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evilfloralfoolery · 8 months ago

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Daggers and Deception - Part I

Being shot is a real pain in the ass, especially if you're coming down with a cold. And that's exactly what's happening to this perpetually surly mercenary who has been forced into seclusion while he recovers.

But he's not the only one stuck in the middle of What Kind of Fresh Country Fuck Hell Nowhere. Someone is in the apartment next to his. Someone who knows something he shouldn't . . . and is obviously allergic to air.

Neither man is what they seem to be.

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The driveway is as long as a damn subdivision block, but the house at the end of it sure as hell isn't like his place. Tall and shaded by trees, the rambling, archaic property sits by itself with no neighbors, no sidewalks. No nothing.

When the boss said "the middle of nowhere," he wasn't even kidding.

Goddamn it.

"Let me carry that."

Max's gruff voice at his side. Not an offer, really. More like he was going to do it and there wasn't room for discussion. Typical.

Grimm grunts. "Yeah. Whatever."

Not like he can't manage with his good arm. But Max isn't having any of his shit today, or any other day, for that matter.

"You're upstairs on the right," Max says as he falls into step beside Grimm, bag in hand. "I tried to get you space on the first floor, but they're remodeling the--"

"It's fine," Grimm interrupts. "It ain't my leg that's broken."

Max hefts the bag over his shoulder and fishes through his pocket for a key. "You're still going to take it easy. Behave yourself or I'll see to it that we extend your stay." He flicks icy blue eyes to Grimm. "I mean it, Amadis."

Oooo, resorting to surnames. So fucking terrifying.

"Yeah, yeah." Grimm waves his good hand in a dismissive gesture.

Not like he has a choice. Couldn't be out in the field with a busted shoulder, much less with his arm in a sling. The wound had been clean enough not to fuck up anything permanently. He hopes. At least, that was the line the doctors had fed him. But damn, there had been a lot of blood. Lucky as hell that the bullet hadn't ripped through both sides of his body.

If one could call that a silver fucking lining.

He follows Max up the questionable facade of a staircase, the wooden slats complaining beneath his footfalls with every step.

Definitely a death trap in the making.

"How old is this place?"

Max glances over his shoulder. "Old."

Grimm rolls his eyes.

By the time they reach the third story, sweat has begun a steady trickle down the back of Grimm's neck, the small amount of physical exertion taking an unpleasant toll. Which is stupid. And annoying. Fuck, the stab wound across his chest hadn't hurt as badly as this.

Max sets the bag down in front of a door that looks like it might cave in if Grimm breathes wrong and holds up a set of keys.

"The black one is the front door. Silver is your room. You've got a kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, all of it. We'll have groceries delivered to you once a week, but if you need anything, call Rex. He'll make sure you get it."

"And if I wanna leave?"

Max levels his stare at him. "You won't."

Hmn. Grimm hooks a loose strand of his dark hair behind one ear as Max finagles the keyhole and convinces the door to open, carting his bag inside and dropping it in the middle of the living room area.

"Fridge and cabinets are stocked. Clean sheets on the bed. Towels in the bathroom. There's a curator on the property who takes care of all that, so she'll be by to check on you now and then. She's also a nurse and she'll help you with dressing that wound and repacking it. Be nice to her."

Grimm rakes a hand through his hair with sniffle. "I'm nice, dammit."

"Uh huh."

Max reaches into his pocket and produces a bottle with a white label. "Take these."

Grimm eyes the label with a look of marked disdain. Opioids. Not a fucking chance. "You know I'm not taking that shit."

Max shoves the bottle at him. "Take it anyway."

He sets the bottle on the nearest piece of furniture and folds his good arm across his chest. Too bad the damn sling ruins the effect.

"I'll be in touch," Max says. "Rest, Grimm."

Like he has a choice.

"I can't believe you're making me do this country isolation bullshit."

Max's expression doesn't waver. "Believe it." He pats Grimm's shoulder with one hand. "And change your shirt. You're about to drip sweat all over this ugly-as-hell rug."

