#Margaret when i catch you maggie. maggie when i catch you maggie. maggie when i catch y | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sio-writes · 1 month

Text

Blood and Bourbon - Chapter 1

<<Prologue

Summary: Elliot finally feels like he's ready for a new chapter in his life, he's moved in with his immortal partner and runs a successful vampire aid clinic, it finally feel like life is giving him a break. But not all good things stay, as Elliot's past catches up to him and threatens to destroy everything he's worked for in a shower of blood.

Tags: discussion of (fantasy) medical practices including the consumption of blood (They are vampires after all!) and

Read it here, or on AO3!

Lifeline Specialized Vampire Clinic is a two-story stone building in the Medical District of downtown Braedon. It only opened for business a few years ago, but specialized vampiric clinics are hard to come by, even in the most progressive of cities, so the center is full nearly every hour of every day. It specializes in early- and late-term transitions and post-transformation lifestyle management, with several group therapies staggered throughout the day to help patients find a sense of community.

So the sight of a young woman being wheeled in on a gurney from the hospital is a common occurrence, even at two in the morning. Elliot is used to it, and he filled the sight into his brain for later. At the moment he has a list of things to do once he's finished his rounds in the inpatient wing upstairs. There's group therapy at 4:30, another set of rounds, and once that's over he has to chip away at the mountain of paperwork on his desk.

He's finishing the rounds upstairs, thankfully everything went on schedule, when he's stopped by Head Nurse Marcy. She pulls him aside in the stairway down to the outpatient division. "I know you have group, but I need you to see our new patient. She's just started to turn, and her parents are very adamant about speaking to an 'actual doctor'."

Marcy slaps a manila folder on his chest, and Elliot hums, thinking. "Is Dr. Henrickson not available?"

She shakes her head of fiery red curls. "He's running the other group session, and Deb isn't in until seven."

Elliot curses under his breath, causing Marcy to smile. She likes seeing him break professionalism.

Elliot skims the patient's profile, taking note of her age: 17. Elliot supresses a groan. He hates talking to parents of young vampires. It's always tears and angry accusations and, if he's lucky, something will get thrown at him. He still needs to make sure both the parents and their child have the information they need, but it's his least favorite part of running the clinic.

"You run the 4:30 group then," he says to Marcy.

"Yes sir," she gives him a lazy salute before walking off. "She's in 114!"

***

Elliot's barely in the door before the father inside scoffs and crosses his arms. "Are you an actual doctor?" he asks. He's got combed-back, dirty blonde hair, and he's wearing a pressed bowling shirt and golf shorts. Next to him is, presumably, his wife, with bleached blonde hair and a bright, patterned dress that ends at the knees. She's sniffing into a napkin that looks like it's seen better days. On the bed is a young woman with short brown hair, wearing torn cargo shorts and an equally torn tank top. She's so young, and Elliot's heart breaks. Her chart had said she was a minor, but Elliot will never get used to seeing someone so young here.

When humans are turned into vampires, the body stops aging. Elliot's always going to be 32, Marcy will always be 25, and this young woman, Margaret MacKenzie, will forever be 17. Those born with vampiric blood age slower depending on the ratio, too. Vampiric births are rare, they're difficult to bring to term, but for the few that happen each year, the aging rate can vary wildly. Elliot saw by Margaret's chart that she was born human, not a drop of vampire blood in her lineage.

Elliot nods at the father, maintaining his professionalism. "Yes, I'm the head doctor as well as the owner of the clinic. Your daughter Margaret--"

"Maggie," the wife says, her voice thick with emotion. "Her name is Maggie."

"Maggie," he corrects. "Is in the final stages of vampiric transformation. She'll need to be admitted to the clinic for a few weeks until she stabilizes." He checks his chart. "There doesn't seem to be any pressing issues like injury, thankfully."

"Thankfully?!" the father snaps. "She's turning into a monster!"

Mrs. MacKenzie chokes back a niose before bursting into tears. Mr. MacKenzie frowns at Elliot like it was he who bit his daughter. "Will she even survive?"

"Her vitals are stabilizing and her readouts look good," Elliot says. "She's made it through the worst of the change, and the longer she rests, the higher her chances are." He skims the report again, taking notice of a specific note in the margins. "She was a runaway?"

Mrs. MacKenzie sniffs like she's trying to collect herself, but she falls into tears again, and Mr. MacKenzie speaks for her. "She ran away about three months ago. Cops told us she probably got picked up by a trafficking scheme."

Elliot checks the notes of the report. Nothing else about that. "Was there a reason she left?"

"What're you implying, you--"

"Mr. MacKenzie, I'm only trying to get the facts--"

Mrs. MacKenzie clears her throat. "She's been seeing this…asshole. A creep, and a bad influence for my daughter. He was into some kind of cult and we tried to tell her that he was a lost cause, but she didn't listen, she didn't want anything to do with us. She left on a Saturday, and came back sick and with a mark on her back."

Elliot frowns. That wasn't on the report, either. "A mark?"

"On her shoulder," Mr. MacKenzie says. "Three triangles interlocked. We thought it was a tattoo at first, but it's a brand." He spits out the word with disgust, and Elliot is inclined to agree.

Vampiric cults are a dangerous problem. There's as many organizations as there are vampires in the world, and they all have their own calling card, a symbol of the house their leader hails from. They steal humans right off the street and indoctrinate them, churn them through the cult's system until they're obedient enough to take the transformation without complaint. Elliot has a brand on his inner arm that itches whenever he talks about matters like these.

Three triangles, though, he's not familiar with. Anxiety sparks underneath Elliot's skin. He should know. It's part of his job, protecting those who call for his help.

"I don't know the exact group, but I'll look into it." He makes a note on Maggie's chart to check the symbol once she's moved to her room. Elliot flips the pages on his clipboard until he sees the pamphlets stored in the back and hands them to Mr. MacKenzie. "For now, I'll give you the information I do have. Maggie's vampirism will be unique to her, but there are some ground rules. She can't have solid foods, only liquids from now on. She'll likely be craving blood frequently once she wakes up, and it's completely normal. You'll see in that second pamphlet-- yes that one, the amount of blood she'll need to sustain her every day, and I'll tell you now that these are just the minimum values, there's no maximum. Direct sunlight is out, as is indirect sunlight, such as through a tinted window or shade, until she hits the one year mark."

"Oh god!" Mrs. MacKenzie cries out. Mr. MacKenzie rests a gentle hand on her shoulder, comforting her as she cries. "She loved the sun, she loved the beach so much. She won't be able to go ever again?" And before Elliot can answer, she breaks down into sobs again.

"After a year," he continues as gently as possible, "Maggie will be able to handle indirect sunlight, including shaded areas. So, after a year, she'll still be able to go, just cover up and bring an umbrella."

His words seem to calm Mrs.MacKenzie, at least, they stop the tears. Elliot continues, "Blood management is the most crucial at this point time. The banks have a program to provide you with your first year's supply. She'll need to stay away from any pets for at least the next four weeks, which won't be a problem if you decide to admit her here."

Mr. MacKenzie cuts in, "Will the cult come after her?"

"Once I find out which group is associated with that symbol, I'll tell you everything I know." Hopefully this cult is a smaller one, and Elliot's only seen their sigil as graffiti somewhere in the city. "We have security protocols in place as well, the upper floor where she'll be staying is under 24/7 surveillance, and only approved guests are allowed, such as you two and anyone you approve."

Elliot goes through the rest of the pamphlets with the MacKenzies, including the paperwork to admit Maggie to the clinic. He tells them her eyes will change color, and her body will be slow to react at first. Elliot answers their questions as best he can, but Mrs. MacKenzie breaks back down into tears after he reiterated Maggie can only drink liquids. By the time Elliot gets Maggie upstairs, the nurses get her IV hooked up, and he answers many, many more questions, it's nearly 8am.

The MacKenzies are yawning by the time Elliot shuts the door, and he doesn't blame them. It's nearly seven the morning, he's supposed to be home. Mathias should be waking up right about now, he should be there to greet him.

