#I will eat something else now and drink some water and perhaps ibuprofen

[sleeplessinseattlee]

feeling like absolute shit. woke up had two cups of coffee and went to oppenheimer at noon. ate popcorn and have eaten nothing else today. also feeling slightly dizzy not sure if that’s the movie or something else or a combination. so anyways

[thatbritishactor]

Adventures in Success (part 7)

Adventures in Success (part 7)

Pairing : Ben Barnes x Reader

Warnings : None, this chapter’s FLUFFY AF.

Summary: Ben’s agent is retiring and the firm wants you to represent him. It’s going to be hard for you not to mix work with feelings.

Words: 3,000

Type: Slow Burn, Fluff

Part 1   Part 2     Part 3     Part 4    Part 5   Part 6   Part 8

gif by bnbrns

My masterlist

3 months later

Ben’s been back in LA for a few days when he receives a text from you. Ever since your text exchange while you were drunk, the two of you resumed on your usual banter, leaving the unfamiliar politeness behind, much to his relief. It feels like the emotional wall you’ve put up between you and him progressively came crawling down with every text exchange. You are scheduled to meet for dinner tonight, and he can’t wait to see you.

He’s surprised you haven’t contacted him as he received the best news he’s ever gotten in his entire career. He’s been nominated for the Volpi Cup, the award for best actor in the Venice Film Festival, for the Bong Joon Ho movie. When he got the news from the film crew, he almost cried tears of joy. He was incredibly proud, but most importantly, he knew you’d have to drop his contract, as you had agreed. He wondered how you felt about his nomination, and why you hadn’t contacted him right away. Had you found someone else? If so, was it serious? His heart jumped in his chest when he saw your name illuminating his screen. He opened your message eagerly.

You: Hi Ben, I know we were supposed to meet today for dinner, but I got the flu and i’ve been stuck home for the last two days. I’m still feverish and I can’t make it out I’m so sorry… :(

So, that was why you hadn’t contacted him. Selfishly, he preferred to know that you were stuck home with the flu than in the arms of another guy. He writes back to you:

Ben: I can come over and bring some soup, herbal tea and flu medicine :)

You: absolutely not Ben, I’d never forgive myself if you got the flu because of me.

He raises his eyebrows as he reads your message. He won’t let you get away with this.

Ben: I’m immune to the flu :) plus I have some verrry important news and I NEED to see you.

You: I cant let you see me this way :( I haven’t showered in two days and I look like shit.

Ben: I don’t care. I’m coming.

You: Fine, you’re the f***** worst.

Ben: see you in an hour :)

Ben can’t stop smiling as he gets in his car to go to the grocery store, he’s so gleeful he could break into a song and start dancing in the street.

* * * * * * * * *

He knocks on your door, familiar with your place as he’s already been here a few times, for movie nights mostly. He’s even slept on your convertible couch after some nights where the two of you drank too much. You open slightly the door and he catches a glimpse of your face.

“Ugh, I can’t believe you came” you sigh as you turn over and leave the door open. He laughs loudly.

“That’s no way to greet me after a six months separation” he protests.

He smiles widely when he notices that you’re wearing a blanket around your shoulders, sweat pants and fuzzy socks. You’re walking awkwardly around your living room, looking exhausted. Your hair his wet so you’ve definitely taken a shower before he arrived. You look pale, your nose is red, you have dark circles under your eyes. You definitely look sick, but still cute, he thinks to himself. He sets the grocery bag on the table while you sit on your couch, staring at nothing.

“So, I took some chicken soup” he announces “some herbal tea, honey for your throat, your favorite ice cream and some ibuprofen”. He looks back at you, you’re wiping your nose with a tissue. You look so precious, he wants to hold you close and kiss you. He resists the urge and sets the items on your living room table, before making a trip to your kitchen to set the ice cream in the freezer.

“Thank you, Ben, that’s so kind of you” you reply weakly when he enters the living room. “I think my temperature’s rising again, I don’t feel too good” you add in a weak voice. He comes to sit next to you on the couch and presses a hand to your forehead. It’s clammy and hot, you’re burning up.

“Yep, feels like you’re having a fever” he states “I’ll get you some ibuprofen” he says, getting back up and heading to your kitchen to get a glass of water. He comes back a few seconds later and you’re lying on your side, your legs pressed to your chest, softly whining.

“It’s okay, I’m here” he says in a smooth voice. He crouches next to you and hands you the pill and the glass of water. You stare at him with glassy eyes.

“I can’t believe you came” you say, repeating the first words you’ve uttered to him when he got here.

“I told you, I have some important news to tell you” he says, smiling.

“But you’re seeing me like this” you whine, gesturing towards yourself. “I look like a monster” you say, closing your eyes.

“That’s not true, you look sick” he protests “You still look pretty and cute, don’t worry”, he adds with a grin. You hide your face in a cushion, not replying.

“Come on, take the pill” he says patiently. You open your eyes again and slowly sit.

“Thank you” you whisper, your hands trembling a bit.

“Do you want to eat something?” he asks, concerned.

You nod to say no “I’m not hungry” you say, wincing.

“When’s the last time you ate?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

You look away, thinking, scrunching your nose a bit. God you’re cute, he thinks, having to resist the urge to kiss you again.

“I don’t really remember” you reply “The fever’s making the last few days blurry” you add, scrubbing your eyes.

“I’m gonna get you some soup” he says, and he goes to the kitchen to get you a spoon.  He puts the kettle on to make you some tea as well, because he wouldn’t be a true British person of he didn’t.

“It’s still warm” he says, coming back in the living room. You nod as you patiently wait for him to bring you the soup, and sigh when he gives you the warm bowl.

“So, what’s the big news?” you ask.

“It can wait.” Ben answers, rubbing your arm to warm you up, seeing you shivering.

“But you came for that” you protest, drinking your soup.

“I came to see you” he replies, smiling softly.

You nod your head, closing your eyes “This is so good” you say.

“I’m glad you like it” he replies, getting comfortable on the couch. “Do you want to watch something?” he asks, gesturing towards your TV. “A comforting movie, perhaps?”

You look at him, smiling softly “Yeah, I could watch something” you say “I’ve spent the last two days in bed” you add.

“What do you want to watch?” he asks, looking intently at you. Even when you’re sick, you still have the same effect on him. His chest feels a bit tight and he desperately wants to touch you. You think for a few seconds before smiling slowly, your eyes looking heavy. You look so tired and weak, it breaks his heart “Princess Bride” you reply, looking content.

He laughs “Princess Bride it is!” he replies as he turns the TV on. He goes back to the kitchen to fetch you your tea, adding a generous amount of honey to soothe your throat. He comes back in the room and you’re standing next to the sofa.

“Could you unfold the couch?” you ask weakly, looking up at him. “I want to fall asleep in front of the film” you add.

He has the resist the urge to cup your face with both of his hands and kiss you. “Of course” he replies, happy to feel useful to you. He expertly unfolds the sofa, and you climb on it right away, still wrapped in your blanket. He lies down next to you and launches the movie. He feels genuinely content in this moment, thinking that there’s no place where he’d rather be, because he’s with you. He thinks to himself that he simply needs your company to feel whole and happy, and he realizes, for the hundredth time, how serious his feelings are for you. He glances at you and sees that you’re shivering.

“Are you alright?” he asks, concerned.

“I’m so cold” you reply, hugging yourself.

“I’ll get another blanket” he replies, and you reach for his arm before he gets up.

“Can you hold me?” you ask, looking at him. His heart explodes with joy in his chest and he tries to control his facial expression.

“Of course” he replies softly with an even voice, and he’s impressed with himself. He slides closer to you on the sofa and opens his arms, and you snuggle against him, sighing, seeming satisfied.

“You smell so good” you say after a few seconds.

He laughs. Why do you need to be in an altered state to say these things to him? Drunk or feverish? What stops you from saying how you feel? Why do you have to control yourself this much? he thinks bitterly.

“Thank you” he replies, his heart beating fast in his chest.

“Why do you have to be so perfect?” you ask, your eyes closed. You seem like you’re slowly falling asleep.

“What do you mean?” he asks, still half laughing.

“You’re smart, kind, funny, unbearably handsome.” you reply, yawning, before snuggling your face against his chest.

“You’re not so bad yourself” he replies softly, placing a soft kiss on the top of your head.

“I’m not good enough for you” you reply, and your eyes are closed, your expression relaxed.

“What? That’s nonsense” he replies, frowning and aghast.

“Hmmmm...” you reply, your head falling a bit, and he understands that you’ve fallen asleep now. He looks back at the TV, distracted. Is that why you won’t date him? Using the excuse of being his agent? Because you’re insecure? He frowns as he ponders on this, still holding you against him. Your breathing is even and your face relaxed, and he feels happy and privileged to see you this way, unguarded and natural. He falls asleep before the movie ends, sill suffering from jet lag.

* * * * * * * * * *

You open your eyes, waking from the fever dream you were just having. You feel sweaty and cold, coming down from your fever. You look around you and find Ben lying next to you, asleep. You stare at his beautiful face for a few seconds, lit by the glowing screen of the TV. You usually can’t stare at him as much as you want to, so you indulge fully. You look at his eyes, his long lashes, the beauty spot you love so much. His nose, his mouth, his beard. His cheekbones, the soft curve of his lips. You heart aches in your chest, you find him so beautiful it almost makes you want to weep.

You close your eyes and sigh deeply, and decide to get up and take a shower to clean the sweat off yourself. You get up slowly, in order not to wake him up, and head to your bedroom. You set out a clean set of pajamas (the good fancy ones, because Ben’s here after all, and you’ll definitely look better in them than in your old sweat pants) and hop in the shower, happy to feel the warmth of the water on your skin. You close your eyes and try to focus to analyze the situation. It’s hard because you’re still feverish, and you feel groggy.

He’s here, you think to yourself, in awe. He came, only to take care of you. You shake your head as you realize how much he must care about you to have come all the way here. He could be anywhere, with anyone, and yet he decided to come to you. You nod your head as you take in the realization and try to calm your nerves. Once you’re done cleaning yourself, you step out of the shower, fold yourself into a towel and go brush your teeth, wanting to feel clean and fresh. You stare at your own reflection, unimpressed. What does he see in you? You simply don’t understand. He could have any woman, any beautiful actress in the industry, any gorgeous model, why does he waste his time with you? You shake your head, unable to comprehend what he sees in you. You step into your bedroom, put on a clean set of underwear before putting on your Pjs.

You tip toe in the living room again and turn off the TV screen. Ben shuffles in his sleep, sighing, and you lie down next to him. You could go back to your bed, but you can’t resist being so close to him. You’ve missed him so much these last few months, and your feelings for him are so strong. You reach for his hand and grab it softly, wanting to have a physical contact with him. He wakes up at the contact and your heart drops in your chest. He opens lazily his eyes, and they seem completely black in the dark.

“Hey” he whispers, smiling softly. “Feeling better?”

“A bit” you sigh back, your chest feeling horribly tight. You could kiss him, right here, right now. Nothing can stop you, except yourself.

“C’me here” he says, and he opens his arms. You don’t hesitate for a second, turning your back on him and snuggling close to him. He spoons you, holding you close, his arms around you. You close your eyes, thinking you’ve never been this happy before, and quickly fall asleep.

* * * * * * * * * *

You wake up to the smell of pancakes and sigh happily. You stretch on the couch and slowly open your eyes, trying to assess how you feel. You’re still a bit sore and your throat hurts, but you don’t feel feverish anymore. You look around you and Ben’s woken up, probably in the kitchen judging by the sounds coming from it. You quickly get up, panicked, and run to your bathroom. You assess the mess as you stare at yourself in the mirror, and decide to brush your teeth first. You brush your hair, put fresh water on your face and breathe evenly to calm yourself. You’re not thrilled by the way you look, but at least you look a little more human. You tip toe to the kitchen and you hear Ben singing, bringing a bright smile to your face.

You enter and he’s cooking pancakes, and you think to yourself that the man has no mercy for you. First, coming to take care of you while you’re sick, secondly, making you pancakes in the morning. How is he even real? You ask yourself. He spots you and stops singing:

“Morning sunshine, how are you feeling?” he asks, grinning.

“A little better, thank you”, you reply as you take a sit on the counter.

“Ahhh, finally some good news”, he says, grinning. How does he look so good? You ask yourself. The man’s slept in his clothes, hasn’t taken a shower yet and he looks like the most beautiful person in the world. You grind your teeth, annoyed by him.

“Did you sleep well?” you ask, blushing.

“Never better” he winks, and you blush even more.

“So, what about these big news you wanted to tell me?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. He slides a plate with pancakes and a cup of tea towards you, and you grab it eagerly.

