#I was literally at work unable to get the front of a fic from David's POV out of my head

[whorefordarlin]

iwfilwyoaoa thoughts but it's David and Darlin' this time

[catholicfacade]

WIP Clark DeBussy Fic Preview

good evening, it's ego. i've decided to post some snippets of the clark fic i've been working on for like a month now! i'm a whore for praise and figured posting some of my personal favorite paragraphs i've written so far publicly might keep me motivated to write more often. i have not written or posted fan fiction in like 8 years and i often get quite discouraged when it comes to my own writing. i'm trying not to let that happen as much with this one since i've been really enjoying it, but i still have soooooo much to write!! so if you don't hear about this again for a while, don't think i gave up on it, i just have a lot i want to write about, and it takes me forever to do so </3

including the tags and warnings and plot points, everything you read below this line is completely subject to change before the final draft eventually gets posted >:) ——— ♰Synopsis: this fic follows the legion plot fairly closely but there is some divergence from cannon; completely gender-neutral reader is a mutant similar to David, where David's powers mostly deal w the conscious mind, readers deals w the subconscious mind, reader is mute irl but can talk in their dreams, has been through serious traumas in their life, Clark is secretly very lonely but acts tough 99% of the time, the relationship between reader and Clark can only be described as lovers to enemies to lovers to enemies to lovers again. ♰Tags: porn with plot, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, rough sex, lots and lots of heavy petting, pet names (literally) ♰Warnings: NSFW, dubious consent, sexual violence, choking, low self-esteem/poor mental health, mentions of drug use/pill popping

———

((interrogation scene))

“Readings are normal Mr.DeBussy.” Announces the guard that was watching the graphs on the monitor next to you.

“It’s probably because we’d need to catch you sleeping, isn’t that right?” Clark stares you down with a little smirk on his face.

You shrug.

Don’t give him anything. You remind yourself.

Don’t let him try and break you down.

“Well…” Clark snaps his file closed, he lays it down along with his pen and claps his hands together in front of him.

“…you’re officially useless!” He smirks again. A couple of the guards behind you stifle a laugh.

Something boils inside of you. But you don’t let them see that. If only you would be kind enough to show them what their big, mean, tough boss dreams about! A house by the ocean, a sappy long lost lover, a puppy like need for affection. Oh how he melted in your hands like butter. Maybe then they’d know who to laugh at.

“Go ahead and take them away, bring in the next one.” Clark says, and the two guards behind you move to your chair, they rip the scanners from your temples and haul you up by your arms. You never once break eye contact with Clark. He knows he’s a fucking liar and you wished that he would just show you something, some sign, that he was sorry or that he had to act big and tough for show. But Clark gave you nothing. His eyes were as fiery and steadfast as yours were.

You decided you hated him. You shouldn’t have even felt anything for him after just a couple of dreams anyway. He was just like the others. He didn’t love you, he just loved your power (ironically enough). That’s it. Clark DeBussy. He’s just like the rest of them.

———

((dream sequence part 1))

Just as you were about to turn around and walk to Clark’s side of the room, you felt a pair of arms wrap around you. One snaked around your waist, the other around your neck, both held you In place with an iron grip, leaving you completely unable to turn or look behind you. His front was pressed flush against your back, his breath already hitting your ear and sending a chill down your spine. You gasped softly, hands reaching up to grab the arm at your throat.

“Promise me you won’t turn around.” Clark whispered close to your right ear.

You chewed your bottom lip, and after a minute of contemplating, you nodded, the idea that you can actually talk in dreams slipping your mind temporarily.

The arm around your neck was now moved to match the other one on your waist, bringing your hips back with a bump against his groin. You gasped again when you could feel his throbbing erection through his pants, pressed into your ass. Your hands reached down and laid flat against the top of the dresser steadying yourself, the cool surface just underneath your palms. God you wanted to look back right now, but you kept your promise and looked forward.

You could barely even process the fact that Clark was here, which meant he was alive out there in the world somewhere, before his hands were on you, touching and groping you everywhere. His fingers slipped under your shirt and pressed a heavy line tracing up your spine, you arched your back into his touch. His other hand grabbing the tender flesh of your ass hungrily. You couldn’t stifle the ‘mmmpf’ that escaped your lips sounding like half a whimper, half a moan. Your eyes fluttered shut as you dropped your head.

“C-Clark…please….” you manage to whisper.

You wanted to beg for so many things at once that you couldn’t get any of your words out. You wanted to see him, you wanted to know he was okay, you wanted to scream at him for the way he treated you, you wanted to ask him why he came back, you wanted to ask ‘why me’?

“Careful…” Clark said is a dangerously low voice, his left hand snaking up your spine even further, tangling into the hair on the back of your neck and pulling it hard enough to lift your head back. You let out a groan and bit the inside of your cheek.

“…you keep begging for me like that sweetheart and I’ll have you on your knees in no time.” He pressed a kiss into the side of your neck, his lips felt different, rough and uncared for, the corner of them felt rubbery and raised in a strange way, like a blister. It made you furrow your brows together.

“I want to see you.” You said bluntly.

“You just promised me-“

“I want to see you Clark.” You’re more firm, even with his hand still tangled in your hair you’re trying to stand up to him. The hand quickly leaves your head, letting you gain control over your movement again and you let out a sigh.

A small gap forms between your bodies now, he’s taken a step back. You can feel his eyes still on you, burning, never leaving you unwatched. And then more steps back, but there’s something else there, a distinct third tap of something wooden as he takes a step and another and another, until you hear the soft fabric on the bed shift and then settle under him.

“Walk backwards to me. I want you to sit in my lap.” Clark’s voice doesn’t give away anything, and you wished you could slip into his mind and just figure out for yourself what he’s thinking about. But you feel his unconscious body is somewhere too far away, and without direct eye contact, it’s difficult to find out what’s going on in there that he’s not letting on.

So you follow his instructions, taking a careful step back, another careful step back, and on the third one you bump into him, he guides you to sit between his long legs, and you can see his pants finally. They don’t look any different than the other suit pants he’s worn before, just a deep maroon color this time.

So you sit up straight in his lap with your hands on your knees, the heat of his crotch still haunts your backside and makes you gulp.

“Close your eyes.” He whispers, and you close them, as you do so, he places his head against your shoulder and his arms around your waist again. You can feel so much more of his face now, at least you think it’s his face. It’s that same rubbery feeling like before, the plane of his skin is uneven against your thin shirt, and he feels a bit feverish.

“Go ahead and picture a mirror in front of us.” He says softly.

So you do, you picture a mirror on the wall across from you, one big enough to see the both of you. When you open your eyes to it, you can only see yourself for the most part. Behind you pokes out that salt and pepper hair you so desperately love. That maroon suit continues upward to the sleeves of his jacket, a hint of a deeper purple shirt underneath the cuffs on each wrist. His hands are around you, one looks the same as the last time you saw it, while the other looks like it’s hurt somehow. You squint to get a better look at what’s going on with it.

Clark slowly reveals his face now, resting his chin on your shoulder, catching your gaze in the mirror. You stare back at him wide eyed, your jaw coming slightly unhinged as you try to soak him in.

———

((dream sequence part 2))

“Clark?” You sidle up closer to him, petting the blistered skin on his bad side with a feathered touch.

“Yes baby?” He hums sleepily, his eyes are still closed, his fingers lightly trace nonsense shapes onto the skin of your back.

“Are you…” You hesitate.

“…safe?”

The question immediately feel like it shouldn’t have been asked, it’s almost too intimate, even after what you two just did. You sink with regret as Clark’s fingers stop suddenly against your back.

“With you still in the world, no one is safe.”

He plants a kiss on your forehead before turning away from you. The room grows dimmer now, the last few minutes of sunset masking your view in a glow of total red. You can’t move, your body is completely frozen over like ice. You can see your vision go blurry, and a wetness falls down your cheek as you stare into the twisted knots of scabbed over flesh along Clark’s shoulder. In this lighting they seem to breathe when he breathes, like they’re their own entity, separate from the rest of his body. It horrifies and amazes you all at once. You bite your lip and try not to sob as you find the courage to turn away from him like he did to you.

After a few minutes of patient biting, you feel Clark fade from the dream, his consciousness returning to his body on earth. You sob and sob and sob into your pillow, until you can’t remember ever doing anything else but sobbing. And eventually you’re called back to your body too, the sound of an alarm growing increasingly louder as the dream fades to black.

———

((clarks big speech to you at summerland))

“Hey!” He repeats louder, angrier, across from you.

You keep walking, not even looking in his direction, it’s as if he’s not even there. You’re breathing through your nose heavily, and biting the inside of your cheek to distract you. If you don’t, you feel like you might start crying. There’s so much going through your head right now. You just want to be left alone for once.

Clark is the worst clingy boyfriend ever.

As you get ready to pass him and rear the corner of the brick building, Clark’s steps come closer to yours, catching up to you surprisingly fast with his cane. You’re only a couple steps behind the facade of the building, out of sight of anyone else, when Clark’s hand grabs your shoulder and pushes you back forcefully. You turn and stumble backwards, hitting the wall with a small thud. He cages you in immediately, grabbing the wrist on your right arm and pinning it against the wall, his cane presses into your thigh, blocking your escape on your left side. The roughness of the brick against your shirt makes you want to cry, but so do the fingers digging into your wrist. You bite your lip and glare at him enough to burn him.

Clark leans down over you, cool as a cucumber. He smells the same as you remember, like sandalwood and patchouli. His scars stand prominent on his half swollen face, and you think about scratching at them to get away. But you can’t. You start thinking of the many ways to fight back and escape right now, but deep down, you don’t actually want to.

You try to free your wrist from his grip but he clamps down harder, pushing it and scratching it against the brick behind you.

“I missed you.” He says very bluntly. There’s absolutely no sound of love in his voice, no smile on his face, no easing up on his grip. He looks at you the way he would look at anybody else. And that makes you want to cry.

You shake your head and reach up gently toward his face with your free hand, placing it over his bad eye, the one where you know for a fact everyone at Division-3 will be watching and hearing this conversation right now. That is the last thing you wanted, for some jerks in their suits to be getting off to Clark degrading you and spilling all of the secrets about your past relationship in front of them.

Clark laughs darkly and removes your hand from over his eye.

“Sweetheart, they’re not listening or watching. Did you really think I’d let them see this? See you? No, no, no.” He laughs again, and shakes his head just like you did.

“Baby, I make the rules here, if I don’t want them to listen in on me, I can tune them out. No questions asked.” He smirks and drops your hand by your side again. Clark lets go of your wrist on the other side as well, now that he’s let you know you’re all alone, he wants to show you a little trust. You just stand there, wide eyed and wrist throbbing.

“It’s a nice little privilege I’ve gotten for my sacrifices to the organization. If I’m out on personal business, they can get disconnected at the snap of a finger!” He snaps his fingers awfully close to your face, making you flinch. His smile fades quickly and he stares down at you for a second. You swear his eyes trace your lips for a second before coming back up to meet yours.

“Here’s the deal. I have burns on over 40% of my body and I spent six weeks with a tube jammed into the head of my dick. We were ambushed at the pool. Men died. And you want to know what the craziest part is?” Clark’s voice is low now.

“When I eventually woke up from that horrible, excruciating pain on my right side, I didn’t have anyone there to comfort me. I didn’t have anyone there to tell me they missed me or that they were glad I was alright or just to simply hold my hand as I sat in a hospital bed, suffering for over a month...”

You watched his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed thickly. His eyes were undeniably glossy now, as he stared deeply into your eyes. But he didn’t let his emotions betray him, not a single tear fell, not a single muscle in his face moved at that moment, he was unchanging and colder than ice.

“When I went home, there was no one there for me. I laid in bed alone for days on end. I could barely even walk myself around the house. I didn’t get any help or any support or any relief from anyone. I knew whenever I got to work again, I would be going to war.”

You immediately felt a heavy pang to your heart, but you were keeping up as much of a straight face as he was right now. Neither one of you letting on to what’s actually going on deep down. It took everything in your power (no pun intended) to not slip into him immediately and caress that trauma away, tell him you’re sorry, and fill him with relief.

You just hung your head down, starting to feel guilty and ashamed, letting your eyes stare into the small patch of concrete between your shoes. Clark pinches your chin and lifts your gaze back up to his.

“You know, for those six weeks I only ever dreamt once? I slept a lot because of the painkillers, but never once, after that first dream, did I ever see your face again.” He whispers to you, his face so close to yours, his breath hitting you everywhere.

“That’s funny isn’t it?”

Your eyes flutter shut, your breath hitches, and you’re not exactly sure what will happen next, but your heart starts beating rapidly, waiting for something.

———

((an early visit from clark in the middle of the night))

Your heart skips a beat when he takes another step toward you, his head hanging over yours now, eyes dangerously close to yours, lips dangerously close to yours. He’s looking at your lips you notice.

You don’t like being taken advantage of. Nobody does. You haven’t been able to get a word in with Clark for days now. He seems to enjoy catching you off guard lately, finding just the right (wrong) times to sneak up on you, where you can’t say anything, you can’t fight back. Times where nobody else is around and you’re exhausted from memory work, or times where you haven’t slept because you’re afraid he might come back to you in a dream. Times where you feel helpless and cornered.

You’re sick of it. He doesn’t get to take advantage of you anymore.

‘I can play your little game too Clark.’ You think to yourself.

You look him dead in the eyes, putting your new training to work, you slip into his mind. It’s heavy in there, feverish, he’s angry, and everything’s hot to the touch. But as you go farther in, careful not to touch the anger brimming on the surface, closer to the abyss of forgotten memories and unconscious practices, sits fear. He’s scared and doesn’t want to be alone.

You smile a little bit and let out a quick laugh. He should really know better by now not to let you just slip into his mind like that, but he just loves letting you in there doesn’t he?

‘Oh Clark, baby…what’s there to be afraid of?’

You inch closer to his face, a bright and evil smile spreads across your lips. Your voice reverberates loud in his brain, it catches him off guard, you see the fear pass just behind his eyes now, crashing together with the anger. Clark blinks, then gulps, and takes a step back. The entire dynamic is flipped on its head in an instant.

“Stop that.” There’s a shake in his voice, but he tries to sound as though he’s still in control. He stares at you, unwilling to back down. You can feel his fear and loneliness tangling together at the back of his mind. You want to pull on it like a rope, make it stretch and fray around the edges, until you pull so hard it splits apart again.

‘Do I scare you?’ You look at him through heavy lids, examining his face like you’re about to devour him. You circle his body, now his back is the one up against a wall, and you stand freely in the space of your room at the foot of your bed.

Clark doesn’t say anything. Your voice is so loud in his skull, bouncing throughout every corridor of his brain, slipping in and out of places he doesn’t want you to be, you’re stronger than the first time he saw you. Much stronger. And that’s what begins to scare him. He clenches his jaw and tightens his knuckles, which have now turned white from gripping the wolf on top of his cane.

‘You’re afraid to be without me huh, baby?

Am I your dirty little secret you hide from your coworkers?

Am I your little plaything that you can’t seem to get enough of?

Your sweet little pet?

If I fuck you good enough, will you tell me that you love me?’

You could say so much more to him, but the next thing you know, Clark’s on top of you, pinning you down to your bed. His cane has been discarded to the side and his hands reach down to choke you. At first you don’t even realize what’s happening, you’re still working your way out of his brain. His hands don’t really stop your breathing at first, he’s just pushing on you, until he makes a little grunting noise and adjusts his shoulders, that’s when you realize your breathing has stopped and you can’t get it to start again. Your heart starts beating even faster now. The twisted up face he’s making shows that he’s struggling to put all his effort into killing you. This is hard for him.