He walks into the covered garage and starts up his beat-up Ford sedan, anxiety thrumming behind his eyelids, making his fingers twitch. He's anxious all the way home, wondering how such a young girl escaped this mystery cult, and who was coming after her.

***

Elliot nearly drives to his old apartment, swerving away from the exit at the last minute and scattering his thoughts like loose playing cards. He'd been so distracted by that symbol and it's origins he nearly forgot to take the right exit.

No, he's living with Mathias now, in his fixer-upper two story that Mathias has owned since 1982. It doesn't feel real, like it's too good to be true. It's been a little fast, but Elliot's trying to take it all in stride.

Mathias is in the kitchen cooking breakfast when Elliot opens the door. "Hi-i-i! Welcome home!"

Elliot's home. It's strange to think of the house he's only been in for a few weeks as home. Strange, but not unwelcome, especially with Mathias to come home to each morning. He's seen Mathias off to work nearly every morning since he moved in, it's a nice ritual that Elliot is glad he didn't miss. He can't eat, but the house smells of waffles and syrup and it makes his mouth water. "Smells good. Long day?"

Mathias usually just grabs his coffee and rushes out to make his nine o'clock class time, only taking the time to cook when he anticipates a day without snacks. Immortals have a higher daily calorie requirement than the average human.

"Midterms today," Mathias replies. Elliot walks through the kitchen and into the breakfast nook. Mathias has laid out more than waffles, he's also got bacon, eggs, and sliced strawberries set out on the dining table.

"You've got quite the spread, here," Elliot comments, sipping from a dangerously full glass of orange juice. No pulp, perfect. Mathias comes up behind him holding a plate of pancakes that smell divine. The flour and sugar and mountain of dishes tell Elliot that Mathias made them from scratch, too. He kisses Elliot gently on the cheek as steps around into the nook. Elliot takes his place opposite Mathias and watches as he eats.

Mathias' eyes are solid gold, bright like the sun, irises marked with a pale brown ring, and if Elliot were to shut off all the lights, that set would be glowing at him like a cat. The eyes of an Immortal. It's an intense stare, to say the least. Mathias catches glances from him, and his flirtatious stare makes Elliot smile behind his hand.

After a few minutes, Mathias says around a mouth full of pancakes and strawberries, "You were late this morning. Everything okay? Busy day?"

Elliot rests his chin in one hand and tries to summarize his night. "A girl came in from the hospital today with two very concerned parents. Which makes sense! She was a runaway, and appeared in the middle of turning. She was out cold."

"Yeesh," Mathias says sympathetically. "The parents didn't let you get any work done?"

"After about a thousand questions, which again make sense when your only child is turning into a vampire."

"Mm, I see." Mathias hums around another bite of pancakes. "Do you think they'll try to reverse it?"

"It was too late in the change." In truth, Elliot would have liked if they'd come in a day earlier, that would've been the last possible second to reverse her turning. But he's not a magician, as he'd told Mr. MacKenzie outside his daughter's room.

In the time it took Elliot to drive home and speak to Mathias, his feelings have changed from anxious to something else. He feels melancholy about the whole thing. Not quite sad, not quite angry, but both, diluted within the slurry of other things that weigh down on his conscious. He tries to keep work away from home, but when cases like Maggie become personal, it's hard to let things go.

The feeling of deja vu hadn't left him since speaking to the MacKenzies. He's seen that symbol somewhere, somewhere important. It has to be in Mathias' books. If it's not, he can try and wrangle his ancient laptop to scour the internet.

After Mathias kisses him goodbye, Elliot decides to spend the next few hours going through boxes of books piled nearly to the ceiling of the library. It's a smaller room, probably meant to be used as a den that the two of them built in-wall bookshelves. Some books are his, but most belong to Mathias and he has even more in his office at the university.

They'd moved in together only a few weeks ago, and there's so much left to unpack. But Elliot is on a mission to find that symbol, and Mathias was briefly interested in occult histories and bought several tomes on the subject. If any books have that symbol, it'll be those.

First he finds a large textbook on the history of the occult in modern society. There's a lot on tarot readings, crystals, and Elliot reads Mathias' tiny, slanting script about the trip he'd taken in 1907 to the French Quarter and had his palm read. There's no interlocking triangles in the first book. The next two are unmarked, Mathias must not have gotten to them yet, and also offer no help by way of the symbol.

The other books he pulls seem promising. He finds a series of ancient organizations, modern reiterations, and speculation on future activities. It's another hour of rooting through books, finding nothing, then putting them on the shelves. Elliot goes from sitting to laying on his back, and his eyelids grow heavy. Another hour of fruitless searching, and Elliot is fighting sleep with every paragraph and soon, he falls asleep right in the library.

#my writing #blood and bourbon #m/m romance #vampire romance #exophillia #monster boyfriend #creative writing #original writing

2 notes · View notes

octoberobserver · 2 years

Text

But I Finally Made My Way Home

(Read on ao3)

Mr. and Mrs. Tozier hadn’t changed a bit.

Well, they had aged thirty years, obviously, but apart from that, they were exactly the same as Eddie remembered them. Warm and lively and loud. Just like another Tozier he knew.

“Really, Richard, I can carry my own—Eddie Kaspbrak as I live and breathe!”

He barely had time to smile before he was wrapped up in a giant, surprisingly-strong hug from Richie’s mom as she and Went stopped at the car, their son trailing along behind them with an amused expression on his face.

Their eyes met over Mrs Tozier’s shoulder and Richie promptly pulled a face that Eddie, before he could catch himself, childishly returned.

He heard Went chuckle, no doubt having seen it. He forced himself not to blush.

“Mrs. Tozier, hi,” he patted Richie’s mom’s back gently, “it’s so nice to see you again.”

“Oh Eddie,” she scolded, tapping him on the shoulder, “none of that Mrs. Tozier, business. Makes me sound old. It’s Maggie.”

He chuckled as she gave him another squeeze.

“Geez ma, you didn’t hug me this long,” Richie smirked as he opened the trunk and began loading the suitcases in.

“Let him breathe, Margaret,” Went piped up, eyeing them both, his amusement identical to his son's.

“Hush you two, I haven’t seen this boy since he was, well, a boy,” Maggie broke the hug, leaning back to meet Eddie’s eye, “can you blame me for being a little…”

She trailed off, seemingly just taking him in. Eddie tried not to squirm under her bespectacled gaze.

“Eddie,” Went caught his attention, holding out his hand for him to shake.

“Mr. Toz—”

Went’s eyebrow raised.

“Went,” he amended with a sheepish grin, shaking his hand.

“It is good to see you again, son,” Went squeezed his hand firmly before enveloping him in a short hug, slapping his back.

Eddie could feel both Richie and Maggie’s eyes on them. Despite him being a carbon copy of his father, Richie had his mother’s eyes. He swallowed down the inexplicable lump in his throat as he awkwardly patted the older man’s shoulder in return.

“You too.”

Went broke away, nodding down at him with something in his gaze that Eddie couldn’t identify before turning to Richie.

“You got eggs at the house, Rich? The portions on airplanes are always so tiny.”

“Yeah, dad, we’ve got eggs,” Richie chuckled, exchanging another glance with Eddie before crossing to open the passenger-side door for his mom, (her car sickness took precedence over Richie’s desire to badger Eddie about his driving), and climbing into the backseat.

“Take ‘er away, Eds. Breakfast awaits!”

~*~

Breakfast was a roaring success if the empty plates and pleased hums were anything to go by. Eddie again shoved down the irrational swell of mixed emotions in his chest, pouring more coffee into Maggie’s cup and finishing off his toast.

“That was great, Eddie, thank you,” Went rubbed his stomach as he took a sip of his orange juice, “I really liked the garlic pepper. Nice touch.”

He smiled, giving a half-shrug, “Glad you liked it. I use it instead of salt when I can.”

Before he knew it, he was launching into all his new explorations in the kitchen, no doubt talking Went’s ear off. But when he paused for breath, he realized that actually, Went seemed genuinely interested in what he was talking about, both he and his wife nodding encouragingly and jumping in with questions every so often.

