. It’s when he reaches first for her hand that she realizes she’s safe.

Across the street, someone shuts off the TV. Peter’s room goes dark. They fall asleep.

 Monday, February 15th

Seven miles below me/I can see the world and it ain’t so big at all ― “This Time Tomorrow” (The Kinks)

“I’m seeing you for lunch tomorrow,” MJ reminds Peter, tugging her hand out of his. The final box of her possessions is in her arms. Downstairs, her mom’s car is at the curb.

He groans in complaint and follows her down the hall, past the kitchen, to the front door. Ned should be here within the hour; they staggered her move-out and his move-in to prevent collisions. And to give Peter more time with her. He admitted to that motive this morning, cooking them an omelette while MJ leaned her forehead against his back, smiling into his t-shirt.

“Ned’s key,” she says at the threshold. She holds it out to Peter and he pockets it.

“Thanks.”

MJ takes backward steps, moving away from him. He looks like he’s barely keeping himself from springing after her. She sighs.

“Come on,” she says, smiling. “Walk me down.”

[commander-rahrah]

RESIDENCY (AN OPEN HEART FIC): PART TWENTY - THE FINALE

Masterlist: Click Here

Chapter Rating: M (Swearing, and just to be safe honestly!)

Word Count: 4200+

Description: Jordynne’s Ethics Hearing is finally here. But what does this mean for all of them? (Majority in Bryce’s POV!) 

Disclaimer: Characters, storyline, and parts of the dialogue are taken from Pixelberry’s Choices. They fully own the characters, dialogue, backgrounds, etc. MC Jordynne’s background is my own creation, based loosely off of MC in-game’s personality and provided with more details.

Author’s Note: Welp at least I did my goal of releasing the final chapter before OH Book 2! This fic did take me a lot longer then I thought it would -- but I did it!! YAY! This is the first time I have ever actually completed a fic! I most definitely will be continuing the story of Jordynne, Bryce and Ethan for Residency 2.0 (is that what I’ll call it?). Thank you so so so much for everyone who has read the series along the way, and for all the comments, likes and reblogs! It means so much! I hope everyone enjoys and is excited for OH2 to come out on Saturday!!!!!

Taglist: @drakewalkerfantasy @owleyes374 @lahelable @mayar-mahdy @paisleylovergirl @nicquix @emilymay100 @octobereighth @llamasgrl @timmagicktoad @lilyofchoices @msjpuddleduck @mfackenthal @paulfwesley @ccolz88-blog @mindlessdreaminxo @jooous @lapisreviewsstuff @choicesarehard @themingdynasty @omgjasminesimone @hopelessly-shipper​ @binny1985​ @perriewinklenerdie​ @jens-diamondchoices​ @indiacater​ @chasingrobbie​ @writingsbymissy​ @dimitriwife​ @tacohead13​ @amy-choices​ @violinet​

Previous Updates: Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven Part Twelve Part Thirteen Part Fourteen Part Fifteen Part Sixteen Part Seventeen Part Eighteen Part Nineteen

Previous Update

PART TWENTY

Bryce jiggled his knee nervously — it was hidden under the table, out of anyone’s eyesight. He was picking at the food in front of him — his fork lazily spinning around the take out Chinese food.

The roommates had ordered it — and invited him over. He had accepted, as he really had started to feel like he was becoming one of them — but with everything going on he just couldn’t enjoy himself.

He still hadn’t heard from Jordynne — the last he had seen of her was her whirling around the library like a tornado. And even then it was all medicine and science.

“So, has any heard from Jordynne? Is Doctor Banerji okay?” He asked, trying to sound casual.

“No, not yet. Maybe she won’t come home again.” Jackie shrugged as she chewed lazily.

“What you mean?” His eyebrows furrowed, setting his fork down.

Sienna flashed Jackie a look.

She kept chewing, before opening her mouth again, “I mean she didn’t come home last night either. Maybe she won’t tonight.” She shrugged.

“Oh.”

Bryce felt his heart go up into his throat — he did his best to keep it down. She hadn’t come home last night — the night she went to see Ethan.

He didn’t want to jump to conclusions. And he didn’t have any right to. He had been through this. Over and over and over and over. Hell, he had told the guy to stop fucking it up with her already. To do something about it.

So why did he still feel this way?

A couple hours later he was wedged onto the sectional — his coffee-colored eyes glazed over as they huddled around the television. Elijah was talking animatedly about Battlestar Galactica but only Sienna was really showing an interest.

The rattle of keys in the front door caused his ears to perk up, and he watched as Jordynne slid in through the front door. He was like a dog waiting for his owner to come home — Bryce practically jumped up off of the couch.

She gave them a tired smile and a quiet “hey” as she pulled her messenger bag over her head. Using her toes, she kicked off her shoes.

“Hey,” The group called back in unison. Sienna grabbed the remote from Elijah’s lap and paused the show.

“How’s Dr. Banerji?!” Elijah asked — his brown eyes wide.

Right — Dr. Banerji. God, how selfish was he being? A man was on his death bed and he was consumed in his own thoughts of him and Jordynne and her with Ethan.

“It’s hard to tell. Ethan did the phage therapy. Now we just wait.” She shrugged — she looked exhausted.

“You didn’t stay?” Jackie asked — the question seemed double-edged.

Jordynne bit down on her bottom lip, “They needed some time. And I still haven’t prepared for the hearing.”

Her blue eyes found Bryce’s dark ones — he hesitated as she stared at him. They studied each other for a moment, before he coughed, “Well, I can help you prep for it.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’m sure you have better things to do.”

Bryce shook his head, “Then make sure you get to stay at Edenbrook? No way.”

She smiled — but it looked forced. The edges of it faltered before she turned towards the kitchen. “Chinese food? Yum! Can I have some?” Her voice sounded a little higher than usual.

“Yeah, help yourself, Jordy.” Elijah waved, craning his neck to look back at her. He and Sienna shared a look — they were just as concerned as he was.

“Well, I’m dipping out. No more Number Six for me guys. Do you need help with the prep Holland?” Jackie asked, her arms crossed over her torso.

Jordynne finished swallowing a mouthful of noodles, “No that’s okay. Those old cases you sent me are more than enough. Thanks.”

“Cool. See you tomorrow.” She turned on her heel and headed to her bedroom. Bryce watched Jordynne’s face fall again before she dipped her face to continue to eat.

“We can watch the rest of the show in E’s room — so you can study out here.” Sienna reached for the remote — but Jordynne cut her off.

“Oh my gosh, no, please. I’ve ruined enough evenings for you guys as is. I will study in my room.” She placed her bowl in the sink, padding towards her room. “Seriously, I love you guys.” She smiled back at them before slipping into her bedroom.

She left the door ajar.

“Thanks for the Chinese food guys. I’ll transfer you money tomorrow.” Bryce said, still standing in the middle of the living room.

“Sure man, no worries.” Elijah nodded — a kind but sad smile on his face.

Taking a breath, Bryce headed over to her bedroom — knocking on the open door.

“Hey,” Jordynne turned around from her dresser —  a binder in her hands. “Thanks for offering to help — you don’t have to you know.”

“I know.” He said, carefully stepping into the room. “I want to.”

She shuffled through a large stack of papers — they were highlighted and flagged in organized chaos. “So I’ve reviewed all these previous ethics hearing and I thought maybe you could listen to what I have prepared and —,”

“Jordy?” He tried to get her attention but she kept mumbling on.

“And then maybe you can just help me sound more confident? You’re good at that so if —“

“Jordynne.” He stepped forward, putting his hands on either shoulder. “Breathe.”

She let out a breathy laugh, “Right, yeah.”

The pair sat on the edge of her bed — the mattress sinking at the weight.

“How are you?”

“Well, Naveen is stable so that’s better and as long as I—“

But he interrupted, “No, Jordynne. How are you?”

“I’m alright.” She sighed, “Tired. And nervous. You?”

“I’m okay,” He whispered, putting on a smile. “How’s Ethan?” Her face twisted with surprise at the mention of his name. “I’m sure this has been just as hard for him. Especially with Dr. Banerji.”

“Right — yeah, he’s come to terms with a lot of things. But he’s okay.”

“I saw him — a couple nights ago,” He admitted. “He was a mess, honestly. I’m glad it sounds like he’s doing better.”

“Me too.” She agreed, but her voice was quiet.

They sat in silence for a moment — side by side, legs just barely touching.

“Are you sure you want me here?” Bryce asked — his brown eyes big as he looked over to her.

She met his eyes — searching them, “Yeah. Yeah — I do.”

“Then this is where I’ll be.” He settled into the mattress, folding his hands onto his stomach, “Let's hear this speech, Jordy.”

She nodded with a small smile, “Okay.” She grabbed onto one of the pieces of paper and settled in next to him. _______________________________________________________________________

Bryce sat in the tight auditorium chair — his green scrubs riding up uncomfortably. Most of the hospital staff had packed themselves into the space — nobody had wanted to miss this.

Jordynne was standing up front — her face and demeanor calm as she listened to the panelists. She looked amazing — wearing a crisp, white suit that accentuated her long legs and tan skin. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail.

They had just returned from the recess — after Mrs. Martinez’s son showed up and surprised everyone by thanking Jordynne for what she had done.

“Dr. Holland, you stand accused of not just breaking Edenbrook’s policies, but the Hippocratic Oath.”

“First, ‘do no harm’. You broke your vow as a doctor.” Dr. Cyrus chimed in.

“I don’t believe I did,” Jordynne stated.

“I see. Might I ask, what you think it means to be a doctor then?” Bryce’s surgical attending asked.

“What it means to be a doctor? It means fighting the inevitable,” Her green eyes searched the crowd as she said it. Bryce couldn’t see who -- but he didn’t need to see in order to know who she was looking for.  “They say that as doctors, we’re just buying time. We all die eventually. But time isn’t always what we need. Mrs. Martinez would’ve rather spent 10 days doing what she loved than 10 years cooped up here. Since we all lose that fight eventually... I’m gonna fight to make sure my patients fight on their own terms.”

The crowd burst into applause. That was the speech that they had practiced all night. And that was the best version yet. 

“I have one last question, Dr. Holland? Do you regret what you have done?”

“I regret the pain I’ve caused.” She turned to Mr. Martinez, sitting next to Ethan Ramsey — apparently, that was his doing. “I regret all the pain I caused Mrs. Martinez’s family. I regret causing problems for my colleagues and mentors.” She looked over to their group, meeting their eyes. “But I do not regret what I was able to do for Mrs. Martinez. To me, it’s worth everything. Maybe even my career.” She shrugged, pursing her lips into a serious line.

“And there we have it! Dr. Holland knowingly broke the rules and would do it again! I move that we stop wasting time and call a vote!” Dr. Cyrus slammed his hand onto the table.

“Seconded. The seven panelists will now vote whether to revoke Dr. Holland’s privileges at Edenbrook.” Chief emery said.

“Here we go...” Kyra whispered into Bryce’s ear, holding onto his forearm tightly.

“You weren’t going to start without me, were you?”

Shock buzzed throughout the room as Dr. Banerji walked slowly into the room — aided by both a cane and Landry. Gasps and whispers filled the room.

“Dr— Dr. Banerji?!” Jordynne looked as confused as the rest of them, and she rushed over to him walking down the stairs.

“Sorry for the wait! Once he woke up, I got him here as fast as I could.” Landry’s curls were disheveled and his scrubs wrinkly.

Bryce craned his neck to find Ethan — Naveen had paused beside him — shaking his hand vigorously. Ethan‘s mouth was spread into a tight-lipped smile.

“Naveen, what are you doing here?” Chief Emery stood you from her spot in confusion, “You said you were retiring.”

The old man barked a laugh as he took the stairs one at a time, “What I should have said was expiring. Until yesterday, I was on the verge of death. Sepsis of unknown origin. Unknown, that is, until Dr. Holland gave up her last day to prepare for this hearing by solving my case.” Letting out a loud breath, he smiled as he reached the panelists. “Now then, I believe that seat still has my name on it.”

“Cyrus! Stop this!” Declan spat, his eyes ablaze.

“That’s uh, fantastic news, Dr. Banerji, but I’m afraid it’s too late for you to vote. Procedure and all…” The man didn’t sound very sure of himself.

“You were never a good liar, Cyrus.” Naveen patted him on the back before taking his seat. Letting out a happy sigh, he spoke again, “Now then. Given the circumstances of my resurrection, I think we all know what I’m about to say. That’s going to be a ‘nay’ from me.” He said, winking up at Jordynne.

Three more panelists continued to vote ‘nay’ — including Bryce’s surgical attending. It made his heart leap with pride at his department.

The voting paused on Chief Emery — who looked around the room trying to find someone. Then she focused back on Jordynne. “Dr. Holland, you’ve proven you’re someone who focuses as much on what a patient wants as what their body needs…But we’re not here to save bodies. We are here to save lives. I vote nay.”

Jordynne’s mouth opens in surprise, her green eyes wide as she stared back at the panel. “Oh my god. I get to stay?!”

As the crowd began to buzz with excitement, the other panelists voted ‘nay’ — following those before them no matter what they have originally felt.