Mother. Fucker.

"Smartass," Grimm says.

Max cracks a hint of smile. "Take care of that cold, too."

Grimm narrows his eyes. "What cold?"

Max doesn't respond, but takes off instead, leaving Grimm standing in the middle of his new quarters with a whole lot of silence and weird-ass furniture. Floral couch with a high back and wooden feet. A carved, pockmarked end table with wooden feet. Mismatched coffee table with some kind of folded flaps on the side. With wooden feet.

"Somebody got a damn foot fetish around here or what?" Grimm mutters to no one in particular.

Max is wrong about the "cold," but is right about his shirt. A combination of a bumpy ride and a short stair climb has him sweating bullets. He hefts the bag onto the couch and paws through it until he finds a black tank top. A hell of a lot easier to manage than a T-shirt. At least his target had the decency to shoot him on his non-dominant side.

He slips the sling over his head and pulls his arm out of the thing, grabs the back of his T-shirt with his good hand . . . and hisses with a wince.

Fuck, fuck, fucking FUCK.

A deep breath. A struggle. The material peels its way from his damp skin with far too much effort, leaving him sweating and panting as if he's run a good ten miles without a break. A shock of cold travels down his spine and he fights against a sudden wave of nausea that forces him to take a seat on the floral fuckery of a couch.

The bottle sits on the coffee table. Beckoning. Mocking. He flips it the middle finger and tosses the tank top back into the bag. Fuck this whole shirt-wearing shit.

After securing his arm in the sling once more, he meanders into the kitchen, takes a quick inventory of the food.

Chicken, veggies, some ground beef . . .and an entire shelf of instant ramen. The corners of his mouth twitch into a smile. Max knows him too well.

Not to mention, it's easy as hell to make with one arm. A few minutes of boiling water, some frozen stir fry veg, and a little soak later, dinner is served. Grimm sits at the table, palms a pair of chopsticks, and settles in.

From the stairwell comes the sound of footsteps, a jingle of keys, and the protesting creak of a door. A rustle of bags. Footfalls on aging hardwood.

Grimm tilts his head. Max had mentioned the house was sectioned into apartments, but he hadn't mentioned other visitors. Who else even knew about this place, anyway? It's not like it was on the map.

And man, are the walls thin as hell.

Pretty much every move his neighbor makes is audible from dropping the keys on the table to moving into the kitchen to put away whatever it is that they're carrying. Or maybe Grimm's hearing is just too finely tuned for his own damn good. Not like it didn't come with the job.

It is not until his neighbor retires to the back of the apartment that Grimm stops being able to hear him walking and moving around. The soft tinkle of piano keys wafts from the other side of the wall in place of movement, a wistful and almost sad melody. Was it being played or just listened to? Not like Grimm knows enough about music to tell. Still, whatever it might be is oddly soothing and he finishes his "dinner" and drags himself to the bedroom for a rest. Or maybe just some tossing around and growling.

At least the bed is enormous and inviting enough, all carved with huge spiraling posts and some kind of bars connecting them. Maybe for a canopy or something at one time. But whatever, all he cares about is if the mattress is comfortable. He eases himself onto the duvet and sprawls out as much as his damn shoulder will allow. The sling isn't exactly comfortable, but he makes do with it via a few propped up pillows and little bit of shifting around.

His eyes drift shut, the whir of the fan a comfortable, lulling nuance that nearly drags him into sleep immediately. Or at least until the abrupt sound of a sneeze from the other side of the wall snaps him out of it. A bitingly sharp “EKSSCH!” And another. And another.

“EKSSCH! EKCHISSH!”

Well, damn.

A fourth follows less than a minute later and Grimm tilts his head back, eying the wall with a raise of one eyebrow.

He raps his knuckles on the aging sheetrock.

“Hey,” he says. “You dying or what?”

Silence. Guess the guy didn't realize he had a neighbor, either.

“Yes,” comes the curt response after some time.