Something warm settled in his chest as Richie leaned closer to him, piping up, “Eds is a natural in the kitchen. When he first moved in, he thought he couldn’t boil an egg, but now he’s making his own Pat Fruity. Which I’m told is a big deal.”

“Pâte Feuilletée,” Eddie corrected with a roll of his eyes, “and it’s not a big deal, your Twitter fans are exaggerating. I just—” his sentence caught in his throat as he noticed that both Maggie and Went were still patiently listening to him. “I uh, I had a lot of time on my hands while in between careers and watched a random YouTube video one day. It’s been a lot of trial and error but I do my best…”

Richie reached out and squeezed his shoulder.

“Don’t be so modest, Eds,” he mock-scolded before turning to his parents. “Just wait for dinner. His risotto kicks ass. Tastes just like yours, ma.”

Maggie smiled, bright eyes flickering between them.

He flushed.

“Well, I should hope so,” she took a sip of her coffee, “it is my recipe.”

Eddie felt rather than saw Richie whirl around to gape at him. He kept his own eyes on his plate.

“What?! You got the recipe off Mags? You didn’t tell me that!”

He cleared his throat, drumming his fingers on his cup, refusing to meet his eye.

“She told me not to.”

He didn’t have to glance at Richie to know he and his mom were sharing some sort of look he didn’t understand. They did that a lot over FaceTime too, but in real life, it was much more potent.

“I wanted to see if you’d notice,” Maggie laughed, waving her hand dismissively before gathering up her and Went’s empty plates.

Eddie stood, “Maggie, you don’t have to—”

“You cooked Eddie, hush,” she smiled before clapping her hands and leveling them both with a pointed stare. “Now what is this I hear about The Losers’ Game Night?”

~*~

Turned out that Margaret Tozier was an absolute beast at online Pictionary.

“Alright, you two are definitely cheating.”

Eddie snorted as Maggie threw a handful of popcorn at her son, affronted.

“Richard Wentworth Tozier, I am no cheat,” she exclaimed as a tinny chorus of agreement sounded from Eddie’s laptop.

The rest of the Losers filled the screen, each couple occupying a tile in their group video chat—Ben and Bev in New York, Stan and Patty in Georgia, and Bill and Mike just twenty minutes away in downtown LA.

“How would they even cheat at Pictionary anyway, Rich?” Bev asked, leaning closer to the camera, bewildered. “I think you’re just pissed that you’re a shitty artist.”

“Right?” Eddie jumped in before Richie could defend himself. “How the fuck was I supposed to guess Shawshank Redemption with your drawing of an inflatable tube man being stabbed?”

“He was being shanked, Eduardo,” Richie sighed, “obviously.”

“Oh obviously,” he groused back, rolling his eyes before swirling the mostly-melted ice around in his empty glass. “You want another old-fashioned, Maggie?”

She grinned at him, eyes glinting.

“I would love one Eddie, sweetheart, thank you.”

Richie elbowed him, “You tryin’ to get my mom drunk, Kaspbrak?”

Eddie elbowed him back harder, standing, “Wouldn’t dream of it, Trashmouth. She’d drink us all under the table, and you know it.”

“Cheers to that,” Went piped up cheerfully, definitely more tipsy than his wife, raising his half-full glass in a toast.

“Oh Trashmouth,” Maggie chuckled, looking from him to the laptop, “I forgot where Richie had gotten that nickname. One of you gave it to him in grade school, right?”

Richie nodded. “Yep, that was an Edward Kaspbrak original.”

Eddie's cheeks were noticeably flushed before he made his way over to the counter to start refilling glasses.

“That’s right,” Maggie was murmuring almost to herself. “I still can’t believe I managed to forget that. Forget The Losers Club in general. You were all so tight-knit, always together. All the sleepovers you used to have in our basement. How I used to bake those cupcakes you’d bring to the quarry. The clubhouse you thought we didn't know about. I just…don’t understand how I could forget all that…?”

There was a beat of silence.

He watched Eddie hold his breath, shoulders tense as he kept his back to the table.

“Do you still bake those cupcakes? I guarantee they’d still be a hit.”

Patty Uris was the best.

Once Maggie was successfully distracted, bouncing from the topic of her own culinary prowess to (to Eddie’s embarrassment) her gushing about his risotto they’d eaten for dinner earlier, he turned back around, gently depositing another drink on the table next to her and crossing back over to sit beside Richie.

Richie could feel how tense he was beside him, as he always was whenever someone outside of the group brought up the Derry-related-amnesia. It had been an adjustment, for all of them. But at least they knew why they forgot. Richie’s parents, Ben’s mom, Stan’s mom, and Bev’s aunt weren’t as lucky (or unlucky, depending on how you looked at it,) however, and as the Losers reconnected with each other’s families, were often astonished that they had seemingly forgotten all about their little town in Maine.

And the Losers who went along with it.

“Stanley, your mother and I were just reminiscing the other day about your and Richie’s first day of school,” Maggie chuckled, beaming at the laptop where Stan was shaking his head good-naturedly. “About how you’d both bonded over peanut butter sandwiches and decided that made you best friends for life.”

Margaret Tozier and Andrea Uris were Facebook friends, apparently. Arlene Hanscom too. Because of course they were.

“I still stand by that,” Richie winked at Stan, “that’s how we got Bill too. The lure of your peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, ma. Not Eds, though. That took some outta the box thinking.”

“I wasn’t allowed peanut butter,” Eddie predictably grumbled, evoking laughter, “the cherry Nerds worked, though.”

Now that he could, Richie remembered as clear as day, how a tiny kid with dark hair and the biggest, brownest eyes he had ever seen, shyly stared over at him and Stan as they shared out their lunch on the second week of first grade. He remembered how six-year-old him had looked up and met those eyes, a box of Nerds in his hand, and before he could think it through, he raised them up and shook them.

Eddie had stormed over at that, going from zero to sixty as he ranted how he wasn’t a dog, and you shouldn’t shake candy at people, but yes please, he would like some, and no sorry, he didn’t have any candy but he did have a yoyo that Richie could play with as long as he washed his hands first because they were dirty.

He was pretty sure he fell in love with him right then and there.

“I don’t think you were allowed those either, Spagheds,” he bumped his shoulder, sipping his drink before clapping his hands together. “Alright, Losers, who’s next?”

All in all, Maggie and Went won with Stan and Patty coming in a close second. Richie and Eddie came in last to Eddie’s chagrin as usually they either won or came at least second during most of their game nights. But unlike Last Loser Standing, Charades, Celebrity, The Voting Game, Trivia, and Cards Against Humanity, Pictionary wasn’t their strength, apparently. Or really, it wasn’t Richie’s.

“How was that last one a T-Rex?! It had six legs!”

So he wasn’t the next Banksy. Sue him. He had other talents.

“I gave it the tiny arms, Eddie! And I drew Jeff Goldblum with his shirt open! What else do you need?”

“What else do I…?” Eddie gaped at him as the Losers all laughed, calling out their goodbyes and goodnights.

“Later guys! Eddie, try not to strangle him!”

“Bye Mr. and Mrs. Tozier, good luck with those two.”

“Good game, everybody. Deep breaths, Ed!”

“See you all for brunch tomorrow if Eddie hasn’t killed Richie by then!”

Went and Maggie waved and called their goodbyes back before Richie closed down the laptop, grinning wide and a little dopily as Eddie continued to tipsily rant at him.

“Clearly you didn’t get either of your parents’ drawing abilities. Your lamb looked like a cloud on sticks.”

“Well, how else would I draw sheep, Michelangelo? Huh? Tell me.”

“You two haven’t changed a bit.”

He and Eddie froze as Went drained the last of his drink, chuckling at them loudly.

“Right?” his wife agreed, standing up far too fast for someone who had drunk quicker than any of them, “it’s like the Hungry Hungry Hippos debacle all over again.”