“Well, I guess you haven’t heard since you were stuck in here with a fever” he starts, and he looks intently at you. “I’ve been nominated for best actor at the Venice Film Festival” he announces.

You choke on your tea and slide off the counter “Oh my God, Ben!!” you yell, and you jump at his neck to hug him, screaming with joy. He laughs as he catches you, and the two of you stand here for a while, hugging. Your breathing slows a bit and you step back “Congratulations” you say, looking up at his face, and the expression on his face makes you weak in the knees. There is tenderness, and a hunger, a want that makes you quiver.

“Thank you” he replies “I’d never had gotten there without you” he says as he puts a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You blush and turn over to grab your tea, before facing him again.

“I have something to ask you” he says, “a favor”.

“Anything, Ben” you say, smiling.

“By my guest at the film festival” he asks. “Come with me, please.”

You stop smiling and you feel sudden dread.

“Ben, I could neve-”

“I don’t want anyone else but you” he cuts you off “by my side, on this day. Please” he begs, and you get lost in his charcoal eyes, unable to resist him.

“Fine”, you sigh, and he grins widely.

“Thank you” he replies “I’ll send you the details” he winks, quoting back to you one of your favorite expressions. You blush again, feeling self conscious.

“I have to go” he says, “I’ll talk to you soon?” he adds, seeming hopeful.

“All right” you reply, still feeling weak in the knees. He steps closer to you, and he gently cups your face with both hands, before placing a light kiss on your forehead. He releases you and grabs his jacket. “Have a nice day” he says, winking, before leaving the kitchen.

You stare into the void as you hear your front door slamming, unable to process what just happened.

Part 8

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thelightinmyshadows

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 19

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

While at first the days and nights that Mulder is away on a case feel lonely, she soon comes to appreciate the time to herself. She reads more, watches the rom-coms that he despises, has one-sided conversations with Priscilla, and gives her vibrator, long since relegated to the back of her bedside drawer, a second lease on life. When Mulder is home he’s more animated and energetic, their sex exciting and passionate. The things she loves best about him magnified, but also some of the worst. There have been a few nights he’s missed dinner without so much as a phone call, and her worry quickly gave way to irritation when he waltzed in the door raving about secret storage facilities hidden in mountains. They create new routines, new boundaries and expectations, and as time wears on, they adjust. He’ll call if he’s going to miss dinner, and she won’t guilt trip him when unexpected cases ruin their plans.

The day before Thanksgiving, he gets a tip from one of his sources about a UFO crash site in Utah and books himself and Monica tickets for that night. Scully questions whether he’s going to miss Thanksgiving dinner at her mother’s and he grimaces, saying he hopes to be back but as usual, can’t make any promises.

The last she hears from him is around 8:00 am on Thanksgiving day when he asks her to send his regrets to her mom. She tries to keep the disappointment out of her voice as she promises to pack up some leftovers for him to have when he gets home. When he hasn’t called by Friday afternoon, she’s a little bit worried. By Friday night, she’s panicking.

Not knowing what else to do, she goes to the Gunmen’s, using her own special knock that spells out “doc” in Morse code.

“Hey, Sis, are you okay?” Missy greets her with a worried frown, now an honorary fourth member of the trio.

“I haven’t heard from Mulder in over twenty four hours,” she answers, breezing past Missy and into the tech room. “I need you to find him for me.”

The Gunmen work their magic while Missy pours her drink after drink. They track his flight into Salt Lake City and then ping his cell phone just outside Provo around 8:00 pm Thursday night. After that, nothing.

“What do you know about the case he was investigating?” Byers asks, perched behind a computer with Missy’s arms draped over his shoulders, her chin resting on his head.

Scully rubs her hands over her face in frustration. “Nothing, other than an alleged UFO crash site. He didn’t give me any other information.”

“What about his partner, Agent Reyes?” Langly asks, “do you have any way to get ahold of her?”

“I’ve tried her cell a hundred times, it’s off,” Scully replies, feeling tears coming up again.

“Does she have a family, someone else you could contact to see if she’s been in touch?” Byers adds.

“She has a partner, Dahlia,” Scully explains, “but I don’t know her last name to look up her number. I’m sure it’s in Monica’s file as her emergency contact, but the whole Hoover Building is shut down for the holiday. I know that her first name is Dahlia, she works at a flower shop in Alexandria, and they live in Palisades. That’s it.”

“Well we can work with that, why don’t you go home and get some rest?” Frohike offers, resting his hand on her shoulder.

She shakes her head, quiet tears slipping down her cheeks. “I don’t want to be alone,” she whispers, her voice small and afraid.

“I’ll come with you, Sis,” Missy says, replacing Frohike behind Scully and wrapping her arms around her sister’s shoulders.

After Missy has gathered her things and kissed Byers goodbye, she drives Scully’s car back to her apartment and plies her with more alcohol. They hold hands as they sleep, Scully’s dreams plagued by visions of Mulder detained, hurt, or worst of all, dead. If she’d had any idea that having the X files reopened would put his life at risk, she never would have entertained the idea.

Please come home, she begs God, the universe, Mulder himself if he’s somewhere listening. Please be okay.

The phone shrieks and she sits up abruptly, her head spinning. Early dawn light is just beginning to seep into the room and she feels like she hasn’t slept at all.

“Mulder?!” she blurts out, a thousand prayers on the tip of her tongue.

“No, it’s Langly, sorry. We got a number for Agent Reyes’ partner.”

Missy is now awake, and scrambles to the hallway to get a pen and paper so Scully can write down Dahlia Vidales’ phone number.

“Thank you Langly, bye,” she says and hangs up without waiting for a response. She dials Dahlia’s number with shaky hands, repeating please please please in her head over and over.

“¿Hola?” says a creaky voice, and Scully glances at the clock to see that it’s only 6:00 am.

“Dahlia?” she asks desperately, her head feeling thick and muddy.

“¿Si, Quién es?”

“This is Dana Scully, have you heard from Monica recently?” Her throat feels thick and dry, her ears ringing in protest of what they might hear.

“Oh, Hi Dana. Yes, I spoke to her last night around ten pm.”

She lets out a shaky breath, feeling a wave of relief.

“Was Mulder with her?” she questions, her jaw quivering.

“Si, she said their cell phones were confiscated and they had stopped at a diner to get something to eat. She called me from a payphone. Is everything okay, Dana?”

She’s shaking, her body suddenly freezing even under her down comforter. The tension she’s been holding for the last two days erupts in a wave of tremors and she starts sobbing.

“Did she say when they’ll be home?” she forces out around her tears.

“They were hoping to get a flight this morning, so sometime today, should be.”

“Thank you, Dahlia. Sorry to wake you,” she says, and hangs up.

Missy holds her as she shakes uncontrollably, her head aching as her racking sobs jostle her dehydrated brain. Missy runs her a hot bath and after some ibuprofen, two big glasses of water, a set of warm clothes and a hot meal, she feels physically much better.

Mentally, she has shifted from worry, fear, and despair to white hot rage. When he walks in that door, she is going to kill him.

———

“Later, Reyes, sorry to hijack your Thanksgiving,” he says with a regretful smile as Monica slides into a cab. He grabs the next one, chucking his duffel bag into the trunk and slumping into the back seat with an exhausted sigh.

It’s been a long few days. They’d located the crash site and even got a little peek at it from behind a utility shed, but soon after they were loaded up in a paddy wagon and interrogated for six hours in a place that was definitely not a police station. When they were finally released, it was without their cell phones, though the suits were kind enough to let them keep their FBI badges.

He needs a shower and a shave, and a good night's sleep. He hopes Scully has gone grocery shopping, and if he's really lucky, there will still be Thanksgiving leftovers. He’d tried calling her from the terminal but she hadn’t answered. At least he has a full day off tomorrow before getting back to the daily grind on Monday.

The cab drops him off outside Scully’s apartment building and he tosses some money over the seat before retrieving his bag. Once inside, he’s fitting his key into the lock when the door swings open and he finds Melissa on the other side.

“Oh, hey Missy,” he says with a touch of surprise.

“I was just leaving,” she replies with an icy stare, and he wonders if something is up with her and Byers.

“Okay, see ya,” he says as she brushes past him and down the hall.

The apartment is dim, a fire crackling in the fireplace the only source of light.

“Scully?” he calls out as Priscilla trots up to him, rubbing her flank against his leg. He picks her up and scratches under her chin, letting her rub her cheek against his two-day stubble.

“I’m here,” Scully says flatly, and he realizes she’s lying on the couch.

He picks up his bag and walks it to the bedroom, dropping it on the floor and discarding his suit jacket on the bed. Returning to the living room, he leans down to kiss her on the cheek and then stands between the fire and the couch, facing her.

“Did you have plans for dinner?” he asks, “I’m starving.”

She scoffs, but he can’t make out her face in the dim light.

“Make your own fucking dinner,” she spits at him, and he physically recoils. Scully very rarely swears, so when she does, it means something.

“Whoa,” he says with a concerned tone, “What’s going on with you?”

“What’s going on with me?” she repeats, moving to sit up. “What’s going on with me? Hmm, let’s see,” she continues, her voice shifting to angry sarcasm. “Perhaps, Mulder, what’s going on with me is that my boyfriend skipped town just in time to miss Thanksgiving dinner with my family and I had to answer questions all night about where he was. Or maybe,” she says as she leans over and snaps on the lamp on the end table, illuminating her face. Her eyes are red and puffy, pronounced bags resting underneath them. “Maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t heard from you in over fifty hours, not a single phone call, or email, nothing. Maybe what’s going on with me, Mulder, is that I have barely slept in two days.” She stands, moving towards him, her voice rising in volume and her bottom lip quivering. “Maybe what’s going on with me is that I thought you were fucking dead, and I had to track down Dahlia to learn that not only were you alive and well, but you were also perfectly capable of calling me, but simply chose not to. MAYBE that is what is going on with me, Mulder!”

He stands there shell-shocked as she pushes past him, slamming the bedroom door shut as wails of agony erupt from the other side. Priscilla jumps up on to the coffee table and quirks her head at him with a meow.

“I have no idea,” he says to the cat.

He cautiously opens the bedroom door and finds Scully sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, a wad of tissues in her hand and tears streaking her face. She looks up at him with a wounded expression that he’s never seen before, and would never like to again

“I’m sorry, Scully, I didn’t mean to make you worry,” he says softly, approaching her.

She gives him an incredulous look.

“How the hell would I not worry if I hear nothing from you for two days, Mulder? What was I supposed to think? And why didn’t you call me?”

“They took my phone, Scully,” he offers, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“What about the phone in your hotel room, Mulder? Or a pay phone, or a goddamn stranger’s phone. Your cell phone is not the only device available for you to contact me with.”

He’s starting to feel like he’s being lectured by his mother for staying out past curfew.

“Okay, Jesus, I get it. I’ll try to call next time,” he says with an irritated tone.

“You’ll try?” Scully asks him, the anger taking center stage again.

He shrugs. “Shit happens, Scully. You don’t know what it’s like out in the field. Sometimes you don’t have access to a phone, or you’re running down a lead and just can’t waste the time to make a call.”

The shift in her demeanor tells him that was the wrong thing to say.

“Waste the time?” she asks in a tight whisper. “Calling me so I know you’re okay is a waste of your time?”

“God, no, Scully, that’s not what I meant. You’re twisting my words around. Look, I’m exhausted, I’ve barely gotten any sleep, can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“YOU’VE barely gotten any sleep?!” she screams, then stands and walks towards him. Even with the ten inches he has on her, she looks larger than life, imposing, and scary. “I have been lying awake crying for two days worried about you!” she shouts up at him. “Get the fuck out of my apartment!”

He’s dumbstruck. He can’t remember the last time she referred to it as her apartment instead of theirs.

“Scully, you can’t be serious, all my stuff is he-”

“I said get OUT!” She cuts him off. She picks up his bag and walks it to the front door, tossing it into the hallway.

He walks slowly towards the door, waiting for her to say she doesn’t mean it, that they should get some sleep and talk about this in the morning. She stands beside the open door, her chest heaving and her jaw set, eyes focused on some far-away point but most certainly not on him. He steps into the hallway, opening his mouth to speak, and she slams the door in his face.

He hears the thunk of the deadbolt, and the sound strikes him as similar to the final nail in a coffin.

[entitynumber5]

omg Hannah!! if you feel so inclined, maybe "things you said when you were crying" for jonmartin? no pressure tho ily

aaaahhh thank you so much for this prompt, friend!!!!! i’m sorry it’s been a while!!! i really hope you like this!!!! ily <3

Content warnings: illness (they both have the flu), depressive episode (mentioned), Martin’s mother (mentioned), the Lonely, disassociation, swearing, compulsive behaviour, self-depreciation. 

things you said when you were crying

Perhaps it’s testament to how wonderfully mundane their lives have become, that Jon’s first thought when he wakes is: Martin’s doing the god damn laundry. 