“Hell yeah! Unanimous MVP!” Bryce cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting in the auditorium. His shout broke the crowd and everyone broke into applause. A smile broke out across Jordynne’s face as she watched everyone celebrate. He watched as her eyes searched the room — he knew who she was trying to find. It didn’t matter — she did it. That’s all that mattered.

Everyone around them began to stand up — chatting excitedly with each other about the outcome. The crowd became suddenly thick — and Bryce and his friends had to try and fight their way throughout it in order to get to Jordynne.

But he stopped when he saw her — smiling up at Ethan, who was holding onto her elbow gently. Probably the most they could get away with considering their setting. Bryce gulped, grabbing onto the back of Elijah’s chair, “Come on. We’ll meet her outside guys.” _______________________________________________________________________

Bryce sat on the metal bench outside of the sandwich shop next to Donahue’s — his skin blushing red from the cold wind. He had just needed a break.

He loved a celebration as much as the next guy. Hell, probably way more than the next guy. All of them had needed this — needed a win.

But it was all becoming too intoxicating — and he wasn’t talking about the liquor. Dancing with Jordynne and laughing with her and singing with her. All he had wanted to do was to reach down and kiss her — but he wasn’t supposed to do that. Was he? They had never said.

Lost in his own thoughts, Bryce blinked himself back to reality at the sound of a car door closing. He froze all over as he watched Ethan step over the curb. He watched as the well-dressed man locked his car over his shoulder without even looking.

Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me.

He let out a breath as the ex-Attending glided by the bench without a second glance. Ramsey was fiddling with the strap of his watch as he walked by — he seemed nervous.

Craning his head to continue watching, Bryce’s eyebrows furrowed as the man stopped in his tracks.

“Dr. Olsen.” He had stopped to greet Landry as he exited the bar. Bryce had noticed him slinking around the bar, chancing glances around the room trying to get their attention. He must’ve finally given up.

“I — uh, Dr. Ramsey. Sir, good evening.” God, he was such a kiss ass.

“Save it, Snake.”

Bryce’s ears perked up as Ethan’s voice turned into a growl.

“Wh—what?” Landry asked in confusion until suddenly there was a scuffle of movement. Ethan had grabbed Landry by his collar — shuffling him into the little alley next to the bar.

Ethan pressed him up against the brick wall, his voice low and rough, “I’ll start things off pleasantly. You were apart of saving Dr. Banerji — I can’t deny that. But that is the only reason you don’t have a broken nose right now.”

Landry’s blue eyes were wide, his face completely pale, “I don’t underst—“

“You think I don’t know? The role you played in all of this? The lives you put at risk you petty shit.” He spat his words like venom.

“I — I did what I had to! For the competition! To be the best doctor I could be. To be like —to be like you.”

“That is not the kind of Doctor that I am.” Ethan snarled. “You wanted me to know your name, Olsen? Oh, I know it now kid. It’s blacklisted now.”

“I’m— I’m,” He stammered, “I’m transferring to Mass Kenmore. I won’t be—“

“I know you are. Who do you think got you in? You think Dr. Simmons would take you if I hadn’t have called her?”

Bryce could still see Landry gulp — even from his bench.

“If I see you anywhere near Dr. Holland again, you will be answering to me. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” Landry nodded profusely.

Ethan finally let go of his collar — stepping away and wiping his hand on his trousers. Like he didn’t want any essence of Dr. Olsen lingering on him.

“You’ll never be a doctor like her, Olsen.” Ethan’s jaw set in a hard line before he shoved his hands in his pockets and marched into Donahue’s without a backward glance.

Bryce watched as Landry attempted to collect himself in the alley. A part of him wished it was him instead of Ethan telling him exactly what he deserved to hear — but he was just glad it happened regardless.

He waited a moment — not wanting to follow either of those two men. Before he could move though a figure walked towards him.

Jackie slid into the spot next to him — still clutching her drink. Bryce’s mouth turned into a frown as she pulled out a cigarette from the pocket of her leather jacket.

She rolled her eyes, “What? I do it like once a year, okay?”

“Some doctor...” He coughed, shaking his head.

“Look I know I shouldn’t I just —“

He put his hands up, “Do whatever you want. But when I see you in 5 years on the OR table because your lungs have tumors don’t complain.”

“Like I’d let you put me under the knife Lahela.” She scoffed with a smile.

“Gimme some of that,” He pointed at her drink. She put it out for him to grab.

Just as he took a swig he watched as a pair stumbled out of the bar — the music from inside getting louder as the sound poured out of the building. He swallowed the liquid down hard — the straight vodka burning down his throat.

“Dr. Holland and I are just dropping by the hospital for some paperwork, that’s all.” He heard the familiar voice — the one he has just heard threatening Landry in the alley. But it was softer now.  

Then he heard her laugh — Jordynne’s laugh. It was music to his ears — but it twisted his stomach that it wasn’t because of him. “You are so bad at being subtle.” She squeezed Ethan’s arm, as they walked away from the bar.

“What are you talking about? I played that extremely well.” He smirked at her, grabbing her hand from his shoulder and holding it with his— pulling her further down the sidewalk and away from the bar. Bryce and Jackie sat in silence — watching the scene unfold.

Ethan stepped out off the curb, waving down a cab for the pair of them. With mixed feelings, Bryce watched as he opened the yellow door for her — his hand on her waist as he helped her inside. 

Bryce took a large gulp of the drink as Jordynne reached up from sitting in the cab — straining her neck as she kissed the well-dressed, scruffy Attending.  Averting his eyes, he looked down into the glass and into the clear liquid.

Once he heard the cab pull away he looked up. Jackie was watching him carefully — studying him as she took the final drags of her cigarette.

“Well looks like Holland’s off for a good time.”

He let out a quiet sigh, “I guess so.”

“Sorry, Lahela.”

He gulped, “Why?”

“‘Cause — ‘cause I know how you feel.”

He waited for her to speak again.

“How you feel watching Jordynne and Dr. Ramsey... That’s how I feel when I watch her with you. And Dr. Terminator now too.” She put her cigarette out on the metal bench — playing with it in her fingers.

“I — I had no idea.”

“Yeah, well — it’s hard to not wanna be with her. She’s —“

“Something else.” He finished for her.

Jackie nodded in agreement— her eyes falling down to the sidewalk. “ I fucked it up. I felt jealous and intimidated and then the competition...”

“That was hard for both of you. I know — I know Jordynne had a hard time with all of that,” He remembered the many venting sessions they had at the coffee machine, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not telling you this for sympathy. I’m telling you this because — Just don’t give up on it. Not yet.”

“I wasn’t—“

“It’s you, Lahela. It’s always been you. Since day one.” She finally looked up and met his eyes, “Just don’t give up.”

“Okay.” He nodded, “Okay.”

_______________________________________________________________________

“Thank you all for coming. I just have a few short announcements.”

Jordynne quickened her pace as she stepped into the atrium, not wanting to miss the first announcement. But her steps faltered as she passed Ethan.

“Dr. Holland,” He nodded — avoiding her eyes.

“Dr. Ramsey,” She replied politely — waiting for him to move first. She watched as he moved to the side of the crowd — staying near the back and out of the way.

Weaving her way through the crowd, Jordynne looked for her friends. She sidled up next to them, bumping her hip into Bryce’s as a greeting. He looked down at her and gave her his classic megawatt smile.

"Are you seriously late on your first day again?” Jackie asked, rolling her eyes.

“Sorry, had to resuscitate a guy in the waiting room.” She smirked, shrugging her shoulders.

“You get to have all the fun.” Bryce winked at her. Jordynne gulped at the action.

Harper waited for the crowd to settle down before speaking up once more, “I’d like to thank you for all your support and service during my year as hospital chief… But after much deliberation, I have decided to step down, to return to my previous post as head of neurosurgery.”

The crowd of hospital staff immediately began whispering to each other in shock.

“Are you kidding me?! I get to do surgeries with Harper Emery all the time now. I am blessed. ˆ” Bryce whispered into Jordynne’s ear — the sensation made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Was he wearing new cologne too? He smelled different.

“Thank you all, “ Harper continued, “I’m eager to get back in my scrubs, and I couldn’t do it without someone very qualified to hand the reins to. Please welcome to our new chief of medicine, Naveen Banerji.”

The crowd cheered and applauded as the old man approached stood beside Emery. His cane was still clutched in his hand. Jordynne craned her neck to look behind her — searching for Ethan. Did he know about this? Gauging from the stunned look on her face, she would say no.

Naveen smiled out at the crowd, “As many of you now know, my health has taken a recent turn. It has required me to step away from the busy caseload of my diagnostics team. But I am leaving it in the very capable hands of Dr. Ramsey.”

The crowd redirected their attention to Dr. Ramsey, hiding at the back of the crowd. His arms uncrossed from his body, his shoulder raising up, “Wait, what? What the hell is happening?”

“Have a good day everybody!” Naveen said cheerfully, dismissing the crowd before he could say anything else.

Ethan marched towards the pair, causing Jordynne to pause. She watched him for a moment, hearing his words echo throughout the atrium. “Administration. Naveen? Really? You hate administrators.”

“Hey, I’ll be right back okay?” Jordynne whispered, heading over to the trio — leaving her friends who were walking towards the elevators. “I’ll meet you upstairs,” She said reassuringly at Bryce who had hesitated.

Naveen barked out a laugh, “No, my friend. You do. But now that I am one, I’m sure you and I can strike a balance.”

“Ha! Good luck with that one, Naveen.” Harper remarked, turning on her heel and strutting away.

The new chief turned to go with her, before pausing and looking over his shoulder, “Oh, and Ethan! This will leave an open spot on the team after all. And I think I know who I want to take it.” Naveen raised his eyebrow for a moment, before gesturing to Jordynne who was standing close by.

Jordynne moved closer, pointing at herself, “Me? Wow, it’s such an honor.”

Naveen’s smile grew as he looked at her, holding out his hand as he patted her on the shoulder, “It’s not an honor, Dr. Holland. It’s an opportunity. One I think you’ll shine in.”

She looked at Ethan next to her — his mouth was hanging open in surprise.

“Holland? But… she… I…” He stammered, unable to get any words out.

“You don’t think she’s proven herself worthy to train on the team?” He raised his eyebrows in question.

“Of course she has. But we —“

Naveen interrupted him, “Excellent. It's settled then. Dr. Holland will spend her second year as the junior fellow on the diagnostics team… with you as her direct supervisor.” His eyes moved from Ethan’s shellshocked face to the newly promoted intern, “Congratulations, Jordynne. You earned it.”

Jordynne swallowed, offering a smile to Naveen before turning to face Ethan. He was standing with his arms dangling at his sides. She could almost hear the gears turning in his head. This is what a lot more complicated than anything they could have imagined.

“So, um… how do we deal with this?” Jordynne pulled on her ponytail nervously.

His blue eyes studied her face, stopping momentarily on her lips, “We make it work. What matters is the patients. Right?”

“Right.” She nodded. It sounded like they were trying to convince themselves more than anything.

Ethan stared at her for a moment longer, before scratching his head. “Well then. Get to work, Rookie.” His voice returning to the cold, Attending she had met on her first day.

“Yes, Doctor.” She nodded, adjusting her ponytail one more time before turning on her heel. She licked her lips as she headed towards the elevator, trying to contain the thousands of thoughts whirling through her head.

But she was brought back to reality as she heard her name called. Looking up she saw Bryce standing in front of the elevators, his smile still plastered on his face. “You good, Jordy?”

He had waited for her. Of course, he had.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” She lied, stepping onto the elevator with him. “It’s all good.” She gulped, holding onto the railing.

Residency: Second Chances 

[frischkasekuchen]

Carrie Au(Death of Margaret White)

Part 1

Part 2

Credits:

Verse provided by the Good News Bible

Hetalia- Hidekaz Himaruya

Dreamtalia, its characters that were used and Nevo- Kyokyo866

Vanya(Mentioned)- thriftlita

Carrie- Stephen King

Warning:

Religious abuse/themes/trauma

Child abuse

Blood

Beheading/Decapitation

Knives

Minor swearing

Self-Loathing

Starring:

World(Nicholas) and Reve as Carrie White

Nevo’ nik(Nathan) as Margaret White

The girl hurried back at once to the king and demanded, “I want you to give me here and now the head of John the Baptist on a plate!”  

This made the king very sad, but he could not refuse her because of the vows he had made in front of all his guests. So he sent off a guard at once with the orders to bring John’s head. The guard left, went to the prison, and cut off John’s head; then he brought it on a plate and gave it to the girl, who gave it to her mother. When John’s disciples heard about this, they came and got his body, and buried it.

(Mark 6, 25:29)

Reve and Nicholas finally arrived in his quaint neighborhood, the only place free of the stink of smoke. The two trekked down the sidewalk together in silence once more. The blood covering them had begun to go cold, making them shiver.

From what Nicholas could see his father was still awake. Flickering light was pouring out of the house, and everything got warmer the closer they got.

When they entered the house, it was almost covered head to toe in lit candles. Nicholas had Reve hoist his skirt up as not to light it afire. 