She held up her hands as they both began to argue their respective points from back in the ‘80s.

“Buh, buh, buh,” she shook her head at them, “I had my fill of that argument back in Derry, thank you. It’s our bedtime, boys. Come on Went, up and at ‘em.”

She reached down and hauled her husband (who had at least fifty pounds and six inches on her) out of his chair with ease. Eddie leaped out of his seat too, leading the way down the corridor, talking hand towels and spare blankets and eucalyptus soap all the way. Richie took up the rear, watching his parents and Eddie interact quietly, something warm and fond and very, very inconvenient settling in his chest.

“Thank you, Eddie. You’re such a good host,” Maggie murmured as they halted at the guest room (which was mostly used as Eddie’s home office these days), her eyes a little bleary with booze and fatigue and affection.

Richie caught his gaze over the top of his mother’s head as she took a step forward, hands raised to clasp both sides of his face.

“Oh, how did I ever forget about little Eddie Kaspbrak?” she asked herself, patting his cheek gently. “Richie never stopped waxing poetic about you when you were kids. It was so cute how much he—”

“Lies, slander, hearsay,” Richie cut across her, his entire body flushing hot as he unceremoniously shoved Eddie back down the hallway, a hasty, “Goodnight, parentals!” thrown over his shoulder.

He could hear Eddie’s soft laughter waft into the kitchen as he quickly followed him, almost crashing into his back when he halted suddenly, whirling around to face him.

“You actually did have a crush on me.”

The words themselves were not surprising. The fact that they could still cause a crescendo in his pulse, even after all this time, was.

He had told him, one night a couple of months ago after a few beers, in the quiet of their living room, the words bursting from him like a flooded dam. He hadn’t planned on it, but Eddie had been feeling particularly shitty about his recent coming out—"I'm a neurotic hypochondriac with trust issues and trauma out the wazoo, Rich! Who the fuck would find that attractive?" and Richie, as always, was eager to reassure him—”You know, I had a crush on you once upon a time. Neuroses and all…” Thankfully, he had managed to put a lid on it before he word-vomited the whole truth of his feelings out, but still.

Eddie finally knew (part of) his oldest secret.

They had left it at that.

Eddie, for once, really hadn’t said much.

And Richie, same as always, turned his heartfelt feelings into a joke.

All in all, he had had worse rejections. Shock and silence were better than anger and disgust.

He rubbed the back of his neck, stepping over to the kitchen island.

"Uh, yeah, Eds. Pretty sure I told you that already, even without my motormouth mom’s input.”

A gorgeous tinge of red painted his cheeks as he shrugged, shuffling over to the stovetop kettle to pour the gross sleepy time tea he drank most nights.

“I know yeah, but—it just...still surprises me. Like, out of all of the Losers, all the kids in Derry, little Richie Tozier chose the hyperactive hypochondriac to crush on? Seriously?"

He forced himself to shrug, staring at some forgotten popcorn on the coffee table.

“You had an appeal, Eds. What can I say?”

That you’re ass-deep in love with him and still want to be Mr. Richie Kaspbrak and have his rescue puppies?

"It was a five-minute thing somewhere in between psycho clowns and starting High School," he instead retold the lie he had been trying to convince Eddie (and himself) was true as airily as he could. "Something that broke up my hero-worship of Bill. And was soon surpassed by my giant heart boner for Bobby Wilkins until we moved."

Eddie stilled at his words, something etched on his face that Richie couldn't read.

"Right," he nodded, no longer looking at him, his mouth twisted in that same expression Richie didn’t recognize but wasn’t particularly psyched about.

Shit.

“See ya in the morning, Rich,” he continued, still not looking at him, taking his steaming mug in hand and shuffling past him. “Don’t be late getting up. Brunch with Bill and Mike is at 11:30.”

With that, he left the kitchen, the sound of his grandpa slippers on the hardwood floor echoing down the hallway.

Richie stood, rooted to the spot, staring after him for a long, long time, feeling yet again, like his stupid Trashmouth had said the wrong thing.

~*~

In a very unlike him move, sleep-deprived and all, Richie was up by 9:30. Granted, he was still the last to be showered and dressed, but still. It was over their very-light breakfast that good ol’ Mags dropped another bombshell of a question that had him wondering what he had done to incur this level of probing from his usually nonchalant parents.

“So when do I get to meet this mystery man you’re seeing?” His mom asked with that gleam in her eye that always had him suspicious.

He cleared his throat, shifting a little in his seat and trying to ignore how Eddie’s elbow brushed against his on the table.

“Uh, we're not really at the ‘Meet the Parents’ stage, ma. We’re still in the ‘Mystery Men’ or ‘Reality Bites’ stage.”

Maggie looked to Eddie.

“They’re all Ben Stiller movies. He’s being evasive,” he helpfully supplied before refilling his glass of disgusting kale smoothie.

Maggie turned her attention back to Richie.

“Margaret,” Went patted her hand, “we said we wouldn’t pry.”

She leveled her husband with a deadpan stare.

“Yes, Wentworth, we did say that, but this is hardly prying,” she sighed, tipping her glass of orange juice at him, “is it so bad for a mother to want to know what the man who’s wooing my son is called? Is a first name really too much?”

“‘Wooing’?” he repeated, baffled. “Who am I, Lizzy Bennet?”

Eddie snorted into his coffee. The traitor.

Maggie rolled her eyes in a way that made Richie remember that he was more like her than he realized.

“Well, it’s just you never bring anyone home, sweetheart, and you’re out now, so I thought that maybe your mother might finally be allowed to know—”

“Jamie. His name is Jamie. And he’s not ‘wooing’ me. It’s been a few dinners,” Richie interjected, narrowing his eyes at her and pointedly ignoring his best friend's heavy presence at his side, “that the end of the interrogation, Detective Tozier?”

She blinked, confusion swimming across her face as she glanced at Eddie and back to Richie, looking as if she wanted to say more before wincing apologetically and shaking her head.

“Sorry, honey,” she leaned forward and kissed his temple. “I didn’t mean to push. I’ll drop it. Once you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Yeah, that was the problem though, wasn’t it?

He wasn’t happy.

Or well, he was happy, but that had nothing to do with the handful of very mediocre dates he had reluctantly gone on with sitcom actor Jamie O’Connor at the insistence of his manager and bane of his existence, Steve Covall, and more to do with the man sitting beside him, trying and failing to finish a crossword puzzle.

“Torch song,” he muttered, looking down at the newspaper, “four across, two words, nine letters, ‘tune about unrequited love?’ It’s ‘torch song.’”

You’d know all about those, wouldn’t you Trashmouth?

The pen paused, piercing the paper a little before Eddie looked up, blinking at him.

“Oh. Uh, yeah. That looks right.”

He hurriedly scratched it in before finally conceding, sliding it over to Went who made grabby hands at it, already holding his own pen.

“Let’s see what we got here,” he mumbled more to himself than anyone else, a determined glint in his eye.

Richie took another sip of his too-hot coffee, trying to shove down his sudden lovesick melancholy and looking ahead to the day.

At least Bill and Mike would be a good distraction.

~*~

Unsurprisingly, they were a fantastic distraction. Mike was his warm and charming self and Bill was the perfect mix of tour guide and nostalgic suck-up. Before he knew it, they had bid goodbye to them both (Bill having a dinner date with his literary agent and dragging Mike with him for support) and were back at his and Eddie’s condo helping his mom prepare dinner.

“Nope, no way, Eddie, you are banished from this kitchen,” Maggie was waving a spatula at both Eddie and Went as Richie stayed firmly out of it. “You've done enough already. You and Went go tinker with that car you were telling him about. He hasn’t stopped gushing about it since we got here.”

Eddie threw a quick glance at Richie before shrugging, a small smile spreading across his face.

“Okay, if you're sure. Thanks. Follow me, Went. She’s in the back.”

Richie snorted loudly.

“Go, leave us for your true love, Kaspbrak. I get it. I’ll always be second to a '69 Chevy Camaro.”