It’s not an unreasonable assumption. Martin had spent the annual leave he’d taken to align with Jon’s reading week nursing Jon through a nasty bout of flu. During the three worst days, when Jon was barely conscious, he hadn’t seen Martin sleep or eat or leave their bedroom except to linger by the landline—a sign perhaps that Martin had caught what Jon had earlier than he’d let on, since they rarely used the relic—and debate calling the out of hours service. Jon had just about weathered the worst of it when Martin was properly struck down, requiring another week and a half and counting off work. Of course, that didn’t stop Martin’s restlessness even as the flu drained everything from him. He would lie on their bed, pale and panting, barely awake, bordering delirious—and still mumble to Jon that he’d do the laundry in a minute, don’t worry, I’ll get it done soon, I’m sorry it’s such a mess, I’m sorry. 

So Jon doesn’t mean to be angry, when he wakes up to an empty bed after an evening of Martin’s temperature finally staying below 38. It’s not even Martin he’s angry at, not truly.

Perhaps their lives aren’t mundane after all. Is it mundane not to be able to leave an overflowing laundry basket eleven days into the flu? Jon doesn’t know, or Know, but he has two theories: 1) Martin’s mother, the spectre to his half-formed anger. And 2) the state he recalls finding Martin’s flat in after leaving the Lonely, but before they’d set off for Scotland, and how neither of them had said it but Jon recognised well enough what a depressive episode looked like.

Jon reaches for his cane, folded and ready against the bedside table, and gently leverages himself up so he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. The change in elevation makes him dizzy, and he lets the cane ground him, digging into the carpet between his feet, as he breathes. It’s been nearly a week since he’s had a fever, but the flu has caused a flare-up of his pain and fatigue. His department are letting him teach remotely through the rest of November. Martin’s boss had been sympathetic too, when Jon phoned in for him, although there’s not much a paramedic can do from afar and Martin is insistent he’ll be back by the end of the week. In four days. Jon rolls his eyes pre-emptively at the conversations he knows he will have with Martin about who had it “worse”, as if it matters. 

After the static has cleared from his vision—always an uncomfortable comparison, and he shoves down the panic that bubbles inside of him at the thought, because Martin needs him—Jon stands. He goes through the same process, leaning on his cane, breathing, waiting, until he feels steady enough to make his way into the kitchen. 

“What are you doing?” Jon asks from the kitchen doorway, unable to keep the disapproval from his voice, when he finds Martin crouched in front of the washing machine.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Martin shoots back. The sarcasm of his reply is lessened significantly by how out of breath he sounds, and the way he’s clinging to the countertop above the washing machine with one hand while the other is splayed against the tiled floor like a shaky tripod—a pose that hints at an attempt to stand, aborted halfway through.

Jon sighs, biting back an unkind retort: exactly the opposite of what you should be doing. He allows himself to think it without trying to push it away in sudden, desperate shame, like he’s been practicing with his therapist, until it no longer sits so bitterly on his tongue. 

“Come back to bed, Martin,” Jon murmurs, “Please.” 

Martin sighs too. It sounds stuffy, almost crackling with the way the flu still clings to his lungs and throat. “I—I’m not sure that I... can.”

Jon opens his mouth to speak, but Martin interrupts: “I know, I know, I shouldn’t be—and my fever’s probably up again and—and I—”

“Martin,” Jon cuts in, as gently as he can. 

“Fine. Fine. This can wait to go out on the—” Still breathless, still barrelling through his justifications, Martin uses the hand on the countertop to pull himself upwards.

It goes terribly. Jon isn’t sure what forces are at work—gravity, exhaustion, pure bad luck, all of the above—but Martin is barely up for a moment before his legs fold, and he’s down again. Jon can’t move fast enough to stop Martin corkscrewing in an odd, 180-degree motion so that he all but ducks beneath his own arm, twisting it in his socket in an attempt to continue clinging to the counter, and knocks his spine against the harsh, circular face of the washing machine with a resounding thud.

“Fuck. Ow,” Martin groans, his voice slurring slightly, “Tha’s embarrassing.”

Jon tries to follow Martin, to kneel beside him on the tiles, but Martin snaps: “No! No, Jon, p-please don’t. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Jon hovers, one hand fluttering uselessly near Martin’s hair while he clings to his cane with the other. Martin breathes, and breathes, and breathes—the sound heavy and laboured in a way that breaks Jon’s heart. It takes some time for him to steady himself, and then lean almost imperceptibly towards Jon. Jon lets his fingers brush through Martin’s hair, not caring, in the moment, that neither of them had showered for what feels like weeks. When the knuckle of his forefinger brushes across Martin’s temple, down his cheek, Jon feels the heat sitting on his skin again, the climbing fever.

“Oh, Martin,” Jon murmurs. 

“I hate this,” Martin says, his voice quiet and sharp and bitter.

“I know,” Jon soothes, brushing his knuckle once again over Martin’s flushed cheek. “I know.”

Martin closes his eyes and leans his head again Jon’s knee. It’s the sort of exhausted display of love and trust that Martin rarely allows himself, unless he’s feeling truly unwell. Jon places his hand on the crown of Martin’s head and leans on his cane and waits for Martin to be ready once again to talk or rest. 

Until very quietly, Martin begins to cry. 

“Oh,” Jon murmurs, almost to himself. 

Martin’s breath trembles, in what Jon knows is an attempt to hold back the tears, to pretend it’s nothing. He hides his face from Jon when he cries, even now, after all this time. A long-learned shame that always finds its way back into their house, no matter how many times they’ve turned it out and barricaded the doors. 

“Martin,” Jon says, quiet but firm, “Please come back to bed.”

There is a long, breath-held moment when Jon thinks Martin is going to refuse, to insist. So painfully stubborn, his husband. Jon braces himself for it. But Martin just nods ever so slightly against the soft plaid fabric of Jon’s pyjama bottoms.

It takes some time, and a great deal of false starts, to get Martin back on his feet. He’s wearing fluffy socks—Jon remembers putting them on for him, when he’d been shivering even in his sleep—that slide on the kitchen tiles, and Jon’s fighting against his own dizziness, which comes and goes in waves when he changes position, to lend Martin purchase. At last, they’re both standing. And although it likely doesn’t help much, Martin lets Jon slide his arm around Martin’s back as he guides them towards the bedroom. 

The bedside lamp is on its dullest setting on account of Martin’s persistent illness, and there are blankets and tissues and medicines thrown at random intervals around the room. Jon leads Martin towards the bed, not letting him stop to correct the mess, to try and restore some order to it. If this is how their lives have to be for the next few days—or weeks—so be it. Jon won’t sacrifice Martin’s recovery for this.

“Sit down,” Jon tells Martin, right before Martin gracelessly throws himself onto the edge of the mattress, listing towards the—thankfully padded—headrest.

Martin is still crying, but in that slow, distant way that makes something deep in Jon ache. It’s almost like the tears don’t belong to Martin. Like he is crying them on behalf of someone else. He stares across the room, half sprawled on the bed with his socked feet languid against the carpet, as the tears fall uninhibited down his face.

Carefully, Jon leans down just enough to pick up Martin’s legs, one at a time, and lift them onto the bed. He’s out of breath by the time he’s managed to get Martin lying down fully, still leaning against the headboard and staring vaguely at the wall opposite the bed. There is a picture hanging there, of them both outside the courthouse where they’d gotten married, but Martin seems to be staring through it.

“I’ll be right back,” Jon promises. He doesn’t know if he’s reassured or terrified that Martin simply lets him leave, barely reacting beyond the briefest twitch of an expression.

In the bathroom, Jon fills up a pint glass of water and wets a soft green flannel beneath the tap. He takes a moment to breathe, to drink some water as well, to swallow some ibuprofen for his aching joints, before he carries his small gifts back into the bedroom.

Martin is exactly where Jon left him. Jon sits next to him on the bed, and when Jon hands him the large glass of water, Matin takes it instinctively. But he doesn’t drink from it, holding it in his hands as if it is yet another thing that doesn’t belong to him, that he will carry unflinchingly for the time being—like the tears. Like the pain.

“Please drink the water, love,” Jon says. He touches one of his hands to Martin’s, where he’s holding the glass, and Martin’s eyes flicker briefly to his. Jon nods in encouragement.

With trembling hands, both closed around the large glass, Martin lifts the water to his lips and drinks. He doesn’t manage much—a few sips before his mouth tightens with nausea, and he has to lower the glass and breathe. But it’s a start.

“That’s good, Martin,” Jon soothes, as he takes the glass from Martin’s hands and places it on their bedside table. “Do you want to lie down?”

“Jon,” Martin tries to say.

“Shh. It’s alright. Lie down, just like that, that’s it.”

Martin reclines against the pillow, restlessness warring against exhaustion, until he looks almost settled. Jon tugs the blanket from the end of the bed and covers Martin with it, smoothing down the edges with extra care. Martin watches him, turned slightly on his side so he can look up at where Jon is still half-sitting against the headboard.

“I hate this,” Martin chokes, and blinks fresh tears down his cheeks. “I feel like—like everything is wrong.”

“In what way?” Jon asks gently, keeping his eyes on Martin as he reaches for the wet flannel sitting on the bedside table next to the three-quarters full glass of water.

Martin closes his eyes. “I’m so—I’m so tired, Jon.”

Jon lowers the flannel to Martin’s face, wiping first beneath his eyes, where some of the tears have collected and soaked into the begging of his laughter lines. “I know.”

Martin’s face crumples with something like grief. “That’s just it, though. This is—it’s nothing. Nothing compared to—to what you... And I’m just—making more of it than it needs.”

“Martin.”

“This isn’t—before, with Mum, I’d just—I’d keep going because—”

Martin frowns, sentence finishing abruptly. Jon pushes down the urge to correct, to intervene, and instead, with every ounce of patience and love he feels for Martin in this moment, continues to draw the flannel over the planes of his warm, weary face.

“I can’t stop,” Martin whispers at last, opening his eyes. “If I stop, then I’ll—I won’t ever start again. Like with the—the Lonely. Every time you reached out, I knew if I just stopped even for a moment, I wouldn’t be able to go back, and it would all fall apart. I’m not meant to stop. I can’t. I’m not resilient or, or the kind of person who can get knocked down and get back up again. It’s just—it’s keep going or...”

Jon drags the flannel along Martin’s jaw, down his throat, wiping away the remaining tears where they mingle with fever sweat. He focuses entirely on his task, a perfect excuse to carefully consider his next words. A separate part of his mind is processing that his theories had been right, in some way, and how he aches for Martin—the predictability of it doesn’t ease the pain. But Martin needs something other than that right now.

“Martin.” Jon starts, of course, at the beginning of all things. With love. With a reason. “There are moments in life when sometimes we need to stop. Think about it like... like an orchestra. In an orchestra, there are times where an instrument, or even an entire segment, will be given a break within the music or by the conductor—because it’s needed and it’s necessary. The performance is better for it. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Martin blinks up at Jon, slow and exhausted but comprehending. Jon continues his task, wiping the cloth across Martin’s forehead now.

“You are the most resilient person I know, Martin. I would be lying to you—and I think you know that—if I said I’d never seen you get knocked down. But I have watched you get back up again and again and again,” Jon continues. “If this time, it takes a little longer—if this time, you’re not sure when you can begin again—that’s alright. You deserve rest. You have nothing to prove, except perhaps that you can stop—or pause, if it’s easier to think of it that way—and the world won’t collapse around you.” Jon removes the flannel from Martin’s forehead and replaces it with a gentle kiss. “I won’t let it.” 

Jon lets his lips linger before he lowers his head onto the pillows to face Martin. Martin is still crying, eyes bright with tears and fever both, but there’s something less dejected in his expression. Something less lost.

“I’m sorry,” Martin whispers, “For the crying, and—”

“There’s nothing to apologise for.”

“Not even the laundry?” Martin’s voice is so small, still trembling with tears. But there’s the briefest glimpse of a smile at the corner of his chapped lips.

“Not even the laundry,” Jon agrees, although he puts on a begrudging front.

Martin closes his eyes and leans forward, so that his and Jon’s foreheads are touching in the small gap between their two pillows. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“And I—I want to believe you.”

Jon feels himself smile, and he hopes Martin knows it is all for him. “Thank you.”

Jon knows they will talk about this again. He knows this will be something understood and folded into the fabric of their lives slowly, piece by painful piece. But for now, as he watches Martin’s tears slowly ease, replaced eventually by sleep, and as Jon himself begins to follow, he thinks at the threshold of his dreams that next time might be just a little bit easier. A little bit kinder. And that is always enough.