Grimm chuckles. Obviously male. Deep voice, but not as deep as his rumbling bass. Some kind of posh-ass accent, too.

“-iihEKSSH-uuuh!”

An irritated frustration of a sound that is clearly a “stop this shit right the fuck now!” level of annoyance.

“Bless you,” Grimm says, more out of amusement than anything else.

A pause he can almost feel follows before a quiet "thank you" is issued from the other side of the wall.

His neighbor opens and closes a drawer or two and wanders back to the other side of the house, accompanied by a few more sneezes and what sounds like a well-placed curse at one point.

That gets another round of chuckling.

Somewhere from inside the apartment, the piano music resumes and Grimm is now certain it is, in fact, not a recording. The man is definitely playing whatever it is himself. With a sigh, Grimm closes his eyes again. Maybe the guy will keep playing long enough for him to ignore his throbbing shoulder and pass the fuck out.

The fan whirs, the plaintive strands of whatever the guy is playing a nice counterpoint to the white noise. Grimm takes a deep breath. Exhales. Repeats. Sweat beads his brow, threatening to trickle into his ear and the ramen feels like a ball of lead in the pit of his stomach. A hint of a groan escapes him. The first few days are always the worst with a wound like this. It'll pass. Eventually.

(TBC . . .maybe)

#EFF writes #I'm going to enjoy this #And I hope you will as well #I'll post more if the interest is there #And YES #I happen to love this fucking trope of grouchy asshole and sophisticated asshole #JUST LET ME LIVE lol

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galaxyedging · 2 months ago

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I'm a sucker (no pun intended) for sweet (as he can be) Max Phillips. I love his idea of therapy. Can I book in for a session with Dr Max?

Your Vampire: Chapter One

Fit as a Fiddle

(Max Phillips x f!reader)

Words: 1, 197

Summary: after being dumped by your fiancé, your friend and boss, Max Phillips comes to your rescue. You know his biggest secret…

Warnings: medical procedures mentioned, the worst ex in the world, mild swearing, lots of crying, no y/n, reader has nickname Garland

Check out masterlist here

“We need to talk.” That was what he said before you went into surgery.

It was hard to hear over the fog of anaesthesia lifting away. It was almost like floating underwater, but it wasn’t hard to understand what he was saying.

Yesterday, you were somewhat happily engaged to Jacob with plans to potentially start planning a wedding in the somewhat distant future. Now you didn’t even have a ring on your finger. The crushing pain creeping up your chest was worse than the pain from the surgery was going to be.

Then in walked your boss, Max Phillips with his three-piece suit and a bouquet of flowers.

“Hey Garland, how was surgery?”

You promptly burst into tears.

“He dumped me?”

“He what?”

“He dumped me!” you wailed. “I thought I was imagining it from the drugs wearing off but no, he definitely dumped me. Left a note just to confirm it and took my ring!”

“Did he dump you because you got cancer?”

“He didn’t exactly put it in those words but yes.”

“I always knew he was a prick but damn, that was a serious dick move.”

A fresh wave of tears started running down your face. Max started to hand you his handkerchief but realised the amount of tears and snot protruding from your face so he rethought his strategy. He handed you a nearby box of tissues.

“And I’ve got nowhere to go!” you said after blowing your nose.

“You don’t?”

“I won’t be living with Jacob anymore so now I’m technically homeless. I’ve just had surgery, and I’ve got nowhere to go.”

“Well my dear, I happen to be the solution to all your problems!” you looked up at him in confusion. “I happen to have a spare room.”

You felt like the Wicked Witch of the East in that a house fell on you. So you began to think of your next logical move. Being logical helped in situations where you didn’t want to drown in emotions.

But this only left you numb. You barely remember the change in location. Everything was too much of a blur to notice anything. The only thing you remember is ending up on a couch that must belong to Max watching the screen of what must be Max’s TV. Unsure of what you were watching, but the colours and movement distracted you enough from yourself. If left alone with your thoughts, you would fall into the depth of a sadness so dark, no light would pierce it. Also, you ran out of tissues.