Nicholas led Reve into the bathroom and began to run some hot water. He then turned to Reve, who was quietly sniffling while clenching balls of the dress’ bloodied fabric. Nicholas patted Reve’s shoulder to get his attention. Reve’s head perked up, it was hard to see, but he was crying.

“Hey, could you sit down for me?” Nicholas asked.

Reve obediently slumped to the floor, twiddling his thumbs. Nicholas joined him on the floor and an arm around him. He began to sing:

 My soul longs after you

As the deer panteth for the water

You alone are my hearts desire

And I long to worship thee, 

Reve gradually began to sing along, albeit softly.

You alone are my strength

My shield,

For you alone does my spirit-

Nicholas stopped singing abruptly as Reve sang along.

Reve asked, “Is something wrong?”

“I should be asking you that!” Nicholas replied.

“Whaddya mean?”

“You’ve been quiet since- you know! I know this might be a stupid question; but are you okay?” Nicholas asked hesitantly.

Reve twitched, “I’ve turned us into monsters! I killed Ludwig and-and you killed a lotta people! If I hadn’t brought you up onstage- maybe I could’ve saved lives.” 

Nicholas cringed and stared at the reflective wall, he wasn’t wrong. He looked at his reflection, dyed in blood to the point it looked like red skin, like a demon.

“I can’t go back home! The police will come after us- we’re gonna go to prison!” Reve nails began to grow out once more as his breathing quickened. 

Nicholas had to remedy this situation and swiftly, lest his father make a fuss. Nicholas cradled  Reve’s head in his hands and pushed him to his chest, letting him listen to the sound of his heartbeat. Nicholas gently ran his fingers through Reve’s bloody and tangled hair. 

Reve’s breathing seemed to slow down gradually by the sound of Nicholas’ heartbeat. Even now, at eighteen years old, something as simple as a heartbeat soothed him. Reve being childlike and carefree was something Nicholas always liked about him. Yes, the boy was well aware of vulgar subjects but was surprisingly innocent. 

When they first met, Nicholas swore he was an angel. The unwarranted kindness, porcelain skin and white hair- Nicholas thought Luciano had finally killed him that day. From that point on both the boy and his father called Reve a heaven-spawn.

“Nicky?”

“Yes?”

“The bath’s overflowing.”

“Fuck-”

--------

Nicholas sent Reve upstairs to get a nightgown after they’d cleaned up. Unlike Reve, Nicholas always had a change of clothes in the bathroom. Nicholas let out a sigh of relief as Reve seemed to be finally calming down. All he had to do now was replenish himself. 

When Reve dressed himself, he gave himself a good look in the mirror. Clean, but still a murderer.

‘I’m not a monster.’

‘You didn’t have to kill him- y’know. He asked you out, offered you dinner, gave you a kiss- and this is how you repay him?’

‘I’m not a monster.’

‘You have no self-control.’

‘I’m not a monster.’

‘He had a family, people who’ll miss him and you killed him.’

Reve began crying again, holding himself up on the dresser and watched as his tears fell onto the dresser. 

‘You absolute turd, Luciano was right and you know it.’

Reve gasped as he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around to see it was Nicholas’ father.

“Why are you crying dear boy? Had your heart broken?” Nathan asked, rubbing Reve’s shoulder.

‘No you didn’t. You fucking killed him you shit stain-’

Reve nodded wordlessly.

Without even offering, Nathan embraced Reve. “Don’t worry about it, happens to the best of us.”

Reve didn’t like Nathan, not one bit, but he needed someone- anyone to hold him. Reve hugged him back and muffled his sobs into his chest. 

He sat down Reve on the bed and said, “I have to go downstairs for something all right? Then you can tell me what happened.”

Nathan left Reve alone in Nicholas’ bedroom, he knew what he had to do.

--------

Nicholas was helping himself to some strips of bacon in the kitchen. He heard footsteps coming down the stairs. 

Nicholas peeked outside the doorway to see Nathan, with an arm up his sleeve.

Nicholas shot him daggers, “What do you want?”

“My sweet boy, my own flesh and blood. I should’ve killed you earlier.” Nathan purred, approaching Nicholas.

Nicholas backed away in both paranoia and confusion, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I was weak, and let the raven loose on the world. I let you loose on the world.” Nathan pulled out a dry and crumpled wash cloth from under his sleeve.

“I thought my teachings would fix you. But you let the blood in that demon’s eyes lure you away from the light with its scent, you dog.” he growled.

“We’ve been over this! Vanya isn’t a demon, he’s an angel if anything!” Nicholas barked back. 

“YOU’RE THE DEMON, YOU’RE THE DOG!”

Nathan cackled, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a knife.

‘Mama’s butcher knife-’ Nicholas thought to himself, before pinning Nathan to a wall from afar.

“Let me go Nicholas, this is the only way He can save you!” he cooed.

Nicholas dropped Nathan as he lost focus in fear, his knees unfortunately gave in as well. The exhaustion had finally caught up to him. No matter the situation, even with these powers, his father always struck fear into him- he always had control.

“REVE- REVE HELP!” Nicholas screamed as Nathan was getting much closer to him by the second.

Nathan soon had Nicholas backed up against the stove, trapping him in a corner. Luckily the cavalry had arrived, and knocked Nathan over. Nathan dropped the cleaver in the scuffle.

“BOY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Nathan said he squirmed under Reve’s weight.

Reve pulled Nathan up to his feet, only to grab him by his hair and slam him against a nearby cupboard. 

They both pulled and clawed at each other’s hair, slamming each other into walls. Reve took the initiative not to kill Nathan, just to lock him away. Reve let out a inhuman screech once more when Nathan nearly tore his hair from his scalp. Nathan had to cover his ears, forcing himself to let go of Reve. 

Reve grabbed a nearby broom and tripped Nathan over causing him to fall on his stomach. As Nathan tried to stand up, Reve picked him up by his ankles and began dragging him. 

“LET ME GO!” he screeched hoarsely.

Reve surveyed the house for a place to isolate Nathan, and a certain room caught his eye.

‘The prayer closet!’ Reve thought to himself as he struggled with Nathan’s legs trying to kick him. Reve reluctantly released one of Nathan’s ankles to open the door. As Reve opened it, Nathan tackled Reve and accidentally closed the door behind them.

Nicholas picked up the cleaver before going to investigate. He held out the knife, so if Nathan jumped out at him he’d be injured. 

Nicholas stood in front of the confessional’s door as he heard something fall and thud against the door. The boy cautiously opened the door and felt something warm at his feet. 

He peered to see it was a head, Nathan’s bleeding head. 

Nicholas looked back up to see his father’s headless carcass, slouched on top of Reve’s body.

Reve was sobbing, wheezing:

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”  

(Author’s Note: The thing Nevo is talking about-the blood eye thing? I decided keeping Vanya’s eyes red and having Nevo deem him a demon to further demonstrate Margaret’s worldview. While keeping Reve’s white hair and have World and Nevo assume he’s an angel. A lot of Nevo’s dialogue is based on Margaret’s strange and twisted version of Christianity/the Bible; with calling men dogs lured in by the scent of blood(period), saying Eve was weak and let the raven(sin) loose on the world. But in this case, Adam(Nevo) was weak and let the raven(World) loose on the world(The Prom). Also the reason why I made both Nevo and World the White household is due to their God-complexes. The use of growling and barking is based on Margaret's belief that men are dogs.)

[alstanfordart]

Surprise

Story under cut. Usual warnings.

"C'mon, get these," Liam orders as he tosses a bundle of white taper candles and holders at Josh, who fumbles as he catches them. "These will have to do. I ain't driving down to Bangor now. And these are the only ones they got."

They were in the candles and fragrance section of Rite-Aid. Standing beside them is Josh's younger sister Christie, decked out in a dark green crop top, denim jacket and skirt, chewing loudly on Skittles candies she boldly ripped open in front of a store employee sweeping the floor. The gangly young man had simply shrugged and kept moving along the aisle, pushing the wrinkled scraps of wrappers and dirt crumbs along the stained and scratched cream tiles.

It was Halloween night, and everyone else was out trick or treating or partying, so the store was almost empty.

"Shouldn't we use black candles? That's what they usually use, right?" Christie pipes up, tucking a tendril of wavy blonde behind her ear.

"They don't have them here, and I don't think we need them." Josh replies as a spiked-haired young man with a septum piercing and cartoonish-looking tattoos emerges from the snacks aisle with three bags of pretzels piled high in his arms.

"Someone's gettin' high tonight." Liam mutters, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his leather jacket as they watch the young man pay the cashier and exit.

"Hey where's Lucas?" Josh queries. "Thought he was coming?"

"Stuck at his girlfriend's. She goes to church and all that and thinks we're all a bunch of heathens." Liam grins, his neck-length greasy hair tumbling over his dark sunken eyes as he continues to scan the shelf, before blowing a sigh throw his nostrils.

"Hope he don't make that uptight bitch my sister-in-law. Would hate to see her every fucking holiday," he pauses. "Yeah, we're done here." he announces as he gives a quick flick of his hand, scarred with cigarette burns, motioning for Josh and Christie to follow him.

As a song by New Kids On The Block starts blaring over the store speakers, Liam sends a taunting grin at Christie as he begins a comical flailing of his limbs in the aisle, weaving his lanky frame, trying to mimic the dance moves of the boy banders.

"Hey, I'm Joey McIntyre. Ain't you into them Christie?" he says as he starts to snap his fingers as he does a shuffle up to her. With a disgusted visage, Christie sticks her palm out, blocking him from coming closer.

"God no," she says, her face looking as if she'd just taken a whiff of the worst-smelling garbage imaginable. "Fucking Greta Keene listens to that shit. Not me."

Greta had taken to hanging out front of Derry Middle School, waiting for Christie, and along with Sally Mueller, started chucking rolled up paper balls, juice boxes and empty soda cans at her as she passed by. She'd been a target since she'd walked in on them tormenting a girl named Beverly Marsh and promptly cussed them out. They then began targeting her. It had become a ritual at this point.

Liam halts his dancing, his mien dropping to a more serious one. "C'mon man." he says, sniffling loudly, running his left index along the thin black mustache that aged him at least ten years. He didn't look like a young man of eighteen, but rather a thirty year old you might see working Derry's seedy bar scene. Compared to Josh's more boyish, youthful appearance with his short dirty blonde hair, stonewashed jeans and Derry High School jacket, they made an odd match in terms of friends.

The young cashier looks nervous as the three approach, with Liam digging into the back pocket of his trousers, presenting some wrinkled up dollar bills and loose change.

"Hey, got money tonight man," Liam gives a leering grin to the cashier, whose cheeks are now flushed a light pink. He nods rapidly as he quickly takes the money from Liam, snatching it from his palm as if worried he might contract a disease by touch.

"See ya'," Liam continues his lurid grinning as he makes a finger gun with his hand, pointing it at the timid cashier, clicking his tongue. "Later dude."

After all three pile into Liam's red Pontiac Firebird, Josh tosses the plastic bag of candles into the backseat beside Christie. As they cruise along Kansas Street. Josh snaps on the radio, with Liam loudly belting out the lyrics as Josh cranks up the volume.

"You're motoring, what's your price for flight, in finding mister right, you'll be alright tonight!" he sings in an deep, exaggerated intonation, sending glances back at Christie over his shoulder. She loudly groans as she slinks down against the backseat.

"Why do you always have to be such a dick?" she sighs as she gazes out at the street lights blurring past. She huffs, folding her arms as he continues his taunting crooning, turning in his seat to face her, placing a hand dramatically over his heart.

"Babe, you know, you're growing up so fast, and mama's worrying-"

"No she ain't." Christie sternly cuts in, pushing the plastic bag aside as she shuffles in her seat, kicking the empty beer cans along the tacky floor with the toe of her sneakers. The odor inside the car nauseating her with what she suspected was a combination of weed and vomit.

They pass by a bar with patrons loitering outside. She points.

"Ma is probably in there."

Their mother Melanie certainly wasn't worrying about anything or anyone other than her next lay.

"I hate that fucking song." she adds.

Liam abruptly stops his warbling as they come to a stop in front of their destination; 29 Neibolt Street.

"Ah, fuck yeah!" Liam hits the breaks and leaps out, making his way to the trunk. Throwing it open, he removes a large heavy item, wrapped in a grimey brown cloth, along with a couple of flashlights. Slamming the hood, he approaches Josh and Christie.

"Here it is. It's big enough. We're gonna do this, man. And it's gonna be fuckin' cool!" he exclaims excitedly as he pounces towards the front door of the run-down mansion, long rumored to be a haven for every tweaker in town.

As well as ghosts and the occasional Satanist-a crowd that Liam ran with. It was his idea to come to the most infamous house in Derry to perform a seance. They'd let Christie tag along for the ride.

As Josh duly follows. Christie pauses, holding the plastic bag of candles, staring up at the circular attic window. She remains there, her hazel disks focused on the tenebrous just within the foggy and cracked glass.

She gazes over at the police tape draped along the wrought iron fence that had been torn, a sign that others had trespassed along the property.

"What a shithole." she mumbles beneath her breath.