Weirdly, Eddie refrained from snarkily retorting over his shoulder like he usually would. He had been uncharacteristically quiet all day actually, not rising to Richie’s many, many, attempts at baiting, but he tried not to dwell on it too much, figuring Eddie was just trying to watch what he said in front of his parents. Not that he needed to, Mags and Went clearly adored him.

(Guess it ran in the family.)

“Preheat the oven please, Rich,” his mom broke him from his reverie as she took out the ingredients she had just bought at the store.

They moved around each other just like old times, Richie assisting his mom with the chopping and dicing of vegetables, while Mags tackled the tougher stuff, browning the beef and assembling the pasta in a much neater fashion than he could ever manage. It was when the lasagna was about five minutes from being done, the scent of meat and cheese wafting through the air and rumbling his stomach, that she squinted at him.

“So, Valentine’s Day is tomorrow. Do you and ‘Jamie’ have any plans?”

Richie straightened up from where he was checking on the garlic bread. Something tingled in the back of his neck. His very own version of Spidey senses. ‘Mom’s up to something’ senses. Though that didn’t have the same ring to it.

“Why did you say his name like that?”

Maggie stared at him for a beat before taking a breath and stepping closer to him, voice quiet.

“Oh Richie really, I wasn’t born yesterday. I know who ‘Jamie’ actually is. You and Eddie are hardly subtle. You never were.”

He blinked.

“What?”

She rolled her eyes at him, poking him in the shoulder.

“Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you,” she gave another poke before grabbing some plates down from the kitchen cabinet. “It’s okay, I know about Eddie. There’s no need to hide it from me. I’ve known you two would end up together since you were ten years old."

He short-circuited.

Oh, shit.

“Mom...what are you talking about?”

A line formed between her eyebrows.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry about earlier. I was only teasing to let you and Eddie know it was okay to tell us.”

Dread dropped like a boulder in his stomach.

Oh, no.

“Tell you what?”

You really need her to say it, dipshit?

She stared at him as if he had grown an extra head.

“That you’re dating.”

Richie’s heart panged in his chest, his throat suddenly dry, every inch of his skin prickling as he forced a breath into his lungs.

“Me and Eddie are not dating, ma.”

The words practically echoed around the room.

Maggie blinked, eyebrows climbing up her forehead.

“Richie,” she gave a little jittery laugh, disbelieving, “I’ve seen you two together. Have heard and seen both over the last year…what do you mean you’re not dating? You’ve built a home together. You are more coupley than your father and I were when we first got together.”

Richie’s entire body was on fire. His hands started to shake. He clenched them at his sides as his eyes darted nervously out towards the door that led to the garage.

“It’s been a while but, I have been going on dates with a guy called Jamie,” he rasped. “We’ve…it’s not…I’m not dating Eddie. I was never dating Eddie. I will never date Eddie.”

“But, when you were kids—”

“We’re not kids anymore,” he argued, beads of sweat breaking out on the back of his neck, “it’s not like that. We’re best friends. Roommates. Business partners. That’s it.”

She let out a breath at that, her brow furrowed, looking oddly crestfallen.

“Oh. My mistake.”

A tense silence draped over them. A potent mix of emotions swirled in his gut, making him feel sick.

“I’ll just…” Maggie waved a hand over her shoulder, “go call the boys for dinner.”

With that, she gently patted Richie’s shoulder and walked quickly out of the kitchen, heading towards the garage.

He watched her go, taking in choaked breaths.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

~*~

“Oh, she’s a beaut, Eddie.”

Eddie tried and failed not to preen under Went’s awestruck reaction to his restoration project—the well-loved classic car he had bought on a whim (with Richie’s encouragement) in celebration of his divorce being finalized last year and had steadily worked on since.

“Thanks, Went,” he grinned, rubbing a cloth against the already shining hood, “it’s been fun getting her back in shape.”

“I remember you had an interest in cars as a kid,” Went remarked as he walked around to the trunk, “you helped me change the oil in the old Cortina a few times. And were always tinkering with Richie’s beat-up truck.”

Eddie laughed, the memories swirling around in the back of his head.

“Oh god, that truck was a lost cause. It broke down every second day.”

Went’s laughter joined his, he shaking his head.

“Yeah, he was so proud of it, though. He saved up for two years straight working at the Aladdin and sweeping up at Bernie’s, remember?”

“Oh yeah, we hardly saw him our entire sophomore year. He was the first to get his license out of all of us,” Eddie murmured, thinking fondly back on the first time he saw Richie pull up outside his house, hollering at him about a Loser road trip.

It ended up being just the two of them.

And they promptly broke down on the edges of town.

It had still been one of the best days of Eddie’s young life, though.

“He taught me how to drive stick,” he marveled under his breath, the memory washing over him.

“That’s right!” Went exclaimed, eyes alight with mirth. “I remember how proud he was. You were fearless, kid, ‘cause Richie was a terrible teacher.”

Eddie chuckled, reminiscing on the many, many failed lessons that Richie attempted to give him in direct rebellion to his mother who refused to let him even participate in Driver’s Ed.

“You two woulda followed each other to the ends of the Earth.”

He startled at the words, though he really shouldn’t have. They were true. Had been then and still were now.

“Yeah,” he murmured in agreement, watching out of the corner of his eye as Went came to stand next to him.

"You know, Eddie,” he cleared his throat, still looking at the car. “Maggie and I are grateful that our son finally has someone who makes him happy."

His head shot up.

"Oh uh, yeah, I think he and Jamie are—"

"I meant you, Eddie," Went injected, wiping his hands in the already oil-stained rag before turning to level him with a serious look that Eddie couldn’t ever remember seeing before. “Since you've been back in his life, it's like we have the old Richie back. He's lighter. Smiles more and means it. He's just...happy again in a way I haven't seen in a long, long time. And I know a lot of that is down to you. So, thank you, son."

He was not going to cry in a garage in front of his Camaro and his best friend's dad. He wasn't.

But it was a near thing.

“‘Course,” he rasped, his throat a little hoarse, his eyes stinging. “He…he uh…”

Fuck it.

“He makes me happy too. Always has.”

There was that look on Went’s face again. The same he had seen Maggie direct at him more than once too. Something knowing and content and something that should have terrified him but somehow didn’t.

“I’m glad, Eddie,” Went raised a hand to clasp his shoulder but faltered, wincing at the oil stains.

“I’m gonna wash up over here, that okay?” he jerked his head over his shoulder at the sink that Eddie had installed a while back.

“Yeah,” he gave a slight cough before stepping back towards the stairs. “I’ll head upstairs, get washed up for dinner too.”

He climbed the short staircase, reaching out to push open the garage door that led back into the kitchen when he heard his name.

“—was only teasing to let you and Eddie know it was okay to tell us.”

“Tell you what?”

“That you’re dating.”

Eddie froze, hand suspended in the air, inches from the door.

Maggie thinks…

His heart hammered against his ribcage as he waited for Richie to reply to his mother.

It had been tough this morning, laughing along with the Toziers as they teased their son about his newfound relationship with Jamie. Sure, it had been hard for him to keep being reminded of Richie’s one-time childhood crush on him that had long since dissipated, but it was another thing entirely to be constantly aware of the fact that the man he was trying so hard not to be in love with was actively dating someone else.

And now…

“Me and Eddie are not dating, ma.”

Those words, as true as they were, still had heavy dread sinking in his gut.

“Richie, I’ve seen you two together. Have heard and seen both over the last year…what do you mean you’re not dating? You’ve built a home together. You are more coupley than your father and I were when we first got together.”

See? You’re so obvious, Kaspbrak. Maggie can see your pathetic heart eyes a mile away, you sap.

There was a short pause as Eddie held his breath.

“It’s been a while but, I have been going on dates with a guy called Jamie,” Richie replied, sounding indignant. “We’ve…it’s not…I’m not dating Eddie. I was never dating Eddie. I will never date Eddie.”

A sharp pain shot through his whole body at that.