Clark’s hands clamp around your throat, squeezing down more and more and more. He uses his body weight to immobilize your hips, crushing you from the waist down. His crotch is flush with yours and you can feel the heat of him rubbing against you. You try to wiggle under him, maybe granting yourself some sort of freedom but it’s useless. Your eyes open wide when you try to swallow but you can’t, so you cough and choke on the spit that gets caught in your throat. Your continuous movement only gives him more room to press down. You grab his wrists and try to breathe in with little success.

His eyes are wild as he’s shaking above you. You don’t fight back as you watch him, if this is the way you die, so be it. You’ve had a long life full of nothing but pain and misery. There have been so many countless times you feel like you should’ve died that at this point, you welcome death with open arms. Part of you wanted to even thank Clark for putting you out of your misery. You wanted to tell him that you loved him because this was, in the most backwards way possible, the kindest thing anyone has ever done for you.

So you try, with whatever effort remains inside of you, to look into his eyes and reach the deep waters in Clark’s brain again. You try to tell him ‘I wouldn’t have wanted it to end any other way, please be a little kinder to the others while I’m gone.’ But you’re not sure if the whole message gets across, there’s black spots dancing in your vision now, your head feels like it’s about to explode, you just wished it would be over quicker.

Your eyes flutter shut and a tear rolls down the side of your face, into your hair. You lay your head back and take it all in. The swimming vision, the ache in your crotch, the heaviness of his hands against your body, the blood getting caught under the pinched nerves, your heart beat completely uneven in your jugular. Your back arches and you hear yourself gurgle a little bit and it sends a chill throughout your body. The grip you have on his wrists is slipping. You can feel your finger tips tingling like static on a TV.

You’re about to give in to the encroaching darkness when Clark’s hands suddenly ease up, and his lips come crashing down on yours. His tongue parts your lips and you gasp for air, only getting a single breath in before Clark’s covering your mouth with his again. You start to kiss him back. His hands on your throat haven’t left, but they aren’t pressing down on you anymore, his thumbs are gently stroking the area you’re sure will be bruised a deep purple tomorrow.

You reach your hands up to lightly grasp his shoulders, your arms are still weak and recovering. He shifts himself in between your legs now, the backs of your thighs pressing against Clark’s. His hands are trailing down from your throat to your chest and he runs his fingers over your nipples. It must be the adrenaline, or at least you hoped it was the adrenaline making your sex hormones go crazy. Because your nipples harden immediately under the fabric of your shirt. You were getting hot and sticky between your thighs and every part of you throbbed with anticipation for more.

You gasp again when Clark broke the kiss on your lips to kiss your cheek, kiss your chin, then dipping down to kiss that pretty little throat he just majorly fucked up.

Clark pulls away to look at you.

You’re both breathing heavy, his eyes still have that wild flare to them as he watches you to see if things are okay to continue, and in some weird fucked up way, they are. You let your hands travel to his face and pull him back in to kiss you. Clark hums and runs his hands down your torso, he starts to unbutton your pants, you desperately reach down to help him move along faster.

If he doesn’t fuck you right now and hard, you’ll surely be the one killing him next, or at least be the one waking up tomorrow and telling everyone Clark broke into your room last night and tried to kill you and then fuck you.

You both fumble for a second but pry your pants open at the same time, the zipper comes undone with one quick pull and a loud ‘zrrrt’ that flies through the air of the quiet room. You quickly move to undo Clark’s pants next. His cock feels rock hard when you accidentally graze it. It makes you pull away from the kiss to look at him, his face is full of lust and sweat as he looks down at you, his hands resting heavily against your tummy.

He looks like he wants to eat you from the inside out. You’re trying to figure out if it’s in a good way or a bad way.

‘Was this his plan all along?’ You think to yourself.

Clark pulls your shirt up over your head, tossing it to the floor, your chest bare to him now. You’d say you’re blushing from the realization that it’s the first time he’s seeing you naked in real life, but you’re pretty sure your face is still bright red thanks to him. He leans down again, taking the soft skin on your chest between his teeth, it makes your jaw go slack and you throw your head back against the mattress. He kisses you everywhere, biting and sucking and leaving marks on you, as if the two handprints that will be perfectly engraved on your throat tomorrow won’t be enough to say ‘Clark made me his last night’.

You make quick work of his belt and fly. As soon as they’re both undone, your hands go up to tug the hair on his scalp as he takes one of your nipples into his mouth. Clark shows you absolutely no mercy by sucking on your sensitive bud, letting his tongue flick over it, left to right, up and down. His tongue feels so hot over your sensitive skin, licking away the taste of you until there’s nothing left.

And when he grazes your nipple with his teeth, you suck in a sharp breath, your back arching instinctively into his body. He traps you in this position by snaking an arm around the curve of your back, holding you in place against him. His other arm keeps him propped up over you, your nipple perfectly positioned in his mouth, being ruthlessly wetted by kisses and licks from him. And when Clark’s mouth switches sides, it leaves the skin of your chest red and abused. The bitter chill of the room hits your damp skin, already missing the tug of Clark’s mouth, and gives you goosebumps.

With your head thrown back on the mattress and your hands tangled in Clark’s hair, he gives the same treatment to your other bud. He sucks and bites and tortures your poor nipples until you feel like sobbing. The pain and pleasure combined starts to give you a head rush, your arms feel weak again and you can’t help but lay them above you.

He bites once more and you twitch in his arms, the precum between your legs begins to soak through your underwear. Your body begs for friction elsewhere, your need for Clark is endless. He moans when your hips tilt up, and the heat of your crotch grazes his aching cock.

He pulls away hastily, letting your back hit the bed under you again. It takes the breath out of you for a second as you prop yourself up on your elbows, watching him swiftly rip his maroon jacket off, then his shirt, which he doesn’t bother to unbutton, just tugs it over his head and tosses it where neither of you can see. You can feel the nerves just under the skin of your chest firing rapidly with tingly little pops like fireworks.

Clark’s chest too looks like some sort of bright firecracker, the skin on his right side weaves and blooms with redness and paleness alike. Damn David for doing this to such a fucking gorgeous man, but it’s true what they say, people do really dig scars.

Your heart beats wildly.

You don’t have much time to admire him as his hands find the waistband of your pants, which he no less than rips off of your body, along with your underwear in one big swoop. They end up quickly forgotten on the floor, with the other scatterings of yours and his clothes.

He steps back and admires your gorgeous body, now naked, panting and slick with sweat on the bed in front of him.

“Wanna know something?” Clark’s voice is weirdly calm, so clam it sends chills down your spine.

You bite your lip and nod at him. He watches you, watching him, take his pants and underwear off slowly. His cock springs to life at its new found freedom, you try to keep eye contact with him, but when his cock is so pretty and pink and begging to be touched, your eyes can’t help but flick down in anticipation for it.

Clark comes back to resume his position between your legs, his eyes flash down to your sex, when his hips end up flush with yours again, he rests his cock on top of the soft flesh of your pelvis. You look at the size of him, and take a deep breath in. From this angle, you can’t wrap your head around how it’s all going to fit in. He cups your face gently and leans in over you.

“You are my pet, and I’m going to make you learn that tonight.”

Clark’s voice is so deep, it makes him rumble above you. He grips the back of your neck with his left hand, your eyes go wide for a split second, and pushes the index and middle fingers on his right hand into your wet mouth. You welcome him in gladly, almost embarrassed at how well you immediately coat him in your saliva, licking the salty taste of his skin off of his fingers.

You look deeply into his eyes and he smirks as he watches you, desperate for his touch anywhere inside of you, even if it was just your mouth. You’re definitely embarrassed now. But you just keep wetting him with your tongue, swirling around him in your mouth. Clark’s fingers go in deeper, you feel his knuckles brushing against your top lip and the tips of his fingers curling around the curve of your throat.

He watches your mouth work to wet him through heavy lids. Your own eyes are fluttering shut, but you try to keep them open to watch him back. You can feel your body wanting to gag against him, but you won’t let it happen, you’ll keep him deep in your mouth with absolutely no hesitation. He loves feeling the back of your throat, poking around where he’s not “supposed” to be.

Clark is very sure this is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

He looks so pleased with you. You might just die from his look alone.

“Good pet.” He hums and slips his fingers out of your mouth, you huff with a hot breath as you watch his fingers leave you, a web of sticky spit still connects your tongue with his fingers. You feel the tiny string snap against your lower lip and pool there as he pulls away.

He reaches down and wipes his two fingers slick with your spit, against the swollen head of his cock, making it shine in the low light of your room. He presses the tip of himself against your entrance. Your body is so hungry for him that you almost think to reach down and put all of him inside of you yourself! But you keep your hands pressed down against the bedsheets, your head hazy and swimming with lust for Clark.

“Are you ready, sweetheart?” Clark asks, keeping his voice low.

You secretly melted every time he called you that.

Sweetheart. Baby. Pet.

Clark loved calling you that to make your insides twist, he always knew that’s what he did to you. You weren’t sure which one you like being called more. The fact that he called you anything, made you squirm. His simple acknowledgement of you as a person always sent all the blood in your body rushing to your crotch. It made you feel like you were his. Wholly owned by Clark, never anyone else.

———

((comfort from clark after a bad memory work session with Dr.Bird & Ptonomy))

Clark runs a hand up and down your back as you let a few more tears fall from your eyes and onto his suit jacket. You’ll clean it up for him tomorrow.

“I held you there…in the closet. I tried to….talk to you, I guess.” Clark’s voice is soft but unsure. Now that it’s just the two of you he can finally process what just happened.

You lift your head and look up at him, both of your eyes are sad, yours are bloodshot and tear stained, his are worried and tired. You nod and press a finger to your temple and smile at him softly.

“You dreamt it? Good because I-“ He smiles and realizes he’s gotten ahead of himself.

“Because I love you.” Clark says firmly.

“I love you and I hoped you also dreamt of me coming to rescue you because I was beginning to think I made it up!” He chuckles nervously.

You nod again and tap your temple. You had dreamed the same dream. The one that started this whole thing. Although you didn’t realize it at the time, that was the first time Clark had ever appeared in your dreams. The light that surrounded him made him glow above you, you saw him as your guardian angel.

You place your hands firmly on either side of his face, anchoring his gaze to yours.

‘I love you’, you mouth at him and you guide his lips to yours.

You take Clark’s top lip in between your own, then his bottom one. Stubble on the left side of his face scratches your cheek gently, but you don’t mind it at all. You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him deeper, parting your lips for him when his tongue begs for entry. He holds your waist flush against his body while you two kiss.

For a moment you don’t worry about who sees, the world right now is just you and Clark, soft lips and wet tongues.

You both pull away and share a quiet laugh.

“Let’s get you back to your room, shall we?” Clark smirks and turns toward the door of the memory cube, he’s grabbing your arm for guidance since his cane is gone.

It’s dark out now, you’re not sure exactly how long you all were in the memory cube for but you’re sure that everyone else has gone to bed by now.

You help Clark navigate the stairs outside and up to your room. You push the door open and walk in, but Clark remains outside. You turn to look at him, confused. He smirks a little and leans against the door frame.

“I’m technically not allowed to come in still.”

You roll your eyes and tug his arm inside, he doesn’t hesitate after that.

Once he’s inside, you shut your door and turn to join him in your bedroom. Clark groans as he sits on the edge of the bed. The side of the bed you’ve come to learn is ‘his’, you used to sleep directly in the middle out of habit, but dozens of late night Clark visits have taught you to leave some room for him.

You kick off your shoes quickly and quite literally flop down face first into your side of the bed, burying your face into your pillow.

“Hey, wait for me sweetheart! You know I need help with these damn shoes.”

You can hear Clark struggling to reach down and untie the shoe on his bad side, he just can’t seem to bend down far enough without it hurting him. You would pretend it annoyed you to help him sometimes, but you secretly loved doing little things for him like this.

You sigh and roll over to his side of the bed before coming to kneel on the floor in front on him. You untie his shoe, slip it off of his foot, and place it beside the other one underneath the bedside table. You can’t help but smile at the domestication of it all when Clark flicks on the TV to some soap opera you’ve never heard of.

You look up at Clark and start to unfasten the deep red buttons of his shirt. As you do so, you kiss him, once, then twice, letting the third one linger and become deeper. He lets a small moan release from his throat once you’ve finished unbuttoning him all the way, he feels your hands on the skin of his torso. But before your hands can travel further south, he stops you. His hands come to rest gently over yours against his chest. You pull away from the kiss to see him.

“Tonight we should just rest. You need it more than me. And don’t- don’t give me that look baby, when you know I’m right.”

You do know that he’s right but that doesn’t stop you from pouting. You kiss him a couple more times and help him take off his jacket. You put it on a hanger in your closet, letting a finger trace over the mostly dry tear stains that lay faintly on the shoulder. You turn back to see Clark almost completely naked, except for his underwear, he’s getting under the covers and smiles when he catches you staring.

You love his scars, even if he doesn’t. You wished to memorize the patterns of them one day, to be able to trace and retrace them, over and over and over again in your mind.

You slip into the bathroom quickly, just to brush your teeth before bed. The face in the mirror is almost unrecognizable to you, it’s you, and you know that, but sometimes when things get hard, you wish you didn’t recognize it in the end. So you face the other direction when brushing your teeth, leaning your back against the counter and go through the motions. It’s nice to play pretend like none of the memory work effects you, but it’s draining. Years have ticked away, pills have been swallowed, strangers have come and gone, all to make you forget. Yet the memories were still there, just laying under a murky surface of denial. And now, being in such a strange place with strange people telling you there’s no more time to forget. This is how the murk clears up.

What you can see now in those subconscious waters is years of bitter neglect. You waited to be loved for so long, by your parents, by your friends, by strange men and women in your bedroom at night. But none of them loved you.

Your mom never wanted you, that was clear. You ruined her life. And your dad had his own special way of showing you ‘love’.

Those few and far between friends found you cold, distant, preoccupied, and not at all easy to get along with. You were a burden to bring around, like hauling heavy luggage through a long airport.

As for those strangers knocking on your door at night, they would tell you they loved you, but really they just loved the way you could dance around their head and make them feel floaty, light as air. You mistook it for love a couple of times. If they came back as often as they did, it had to be love right? But love doesn’t come at the price of half a dozen sleeping pills a day, sometimes more.

You shake your head, the ache in your chest lingers as you spit out your toothpaste in the sink and rinse your mouth. You avoid the mirror at all costs and promptly exit the bathroom.

Clark is heavy lidded and staring at the TV, he wakes up a little at the sight of you and smiles. You smile back and climb over his legs to get to your side of the bed. You shimmy under the blanket and smile at the relief and comfort the warmth brings you. You feel Clark pull the covers up around you and him, he wraps an arm around you and pulls you in tight against his body. His face is buried in your neck, leaving a kiss here and there, his stubble tickles your skin as he finds the perfect place to rest his head. Clark lets his right hand find yours and interlocks his fingers with you, his thumb begins lazily rubbing patterns over your knuckles.

You’re trying to think about how this was the way Clark held little you in the memory. You didn’t get to see any of it of course, but it’s now all so familiar. Your guardian angel. He was warm like this in your first dream. He was safe like this too. You wanted to remind yourself to thank Clark for holding little you when you see him in dreamland.

He was already on thin ice around Summerland and going in and messing up Ptonomy’s delicate memory work would not grant him any brownie points with anybody. But it meant the world to you. You’d never been cared for like that, someone sacrifices what little trust they already have with the people around them just to protect this memory version of you? You? Maybe that…..that….was the price of love after all.

Before you even realize it, you’re drifting off, the theatrics of the soap opera across from you start to fade into static. The heat of Clark was everywhere, enveloping you, making you feel safe and secure and loved. Finally loved. Those deep waters in the back of your brain were muted now.

———————————————————

i appreciate everyone who took the time to read all of this, i’m open to any suggestions or discussions about this fic or writing in general! i pray that i will continue to enjoy writing it, and at some point, get to post it for you all to finally read! i have a few writing pieces for other hamish characters in my notes currently, but they are nowhere near as grand as this clark fic is right now.

♰Ego

[its-me-im-coraline]

Drive // Damiano David // Playlist fics

words // 1016

warnings // kind of angsty feelings but mostly caring!damiano sooo yeah

pairing // Damiano David x GN!Reader

author's note // if you want to be on the tag list let me know. song is drive by ashton irwin. Also I changed the plot that I originally thought of because 1. i forgot my original plot lol and 2. i read the lyrics to the song and apparently I had heard some words wrong so it sparked a new, fluffier scenario

for some reason i only realized i didn't put any tags on it over a week later

request // nope

summary // Reader's partner breaks up with them letting some harsh words before leaving. Damiano is there to hear where it hurts most and pick his friend back up. Only thing is he is in love with them.

Y/N was still hurting. The tears were still fresh and the thoughts never wondering from the leaving man. They still heard the voicemails he left in the past, the same ones that he’s say how much he loved them, how amazing and important they were. They were all but a painful lullaby now, one that would put Y/N to sleep but not before sobbing their eyes out in attempt to heal the pain.

Damiano could sense his best friend’s pain, but even if he had a hard time deciphering people’s emotions, Y/N’s state was a tell all of their inner world. They were hurting, excessively, words still ringing in their head like a bell. Maybe I never loved you. Damiano would not waste any time comforting his friend, drying their tears, holding them close, letting them know that he understood how unfair it was, never forgetting to remind them of their worth. Y/N never spoke, though. They kept everything in, simply taking in Damiano’s care, afraid to speak to him about it.

It had been days in that never changing state. A constant cycle of wake up, cry, sleep and all over again the next day. They refused to eat, refuse to get out the room unless it was utterly necessary… Damiano could not take it anymore. He did not want to push them but they had to break that pattern they found themselves in. “Get up, we’re going out,” he said walking into their room, placing a sweatshirt of his along with some of their shorts on the bed - noting how although it was summer the breeze would make them feel cold, and he couldn’t have that happening.

“Go take a shower, get dressed and I’ll be waiting for you,” he said already starting to work on de-cluttering their little depression room.

The clock read 22.32, it was late, all too late to even attempt to get up. “What’s gotten into you, Dami? What are you doing - hey leave that where it was! What are you doing?”

The man took a deep breath, sitting himself on the crumbled up bedsheets, hand on his friend’s leg. “Listen, amore. I know how much he hurt you, I know, but you can’t stay like this forever,” he paused taking in their state. Eyes red from crying and puffy, their lips swollen from the frequent naps - oh how he wanted to kiss them right now - no no no, Damiano, you can’t be thinking that.

“Let’s go get some take out, drive around downtown… We don’t even have to talk, we can just play music. But please, get up.” He was pleading, just like his heart. He could not bare the person he so dearly loved, even if they did not know it, to hurt like that, to close off and hide away from him. It should have never been an option in his mind.

Y/N whispered a soft ok before vacating the bed. Damiano was already on his feet, placing the clothes on the bathroom counter, helping his love with anything they needed before their shower, and then walking back into the room, making it look less overwhelming and more ‘secure’, sitting on the bed after he finished waiting patiently.

It did not take long for Y/N to be done with getting ready, already feeling slightly better. “Thank you,” they breathed out, hugging Damiano close. He plainly chuckled, hands rubbing their back and lips on their temple, leaving small kisses. I love you, “You’re welcome.”

Getting into the car and getting their food was the easiest task out of everything so far, but the man needed to know what was troubling the person in front of him, so he asked. “Amore,” it came out as almost a whisper, a soft breath of words, “do you maybe want to tell me what happened that night? I know you said he left, but I know you! It’s not that, that is eating you inside out. What did he say?”

The hesitation in Y/N’s face was evident, a long breath being taken in before any words had the chance to. “He -uhm- he said he never loved me,” they let out, without thinking about it too much, knowing that if they did, they’d never say it.

His face fell, and so did his heart. How could someone say those words to anyone, but especially to someone like them. They were literally the light of his life and it seemed like such a paradox for someone to not love them. The man had become livid, ready to break the ex’s face, but when he saw the tears in Y/N’s face, he calmed down.

“He never loved me, Dami, never. Oh, god, no one ever will! What if he’s the representation of everyone’s thoughts about me?! Oh my-”

“Hey stop that! Stop trusting the words or a piece of shit like him,” he spat out as if venom. “He is crazy to feel like that and he is crazy to say it. Y/N, you are the most amazing person I’ve ever met.” He could not believe he was doing it in that moment. Maybe it was wrong, maybe he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t keep himself back.

“You don’t understand Damiano… Maybe he was put into my life so i can learn that I’m unlovable. It feels like I am, and man does it hurt,” they quieted down, looking out the car window for a second before being unable to control the upcoming sob, “it hurts, Dami, it really hurts.”

These words pierced through his chest like a dagger dipped in his anger. Not much was able to be done until the man simply pulled his friend in his arms. “That’s bullshit!”

A sharp silence followed these words, both friends unsure of what to do.

“Listen, Y/N, I don’t want to act like saint - hell I’m far from that - but… I can help, ok? I can show you how wrong those horrible thoughts and that horrible man are. Just,, put some faith in me.”

tag list: @bieberhoodforever @tabi-toast @ginny-lily @moriro-da-regina @the-killer-queenie @makapaka11

playlist tag list: @cheese-toastie-11

[of-wrens-and-whirlwinds-blog]

How Do Dragons Flirt?

Commission for the beauteous @ikeracity​ !!! A Cherik fic including dragon talk! I hope you like it, friend! Commission info is here!

~

Charles was reading another book about dragons.

Erik checked and re-checked that there was no one around, then walked over and asked, “May I sit here?”

Charles looked up, blinking. The entire student lounge was empty, and he had claimed the saggiest, oldest, shittiest couch that everyone hated. But Erik needed to get close for this.

“Ah—sure,” Charles said finally, and moved his enormous backpack. Erik sat in the corner furthest away from Charles. There was close, and there was too close; sharing a couch was on the edge of too close. He nevertheless turned a little, and asked Charles bluntly, “What’s that book about?”

A slow flush of shame filled Charles’ face, and he looked down, fiddling with the edges of the heavy paper. There seemed to be quite a few full-color illustrations as well as fancy script. “It’s… um… it’s about dragons,” he mumbled.

Erik bit the inside of his cheek, cursing at himself for already fucking up. He tried to make it better by saying, “Like contemporary ones or mythological?”

The flush deepened, and Charles looked away. “Mythological,” he answered softly.

Erik bit harder, cursed more viciously, and asked, “Can you tell me about that book?”

Charles’ head whipped around, and he stared at Erik with naked shock. Erik’s face went pink this time. “I like dragons too,” he explained, “But I don’t know any good books on them.”

The slow, brilliant smile that spread across Charles’ face was so beautiful that Erik was almost breathless. It really brought home how very fake his normal smiles were.

“Well… what books are you looking for?” Charles temporized, slowly relaxing and turning towards Erik. Maybe it wasn’t even a conscious decision. “There’s quite a difference between books about pop culture and books about dry medieval mythos.”

“I already have a basic grounding of pop culture,” Erik said, thinking back on the past three days of reading absolutely everything he could get his hands on. “Read a lot of essays. But I don’t know much about ancient depictions and writings.”

“Well, you are in for a treat,” Charles replied with something close to unholy glee.

Charles didn’t just like dragons, and he wasn’t just well-read. He was obsessed. Apparently his son was autistic (how the hell did baby-faced Charles have a child?) and his special interest was mythological creatures; Charles had started out just reading to him, and buying him books and watching videos. But then Charles had latched on to dragons, so while his son David researched griffins, Charles collected more and more material on fire-breathing lizards. It wasn’t as bad as his obsession with genetics and biology, but as Charles rambled on and on excitedly, Erik began to realize why people didn’t like listening.

But they were wrong. Because he’d heard so often that Charles was “boring”, but no one had ever mentioned how beautiful he was when he was excited. His eyes were wide and bright, his smile was the same, and his entire face came alive in a way it never did in class debates. He gestured emphatically and his voice got stronger and he looked so relieved.

Not to say Erik wasn’t listening. He was impressed by Charles’ knowledge, and the challenger in him wanted to learn just as much and more. So he listened, and asked questions, and soaked up Charles’ words like a sponge. He even got out his phone and noted all of the books Charles referenced and where to find them, and which sources they used. Charles was only too happy to add to the list.

By the time lights-out rolled around, Charles was hoarse and Erik was in a daze from the immense wave of talking that had just been aimed at him. He didn’t regret it. He found, to his own amusement, that he had enjoyed listening. But, well, he was already in love with Charles. No harm in enjoying his happiness.

They went to the stairs, silently. As they reached the landing where they split ways, Erik asked suddenly, “Can I sit with you at lunch tomorrow? I can probably dig up the essays I read, and we can compare.”

How could anyone think Charles was less than gorgeous when he was happy? “I’d like that,” he said simply.

~

So it became their Thing. If Erik was angry and wanted to be distracted, he sought out Charles. If Charles was upset in any way and needed to calm down, he went to Erik. They laughed together (when they were alone) about how it was great that, when either or both of them wanted to be alone, they just had to find each other and talk about dragons, and other people would avoid them.

Erik was labeled a martyr and insane for putting up with Charles, but he brushed it off, and in fact snapped at several people who acted like he was “brave” for “trying to be his friend”. There was no trying involved. As soon as they had found common ground, they had become friends. Natural arrogance, similar tastes, and true respect had made a friendship that Erik craved.

And it was fun talking to Charles. Even when conversation veered and they ended up debating politics or queer rights or which pizza chain made the best food (Erik insisted it was Pizza Hut, Charles refused to let go of Dominoes), it always came back to dragons, naturally, easily. Dragons as metaphors. Dragon stories as direct replies to various events in history. Dragons and their place in the human psyche.

It was only natural, really, to spend an evening talking about all the various descriptions of dragon mating behaviors. Erik was of the opinion that basing a dragon’s mating rituals on mammals was an insult to lizards and bats; Charles laughed and said if humans stuck to the mating rituals of lizards and bats, no one would find dragons romantic or powerful. They eventually agreed that birds were a good compromise, since they both detested birds.

Then things started… happening.

Erik immediately linked them to Charles. Gifts of food left at his door. Pretty rocks slipped into his backpack. Beautiful feathers tucked between the pages of his latest book on dragons that he was borrowing from Charles.

And then there was the nesting. The first time Erik visited Charles’ house, they ended up curled in a mess of pillows, cushions, blankets, and sheets, doing something Erik had never expected himself to be comfortable with: cuddling.

Charles’ son, David, was visiting. He was nonverbal, but knew a lot of sign-language; and since Charles had been teaching Erik, he was able to convey to David that he was a friend and he liked mythological creatures too. David looked at him somberly with his big blue eyes, then nodded and sat on a cushion a foot away from Charles, who beamed at his son with so much love that Erik’s heart ached.

But cuddling in a nest, watching movies together, sharing popcorn… it made Erik nervous, but excited. Was Charles flirting? Was this how flirting worked?

He decided to try some himself.

He bought Charles CDs because the silly man wouldn’t upgrade to a digital library, because birds sang to potential mates, didn’t they? Erik also tentatively offered to watch Dirty Dancing with Charles, because birds dance but he couldn’t, and the delight on Charles’ face was worth the fact that Erik disliked most of the movie.

He was stumped on pretty gifts, though. He didn’t have a lot of income, and Charles could afford literally anything he wanted. So Erik bought a ton of jump rings, a spool of wire, those little pliers jewelry-makers used, and pretty beads, and started making things for Charles.

The first thing he gave Charles was one of those bead-lizards, except he made wings to match. Charles almost cried, and hugged Erik so tight, which was… a nice feeling, surprisingly. Then Erik fussed and fiddled and managed to make three differently-sized hamsa, which Charles immediately hung by his front door, on his backpack, and in his room. David demanded a hamsa of his own, so Erik made a child-sized one and gave it to him for his birthday. David was so excited that he ran in circles, flapping his arms, and then shook Erik’s hand heartily. Erik actually found himself smiling.

Charles kissed his cheek so briefly before he left that night. It made him dizzy and warm, a feeling that lasted all the way back to his dorm.

They never talked about it. Not unless continued, hesitant mentions of dragon mating rituals counted.

~

It was a year after Erik had first approached Charles about dragons when he met Raven.

“Erik, this is my sister, Raven,” Charles said, beaming. “Raven, this is my friend Erik.”

“Nice to meet you,” Raven said neutrally with a lukewarm smile.

Erik nodded. “Likewise,” he said stiffly.

Charles was used to Erik by now, and was apparently used to Raven, because he didn’t seem upset by this standoff. If anything, he brightened further, and told Raven, “He likes dragons too.”

“Yeah, you told me,” Raven replied, taking Charles’ hand and squeezing gently. Then she turned back to Erik, narrowed her eyes, and asked, “What’re your intentions towards my brother?”

“Raven!” Charles gasped, immediately turning red with embarrassment. Erik was also pink, to his surprise.

“He’s my friend,” Erik said firmly.

“Then why are you flirting with him?”

Erik’s face got even warmer. “I… was not aware that I was,” he muttered, eyes glancing around to make sure no one was near.

“Hmph.” Raven turned back to a befuddled and sad—no, no, why was he sad—Charles. “He’s into you, dumbass.”

Erik looked at the ground, unable to hide how very red he was. Charles knew him now. He would know what his expression meant.

“Oh, hush, Raven,” Charles snapped, actually sounding angry. “You don’t know that.”

“Whatever. Did you want to get drinks or no?”

So the three of them went to get drunk. Erik was nervous about that; he was an angry drunk. But if he kept to a low amount of alcohol, he should be fine.

Raven and Charles were so hard-headed it made Erik a little afraid. Raven did eventually fall asleep on Charles’ shoulder, but she never acted drunk other than that; and Charles chattered on with his usual enthusiasm, his speech not slurred in the slightest. Erik was feeling a little woozy after maybe two beers and three shots of tequila.

“Do you like me?” Charles asked suddenly.

“Huh?” Erik said.

“Do you like me?” Charles repeated, looking very sharp and sober. “Raven said you did.”

“Well...” Erik rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the table. But, knowing that they would both forget in the morning, he felt safe in blurting, “Well, yes. I just… didn’t want to bring it up.”

“Why not?”

“Because… it felt weird. I like being your friend too much.”

There was a silence. Then Charles reached over and put his hand over Erik’s. “I like you too,” he said softly.

~

It was definitely mating rituals.

And Erik didn’t mind at all. Nothing really changed, except they started kissing in private, and then they got bold and kissed while drunk and in front of Charles’ friends, and after that it was just natural to hold hands and sit side-by-side and kiss each other on the cheeks or forehead. It was so natural that Erik forgot their reputations, and was honestly surprised the first time someone invited Charles to a party and asked Erik separately if he’d like to come.

Charles asked David if it was okay that Charles and Erik wanted to be boyfriends. David thought about it, and said his first sentence in six years: “Yes, because he makes you happy.”

“Thank you so much, Davey,” Charles said, smiling broadly with tears in his eyes. Erik felt a weight lift off his shoulders, too; so David wouldn’t mind Erik visiting more often.

Or moving in. Which Erik did, eventually. Because it was only natural. Dragons move in with their mates too, after all.

[sambergscott]

a peralta guarantee

“I promise I’ll come home safe, Ames. That’s a Peralta Guarantee.”

(missing scenes from 7x08 - amy worrying about jake)

hUge thanks to johanna for inspiring this fic and helping when i had a lil breakdown halfway through

When he approaches her desk mid-afternoon with a decaf coffee and the white chocolate chip cookies she’s been craving from the bakery across town, she knows he’s either a) broken something, b) wants something or c) has bad news. She narrows her eyes suspiciously, detecting an excited bounce in his step which can only mean it’s b and c; he wants something she’s not going to like.

“Hey, babe,” he tries to play it cool, clearing a butt-sized space on her desk on which to sit. “I come bearing gifts.”

“What do you want, Peralta?” She cuts to the chase.

“Damn it, you know me too well,” he mutters. “OK, so, here��s the thing: Doug Judy’s gettin’ married. He invited me to his Bachelor Party this weekend and I know he’s a criminal, Ames, but I really wanna go. Like, so bad. Would you be cool with that?”

She conjures up a mental pro and con list. On one hand, Doug Judy is The Pontiac Bandit, known felon, committer of God knows how many crimes, an overall bad dude. On the other, he’s Jake’s friend, singer of the smush songs CD in the glove box of their car that they always forget to take out, giver of the Le Creuset pot she adores. He’s always been nice to her and—.

“Sarge?” Gary interrupts her decision-making process with a quick question about a perp he just brought in, snapping her back to reality. She’s a Police Sergeant, her job is to serve and protect the city they call home and as much as she loves cooking her mom’s beef casserole recipe in Judy’s awesome wedding gift, she has a responsibility to bring him in.

“I’m sorry, babe. I just think it’s a bad idea.”

His face falls, his disappointment coming through loud and clear.

“What were you expecting me to say? Ignore the million arrest warrants out on this guy, many of them submitted by you, so you can drink beer and go to strip clubs?”

“You’re right,” he sighs. “You’re obviously right. Man, being good at your job sucks.”

She nods in agreement. “Remember last month when I had to shut that binder store down for running a secret drug dealing operation out back?”

“How could I forget? You cried for three days straight.”

“They had the best binder collection I’ve ever seen!”

(It was actually what was so fishy about it. In four trips to buy pregnancy binders, she hadn’t seen any of the founding members of the Brooklyn Binder Babes blog — Mary Sue, Catherine, Margaret or Jane — once. And there’s no way a stationery start-up would attract such long queues without their recommendation. It was a pretty easy solve from there).

“The point is, you can’t go to a criminal’s Bachelor Party.” She pats his hand. “You’ll just have to come maternity clothes shopping with me instead. None of my jeans fit me anymore.”

“As much as I would love to, you can take Kylie. I’m going to the party.”

“What?” She double-takes. “Jake, did you not listen to what I literally just said? We’re cops. We cannot be friends with criminals.”

“But we can be friends with informants who have helped us catch numerous, even bigger, more dangerous criminals,” he says with that look on his face, the one he gets when he finds a loophole that he can use to his advantage. She recognises it from home videos Karen has shown her where, instead of tidying his room like she asked him to, seven year old Jake shoves everything under his bed and carries on enacting a police chase with his race cars. “Captain Holt has given him immunity before, so technically I should be able to go party it up with him in Miami!”

“Wait... It’s in Miami? Miami... Florida?”

It’s a stupid question, she knows. Of course he means Miami, Florida. It’s just... they both promised on the flight home that they would never, ever go back there. After everything that happened with Figgis and not knowing if they’d ever see each other again, a statewide travel ban seemed a good way to put it all behind them, focus on all their future moments together, not on all the moments they missed.

“This isn’t like last time,” he reassures her. “It’s only for a weekend and then I’ll be coming straight home for snuggles with you and —,” he lowers his voice to a whisper because they haven’t told anyone she’s pregnant yet, “the baby.”

Her eyes fill with tears and she bites her lip so hard to stop them overflowing in front of all her uniformed officers. It’s pretty clear that he wants to go and she never wants to be one of them wives who control their husbands’ every move. All she wants is for him to be happy. And if going to Doug Judy’s Bachelor Party makes him happy, he should go, no matter how much she hates the entire state of Florida. She agrees, on one condition: “You have to text me hourly updates to let me know that you’re still alive.”

“Don’t I text you constantly anyway?”

“I guess so,” she sniffs.

He lifts her chin so she’s looking him in the eyes. “I promise I’ll come home safe, Ames. That’s a Peralta guarantee.”

“You better,” she warns, tears suddenly flowing down her face at the thought of him not coming home, not being there to watch Property Brothers with her, not raising their baby and proving to everyone what a great dad he will be.

Used to her extra strength pregnancy hormones shifting her emotions from 0 to 100 faster than John McClane can say “Yippie-Ki-Yay, motherfucker”, he pulls her into a tight hug, careful not to crush the precious cargo that is behind said mood swings.

He strokes her hair and whispers that he’ll be home before she knows it and that nothing, not even the worst state in the country, will tear him away from her.

When it’s time for him to leave, she follows him out to the street and, after a brief argument over the fact he packed his bag before he OK’ed the trip with her and another hormone-induced cry when his cab shows up, reluctantly waves goodbye.

True to his word, he texts her before the car is even out of sight. Miss you already 😘.

--

Her phone buzzes periodically throughout the rest of the day.

In a meeting with Holt and Terry: flying on mark cuban’s dope ass private plane!!!!! ✈️

Cooking dinner: florida is HOT (not as hot as u babe, dont worry)

Doing her crossword in bed: g’night ames, g’night baby, love u both SO MUCH

She smiles, tells him she loves him too and braces herself for the barrage of drunk texts and selfies coming her way.

--

Sleeping without him sucks. The bed is cold, her pregnancy pillow is not as good of a cuddle buddy and she tosses and turns all night worrying about him, where he is, what he’s doing, whether he’s safe.

Her eyes finally slip shut around 1 am when her phone buzzes. Again. And again. And again.

She tries to ignore him, bury her head under her pillow and go back to sleep, but the messages keep coming thick and fast. She groans, giving up and unlocking her phone.

There are 47 new messages from him.

Forty-seven.

Her initial annoyance at being woken up quickly disappears as she scrolls through the thread. He’s mostly sent her random, meaningless emojis and keysmashes, interspersed with the odd “I love you”, “you’re my best friend” and “I’m thinking about you” that warm her heart. He mentions something about their proposal, about crying with Doug Judy, which obviously makes her cry too.

(Dumb pregnancy hormones).

By the time she reaches the bottom, he’s sent her 10 more.

She decides for her sake — and the sake of all of her officers who would have to deal with a tired, emotional pregnant lady — to turn off her phone and reply to him in the morning.

She returns her phone to her nightstand, settles back into a comfortable position and closes her eyes.

She lies motionless for what feels like hours, unable to fall asleep. She tries the breathing technique her brother David brags about constantly, counting sheep like little Matthew, even reciting police codes like Teddy used to go to sleep after sex. Nothing works. She’s still awake.

She turns her phone back on to see what Jake’s up to now, only to see his messages ended abruptly with a caterpillar emoji over an hour ago.  

She immediately panics, dialling 911 into her phone.

Her thumb hovers over the green call button.

She’s heard thousands of crazy operator call stories, frequently reminded the general population to only call in a genuine emergency and watched the YouTube compilations for fun. She deletes the number, positive that if she told an operator her husband was missing because she hadn’t heard from him while he’s at a Bachelor Party, she’s positive she would be added to those videos.

In an attempt to stop her spiral, she contemplates the possible scenarios in which his constant texts would cease.

Scenario 1: He’s living in the moment and has put his phone away (something she has been encouraging him to do lately to reduce his screen time)

Scenario 2: He’s very drunk and has completely forgotten about his promise

Scenario 3: He used up all his battery texting her and his phone has died

Scenario 4: He’s fallen asleep (although a quick check of Trudy Judy’s insta reveals the party is very much still in full flow)

Scenario 5: Judy’s criminal buddies have killed him and thrown his body into the ocean

Once the thought pops into her head, no amount of squeezing her eyes shut will make the image go away.

Holt giving an emotional eulogy about wearing ties and being an amazing detective/genius.  

Some rookie taking over his desk.  

The sympathetic looks when she tells all the other moms in baby group that her husband died.  

Usually Jake is there to hold her when her nightmares get bad. She rolls over, expecting to see his kind eyes and soft smile, the untouched side of his bed only serving to make her cry harder.

She can’t lose him. Not yet. Not until they’re old and grey, and maybe not even then. She spent so long denying her feelings for her dorky partner, rueing every missed opportunity to be together, and when they finally, finally took the plunge, she had never been happier. She can’t lose him yet. They have so much more life left to live.

She can’t lose him because he promised her he would come home safe. He guaranteed it.

She clings onto the tiny grain of hope like one might cling onto a raft in the middle of the ocean.

He would never break a Peralta guarantee.

--

Her phone finally buzzes again an hour later.

From: Unknown

Ames, it’s me, Jake. Judy’s buddies found out I’m a cop + destroyed my phone. So sorry I couldn’t text before. Hope you didn’t worry too much, although I know you probably haven’t slept. You can stop worrying now. I’m safe. Love you + see you tomorrow.  

Love you too, she responds, yawning as she places the phone back on the side table.

Relieved that he’s OK, and exhausted from all the worrying, she falls into the easiest sleep she’s ever had.

--

Before she knows it, it’s the next afternoon, Jake’s keys are turning in the lock, he’s dropping his holdall on the floor and rushing to her side to kiss her all over her face.

“I missed you too,” she laughs, kissing him properly.

“Sorry it took so long — Doug and Trudy made me fly commercial —.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re home now. That’s all that matters.”

“I’m never leaving you two again,” he swears.

“You’ll have to leave us eventually to go to the bathroom and stuff,” she points out, raking her fingers through the unruly curls that she so hopes their baby will inherit. “Just don’t go back there.”

A solemn understanding passes over his face and he nods. “Never again. Not even if our kid wants to go to Disney World. We’ll take them to the California one instead.”

“Smort,” she says, stealing his line and in an instant, that familiar grin is back.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

A dozen memories flood back, of oldies in short shorts and shuffleboard and Doug Judy getting away again. Of noice and smort and saying “I love you” for the very first time. Her eyes fill with tears — dumb pregnancy hormones strike again — as she buries her face in his shoulder.

“Let’s go to bed,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and lifting her bridal style to carry her to their room. He places her carefully onto the mattress and flops down next to her.

She snuggles into him, eyes closing once more. “Did we even get an invite to the wedding?”

“Not even close,” he sighs.

“Damn it. I would’ve loved to see that trainwreck.”

“You and me both, babe. You and me both.”

[unfolded73]

How Do We Get Back (16/16) - schitt’s creek ff

Summary: In a literal alternate universe where the Roses escaped financial ruin, David and Patrick struggle with loneliness and a sense that something isn’t right. A chance meeting in New York and a terrible tragedy drive them to question whether the timeline they are on is the right one. Explicit, this chapter 4.6k words.  (ao3)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15

Notes: I know, I can’t believe it’s over either.  Thanks to everyone who supported me through this fic, here and on ao3 and particularly in the Rosebudd Motel. You guys make me need to go for a hike to sort out my tender feelings for you.

_____________________________________

Chapter 16

Patrick listened to the fifth message from David Rose again, unable to wipe the smile off of his face.

“The text cut us off. Anyway, the point was that I sell the items from local artists and vendors under the brand of the store. Which is my brand. And I’m not buying the products — I’m selling them on consignment — but Ray says I need more start up money, which I don’t have, and I guess I want a second opinion. So I have your card. Which, I don’t know why I have your card. Maybe you work for one of my vendors? Probably not the Mennonites, though? Although who knows, I’ve heard of weirder things.”

It went on like that for a while.

He looked at his calendar. He had two appointments with clients in the morning and then needed to stop by the Elmdale town hall to pick up some paperwork, but he could probably drive over to Schitt’s Creek after that and meet this David Rose. Despite the rambling messages, his business plan sounded legit. And what’s more, Patrick knew exactly how to help him. He supposed he could just call, but Schitt’s Creek wasn’t that far away from Elmdale, and it helped sometimes, to meet someone in person.

He’d been living in Elmdale for a couple of months, ever since he’d broken off his engagement with his fiancé and had fled his hometown. Elmdale was nice and he’d made a few friends, including a handsome barista named Ken. The way he’d found himself thinking about Ken had certainly helped Patrick realize why things had never felt right with Rachel, but Ken had a boyfriend and nothing had ever happened between them. He was pretty sure he was mostly over Ken now anyway, although he figured being gay was probably a more permanent state of being.

Patrick pulled up in front of Rose Apothecary just after 2:00 pm the following day, getting out of his car and looking up at the workers who were mounting the large sign above the door. He liked the lettering, gold against black, with roses on either side of the name. He turned in a circle, taking in the little downtown, with a café nearby and a pretty flower garden and a car repair garage across the way. It was tiny compared to Elmdale, but there was a hominess to it that pleased him. Taking a deep breath, he went up to the front door of Rose Apothecary. There was a sign proclaiming that the store was closed but when he tried the latch, it swung open.

The bell above the door summoned a tall man from the back. Patrick was immediately struck by how not of this town he appeared. He wore tight black jeans, the knees ripped in a way that Patrick assumed was by design rather than through wear and tear. He had a sweatshirt on in monochrome leopard print, his black hair swept up off of his forehead in a coif that looked like it took time every morning to get right. He’s beautiful, Patrick thought immediately, and then mentally shook himself. Where the hell had that come from?

“Umm, sorry, I thought you were a friend of mine,” the man said. “We’re closed.”

“Oh, yeah. I know, sorry.” Patrick approached and held out his hand. “I’m Patrick Brewer. You must be David?”

David’s eyes widened. “Hi. I didn’t know you were going to come here. In person.” He reached out to take Patrick’s hand.

“Well, Elmdale isn’t far,” Patrick said as their hands clasped together in a handshake.

*

They sat together at a pizza restaurant in Elmdale.

“What’s an appropriate topic of conversation for a second date?” David asked, his mouth turning up on one side and down on the other. It was one of Patrick’s favorite David Rose facial expressions, and David had a lot of facial expressions to love.

“Does this even count as a second date? Because you invited Stevie on our first date,” Patrick said.

“I kissed you,” David said, his voice dropping into a sexy whisper, and Patrick felt his whole body respond. Jesus. “It counts.”

“Uh, we could talk about the store?” Patrick suggested, trying to get his heart rate under control.

“We spend all day talking about the store. When did you realize that you liked me?”

Patrick flushed, unsure if he should admit the truth. He could say it was the day the store opened, when they hugged each other after. Or he could say it was the day David wore a shower cap on his head to protect himself from Alexis’ lice. That would be a cute thing to say.

“The day you walked into Ray’s. When you said it was a general store but also a very specific store. That’s when I realized I liked you.”

“You’re lying,” David said, but his eyes flashed with happiness.

“I’m not. I thought you were beautiful. That was the first thing I thought about you, that you were beautiful.” Patrick dropped his gaze and cleared his throat, trying to break some of the tension between them before he jumped over the table and climbed onto David’s lap. “When did you realize?”

David fidgeted with the shaker of parmesan cheese on the table. “I’m very good at convincing myself that I’m not feeling things, so it’s difficult to say. But when you told me you’d get the grant money, I definitely felt something.”

The way he said it made Patrick sit up a little straighter. “Felt what?”

“Nothing I’m going to tell you about in public,” David said with a sexy smirk.

*

“Nice to, ahh, meet you,” Patrick said, quickly letting go of David’s hand. He shook his head, trying to figure out why he suddenly smelled pizza and was imagining a sexually charged conversation with this man.

“You too,” David said, looking as shaken as Patrick felt.

“So, I got your messages,” Patrick said, trying to regain some control of this meeting. “And I listened to all of them.”

“Oh,” David said, and now he kind of looked queasy. “Sorry about that, I was—”

“Based on what you told me, you’ve got a good business model, David. Good enough that I wanted to come down here and see it for myself.” He looked around, finally taking in the interior of the store. It was clear that David was still setting things up, but it looked good. Patrick didn’t use words like aesthetic or, as David had said in one of his many messages, ‘branded immersive experience,’ but he could definitely see that David had an artistic vision for the place. “And if start up money is the issue, then I have some ideas for how you could get that.”

Now David looked very interested. “How?”

“There are grants you can apply for when you’re supporting local businesses. But I’ll need to know a few more details about your business model to make sure you qualify for them. Do you have time to go over it with me?”

David was eyeing him. “You don’t know me, and I’m pretty sure the messages I left you made me sound insane. Why are you so willing to help me?”

Patrick shrugged. “Just an instinct, I guess. Also I do expect you to pay me for my time.”

“Of course.” David went over to the counter where Patrick assumed the cash register would be set up. “I’ve been putting all the vendor information in here,” he said, pulling out a binder. “And also I have a file that another consultant put together for me. To be honest, I don’t understand all of it.”

“That’s no problem. I’m sure I can help with that,” Patrick said, noticing David’s hands as they curled around the binder, the way he had dark hair on the backs of them.

“I don’t have anywhere comfortable to sit, really,” David said. “Do you want to go get a coffee at the café? We can look through everything there.”

Patrick smiled, feeling a little bit giddy for some reason. “Sure. Coffee sounds great.”

The coffee wasn’t great, but they spent a productive hour going through everything in David’s files and discussing his plans for the business. Patrick thought his first instinct had been correct. David had a good plan and with a little more money, he’d be in good shape to succeed. Patrick neatly stacked Ray’s summary and put it back in the folder. “You definitely qualify for the grants, David. I’ll get the paperwork started right away.”

“And do you think if I don’t get the grants that my business is going to fail?”

“Oh, I’m gonna get the money,” Patrick said, holding the folder out for David to take. David reached for it, and their fingers brushed.

*

“So…” Fingers trailed up and down on Patrick’s bare arm, raising goose bumps. “Did it live up to your expectations?”

Patrick felt like laughing, because there was so much joy inside him that he didn’t know how else to let it out, so he did. He laughed. “Wasn’t it obvious?” His voice was raspy, and he was pretty sure the noises he’d been making should have left no doubt with David whether it lived up to his expectations. He hoped Stevie’s neighbors weren’t home.

“Maybe, but I want you to tell me.” David lowered his head, pressing his face against Patrick’s shoulder. “I guess I’m needy.”

“And fishing for praise,” Patrick said, but he didn’t mind, really. “So are you asking if sex with you lived up to my expectations? Or gay sex in general?”

“Are those different answers?” David asked, and Patrick had to stop him from looking so apprehensive with a kiss.

“It was amazing, David,” he whispered into the space between their mouths when they parted. “Nothing has ever made me feel as good as you make me feel.”

David hummed in the back of his throat. “That’s too nice a thing to say.”

Patrick reached up and stroked David’s stubbly cheek. “It’s true.”

*

Patrick shivered as David tucked the folder away in his bag, grateful that the table was hiding the fact that his body had started to respond to David. A brief touch of his hand, Patrick thought hazily, and suddenly he’s having sexual fantasies about the guy. What the hell was happening to him?

“I should get back to the store,” David said.

“Okay, I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear about the grants. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of weeks. You’ve got my number, in case you need to reach me.” He felt the urge to flirt, just a little bit, so he added. “And if I don’t pick up you can just… leave a message,” he said, the last part coming out in a huskier timbre.

David nodded at him, his mouth doing a weird thing. “Thanks, Patrick.”

~*~

“He got the grants,” David said as he burst through the door to the motel office. “Patrick got the grants for the store.”

“That’s great news, David,” Stevie said, dragging her eyes away from her solitaire game on the motel computer. “Did he come by?”

“He texted me just now, but he said he’d drive over tomorrow with the paperwork. Why?”

She shook her head. “Just curious.”

“I’m worried about him coming by, to be honest.” David started pacing back and forth in front of the desk, his face tilted up toward the ceiling.

“Why?”

“Because we spent maybe a sum total of an hour together the day we met, and my mind was already creating some… elaborate fantasies about the two of us. It was bizarre and disconcerting.”

“Fantasies?” Stevie asked with a filthy leer.

“Not that. Well, okay, that, but also dating and… post-coital snuggling.” He grimaced as if he smelled something bad. “That’s not normal.”

“So you’re just really into Patrick,” Stevie said, keeping her voice even.

“I barely know him. Also, I don’t know what his preferences are. Also, he dresses like a guy who works all day in a cubicle. Also, I barely know him.”

“You’ve never been attracted to someone you barely know?”

David threw his hands up. “This was different from just being attracted to someone.” His phone buzzed, and David looked at it and his face broke out in a wide smile.

“Oh my god, you’ve got it so bad.”

“Fuck off, Stevie.”

~*~

“This is… not a small amount of money,” David said, signing and initialing everywhere on the government forms that Patrick told him to.

“I know, it’s good, right?” Patrick shot him a happy smile, and David suddenly wanted to think of more things to say that would make him smile like that. “You’ve probably got enough capital that you can hire some help.”

“Oh. Yeah.” David hadn’t thought he could hire help right away, but he’d figured he would eventually. “My sister Alexis knows some teens who are probably looking for work and could be trained to run the POS system.” Which reminded him, he really needed to get that set up. Which meant he needed to figure out why the internet wasn’t working.

“I was thinking of someone more specific.” Patrick cleared his throat. “Like myself. A business manager.”

David’s mouth dropped open. “You want to work here?”

Patrick jammed his hands deep in his pockets. “I don’t really have enough freelance work in Elmdale to pay the bills. And I think you’ve really got something here, David. I’d like to be part of it, if you’ll let me.”

The idea of Patrick being around every day made David’s heart hammer in his chest. Also the idea that someone would be able to help with all of the business stuff made him so relieved that he came over a bit light-headed.

“Well then, you’re hired,” David said. “Even though I personally think you’re making a very rash decision.”

Patrick shrugged. “I probably am. But something is telling me that I’m making the right call here.”

They were just grinning at each other now, and David groped for something to break the tension. “I’m just gonna go get a coffee,” he said, gesturing with his thumb at the café, “and then I guess we should discuss… details?”

“Sure. Would you get me a tea?” Patrick asked.

David nodded. “I will get you a tea.”

“Great,” Patrick replied, smiling that smile again and holding out his hand for David to shake. “I’m looking forward to working with you, David.”

David took Patrick’s hand.

*

“I know, I know, that took forever, sorry,” David said as he pushed through the door with Patrick’s tea. “There was a whole thing going on over at the café.”

“That’s okay,” Patrick said, accepting the cup and grinning at him. “What was going on over at the café?”

He tried to think of a flippant way to say it, but he was too full of happiness and love to even pretend to be cynical. “Ted and Alexis just got back together very publicly. It was a scene to rival any romcom.”

“Wow,” Patrick said. “That’s a strong statement coming from you.”

“Okay, maybe not Notting Hill. But almost any romcom.”

“Should I have waited and told you I love you in front of a room full of people?” Patrick asked over the lip of his cup.

“No — I like those things in theory, not in practice,” David said. “I’ll make a single exception for my sister. And for you singing to me on very rare occasions.”

Patrick set his tea down and put his hands on David’s hips, swaying into his personal space. “So a few exceptions, then.”

David leaned down and pressed his forehead against Patrick’s. “Will you say it again?”

“If you will.”

“You may not be able to stop me from saying it now,” David said, tears close to the surface. “I love you.”

“I love you, David.”

*

The thing with his juice just wasn’t fair.

They were opening in three days, and David did not have time to think about what Patrick’s neck looked like when he was drinking David’s juice, his throat working, all that pale, vulnerable skin on display above the collar of his shirt.

At least he could now manage to touch Patrick’s hand without his brain being flooded with fantasies of a relationship they might have. Which was good, because when they worked together to pot all of the plants that were on display in the front window, their hands had met a few times, and at the rate David’s brain had been going, he’d soon be envisioning them with a house and a white picket fence and 2.5 children. Which, ew. Fortunately, he was starting to get some semblance of control of himself around Patrick, or at least he had been until Patrick stole his juice and told him he had a sloppy mouth.

I’ll show you what I can do with my sloppy mouth, David thought.

“Hey, David, where do you want to display these wooden whistles?” Patrick was emerging from the storeroom with a box.

David made a face and shook himself out of his reverie. “Oh, I forgot about those. Unfortunately they were a package deal with the other wood carving that Mr. Cooper does.”

“Don’t write them off so quickly. People love buying rustic looking toys like these for children.”

David tilted his head to one side, considering. Patrick had a point. “Okay, then let’s put them on a low shelf, I guess? Where a child might see them?” Not that he wanted children in his store, but he figured he’d have to tolerate it on occasion.

“Good idea.” Patrick made his way over to one of the shelves. “Maybe we can move these bath bombs higher?”

“Okay.” David walked over, indicating another shelf that wasn’t yet full. “How about here?”

“Sure,” Patrick said, crouching down. It gave David a perfect vantage point on his stocky, muscular thighs, and he took a second just to stare before he had to focus on reshelving the bath bombs.

~*~

It didn’t take too much asking around town on Patrick’s part to learn that Rattlesnake Point was a nice hike. He had so much nervous energy about the store opening soon and about David that he felt like was about to crawl out of his own skin, and a hike seemed just the thing to settle his nerves. And at first, as he reached a gorgeous overlook and surveyed the vista below, he thought he’d been exactly correct to come here. He looked out over the town, thinking about how quickly David and the store had become the most important things in his life, and how badly he didn’t want to lose either of them.

He also thought that if he hadn’t figured out he was gay before, his feelings about David Rose would have left him with absolutely no doubts.

Everything looked so beautiful from up here, he thought, inhaling the fresh air. There were hawks wheeling in the too-blue sky overhead, the leaves of the trees rustling in a steady breeze, and for just a moment, that rustle seemed deafening. Patrick blinked and turned around, and suddenly this clearing seemed entirely, fundamentally familiar. There were flickers at the periphery of his vision, motion of people moving around, but when he turned to look, there was no one there. Just a memory (that wasn’t a memory) of black hair and black clothes and the scent of champagne on the wind.

*

“You taste like brie,” Patrick said, giggling and kissing David anyway.

“We’re eating cheese; what am I supposed to taste like?” David said. The rock they were sitting on was uncomfortable against Patrick’s backside through the thin picnic blanket and his foot was still sore but he didn’t care. He’d sit here forever if it meant he could keep living in this moment.

Patrick didn’t answer, opening his mouth wider and pushing his tongue into David’s mouth while he tightened his fingers on his plastic cup of champagne, trying not to spill it.

“You really want to marry me?” David asked. “Me and my sloppy mouth?”

Patrick looked at David, seeing through the attempt at a joke that was really a desperate request for reassurance. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, David Rose, and I want to stand up in front of our friends and family and make a vow that I will. That’s what I want.”

David started to cry again, and he pressed more kisses against Patrick’s lips, and Patrick’s happiness was so huge that he feared it might lift him up and carry him off the side of the mountain.

*

“How was your hike the other day?” Twyla asked when Patrick stopped in early at the café for a tea. It was the day they were opening the store, and he’d hardly slept a wink the night before.

“Oh,” he said, distracted by an older couple at one of the tables. The woman seemed like she was watching him but trying not to be obvious about it. “I don’t know, it was weird up there.”

Twyla put the lid on his to-go cup and slid it over to him. “Weird how?”

He chuckled. “I can’t really describe it. It was like… like déjà vu, I guess? And a little bit like being very mildly high?”

Twyla just smiled at him, unperturbed. “That’s this town. The windows to other dimensions can really make you feel loopy sometimes.”

“Ah, I see,” Patrick said, even though of course he didn’t see.

“It happens to me all the time,” Twyla went on, oblivious to his confusion. “I think other lives you’ve led, or are leading… parallel lives, I mean, I think they leave impressions that you can pick up if you’re in the right frame of mind. Especially in places that are important. Maybe Rattlesnake Point is particularly meaningful for you for some reason?”

He blinked at her, fumbling for his wallet to pay for his tea. “I don’t think so.”

Twyla took his money, shrugging. “Maybe in another life, it is.”

~*~

“Well, this was a success.” David said.

Patrick nodded, looking around at the store in the dim light. “Yeah, I’d say so. I mean, we’d be twenty-five percent richer if we’d just done a hard launch, but hey, I’m just the numbers guy.”

“Hmm. But if we hadn’t done a soft launch, we never would have lured in all those people.”

“Mm. I think the best thing is that we never have to talk about it again because we’re officially open,” Patrick said, setting his cup of wine down and holding his hands out.

“That’s true,” David said, looking around at the store and not at Patrick.

“Congratulations, man,” Patrick said, opening his arms wider. It felt like a moment when you would hug someone, right? Even business partners might hug after a successful launch of their business.

“Congratulations to you,” David said, meeting him for the embrace. One of Patrick’s arms was over David’s shoulder and one was around his middle, and he patted David on the back the way that men do. Men who definitely haven’t been imagining what a romantic partnership together might be like.

David’s hand stroked up and down over his shoulder and it felt really, really nice, and the hug was probably going on too long now but Patrick couldn’t bring himself to pull away. He felt the stubble of David’s chin against the side of his face and god, if this was what hugging David was like, anything else might kill him.

*

“I think my mother is drunk,” Patrick said, hands splayed across the back of David’s tuxedo as they swayed to the music. The fact that Patrick knew exactly which Mariah album this ballad was from was possibly one of the most powerful demonstrations of his love for the man he’d just married.

“Drunk is a strong word, but she’s definitely had more than her usual one glass of wine,” David said, and Patrick could feel his cheek move in a smile. “It’s cute. She’s hugged me three times.”

“She loves you,” Patrick said.

“She’s my mother-in-law,” David said as if the idea was only just now occurring to him. “Moira Rose is your mother-in-law.”

Laughing, Patrick pressed a brief kiss against David’s neck. “I know, David. That’s a natural consequence of me being your husband.”

David shivered. “Say that again,” he said, holding him tighter. “Never stop saying it.”

*

“David,” Patrick said, finally pulling back from the hug, his head swimming with everything the two of them had accomplished in just a few weeks working on the store together, and of how good it felt to be in David’s arms. His head swimming with these glimpses he kept getting of what a life with this man could be like. “Do you ever feel like… like we’ve known each other a lot longer than we actually have?”

David’s lips pressed together. The warm lights caught a hint of tears in his eyes before David managed to banish them with some rapid blinking. “A past life, perhaps,” David said.

“Can’t say I believe in reincarnation, but… yeah. Something like that. I just… I feel like I know you. Like I was…” Patrick chuckled nervously. “Like I was destined to be here. With you.”

Something seemed to break inside David in that moment. “Patrick, I feel like if I don’t kiss you right now I might literally die, so can you tell me if that’s entirely the wrong impulse? Because I think at this point probably all I can wish for is a swift death.”

Patrick lost feeling in his extremities. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart. “It’s not the wrong impulse,” he managed to say, and then David’s hand was on his neck and David’s mouth was on his and he thought David had it all wrong. This is what would kill them. This kiss was what felt like dying.

“Definitely the right impulse,” Patrick gasped when their lips parted.

David grinned, a wide grin he almost never allowed to break out on his face, and kissed him again.

~*~

Two women paused on the street as they left the café, looking through the windows into Rose Apothecary.

“Does that mean everything’s fixed?” Twyla asked, smiling at David and Patrick in each other’s arms. She liked seeing people in love. It made her feel like the world was a fundamentally good place, if people could fall in love with each other like that in the midst of everything the world was capable of throwing at them.

Gwen pulled her sweater close around her, the summer night unseasonably chilly. “In this tiny piece of the universe, yes. But it’s a big, wide world out there, and a lot of things are still bad. Most things, in fact.”

Twyla looked at her with concern. “So what do we do about all those bad things?”

“We share our homes and our meals where we can. We work hard. We play games. We sing songs.” Gwen shrugged. “What else can we do?”

“In other words, we love one another,” Twyla said, a tear slipping down her cheek.

“Exactly so, Twyla,” Gwen said, giving her a squeeze on the arm before heading off into the night. “Exactly so.”

THE END

[coffeelouis]

one of my resolutions for 2019 was to post monthly fic lists of every fic i’ve read that month! i’m really excited about it, as it’s driven me to read more and catalog my fic reading more intently. i also have been really enjoying the fics i’ve read in the past few months, as i’m reading so much more by taking the tube so often, so it’s a perfect fit! and without further ado: 

here’s every fic i’ve read in january 2019, in order of reading: 

Take Your Time by @laynefaire

When Harry finds himself in the middle of a messy break-up with no place to live, Louis offers a spare room in his flat. Unbeknownst to Harry, Louis has been infatuated for years. Over the objections of their friends, who know the truth, Harry accepts. Can Louis survive Harry moving into his home…and closer to his heart? Will Harry see what's right in front of him?

Whirlwind by @darlou

“Noisy boys over at that table there, yes, you two, would you like to share something with us?”

...

“I was just saying that you’re probably the only person who’s ever literally taken my breath away"

-

AU inspired by Phoebe and David from Friends.

⭐ to the brim with fright by @hereforlou​

The only reason he’s here is because it’s tradition. And also, Harry said it’d be fun to make Liam wet himself in fear and Louis agreed. It’ll be hilarious. He’s not an insecure new transfer anymore, thank you very much. It took him no more than a week to insert himself into a group, to get invited to his first party, and to start crushing on someone—he’s not what anyone would call socially impaired. He doesn’t need validation.

(Or, the one where Louis’ high and scared and Harry’s...also high and scared.)

caught up in your love affair by @disgruntledkittenface​

“And the corgis took to you straightaway,” Harry remarks.

“That’s true,” Louis chuckles.

“I’ve spent the last 29 years being barked at,” Harry deadpans, jerking his hand toward Louis, “this one walks in, absolutely nothing.”

Louis outright giggles at that, saying, “They were just lying on my feet during tea.”

“Wagging tails,” Harry says, shaking his head.

“It’s because they don’t understand flirting,” Louis tells him, “you can’t charm them the way you do everyone else.”

Royal AU. Prince Harry announces his engagement to Louis Tomlinson in an interview with longtime friend and BBC host Nick Grimshaw. Inspired by Prince Harry and Meghan Markle.

There’s Nothing I Can Do (I Only Wanna Be With You) by @chaoticallyyours​

Roommates Harry and Louis both consider themselves matchmakers. Louis' latest crusade is finding the perfect match for Harry, despite the admittedly disastrous results. With just a little bit of help from their friends and a lot of whining, Louis realizes that the best match for Harry might just be the person already sharing his flat.

OR: Louis is a dumb gay who doesn't realize he's in love with his best friend. Until he does.

a fire in us by @hereforlou​

Louis had always thought it wouldn’t catch him off-guard. If he ever got his Time, he would be ready, and he would be calm, and he would make his way to wherever his soulmate waited for him and blow them away with how ready and calm he was.

When he got his Time on that Monday, years after he had stopped fantasizing about meeting his soulmate, Louis was not ready, and he was not calm. What he was was late.

(Or, the one where Harry waits and Louis worries.)

Wild Love by purpledaisy

“Good,” Julia says, clearly pleased to have them both uncomfortable and unable to look at each other. “Now, I only have one more question before you can go. What are you planning to do when this experiment ruins your friendship?”

“We said we’d stay friends no matter what,” Harry says smoothly, his chin lifting in defense.

“That was our one thing going into it,” Louis agrees. “Stay friends no matter what.”

Julia raises a perfectly manicured brow, “That’s all fine and good. But I hope you realize your emotions aren’t going to realize this is an experiment in the end. If one of you falls for the other and finds out those feelings are not reciprocated, you’re not going to be able to laugh it off as a social experiment. I’m not saying you shouldn’t do this, I’m just hoping you’ve considered all of the possible outcomes.”

- AU: Two best friends try to date each other for forty days. It's supposed to be fun until emotions make it complicated.

gonna dream of how you (tasted) by @hereforlou​

It was clear that they were not going to talk about how they knew each other. Harry was relieved, he didn’t need Louis to spell out how fast he’d wanted to get out of the house back then, but it also made him anxious. The fact that they had seen each other naked and they were pretending it had never happened was hanging between them.

I had your dick in my mouth, Harry thought loudly at Louis, and then remembered there was a baby in the room and felt a little dirty. He decided to stop thinking about it altogether - Louis seemed to be managing just fine.

(Or, the one where Harry needs a handyman and it turns out they have a bit of a history.)

⭐ bloodsport by @tofiveohfive​

“You know how our next game is against the Cardinals, right? You remember how vicious those guys can get. I wanted us to come up with some plays, maybe work on a block from the left—”

Louis stops when he hears a chuckle.

He doesn’t think he’s said anything particularly funny, so he turns to Harry, waiting for an explanation.

“‘S funny, ‘s all.” Harry throws his finished bottle somewhere near the other discarded ones. “This is the first time you’re talking to me in eight months, and it’s still about football.”

i’ll take your pain by @suspendrs

It’s kind of romantic when Harry thinks about it, feeling all the pain of the person he’s supposed to love for the rest of his life. Sure, it’s rather inconvenient when he’s in class and his soulmate gets kicked in the balls, or when he’s sleeping and his soulmate knocks his head or his knee off something. It’d be nice if the function helped them to find each other, but Harry supposes he can live with knowing that they’re destined to run into each other someday.

Or, soulmates have the ability to feel each other's pain, and Harry finds his after getting his arse waxed. (Or, the soulmate au crack fic I can't believe I actually wrote.)

A Few Good Mistakes by @louisandthealien

He almost wishes there were a better story.

"Fucked up pop star ends five day bender by wandering into a dive bar alone and passing out in public."

That would've generated press, he thinks, and if there's one thing that's constantly on his mind (or more accurately, on the mind of everyone else around him) it's that all press is good press, and good press is good press but bad press is great press.

Besides, he's 25 and trying to do the whole transition from boyband to solo pop star. He's pretty sure a press-fueled meltdown is, like, a right of passage.

The truth, alas, is a whole lot more boring.

---

Louis falls asleep in Harry's bar. Harry takes him home to hang out.

No Place Without You by @fackinglouis

Harry's in love with life and he's in love with the world.

Louis' in love with Harry and he doesn't think there's any way he can possibly compete.

A Wanderlust AU in which Harry doesn't have a permanent home and stays with Louis when he visits NYC.

Fortify Me by @louisandthealien

“I’m just so happy I have you, Lou,” Harry says softly, prodding his toes against Louis’ ankle. “I feel like I’m going to get Simon’s little talking-to any day now…I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.” Louis very much doubts that, but stays quiet. “It’s just, like, it’s so good to have someone here who’s going through the same thing, I guess?”

Louis tries not to smile too wryly when he nods. “Yeah, yeah it is, I suppose.”

“And…and— ” Harry starts again, voice sounding a little braver, a bit more jokey, “and how much better could this be?” he gestures with one hand at the bed around them. “Two very gay, very fit mates having a very platonic cuddle during their very exciting boy band adventure?” He kicks Louis again. “That’s the stuff of movies, right?”

[artistic-writer]

Fragments of Home :: CS AU :: E :: Chapter 2

Title: Fragments of Home by @artistic-writer

Summary: Emma Swan must return home to her childhood town of Storybrooke when her mother dies and stays in the house left to her and her brother, David Nolan. Emma must juggle a temporary job at the hospital with her loss, something that has made her feel smaller than she ever was. When a tall, dark, handsome stranger comes into her life in the most unexpected way, and she begins to fall in love, will she stay in Storybrooke, or return to her new life back in New York?

Rating: E

Also on: AO3 - FF

A/N: Many thanks to my lovely beta, @kmomof4 who persuaded me that this would work as a CS fic in the first place.  It’s all her fault.

——————————————————————————————

The hospital entrance was always busy, something Emma had found out early on in her short-lived time there. Storybrooke weather also never held up much of its end of the deal. All year it was unpredictable. One minute it might be raining and the streets flooding with the soft definitions of watery footsteps as people darted for cover and then the next it would be so hot you would rather walk around naked than be wearing any clothes. May was like the middle of the tumultuous weather’s reign and the afternoon sunshine shone onto the puddles of rain in the ambulance bay.

Killian had made a deal with the good Dr. Swan. In exchange for his freedom, he was required to sit on his bed for half of the day so she could keep him under observation. Apparently a blow to the head that severe must have warranted some kind of worry to seep into Emma’s mind because she wouldn’t even let him use the bathroom without supervision. Not that Killian minded; Emma had underseen his bathroom privileges personally and Killian had made sure he needed the toilet every thirty minutes, just so he could see her.

“You don’t have a jacket,” Emma told him matter of factly as they stepped through the huge, gliding, double-glazed automatic doors. The doors were made of glass and had the hospital’s name etched into them by laser cutting and they were activated by a sensor in a doormat of either side of the doorway.

“It’s fine, love,” Killian smiled at her, pushing his hands into his pockets as they strolled through the emergency section of the parking lot. The damp floor was potentially a danger in itself because each one of the yellow chevron lines became slippery when wet and no cars were allowed to park over it and cover the hazard. “I didn’t leave the office with a jacket this morning anyway,” he shrugged.

“Why’s that?” Emma enquired casually, gripping her paper cup full of cafeteria coffee that she could swear could melt steel. It was bitter to the point of repulsion and she would rather use it as a hand warmer than a thirst-quenching beverage.

“I was a little angry with something this morning. A little crazy,” he paused when she shot him a glance. “But not in the literal sense, don’t worry.” He smiled and Emma laughed a little, puffing condensed breath out in front of her.

“So how did you go from angry to ER?” Emma asked him, lifting her cup to her lips and taking a sip of the stagnant brown liquid.

“Ah that would have been Derek,” Killian chimed, taking a hand from his pocket as they walked and pointing to the air, waving his hand as he talked. “We don’t get along,” he finished simply. Emma chuckled through her nose and motioned to his head with a black gloved finger.

“You don’t say,” she teased. “What did he hit you with?” Emma asked with a more serious tone that made Killian a little suspicious of her questions.

Killian sucked in a breath and looked at her with a wry smile. “I’m not going to get the police involved, if that’s what you're asking me in your oh-so-subtle way doctor,” he quipped, watching his feet on the sidewalk as tiny splashes of rainwater splattered the front of his expensive black shoes. He turned his dipped head and caught her gazing at him with a worried expression. “It was my fault,” he assured her with a nod.

“So, you tripped and fell into his two by four?” Emma joked sarcastically with a frown. She was having a hard time understanding how twelve stitches, a blood encrusted scalp and a clearly expensive suit that was now ruined was Killian’s fault.

“Let’s just say I am a very difficult person to get along with,” Killian sighed, avoiding the glares from passing pedestrians that were staring at his blood spattered shirt and deep crimson collar. “And it was an iron bar,” he laughed. Emma erupted in a similar nervous laugh but she was unsure if he was joking and making light of the situation, or he was telling the truth. A silence fell between them but it wasn’t uncomfortable and was broken when they rounded a corner and entered the local park.

The park was almost empty this time of day. Children were heading home from school but they had missed the rush of teenage bodies and now only a few stragglers littered the damp, green grass. Old, heavy branches hung over the path as they walked through the well-kept grounds, shielding them from the sunshine and cooling their bodies with its shaded protection. In the cooler space, the path was free from the darkened patches of rain stains but there was a cold wind blowing through the tree and shaking some large droplets to the ground below. One freezing cold liquid drop slid from its leafy prison and hit Killian on the back of the neck, making him shiver and instantly wipe the water from his skin.

“So,” Killian began, shaking the excess fluid from his hand with a flick of his wrist. “How come I haven’t seen you around before?” He smiled as he turned to her and steered her gently by the elbow to take a seat next to him on a wooden, park bench. His grip was gentle and soft and Emma’s body complied with his request.

“How do you know you haven’t?” Emma quipped with a kinked eyebrow. Her mouth twitched as she tried to hide her smile and her coffee still radiated heat to her hands through her cup. She held it higher, closer to her mouth and inhaled the ghastly smell in an attempt to warm her lungs.

“I’d remember, love,” Killian beamed, turning sideways on the bench and resting his crooked arm over the backrest lazily.

“Is that a compliment?” Emma smiled at her cup, unable to look him in the eyes. She could feel him smiling at her, his eyes burning into her skin with an intensity she had only been able to imagine from reading romance novels. In an attempt to hide her own wistful smirk, Emma slurped her coffee and her face twisted with disgust at the liquid.

Killian didn’t answer her question but instead reached for her coffee and she relinquished it to him with little protest. He pulled it from her, a soft, wispy cloud of steam wafting from its rim as he moved it through the air and lifted it to his own face for a sniff. Emma giggled when Killian’s nose crinkled and he turned his head away from the coffee in repugnance, moving it away from his features and dropping it into the trash basket beside them with a rustle and a clatter.

“Hey!” Emma sang, elongating the word with a breathy laugh. “That was my coffee,” she told him.

“That was coffee?” Killian joked with a dramatic tone, his voice jumping to a higher pitch and his body lurching forward towards her with wide eyes and open smile. Emma’s body shook with laughter and Killian relished the sight of it. Her hair swished across her face and Emma quickly swiped a glove across her forehead and tucked it back behind her ear.

“I make do with what I can get,” Emma said when her laughter subsided. There was an implication in her voice and her eyes lingered on Killian’s face for what seemed like an age. When he lifted his head and his blue pools invaded hers, she didn’t look away and she didn’t lose her smile.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Killian said softly, shuffling across the bench so he was a little closer to Emma. Their knees bumped together and Killian inhaled hard.

“Good, you owe me a coffee,” Emma returned in a passive whisper. Killian let out a chuckle that Emma joined in with.

“No, not that,” Killian spoke low and his smile faded. He reached up with his arm that hung limp of the back of the bench and brushed a missed hair from Emma’s face. Her hair was soft and warm and had a shine, even in the dull shade of the trees. Killian’s skin was cool on Emma’s forehead and in the most comfortable of circumstances, Emma drifted away from where they sat, lost in his tenderness. “You are beautiful,” Killian breathed seriously, finally tucking the stray strand of golden curls behind her ear and brushing Emma’s skin to life.

Emma blushed and looked away to her hands that sat obediently in her lap. Killian withdrew his hand and cleared his throat with a nervous cough, shifting his position on the bench and rubbing his hands down his thighs in an attempt to warm his skin. He swallowed hard. He didn’t want to apologise for possibly overstepping a mark; Killian couldn’t find fault in what he had done. Emma was beautiful, perfectly constructed and as aesthetically pleasing as anything he had ever laid his eyes on.

“You’re right,” Killian said suddenly, sucking in a breath, slapping his knees and pushing himself to his feet. Emma looked up at him with surprise, her reddened cheeks now just a shimmer of pink across her face that could have easily been from the cold wind.

“About what?” Emma asked him with a frown, her head tilting back to take in his chilled figure standing before her.

“I owe you a coffee.” He smiled and offered her an outstretched palm. “Come on,” Killian urged her to take his hand with a gentle drone that was inviting. Emma smiled weakly, her embarrassment fading away as she reached out and took Killian’s hand and let him pull her to stand in front of him. Even though she was wearing gloves, when Killian’s long, slender fingers curled around hers, Emma felt a spark shooting through her body. She tingled everywhere, and she flushed hot in her thick, black, full-length jacket that was buttoned to the green scarf at her neck.

“Where are we going?” Emma enquired with a tilted head as she fell into step beside Killian. He pulled her along for a few seconds before letting her hand fall to their side, his hand sliding from hers slowly and tentatively. Emma glanced between them and Killian’s hand lingered between them, hovering millimeters from hers and Emma wished her gloves were gone so she could feel Killian’s skin brushing hers. When her eyes returned to his profile, he was looking at her with a cocksure smile.

“It’s a surprise!” He grinned, seized her hand in his with a tight grip and broke into a sprint as they headed for the entrance to the park.

Emma had never felt so relaxed and strangely happy as Killian dragged her along the sidewalk, much to the frustration of many upper classed business people walking against them. Emma neglected to see where they were, just assuming Killian was taking her to a corner shop cafe where they would talk over a chipped cup and saucer, laugh and act like two people who had known each other for years. For some reason, Emma felt like that with Killian. She had only known him a day, and they hadn’t met under the best circumstances, but now he was calmer and Emma was physically melted by his smile. She felt like she had known him all her life.

Killian’s feet pounded the pavement as he tried to stop himself at the edge of a street corner. Emma gasped for breath and her skin itched, hot and slightly sweaty in her winter jacket. Killian panted hard and his lungs burned. Tiny beads of sweat began to roll down his neck and were stained pink by the dried blood on his skin by the time they reached his shirt. He doubled over, clutching his knees as he breathed in deeply and grabbed at his diaphragm that threatened to explode in his abdomen.

“What now?” Emma panted, intrigued as to why he had stopped so suddenly.

“We’re here,” Killian said triumphantly, standing and expanding his arms out like wings before turning to face the establishment. Emma followed his gaze and her mouth dropped agape with shock.

“This is Chez Rogue…” Emma breathed with a questioning tone to herself, unsure if she believed where she was. Emma took two steps back and her wide stare took in the front of the restaurant. Huge, black iron bars that were cemented into a cobblestone wall separated the restaurant from the empty lot of one side and an alleyway on the other. Petite, neatly pruned hedges sat in another brickwork flower box and an A-frame chalkboard stood outside the door with a printed message on it, clearly displaying a welcome message to its patrons. Well, Emma assumed it was a welcome message; it was in another language.

As Emma lifted her head to take in the massive American flag that hung on a long, shiny golden pole she didn’t notice two executives exit the restaurant. They headed towards her and surprised her, making her stumble sideways and into Killian. He offered the two men in three thousand dollar suits an excited, childlike smile and pulled Emma aside.

“Killian, this is Chez Rogue,” Emma repeated, not quite believing how she had ended up in this part of town. It was the part she only dreamed of going to, where there was nothing but limousines nose to tail on the roads and a gaggle of personal assistants followed every businessman or woman down the sidewalk with a quick step. Emma’s eyes met Killian’s again when he took her hand and shook her from her daydream.

“I know,” he said as he beamed and pulled her towards the restaurant. Emma slipped her hand from Killian’s and he froze, turned to look at her without his wide smile and frowned. “Emma?” he asked.

“We can’t go in there,” Emma laughed nervously.

“Why not?” Killian asked seriously. Emma looked at him dumbfounded and he looked back at her with utter confusion. “It’s just a restaurant,” Killian chuckled and grabbed for her hand once more. Emma let him take her hand but resisted his efforts to pull her nearer to the door.

“It’s not just a restaurant Killian. It is the restaurant. Famous people eat here!” Emma exclaimed and Killian rolled his head towards the door as she looked around nervously. He turned back towards her and scrunched his face up playfully.

“They do?” he teased with a smile and a gentle tug on her arm. Emma’s shoulders slumped and she sighed audibly at him. For all his charm and finesse, Killian Jones was an ass. “Trust me, love, it will be fine,” he said softly, stroking his thumb across her knuckles and inching her forward with tentative steps. “If anything happens that makes you feel weird…” he started but Emma cut him off, eager for his response.

“Yes?” Emma quipped quickly.

“If anything happens we can leave,” Killian told her but Emma looked unconvinced they would even get past the door. “And I’ll never bring you here again,” he promised, his voice low and sultry as he eyed her innocently.

“What makes you think I will go out with you again?” Emma said with a twisted grin. Killian pulled her a little more so they were nearly touching, body to body, ridiculously thick winter jacket to hardly clothed man.

“You will,” he whispered confidently. “Now come on.” Killian pulled away from her, taking the protection Emma wished for back immediately and leading them into the restaurant.

Inside, the restaurant was almost empty. It wasn’t silent, there was some sort of music playing throughout the lavishly decorated restaurant that reminded Emma how lost she was in the place. Her footsteps were silent underfoot, easily disguised by the thick fibers of the brass trimmed, ruby carpet that led up to the reception. A tall, slender man with dark hair that was combed to one side and had abnormally perfect, straight white teeth watched the desk.

“Mr. Jones, how may we help you today?” The man said in a high-pitched voice with a lisp, clearly addressing Killian but taking in Emma’s appearance and deciding against offering Killian his usual table for one. Emma’s head whipped up and focused on Killian who gave her a pure, innocent look and a small squeeze to her hand.

“Good afternoon James,” Killian said smoothly, addressing the name tag lacking maître d′ as if he was a seasoned friend. “Table for two, if you’d be so kind.” Killian smiled and nodded his head at the smiling employee.

“Certainly Mr. Jones, right this way,” James said calmly and lifted two red leather-bound menus from a rack behind him as he breezed past and motioned for Killian and Emma to follow him with a flat palm. James showed them to a table in the corner of the restaurant that was well lit but private, with little way for foot traffic to interrupt them. Killian pulled Emma’s chair out from under the round, heavy mahogany table and she sat, crossing her legs and allowing Killian to shuffle her chair forward again. James offered her a menu and she took it with a smile and a courteous thank you.

Killian hurriedly took up the seat opposite her and ignored the menu James had left at his side. Emma let her own menu fall open to the crisp, white tablecloth that pooled over her knees. She unbuttoned her coat and slid it down her arms, hooking it over the back of the wooden chair that was probably older than she was and cost more then she made in a month. She pulled her scarf from her neck, loosening it and hanging it over the top of her coat. She finally sat forward in her chair, and shook a few strands of her hair from her milky features, tucking them neatly behind her ear. Killian watched her entire display; fascinated by how she moved and adding her little quirks to a mental list he had been compiling all day.

For example, Dr. Swan always made sure her name tag was turned around at work so that problem patients couldn’t pick her out for misconduct, even where there had been none. She was right handed but always used her left hand to steady the paper when she wrote, which she did with a tilt of her head and a squint in her eyes. When she felt cold, Killian had noticed that Emma used a hot beverage to warm her hands, rarely even drinking it unless it was a welcome distraction. And now, her last act of self-preservation was a quick flick of her neck and a smoothing of yellow locks from her face, which she finished off with a smile each time.

“What?” Emma asked Killian, smoothing the top of her head flat when she caught him staring at her. Killian blinked and shook his head from side to side in short bursts of motion.

“Nothing, love,” he lied with a smile. “You’re just…” he inhaled deeply and could have sworn she used apple scented shower gel.

“I’m what?” Emma pried, leaning back in her chair and resting her hands to the white tablecloth in front of her.

“You’re so beautiful when you’re nervous,” Killian’s voice was low and almost husky in the corner of the empty restaurant. Emma snorted with laughter but had no time to respond as James returned with an electronic notepad in one hand and a thin, silver touch screen stylus in the other.

“Are you ready to order Mr. Jones?” he enquired politely, tapping in some details onto the screen with the pen like implement. Killian moistened his lips and sat forward, catching Emma’s attention.

“Yeah, um…” Killian paused and looked at Emma whose smile almost disintegrated his heart. “I owe this lovely lady a coffee,” Killian told the waiter without tearing his eyes from Emma’s. Emma smiled softly, unable to stop, but she was forced to look away when James interrupted their gazing match.

“Of course,” he chimed on a burst of breath. “Would madam like a short black, long black, Latte, Ristretto, Doppio, Cappuccino, Macchiato, Flat white or Mocha?” James said quickly, knowing the list from memory, and not missing a single beat as he almost sang the list.

“I uh…I don’t know,” Emma stuttered and stared at him, mystified and amazed by his ability to remember such a complex list of coffees, the only one of which she had heard of being a Cappuccino. Emma glanced at Killian for help but he just smiled.

“Bring her one of everything,” Killian ordered and James nodded, tapped on his screen a few times and them scurried away. Emma’s eyes fell onto the menu before her and her entire body flushed hot and her palms began to sweat.

“Killian, the cheapest coffee on this menu is twenty-five dollars,” Emma whispered, her eyes wide and jittery in their sockets. Killian smiled at her softly and leaned forward, taking one of her hands in his.

“Don’t worry about it,” Killian assured her. “I owe you,” he added simply, tracing his index finger over the back of her hand. Emma’s skin was smooth and unblemished and Killian couldn’t resist turning it over in his own and continuing his playful line tracing over her more sensitive palm.

“Yeah, a cheap, machine made coffee, Killian,” Emma insisted. “One, cheap machine made coffee. Not nine, expensive, foreign coffees! I can’t afford these prices,” she fretted, her voice low and breathy on the tablecloth that was inches from her face as she tried to hide from the staff. Killian leaned forward so their noses were almost touching, mimicking her.

“I don’t expect you to pay for anything,” Killian whispered, shooting a glance over Emma’s shoulder as James approached them. “Emma, do you think I could walk into any restaurant covered in blood with my head stapled shut? I am a valued customer,” he added proudly, sitting back upright and greeting the tray of coffees as they arrived balanced on the hand of James.

Killian insisted Emma try every single coffee they had ordered, not that Emma didn’t feel inclined to. Three hundred and ten dollars later, Emma had discovered that her favourite kind of coffee was called Macchiato. Served in a white, porcelain demitasse cup, it was essentially an espresso shot dashed with hot milk. Its creamy bitterness slid down Emma’s throat and left a remarkably enjoyable taste on her tongue. Killian didn’t touch anything in the restaurant that afternoon, choosing to simply sit across from Emma, reclined in his chair with a loosely balled fist resting on the table and a permanent smile on his face.

Emma couldn’t believe that with Killian’s appearance they had even been let in, let alone served. When Killian walked Emma home in the Storybrooke darkness, they laughed and joked all the way to her mother’s house. The air had fallen heavy with a cold snap, instantly falling in atmospheric pressure and making it a little harder for Emma to catch her breath when laughing. How Killian managed to get her to laugh so much was beyond her; she was usually so reserved, professional and certainly didn’t allow men she had met at work, as a patient no less, to walk her home.

“Are you joking?” Killian laughed, rounding the rickety gate behind Emma, finishing his converse. “I could walk into that restaurant naked and I’d get served,” he chimed and Emma couldn’t help but wonder if he ever had. “Wow,” Killian breathed, his damp condensed breath taking its time to evaporate from the air. His jaw shook slightly and made his teeth chatter as the brisk, nighttime chill seeped into his bones. “You live here?” he asked, his tone obviously that of surprise as she scaled the concrete steps.

“I do,” Emma told him proudly. “I inherited it from my mother recently,” Emma said with a sad tone. She hung her head slightly and fiddled idly with the door key pressed into her palm. Killian stepped forward, reached out and hooked a bent finger under her chin. Lifting Emma’s head slightly he offered her a weak smile.

“I’m sorry,” Killian told her with sincerity. His hand slid from her chin to cup the side of her face and he brushed his thumb over her cheekbone. Emma’s hand gripped at his and she leaned her head into his touch.

“It’s okay,” Emma said with a nod, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall at the mere mention of her mother. She sighed and a silence fell upon them where neither knew what to say. Killian was the first to speak, returning the mood to a lighter tone of flirting and playfulness.

“So, I’ll pick you up tomorrow then, at nine,” he smiled wickedly, pulling his hand from Emma’s skin and resting it back inside his pocket as he bobbed on his feet to keep warm. Emma looked at him quizzically with a frown.

“You will? What for?” she barely managed to ask through her smile.

“Our date, love,” Killian said with blatant, unashamed forwardness. “Wear something sexy,” he almost growled.

“Sexy, eh? Where are we going?” Emma enquired casually as he stepped away from her to stand on the step below hers. Killian turned and looked up at her like an expectant child.

“My place. I’m cooking,” Killian told her, swallowing as she stepped forward and peered down at him.

“So why sexy?” Emma breathed through her smile.

“It goes with my décor.” Killian grinned and Emma cupped his face in her warm hands and leaned forward to plant a soft, lingering closed mouth kiss to his cool lips. Killian’s hands slid from inside his pockets and rested gently on Emma’s elbows, making her skin prickle to life. He pulled away first and waited for Emma’s heavy lidded eyes to flutter open before he smiled at her again. “What was that for?” he asked her, surprised.

“For today,” Emma said, sliding her hands down his neck, across his shoulders and bringing them to rest on his blood stained shirt covering his chest. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, giving him a little push and a coy smile as she turned and walked to her front door, leaving him standing on the steps that had begun to glisten with the tiniest traces of a springtime frost.

[rt-reader-inserts]

Endless Summer - Chapter Two

Pairing: David (Camp Camp) x Reader

Word Count: 1,470

(Chapter One)

Author’s Note: I am living vicariously through this fic because it is winter in Australia (although ‘winter’ is hardly the right word for it). I am absolutely loving writing this and I have the entire basic plot line planned out! Will hopefully have a chapter out every week until it finishes :) 

You were sitting alone in the mess hall, hands clasped around the mug radiating out the warmth from the coffee within. It was early - not even David was awake - but you had always loved waking up to watch the sunrise.

That’s why you hadn’t noticed the footsteps walking up behind you, and why the small cough caused you to jolt, sending droplets of scalding coffee spilling over your hands and wrists. You stopped yourself swearing, not wanting to set a bad example for who you assumed was a young camper, unable to sleep because of one reason or another.

Grabbing a thin napkin, you wiped off the coffee and turned around - a smile plastered on your face as you waited to solve whatever problem the mysterious camper had.

“Max?!” You were taken aback when you saw the cynical ten year old himself standing in front of you. “Is something wrong?” Immediately your mind jumped to the worst conclusions: Max had hurt himself, he was homesick, he woke up and everyone was missing.

“No… No.” He shook his head and couldn’t bring himself to meet your eyes. “I just need to ask you a fucking question, okay? And you have to promise to not speak a word of this to anyone. Especially not fuckin’ David.”

“Of - of course, Max. My lips are sealed.” You knew even approaching you this close to the start of camp was a big step for Max, and probably the reason why he chose to do it during the early hours of the morning.

“Were you, um, were you serious?” Max lifted his eyes up to meet yours, finally at eye level as he stood in front of your sitting figure.

“Serious when, Max?” Your brows were furrowed in concern for the young child, your nurturing instincts taking precedence over any logical thought.

“When you said you were a musician.” The strength and bite of his voice had petered off with that last sentence, replaced with what you thought was genuine curiosity.

“Yes!” You jumped up to your feet with overwhelming enthusiasm. Max stepped back in response, looking at you with an air of hesitancy. Apologising, not because you were sorry, but because you wanted to placate Max, you sat back down; ensuring you were once again at eye level with Max. “Any particular reason you wanted to know?”

“I just wondered if you’d, y’know, help me with it? Music, I mean.” You couldn’t bring yourself to speak, eyes wide and mouth stretched into a smile. All you could do was nod, stopping yourself from wrapping your arms around the kid and holding him close. “Fuck, you’re just as weird as David.” He moaned, massaging his temples with a free hand.

“Oh come on Max, David’s not that bad.” You had smiled at the mere thought of David - though you blamed it solely on the opportunity Max had presented you with.

“Uh huh.” He deadpanned, clearly losing interest. “Well, I’d appreciate if you’d get me out of literally every stupid ass activity David plans this summer.”

“Max, if you’re willing to listen to me and participate in at least three things David asks, you got yourself a deal.” Sticking out your right hand you waited for Max to reciprocate the action.

“I like the way you negotiate, Y/N.” Despite the lack of emotion (aside from annoyance) on Max’s face, he placed his hand in yours, shaking firmly. “But I swear to whatever god there is, if you so much as breathe a word of this to David I will run into the woods just to deliberately find a bear I can lead back to camp.”

“I look forward to it, Max.” Somehow you couldn’t wipe the grin off your face, the possibilities arising with the opportunity you were given to spend the extra time bonding with Max seemed to be endless. “Any specific areas you want to work on? Playing an instrument, singing, writing songs…?” You trailed off, reaching behind you to resume drinking your lukewarm cup of coffee.

“I…” Max looked over both his shoulders and leaned in closer to you, dropping the volume of his voice, “I want to be able to… Fuck, this is the lamest thing in the world, but, I want to be able to express how I feel? Through songs. Actually, you know what, forget about it. Just forget I mentioned it entirely, Y/N.”

“No!” You reached out as Max began to turn around and walk away, grabbing onto his shoulder. “Max, I won’t forget about it, ever. I’ll help you with whatever you want, trust me.” You met his bright eyes with yours, and you could see a remaining shred of hope that had been untarnished by Max’s cynicism.

“Hey, thanks, Y/N.” Max’s hands returned deep into his pockets and he inclined his head slightly to indicate his thanks.

“We’ll make this your best summer ever, Max. The two of us together, okay?”

“Yeah. Uh, together.” His voice cracked on the last word, as if Max wasn’t used to saying it out loud. He coughed and stood slightly off to the side, awkwardly waiting for you to suggest the next step.

Little did you or Max know, David had been standing behind the closed door, for he cared too much about Max to let him wander off unsupervised. His smile had faltered when he realised Max would go to you for anything before even gracing David with ten seconds of eye contact - but in David’s mind, Max reaching out to anyone, at all, for help was better than nothing.

Hearing not only Max’s insecurity in himself but also his want for an outlet for his emotions, David could hardly stop himself bursting into the room to sweep Max off his feet and scooping him into a hug. But your way with words, the comfort you just seemed to radiate, he had managed to contain himself: simply satisfied with listening to your voice as you started to sing.

He let his eyes drift shut as the soothing tone of your voice filtered through the semi-shut door of the mess hall: his head dipped back and he sighed with happiness, picturing you singing next to a smiling Max.

David stood there until he could no longer hear your melodic voice, deciding that knocking and entering the mess hall would be the best plan of action.

“Why good morning, Y/N and Max!” David smiled as he made his way to the pair of you - one smiling and the other scowling.

“Morning David!” You replied with the same level of enthusiasm, beaming ear to ear as he walked up to you.

“Fuck off, David.” Max greeted David in his own way, the mood he was in whilst you were singing had completely dissipated.

“Oh, Max. Watch your language around such pretty - uh, preppy lady counsellors!” David’s ears began to turn a shade of light red as he blushed, the slip up caught by an ever watchful Max.

“Yeah, whatever David.” He rolled his eyes and began walking to the door of the mess hall. “See ya Y/N.”

“Bye Max! I promise this will be the best darn summer ever!” You waved with vigour at Max’s retreating form, turning back to a still-blushing David.

“I heard what Max asked, by the way.” David stage whispered out of the side of his mouth, swinging one leg over the bench you were sitting on.

“Shoot. And I promised Max you wouldn’t find out.” With furrowed brows you took your bottom lip in between your teeth, chewing on it. As soon as you had gained some semblance of trust from Max, it seemed as though you were going to lose it immediately.

“It’s not like… You told me, Y/N. If anything, it was my fault - Max’ll blame anything and everything on me anyways.” A comfortable weight rested on your shoulder as David placed a hand there, letting it linger for longer than considered normal between professional colleagues.

“Thank you, David. I hope that this might be my chance to actually get through to Max, you know? I just feel that he has this heart of gold beneath those hundreds of layers of sarcasm.” Resting your head in your hands you released the tension you had through a sigh.

“Y/N, you’re the best dang counsellor I know! I believe in you and all your many, varied talents - Max is lucky he’s got such a wonderful counsellor in you.” A small smile graced David’s face and you enveloped him in a tight hug.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” You murmured into David’s shoulder, unable to see the expression of pure happiness that had found its way onto his face as the two of you sat there, intertwined.

[glendowen]

Big Bang

So, my big bang posting date was technically the 28, but I was at camp for the last week, and the wifi blocked tumblr and Ao3, and I ended up with a lot less free time than I was supposed to have, and it all boiled down to me not having the time to finish or post my fic by Friday (thanks to me scrapping my first draft completely changing my writing style two weeks before the deadline, because I’m so smart.)

So, my solution is to share little snippets every day until it’s all done, and by the end of the week, the whole fic will be posted. It wasn’t my original intention, but someties life doesn’t go exactly how you want it to. 

I want to thank the mods at @aftgbigbang for putting this wonderful event together. I’m so sorry this isn’t exactly how it was supposed to be posted, but thanks for the opportunity anyway. 

I also want to thank my wonderful artist @jojen-hewitt . Maaya put up with my crazy schedule and my internet break and made some truly incredible art for this fic, and I am absolutely amazed by everything she did. 

So, here are the first ~2000 words. I’m really hoping to have the rest for you as soon as possible.

The mutant games were messy, a violent clash between humans with “extraordinary” abilities trying to prove that they were worth something in a world that only found their value in entertainment.

The games’ creators, Tetsuji Moriyama and Kayleigh Day, were just two mutants who understood the world’s obsession with violence and used it to reserve them a spot in history books. The mutant games were nothing more than a feeble excuse for validity in a cruel world that managed to catch on spectacularly.

They were a perfect convoluted combination of violence and acceptance. In a world overwhelmed by the existence of mutants, the games provided a way to let them exist without being normalized; they gave a marginalized group a voice, but not one strong enough to be heard.

The court was a place of acceptance, but it was still a cage.

It was the perfect setup for Kengo Moriyama: it gave an acceptable outlet for his mutant brother and second born son to succeed without being directly involved with the main branch of the family and provided the best mutants to work for him. It was a sea of profit and power, and he was Poseidon.

Mutants were desperate for the ability to just exist in a society that perceived them as a monster, and Kengo was willing to provide that if they were willing to do his dirty work. He took the best of the players in his brother’s game, used their skills and their ruthlessness, and sent them to work.

One of his favorites was Nathan Wesninski, a man with a taste for blood and an ability to manipulate metal with just his mind. He could slaughter entire buildings full of people without leaving a trace or feeling an ounce of remorse, and he was so useful Kengo could even overlook his involvement with the Hatfords.

The mutants games were useful, and Kengo Moriyama could appreciate useful things.

Nathaniel Wesninski grew up learning his importance was strongly founded in the mutant games. The only way he could exist was if he, along with the other kids on his team, could manage to sustain fewer injuries in the hour they were on the court than the other gaggle of children across from them.

Most eight year-olds played little league soccer and football and thought about running away when their parents made them eat spinach and only changed their names when they were playing make-believe with their friends.

Nath—Alex, was not an average eight-year-old. Alex could change his looks with just a thought, could steal people’s powers if he saw them in use, and could quite literally inhabit other people if he touched them. Alex changed his name almost every other month as he ran around the world with his mother, who could make people think or feel whatever she wanted them to, away from his father, who could manipulate metal. Alex was forced to fight other eight-year-olds who could do who-knows-what, and when he got too good at fighting other mutant eight-year-olds his mother panicked that his dad’s boss was going to kill him, and stole him from a fancy mansion in West Virginia in the middle of the night.

Alex really missed fighting. He would reminisce about it when he was pressed up against his mother with his hand wrapped around the gun under his pillow, living in a place where no one knew that his name wasn’t actually Alex, or Stephan, or Christopher, and where he didn’t quite speak the language. But if you asked him what he wanted most, he’d tell you that he’d give anything to be average.

Neil was alone.

He was a nobody kid with no parents, squatting in a house in nowhere, Arizona, playing in the mutant games for some no-name high school.

His mother’s voice was screaming at him, reminding him that no matter how far he distanced himself from Nathaniel Wesninski it wasn’t safe for him to go anywhere near that world; that a new body and a pretend power (He told them he could manipulate fire. Useful, but not too uncommon for people to raise an eyebrow at it.) weren’t enough to protect him, and that a moment of adrenaline wasn’t worth death.

He ignored her. She might be right, and playing in the mutant games might be a death wish, but she had forced him to watch her die in Washington and had abandoned him at eighteen without his consent, so he figured acting out a little was fair.

So he pretended to be adequate at manipulating fire, so he could play for some average mutant team in Millport, Arizona and tried to keep his head down as much as possible.

It had worked perfectly until they lost the championships in May. They had been doing surprisingly well, and now Neil was watching them tear down the only place he had felt at home at in years.

As he watched them tear up the floor, he planned his next life. He figured he could pick up some unassuming looks from someone in the airport and actually fly back to France like his mom had planned before she went and died on him. He would stay away from the mutant games for the rest of his life and everything would work out like it always had, until his dad found him for good.

It was the perfect plan until David Wymack showed up in his life.

David Wymack was the mutant coach for Palmetto State University, a group of college kids who would have been incredible at the games if they could ever get along. They had the reckless abandon needed to succeed in such a violent atmosphere since Wymack only recruited mutants who had lived through some genuinely terrifying shit.

Mutants like Neil.

Except, there was no reason that he should know just how fucked up Neil’s life was, nor that he should have any interest in recruiting him. Neil had spent most of his time in Millport acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary; the Jostens were rich, busy business owners who had no time for their son, and stuck him in the mutant games after moving to the small town as a way of helping him make friends. He had no prior experience in fighting, and Millport wasn’t exactly a place known for its athletes.

None of that mattered, though, because Wymack was here and he was offering Neil a place on his mutant team after his last member was “unable” to maintain her contract.

(She had attempted to kill herself and was now locked up in an inpatient facility somewhere. Neil had read the article online about her.)

Neil tried to escape, to give up on dreams of a high school diploma and create another brand new identity before Wymack could drag him back into the world of the Moriyamas. He knew joining the foxes would put him close to Kevin, and that even if he didn’t recognize Neil and it was all a coincidence, the moment he let his guard down his true powers would slip out and he would be dead.

It had been tempting, to reach out and grab the opportunity for a real life Wymack was dangling in front of his face; to become a permanent fixture in the world, to have a name more substantial than dust. But taking the bait was dangerous, and Neil hadn’t let his guard down enough to do something quite that stupid.

So, he ran.

He booked it past a shocked Wymack and an even more shocked Hernandez and pushed towards the exit, his hand tight on the strap of his duffel bag. He had the papers, the plane tickets to France, the money to make it for a few more years. He would swipe the unassuming looks of his English teacher (the dirty blond hair, the hazel eyes, the generic face structure) and disappear, leaving Neil Josten in the cosmos, just as he had all the other identities sitting in between him and Nathaniel Wesninski.

He would disappear once again, and the world would continue to spin.

Which was a wonderful plan that he had every intention of following, until he felt a solid hand wrap around his wrist and pull so hard Neil could feel the bruise forming, and suddenly the world fell away.

Not in the overly sappy, romantic way, where you meet your soulmate and suddenly you are the only two in the world. No, Neil meant that his facade was stripped from him piece by piece, and he was suddenly facing someone a mere three inches shorter than him, a crazed smile taking up the majority of his assailant’s face. He couldn’t see himself, but if the glint in the eye of the maniac midget (he belatedly identified him as Andrew Minyard, defensive player for the PSU foxes) was anything to go by, he was most definitely standing at a solid 5 feet 3 inches tall, with shocking blue eyes and hair the color of blood.

The psycho’s smile grew impossibly wider, and he tipped his head to the side as if in thought.

“Isn’t this interesting? I’m going to have a lot of fun with you.”

The crazed laugh that slipped out after the statement threw Neil off once again, and he was suddenly rendered useless as he tried to compose his thoughts into a semblance of order.

His slip up had left Wymack enough time to catch up, and after making some quip about not having nice things to Minyard, his attention was back on Neil, making sure that he wasn’t injured or incapacitated.

He brushed the larger man off with a solid “I’m fine,” and moved to separate himself from what felt like a pack of wolves surrounding him.

Andrew opened his mouth, most likely to make some witty response that would once again piss Wymack off when another voice cut him off.

“Great. If you’re fine you can sign the forms and we can head back to South Carolina with a full lineup.”

Neil’s heart stopped, his blood froze in his veins, and he suddenly wished that he had the power of invisibility or spontaneous combustion.

He hadn’t heard that voice in ten years, but no matter how much deeper it had become, Neil knew who was about to appear in front of him.

Kevin Day hopped down from Hernandez’s desk, closing up a file with a picture of Neil, with brown hair and brown eyes and a few added inches of height, taped to the front. He took up his place behind Andrew, his green eyes flashing to the pint-sized psycho he had adopted as his bodyguard following the “skiing accident,” and then towards Neil.

Kevin had hardly changed at all over the years, the only stark difference the permanence of the number two under his eye; Riko Moriyama’s 18th birthday had begun with the sharpie being wiped away and replaced by a tattoo gun. His eyes were far more sunken into his face, and the cloud of anxiety that had followed him was more subdued, but Kevin Day was still the recognizable son of Exy.

Neil felt trapped with all of the pairs of eyes on him; he knew that only Minyard could see him stripped down, but he still felt too seen. Up until this moment, Neil could categorize his memories into fight or flight, but for once his only response was to freeze.

Wymack seemed to be unaware of Neil’s internal dilemma, or purposefully ignoring it, but he shot a dirty look at Kevin and Andrew and spat out some harsh words that he couldn’t hear, and the pressure around Neil’s wrist disappeared.

Pleased with the privacy they had achieved, Wymack shot him a look that screamed exhaustion; he had seen a lot over the years of coaching his team of misfits, and one man can only have so much patience.

He gave Neil one last chance, reminded him that they could protect him from whatever he happened to be running from, just like they protect Kevin. They wouldn’t announce his name until the last possible minute, would provide him housing for the summer, would guarantee him at least five years of permanence, and would let him participate in a game that he had been desperately missing for a decade. Kevin obviously didn’t recognize him yet, and Minyard was far too interested in him to reveal his secret just yet.

He signed the papers and counted down the days until May.

Neil Josten was going to be real for as long as possible, and Mary Hatford was too dead to do anything about it.

He realized that he didn’t need to catalog any new faces in the airport, knew that he was actually going to look the same for a decent amount of time, but old habits die hard. People watching hadn’t just been Neil’s main source of entertainment as a child, but an integral part of his survival and airports were the perfect place to do it.

He found one of the Minyard twins and followed him out to the parking garage, deciding that it had to be Aaron because his apathetic look could never be achieved by his heavily medicated counterpart.

He followed him out to the parking garage and climbed into the passenger seat of a vehicle that looked far too expensive for an orphaned college student.

Their wrists’ bumped lightly together as Minyard reached for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket; his eyes met Neil’s, and they silently agreed to keep quiet.

Andrew pulled the car out of the parking garage, and they headed towards PSU.