A pair of large hands violently shove her forward. She nearly falls over, catching herself against the wooden beam of the porch, feeling a pinch against her thumb as a splinter pricks her skin.

"Ow, shit." she gasps as she whirls around, certain that asshole Liam or Josh were pranking her.

But no one.

She quickly runs inside, trying to work the splinter from her flesh, a tear of red blood forms, pushing it out.

"Someone just pushed me," she says as she shuts the rickety old door behind her, trading her gaze between her brother and his friend, trying to decide who was the culprit. She drops the plastic bag to her feet as she snatches up a flashlight, shining it on her finger.

"Maybe it was the ghost!" Liam cackles, his jeering grin a hint that maybe it had been him. Christie glowers at him.

"It's not funny. Someone came up behind me-"

"You just tripped," Josh interjects dismissively. "We were both in here. Liam was with me."

"Yeah," Liam agrees as he switches on his flashlight, aiming it at his face. "I told, you it was the ghost. This place is haunted like a motherfucker. You know by that piano teacher."

"Edna Cotton?" Josh inquires.

"Yep, lived here around 1906," Liam continues, "She was banging Joseph Mueller. He wouldn't leave his wife. So, one day, she invited his wife here for tea- and the wife had no clue about the affair- and then she crept up behind her with an axe and pow!" he swings his arms as if holding an invisible weapon. "Blade went into the back of wifey's skull. They found Edna wondering the streets afterwards, covered in blood. They hanged her a week later. They had to do it quick, since they were afraid the Mueller wife's family and friends would get to her first. "

"Wow." Christie says, her arms scissored around her, feeling a stark chill suddenly pulse through her, goosebumps prickling along her skin. The mention of the Mueller name made her think of Sally.

She glances to the front door.

No, no ghost. Just Liam being a douchebag and tying to scare her. Maybe she did trip. Pushing it out of her mind, she moves to stand by Josh.

"Alright, let's do this," Liam positions himself before the cloaked item, yanking away the material to reveal a large oval-shaped mirror. He traces a callused fingertip along its golden frame. "Mirrors are portals. Gateways."

Josh snatches up the bag of candles and pulls out his lighter, igniting each and lining them up around the mirror. Christie lowers herself to sit on the icy floor.

"Think this will work huh?" Josh queries as he stares at his reflection. Liam nods, keeping his eyes glued to his own.

"Legend has it The Brotherhood of Nineteen used to hold seances here," Liam says. "They also used to do mirror gazing, trying to contact the dead. I read one of them went crazy after he stared at a mirror too long and his reflection morphed into something inhuman, a demonic pigman or something. Now close your eyes."

Liam starts to recite an incantation under his breath, but neither Josh nor Christie can decipher what he's saying. The room is quiet, dark, save for the soft light of the candles.

Christie decides to peek, opening her lids and watching, eyes widening as she sees a pitch black fog that resembles liquid start to spread along the mirror, drowning out their reflections. She inhales sharply at the unexpected sight.

The black fog quickly vanishes as she does so. Liam growls, "Hey what the fuck?"

"I saw something. In the mirror-"

"It was working? Dammit! Don't fuckin' talk! Shit!" Liam hisses as he gives her a murderous glare. Josh places a hand on Christie's shoulder.

"It's okay. Just keep them closed." he offers gently as Liam keeps his intense brown irises on her.

"Again." he states coldly as he turns back to face the mirror, and, once again, recites that indiscernible invocation. Christie keeps her lids squeezed shut. For a moment she heeds Liam's order. But something was telling her to open them again. A tension begins to envelope her tiny frame, her chest tightening, heart thumping against the tightness forming in her throat.

And she looks.

What she sees is not an inky fog cloud this time, but...a clown. Clear as day. His round face outlined by the golden of the candlelight. His pupils two flaming smooth yellow rings. His grin is trimmed in dark red stripes that cut across his white cheeks. The most startling thing of all are his teeth; sharp and pointy, like a demon out of the horror movies.

"Oh my God!" Christie shrieks as she scrambles away on her hands and knees, coming to a stop near the staircase.

"Fucking Hell!" Liam roars as he bolts up. "You can't take her anywhere! Fuck!"

"What is it?" Josh crawls over to his terrified sister, her gaze on the mirror, bottom lip trembling as she leans her weight against her palms. The weird clown face has vanished from the glass.

"There was something in the mirror. A face in the mirror. Like...a clown's face." Christie breathes, her voice dripping with panic, her chest heaving rapidly. Liam gives a disgusted scoff, his hands on his hips as he hangs his head, shaking it.

"Can't bring her anywhere," he grumbles. "A fucking clown? What the fuck even?"

Wham! Wham! Wham!

A pounding starts from beneath the floor. Continuous, growing louder. More ominous. Even Liam looks startled at this. Josh eyes the floorboards, eyebrows knotted as he wraps an arm around Christie.

"Sounds like it's coming from the basement." he offers.

"Gee, ya' think so huh?" Liam states sarcastically as he stares downwards for a fleeting moment before he grabs up a flashlight and storms towards the kitchen in the direction of the basement door. "Probably some fuckin' crackhead. If it is, they're going to get their ass beat. I'm not in the mood for this shit."

Josh follows, with Christie close behind, her finger clasping the hem of Josh's black and orange high school jacket. Liam and Josh both charge down the basement steps, flashlight beams searching along the dusty warped steps. They both pause halfway down to glance at the darkness, a runnel of moonlight is cutting through the cracked and stained basement window.

"Who the fuck is here man?" Liam shouts as he keeps the light pointedly on the well, holding his forearm against the lower half of his face to shield against the odor of rotting wood. There is no answer, only the aged pulley that dangles over the well entrance begins to squeak as it swings, ever so slightly.

"What is-" Josh begins before he's cut off by the basement door slamming. He and and Liam bolt back up the steps.

"Hey Christie, the fuck you doing? Open it," Josh pounds on the door. "Hey! Open!"

Then, in between flesh striking the wood, they hear it. A loud bubbling growl emitting from the dark of the basement corner. Josh halts his pounding as he and Liam both turn their attention on the well.

Rising up from beneath is a creature, humanoid in appearance, save for its face. Its features were only somewhat visible in the dim light of the room. The blue-white moonlight gleamed along the tusks protruding out from its snarled and twisted mouth. It gave another growl, a snarl mixed with a squeal.

Like a pig. Its eyes were like two burning balls above its snout, devoid of any pupils, pointedly on both of them. The odd ruby stripes down its cheeks distort as it continues to snarl.

"Shit, the fuck is that?" Josh manages, grabbing Liam's elbow. The young man remains frozen, seemingly hypnotized by the creature's blazing corneas. Josh violently shoves him aside to resume frantically banging on the door.

"Christie! Open it! There's something fuckin' in here man! Open it!" he shouts, not removing his sight from the pig-like monster. "Fuckin' open you little bitch!"

Suddenly, the beast is behind them, moving with lightning speed at the bottom of the steps. Liam screams as it yanks him down by the ankles, he flails backwards, landing with a loud thud and a groan.

The beast then speedily leaps up and tackles Josh, the front of his skull cracks against the door. He falls to the ground, with the beast's demonic swine features becoming more blurry as he's rendered barely conscious, he feels the bopping of his head along the steps as he is dragged down the stairs.

"Hello, goodbye." the monster growls before it tears into Josh's throat, with Liam still knocked cold beside him.

Outside the door, Christie is staring blankly at it, hearing nothing. Just a stark silence. Her mind is hollow. Numb.

Christie.

A maniacal giggle follows.

Christie.

Another giggle.

She slowly turns around, looking up to the second floor balcony. Without giving much thought to what she was doing, she saunters up the steps, still hearing a soft insidious giggling amid the creaks of her soles along the wood. She comes to a halt in front of an open door to a room filled with clown dolls.

In the corner is a dark-haired woman seated on a rocking chair, facing the stained glass windows. On her lap, one of the clown dolls wearing a yellow and blue outift, with orange pom poms down its front. Its large eyes were turned downwards, and for a fleeting moment, Christie could swear she sees it blink.

"He said he loved me." the woman offers quietly. Christie sucks in a deep breath, her mouth becoming dry, a thump thickens in her throat. Her heart races against her rib cage.

"Who?" Christie squeaks as the woman suddenly turns to look at her. Christie's heart now feels as if it could stop beating completely at the sight she sees.

The woman's face is but a half-skeleton, bits of flesh dangling from her chin, her eyelids non-existent, leaving her bloodshot eyeballs exposed like two small moons. Her irises like black holes. As she rises, the front of her dress comes into view, caked in dark dried blood.

"He said he wanted me!" she screams as she presents an axe, splattered with blood streaks. Christie screams hysterically, falling against the door as the woman comes at her. The giggling starts again, and Christie, to her utter shock and horror watches as the clown doll that was sitting on the woman's lap becomes animated, moving on its own. It painted features now drawn into an evil glare.

All the dolls in the room were moving, waving their hands and giggling. A chorus of laughter chases after Christie as she takes off down the hallway, the insane woman following behind. She can hear the axe cutting through the chilly air as the woman swings it at her, barely missing Christie's back.

She bounds down the stairs, almost stumbling, grasping the shoddy railing, cobwebs catching along her fingers. She runs to the front door, jiggling the handle, finding its stuck-or locked.

There's no time to comprehend which, the crazed woman is coming for her. Only now, she has red stripes down her cheeks along the rotted flesh and bone. Christie dodges the swinging axe, making a play back up the stairwell. Still in shock, she holds in another scream, concentrating on finding refuge, running inside a room with a large leather chair, desk with a single lamp that was aglow, vintage record player and coffee table.

Inside, after she has closed the door and locked it. She stands, tears coursing down her beet red cheeks, a headache throbbing through her skull. Her whole body is trembling uncontrollably as she sinks to the floor, holding her knees, rocking.

If she could get to Josh. Or even asshole Liam would do.

Somebody. Anybody.

She remains in the same position for a few minutes, sniffling, tense, as she keeps her attention on the door, until she hears a crackling sound as the old dusty record player begins to play;

'You're motoring, what's your price for flight, in finding mister right, you'll be alright tonight.'

When the verse plays a second time, the needle begins skipping, the phrase, "What's your price" repeating on a loop. Christie tightly covers her ears, tucking her head down.

"What's your price?" the man in the red truck asks Melanie, whose leaning against the door. They're in the driveway of Melanie's house, and it's just after midnight.

"Whatever you got-" Melanie says in between her loud gum chewing. The man then nods behind her.

"Hey, we got company." he mutters. Melanie turns to see Christie in her pale lavender nightgown, clutching her Raggedy Ann doll.

"Mommy...?"

"Get your ass back in bed!" Melanie roars as she stalks towards her, pushing her up the porch steps.

Christie darts up, screaming as she runs at the record player, knocking it to the ground, stomping the shiny black of the record, smashing and cracking it. She continues to angrily pummel it with her soles, kicking the pieces aside. Her fury does nothing to drown out the forest of giggles she hears as she does so.

"Who is there?" she asks forcefully, feeling a new strength come over her. Her anger, her fear, were now colliding, blending, erupting in a powerful adrenaline rush.

She was done with this crap.

"Who the fuck are you?! Where's my brother, you fuckers?!"

The voices quiet, hushing each other, trying to hold in their mocking cackling. The room is dark save for the tiny lamp, and the only thing she can make out are the feet of her assailants moving stealthily along the shadows of the corners of the room. Charily, they begin to present themselves, each clown doll stepping forward, each one different than the last, tall, short, inching out into the weak light. Their giggling starts up again.

"No," Christie gives a small shake of her head. "No, this isn't real. You're just a dream. You're the pizza and ice cream I gorged on last night. I must have fallen asleep in the car. Because this isn't real."

This instantly silences them. They all glance to each other, their worn and aged features almost looking...scared. Or worried.

"I wouldn't say that. You'll make him mad..." offers the one who was perched on the lap of the crazed woman with the axe.

She wasn't real either. Just a ghost. A junk food-induced hallucination.

Christie, the emotionally intelligent girl that she is, now decided to wield her new power.

"You're not real. You're not fucking real." she points a taunting finger. "You're just imaginary. Just stupid dolls. I'm not scared of fucking dolls!" she finishes, almost laughing as she brings her fingers up to her mouth.

The room then starts to rumble, like an earthquake. The dolls all clamor back to the shadows, seemingly disappearing into the ratted and torn wallpaper. One utters an audible, "Uh-oh," as they vanish from sight. Accompanying the thunderous shaking is a raspy roar, echoing around Christie as she runs to the room's door, flinging it open, instantly being met with the axe woman.

"You're not real!" Christie shouts defiantly, the woman shrinks back, lowering her axe. Christie takes the opportunity to then jump down the stairs, the edge of her sneaker catching on a piece of broken railing that is protruding from a step and tumbles, flying down the stairwell, landing at the bottom and rolling to the center of the living room. She remains there, until she opens her lids, feeling the warmth of the sun upon her color drained features. She gradually raises her head, before she pushes herself up and heads to the door. Stepping out in the brightness of daylight, embracing the warmth, she makes her way home, just a block away.

Standing in the bathroom of her bedroom, she observes her tired features.