[athenadione]

pizza and feverish confessions

No one:

Me: DID SOMEONE SAY WHUMP

Okay so it’s only light whump, with an emphasis on comfort. Will I go to the grave believing that Damian is a big softie when it comes to sick Raven? Absolutely. 

Words: 3,909

Rated: G it’s all appropriate... this time ;)

Pairing: DamiRae

Click Here to read on A03

It starts out with a warm, fuzzy feeling in the back of her head. A little dizzying, but not enough to disrupt her equilibrium, so she brushes the feeling aside and chalks it up to a flare of her empathy. Throwing up a few mental shields to keep the plethora of auras at bay, she continues walking down the street with the rest of her teammates, nearing Pizza Corner. 

A popular hotspot for locals, they have to request seating ahead of time so that the employees can prepare for a visit from the Titans. It’s always a daunting task to go out in public. The employees have to barricade a spot near the back of the restaurant for them to eat in peace, and constantly combat the flow of customers that walk in all for the chance to meet them. Obviously, they don’t do it often. The sheer amount of work it takes for them to dine-in never takes less than an hour. But today Gar insisted, and Kori can be a sucker for cute, green kittens; So naturally, they made a reservation. 

The restaurant is already buzzing with activity by the time they turn the corner, still about a block away. Hosts and waitresses are shuffling people out and the crowd is growing considerably, all looking for a chance to get an autograph or picture with a Titan. They’re used to all the chanting and the yelling, but today it bothers her a bit. Already she can feel a tension headache blooming just behind her eyes, and she resists the urge to rub at her temples with her fingers. Maybe she stayed up reading too late last night.

She says nothing about her ailment and continues walking, appearing unaffected to everyone that doesn’t know what to look for in her face- a light grimace tugging at the corners of her mouth, and eyes that flutter shut a moment longer than necessary. 

A few employees jog out to escort them the rest of the way, and Kori thanks them warmly, resting a hand on one of the men’s shoulders. The way the man looks back at Kori can make any woman mad with envy. Complete, undivided attention and adoration. Really, she can imagine literal red hearts leaping outwards from the pupils of his eyes accompanied by the loud sound of an ahooga horn. It nearly makes her snort, but instead she arches a delicate brow. With a reminder to herself to watch less Cartoon Network, she allows herself to be ushered into the building by another employee. 

When she feels the brush of a well defined chest against the length of her arm after stepping inside it takes her a moment to realize it’s Damian. He must have stayed close behind her from the way he’s angled his body, shielding her from view. She remembers a time when his body wouldn’t even be able to take up half the space of the door. Now, at twenty two, he can easily provide coverage from the crowd- which she’s certainly grateful for. One would think after nearly a decade of superhero experience she’d be used to the publicity. Reluctantly, she admits that she’ll probably always be a little uneasy when it comes to large crowds. 

“Beast Boy, stop flirting and get in here!” Jaime is seen tugging on the Changeling’s arm, practically dragging him in the diner. Gar comes begrudgingly with promises to the horde of females surrounding him to come back later for pictures. The foray of giggles that is heard a few seconds after leads Raven to believe that he’s said something else that’s borderline inappropriate, and from Damian’s eye roll she knows that he heard exactly what it was. 

“Come on Beetle, I was this close to getting that blonde chick’s phone number!” Gar laments, rather dramatically Raven thinks, and continues his protests all the way to the door. 

“Hurry up you two, we’re ready to be seated.” Kori says, shooting Gar a glance, the warning to behave clear in her eyes. Raven admits that she’s impressed when Gar doesn’t immediately shrink back like he used to. 

“Sorry Star.” He mumbles, letting Jaime pull him past both her and Damian to follow behind Kori. Raven watches them a moment, willing the dull throb in her head to ebb, but it doesn’t cease. A light frown crosses her features when she realizes that she’ll likely need to meditate an extra hour today for the pain to subside. And perhaps take a few ibuprofen.

Behind her, Damian steps around her and lowers his gaze to meet her eyes. “Raven, are you okay?” He asks, touching her arm lightly. “You have a headache?” 

Raven blinks, the only evidence of her surprise that Damian had been able to read her so well. But then she remembers that they’ve been teammates for years, and of course he would be able to tell, just as she can tell that the lilt in his tone is concern, not annoyance. 

“Yeah.” She breathes and closes her eyes again. “I’m okay, I just need to meditate when we get back to the tower.” 

When she opens her eyes again she sees him press his lips together and narrow his eyes like he doesn’t believe her and he’s definitely going to argue with her...but to her relief he says nothing, just gestures to the large booth where the others are already seated. 

“Come on, the sooner we eat the sooner we can leave.” 

She nods lightly, aware of how the movement heightens the pain of her headache, and turns to walk to where Kori is waving for them. Then Damian places a hand to her lower back and begins to guide her through the clearest pathway to the booth, unaware of the light blush heating her cheeks. Even after all this time she still hasn't gotten the courage to admit to herself what the pang in her chest is when he does little things like that. 

Shoving back emotions that she refuses to interpret, she focuses her attention on the booth ahead of them, giving Kori a shrug when she sends her a curious look. 

“Man they always have the best veggie pizzas. I wish I could eat here everyday.” Gar states to no one in particular. Jaime takes offense, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “How can anyone come here and eat vegetarian pizza? That should be considered felonious.” 

“For once, I’d have to agree with Beast Boy.” Damian tells them both, stepping up to the booth first, then he reaches out with an open hand for her to take it. His hand is cool, contradicting the heat that she’s feeling from her headache. He gestures for her to step into the booth first and she scoots beside Jaime. Then he follows behind, effectively closing her in. 

“Are you serious? Did everyone hear that?” Gar’s eyes widen in excitement, and he jumps in his seat, nearly sloshing his drink. “I want this in writing.” 

“Don’t get used to it.” Damian quips back, eyes scanning the menu. The pout that Gar sends him makes Raven smile, mildly amused at the way his canines protrude over his upper lip. 

Any plea that may have come from Gar’s mouth is silenced when the wait staff swoop in to get their orders. As quickly as they left, they come back with her and Damian’s drinks, and they are already set to make their pizza. Fast and succinct, the waist staff pride themselves on their service, and they deserve a considerable tip for the effort they’ve already given to allow them all to eat here. She makes a mental note to mention that to Kori when there’s a light itching in the back of her throat, and she takes a few sips of her water to combat it. 

Conversations between her teammates continue, and Raven’s content to remain silent and listen to their banter, leaning back into the cool upholstery of the booth. The haziness in her mind grows, accompanied by a lightheadedness that makes her breathe deep, repeating her mantra to focus. In one corner, she finds a tear in the mahogany leather. Eyes beginning to glaze over, the longer she stares at it, the more black dots begin to swim along her vision. 

At some point she vaguely recognizes Dick’s voice across the restaurant, joining them in his Nightwing suit. The joy she feels bubbling from Kori’s aura is enough to bring her back to the present, vision now clear, and she sees Dick slide in beside the Tamaranean. Everyone shifts to make room and Raven’s thigh brushes Damian’s when it’s her turn to scoot over. 

“Hey guys, how’s it going?” Dick asks the entirety of the table. There’s a series of replies, each ranging from a curt “Fine,” to “I’d be better if I had my pizza right about now,” to a bemoaned “Thanks a lot Nightwing! It was already hard enough getting phone numbers with Robin around, now it’ll be impossible!” 

Raven just nods in greeting, knowing that Dick won’t consider her silence as rude. Something she’s thankful for. Dick takes it all in stride as he always does, and he easily fits in with their group dynamic, bantering back and forth with Gar and Jaime all the while shooting the occasional tease to Kori. He even manages to make Damian smile once or twice- a considerable feat to accomplish. 

Eventually they all settle down again and her eyes begin to feel bleary once more. This time a light shiver follows all the way up her spine, and she barely contains the shudder that threatens to wrack through her body. It does cause her to lightly brush against Damian’s thigh again though, and she’s very aware of his keen, inquiring eyes on her. Looking up, she sees the question in his gaze. 

And she wants to put the concern she feels in his aura at ease, but at this point the ache in her head has pretty much developed into a migraine, and any jarring movement sends her head spinning, so she just gives him a small smile, if a bit forced. And as much as she’d rather go home and lay down in the dark, everyone’s having a good time, and they don’t get to go on public outings often together. She doesn’t want to ruin it by cutting their trip short. Besides, she’s been through much worse.

Even so, when their pizza finally arrives Raven only picks at hers, taking a few small bites for show, but her migraine is starting to make her feel nauseous, and the itch in her throat is scratchy, making it uncomfortable to swallow. 

After a while, a heat begins to sizzle over her skin even as she’s bundled in her thickest cloak. Beside her, Jaime is arguing with Gar over which pizza is the best on the menu. It escalates to a point where Gar begins to point out how many slices of each kind of pizza everyone’s been eating until he gets to her own plate. 

“What’s wrong Rae, you don’t like your pizza? You love pepperoni.” Gar pipes up from across the table, a piece of veggie pizza in one hand and a crumpled napkin in another. His brows are drawn together in disapproval when she follows his eyes to her plate. Only one slice of the two that she had taken from the pepperoni and cheese pie in the middle of the table is half eaten. 

Aware of everyone’s eyes on her, she feigns nonchalance as she fights back another shiver. “Yeah, I do. It’s good.” She swallows, then takes another sip of her water to moisten her throat, looking back down at her plate. “I guess I just don’t have much of an appetite today.” 

Beside her, Damian narrows his eyes and turns in the booth to observe her blatantly, ignoring Dick and Kori’s curious glances. Feeling a bit self-conscious under his intense stare, Raven wraps her fingers inside her cloak, pulling it tighter around her body. His eyes sweep her figure pensively, then rest back onto her face, taking in the glazed expression on her face. 

After a few more moments he crosses his arms and gives her a reprimanding glare. “You’re getting sick.” He deadpans.

Immediately words of denial bubble up her throat, still conscious of everyone’s attention. “I am not. I’m fine.” She says, and as punishment the pain in her headache blossoms tenfold right at the base of her skull. 

Despite the clouding in her mind she can still feel the brush of Damian’s aura, a tinge of both worry and frustration lapping at her empathy. “Tch. You’re a horrible liar and this is ridiculous.” He vaguely motions at the table they’re sitting at. “You shouldn’t be forcing yourself through lunch when you’re feeling unwell.” 

The others voice similar echoes of concern with promises that she shouldn’t feel guilty for staying, and Raven sighs because this is what she has been trying to avoid. She waves off their concerns. “I’m okay, really. Let’s just enjoy the rest of lunch okay? I’m fine.” She repeats. 

“I think we’re all ready to go back anyway, right guys?” Kori asks before Damian can argue with her further, looking at Jaime and Gar. Together they nod and begin to shuffle as one when Kori and Dick step out- Dick leaving the group entirely with the check in his hand. 

Guilt swells in Raven’s chest, knowing how much the team had looked forward to being together on a relatively calm day like this, which is so very rare. “Wait, Star.” She winces as the raspiness grows in her voice. “You said you wanted to go to the mall first, we still have plenty of time.” Kori’s been wanting to go for weeks now. 

Scooting out of the booth to follow her teammates takes more effort than she’d like to admit, but Damian hovers close by, taking her elbow and helping her step down. His gloved hand around her arm is much colder this time, causing a shudder that she can’t contain anymore.

Standing is not a good idea, Raven thinks. Her legs wobble and she locks her knees to stop them from shaking, and gods why is it suddenly so hot in here? She completely misses the first half of Kori’s response. 

“...and besides, the dress I want to buy will still be there the next time I go.” 

The world tilts on its axis, or rather Raven tilts, taking the world with her when she takes a step. The sudden lightheadedness she feels is so overwhelming she doesn’t even notice that Damian still hasn’t let go of her arm.

Someone within the vicinity of her incapacitated hearing begins to speak. Is it Gar? His voice sounds so far away now and her movements feel sluggish. There’s a light ringing in her ears that increases in tune with the pounding of her head, and through it all she feels that she’s broken out in a light sweat. 

“Raven?” She looks through bleary eyes to see Damian’s face contorted with alarm. It makes her want to reach out and cup his face because he’s normally so stoic, and the worry creases above his brows don’t suit him at all. What would he do if she reached up on her tip-toes to kiss them until they receded? 

She never gets the chance to find out, because the black specks dancing at the edge of her peripherals fill her vision all too quickly, and before she’s able to take another step forward her knees buckle, falling into Damian’s arms as swiftly as she falls into unconsciousness. 

“Oh my god, Raven!” 

.