Max noticed this and proceeded to help you out of this darkness.

“I’ve had a very nice bed made up for you. Are you just going to lie there like an adorable couch potato?”

You mumbled something resembling a yes.

Max sighed, unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat on the coffee table so he could face you from your bundle of blankets.

“Seeing as you’re going to wallow in your own misery, you won’t object to what I’m going to say: that pathetic excuse of a human being you call your ex-boyfriend is possibly the biggest prick in the known world. He’s as self-centred as the sun but actually nothing revolves around him. Any objections so far?”

You said nothing so he continued.

“I really should have made a PowerPoint but if it weren’t for you, he would have no chance at a promotion.”

You mumbled something and he leaned in to hear you repeat, “I knew he’d be up for promotion.”

“Well he’s only up for consideration for potential promotion. He made the wrong move in dumping you.”

“I hope it hits him in the face how much he’s messed up,” you said with more conviction.

“There we go! There’s the Garland I used to know. Now come, I have some therapy for you.”

Wrapping the blanket around yourself, you followed Max to see what he had hanging from the spiral staircase.

“You just happen to have a punching bag with Jacob’s face on?”

“Doesn’t everyone have one?” You rolled your eyes as he handed you a bat. Nodding his head towards the punching bag, he said. “Come on, you know you want to.”

You started off just poking the punching bag, it didn’t move. Then you gave it a small whack. That small whack released a tiny bit of anger in you, and it felt good. You gave it another whack. But your stitches were preventing you from releasing your maximum fury, so you put your rage on the photo. You ripped it off the punching bag and continued ripping it.

Max let out an impressed whistle as you ripped the photo with your teeth.

“Bloodthirsty, I like it. Feel better?” he asked.

You spat out the paper, “I’m hungry now.”

“Good, what do you feel like?”

“I have no idea.”

“I’ll heat you up some soup.”

“I’m starving.”

One serving of good food later, you felt somewhat normal. As normal as you could be after surgery and then being dumped by your fiancé post-surgery. The hour suggested it was time for bed, so Max led you to where he assigned your bedroom.

“Really? A four-poster bed?”

“Hey, it’s romantically classy.”

“What type of bed do you have?”

He put a hand on your shoulder, “You need some rest, my dear.”

You were too tired to realise he was avoiding the question. It was actual needing a good night’s rest tiredness, not the drifting through life tiredness. Before you felt like a ghost drifting through existence but now you felt almost human again. Almost like yourself again.

You woke up feeling refreshed and happy. But then the pain across your abdomen reminded you of your current life situation. Instead of burrowing under the high-quality bedding, you got out of bed. It was the first step to recovery.

You took the first proper look at your surroundings. The bedroom you came out of seemed to be the only room that offered any privacy. The rest of the house was open plan. The high ceilings hinted the building was much older than its modern furnishings. A spiral staircase led up to a small loft, but you didn’t need to climb up to know this was not where Max slumbered. The only other option was the only other door. You found it led to the basement. You didn’t feel the coldness of the stone steps in your fluffy sock covered feet.

As you slowly descended, you took note of the stonework mixed with modern patchwork to fill in the holes. A solid glass floor preserved the stone floor giving off a peaceful but ominous feeling.

The basement looked like a typical basement for a typical business guy. The gym equipment was so typical it was funny. What wasn’t typical or normal in any way was the door in the floor.

It didn’t look like a trapdoor, just an odd quirk made by the architect. As you pondered the strange design, the door opened.

Out emerged Max Phillips as if from a slumber.

The two of you stared at each other for an awkward moment.

“So, I’m a vampire,” he said.

“Yeah, I know.”

Lovingly tagging @chaithetics @cevans-is-classic @galaxyedging @letsgobarbs @peepawispunk @missladym1981 @kirsteng42 @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @ericamarie093 @yorksgirl

#fic rec #new series #I'm going to enjoy this #max phillips #max phillips x reader

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