It wasn't news, of course. He had known for a long while now that unlike him, whatever Richie may have felt when they were kids—the silly, innocent crush, did not transcend into adulthood. And he had accepted that. Painfully. But firmly. For the sake of their friendship.

Unfortunately, it didn't stop him from falling deeper in love with him all the same.

“But, when you were kids—”

“We’re not kids anymore, it’s not like that. We’re best friends. Roommates. Business partners. That’s it.”

That’s it.

Eddie’s heart pounded in his ears, drowning out whatever was said next. His brain screamed at him to move, go back downstairs, shove the interaction out of his mind to anxiously torture himself about later, in the safety of his own bedroom. But he couldn’t move an inch. At least not until his adrenaline spiked when he heard sudden footsteps near the door.

As if electrocuted, he jumped, scrambling back down the steps, almost tripping and braining himself on the railing in his haste. The door opened a crack just as he caught himself, basking him in light from the kitchen. There, Margaret Tozier stood, staring down at him, something unreadable etched on her face.

“Oh, Eddie, there you are,” she smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes, “I was just calling you both for dinner,” she paused, head tilting at him. “You okay?”

I will never date Eddie. That’s it. I will never date Eddie. That’s it. I will never—

He forced himself to nod. Once. Twice.

“Uh, yeah, I’m fine. Went is just washing his hands. He’ll uh…he’ll be right up.”

Maggie bit her lip, nodding back.

Fuck.

She knows.

“I’ll um,” he cleared his throat, forcing his feet to unglue from the floor, stiffly ascending the steps, his entire body aching, “I’ll go set the table.”

Before she could protest, he slipped past her and bolted for the kitchen, hoping, wishing, and praying that Richie wasn’t in there.

He was.

He ignored him, making a beeline for the sink, and began washing his oil-stained hands, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as a quiet, strangled noise left Richie before he cleared his throat.

“Uh, so, is Went impressed with your girlfriend?”

Another stab of pain darted through him at that, but he ignored it.

“Yeah.”

I will never date Eddie. That’s it. I will never—

“You alright, Eds?”

Don’t turn around. Don’t look at him. Don’t—

“I’m fine.”

He was not fine. He was so, so far, from fine. He was the antithesis of fine.

But now was not the time.

He could fall apart later.

A hand clasped his shoulder and he practically leaped three feet in the air, tense as a bowstring.

“Whoa, hey, it’s just me,” Richie murmured in that same quiet tone, his thumb rubbing gently against the fabric of his T-shirt.

Silently, he watched as he raised that hand to his face, that thumb brushing against his cheekbone, right over his scar.

“Rich…”

His hand jerked away, eyes fluttering as if only realizing what he had just done.

“Sorry, I—you had a smudge. S’gone now.”

It was then that Eddie realized how close they were standing.

I will never date Eddie. That’s it.

“—and we have garlic bread too so—”

He practically went into cardiac arrest as the Tozier matriarch rounded the corner, her voice wafting into the room.

“I uh—I’m gonna go change for dinner,” he gestured at his oil-stained T-shirt to avoid eye contact, “I’ll be right back.”

He could feel Richie’s heavy gaze following him as he booked it towards his bedroom, but forced himself to ignore it. He was having a hard time keeping his heart in check as it was.

This was gonna be a long night…

~*~

Something was wrong with Eddie, but Richie couldn’t figure out what. Like earlier, he was quieter, more subdued, but now, there seemed to also be an edge to him, as if he were bracing himself for an attack that could strike at any moment. It reminded Richie of the first few weeks of them living together, getting to know each other again in a shared space. He had been a bit skittish then too, almost as if he were surprised by Richie’s presence and startled at the random noises he made and the space he took up.

It had worried him at first, thinking that maybe he wasn’t right for Eddie’s roommate, but when he voiced as much, Eddie shot that down quickly. Because it hadn’t been that Richie wasn’t right, it was that, for once, Eddie felt like he had his own place in the world, that he could control and make his own, and the fact that Richie shared it with him, without trying to take over, took him by surprise every day.

But this wasn’t that. Ever since he came back into the kitchen looking all unfairly sexy in his tight, white T-shirt all stained with oil and nearly giving Richie a heart attack, it was clear that this was Eddie spooked. Out of sorts. Bothered by something that completely eluded Richie.

And he hated it.

“So Eddie, how’re you liking our new job?” Maggie asked as they ate.

That perked him up a bit to Richie’s relief, he animatedly launching into a story about a project he and his team were working on. Maggie and Went jumped in with questions every now and then, enraptured by him and his enthusiasm, proving yet again, that Toziers of all shapes and sizes and generations, were suckers for Edward F. Kaspbrak.

“And how’s the love life post-divorce?”

Richie was going to commit matricide. He really was.

He kept his glare firmly on his traitor of a mother as Eddie stilled, clearing his throat and gesturing with his glass, red wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

“Uh, you know, I haven’t really uh…had a lot of time to date. So.”

Leave it alone, Mags. Don’t you dare—

“Aw, that’s a shame,” Maggie cut across his silent scolding. “A handsome, smart, successful man like yourself, deserves a good guy to share your life with.”

Richie narrowed his eyes into slits but she pointedly ignored him.

“Well,” Eddie coughed, giving a small shrug and addressing his plate, “maybe one day.”

Richie’s stomach lurched at the thought. Some handsome, smart, successful man coming into Eddie’s life that would sweep him off his feet and away from Richie and everything they built together over the last two years. He knew it was selfish, unfair, and hypocritical even, considering he himself had been ‘dating’, but he couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when Eddie had insisted on staying far away from the dating scene—turning down set-ups and openly criticizing apps for months now.

I’d rather rip off my own arm than get a venereal disease from some fitness bro off Grin-der, Richie.

He had meant Grindr, or maybe Tinder, not a bastardization of the two, but the sentiment still stood. And made Richie worry that his type was men with more muscle than smart mouth and who cared more about kale smoothies than late-night cheese cubes.

Not like you have a chance anyway, dumbass, a voice that sounded far too like his snarky thirteen-year-old self rebuked in his head as Maggie took a sip of her wine and hummed in a way that told him whatever she was cooking up in that brain of hers, could only mean trouble.

“You know…my friend Sylvia’s son Ronan lives downtown. Owns his own gym. Graduated top of his class in business school and volunteers with the local outreach program. I could introduce you when we’re nearby tomorrow. He’s a sweetheart.”

Richie’s heart plummeted into his stomach, tangling and tightening to the point of nausea as he finally allowed himself to look up at Eddie, who was blinking at his mom in surprise, but not immediately jumping in with refusals as usual.

“Oh, uh…” he pushed some lasagna around with his fork, “I…I haven’t really been thinking about dating late—”

“Leave Eds alone, Ma,” Richie cut across him, trying to inject some levity into his far too sharp tone, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, “he doesn’t need Blind Date: Tozier Edition. He’s—”

“Actually,” Eddie interjected, leaning forward with an expression on his face that he couldn’t decipher, “I’ve been thinking that it might be time for me to get back out there. Maybe I’ll take you up on that, Mrs. Tozier.”

Richie stopped breathing, gripping his fork so tightly that his knuckles whitened.

“Maggie,” she corrected with a pleased grin, fishing around for her phone and unlocking it, the light basking her in a soft glow.

“I know I have Sylvia’s number in here somewhere,” she muttered to herself, scrolling, “I’m sure I can get the name of Ronan’s gym and double-check where—”

“Anyone want a beer?”

He was on his feet before his brain even registered he had spoken, practically fleeing the room before anyone could make a sound. He stumbled into the kitchen, gripping the sink tightly as he fought to control his haggard breathing, his heart thumping in his ears.

“Rich.”

He jumped, whirling around to find Went Tozier eyeing him with a cryptic expression, something like concern and confusion and something else he didn’t want to examine too closely.

“Oh, hey Dad. You want a—”

“You should tell him.”

Richie froze, arm outstretched towards the fridge.

He can’t…he doesn’t mean…

Clearing his throat, he forced himself to be nonchalant (and largely failed), opening the fridge and peering inside.

“Tell who what?”