It had been a dream. A very vivid one. But a dream nonetheless.

Josh and Liam had left her there clearly, not that Josh hadn't abandoned her before. He would normally not have done that, but Liam's influence was strong. Maybe when she passed out during that silly little seance Liam wanted to do. Or maybe in the car ride. But, didn't she see something? She could have sworn she did. In the mirror. Or was that part of the dream too?

Oh well. Whatever happened, she was home now. Josh would turn up sooner or later. He was probably off smoking weed with Liam.

Assholes. Both of them.

She switches on the tap, gently splashing her face with cold water. She opens the medicine cabinet to retrieve the aspirin. She shuts it, and in the reflection, standing right behind her are Josh and Liam. She screams as she takes in their bloody and chewed facial features, Liam grinning his mocking leering grin. Just as the aspirin bottle hits the floor, she jolts awake.

Awake. Cold. Head pounding as she lay on the floor of Neibolt at the bottom of the stairs. She groggily lifts her aching body up, moaning in pain, placing her palm to her forehead. She lets out a defeated whimper as she sits, gazing around as the oval mirror that still sat leaning against the wall begins to roll out in front of her. Christie gasps, keeping her eyes on it as it comes to a halt a few feet away from her. Her heavy breathing is audible as she stares at it.

The surface of the mirror begins to ripple, her reflection fading as a massive white gloved hand emerges from the watery silver, wiry fingers wiggling, deep, rasping chuckles drifting out along with it as the ruffled sleeve of the hand appears. Then a bulbous head topped with fiery orange tufts of hair. Christie's mouth is agape, her eyes bulged as she tries to inch away from Pennywise, who has now pulled his entire upper torso out of the mirror, bells jingling. Leaning on his fists, he grins, those familiar stripes distorting as he sneers,

"Time to float," he growls before his features darken. "You are scared now, aren't you?" he loudly sniffs the air. "Yes, you are. Real, delectable fear."

He crawls out a little further, his visage becoming more irate, saliva strings dangling from his lips. "What a shithole." he says, mimicking Christie's voice.

Crippled with fear, Christie begins to scoot away, a tearful grimace forming, her legs kicking along the floor, before Pennywise's hand shoots out, coiling around her ankle.

Christie shrieks as he drags her towards him as he retreats back into the mirror. With a flash of light, the surface is normal again, save for a few small orange electric bolts shivering along the glass.

As the mirror tips back over, the faint sounds of giggling begins, filling the rooms of the house.

[the-siren-saga]

What Happened That Night

SHANNA

LoneCameraman: Anyone else get taken recently? Kellamity: not that I've seen, no. Asra hasn't mentioned anything either. Kellamity: I'm going to the Cathedral tonight to rescue Iskandar. They're all gonna be at the Golden Door, it'll give me a great opportunity to get in and out before I'm seen. LoneCameraman: And you're telling me this now? Who even GAVE you that intel Kellamity: Who do you think? Moirah told me. LoneCameraman: Due to personal reasons I'd rather not hear anything about Moirah. Kellamity: ...What happened?

As if on cue, there was a sharp, yet hesitant, knock on the door. Timothée jumped to his feet.

LoneCameraman: Nothing. Don't focus on that. Remember how I said I could get us Shanna?

At the door was Shanna Averil, cold and shaking. There was a look of panic in her eyes, like a wounded prey animal. He opened the door, gesturing for her to come in and sit down.

"What's mine is yours," he said, offering a hand. "I know it's not much, but it's what we've got."

She took his hand, walking with him to the couch. "Has my aunt talked to you?"

"She sent me this long message when she heard you were coming over… Seems like she's pretty pissed off at herself for pushing you away the way she did." Timothée shrugged, sitting down beside Shanna.

"Yeah, well, I don't wanna hear her apology. Not yet," Shanna grunted. "And after what I did, I doubt she'll want to hear mine."

LoneCameraman: Just happened… a little sooner than I expected.

A pang of guilt came over him. I am a horrible, horrible person, he thought to himself. He repeated to himself that he didn't know what would happen when he showed Shanna that post-- he was trying to be a good person, and after living in a world of lies the way they had, who wouldn’t want to know the truth?

"You have a right not to," he soothed, holding out a hand for her to take. Awkwardly and hesitantly, she placed her hand in his. “It was an accident, I don’t hold it against you.”

She leaned against him. Timothée was a safe person. He wouldn’t hurt her or sell her out, he knew exactly what she’d gone through and how it affected her. “I used my… My thing I can do. I promised I never would again. But it just happened,” she muttered. “How do you move on from that? How do you deal with the fact that your power makes you a danger to others?”

The silence that followed seemed to hang in the air like a thick fog.

"Maybe I shouldn't have asked," she sighed.

LoneCameraman: I think we might need a couple of days. Kellamity: Take your time.

He wrapped one arm around her in a loose hug. "It's fine," he said. "My advice is to put it out of your mind for now. You're… you're not just your power, okay? And you're not the person who hurt you."

Hesitantly, Shanna settled down, her head on his shoulder. His words rattled around in her mind for a while– You're not the person who hurt you. Coming from someone who'd been hurt in similar ways, that meant a lot more than it otherwise would. She believed it, at least for a moment, in a way she wouldn't believe it otherwise.

LoneCameraman: Thanks for understanding. She's been through a lot today.

"Who are you texting?" Shanna asked.

Timothée, the lovable idiot, merely responded thusly: "You'll meet them soon."

KELLAN

The city was quiet. Only the soft hum of electricity and the distant sounds of feral animals prowling the streets disturbed the silence as a lone hoverbike sped through the deserted cityscape. On this hoverbike was a man with a mission. His name was Kellan Dehara, and he was a member of a certain clandestine organization– a resistance cell, covertly fighting against the actions of the Society of the Purple Rose.

"Are you sure about this, Kellan?"

The man on the hoverbike laughed. "I've never been sure of anything in my life," he answered with more confidence than such a statement warranted.

Asra paused. "Come again?" Their voice had a nervous edge to it. "Because we need you to be sure. We've never done a retrieval mission this risky before."

"More sure," Kellan corrected. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life. Let's do this."

"Right, right, let's get on with it, then." A few shuffling noises could be heard over the earpatch as Asra looked around for the mission plans. "Okay. You should be nearing the entrance point soon… again, are you absolutely certain you want to do this?"

Kellan sighed. "I just said so."

"Roger that."

"Four times, Asra."

"Roger that," Asra said, clearing their throat. "Let's just get this over with."

For a long time, there was silence. Silence enough for Kellan to bring the hoverbike to a stop behind a certain purple and silver building in the Entertainment District.

With Marchosias and his attendants on some sort of mock pilgrimage to the great golden door, to touch it and stand beside it and pat themselves on the back for supposedly bringing such a divine sign into the world, Kellan was free to enter the Cathedral without fear of being found and indoctrinated. Every single corridor was so intimately familiar to him from his own time spent walking these halls, every room an echo from within his own mind. It was maze-like. Intentionally so.

And only by accepting His love can we find our way to the center. To the Heart, Kellan recited to himself, not even realizing he was doing it. No. No, no, stop. I don't want to find my way to you. I want to find my way to Iskandar, I need to make sure he's okay, I need to get him out of here. Nothing else matters right now, not even you, 'Master.' In his own internal monologue, he said the last word mockingly, disdainfully. The version of himself that existed in his mind was every bit as cruel to Marchosias as Marchosias used to be to him.

He continued his exploration. The hallway he was in looked to be a dorm hallway, with gray, undecorated walls. Much of the Cathedral was richly decorated, but the dorms, save for the temporary rooms designed to impress new members and the luxury suites inhabited by Marchosias's favorites, were sparse and cold. Ostensibly, this was to encourage "contemplation," but it had an effect more similar to sensory deprivation if a person spent too long in one of the tiny gray rooms. A few of them had windows. He peeked inside one– yep, it was definitely a dorm, and it was every bit as bleak as his own when he was a member. Gray walls. Gray carpet. Gray furniture. The only color in the room was a skinny purple vase, holding one long-stemmed, deep purple rose. The bed was inhabited by a woman who had to have been at least eighteen, as only adults lived in the main building, but looked sixteen. She tossed and turned fitfully in her sleep.

Demetra, he realized. Oh, Hethe, that's Demetra. She had been a member of his cell for a few months before returning to the Society without so much as a goodbye. Many suspected she'd been kidnapped, Kellan included. He pulled on the door, trying to see if it would open. It didn't. Fuck, he swore silently.

The voice that interrupted him was soft and anxious and so familiar. Turning around, Kellan saw a man in a white silk robe, with dark skin, short braided hair, and eyes that had once been a deep, rich shade of brown. "She's being punished," he said as if talking about a teenager who’d been forbidden from going out on dates rather than a grown woman locked in a colorless room. "You'll be punished too if they find out you came back. But it's okay. We'll get to be together afterwards."

Paying no mind to the creepy things that the other man was saying, Kellan ran to embrace him. "Oh, Iskandar, mirthali Hethe. I was so worried I'd never see you again."

"All you had to do was come back to His embrace, Kellan Dehara. You know this." Iskandar stood motionless, not returning the hug, just continuing to speak in the same soft yet unnerving tones. "We could have been together this whole time, had you only accepted your place under His guiding hand. But it's no matter. You're here now. Here with me, and with our Most Divine Ruler."

Kellan shook him gently, trying to snap him out of it. "Hey, stop, this isn't you. Remember in college when the two of us went on that bar crawl and you got so plastered that you ended up belly-dancing on a table and singing karaoke to The Sisters Wander? Because I do. And let me tell you, that is not belly-dancing music." He wondered briefly if it was like those Ersis fairy tales, and a kiss would be all it took to awaken Iskandar, however, he wasn't keen on the idea of kissing someone who didn't explicitly make it clear that they wanted it. Instead, he just sighed. "Do you even remember anything before this place? Anything about us?"

"He took all of that from me so I could serve Him without distraction," Iskandar said, again, as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world. "I missed you so much when you left us. He eased my pain– isn't our God-Emperor wonderful?"

He forgot about me? Kellan thought. He wanted to forget about me?

This was too much for him to bear. "I'm sorry," he whispered to his former lover. With a quick, precise nerve pinch, he rendered Iskandar unconscious in a pile on the floor. "I'll come back for you. Just… not tonight."

And out he ran, away from the maze-like Cathedral, away from the former lover with the dead-eyed stare, onto his hoverbike and towards the last person in the world who he was certain still loved him.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

An Unspoken Rule Part Eighteen

Previous Part | Next Part | Masterlist

Notes: Sorry this is a little late! 

Warnings: None.

Summary: It wasn’t that Layla and I had fought over the William thing; we’d jut fallen out of touch. Lines has been drawn, and I was on William’s side. Now, in more ways than one. 

“I knew it,” LeeAnn was grinning in a way that I was sure I’d never seen. When she’d stepped into the living room, Will and I had jumped to the opposite sides of the couch like we were teenagers at a high school dance that had been told to make room for Jesus. I slouched down in my seat, covering my face with my hands. “Ma,” William started, and I laughed. I hadn’t heard him that embarrassed since he’d graduated and LeeAnn had cried. “Why didn’t you tell me?” LeeAnn asked, putting her hands on her hips. “We just … It’s new. It’s still really new, we haven’t even talked about it that much yet,” Will said, glancing at me. I nodded. That was true, we’d barely discussed it. LeeAnn hummed. “Fine, I won’t say anything to anyone… Except your father. And Benny— I came in here,” She raised her voice as William and I began to protest, “To find out if either of you could babysit Jake this Friday.�� “Sure,” Will and I answered in unison. “We can look after Jake,” I added, glancing over at Will. LeeAnn smiled, kissing the each of us on the cheeks before heading out of the living room. I glanced up at see her watching us as she walked away and I slid down my in spot, covering my face and laughing. “Oh, man,” I shook my head, “That was not how I planned on your mother finding out.” I yelped as William gripped me by my calf, pulling me across the couch and into his lap. “What are you doing?” I laughed. “Mom already knows and she’s the only other person here, so what’s stopping us?” He smiled. That was true. John and Benny had left to do the grocery shopping for that night’s get-together. “I’m sorry, I can’t make out with you knowing your mom might be in earshot,” I said, shaking my head. “Don’t forget your brother.” We froze when we heard Benny’s voice. I looked up to see him holding several grocery bags. “Wanna help out here?” He asked. “Uh huh,” I said, climbing off of Will’s lap, moving to get up and help. “Sit. I’ve got ‘em,” Will said, getting up. He pecked my lips before pressing past Benny to get into the kitchen. I rested my head on hand, glancing over at Benny, who was giving me a look that I couldn’t read. “What?” I asked. “We’re talking about this later,” he said simply before heading into the kitchen to help.

“Great,” I mumbled, sliding all the way down to lay down on the couch.

----

“My god it has been an age!” Layla was grinning and holding me by the shoulders. I had this urge to shake her loose, tell her that she must have the wrong person, but it was way too late for that.

“It — It really has, how’s that uh— Weren’t you dating a lawyer?” I asked. It wasn’t that Layla and I had fought over the William thing; we’d jut fallen out of touch. Lines has been drawn, and I was on William’s side. Now, in more ways than one. “Oh, well, I was dating him, but,” She raised her left hand, wiggling her fingers and flashing an engagement ring. “Oh! My god!” I said, stunned. “Yeah!” She said, lowering her hand and looking at it, smiling. “He’s… A sweetheart, you know? A really nice guy and I just, I love him,” She smiled. “What about you?” She asked, smiling, “You seeing anyone?” “Ah… Kinda, yeah, but it’s still pretty new. I feel like if I talk about it I’ll jinx it,” I shook my head. Layla smiled. “We should grab coffee, catch up,” She said, “Your number is still the same, right?” I nodded. “Yep, same number,” I said. “We’ll get together,” She said before pulling me into another hug, “It was so great to see you!” “It was great to see you, too, Layla,” I said, surprised to find that I actually meant it a little.

----

“Benny gave me the shovel talk,” William told me as we cleaned up Jake’s toys from that night. He hadn’t gone down until after we’d read ‘Red Fish, Blue Fish’ five times. LeeAnn and John had called around eight to check in with us, and tell us they’d be home close to eleven. “Shovel talk?” I repeated, looking up at William from my dismantling of the Jake’s lego castle. “Yeah, you know: ‘if you hurt her I’ll kill you’, that kinda thing.” I scoffed, leaning back against the couch and shaking my head. “Unnecessary,” I commented. Will shrugged, turning and leaning back against the couch beside me. “He cares about you.” “He cares about you, too. He’s your brother, the threatening is not cool.” “I don’t think he was serious about it,” Will reassured, pulling me closer. I hummed, curling into his side and wrapping an arm around his middle. I ran my thumb along Will’s side, smiling as his fingers combed through my hair.

“Still a dick move. I’ll talk to him.” “I can talk to my own brother,” William insisted. I nodded, closing my eyes. “You okay?” He asked quietly, “You’ve been pretty quiet tonight.” “We were taking care of Jakey. I was preoccupied.” “You know that’s not what I mean. This was a different kind of quiet. This was your ‘something’s on my mind but I don’t know what to do’ kinda quiet.” “I have different quiets?” “You do, but we can talk about that when you aren’t trying to change the subject. Which you do a lot, by the way,” William pointed out. “Well hey, maybe we should talk about that,” I said, looking up at him. William smiled, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “What’s going on up there?” He murmured. I bit my lip, thumbing the fabric of Will’s shirt. “…Nothing. It’s just been a long day, I’m— I’m just taking it all in.” William didn’t look very convinced, but he nodded, letting it go in favor of kissing me gently.

“Can I take you out tomorrow?” He asked between kisses. I smiled. “You took me out last time, it’s my turn.” “Not true,” William argued, “You paid for the batting cages.” “You took me out in the first place,” I pointed out. William chuckled. “So stubborn,” He murmured, “But fine. You can take me out this time.” “Good.”

----

“So, you and Will?” I kept my hands up, steady as Benny punched at the protective pads there. “Me and Will,” I confirmed, “That alright with you?”  Benny lowered his hands, catching his breath, and I followed suit. “You like him?” “Yes.” “You happy?” “Yes.” “Then it’s alright with me.” I put my hands up just in time for Benny to start punching again. “Yeah? Then why did you give Will a talk?” Benny dropped his hands again, putting them on his hips. He sniffed, shrugging and looking around. “I was just fucking with ‘im.” “Benny, come on. You didn’t have to do that. And you know he’d never hurt me, not on purpose.” Benny nodded, eyes focused on the floor. I stepped a little closer to him. “What is it?” “… If you two break up, that could make things weird between you and me and you and him and—“ “Hey, hey,” I said, pulling the pads off of my hands and tucking them under my arms to cup Benny’s face.

“Even if Will and I broke up, I would not expect you to choose me. Will is your brother.”

“You’re family, too,” Benny said with a firmness that surprised me. I nodded.

“And you are to me,” I said, “but me and you are gonna be fine, no matter what. I promise.”

Benny nodded, but I could still see a tightness in his jaw. I leaned away, pulling the gloves back on.

“C’mon. Punch it out,” I said, holding my hands up.

Tag list: @playbucky @calirindo

[kallypsowrites]

Braime moments 8x04

Alright, I’ve been waiting for what happened in this episode to happen since I was eighteen and watching season three for the first time. That’s six years my dudes. So I’m not going to let the tragic ending spoil it for me. We’re gonna talk about all the little Braime moments.

1. The drinking game

- Jaime was at Brienne’s side the whole damn time from the funeral to the party and onward. He’s practically glued to her. Even his solo scene with Tyrion involved him talking about Brienne

- The way he rests his hand over hers when she lays it over her cup, as if to encourage her to let loose and have fun. But also just...that hand touch. Mirrors that scene in season three when he keeps her from pulling a knife on Roose Bolton

- The smiles. FUCK the SMILES. They are just openly grinning at each other. No boundaries at all. They are happy to have survived. They are smiling and laughing and no longer guarded as they were for most of their relationship.

- Brienne has, in general, never been this happy or dorky. Every one of Brienne’s little looks and smiles when she’s drunk. Spectacular.

- Jaime clearly remembers like...everything Brienne has ever told him because he’s able to guess things so easily during the game. Also they’re still bantering “I told you that” “no you didn’t” “I DID”. So cute.

- When Tyrion makes the “you’re a virgin” statement and Brienne becomes guarded, Jaime tries to misdirect his brother because he knows that it’s going to be a rough subject for her. He’s got hella protective instincts.

- When Tormund comes up and starts talking and Jaime rolls his eyes. Bonus, Brienne continues to be very unenthused by Tormund.

- Tormund tries to follow Brienne when she is in a vulnerable place and Jaime puts himself physically in between them. Like...in a fight, Tormund could kick his ass, but he still goes ‘not today, my dude’. And that smile and shoulder pat. That’s the most passive aggressive ‘sit the fuck down’ I’ve ever seen.

- Tyrion pouring Tormund a drink with that sassy look like ‘nice try, but you aren’t gonna get in the way of MY new ship.

The SCENE

- Jaime followed Brienne right after she left, but he obviously doesn’t immediately knock, which leads me to believe the idiot was pacing the hall nervously, having no idea what the fuck he is doing.

- When Brienne opens the door, you see a moment of panic on both of their faces. Brienne “fuck he’s at my door” Tarth and Jaime “oh god, she actually opened the door” Lannister.

- Jaime’s absolutely disaster flirting. Trying to use the drinking game as an excuse. The fact that he’s clearly tipsy and nervous. Mumbling under his breath and stuff. He doesn’t even seem to know why he’s come there, but here he is.

- Brienne having no idea what to do with this situation, because man, she never thought they’d be at this point

- Jaime finding the room hot because he is genuinely nervous. Jerking off his jacket and throwing it to the side.

- Jaime kind of sarcastically complimenting her (reverting to their old dynamic) and Brienne not taking that crap with her ‘piss off’. And yet it’s so much less aggressive than their old dynamic because they do trust each other now.

- Jaime getting closer to her with ‘I hate the fucking north’ and Brienne standing her ground.

- Jaime’s “I don’t want things growing on me” even though we see, clearly, that Brienne is growing on Jaime.

- The fucking Jaime jealousy, oh my GOD. “Is Tormund Giantsbane growing on you” and Brienne giving him a look like ‘fucking seriously. Does it look like he’s growing on me?’

- “You sound quite jealous”--even as Brienne says it, you can see she is so confused by it because, holy shit, she’s never had anyone be jealous over HER before.

- Jaime realizing that yes, he does sound jealous and then immediately saying ‘god its hot in here’. He’s such a disaster. Completely incapable of seducing anyone. What a dork.

- Jaime struggling with his shirt and Brienne getting fed up and helping him. The surprised look Jaime gives her when she does. It’s so fucking vulnerable.

- He just instinctively starts undoing her shirt as well, but stops when she stops him. Excellent.

- “What are you doing?” “Taking off your shirt” --oh my god, you’re both such disasters at this. I love you.

- The fact that Brienne stops him and for a split second he wonders if she is going to reject him and he has a very worried look on his face. But then she starts undoing her own shirt and the look turns to ‘oh fuck, we’re doing this, aren’t we?’

- How she helps him out of his shirt and they just don’t say anything. I love how much they can communicate in silence.

- “I’ve never slept with a knight before”--Jaime, you’ve only ever been with your sister, but also, the fact that you call her a knight is just fucking adorable.

- “I’ve never slept with anyone before” --Brienne emphasizing that this is a very big deal for her. They’re both standing around slightly awkwardly because they really never thought they’d get to this point.

- The kiss itself. Oh boy, I gotta talk about the kiss. First of all, I LOVE that Jaime is the one who initiates it. I also love had goddamn hungry it is. Like this man has been holding himself back from this moment and suddenly, his resistance has snapped and he’s just going for it. There’s a desperation there that really speaks to what a long slow burn this has been between them. And the fact that Brienne just immediately starts kissing him back. And his hand on the side of her face. Ugh. It’s not perfect. It’s messy. But so is their relationship, I love this moment so much.

Afterwards

- Jaime looks conflicted after they have sex, but I mean, of course he does. He loves Brienne but this is the first time he’s ever loved anyone other than his sister. And this is the beginning of him doubting if he is worthy of her.

- The fact that Jaime was going to straight up stay in the north with Brienne. That was his plan. This wasn’t a ‘rebound and leave immediately’ thing. He really was intending to stay. He even said as much to Tyrion.

- Sansa defs knows that Jaime and Brienne are together lol

- His conversation with Tyrion and Tyrion is just so fucking happy for him. Like, Jaime is expecting some sort of snide comment but Tyrion is elated that he’s with someone who isn’t his sister. And he makes tall jokes.

- The fact that Jaime tells Tyrion to, essentially, fuck off when he tries to ask crude details, because he respects Brienne

- Ser Bronn approves of his ship being canon. Also say “it must be like looking in a mirror” which emphasizes that Jaime and Cersei might be twins, but Jaime and Brienne are soul twins with twin swords. Aaaaahhhh

The Scene of Heartbreak

- Alright, I want to pretend this didn’t happen, but I’m not yet losing hope based on my interpretation so here we go. UP UNTIL Jaime heard news about Cersei in the war (which was probably after a month in the north) he had no plans to go south and was content staying with Brienne. This is important to remember. He was never using her or trying to use her as a rebound.

- Jaime’s motivation for leaving is ambiguous, but it clearly tears him apart. Also, he and Brienne were staying in the SAME ROOM and SLEEPING TOGETHER for like a MONTH and who wants to write fanfic about that? Please and thank you.

- When Jaime is going, he tries not to even look at Brienne because he does not want to see the hurt on her face. He cares about hurting her.

- How Brienne grabs his face and forces him to look and how surprised and heartbroken he looks.

- He puts a hand on hers, clinging on for a moment, very tempted to stay.

- Brienne’s vulnerability. It shows how close they have grown and got Gwen’s acting just breaks my fucking heart. She deserves better than this.

- Jaime tells Brienne his sins. For one thing, I think he does this to make her not come after him so that she will stay safe. If Cersei finds out about Brienne, she will kill her. Better Brienne stay in the north. But also, he wants Brienne to realize that he is not worthy of her. That she can do better. That he’s not a good man and he doesn’t think he deserves happiness. He thinks his only chance at redemption is death.

- I think Jaime has one of two motivations. Either he sees that Cersei might very well win and he has to stop her, or he just knows that Brienne is better off without him and that he can’t escape his old life. Both are tragic but neither lessen his love for Brienne. I don’t think he has an ‘addiction to Cersei’. He’s just so used to feeling like trash ever since he became a King’s slayer. He doesn’t know how to leave that life.

Again, I fully think leaving Brienne sobbing was a dick move, but his motivation makes sense. We’ll have to wait to see what D&D do with his arc. Either it’s in character and he dies a hero or D&D are idiots and I ignore their writing decisions and pretend Jaime never left. Still, there were so many good moments this episode, and it would be a shame not to enjoy them because of this last scene.

[wilhelmjfink]

“was” pt. 13 (final)

2holy shit we made it! sorry i know i said i’d post this like 2 days ago buttttt i’m a lazy piece of shit what can i say?? here it is hope it’s lived up to it’s hype 

It must’ve been a mistake. He must’ve just misunderstood.

But regardless, he wasn’t able to focus on what was happening around him because his mind was whirling a hundred miles per hour as he tried to convince himself that Y/N wouldn’t have done that to herself. Wouldn’t have done that to him.

Y/N hadn’t found too many things in this new world that bothered her too much: she’d be exposed to a lot of it beforehand, aside from the constant killing of the walkers that tried to eat her flesh. But the violence, the death, it was all just another day for her. And thankfully, too, or she might not have been as cut out for his world as she needed to be to survive. But the corpses that littered the small ranch that they’d taken shelter in told a story of such pain and misery and hopelessness, and it hit home for her — hard.

“My step-dad shot himself in the head with a twenty gauge when I was eighteen,” she told him, standing motionless in the doorway and observing the decaying bodies before her, a child laying face down on the throw rug with what she assumed used to be mom next to him and dear old dad propped up on the recliner, rifle still in between his legs and blood pouring from where his head should’ve been. “I found him.”