She’s not fully conscious when she catches hints of low whispers near her, nearly drowned out by the beep of a machine next to her ears. Groaning softly, her senses are overcome with the aching in her leg muscles, and how hot her skin feels against the sheets she’s tucked underneath. A shiver wracks her body and she involuntarily curls into herself on the bed she’s in. Cords follow her body, attached to the pulse oximeter that she briefly notices is on her finger, along with an I.V. in her arm. 

Faintly, she hears the sound of the t.v. playing in the background. She thinks it’s Scooby Doo. Either someone had turned it on for her when she woke, or Gar’s been in this room recently. Nonetheless, it’s enough to make her realize with mild amusement that she reminded herself to watch less Cartoon Network, not more. 

But that amusement is short-lived when there’s a dip in the bed, the movement making her moan as the aching in her legs heightens, and she opens her eyes hazily.

It takes her a few seconds to focus on the figure beside her. “Dami…?” She croaks and immediately regrets speaking from the sharp pain in the back of her throat. “Ah..hurts.”

Luckily Damian isn’t one for small talk and he just rubs her upper arm lightly. “I know, don’t speak.” He says gently, “You have strep throat and the flu. Your fever got worse overnight.” 

Damian presses something cold and wet to her forehead, and she sighs in reprieve as it soothes her heated flesh. Her eyes flutter shut once more and she’s already drifting off to sleep, barely hearing his next words. “Get some rest habibti. I’m here.” The darkness takes her under, and this time she welcomes it. 

.

The next time she wakes she thinks she must be delirious. 

Damian is mere inches away from her, pressing his lips to her temple in a light kiss, and whispering something to her in his native tongue. 

If she wasn’t so sick then this would be heaven- waking up to his soft kisses. And maybe it still is in her own mind, because she’s honestly not sure if this is real. 

A wave of nausea disrupts that train of thought and it courses through her stomach. She shoots upwards into a sitting position, head spinning. And she must’ve done this before because a small trash can is placed directly under her mouth as soon as she sits up, and she grasps at it weakly, vomiting up bile. Hands gather her hair gently at her nape, holding it back for her as she continues retching. Then she’s just dry heaving for a few minutes after there’s nothing left to throw up, and her stomach twinges achingly. 

Someone starts rubbing soothing circles at her back and cooing into her ear, and she finally has the energy to glance back, recognizing those familiar emerald orbs that look back down at her in sympathy. When it’s clear that she’s finished he takes the trash can and places it next to her bed, within reaching distance. Gratefully taking the hand towel from his outstretched hand to wipe her mouth, she wonders if she should feel mortified at the fact that he’s seeing her in this state, but another shiver wracking through her body halts that train of thought too. 

“Raven?” She must’ve spaced out at some point because she’s now leaning back against the fortress of pillows that have been fluffed for her, and Damian is hovering above her. 

He reaches out an ungloved hand and tucks a stray hair behind her ear, and she wishes she had the courage to ask him to keep stroking her hair like that. “How are you feeling?” He asks her. 

She just shakes her head, not trusting her mouth to speak. Also, her throat feels raw after vomiting. The lingering taste of bile makes her grimace.

“Try to sit up for me, you need to hydrate.” He calls out softly and she wonders how she didn’t notice the glass of water in his hand before. Bracing shaky palms into the mattress, she manages to pull herself up enough to earn a hum of praise. A straw makes its way to her mouth and she accepts it without argument, knowing from the set of his jaw that if she tried to she would certainly lose. The few sips she’s able to stand helps ebb the burning sensation in her throat, and Damian encourages her to take a few more. Then, she’s shaking her head and pushing away the glass. He relents, murmuring his approval. Soft, low tones. “Good. That’s good, Raven.” A hand threads through her hair again and she leans into his touch, taking the small comfort he’s offering despite how out of character it is for him to be so...intimate. 

The soft, rhythmic brush of his fingers through her hair distracts her from the ache in her legs, and the dull throb of her headache. It helps tether her to consciousness enough to open her eyes more clearly and see the gentleness in his gaze as he watches her. 

When she opens her mouth to speak her tongue feels like cotton, but she continues anyway. “You...don’t have to stay.” Her voice sounds like she’s been screaming in terror for hours until finally succumbing to an unbearable torture, and she winces at how pathetic it must sound to him too. 

He just shushes her and continues threading his hand through her hair. “I’ll leave if you insist, but I’d rather stay...if that’s alright.” 

All she can do is nod. They fall into a comfortable silence, which Raven cherishes. Damian’s always seemed to know when silence is needed, and he gives it to her often. Having him here, helping her while she’s in such a vulnerable state sends another sensation through her chest, filling her with a different kind of warmth. Not the kind of feverish, sweaty, and boiling heat that’s bogged down her mind the past couple of days (It’s been a few days right? Truthfully she doesn’t really know). But it’s a warmth that slowly spreads throughout her entire being, pouring over into her soul that leaves a light tingling in its wake. It’s stronger than anything she’s ever felt before and it swells in her throat until it formulates into words, spilling out of her mouth before she can stop it. 

“I love you.” 

Another shiver reverberates through her body, and the combined ache of her muscles and persistent fever takes her back under- so much so that she doesn’t even realize the significance of what she just said. She just knows that it makes Damian give her a smile that she’s never seen before. One that softens every feature in his face, and lights his eyes in such a way that mesmerizes her through the fogginess of her affliction.

“I know.” He says in a hushed timbre, leaning down to press his lips to her hairline- an act that makes her sigh in content, despite her dazed state. “I love you too.” 

He stays with her, fingers playing languidly with the strands of her hair as he murmurs into her ear- a mixture of both their common language and arabic, and she clings to the gentle undertone of his words, relishing in this new, welcoming warmth that’s now unfurling all the way down to her toes. She continues to listen to his voice as it lulls her back gently into unconsciousness.

And she knows that he’ll be there when she wakes up again, just as surely as she now knows in her heart that she loves him. 

And he loves her back.

[maviemesregles]

Once I was an Eagle

[ Okay, so I don’t even know why I’m posting this since I have only two followers and I’ve never uploaded any of my fanfics before, but I feel like I’m ready to share a story with the readers. I have no beta, I’m also not a native speaker so I presume there might be mistakes but I thought let’s try, see if at least somebody likes it. I love writing and this story definitely would continue no matter if anyone reads it or not. 

* This is Modern AU (Outlander) Claire x Jamie

* Mature content is on the way (definitely)

* This story is about established relationships with flashbacks

* Angst. Yep, angst. But dinna fash, some fluff will be there (of course)

So if you’re willing to take a risk and read this attempt at writing Outlander fanfiction then buckle up for a long journey :) ]

________________________________________________________________

                                         CHAPTER 1: The beginnings

It was the little things that Jamie loved about Claire. Small, perhaps, insignificant things in the eyes of strangers, but they created her, bits and pieces of the way she was.

 The way she was cursing under her breath 'Fuck' and 'Jesus H.Roosvelt Christ' whenever she found herself annoyed, stressed or angry.

The way she was getting ready for work - always organized, calm and quiet.

The way she always mumbled her sleepy 'thank you' to him for the cup of steaming coffee he'd make her in the weekends, her face still slightly puffy and creased from a deep sleep. 

The way her unruly mass of hair made something steer deep inside his belly, wanting to cradle her into his laps and hold there forever.

It was the way she would laugh so hard that she snorts and he would follow her, laughing as well, till his eyes water.

The way she smelled after the shift at the hospital, sterile and clean, with a slight scent of her perfume (musk and honeycomb), which imprinted on the bedsheets forever in their bedroom.

The way she sighed and came alive under his touch in the darkness of the night, stilling everything around them.

The way she would snuggle next to him on the couch, pressing her body into his, almost curling into a ball, covering them with a quilt, falling asleep sometime later lulled by the noise of TV they'd watch.

The way she would get annoyed at their cat Adso for biting off the wee herbs she planted on their kitchen windowsill, deep crease appearing between her perfectly shaped eyebrows as she made a hissing 'shush' sound.

 Quiet rustling of the sheets on his left made Jamie open one eye, abandoning his thoughts as he watched her silhouette sitting down, her long arms rising to the air and then slightly behind her head, as she stretched muscles, shaking off the remnants of her sleep.

Normally he would run his hand on the expanses on her back, letting her know he's awake. Claire tended never to wake him up knowing he had troubles sleeping. But now he silently watched her, his mind registering all the things she did in the room (pulling her sleeping t-shirt over her head that had been discarded to the floor evening before as they made love, her feet making the wooden floor squeak on the way to the hall, where she would switch IKEA stand lamp, never using the table one on her side, worrying the light might wake Jamie, he would hear the bathroom door softly closing and the water running, as she took shower for five minutes strictly, later she would curse quietly trying to find a fresh pair of knickers in the drawer)

All those things Jamie knew by heart, that was swelling with the feeling, he thought it would burst. Same little things that made him like her, want her, love her. The things that had imprinted upon his heart since the first time they met.

                                                                    * * *

I knew that Geillis's idea of weekends getaway to Highlands would not end very well and I was bloody right. I grimaced at the loud sound of a car door closing when we finally stopped, the loud thump made my headache harder, and I moaned reaching for the second Ibuprofen pill in my purse. 

" Ye ken, yer face looks like chicken arse like that?" Geillis clicked her tongue, the car keys ring swinging in loops around her slender finger (she was my long-time friend from college, who despite her reckless character was an exceptional pharmacist).

" Yer never get laid with that look, love"  She unceremoniously grabbed me by the elbow, marching towards colorful market stands. " Let's get some food, I'm starvin'".

I mumbled incoherent 'mmmmh' not being able to move my dry tongue. Hangovers started to catch up with me in my late 20s and with each year it got worse and my drinking less and less harmful. A dram or two of the whisky, couple of gin tonics, or maybe red wine was fine but student-like parties were big No for me so now I regretted very much our yesterdays late night activities. Walking from pub to pub, mixing up all alcoholic drinks imaginable, eating greasy kebab on the street and staying up till 4am did not do me much good. I was dying, listing each step of alcohol intoxication in my head when Geilli interrupted me by suggesting to go to the local farm market for some fresh groceries. Though any mention of food made my mouth water with bitter saliva, my stomach growled at the prospect of fresh bread, eggs, and some ripe vegetables, along with a strong cup of coffee.

So now we were heading towards noisy farmers of Lallybroch (the name I had troubles pronouncing, apparently, as Geillis made fun of me every time I said it).

With each passing stand of colorful fruit and veggies, various types of pastry, fresh meat, and fish, Geillis's backpack was filling with the promise of our breakfast, my eyes stumbled upon a bright blue van with bold letters saying " Coffee, tea and homemade biscuits". Hoping that fresh roasted black liquid will make me feel less awful I tugged my ginger-haired friend on the sleeve, pointing to the van. With her approval and request ( cappuccino with double espresso shot, soy milk) I wiggled between mass of people, the glance of my look ( tangled hair in a top knot, treating to escape the elastic band, raccoon dark circles under my eyes, chapped lips, oversized jogging pants, tucked into old Uggs, and Geillis's beige parka) reflected in the puddle as I finally stood in front of the van, inhaling rich coffee aroma. Feeling a bit more cheerful, with two paper cups warming my cold fingers, I turned to head back.

As my nose bumped into a soft woolen coat that smelled slightly of hay and something else I could not recall, I felt my eyes began to water at the impact of my face meeting a broad chest and through my blurry sight I saw rainbow of vegetables running away from the fabric bag that said ' Take me with you, I am eco-friendly!'. 

I cursed (louder than intended to) and tried to sniff, feeling snotty now.

" Jesus. H.Roosevelt Christ! I think I've broken my nose". I blinked twice when my eyes finally could focus on the obstacle on my way.

"Nay, lass. When ye break yer nose it makes this nasty crunchy sound and ye bleed like a pig. Yer fine". He said to me, inhaling swiftly, lips curling into an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, I didna mean to hurt ye though".

I shot him a look that probably made him feel even more confused as his cheeks blushed deep pink, almost matching his red hair. I sighed and then my attention returned to his discarded tote bag. Not wishing to create more tension with a stranger, I bent, wanting to collect his groceries. That moment he decided to do the same and leaning at the same time, he punched my side with his elbow, by accident of course, but my hand shifted, coffee spilling on the cream-colored fabric of Geillis parka.

" Oh, fuck." I growled, now feeling really annoyed. Someone from behind called " Uncle Jamie!" stealing his attention from the brown stain on my coat and before he could apologize again, I raised my hand and mumbled " I'm fine" walked away followed by his guilty gaze.