“Richie.”

It had been a long time since he had heard his name said like that. Especially out of his dad’s mouth. His stomach churned. He stared at the butter. He felt rather than heard Went edge closer, until his hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing it gently and turning him.

“You’ve been in love with him since the fifth grade.”

Panic surged in his veins.

Guess your secret wasn’t so secret after all, Trashmouth.

“Dad—”

“I know it’s probably not my place, son, and I really don’t mean to overstep, I don’t,” Went interrupted quietly, “but…your mother and I, we just want you to be happy. I mean, you are happy, so much happier than we’ve seen in a long, long, time, and I know why. But I know you could be happier. And I think you know how, too.”

A fist closed around Richie’s heart as he rasped out, “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

He thought about throwing out his arms, flailing like a tube dude in the wind and scoffing loudly at his father’s ridiculous question, but instead, all that escaped, in barely more than a whisper was—

“Because he…doesn’t…want me.”

You pathetic, pining—

Went’s fingers tightened on his shoulder, interrupting his spiraling thoughts as their eyes finally met.

“I won’t speak for him, Rich, but…don’t you think you should make sure? Maybe ask him? So you know once and for all?”

Richie’s head was shaking before he even finished his sentence.

“I can’t. I wouldn’t recover.”

Coward.

Went blinked at him.

“Who says you’d have to? What if it goes right?”

An ugly snort escaped him, smothering the inconvenient hope that never quite managed to perish over the span of three decades.

“And what if it doesn’t?”

His dad leveled him with a look he knew well. A look, due to his general Richieness and Went’s Wentness—he didn’t see often growing up, but always knocked him on his ass anyway. A look that said, Richard, I am your father and I think you’re being myopic. Let yourself dream bigger.

“Well,” his dad murmured with another gentle squeeze on his shoulder. “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”

~*~

Slow, clumsy tapping filled the air of Eddie and Richie’s living room.

“Oh, you know what, I don’t think I have Sylvia’s number saved after all,” Maggie mumbled almost to herself, as she continued to scroll through her phone.

He blinked, tearing his eyes away from the kitchen door that Richie and Went had just disappeared behind.

“Oh,” he swallowed down the lump in his throat, “that’s okay. I’m probably not ready for dating anyway, so—”

“Not even if it was with the right guy?”

His head snapped up, his gaze catching on those familiar eyes, identical to his best friend’s.

“You think Ronan is the right guy for me?”

“Not Ronan, no.”

It settled between them—not heavily, not lightly—just truthfully.

The fork slipped out of his grip, clattering down onto his plate. It was the confirmation that neither one of them needed.

He cleared his throat, rougher this time, that stubborn lump refusing to budge as he pushed his food away and reached for his wine glass, Maggie’s eyes burning a hole into his forehead.

She knows. She knows. Fuck, she know—

“Eddie.”

A small, slender hand reached out and landed on his, squeezing his fingers gently.

“It’s okay.”

A hitch of breath escaped him as those words wrapped around him like a blanket.

“It is?”

His voice was quiet, and timid, sounding much closer to him at fourteen than forty-two.

Another squeeze to his hand.

“Yes. More than okay. It has been for a long, long time.”

That doesn’t mean—

“You’re right for him too, you know,” Maggie half-whispered, gaze flickering to the kitchen door and back, “I knew it then and I know it now.”

He swallowed around his Sahara-dry throat, his whole body shakier than it had been in the midst of murder-clown-hysteria.

“W-What if he doesn’t think so?”

Maggie’s left eyebrow arched.

“And what if he does?”

Eddie’s eyebrow arched back, shame and embarrassment creeping up his spine.

“I-I heard…he said…that we were just…that we'd never…" he waved a hand, unable to give a voice to his biggest fear and harshest heartbreak.

Shaking his head firmly, he cleared his throat, his words slightly steadier than before.

“I can’t risk it.”

Something flashed across Maggie’s eyes. He tried not to look too closely. Unable to see a mirror of Richie’s staring back at him.

“Something worth having is worth the risk, Eddie. Trust me. Just…think about it. Richie, he—I love him but he’s not always the most emotionally honest, especially with himself,” she sighed, squeezing his fingers, a little smile gracing her face. “I don’t give just anyone my recipes, you know.”

With that, she sat back, letting his hand drop.

“Sorry. I’ll stop meddling now. I never did know when to keep my big trap shut. Where do you think he gets it?”

~*~

This year, Valentine’s Day fell on a Wednesday. The least sexy day of the week.

“It’s literally called ‘hump day’, man. How is that not sexy?”

Eddie rolled his eyes at Richie as they dished out their Chinese food, flicking through Netflix for a dumb action movie (starring the one and only Jean Claude Van Damme) to watch.

A perfectly ‘bro’ way to spend a romantic holiday.

Nice and safe for his wounded, pining, tragically hopeful heart.

“What restaurant did you reserve for your folks again?” he piped up, poking at his noodles.

Richie skipped over Double Jeopardy, waving the remote in his face.

“Providence. Apparently, the seafood is ‘to die for,’ but let’s hope we don’t get an emergency contact call. That’d be a shitty end to the visit.”

Eddie hummed around his chopsticks, fighting a wince.

“Sorry you’re stuck with me and take out instead of, I dunno, at a fancy dinner with Jamie or something.”

He could feel Richie’s eyes burning into the side of his face before he hopped up off the couch, wiping his palms on his jeans.

“Uh, yeah well,” he cleared his throat and waved flippantly over his shoulder, “he text me last night saying something about ‘rekindling an old flame’ so Valentine’s Day wasn’t on the cards for us, I guess.”

Eddie froze, eyes darting over to him before he scrambled to put down his food and follow him into the kitchen.

“What?! That asshole!”

“It’s all right, Eds,” Richie continued to the fridge, “no need to go all attack dog. It’s fine.”

Anger shot through his veins.

“The fuck it is! That dickwad texts you the night before Valentine’s Day? Who the hell does that?!”

Richie stopped dead in his tracks, turning to face him.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, reaching out to clasp his arm gently. “Yeah, I mean, it sucks but, he wasn’t really my type anyway. I’d much rather hang out with you and Van Damme than a vain actor in some stuffy, overpriced, tiny-portioned French place. Any day.”

Eddie squinted up at him.

“Tall, blond, and handsome isn’t your type?”

Something enigmatic passed over Richie’s face at that. Once upon a time, Eddie would have been able to read it like the back of his favourite cereal box, but their time apart had given Richie some new expressions that weren’t always legible to him. But he found he was enjoying learning all over again.

“I’m uh…a fan of short, brunet nerds, actually.”

His heart catapulted into his throat.

Easy, Kaspbrak. It doesn’t mean anything. He doesn’t mean—

"Yeah well, he'll regret it,” he interrupted his own mental spiraling before he could go too far down the rabbit hole. “You're a catch. Smart, funny, handsome, the trifecta. That douche doesn't know what taste is!"

Jesus. Why don’t you just propose already?

He braced himself for an onslaught of jokes, a snarky comeback to his far too sincere compliment.

But it never came.

"Thanks, Eds."

Richie's voice was soft. His eyes were softer.

"You too."

His hand dropped from his arm as he turned back around to open the fridge, snatching up two beers.

“Did you mean what you said?” he asked suddenly, a furrow between his eyebrows as he shut the fridge door and held out a bottle for him to take.

Eddie blinked, fighting a blush as their fingers brushed.

“Uh…yeah? You’re great. I’m sure you’ll find someone who—”

“No,” he shifted his weight from foot to foot, gaze pinned somewhere near his clavicle. “I mean about you putting yourself out there. Dating.”

A beat passed.

"I mean, maybe? Yes? No?"

"Lot of mixed messages there, Eduardo."

Heat spread across his cheeks as their gazes finally locked.

"I just…the person has to be…right. You know?"

That same something danced in Richie’s eyes.

“Yeah. I know."

Nerves prickled like static in Eddie’s whole body as he ran his free hand through his hair.

“So, what, you’re going for a short, brunet nerd next time?"

Another beat.

Two.

Thr—

“If he’ll have me.”

Eddie watched as Richie swallowed, his Adam’s Apple bobbing. He wanted to sink his teeth into it.

“It sounds like you have someone in mind.”

Richie cleared his throat, giving a half-shrug.

“Maybe. Do you? Some gym bro named Ronan who—”

“No. God. Not my type.”

Eddie suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he took a sip of his beer.

“And what’s your type?”

And promptly almost spat it out.

You’re braver than you think.

“Tall, brunet nerds.”

“Huh.”

“Hm.”

They were openly staring at one another now, barely a foot apart, hands clutching their beer bottles in the middle of their dimly-lit, near-silent kitchen.

Richie took a shaky breath, his face doing something complicated.

“Eddie—”

“I heard you and your mom talking last night,” he cut across him, blood igniting with a potent mix of nerves and exhilaration. “She…thought we were dating?”

What the actual fuck are you doing, Kaspbrak?!

Richie froze, eyebrows arched in surprise, his teeth mid-chew on his bottom lip.

“Uh—”

“But you set her straight. Told her we weren't dating, that we'd never date. That we’re best friends. Roommates. Business partners. That’s it.”

"Eds—"

“‘Cause you got over your crush on me in middle school,” Eddie waved a hand, his brain firing on all cylinders as his mouth fled from it like a robber from cops, “which is fine. I get it. Never understood what the appeal of me was in the first place, anyway. Bobby Wilkins was a dumbass, but at least he—”

“Was an asshole,” Richie finished, sounding indignant. “He was a grade A douchebag with bad hair and worse personality.”

“But you said—”

“I know what I said!” he flapped a hand, his mouth running a mile a minute. “But, c’mon, man. What was I supposed to say? ‘Well, actually Eds, my massive crush on you lasted right up until we said goodbye on the kissing bridge that day I tried to show you where I—’”

His voice died in his throat, his eyes bugging.

Eddie gaped up at him, the words ringing in his ears and mixing with the ones that Maggie had said the night before, that had kept him awake.

Something worth having is worth the risk.

He took a deep breath. That same stupid hope blooming within him, bigger and brighter than ever.

Maybe this was worth the risk.

“Where you…what, Rich?”

~*~

Well, you’ve fucked it up now, Trashmouth. Deflect, deflect!

“Nothing!” he squawked, attempting to turn on his heel and book it back into the living room but was halted when Eddie’s hand clasped around his wrist tightly and held him in place.

He tried to ignore the arousal that sparked in his gut at that. He failed.

“You brought me up there the day I was moving,” Eddie continued, hesitantly, his fingers flexing against his skin. “I remember you were jumpy, even more trash-mouthy than usual, but I just chalked that up to the fact that I was leaving.”

Richie’s eyes fell shut. That had been one of the worst memories he had recovered since Derry 2: Electric Boogaloo. That day could have happily stayed gone, in his opinion.

It was the first time he experienced true heartbreak.

But wouldn’t be his last.

“We stopped on the kissing bridge. Right at the post.”

He winced, letting his eyes open a crack, feeling Eddie’s burning a hole in the side of his face.

“You stood there, talkin’ a mile in a minute about some dumb shit like fuckin’ my mom and—” he swallowed, his grip on his wrist tightening, “and I hugged you. Tighter than I ever hugged anyone in my whole life.”

He nodded.

"And you hugged me back. You…" Eddie tilted his head at him, his dark eyes even more bush baby-esque than usual. "You hugged me like you didn't want to let me go."

"I didn't. I never do, Eds."

The words were out of his mouth before his brain had even finished thinking them. He could only watch, frozen, terrified and helpless, as something that looked like understanding passed over his best friend’s face.

You’ve ruined everything you stupid—

"Maggie told me something too."

Richie felt his eyes almost pop out of their sockets as sheer terror flooded his system.

"Dammit, Mags, listen Ed—"

“She told me to tell you that I…like you.”

His heart lurched into his throat.

"...Like me?"

He sounded every bit his scared, pining, thirteen-year-old self in that moment. And Eddie looked about three seconds away from throwing up.

“I-I had a crush on you back in the day too.”

Holy fucking shit.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Somewhere, sometime, a loud, gangly teenager with insecurities out the wazoo was throwing the biggest party known to man.

Wait…

“But you said…like. As in. Present tense,” he mumbled slowly, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Oh my god, are we in the eighth grade?!”

“I mean, may—”

He was cut off by Eddie tugging on his wrist and pulling him down into a kiss.

“Mmph!”

Holyshitholyshitohmygodwhatthefuckholymotherfuckingfuck—

Eddie Kaspbrak’s lips were soft. Better than any dream. Just like he always knew they’d be.

But before he could fully appreciate them, just as quickly, they were gone.

“Shit, sorry! Sorry! I don’t know what—just—can we forget that I just did that and ruined our entire fucking friendship with my dumb fucking—”

“Eds! Breathe, man,” Richie held out his hands, snatching Eddie’s beer out of his tight grip and putting both bottles on the counter, struggling to catch his own haggard breath.

“Jesus, I’m such a—look, I’m sorry I read it wrong, Rich, okay?” Eddie continued to ramble, his voice raising in pitch and volume by the second. “Can we just forget—”

“You didn’t.”

He blinked those giant eyes in confusion.

“What?”

“You didn’t…read it wrong.”

“I…” Eddie swallowed, gasping, his chest heaving.

Richie’s eyes caught on the line of his throat.

“I didn’t?” he rasped, running a hand through his hair. “So you—you—”

Now or never, Trashmouth. Like dad said, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?

“My dad told me to tell you that I like you. Past and present tense.”

Eddie's jaw practically hit the floor.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh.’ And my mom thinks we’re dating 'cause…we…we’re…” he waved a hand, shrugging, hoping that he knew what he was trying to communicate despite his brain leaking out of his ears.

“Kind of are?” Eddie finished perfectly, sounding awed, a noticeable, adorable blush spreading from his neck all the way up to his hairline. “I mean, without the dates and s-sex and stuff.”

“And stuff,” Richie croaked, his heart beating so fast and hard in his chest, he felt like Roger Rabbit around Jessica.

“Would you…do you…” Eddie groaned, running a hand down his face in frustration, struggling to get his words out.

Richie closed the gap between them, his hands clasping his shoulders and knees bending to try to catch his eye.

You can be brave too, Tozier.

“Eddie. It’s just me. It’s okay.”

Their eyes finally locked. Something flashed across his best friend’s gaze that ignited a spark in him, both exhilarating and terrifying but so, so, hopeful.

“Do you want all that stuff with me, Rich?”

His voice was still quiet, but not timid anymore. A strength lined his syllables that made Richie feel brave too. Brave enough to admit his oldest, but never dirty secret, finally, after all these years.

“Eddie. I want everything with you. I always have.”

“Oh, thank fuck.”

With that, Eddie dragged him down by the collar into another startling kiss, before making his way down his jaw and scraping his teeth against the thin skin of his throat.

Richie’s stomach clenched with arousal, as he allowed his hands to trail down the body that had been starring in every steamy dream he had for the last two years (or over thirty depending on what way you looked at it), to land on those toned, wiry, infuriatingly sexy thighs.

“Rich, what—whoa!”

Richie cupped his thighs and lifted in one smooth move that he would definitely pat himself on the back for later (if he hadn’t just thrown it out), nipping at his bottom lip as he gently placed him on the kitchen counter and pressed himself as close to him as he could get.

“Oh, holy shit,” Eddie gasped, lips separating from Richie’s neck with a heady smack as he spread his legs wider to accommodate him, only to immediately tighten them around him in a way that had his stomach swooping.

“Jesus, Eds,” he groaned, his cock twitching in his jeans as their hands flew everywhere, raking all over each other, too frantic to stay in one place.

“Y-Yeah,” he gasped back, hands framing his face and dislodging his glasses as he traced his bottom lip with his tongue, deepening the kiss.

“God you’re so hot, what the fuck?” