#I’m a bit apoplectic and incredulous actually

[quillyfied]

Have been thunderstruck with the epiphany that I indeed was having pain and inflammation before I got my celiac disease and IBS diagnoses, but I had completely dismissed it as pain from being fat and out of shape, and I just now realized, as I’ve not been dealing with it nearly as badly or constantly now that I’m obeying the requisite food restrictions, how huge a disservice I did myself by shaming myself and ignoring my own pain.

[joezworld]

Fools in Love (2/10)

This, and all the stories after it, exist because I saw this post. Damn you @mean-scarlet-deceiver I was using my free time!

Thank You Donna Summer

1977

"I'm telling you, there's something wrong with me!" Bear protested as the workmen slammed his maintenance hatches shut. He'd been feeling unusual for some time - nothing major, but a niggling feeling of something being off. It was driving him nutty, and the men could find nothing wrong.

"Well boy-o," said Clive the foreman. "At this point the only thing we haven't done at this point is take you to pieces - and we aren’t doing that!"

"But it feels weird!"

"Tough. We'll deal with it during your next overhaul." The man said firmly, before following his men out the door of the shed.

"And people call Henry a hypochondriac." Muttered Gordon sleepily.

"He actually had boiler sludge and you know it!" The Hymek snapped as his crankshaft did another flip-flop. "And I'm not saying this just for attention - do you think I like having my hatches pulled every night?"

"Considering how often it's happened this month, I'd say that you must." Gordon sighed as he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

Bear seethed for the rest of the night, and was still snappish when he was backed down onto The Limited in the morning.

"You are in a dreadful state today. Are you feeling all right?" The lead coach asked as the passengers boarded.

"No, I'm not." Bear scowled, and said no more.

"Right," the coach murmured. Hopefully nothing goes wrong today, or he'll be apoplectic. She thought to herself.

-------

Kellsthorpe Road

Predictably, things went very wrong.

Late passengers, late connections, a cow on the line, and a broken signal arm meant that the train was almost an hour late by the time Bear and his coaches staggered into Kellsthorpe.

To add injury to insult, something was now noticeably wrong with Bear.

In addition to whatever imagined maladies he had, there was a new shooting pain in his gearbox that got worse each time his driver changed up or down. 

As they set off from the station, there was a loud CRACK from Bear's gearbox, and an even louder shout of pain from his mouth as the train ground to a halt.

"I told you that there was something wrong!" Bear hissed as his driver slid underneath his front bogie.

He came out moments later, drenched in oil.

"Well, that's torn it!" He groaned as he wiped his hands. "A seal failed and all the oil is gone from your transmission. I'm surprised we made it this far before you disintegrated something."

And that was that. Bear couldn’t move under his own power, so a rescue engine was summoned while the passengers grumbled unhappily about the delay. Bear was also unhappy, but had passed the point of being able to speak without turning the air blue with swears, so he stayed silent.

"As much as I sympathize with them, they should be grateful that they aren't taking a bus!" The lead coach whispered as the signal arm dropped, indicating that the rescue engine was approaching.

Bear hoped it wasn’t James - he'd never hear the end of it if the red engine discovered a perceived weakness.

As the engine puffed into view, Bear's anger and frustration evaporated as he saw that it wasn't James, but instead Henry.

"Am I ever glad to see you!" He called out, eliciting a broad smile from his friend.

"What kind of an engine would I be if I ignored a friend in need?" Henry said as his crew coupled them together.

Bear smiled in return, ignoring the sudden resurgence of his nausea.

---

Talking seemed to help settle his systems - then again, talking with Henry always seemed to help his emotional state; conversation flowed between them with an effortless ease that Bear couldn’t really replicate with anyone else - and the trip to Crovan's Gate was filled with idle conversation about what had gone on since they'd last spoken:

James had once again annoyed a visiting diesel into apoplectic fury with an inane series of questions,

Douglas was still fuming over the officiating that cost Cronk's rugby team their match,

Thomas was still driving everyone on his branch crazy with ABBA - he knew the words, but had no singing ability at all,

And there was a new song that was sweeping the Island's record stores, to the point where a lot of the younger cleaners were bemoaning their long work days, as it meant that they couldn't get to the store before all copies sold out.

"I heard a bit of it in the sheds last week," Henry confided as he rolled tender-first towards Crovan's Gate. I think I'm getting old, because I did not like it at all."

"And yet you look just as dashing as you did on the day I met you."

"One of the perks of being made out of metal I suppose. It's the secret to my eternally good looks."

"But I'm made of metal, so isn't it my secret as well?"

"Gasp. I guess that it will have to be our  secret to eternal beauty then."

Bear's smile couldn’t cover the wince that accompanied another unusual feeling from deep within his frame.

"What's wrong?" Henry asked, his voice colored with concern.

"I don't know. I've been feeling unusual for a while now. They've gone through every one of my systems and they can't find anything."

"What does it feel like?"

"It's very strange - my driver says it sounds like indigestion. At some points I get this feeling of, like, like my insides are moving in a way that they shouldn't be, and everything feels light and fluttery... are you all right?"

Henry didn't answer. His concerned expression had suddenly turned into a painful grimace, while steam began pouring out of places it shouldn't be.

For the second time that day, The Limited ground to halt as Henry’s driver stopped the train and dampened his fire.

"I think this train is just cursed," he said as he poked his head in-between Henry’s wheels. "Something has ruptured, but I have no idea what."

Bear closed his eyes in frustration. "If Spamcan shows up as our rescue engine, I..."

He trailed off as Henry laughed.

--

More than an hour later, the train finally limped into Crovan's Gate. A very bemused Class 46 that had been summoned from the mainland was now towing Henry and Bear, neither of whom could stop laughing long enough to explain the joke.

As she shunted them into the Works yard, they finally were able to tell her why they were laughing. The 46 regarded the two with amusement in her eyes. "You two are a pair and a half, you know that?"

"I had an inkling." Henry said, grateful that he'd been laughing too hard to pay any attention to his ruptured steam line before the men dropped his fire. Now that there wasn’t any steam pressure, it hurt a lot less.

Bear, whose gearbox had gone numb, was still chuckling at the absurdity of this 'superb rescue'.

The 46 rolled away as the workmen arrived, and any further conversation was halted as they began pulling tools from cases.

--

That night

"Oh, that's right! I wanted to ask you," Henry said suddenly. "What did those feelings feel like? Indigestion?"

"Yes," Bear said after a moment. "Indigestion, crossed with a broken motor mount. It feels strange, like I'm being filled with helium and lead at the same time."

"This is going to feel incredibly strange, but I feel the same way." Henry said after a moment. "It's like I have an ache in the pit of my boiler, but at the same time I feel energetic - like I'm pulling the express."

"Does it change sometimes?"

"Yes it does. Are you going to tell me that sometimes you feel better and nauseous at the same time?"

"Yes! I feel that way right now as a matter of fact."

"As do I. " Henry paused to acknowledge the incredulous situation they were in. "What a pair we are - Miss Spamcan was right! We break down on the same day, and we have the same phantom illnesses."

"And we're both green."

"And we're both green! How could I forget that? If you squint hard enough, we're essentially the same engine."

"Will you two shut up!" Came a cry from across the works. Several of the workmen were clustered around a radio. "We're trying to listen!"

Turning back to the radio, the man turned up the volume knob, allowing a thumping bass line to fill the works.

"I think this is that song I was talking about earlier." Henry whispered to Bear.

Ooh it's so good, it's so good

It's so good, it's so good

It's so good

Ooh I'm in love, I'm in love

I'm in love, I'm in love

I'm in love...

--

The song was very long - apparently it was some kind of "extended club mix", and the workers were very enthusiastic about it.

Henry and Bear... were not.

"Honestly, I'm quite nonplussed." Bear remarked after spending a few moments searching for the right words. "It's just the same words over and over again."

"It's for dancing mate!" Said one of the men as he swept up. "You're supposed to feel the beat and get moving!"

"I can't dance." Bear looked down at the rails. And I can only really move forward and backwards."

"Maybe you could spin around on the turntable, and that would count." Henry chimed in.

"I think I'd just get sick."

"Perhaps."

"I cannot believe you two!" Cried a young cleaner. "That was an amazing song! How can you not like it?"

"It's repetitive and goes nowhere." Henry said. "It's repeating the same words over and over again. I understand that she 'feels love', but she never said what she was feeling. What does love feel like?"

That brought the entire works to a stop. The men looked from each other nervously. Henry was puzzled. "What did I say?"

"Nothing!" Said one of the men quickly. "It's just... uhh... oh would you lookatthetimegoodbye!"

He fled into the staff break room, followed by several of his co-workers.

Henry and Bear watched with bafflement as the shed emptied at lightning speed. Soon, only two cleaners were left - Karl, the senior cleaner who had been on Sodor since the 1940's, and a young man whom neither engine knew.

"Children, the lot of 'em." Karl groused as he cleared up a patch of spilled oil. "It's like they've never been asked a difficult question."

"What was the question?" Henry, Bear, and the young cleaner asked together.

"Seriously?" Karl looked up from the oil slick. "None of ye know what 'e said?"

"No."

"Nope."

"I have no idea."

Karl groaned as ge held his head in his hands. "Love, you great ignoramus! You asked about what love felt like!"

"So?" None of Henry’s confusion was lifted.

"You're an engine!" Karl said after a moment of shocked, silent, gesticulation. "Engines don't ask what that means!"

"Why not?" This came from the young cleaner, who cocked his head in confusion.

"I- I- you- it's just..." Karl trailed off, his boisterous shock deflating into a curious silence. "I don't know. Now that I think about it, I don't think it's ever happened before."

"Well it's happened now." Said Bear, now genuinely curious about the answer to the question. "What does love feel like?"

Karl looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He turned to the young cleaner for help, and got none.

"Don't look at me. I'm still single. You're the one who married his childhood sweetheart."

Karl glowered for a moment before pulling himself together. "Fine. You lads want to know what love is? It's like a sickness. And you enjoy it. Just thinking about whoever you're smitten on and your pulse races, breath quickens, and you feel like you're going to vomit. Every time I saw my Maria before I told her how I felt, I wanted to run and hide, but never wanted to be more than more than a foot from her. She made me feel like shouting from the rooftops that I loved her, and I was fookin' terrified that she'd find out. It was awful!"

"What did you end up doing?" The young cleaner asked.

"I told 'er! It helped that I'd known her for years, but I just sacked up and told her how I felt." He paused, fiddling with his wedding ring as he did so. "And she said she loved me too. And then I threw up on her shoes."

He smirked slightly. "I was not smooth. But she still said yes! And that's all that matters."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "So you feel sick and that's love? That's what that song was about?"

"No! It's enjoyable! I wouldn't trade how I felt for all the gold in the world, and neither would Maria. We've been married for 38 years, and I still love her with all the strength in my body. I'd do anything for her."

He glanced over at the now-quiet radio. "That song is about how it feels to be in love, from a youngster's view - your emotions run hot, and you can't imagine anything but the object of your affections."

He turned to the young cleaner, caught up in the passion of his speech. "And you would do well to remember that it won't always feel like that, laddie! At some point, those emotions will calm back down, and you'll be left with a quiet set of feelings. And if you're stupid, ye might think that it's over, but it isn't! That just means that you've pulled the iron out of the fire, and it's cooled into a strong, solid love that will last the ages. You follow that advice and you'll stay a happy man!"

Henry and Bear watched in surprise. They'd both known Karl for years, and had never seen him this openly emotive before.

Karl blinked as he calmed down. "Well, I wasn't expecting that to come out, but yeah, that's what love feels like."

Glancing at the clock, his eyebrows raised into his graying hair. "Cripes, it's past quitting time. I've got to be home in time for dinner!"

He quickly packed up his cleaning supplies and dragged the young cleaner into the break room. In just a few short minutes, the works were empty save for Henry and Bear.

"Humans are strange." Bear said finally.

"That statement assumes that we are normal."

"What makes you think that we're not?"

"Fair point."

"Bear."

-

As the night wore on, easy conversation slowly turned into sleepy conversation, then yawning, before the two engines decided to turn in for the night.

About 15 minutes passed before Bear's eyes snapped open. The penny had just dropped, and it felt like the farthing wasn’t too far behind. 

"Henry?"

"Yes?" Henry evidently wasn't asleep either.

"Do you remember how we acted in 1971?"

"Why yes, I do. I also remember how we acted in 1969, 1972, 1973, 1974, 1975, and 1976." Henry’s voice sounded calm, which meant that he was probably on the verge of screaming.

"Interesting." Then again, Bear wasn’t too far behind him on 'nearly screaming' front. "Do you also remember that the indigestion that we both seem to be suffering from -"

"Increases whenever I see or talk or think about you? Yes."

"Henry, are we feeling love? Right now?"

"Yes. I believe we are."

"Good. What do we do now?"

"I have no idea."

"Neither do I."

"Fuck."

[writing-royza]

Two Hundred and Fifty-nine - Gift, 3.0

A/N: Happy Sunday, everyone! What a nice, restful weekend… I actually got to sleep in a bit, at least as late as my mom would let me before she let my cat loose on my bed. But I'm home again, and I'm excited to bring you this week's Snap Shot. I feel good about this one!

I do not own FMA.

Two Hundred and Fifty-nine - Gift, 3.0

It was becoming apparent, that the longer Roy Mustang was forced to listen to the lies being spouted at him from the Internal Affairs agent, the more likely it was that Roy Mustang was going to flip his lid.

The conversation – if one could call it that – was watched tensely and surreptitiously by Riza on one side of the room and by the others from the opposite side. They, however, were not privy to the silent fury building behind those dark eyes, due to distance, and the position of the agent in one of the chairs before Roy’s desk.

“And, quite frankly, Colonel, if things continue on in this fashion, the Command Council is going to begin to question your leadership skills in earnest.” The agent looked disdainfully down his nose, through a pair of spindly spectacles, at the quietly simmering man behind the desk. “Long story short, Mustang? Get – your – house – in – order.”

The smile that Roy forced was brittle, his folded hands tightening almost imperceptibly around each other. “I’ll be sure to try my very hardest to get that done,” he said. Riza watched him have to unclench his jaw to get the words out. “Is there anything else I can do for you while you’re here?”

“That will be all,” the agent sniffed, before rising and turning toward the door. The rest of the men immediately dropped their attention back to their work before they could be caught eavesdropping. “I will expect an updated report on the situation within a week, Colonel, and I expect considerably more progress to be evident, or I will be forced to assign the task to another, more competent, team.”

He left the office without a goodbye or a backward glance, and Roy got irritably to his feet. “Hawkeye. With me.”

They left the room in terse silence, Roy fairly stalking through the halls with Riza trailing sedately behind, her hands folded unconcernedly behind her. Soldiers they passed took one look at Roy’s expression and promptly got out of his way.

He led her to the roof, into the cooling breeze, where they were sure to be alone and unobserved. Standing with his hands on hips, he took a deep breath. “I think I need some help.”

Smiling reassuringly, Riza took a step closer. “I just saw you help yourself a little; a deep breath was going to be my first piece of advice.”

He cracked a smile at that, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “What else have you got?”

She folded her arms. “Agent Monaghan was entirely out of line. He’s always been a stickler for procedure and protocol above actual human emotion and that seems to have begun to cloud his own judgement. He acted the perfect fool for not understanding that an operation like the one we’re currently running takes time and careful maneuvering. All he cares about are the results and that he feels he isn’t getting those results quickly enough.”

Something akin to childlike glee lit those dark eyes the more she disparaged the IA agent, Roy’s smile taking on an incredulous edge. “And here I thought you got along with Internal Affairs,” he commented.

“I’m not saying I don’t,” Riza countered. “But if Monaghan tries something like that again, this time I won’t hold my silence. The only reason I did this time was because I thought it might exacerbate the situation.”

Letting out another deep breath, Roy nodded in satisfaction. “Good call. Another few seconds, and I was going to come over that desk and take his head off.” Running one hand back through his hair, he turned to look out over the city. “Thanks for coming with me. I just needed to get out of there for a bit.”

Riza let her lips twitch into a smirk. “And to also hear some verbal mud slung Monaghan’s way?”

“…Well it certainly didn’t hurt….” He paused, looking steadily at her for a moment. “I mean it; thank you. I don’t know how you do it, but you’ve got some sort of gift for helping me keep my head together.”

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

The operation was progressing, and Roy hoped it would be enough to keep Agent Monaghan from breathing too closely down his neck for the next little while. Surely the agent would have a conniption if he knew that Roy’s current part in the operation involved sitting in a dark corner of an already dimly lit bar and drinking while being very much on duty.

It wouldn’t be a conniption, he decided, taking a measured sip from the glass in front of him to hide a smile. Probably closer to ‘apoplectic.’

And really, he wasn’t even close to being drunk — this was still only his first drink, and they had been here for over an hour. Himself, Havoc, Breda, and — over by the bar — Riza.

He was beginning to realize her uniform was both a blessing and a curse for him. On the one hand, it hid the graceful curves that were now sheathed in a soft, form-fitting sweater and a skirt just short enough to showcase the legs he could never seem to stop staring at. On the other, perhaps he had enough distractions at work already that he didn’t need more.

In the course of her conversation with the man on the barstool beside hers, Riza crossed one leg over the other, inadvertently tugging the hem of her skirt just the tiniest bit higher. Roy’s mouth promptly went desert-dry, and he took another sip.

A voice came over the receiver in his ear. “She’s wrapping it up,” Havoc murmured; from his position a few tables away from her, he was able to catch the gist of the conversation. “Get ready to move.”

Pretending to study the amber-coloured liquid in his glass, Roy barely let his lips move as he spoke. “Any idea what they’ve been talking about?”

“She’s been playing her cards pretty close to her chest; enough to keep him interested without getting too in-depth,” was the quiet answer. “But the last few minutes that she’s been reeling him in to get him outside? I’m not sure I want to repeat it, Boss. I might start blushing and give the game away.”

Roy’s eyes immediately went to her again, and found no trace of red on her cheeks that would signal embarrassment. “Yeah, when it comes to completing mission objectives, it’s pretty much no-holds-barred with Hawkeye,” he murmured. “Go ahead and get set up outside. I want this quick, clean, and no mistakes.”

Havoc and Breda left within a minute of each other, but it was another three before Riza and the man she had been chatting up got to their feet. Leaving his drink abandoned on the table with the cash to pay for it, Roy trailed them at a distance to the door. He had a glimpse through the window of the man’s hand catching Riza’s, and her mischievous smile as she allowed herself to be led in the direction of the adjacent alleyway.

His heart skipped a beat and he picked up his pace. Knowing that Havoc and Breda were already waiting didn’t help when someone else could be putting their hands on Riza.

He stepped out into the night air and turned right, but they were already gone, disappeared into the alley fifteen feet away. He approached slowly, listening carefully. There were the sounds of heeled shoes on pavement… two sets of quiet laughter… followed by Havoc’s voice saying authority-laden words Roy couldn’t quite make out.

Pausing to one side of the alley entrance, he just barely caught the sound of running feet… and waited. Two seconds later, the man came running out of the alley, only to have his jacket grabbed and his momentum used against him to spin him around face-first in the front wall of the bar.

Roy was still holding him there, blood streaming from the man’s nose, when the others emerged from the alley with weapons drawn. He looked to Havoc with one eyebrow raised. “You did tell him to stop, didn’t you?”

“You think an arms smuggler is going to listen to me?” the blond man countered, grinning. “Nice catch, Boss.”

Stepping aside, Roy watched as the other men forced handcuffs on to their feebly struggling mark. “Get him to the car; we’ll meet you there after our debrief.”

Riza watched the man being led away with an expression of distaste. “There’s not much to debrief on, sir. We followed the plan to the letter, and it worked. What’s to tell?”

“It’s more that I need to satisfy my own personal curiosity.” Folding his arms, he regarded her with amusement. “Havoc mentioned that you were playing your part exceptionally well. But I have to wonder what exactly was said.” His eyes flicked down over her and back. “Not that it would take much convincing to get a man to follow you into a dark alley, but I’m still intrigued.”

“I… I’m not sure I care to repeat the specifics, sir.” Her gaze immediately shifted away from him, into the street. “Not even as part of a professional debriefing.”

And then he saw it; the faint tinge growing slowly stronger in her face. He couldn’t help but smile. “From what I was told, Havoc didn’t want to repeat it either, but you weren’t affected in the slightest when talking to the mark. Suddenly it’s me, and now you blush?”

Said blush deepened, though more out of annoyance, he suspected. “When it’s a man I’ve never met and will never meet again? I can control it, especially when I need him to think there’s no possibility I have an ulterior motive for talking to him.” Brown eyes came back to him, bright with irritation. “But when it’s you, someone that I know will be affected by what I say and that I’ll actually have a chance to act on it? That’s an entirely different story.”

Riza folded her arms, another expression of her discomfort, before her gaze dropped to the sidewalk. “I don’t know how you do it, but when it comes to that… you have a gift for being able to get under my skin.”

Roy would have liked to pull her into a hug, one to reassure her and calm her down, but it wasn’t an option in public like this. No matter how sparsely populated the street might be. “Fair enough,” he said, still smiling. “I’ll leave that out of the report; like I said, that was my own personal curiosity.”

“Good; thank you.” A hint of her usual humour flashed briefly through her eyes. “Maybe, after your report is submitted, I’ll tell you what I said. I shouldn’t have to be the only one that blushes.”

[1989dreamer]

Over My (Not Quite) Dead Body

Inspired by this.

Warnings (spoilers for story) posted at end (just scroll to bottom).

--

Derek sighs as he closes his car door gently. He glares up at the house. It’s impressive. A three story mansion with three and a half baths, six bedrooms, two living rooms, and a dining room.

But, no matter how many people he shows it to, he can’t get a single one to buy.

It’s a cheap house for the location and square footage. It’s a really good steal.

But.

But, there is something wrong with the house.

Derek sighs again and heads up the walk, recently repaved after The Halloween Incident.

He unlocks the door with a key on a lanyard. His sister, Laura makes fun of him for being such a ‘fuddy-duddy’ but she’s forever losing her keys while his are safe around his neck.

He steps into the foyer and flicks on overhead. The room is chilled even compared to the cool January weather outside. He shrugs, wishing he had thought to bring his jacket. He always forgets it. If only he could hang it on a lanyard around his neck like his keys.

He marches purposefully toward the kitchen. He tells himself it’s to make sure the appliances still work, but really it’s to leave behind the growing presence of something behind him.

It’s a game they play.

He doesn’t get far. In the doorway, an arm wraps around his stomach, sinking into it, and cold lips hover over his ear.

A voice like ice water cascades, the words “I will end you,” following like the shivers down his spine.

“Relax, you idiot,” he says, trying to hide his fondness with exasperation. “It’s just me.”

Immediately, the cold presence disappears, and a somewhat opaque heathen of a semi-grown man steps around him, heading for the marble counters. Derek would yell at him, but it’s not like his butt can do any damage to them anyway.

“Hey,” the presence says, coughing a bit to clear out the rest of the cold voice. “How’s it going?”

“How do you think?” Derek snaps. He hasn’t been able to sell this house for nearly three months because every time he leaves the room this child pops up and scares the crap out of the potential buyers.

Laura laughed at him the first time he mentioned the specter. She still laughs if he complains to her too much.

“So, any new interesting people in your life?” the ghost asks, a mischievous lilt to his tone.

“No,” Derek mutters. His boss, an apoplectic man by the name of Finstock has banned Derek from actually showing this listing unless specifically asked to. Too many negative reviews.

He hasn’t had anyone try in nearly a month. It’s making him miserable. The apparition must sense this because he jumps down from the countertop and slings an arm through Derek’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” he says with a ridiculous accent, “be happy.”

Derek tries to shrug him off, but it doesn’t work. And it’s starting to feel cold again. “I’d be able to stop worrying if I could sell this house!” he yells.

The ghost steps back, looking more like a man than a delinquent now. “I’m sorry,” he says, genuinely. “It’s just, this is my home, man. You can’t seriously let them take it out from under me.”

Derek can sympathize. He had to (read: Finstock made him) sell the plot of land where his own childhood home used to stand. He and the ghost have been having more conversations like this one, ever since Derek stumbled on him in the bath, pretending to shower while the potential buyers left rubber on the sidewalk speeding away.

“So, what have you been up to?” he asks while the ghost drifts back to the counter and parks his incorporeal ass on the expensive surface.

“Oh, you know, haunting this place, wondering if you were ever going to show your grumpy face again. Remembering who I am.”

Derek double-takes at that. “You are?” he asks, not sure if he is incredulous or happy. Probably both.

Now it’s the ghost’s turn to shrug. “Yeah, I mean, you introduced yourself to me ages ago. I wanted to do the same. By the way, my name is Stiles.”

“Stiles,” Derek tests the name on his tongue, liking the way it sits sweet, curls the end of it, and fades into the room as if it belongs here. “It fits,” he says, blinking at the bright smile that lights up the ghost’s face.

“Thanks,” he says. “I chose it myself.” His face freezes into confusion and he repeats his words again.

“Okay…?”

Derek is unprepared for the way the ghost launches himself at him, wrapping arms that are only slightly chilly around him and squeezing tight while he keeps saying, “I chose it myself!”

And then Derek realizes the ghost—Stiles—is actually hugging him.

“Dude,” he says, “you’re touching me.”

Immediately, Stiles pulls back. “Shit, sorry,” he apologizes. “I didn’t mean to do that. Wait, did you just say ‘dude’?”

“Huh?” Derek thinks back and blushes when he realizes that he did indeed say that word. Damn it. He’d tried not to let Stiles hear him say it. Mostly because Stiles always called him that already. “I also said you were touching me,” he reminds him.

“Yeah, and I said sorry,” Stiles says.

“No.” Derek shakes his head. “You were touching me.”

“So?”

“As in, your hand was on my back instead of in it.”

Stiles’ eyes go wide and his mouth opens. He closes it with a click. “I touched you?” he says. “I touched you. I touched you. I touched you!”

He touches Derek again when he hugs him again. They both laugh.

“Wait, does this mean that I’m going to move on?” Stiles pulls back, looking sad. “But, I’ll miss you, grumpy face Derek.”

“And I’ll miss you,” Derek admits. “But, I don’t think you’re in danger of moving on quite yet. You’re still a little cold and you’re actually getting less see-through.”

Stiles stares down at his hand, laying it over Derek’s arm to compare. Derek can still see the outline and the color of his arm through Stiles’ fingers, but it is getting easier to see where Stiles begins and ends.

“Nice,” Stiles says, a little melancholy, like he doesn’t believe that he won’t disappear when Derek goes home. In fact, Derek isn’t sure he doesn’t believe that either.

“So,” Derek says, awkwardly scratching the back of his head with his free hand. “I just stopped by to check on things, but I think it’s okay. I’ve got to go. I’ll be back later this week?”

“Tomorrow?” Stiles asks hopefully. “Tomorrow is later this week, right?”

Derek smiles. “Yeah,” he agrees. “It is. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Then, despite how hard it is, he goes back to the foyer, shuts off the light, and locks the front door.

He sits in his car for nearly ten minutes, watching the windows for Stiles because the ghost likes to see him off. Stiles never shows and Derek finally gives up.

He cranks the key in the ignition and starts driving back to the apartment he shares with Laura.

He half hopes she won’t be off-shift yet so he can wallow in peace. What if Stiles really does disappear while Derek is gone? What if he never gets to truly say goodbye?

The climb up the stairs to his door is done on autopilot, and Derek can’t even recall the whole drive home. He’s lucky it’s during a slow time of day with no one around to endanger.

Laura’s laptop is on the coffee table, and Derek boots it up, grabbing a glass of water and an apple while he waits for it to cycle through to the start-up screen. Then, once he’s logged on—using their first pet as a password is Laura’s mistake—he opens a browser and types in ‘Stiles’ and ‘Beacon Hills’ and taps the enter key.

The results are almost instantaneous.

Stiles Stilinski, Son of Sheriff, Injured in Accident, the first link proclaims. Derek clicks on it and the Beacon Reporter loads.

The string of letters denoting Stiles’ first name make almost no sense phonetically, and Derek substitutes ‘Stiles’ every time the author deigns to type the gobbledygook. The accident was Stiles falling off the roof of his house, the house that Derek has been trying to sell.

The article is five months old and it doesn’t say conclusively whether Stiles is dead or not, which leaves Derek a bit confused. How can a person be a ghost if they are still alive, he wonders.

So engrossed in his research is he that he fails to hear Laura come stomping into the apartment.

“What the fuck are you doing on my laptop!” she screeches right in his ear.

Derek jumps and flails and ends up smacking Laura in the face.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry!” he says, flailing some more until he can fumble the box of tissues to her. She glares at him, unimpressed, as she pulls out a few and wads them against her nose. He winces at the blood he can see seeping from one nostril.

“I repeat,” she says, coldly, slightly muffled, “what are you doing on my laptop?”

Derek feels hard pressed not to laugh hysterically. He manages to bite his lips long enough for the urge to subside, and for Laura’s stink-eye to get stronger.

“I was just looking up my ghost.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, Derek? Ghosts aren’t real.”

“Well, I suppose you’re right,” he concedes, “considering I don’t even know if he’s really alive or not.”

“Of course I’m right,” Laura says, smugly. “Now, what exactly am I right about?” She shoves Derek away from the laptop, and he lets her. “‘Mieczyslaw “Stiles” Stilinski falls off roof. In coma,’” Laura reads. “Mieczyslaw?” She taps her chin with her bloody tissue. “I have a patient with that name.”

“So, Stiles is in a coma, not dead,” Derek confirms. Laura smacks his arm.

“Can’t tell you, confidentiality clause.”

“Doesn’t matter. I need to go.” He stands up, patting Laura’s head. “Thanks, sis.”

It only takes him fifteen minutes to make the nearly half an hour drive. He slams through the door, barely taking the time to unlock it. Almost immediately, Stiles materializes in front of him.

“I know who you are and where you are,” Derek bursts out, chest heaving as he gasps for air.

Stiles smiles, amused. “And this couldn’t wait for tomorrow?”

“You’ve been in a coma for five months,” Derek says, a little calmer. “No, it couldn’t wait.”

“Well, then, where am I? Can you take me to myself?”

“That depends,” Derek responds. “Can you ride in a car yet?”

Stiles jumps at Derek, and he swears he hears a thump when his feet smack onto the floor. “I don’t know. Let’s try. Race you!”

Stiles swerves around Derek and leaps out of the front door. Derek follows more sedately to make sure he remembers to lock the door behind them.

Stiles can indeed sit in a car, and Derek eyeballs him until he sheepishly buckles his seatbelt.

“’snot like it’ll hurt me if you crash,” he says, almost petulantly. Derek snorts.

“You’re almost tangible. Pretty sure the red light cameras can see you too. I don’t want a ticket just because you think you won’t be hurt.”

Stiles acquiesces with a nod, and then he plasters his face to the window and stares at downtown Beacon Hills as they pass. He points at different things, saying, “That wasn’t there. Why are Mrs. Henderson’s petunias gone? Whoa! That’s new!”

“A lot can change in five months,” Derek murmurs. A lot did change. Derek and Laura moved back to town and Derek got a job with Finstock Reality (“Pretty sure it’s supposed to be Realty, boss.” “Nonsense, My grandmother named this business. Are you going to argue with my dead grandmother? No? Then get back out there and sell some realities!”).

“When did they build the addition to the hospital?” Stiles asks, wonder in his voice. Derek stares at him blankly.

“They built it a year ago,” he says. “Do you not remember it—or have you been in a coma longer than five months?”

Stiles grins at him. “Nah, I’m just messing with you. Mrs. Henderson has been dead for nearly seven years. It’s about time someone put those petunias out of their misery. Although, the fountain is new.”

Derek slaps his hand against the back of Stiles’ head, shuddering when it rebounds off. Stiles is still cold, but at least Derek can touch him.

“Let’s go meet my body!” Stiles declares, unbuckling and throwing open his door. Derek follows more sedately, making sure the car’s doors are locked and double locked.

“Would I be in long term care or in ICU?” Stiles asks Derek.

“Laura works in the long care term ward,” Derek answers, out of the side of his mouth, just in case anyone’s listening in but can’t see or hear Stiles. “She’s talked about you a lot. Not by name,” he adds hastily to Stiles’ incredulous glare. “Long term care?” he offers apologetically.

“Lead the way.”

The long term care facility is located on the first floor but is only accessible through a hallway that requires a pass code. Luckily, a nurse lets Derek in, and he holds the door long enough for Stiles to squeeze past him. His arm, when it brushes over Derek’s back is cool to the touch, but it’s much warmer than he’s used to Stiles being.

“Think we’re getting closer?” he whispers, as they pass door after door. He reads the names stuck on the wall as they move. Twelve doors down, they come to Mieczyslaw Stilinski’s room.

“Here you are,” Derek whispers at Stiles.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Stiles retorts. “I can read, you know.”

Inside the room is bland. The walls are off-white interspersed with darker splotches as if pictures have been removed. There is a table by the mobile bed where a green glass vase of wilted flowers stands like a lone sentry. An empty chair has been dragged up to the bed, an open newspaper spread across the seat.

In the bed, Derek recoils from seeing Stiles lying there helpless, a tube down his throat, machines and wires hooked up to his frail body. He glances at the Stiles next to him. Stiles looks completely solid now, and he reaches out a hand to trace down his own face.

As soon as he touches the skin, light bursts from his fingers, throwing the room into sharp relief. Derek shields his eyes, squinting into the sudden influx of energy.

He can feel the heat radiating from Ghost-Stiles while Coma-Stiles just lies there.

“Hang on,” Stiles grunts, as if Derek said anything. “I’m going to try to meld with my body. Make sure no one interrupts me.”

Derek grabs his shoulder. “Are you sure it’s safe to do this?” he asks.

“What else can I do?” Stiles says. “I can’t pull back.” He demonstrates this by tugging at the hand on his face. It pulls away, but it looks like it’s taking the skin with it, the face of Coma-Stiles distorting as he tugs.

“Stop, stop,” Derek says, frightened. “No, you’re right, you should totally meld with yourself. It’ll probably work out. Hey, if it doesn’t you want to grab something to eat with me?”

“What?” Stiles stutters. He glances back at Derek. “You want to go out with me? I thought I annoyed you?”

Derek shakes his head. “I like you,” he says gruffly. “I like you a lot. I don’t like anyone else as much as I like you. Not even my sister. You understand me.” He doesn’t say, “You saved me,” but he knows Stiles hears it all the same. Derek blinks back tears. What if this doesn’t work? He’s going to lose Stiles forever. “So, please,” he begs, “if it works and you wake up and you remember me, please, just go out with me?”

Stiles grabs him with his free hand, tilting his head up. “Yes,” he says before he presses his lips to Derek’s. They’re warm, soft, perfect. The kiss ends before it really begins, and then Stiles steps forward, throwing himself over his body. The light amplifies again until even squeezing his eyes shut and covering them with his hands doesn’t block it from blinding Derek.

When the light finally fades, he’s standing alone in Stiles’ room, staring down at his motionless body.

It didn’t work. He didn’t wake up.

“Who the hell are you?” someone demands, and Derek spins around to face a disgruntled older man brandishing a slice of toast like a weapon.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says. He can’t stop the tears now. “It was supposed to work. I’m so sorry. I’ll go now.” He brushes past the man, dodging his arm. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs again, all but running for the exit.

Out in his car, Derek wipes at his eyes again and again. He doesn’t think he can safely drive home, so he climbs out again and calls Laura.

Surprisingly, she comes to get him without lecturing him. One look at him, and she draws him into a hug.

“It’ll be okay,” she says, and he shakes his head, choking back a sob.

“It won’t be,” he says, thickly.

Derek is unused to Laura being so nice to him, and he keeps waiting for her to tire of the snot he’s dribbling on her shoulder as he cries.

“It’s okay,” she repeats firmly, patting at his back. “You will learn to carry on.”

She pauses to pull back and examine him with a critical eye. “Why are you so upset anyway?” she demands. “I mean, it’s not like you really knew him.”

“We’ve talked for months,” Derek says. He wipes at his face, sighing. Laura’s probably right: he’s being too emotional. Stiles is only just the one person Derek thinks he might be in love with. No big deal.

He sighs again. “Did I ever tell you how he saved me?” he asks. Laura shakes her head. “On Halloween, when the Argents were in town—” The Argents run the largest distributor of domestic firearms this side of the Mississippi. They are nothing short of royalty by celebrity status “—they were interested in the listing I’ve been trying to sell for the last few months.”

“Obviously, you haven’t sold it,” Laura says.

“Obviously.” Derek glares down at the ground,. He has never told anyone this story. And he has been thankful that Stiles has never mentioned it.

“Halloween night, Kate Argent booked a showing for the house, and Finstock made me go out to unlock the doors and answer any questions she had.

“She’d brought her niece with her to, I don’t know, put me at ease, I guess. Well, when her niece was busy sliding down the banister, Kate cornered me in the kitchen.”

He swallows hard, peeking at Laura to gauge her reaction.

“She put her hand down my pants and groped me.” Laura’s face stays worryingly blank. “I tried to fight her off, but she threatened to call Allison into the room and then say I was molesting her niece.”

Laura starts shaking, face turning white, but still she doesn’t say anything.

“I-I just let her. It wasn’t like she was hurting me,” he says to his feet. “But, right when she was taunting me, because I couldn’t stay hard in her grip, the toaster smashed onto the floor. That was the first time I met Stiles.”

“Your ghost, Stiles,” Laura says. “So what are you doing at the hospital?”

“Stiles is your patient. Meechislav—or however you say it.”

“Your ghost is a patient here?” Laura looks dubiously at the windows behind them. “Your ghost is my patient? The one they’re talking about taking off life support because his brainwaves suggest he’s essentially brain dead?”

Derek glares at her. “You never mentioned that,” he says.

“I wasn’t supposed to,” Laura replies. “Breach of confidentiality.”

“I think I can drive now,” Derek says coldly. Ostensibly, he knows it isn’t Laura’s fault that the hospital is going to kill Stiles, but she’s listened to him talk about ‘his ghost’ for three months now. She could have mentioned something about how her favorite patient was scheduled to die soon! He might have put the pieces together in time.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Laura says, just as icily. “You’re in no state to be operating a motor vehicle.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. I’m speaking to you as someone who works in the health industry. Do not get behind the wheel. I will drive you home, you will eat whatever comfort food I give you, and then you will write a letter to the fucking pope explaining how you fell in gay-love with a ghost.”

“He’s not actually a ghost,” Derek mumbles, not bothering to deny the gay-love thing. He’s positive she’s right anyway. He wants to kiss Stiles again. He doesn’t want to find another article online about how Stiles died after the machines keeping him alive were unplugged. “He’s in a coma. I don’t know how he was able to communicate with me.”

“Come on.” Laura grabs Derek’s arm and tugs him to her car, gently. “Let’s go home.

Derek lets her lead him to her car. He glances back as they pull away, and he sees the man from Stiles’ room staring down at them from an uncovered window. Derek turns away.

--

Two months later, Derek is sitting at his desk. He has a memo in one hand from Finstock about pulling Stiles’ house from the listings and a mug of cold coffee in the other. His cell phone chirps and he jerks, spilling liquid over his desk.

“Shit!” He mops at the puddle with a handful of tissues Greenberg passes him. He peeks at Finstock’s office, happy to see that the door is firmly shut and Finstock appears to be napping in his chair, feet on his paper-laden desk.

Derek checks his phone. It’s a text from Laura stating that Sheriff Stilinski wants to talk to him after work today. Derek closes the text without responding. As much as he’s glad his sister got the ball rolling on pressing charges against Kate Argent, he kind of wishes that it didn’t involve him. Or the father of the man he accidentally fell in love with.

“Good news?” Greenberg asks, but before Derek can answer him, his phone chirps again.

This time it’s an unknown number.

Derek opens the text, expecting it to be Sheriff Stilinski. Instead, the text reads: This is Stiles.

Derek drops his phone. Two months. He’s waited two months for this day. Greenberg shoots him a concerned look, and Derek offers him a weak smile. He grabs his phone again and sends off a quick message: This is Derek.

Stiles responds quickly: Oh good. Thought your sister gave me the wrong number for a sec. Shouldn’t have worried. Any idea what “Tell the Pope” means?

No. Derek blushes, of course Laura would say that! He hates her sometimes.

So, since I remember you, go out with me? I love Mexican food! Especially enchiladas.

Derek sets his phone down, stands up, and walks to the water cooler where he draws a tepid cup of mineral-flavored water just to help settle his heartbeat. When he gets back to his desk, Greenberg flashes him two thumbs-up.

“Thanks,” Derek mutters. There is a Mexican restaurant across the road from my workplace. Want to meet up for lunch?

Sure!! :-D

Derek is about to send his own smiley face back when the bell above their front door dings loudly.

Derek and Greenberg both roll from their desks to the narrow corridor leading to the receptionist’s desk where they can watch any and all people who enter their realty office.

Derek rolls back to his desk when he realizes that it’s Stiles standing there, surveying the office. Greenberg looks from Stiles to Derek and then waves at Stiles to come back to their desks.

“Dude,” Stiles says, grinning as he rounds the corner, “you work for my old lacrosse coach?” He groans, but it sounds teasing instead of genuinely upset. “Oh, man, that’s just the worst. Did he ever explain why he called his real estate business ‘Finstock Reality’?”

“He said his grandmother named it,” Derek mumbles.

Stiles laughs, slapping at his thigh. “No, no,” he says, wiping away tears. “Just, no. His grandmother has been dead for at least twenty years. He had a typo and by the time he realized it, it was too late to change it.”

“Bilinski!” Finstock bellows. He points at Stiles and mimes throwing him out. “Get away from my star salesman! Don’t you dare poach him for your nefarious schemes.”

“I’m sure my dad would like to know about these ‘nefarious schemes,’” Stiles says, laughing again.

Finstock mutters darkly but lets it drop, heading back into his office where he starts angrily feeding his exotic fish in his giant aquarium.

Greenburg stares down at his handmade Employee of the Month certificate. “I thought I was the star salesman,” he says mournfully.

“Anyway,” Stiles interrupts, “much as this has been fun, I really only stopped by because it’s noon and I’m hungry and someone promised me enchiladas.”

Derek stashes his phone in his pocket and digs his wallet out from his jacket. It’s a nice day, and Stiles certainly won’t sap the warmth from him.

Finstock pops back out of his office to shake his fish flakes menacingly at them. “No,” he says. “Sit.”

“Sorry, boss,” Derek says, tapping his watch. “Lunch break.” He and Stiles head for the door.

“You better come back in an hour, Hale, you hear me?” Finstock yells at their backs. Derek ignores him, slings an arm around Stiles’ shoulders. “One hour! Sixty minutes! Don’t be late! Are you even listening to me? Stop moping, Greenburg. You’re my only other salesman. Of course you’re a star.”

~ Fin ~

Warnings:  Kate Argent molests (rapes) Derek by jerking him off. Stiles saves him. Stiles is in a coma after falling off the roof of the house he was renovating. Laura gets a bloody nose because Derek accidentally hits her.