Later that day I felt slightly guilty by snapping at this Jamie, thinking that hangover clouded my better judgment but soon enough forgot about it until the Thursday evening. I was just changing into my clothes, getting ready for home, when Joe opened a door. " Claire, just this last patient, nothing hard, he needs stitches. Please?" I sighed but nodded, remembering that he had a booked restaurant for a dinner with his wife. Then James Fraser stepped in. 

[meaninglessgaythoughts]

On Material

Which itself, of course, is not evil. I cannot exist without a physical body, nor can anyone else; hence, however unfortunate, our dependence on material goods. I rely on food reaped from a plentiful Earth, water from springs or rivers, air from the wind; I am a being of carbon, born of it, and to which I shall return, someday, but not soon.

I sit currently surrounded by the material. The laptop I write this on, the desk on which it sits, and the floor of the building beneath me, the chair between it and me. The headphones in my ears and the cell phone they connect to, by some power I do not currently understand; a bed, a lamp, a water bottle, a box of tissues, various posters and trinkets that at one point brought joy and now serve to ward off the prison-like atmosphere of my dorm. It is in this space that I feel safe, this chair that I collapse into at the end of the day, elated to rest my legs, and this bed that is so hard to leave when the clock on my phone says I must. Objects bring me comfort, whether physical as the bed, or mental as the video game controller or wall arts.

Yet objectively speaking, I could survive without everything I listed. I won’t claim to know how to survive on my own; an art lost to modernity, perhaps. My distant ancestors did, however. For three hundred thousand years they lived without anything I now rely upon. I don’t entirely know how they did it, but I’m glad they did. So many beings had to exist without ibuprofen to dull the pain of a headache or a minor injury so that I, today, can sit in a climate-controlled room, protected from anything and everything that might hurt me and with everything I need available, and write about them.

But what then is the point of all this material? Does it actively keep me alive? Not beyond the snacks in the drawer, the water in the hydroflask. Does it actively keep me happy? To some extent, sure; but I cannot be fulfilled by things as I could when I was younger. I had to write a list of gifts I wanted for the holidays, and asked myself what I needed; it wasn’t long. My needs now cannot be met by more material. What then is the point of all this material I surround myself with? I once found happiness when my only belongings available could fit in two stuff sacks, and one largely went unopened. What, I ask myself, is the purpose?

The culture I grew up in was fueled by consumption. Status is determined by one’s spending power, or owning power. Endless commodities are available for purchase at the click of a button; I don’t even have to drive to the store to obtain them. Every platform, digital and physical, seems to be colonized entirely by colorful advertisements designed to goad me into buying more, and more, and more, which in turn demands more and more and more from the earth, the source of all wealth. My place as an individual is a consumer. I exist to generate wealth, to spend, to buy, things I don’t need, a neverending stream of trinkets as one might entertain a toddler; and things I do need, forcing me to exert my “usefulness” as a worker, a contributor, something “valuable”- however such value might be defined- to earn the privilege of being able to eat, to drink, to sleep comfortably, to pursue higher goals; the privilege, ultimately, of being a person- which, of course, is a person of material.

I can’t help but wonder how we got here. The very idea of private property is itself relatively recent. Perhaps we started by owning farms, collectively, where everybody worked and everybody enjoyed the benefits of “easy” production. With surplus came specialization; not everybody needed to work the fields. Those others could be free to create tools or weapons, to study science, perhaps to create art. But those specialists then relied on those who still farmed for that most basic of material needs. Thus was the barter invented. Each person’s value to a society larger than themselves could be realized and different, but that difference had to be mediated by exchange. Then perhaps the communal farm became my farm or your farm, and I owned these cattle and you those fields. The fruits of my labor bought me the fruits of yours, and everybody still, probably, gets what they need.

But someday, inevitably, one person owned more than another. Perhaps their field had been lucky and prosperous, or they were exceptionally talented, or they could pay others to assert their power. Thus is the first class division created. This person would now control the surplus, and control who had access to it. They could exercise their authority in a newly-defined legal sense, organize everyone else below them; for in a rapidly growing society, it only makes sense to delegate tasks, including the task of leadership; leadership which comes with its own rewards. Now they can command a military to ensure their uncontested rule. They can put that military to work and implement a tax system, “for the greater good” they’ll say, or perhaps to invade a smaller, neighboring society, either to assimilate or steal. Now those in lower classes naturally want to be in that upper class, to not have to worry about working the field or forge, to have such surplus to live leisurely. They cannot hope to challenge the military power, so the only route upward is through accumulation of wealth. The process only accelerates from there, over twelve thousand years, until today.

Somewhere in that process was born the idea, the need, to have material wealth beyond what is required for basic living. Somewhere, I’m not sure where, material became synonymous with power, and power became synonymous with happiness, and simple living was no longer realistic. Today such drives compel us to sacrifice the earth, its inhabitants, longterm sustainability, and other human beings in the name of material. The desire to go upward never ended; strangely enough, it manifests strongly in those who already exist at the top. Such people have incomprehensible hoards of material, and it apparently isn’t enough. I wish I could ask a question and get an honest answer. I might ask, Where else do you hope to go? Does each new purchase and dollar earned actually make you happy? Is the mindless sacrifice, exploitation, lying, stealing, cheating, and every other crime worth it, in the end?

Perhaps before the process even began the same type of people would have existed. The hoarders. But their power would have been nonexistent when the only power is in collectivity. They might have been shunned, outcast, stripped of that material, labelled as one who takes more than they could ever need while others die from those needs. Such selfishness was criminal in a time when surplus did not readily exist. Now, such selfishness is a sign of success. We worship the hoarders as kings and facilitate their futile quest towards the stars, away from the world they’ve ruined getting there.

Perhaps, with all that material, they can blind themselves from the atrocities that created it.

[emospritelet]

CS Prompt - After knocking and ringing the bell at Gold's home without answer, Belle finds a key under the mat.

I figured Gold would hide his key in a less obvious place, but otherwise...

Following on from this ficlet in what is now the Kiss of Life verse

She reached his house as the snow was starting to fall again, the walk there through heavy drifts making her legs ache.  It was already getting dark, the streetlights sending a wan glow across the pale covering of snow, and her feet were growing cold despite her thick boots.  Dr Gold’s house appeared through the driving snow, and she looked it over.  Salmon pink with a green porch, just as he had said.  Not what she would have expected from Gold, except for the Victorian styling.  He was a man with one foot in the past, she felt.  Traditional at heart, despite his skills in modern medicine.  Polite and well-mannered.  Far too well-mannered, if you asked her.  She wouldn’t have been in the least bit upset if he had cornered her in the supply closet and kissed her senseless, but she imagined he wasn’t the impulsive type.  Unfortunately.

His Cadillac was parked in the driveway, a light shining in the lamp on the porch, and for a moment she hesitated, wondering what the hell she was doing.  So what if he hadn’t come to work that day?  Perhaps he had decided to take the day off to rest.  He could easily have called Dr Whale or someone else at the hospital, and there would be no reason for her to be informed.  What the hell was she up to, turning up on his doorstep at six in the evening in the driving snow?

It was almost enough to make her turn around and head home, but she reasoned that she had come this far, and there was little point in backing out now.  If she made a fool of herself, so be it.  She trotted up the steps onto the porch and knocked on the door before she could lose her nerve.  There was silence, and she waited, bouncing nervously on her toes.  No lights came on in the house, and she wondered if he was even in, although given the weather it would have been strange for him to have ventured out.  She knocked again, and when there was still no sign of life, she bent to peer through the glass.  It was possible to make out a hallway and set of stairs through the rippled glass, and her eyes widened as she saw what looked like his cane, lying on the floor at the foot of the stairs.  A dark shape lay beyond, and her heart thumped in her chest.

“Dr Gold!” she called.  “Dr Gold, are you okay?”

There was no answer, and the dark shape didn’t move.  She could feel her panic rising, and she pushed back from the door, wondering what to do.  Desperately, she tried to think of way to get inside the house, and she lifted the mat, cursing as no spare key was revealed.  Feeling along the top of the door frame didn’t reveal one either, and she was beginning to despair of ever finding a way in when she spied the potted shrubs off to the side.  She lifted each one in turn, finding a key under the third, and hissed in satisfaction.  The door squeaked as it opened, and she stepped inside the hallway, heart thumping.

It was a relief to find that the dark shape on the floor was nothing more than Dr Gold’s overcoat, discarded beside his cane.  The house was silent, and Belle closed and locked the door behind her.

“Dr Gold?” she called.  “It’s Belle.  Are you okay?”

Silence, but for the low, monotonous ticking of clocks.  She looked off to the right, where a darkened lounge displayed shadowed chairs and a couch with numerous cushions.  Beyond that was a dining room, polished wooden table surrounded by eight chairs, dark and empty.  The kitchen was also lifeless, and she turned her head to the stairs, running her eyes up the flight to the landing above.

“Dr Gold?” she called again, and reached out with a little hesitancy, grasping the banister with one hand as she did so.

She made her way up slowly, heart thumping in her chest, and paused as she heard a thump ahead of her.  Licking her lips nervously, she rounded the top of the stairs, and almost screamed as a figure loomed out of the darkness.  Dr Gold was half-naked, loose pants covering him below the waist, his thin chest bare.  She could see his ribs, slatted beneath lightly-tanned skin, his nipples dark spots atop lean pectoral muscles.  His hair was hanging in his face, his eyes dull, and fresh stubble covered his cheeks and chin.

“Dr Gold,” she said softly, and he seemed to see her for the first time.

“Miss French,” he whispered, looking confused.  “What are you doing here?”

“I - I came to see how you were,” she said numbly.  “You didn’t show up at work.”

“Ah.”  He swayed, gripping at the door frame to steady himself.  “Not feeling so good.”

Belle frowned, and pressed a hand to his forehead, hissing at the temperature of his skin.

“You have a fever!” she said.  “I told you you’d get the flu if you didn’t rest!”

“Yes,” he said wearily.  “Yes, you’re very wise.  Excuse me.”

He staggered past, hands braced against the wall as he dragged his injured leg, slipping into what she presumed was the bathroom and closing the door.  Belle chewed her lip, thinking rapidly.  She went back downstairs and into the kitchen, filling a glass jug with water and carrying it back upstairs with her.  His cane was retrieved on the way, and as she reached the top he emerged from the bathroom.  She handed the cane to him.

“I looked through your door and saw this on the floor and your coat next to it,” she said.  “I thought something must have happened.”

“I’ll be alright,” he said, shivering.

She got on one side of him with the water jug in her hand, giving him some support as he limped into the bedroom.  A lamp on the nightstand sent out a warm light, casting deep shadows around the room, and Belle helped him to the bed, a large, ornate thing with an elaborately-carved headboard.  He lay back with a sigh of relief, and she set down the water jug, refilling the glass he had and pulling the blankets up over him.  He was shivering, and she felt his forehead again, making him let out a low groan at the touch of her hand.

“That’s wonderfully cold,” he said.  “Everything hurts.”

“Well, it’s bound to,” she said.  “Did you take anything?”

He shook his head, and she sighed.  Men.

“Okay, wait there.”

“Where am I gonna go?” he asked irritably, and she rolled her eyes.

“Drink some water,” she ordered, and stalked out, leaving him muttering.

Doctors, she thought.  Always the worst patients.

She went down to the kitchen, and looked in a few cupboards before finding a box with medicines.  Fishing out some ibuprofen, she carried them upstairs.  A quick look in the bathroom revealed a cotton washcloth, and she wet it with water, wringing it out and going back into the bedroom.  Dr Gold was lying in bed, glassy-eyed and shivering, and she pushed two tablets from their blister packs and held them out to him.

“This should ease the aches and pains,” she said.

“I’m perfectly capable of deciding whether I need painkillers,” he said ungraciously, and she rolled her eyes.

“Come on, there’s no point in suffering if you don’t have to.”

Dr Gold sighed, nodded, and took the pills from her, swallowing them down with some water.  He lay back against the pillows with a sigh, and Belle laid the wet cloth across his forehead, making him let out a moan of pleasure that, in more intimate circumstances, she would have been delighted to have been the cause of.

“God, that feels amazing!” he murmured.  “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She used the cloth to wipe his face, ears and neck before laying the cloth over his forehead again, and Dr Gold growled in appreciation.

“Did you eat anything today?” she asked, and he shook his head.  “Right, then I’m gonna have a look in your kitchen and see what I can find, okay?”

“Not hungry.”

“You still need to eat,” she said firmly.  “I’m not gonna make you devour a three-course meal, just eat something nourishing.”

“You’re a bloody tyrant!” he muttered, but without any heat, and she smirked, pushing to her feet.

“I’ll be back upstairs soon,” she added.  “Drink some water.”

He grumbled something, and she went out of the room, her tiredness having disappeared like smoke.  He could bloody well have someone take care of him for a change.

[veneataur]

Prompt: Betrayed (day 6)

Fandom: Salvation

Title: A Friend in Need

A/N: This one takes place after “Chip of the Ol’ Block” in season 1. It might be a little AU as the timeline on the show takes a little bit of math to sort out sometimes, but in my mind it’s right after Darius goes to ‘apologize’ to Liam.

It starts with a cough he can’t quell. In the events of the last twenty-four hours, flying to England and back, setting up a covert mission to steal from his uncle, watching said mission from the safety of his Treehouse with Grace, and making his attempt at an apology to Liam, he hasn’t had the time to take any of the medicine he’d been taking to keep the coughing at bay. Between cough suppressants and ibuprofen, he’s had it under control but now it seems that his body has had enough and a single cough turns to more, leaving him hunched over on the couch, where he barely managed to get before the latest fit took over.

So, caught up in the effort to balance breathing with coughing is he that he doesn’t notice Liam’s arrival until there is a hand on his shoulder and a concerned Liam kneeling in front of him.

“Darius? TESS said you needed help. What happened?”

Darius nods his head and gives a vague thumbs up in hopes of shooing Liam away because words are too difficult for him at the moment. He might’ve made efforts to apologize to the young man, but this is too much weakness to show.

“No, no. I’m not buying that you’re okay. Okay isn’t hacking up a lung. I need to get you to the ER.”

“No,” Darius croaks in a break of the breathing-coughing battle. “No.” It’s more of a gasp now because he can’t get the air he wants even though he’s not coughing anymore.

“No?” Liam chuckles, disbelieving. “You can’t breathe, Darius.”

“Just… need a… moment.”

“Alright but hunching over like this isn’t going to help. Here.” Liam stands to find a pillow to lean against the armrest. “Lean up against this and stretch your legs out on the couch. It’ll help make breathing easier.”

Darius gives him a questioning look.

“My mom’s a nurse, but you probably already know that. Anyway, I know these types of things. Now, lay down here or I’m taking you to the ER.”

“’m fine,” Darius says but does move back to lean against the armrest. Any other day and he’d take his shoes off before he dared put them on his couch, but he’s spent. He spends the next several minutes trying to breathe normally and failing more times than he hoped for.

“That’s not helping as much as I’d hoped,” Liam says, walking back into the living room a case in hand.

“Where,” Darius asks. He never realized until now that the young man had disappeared.

“Your bathroom to find a thermometer. I’m guessing there’s one in this first aid kit.”

“I’m not sick, Liam,” Darius says quickly before another cough takes his breath.

“Mhmm. I can feel the heat coming off you without even laying a hand on you.”

“I’m fi…” Darius’ retort is cut off by another coughing fit.

“Yeah, try that one again,” Liam says blandly. In the case, Liam finds a classic digital stick thermometer, much to his surprise. He’d have thought Darius would have one of the infrared ones given his love for technology. It means that he has to wait until Darius has stopped coughing to stick the thermometer in the man’s mouth. He hopes that Darius isn’t sick because playing nursemaid to the man isn’t how he planned on spending his night.

“Open your mouth, Darius,” he says once the latest coughing fit is over. He must catch the man off guard as he opens his mouth without protest and lets Liam stick the thermometer under his tongue. Darius coughs around it a few times but otherwise, it stays there until beeping.

“101.4, Darius,” Liam says checking the reading. “You need to be in bed.”

“No.” Darius coughs. “I need to… get back to work.”

“If you get back to work, you’re going to collapse before you get far.”

“Asteroid.”

“Yes, I know. Impending death and all but you need rest. The asteroid’s still months away.” Liam can’t believe that he’s saying that because months doesn’t seem like long enough for a planet-ending asteroid to be away.

“Just get me my medicine.” Darius points in the vague direction of one of the columns in the treehouse.

“How long have you been taking medicine for this?”

“Couple days. I’ll be fine with it, Liam.” Darius turns to sit up, putting his feet on the floor. The quick movement leaves him lightheaded and Liam, without thought, puts a hand out to hold him steady.

“Since you got back from the Pentagon, then.” Liam can’t help the irritation that seeps in. This is from the torture, whatever the torture was. No one ever told him, but he had his suspicions when Darius returned in very non-Darius clothing, coughing lightly, and holding his ribs. “You’re going to bed. Get into some comfortable clothes for sleeping and then it’s bedtime for you until you can speak more than a few words without coughing or pausing to breathe.”

“I’m fine,” Darius says loudly, pushing himself to his feet in an attempt to show his fitness. Instead, it shows his weakness as he immediately erupts in a harsh coughing fit, keeling over. Only Liam holding him keeps him from sinking to the floor. Liam holds on to him as he continues coughing, feeling the older man’s body shake and sweat with the effort.

“You ready to give in yet,” Liam asks when the fit has died down.

Darius groans and fixes him with a weak glare but doesn’t make any further protests of health.

“Good. Let’s get you to bed then. With a little rest, you’ll probably start feeling better in no time.” Liam re-positions himself so that he can sling one of Darius’ arms over his shoulder and loops his arm around Darius’ waist. Like this, Liam helps Darius into his bedroom, setting him on the bed with orders not to lay down.

“You shouldn’t sleep in those clothes,” Liam says as he walks away to find some better clothes for sleeping.

“There are sweats and t-shirts in the bottom drawer in the closet, Liam,” TESS says.

“Thanks.” Liam goes immediately to the bottom drawer where he finds a dark blue t-shirt and sweatpants with the MIT logo down one leg. He knows the man went to MIT, but to see him with the college’s paraphernalia is something else. Still, these clothes will work. He takes them back out and is surprised to find Darius still sitting up, though the terrible wheeze that accompanies his breathing is still there. Darius really needs to see a doctor, but that’s a different battle that Liam’s not ready for. If he doesn’t get better in the next 12 hours, he’ll tackle the doctor situation and perhaps call in reinforcements for persuasion.

He hands Darius the clothes with orders to put them on while he goes back out to the living room to get the first aid kit. He hopes that there might be an inhaler or something in there. There’s not, so he opts to make some tea instead. The steam should be enough to help clear out some of the wheezing and let Darius rest. In the kitchen, as the kettle is heating up, he finds a bottle of ibuprofen, a bottle of water, and a package of crackers to take back with the tea.

Even though he realizes that he shouldn’t be, he is surprised to find that Darius hasn’t quite managed to change out of his clothes. His shoes and socks are off and he’s currently tangling with the buttons on the shirt. The coughing isn’t helping much.

“Here, let me help you.” Liam sets aside the things he’s brought from the kitchen. He has to bat away Darius’ hands a few times, but eventually makes short work of the buttons and eases the shirt off of Darius. It reveals dark bruising across the width of Darius’ chest in the shape of a band. The worst is on his left side where Liam remembers him holding.

“Put your arms out in front and duck your head down,” Liam says, calculating the least painful way to get the t-shirt on. Darius obeys and Liam gets the shirt on with minimal gasps from Darius. The pants are much easier though Liam does feel a little awkward undressing the man. Still, he shoves that aside as worry for the passiveness of the man takes over. Just ten minutes ago Darius was protesting that he could work just fine and now he seems to have just given in. Perhaps he is sicker that Liam thinks.

Once comfortably dressed, Liam settles Darius under the covers, his upper body propped up with several pillows.

“I have some tea which should help with some of the tightness in your lungs,” Liam says. He hands Darius the tea, which has cooled some, but there’s still some steam coming off.

The next several minutes go far too smoothly for Liam as he gets Darius to drink the tea, eat a few crackers, take a couple ibuprofen, and settle down to sleep. Darius seems to settle, closing his eyes as he sinks into the bed a little. Liam takes the mug back to the kitchen and asks TESS if there’s a heating pad up here. She directs him to a compartment in the coffee table. He takes the heating pad to the bedroom where Darius seems to be sleeping and plugs the pad into an outlet on the nightstand.

“You don’t… have to stay, … Liam,” Darius says tiredly. “I know this is… the last place… you probably want… to be.”

“I have a heating pad here for the bruising on your chest. It might even help with the breathing.” Liam checks the temperature before settling it on Darius’ chest. He pulls one of Darius’ arms up to hold it in place.

“Liam, go.”

“Someone has to stay around to make sure that doesn’t stay on too long,” Liam says absently.

“TESS can do that. Go,… rest after your trip…. I’m sure you’re tired.”

Liam pauses. He could go. Darius gave him the pass to do so. But while he wanted to be far from here twenty minutes ago, he can’t get himself to leave. He’s only now, after meeting Uncle Nick, starting to realize some of the reasons for Darius’ behaviors. If that was the man who raised him, then there’s no wonder Darius behaves as he does. But he’s shown that he’s not incapable of change, of self-reflection. From shifting to using the Ark to merely save humanity to trying to build an EM drive and his mangled attempt at apologizing, underneath the prickly exterior it seems there’s a human being in need of friends who challenge him to be a better man.

“Get some rest, Darius,” Liam says as he settles into a chair he pulls up by the bed. “I’ll be here in case you need anything.”

[agent-shield-blog]

So Close

Pairing: Tony X daughter reader Warnings: Mentions of abduction Request: Can I request a tonyxteen daughter!reader imagine where the reader gets drunk at a party and embarrasses her father so Tony gets very angry but finally they make peace and fluff. 

You hated a lose. Typically you would refuse to believe you had lost. But today you knew it. It was an extraction. Hydra had abducted a very famous nuclear scientist of Shields. It was your mission to bring him back. When you had gotten to the warehouse in which he was supposed to be in, you entered to find it empty. When you walked out, you noticed them transferring the man into a van. You ran after them and tried pursuing, but it was too late.

On your way back to the tower all you could feel was the failure of letting that scientist down. It was your job to bring people home. But this time you just couldn't.

When you walked off the quinjet, you could hear the elevator door ding. Your father Tony Stark rushed off in his fancy suit and phone in hand.

“(Y/n), you're late. You need to head to your room right now and change. Guests are already here, and it's important that we make a good impression on these people. Not that we won’t, were Starks, charm, and dazzlement run through our blood. I expect you downstairs in no more than thirty minutes.” Before you knew it, your father was back in the elevator and heading back downstairs to his event. You had completely forgotten about the event your father was hosting, and right now it was the last thing you wanted to do. You sighed and headed downstairs to your room. A black dress was laid across your bed, while your black heels were placed on the floor by your bed. You took a quick shower and then slipped on the dress and heels. You applied a quick layer of makeup and tried to dry your hair as nicely as you could. You looked down at your watch. You had seven minutes to spare before having to go to a party that you were dreading. You headed towards your dresser and opened the bottom drawer. You clicked a button on the side which allowed for the top layer in your drawer to come out, revealing your hidden items. You grabbed the full flask of vodka before putting everything else away. You unsealed the top of the container and put the cold metal to your lips. Your face cringed as the burning liquid ran down your throat. But right now you needed something to get through this night.

You walked out of the elevator buzzed but not drunk. You gazed across the room, taking in the scene. This was by far one of the larger parties your father had put on. Of course, it was for a good cause. Tony was raising money for Sheild and Stark Industries sciences. Although as a Stark money never seemed to run short, it was important to get other people involved, thus your father created this foundation to build scholarships for the new generation of scientists.

You walked across the room greeting and meeting all the party goers. Tickets to this event were not cheap so you figured you would try and occupy your mind with work. But it seemed only to make you focus more on the failed mission. After an hour of chatting, you decided to go up to the bar. With your skills, it was easy to pour yourself a glass of vodka without anyone noticing. Since you were underage, you were trying your best not to come off as some crazy teenager. Within twenty minutes you had downed almost the whole glass, and now you were definitely drunk. You noticed Steve in the corner nursing a beer while talking to Bruce. You decided to head over there to see what kind of fun they were having.

“And that stuff actually works? I'm impressed Bruce really I- Oh hey there (Y/n). Bruce was just telling me about-“ You put your finger up to Steves' lips and shushed him while you uncontrollably giggled. Bruce took the empty glass from your hand and smelled the contents.

“Vodka.” Both Bruce and Steve looked at you with concern. You quickly snatched the glass back from Bruce.

“Aw come on guys lighten up a little bit, I’m just trying to make this stupid event a bit more fun.”

“(Y/n) you helped plan this event. You were so excited for today/ What happened?”

“Nothing that concerns you capsicle.” Bruce gently brought out his hand and tried grasping your cup once again.

“I think you have had enough of your drink (y/n).”

“No!” You yelled louder than you thought and suddenly most eyes were on you. Within a few seconds, the heads turned, and the chatter resumed, but your father was making his way towards you.

“Steve, Bruce, is everything okay here.” Bruce pulled Tony aside as Steve tried to talk you into giving you the cup.

“(Y/n) I will give you a dollar if you give me that cup.”

“Wow capsicel you most be as dumb as my dad says you are. I’m a millionaire. It's going to take a whoooole lot more than a dollar to get me to give you this cup.” Before Steve could say another word, Tony approached you and was able to get the cup out of your hand.

“(Y/n) I'm disappointed in you. You know better than to get drunk, particularly at an event.”

“Yeah well, maybe I know enough that I need this drink.”

“What has gotten into you?” Tony had managed to keep the conversation at a low tone, but now you were yelling for the whole room to hear.

“Maybe losing a mission today. Maybe watching as the scientist, I was trying to save was shoved into the back of a van bloodied and bruised and got away from me. Maybe it's because I failed and you didn't even bother to ask what had happened when I stepped off that jet. You were too busy thinking about the future instead of thinking about the now. So now a scientist is out there, scared, alone, and hurt, probably thinking about his last breath because I failed him.” 


“So you thought it was acceptable to get drunk and make a foul of this event. I've had hard losses to (y/n), but that doesn't give you the excuse to get drunk to a state in which you are only numbing the pain! Just go upstairs, you have already done enough for one night. We will talk about this in the morning.” You turned on your heels in pure anger only to notice everyone staring at you and your father.

“That’s right everyone look in awe as the prodigy Stark failed. Much to your surprise, I’m not perfect, and neither is my father. But perhaps if you donate to this cause, the future scientist of the world can try and fix me and my father's flaws.” You stumbled across the room and somehow managed to make it into the elevator and up to your room. You could feel the alcohol taking a toll on your body. As soon as your head hit your pillow, you were out cold.

Your body began to stir late in the morning. You tried opening your eyes too fast, and the light shining into your room blinded you. Your head was pounding, and your stomach felt like it was about to explode. You slowly turned your body and allowed for your feet to touch the floor. You showered off the haziness and leftover makeup from the event last night. When getting dressed, a sudden memory flooded over you. Your fight with your father. You groaned as everything replayed. This was a big night, and you had managed to embarrass him in front of everyone.

When you reached the kitchen, you noticed your father sitting at the head of the table with food in front of him with a coffee in one hand and a tablet in the other. There was an empty chair on the left of him with a cup of water, coffee, ibuprofen, and a waffle sitting on the table. You sat down in silence and reached for the water and ibuprofen first before you ate anything. You slowly worked on your waffle and nursed your coffee as you waited for your father to say something. You knew he had a big lecture planned out and you knew from past expense it was best to wait until he spoke. When he was finished with whatever he was doing on his tablet he sat it down on the table before turning to you.

“I’m sorry (y/n) for last night.” You choked back a bit on the bite of waffles you were eating. “Don’t look at me like that. I can apologize for something for once in my life. You were hurt and distraught from your mission. I was there when you got back, and I was too caught up in my own stupid party, that I didn't see that you were hurt. I shouldn't have made you come to the event, and I should have made sure you were alright. I apologize for not being there for you when I should have.” You could tell your father was visibly upset about how he had handled last night's drama.

“It’s not your fault dad. You shouldn't have to worry about your teenage daughter getting drunk at a fundraising event that she helped plan. I just felt so terrible with everything that happened and I didn't want to go to the party, but I didn't want to let you down. But I did let you down. I embarrassed you in front of the people we were trying to get donations from. I stole away they attention from the cause, and that was selfish and rude.”

“Next time (y/n) you tell me what’s happened no matter what I’m doing or what's going on. You tell me. Because I’m your father and I will always be here for you.” Tony got up and walked over to your seat to give you a hug.

“Thanks, dad. Love you.”

“Love you too (y/n).” Tony grabbed his coffee cup and his plate and started walking towards the kitchen. “I hope you know you're grounded for a week, and your vodka has been confiscated.” You cut a piece of waffle and stuck it in your mouth. With your mouth full you silently whispered

“So close.”

[howtotechpress-blog]

Ars does Soylent, Day 2: My God, what is this disastrous situation I no longer need to put any substances of any sort into my mouth ever again.

Two days back, Senior Reviews Editor Lee Hutchinson took a promise to spend seven days eating only Soylent, a nutritiously finish feast substitution made by architect and business visionary Rob Rhinehart. He's archiving his flexibility from strong sustenance by day. Perused about Day 1 here.Day 1 recap: Like trench fighting in France

I finished the past passage saying that I would take off running, yet that did not occur. As it got closer to 7pm, I began feeling dismal thunderings in my stomach—the kind that could either be the indication of some safe gas or the harbinger of the poopocalypse. I remained in, rather watching a few scenes of The Wire with my significant other, who had a fine solid supper while I tasted my Soylent with a constantly souring gut. Somewhat after 8pm, the gas began.

It was terrible. These weren't unimportant ha-ha toot sorts of discharges; this was hair-raising. It was room-clearing, horse-slaughtering, World War I mustard gas-sort gas. I moved from space to room in the house like I was surrendering domain to the Kaiser, my face settled in a look of frightfulness as green hellfire vapor trailed behind me, peeling paint and withering plants. My significant other, favor her heart, said nothing. Eventually, I advanced back to the PC and pulled up the email correspondence between Soylent organizer Rob Rhinehart and me.

"Other than a touch of gas at first (a few people's gut microorganisms are not acclimated to the dissolvable fiber) there have been no unfriendly responses," he wrote in light of my question about potential versatile reactions. At that point my eyes begun to water from the gas and I needed to keep running once more into the parlor.

Substance fighting farts aside, I finished off Day 1 with completely zero issues with appetite. Truth be told, other than a couple brief twinges, I didn't feel real for-genuine craving even once. It even felt like there was excessively Soylent in the pitcher—it was a test to eat every last bit of it.

Day 2, 07:30

I woke up with a light migraine, which is surprising for me. I haven't gone off espresso, and it doesn't feel like a caffeine cerebral pain—it's quite recently sort of a scarcely there disturbance. I trundle into the workplace, get up to speed with overnight email and tweets, and consider my breakfast presenting with expanding fear.

My stomach has never been especially responsive to breakfast, and right now we have the most uneasy of détentes going on—any wrong move could start an episode. As I taste espresso, a few Soylent flatulates issue forward and I pull my shirt up over my nose. My better half has somewhat of an icy and dozed in the visitor room the previous evening, and I'm in reality quite thankful. In case I'm as yet gassy now, I was likely gassy throughout the night. Luckily, I was oblivious and did not take note.

The inescapable part where we discuss crap [skip to the following subhead if squeamish]

Consistency has never been an issue for me—even as I push ever assist into my late 30s, I keep on being honored with accuracy guts. My first post-Soylent crap happens ideal about at the typical time—8:30-ish—and it feels like the same old thing: neither a wild splash nor a rough hard press. I'd give it a four on the Bristol scale. From an amount point of view, it was unquestionably less, yet it wasn't especially unique. Perhaps a couple shades lighter than regular, yet at the same time a typical darker.

The lavatory business is joined by quite roused tooting also. I envision my gut microscopic organisms are altogether wired up and moving their little gut microbes hearts out. My digestive organ is murmuring and pounding like a Soylent-filled discotheque.

Day 2, 09:00—Soylent Green

I enjoy my some espresso, putting off the Soylenting to the extent that this would be possible, however as 9am gravitates toward I can put it off no more. I approach the sack and blender gradually, haggling with myself. Only a little glass at the beginning of today, I think, my canyon ascending as I envision bringing down another extensive serving like I had on Day 1.

Once more, the custom: pack in bowl, blend substance. One liter of water in blender, half of powder into blender, half of a vial of oil. This time, I include a capful of vanilla concentrate and a dash of green sustenance shading. I have now gotten roughly nine hundred hillion jillion squintillion remarks, messages, and tweets discussing "SOYLENT GREEN LOL." So on Day 2, my Soylent will surely be green. This time, I utilize super cold water and the most minimal setting on the blender, giving the blend a chance to rest after a couple seconds.Out of the blender and into the pitcher, then rehash with second liter. The pitcher has no foam today, for which I am grateful. Gradually, I pour an espresso mug-sized serving and taste.

The vanilla has a gigantic effect in taste discernment. The strange non-specificity is gone, similar to the yeasty breadiness—in its place, there's essentially an indication of vanilla. The sweetness is a great deal better now as well, feeling like some portion of the light vanilla flavor as opposed to a simulated idea in retrospect. There's very little to be done about the sticking pastiness however, and the dregs coats my mouth like mud in a riverbed. Still, I control through the mug of thick pistachio-green slurry and really feel OK about it.Day 2, 10:00: Second breakfast

This is turning into a standard hold back: I'm not eager, but rather on the off chance that I don't drink the Soylent, I won't complete the pitcher. Since the calories are incorporated with the sustenance, I have to complete the entire day's serving keeping in mind the end goal to get everything my body clearly needs to work.

The green shading isn't especially off-putting—it looks sort of cool, really, similar to it ought to taste of peppermint. My stomach reels at the possibility of peppermint-enhanced Soylent.I don't especially make the most of my second glass. I am drinking it while I work, similar to a quick paced present day kind of fellow, however regardless i'm full from breakfast and the more I drink of the second glass, the heavier I feel. It takes me 30 minutes to traverse the container, and the prospect of that whole pitcher as yet holding up in my ice chest is truly weighing at the forefront of my thoughts. Now, a light lunch of a modest bit of flame broiled chicken sounds appallingly, unpleasantly engaging. No, scratch that—now, not eating for whatever is left of the day sounds shockingly better.

I'm additionally feeling lovely darn uncreative. Morning is generally when I chip away at short news things and reports, and concentrating on a site sufficiently long to peruse something beyond a couple sections sounds like a preposterous measure of work. Reports of Soylent bringing on mental lucidity and enhanced execution and vitality can be discovered somewhere else on the Web, yet I feel the inverse: drowsy. The cerebral pain from today is starting to strengthen.

I pop some ibuprofen to help with the cerebral pain, and the little piece of water to make the pills goes down makes my stomach feel much more full. I attempt to disregard it and compose.

Day 2, 13:30: I am compelled to eat

The migraine has kindly blurred, and all the more reassuringly, I'm really feeling a little, exceptionally black out measure of craving. I'd love to give it a chance to stew longer and check whether it blooms into a real undeniable yearning to eat, however I don't have time. There's around 1.5 liters of green vanilla Soylent that I need to traverse.

The pitcher has stratified significantly less today than it did on Day 1, as well, for which I am thankful. I feel...odd, is the most ideal way I can put it. It's neither a decent odd nor a terrible odd—I simply feel a little off kilter. I get a decent whiff of Soylent as I whisk away its layers and I feel all the while queasy and hungry, however significantly more queasiness than craving. When I begin drinking it, it's not shocking, but rather I'd truly recently begun to shed the overwhelming feeling from breakfast and I'm not especially anticipating jumping again into feeling so weighted down and un-hungry.There's a considerable measure of gut moving as I drink this specific serving, as well—my digestive organs have been for the most part calm since breakfast, however evidently that is not going to last. When I'm finished with the glass, I've completely demolished any sentiments of yearning I may have been feeling and I truly have confidence in my heart that I will never need to put anything sustenance related in my mouth again for whatever is left of my life.

This sounds like overstatement, however man, Saturday is resembling it's a long, long way away.

As I come back to work, I need to accomplish something to consume through the Soylent funk I feel myself falling into. The previous evening's prematurely ended endeavor at running truly annoys me and I frantically need to get retreat there today, yet there won't be a shot in damnation if my gut doesn't quiet down and my mind remains this foggy.

It's conceivable this is a self-propagating cycle I'm in—Soylent's 2400 calories are more than I requirement for my standard "sit in this seat and compose throughout the day" level of action. Perhaps in the event that I get up and accomplish something, the action will jumpstart things and I'll get more empowered.

Running needs to hold up until some other time at night however, in light of the fact that I live in what might as well be called overwhelm hellfire. Furthermore, I have meetings and due dates and things—flying out for two or three hours today truly isn't an alternative. As the evening extends on, my gut cycles into high action, having a craving for seeming like an organization of dump trucks snarling and slipping their way through an Ice Capades execution. It's unsettling.

Day 2, 17:00: Do not need

Shane Snow, composing for Tim Ferris' blog, talks through his two week Soylent travel with mind and talkative, bypassing the days and clearly feeling great through it all. He describes that by Day 2, he's getting the fragrance of sustenance all over the place and envisioning about eating, about gnawing into a brownie.

I don't feel anything like that. Not by any means remotely. Sustenance is terrible. I have an inclination that I need to sew my mouth close. I would prefer not to ever expend anything again. No water, no Soylent, no chicken, no steak, no lager, no nothing. My stomach is finished. I have broken it.