“Christ,” Daryl muttered, looking over at Y/N to try and decipher her feelings at that moment. Usually he could read her like a book, but she was different right then, potential scenarios playing out in her head as she stood still and just looked at the bodies. He wondered if it was as obvious to her as it was to him. He was sure it was — she was just as intuitive. 

“I guess he wasn’t my stepdad when I found him -- they’d been fighting for awhile, him and mom. He just moved it. He lived in a small apartment — like, small. So there was just blood fuckin’ everywhere, dude. All over the walls. It made it into the bathroom, into his bedroom...” She meandered toward the dusty oak dresser, rifling through drawers for anything useful. “Pieces of his skull were stuck in the carpet... blew the gold cross he wore on his neck everyday clean off.”

Daryl’s stomach churned — and not at the thought of the scene she was describing to him. He was no stranger to death either, even before the world went to shit. His uneasiness lay within the fact that Y/N had to witness that before when she still withheld some of her innocence. Shit, she was so young right now, he couldn’t imagine how she’d be before it all, far before they’d met. 

“I liked him,” she shrugged. “Even when they were fighting. I felt bad for him, so I would go over and say hi to him because... well, it was sad, I guess. I saw his truck outside, decided to stop and say hi, he didn’t answer the door, I pulled myself up to look in the window, and...” 

She trailed off. 

“Shouldn’a had to see somethin’ like that. Ever.” Daryl said angrily, as if he could get so mad that he would be able to change anything about it. 

“Yeah, well...” again, she shrugging nonchalantly. “That’s life, I guess. Help me move these two.”

Daryl eyed her warily as she walked up to the child’s corpse and grabbed its ankles as if nothing was wrong. Fuck, he knew she was strong, but there was a difference between strength and apathy. She had just shut herself off; a long time ago, too, he was always sure. But for some reason, that time had left him unsettled. She was always telling him to feel, to try and accept his emotions.

Just as he was about to open his mouth to speak and try and break the silence, she spoke up first: “Promise me you won’t ever do that to us,” she said flatly. As he crouched down to help her move the body, he paused to look up at her. She was avoiding his gaze. “Promise me you won’t ever leave me that way, like a... fucking selfish coward.”

The way her voice cracked at the broke his heart. He stared at her and waited for her eyes to meet his and when they did, they both found neither one of them could turn away. “I promise,” he said, feeling rather silly at the juvenile agreement. But he hadn’t found something yet that she couldn’t make him do with just one bat of her eyelashes. “S’long as ya promise me ya won’t do the same.”

She hesitated and it sparked a little bit of bitterness in him. He did his best to extinguish it right then, trying hard to understand what she’d experienced, where her mind was at that moment.

Finally, she spoke up, the words not what he was hoping to hear but caught him so off guard that he could hardly remember what they’d been talking about before she’d muttered them: “I love you, Daryl Dixon.”

So, there was that, he realized. She’d never promised to begin with. 

Was she really that destroyed without him?

“Alright, listen up you sorry shits!” Negan’s voice tore him from his whirling thoughts and he flinched. Though he was able to tune him out quickly the sight of the door in front of him opening back up, catching his attention instantly. Y/N stepped out onto the porch, squinting at the sunlight. Rick followed behind her.

If he hadn’t believed Negan’s words before, he had believed them then.

She looked frail, even more so than before, and he felt his heart sink with worry. Was she recovering from the injuries okay? Was she even recovering at all? She was pale, paler than usual, and her hair fell loosely down her back, snarled and tangled and free of the pigtail braids she usually had them in. He felt his heart pounding, worried that she might just fucking drop dead at any second.

She hadn’t spotted him yet and he considered slinking backwards into the crowd, hiding from her sight, not wanting to get her hopes up only to hurt her even more when Negan took him away again. It would literally kill her. God, when did their lives become a constant fight to just try and be with one another?

He deserved it — he knew he did. But she didn’t. She didn’t deserve a damn thing that she’d gotten. And he definitely didn’t deserve her. He watched as she stood closely to Rick, shoulder to shoulder, hugging herself tightly for comfort. It should’ve been him hugging her, wrapping his arms tightly around her and shielding her from the cruelness of life now, if even just for a little while. But instead he was held hostage and forced to just watch her from afar, and simply hope that no harm would reach her anymore. She couldn’t take it -- he couldn’t take watching her fall apart right before his eyes. 

Negan’s ramblings meant nothing to either one of them anymore. Daryl could tell by the vacant look in Y/N’s eyes that she was hardly paying attention, backing herself against the door like she could melt into the wall and disappear. Each second he thought his heart truly couldn’t break any further, Negan had found a way to prove him incredibly wrong.

“Y/N!” His voice echoed through the megaphone he was using to talk as if his voice wasn’t loud enough by itself. She flinched at the sound of him calling her name, almost like his words had hit her forcefully right in the chest. He also noticed Rick stiffen at her side, though, which did manage to bring him a feeling of relief, no matter how minuscule it was. It was better than feeling nothing but bleak bitterness for however long it’d been. Rick was there for her -- he had always counted on him for that. 

“There you are. I was worried I was gonna have to come up there and drag you down here myself!”

Daryl inadvertently snarled which earned him a harsh shove in the back by the Savior that had been holding him still where he stood. 

“Come over here, doll. I got some shit I wanna show ya.” 

When she didn’t move, Daryl silently cursed, more concerned about what Negan’s reaction might be to her lack of obedience to him. He vaguely remembered the scene back at Hilltop when they’d brawled and how after Y/N had held onto him and begged him to do whatever Negan asked — it was the only way to assure that he wouldn’t lash out or hurt somebody else, though lately he’d been even more unstable than usual and just seemed to be a bubbling volcano just waiting for a reason to erupt and rain down havoc on everything around him. 

He grew even more apprehensive when Negan’s voice dropped dangerously low, even sending a child down his spine. 

“Y/N, don’t make me ask you again.”

She shuffled meekly to the frontlines toward Negan, eyes cast downward, avoiding the stares of everybody around her. It took absolutely everything in him, every single shred of will power he had left inside of him to not just break in a sprint toward her. All he wanted to do was sweep her up and take her far away from here — far away from all of the bad guys and all the terror and pain they’d brought her.It wasn’t fucking fair. 

She wasn’t herself. Daryl was concerned she might not be healing well; like she was so miserable that it physically inhibited her healing. “There we go,” Negan murmured to her as she made her way to his side, leaving an open distance between them that he closed by throwing his arm around her and yanking her toward him. Daryl was livid. Beyond any measure of the word, any limit of his imagination, he was fucking furious.

His hand balled into tight, shaking fists at his side. 

Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

 Though he could hardly see Y/N, he knew that tears were pouring down her cheeks that she hid, her chin tucked into her chest allowing her tasseled hair locks to fall in front of her face. His blood was boiling, a million degrees coursing through his veins. His teeth were grinding together so hard he was half expecting them to crack under the pressure. 

“Alright, babydoll. I know you’ve been going through some shit, so.... I brought you a gift.” Y/N immediately perked up at his words and Daryl just frowned, his stomach dropping, knowing that she was automatically going to anticipate it being him, regardless of how well she knew Negan’s mind worked. And there were two ways that could end: she would be right and get to see him beaten, bruised, and broken, which would destroy her, and then he’d get torn away from her yet again. And she couldn’t do that. Or, if she was wrong, she would be forlorn at not being able to see him -- regardless of how he looked.

“I know — I know. How can I find it in me to be so fucking nice to you people when all you’ve manage to do is bend me over the table and fuck me in the ass repeatedly? I’m just that kinda guy, I guess.” Negan grasped her hand in his own gloved one and sauntered over to the trailer bed where the coffin they’d brought over was hoisted upright, shifting and bumping slightly. Throwing a slick grin over his shoulder at her, he hoisted himself up onto the platform before reaching down for her. She stated at his outstretched arm warily before hesitantly taking it, allowing him to pull her upward next to him.He laughed to himself before turning toward the casket and rapping on it rhythmically with Lucille. “Hey, Sash — you are not going to believe this shit!”

With the flip of a latch the door swung open and Sasha stumbled out. Her eyes were yellow and cloudy, and her jaw snapped with snarls and growls and she immediately lunged at Negan. The sick fuck had killed her and brought her here to show it off. 

“Holy god damn!” Negan screamed, falling backwards off of the platform with what used to be Sasha crawling on top of him. There was a millisecond of still silence before a single gunshot rung out and then it was followed by more rapid gunfire, screaming and shouting. Y/N stood motionless, hands tightly covering his mouth in shock, frozen in time. Her eyes were trained on her old friend as it tried to take a bite out of Negan while he struggled underneath her, muttering to her as if she could hear him and laugh at his pleads and miserable jokes. 

Daryl was shoved harshly down to the concrete by an unseen stranger and then, nothing. Everyone scurried around him and suddenly, nobody was worried about him escaping. He was left alone to die; but that was fucking fantastic, and as long as Y/N was in his sight, he absolutely refused to let that be it for him. His hands were still tied and his mouth still gagged but it didn’t deter him from pushing back up and breaking into a run toward her, dodging bullets that exploded around him and corpses that already littered his path. And when an unseen force grabbed onto his ankles it sent him flying forward, landing harshly with a grunt as his incapacitated hands just barely managed to catch his fall. Sasha — or what used to be Sasha — had discarded a Savior after she’d torn his flesh from the bone and left him a gruesome mess and she had changed her target from him, directlyt o Daryl. 

He kicked out to shake her off as she snarled at him, her teeth and skin around her lips and mouth stained a deep red. It didn’t even look like her, he thought... but it wasn’t her. No -- he had to remind himself that it really was not her as he dug the heel of his foot into her nose, crunching the cartilage underneath it, and finally prying her backwards and she released the grip she had on his ankles.

Finally he scrambled to his feet, straightened back up just to find that Y/N was no longer in the spot she stood in just a moment prior. 

“Fuck!” He didn’t mean to shout and cursed himself for risking drawing any attention to himself, but luckily the hysteria that completely surrounded him had diverted any of the focus away from him as his friends and enemies fought to the death...

A sudden pang of guilt struck him as he searched wildly for Y/N and was faced with nothing but smoke and fire and carnage and he realized he should be fighting alongside his family, but when he finally spotted her running the opposite way of the action, nothing else mattered as he took off after her. 

She was weaving around Saviors, dodging them as they seemed to blatantly ignore her, her hand clutching her side the whole way. He was tired, weak, malnourished; everything was against him, but he refused to fall back, keeping his eyes trained on her like she was a doe he was tracking in the woods.

She reached the main gate of Alexandria and slid right through it. His heart jumped in his throat and he followed at her heels. 

“Y/N!” He shouted her name and that was all it took to have her slide to a halt, stumbling as she spun around in search of the source of his voice. “Y/N!”

He didn’t stop, however, and kept running to her until she finally spotted him, her eyes widening and jaw dropping open in shock, almost as if she didn’t believe it was really him.

She met him halfway and jumped into his arms, locking them around him like an anchor and subsequently burst into tears. He stumbled slightly at her impact, even more worn out from chasing her, but didn’t let it stop him from indulging himself in her; in her scent, the feeling of being locked in her embrace with her arms wrapped tightly around him, the sound of her whimpers as she wept with joy into his shoulders... it was all exactly what he needed it to be — and he briefly found himself also wondering if it was real or some sort of sick dream. But when she pulled away and grasped he sides of his face, pulling him in for a passionate and needy kiss, he tangled his hands in her hair and knew that it was really fucking her. 

Y/N had separated herself from Daryl, leaving her hands ghosting the skin on his face, the rough stubble and dirt that caked his face and his sunken eyes and the all of the fear had returned in the blink of an eye. “We can’t go back there,” she whispered to him. And he stared back at her, more or less dumbstruck by her beauty as found he was every single time he looked at her, but her words set off his own apprehension. He opened his mouth to speak but wasn’t too sure what to say. Was he really supposed to bring her back there; where so many bad memories haunted her and certain death awaited him? It was that thought that sparked panic inside of him and he grabbed her, dragging her off of the main road and down into the ditches on the side of the road where they crouched down behind some brush to keep out of sight. The gunfire was still close, and it was still loud. And if he didn’t get his head in the game and figure out where to take her, they would get caught by Saviors or a ton of walkers very soon and he wasn’t sure which one was worse. “

We can’t go back, Daryl,” she pleaded again, her clammy hands finding his blindly. “I can’t.... if they see you — “

“You can’t jus’ leave,” he replied, more stern than he had intended. “You can’t jus’ run from yer problems when yer scared, Y/N. You can’t jus’ hide from ‘em till they disappear...” He was rambling and he knew it, trying to find a way to keep her safe and protect her and keep her happy at the same time and he couldn’t formulate a plan. A combination of the adrenaline fading and the last few weeks of torture he’d endured had him feeling completely drained, both physically and mentally. Was he really failing her already?

Right then, having Y/N back, right in front of him, living and breathing could’ve convinced him to walk to the ends of the earth if she’d asked him to.

That might’ve been why it hurt him so much when she narrowed her tired eyes at him: “Why not? Isn’t that what you did?”

If it were anybody else — anybody at all — he would’ve flown off the handle at that comment. Called them out, spit at them, hit them. But he just couldn’t find it in him to argue with her; partially because, as much as he hated to admit it, she was right — that was exactly what he’d done, and fuck, she still had no idea why. 

But he couldn’t think of that right now; he knew that his leaving had hurt her and he hadn’t yet had time to try and explain himself. He would have to eventually, and it was constantly lingering in the back of his mind like a fucking disease.

He averted his eyes, trying to avoid her harsh stare. With a deep sigh he gave in, settled with that as a valid response, and decided that they could find some shelter for the night somewhere else — perhaps in the cabin he’d camped in during the long hunting trips. Negan and his men would be too disheveled, probably too injured to search for him tonight — if any of them were still alive.

 “Fine,” he caved. “Fine. We’ll... we can stay in the huntin’ cabin south ‘a here. We’ll figure out what to do in the mornin’.”

It was against his better judgement — hell, it was against everything that every fiber of his being was warning him not to do, but if it was what she wanted, he would make it work. 

Besides... he would never say no to a night alone with his girl. Especially after the last few weeks.  

The sound of gunfire had died down and they only noticed when it was replaced with the squeal of tires peeling out, crunching over gravel and spinning out on loose dirt. Daryl covered Y/N with his body the best he could, burying them with the loose leaves and dead brush on the ground around them, both holding their breath as the infamous herd of blacked out trucks and vans sped by. When they faded out, they could both hear the shuffling and snarling of the dead as they made their way toward the community. They were unarmed and both in no condition to fight. It was going to be dark soon, and they needed to move. Fast. 

“Les’ go,” Daryl whispered and she nodded, not letting go of his hand as he pulled them up and started to lead them in the direction of the cabin. The trek wasn’t long, but being exhausted and hurt didn’t make it any easier on them. Neither one of them spoke, either, not needing words as they just enjoyed finally being together, finally being reunited after weeks of painful separation that followed long, miserable days where they were both alone and confused and afraid for different reasons. It was almost intangible. Like a fever dream. She held onto his hand tightly, refusing to let go the entire trip, and he didn’t complain.

However, he couldn’t seem to shake the nagging reminder still had to tell her why he’d left her in the first place. She’d mentioned something that reminded him of that day, those few words that Jenner had spoken to him that sent his world absolutely spinning out of control and flipped his life upside down, having never expected to have to deal with something even remotely close to it. He would have to tell her. She deserved to know. How would she react? Would it be the final straw; the last piece of the puzzle that figured out just how to break her completely? Would she be angry, like him, and storm out on a careless rampage, subtly trying to just get herself killed so she wouldn’t have to deal with it? Or self medicate, just as he’d done, to avoid having to deal with it and just hope that it would go away? He had no idea.

Either way, telling her himself would undoubtedly be the hardest thing he’d ever have to do. 

“You okay?” Her soft voice tore him away from the inside of his head where he was drowning in unanswered questions. She could deliver the worst news to him, spit angrily at him or tell him she hated him and he would still just be overjoyed to hear her voice. He always knew that he’d gone far too soft for her, but being with her as she was lying unconscious in front of him... that week had engraved his need for her deep into his brain and his heart, and he knew he would probably never get over that. 

“Gotta be,” He replied. She didn’t speak but rather squeezed his hand comfortingly, and it was almost like everything bad had melted away for just for a few seconds. The cabin rose over the horizon just as the sun was setting behind it, giving it an eerie and gloomy glow, but still brought them the relief they were looking for. 

Daryl went in first, even after Y/N had argued with him about it, insisting that he was already too beat up and weak, and naturally he ignored her, making his way into the cabin to clear it out before letting her in after him. It was untouched since his last visit — he wasn’t sure how long it had been but it sure felt like fucking decades. He’d always made an effort to make sure he left no trail, no hint that anybody had occupied it, and it remained exactly how he’d left it last time. Empty and dark. 

As Y/N settled in, assembling a small fire in the wood stove, Daryl slipped out the back to take advantage of the narrow crick that bubbled through the back yard. He tore the tattered crew neck off of his body, the instant gratification it brought him almost too much, and he sloshed it around in the light current before ringing it out and using it to scrub the days worth of dirt and grime and blood that had settled into his skin.

Being dirty had never really bothered him, but there was something different about the filth that stained his body that almost hurt him; he would take advantage of any way he could to remove the constant feeling of Negan and his men lingering over him, to wash away the prints of their boots leaving muddy prints on his forearms and the dried blood from the beatings caked to his lips. In the back of his mind, he also knew that he needed to clean up for Y/N, and that any reminder of the torture he’d endured would be sure to break her down even more.

He cupped the water in his hands and splashed his face, rubbed some of the grease from his hair, basking in the feeling it would give him for just a few sweet minutes. When there was a shuffle behind him he spun around, poised and ready to either fight or run — whichever one the threat called for — but he softened when he noticed it was just Y/N peering cautiously at him. 

Somehow she looked even more beautiful in the glow of dusk, the orange light tinting her pale skin, kissing her eyes like fire. He couldn’t help it as his breath caught in his throat — what the fuck does she want with me? 

“I couldn’t find you,” she said softly, those few words mixed with the obvious concern in her voice resuscitating his heartbeat back to life and allowing him to breathe again. “I was worried.”

Daryl hadn’t even realized he’d been daydreaming, enjoying the feeling of the cool water rushing over his tired feet and through his callused fingers and dripping from his bangs in front of his eyes. “Sorry,” he shook the sopping strands from his face, if for any reason, just to get a better look at her. He tried to ignore the constant feeling of being exposed that being shirtless would always give him, regardless of who was standing in front of him, and automatically stiffened when she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. 

“I’m so tired,” she whispered, her warm breath against his cooled skin sending a chill down his spine. “I’m so tired of you being taken away from me. Please don’t ever give up on me and leave me again. Promise me you’ll stay here with me now. Please.”

“I didn’t give up on ya,” he almost bit back at her, upset that whoever had told her what happened let her believe that was the case — that he’d just abandoned her, thinking she was dead and that he would never be able to see her again, hold her again or hear her laugh again. No, in fact, it had been a reason much worse than that that had driven him away, and once again the familiar anxiety knotted inside of his stomach at the reminder that he would have to tell her. “Then why did you leave, Dartk?”

Fuck, she was literally setting it up for him. She was too smart for her own good sometimes, and she was no longer going to accept his silence as an answer. “Something happened that nobody is telling me about, and I deserve to know.”

“I know,” he uttered quickly and wrapped his own arms around her tightly, relishing the last few moments of her blissful ignorance before he dropped the news on her that might potentially ruin her. “It’s jus’...”

Y/N pulled away, looking up at him dismally. “You know, I get Maggie and Rick lying to me, but I really thought I could count on you, D.”

Fuck.

His heart literally cracked inside of his chest and he could feel it. 

“C’mon,” after a moment of silence where he let her words sink in, he gently prodded her back toward the cabin and out of the cool night air. And Y/N stayed pressed at his side, refusing to leave him and the feeling his proximity always gave her: safety, warmth, love. She’d waited so long to get him back, and she vowed to not let him out of her sight again as long as she could help it. Even when they settled back into the cabin by the small fire she’d started, Y/N sat down on his lap after he’d situated himself in front of the couch, taking advantage of the heat that the stove emitted before they’d have to extinguish it for the night. He was relieved that she seemed content in the silence, at least then, and wanted to let it go on for as long as he could without her growing more anxious. How was he supposed to tell her? 

She was sick of people beating around the bush. Tired of being dragged through the mud — especially because she knew it involved her entirely. That was fair. She had every right to be upset with him for withholding the answers from her this long. It was probably best to just come out and say it. 

With a deep sigh Daryl’s breath wavered, and he’d hoped that Y/N hadn’t noticed as she spoke up again. “Daryl, you’re scaring me.”

You ain’t even know it, girl. “Look — there ain’t no easy way for me to tell ya this, alright?” The agitation was eating him alive. “So, I’m jus’ gonna come out n’ say it.”

She simply stared at him in anticipation, her own uneasiness getting the best of her — he could tell, despite her trying her best to remain calm. God, he couldn’t even fucking look at her; her big round doe eyes bore into him impatiently, waiting for him to just man up and spit it the fuck out. 

“‘Fore all this — ‘fore you were shot,” he trailed off, the last one lingering bitterly on his tongue, reigniting the fury he’d tried so hard to suppress for her sake. This was it. No more holding back anything. “Ya... you — “

“Was pregnant.”

All of the wind got knocked out of Daryl’s sails after she’d finished that sentence for him. Did he imagine she’d said those words? Did he just hear her correctly? 

He was afraid to look at her for fear of what her expression might show — shock, bitterness, anger, devastation, heartbreak, all of them — and for fear of letting her see how he felt: which was all of those emotions and more. He was sure it was written all over his face. He could hardly get the next words out of his mouth. 

“Ya knew?”

“Well, no, but...” she tilted her head back down away from him and shrugged. He squeezed her comfortingly, the only thing he could think of doing at that moment. “I don’t know. Woman’s intuition, I guess.”

He nodded in understanding. It made sense — he’d never been around too many women in his life, but he could only assume that they would at least feel differently. Right? God, he felt as bad as he did the day he’d first heard it from Carson. “‘M so sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean to leave, I jus’... I jus’ didn’t...” Daryl hadn’t meant to allow his voice to catch the way it did or let his breathing stagger as the emotions he’d been fighting so hard to bury the last week alone came flooding to the surface, the comfortability he’d been longing for wrapping him like a blanket and allowing him to finally feel, much to his distaste. He knew she didn’t care, but he was supposed to be strong for her. What good was he if he couldn’t even offer her that? 

“Hey,” she whispered, her soft hands cupping the sides of his face and turning it to look at her. Her eyes too were welled with tears, and he admired how she managed to keep her composure while he sat there and broke down like a toddler. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m okay... We’ll be okay.”

He blinked at her, unsure of whether or not to believe her. Shouldn’t he being the one convincing her of that? But she stared back at him, confident and strong despite the hurricane winds all around them that were constantly threatening to knock her to the ground. “But — “

“No,” she cut him off. “No ‘but’s’, D. What’s done is done. It’s over with, and we can’t change it now. And I’m so fucking sick of letting Negan and his men destroy me — destroy us. They have taken so fucking much from us already. I’m done giving them the satisfaction of knowing they can break me... that they already did break me.”

Daryl wasn’t sure he’d ever loved her more than he did in that moment. 

“You and I — we’ve been through some shit, D. And we always make it out okay. We’re together now and we’re stronger together.”

She finished her speech by confidently pressing her lips and he pulled away, then planting light kisses up her nose and to her forehead before resting his lips against the top of her head. He could stay like this forever, and not have a single complaint. 

“Besides, I wouldn’t want to raise a kid in this world.” She sighed. “At least not how it is now.”

“Yeah, yer right.”

When he looked over at her, his heart leapt in his throat at the smile she was giving him. If only he’d known this was how she’d react the whole time, he wouldn’t have had to stress over it so god damn much.

He still remembered the feeling he got when Maggie had told him something had happened to her; the feeling he got when he showed up to the infirmary only to find her ghostly pale and covered in her own blood. Four days she’d laid there, dead to the world. Then Carson came with to him with that, and she was right: he had basically given up on her. 

But no fucking more. 

He would never leave her again, no matter what. The past month had tested his patience, not to mention his sanity and his loyalty. It had been a long, long month, the constant distance between them feeling like an enormous, deep, dark ocean. But she’d said it perfectly: they were together now, and they were stronger together. Y/N pulled his head back toward her, stealing another kiss and tearing him from his distracted thoughts — whatever they might’ve been, she knew that they still probably weren’t great. 

“I can handle anything this life throws at me as long as you’re here with me, Daryl Dixon.”

HOLY SHIT THAT WAS LOOOONG

SORRY I REALLY DIDN’T WANNA BREAK IT UP INTO TWO SMALL CHAPTERS YOU’VE ALL SUFFERED ENOUGH....

but there you go... there’s a happy ending for you all. whee! i hope you’ve enjoyed the ride. thanks for tunin’ in and until next time.... i’m wilhelm j fink

STAY TUNED FOR MY NEW SERIES!!!

i need to thank a few people for being here the whole time and always giving feedback.... ya’ll rule so hard D:

@crossbowking @jodiereedus22 @apossiblegentleman @mtngirlforever @sourwolf-sterek32 @qrangr @the-bottom-of-the-abyss @twdeadfanfic @deliciousassafrasssandwich  @96ssi i think i’m forgetting some but whatever..... love you guys so much!!!!

@crossbowking @jodiereedus22 @apossiblegentleman@mtngirlforever @sourwolf-sterek32 @winchester-angel  @qrangr @cole-winchester @the-bottom-of-the-abyss @twdeadfanfic @crazyaboutnorman @deliciousassafrasssandwich @bunnymother93 @96ssi @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @ima-mther-fckn-starboy @thatsoragan@lonewolf471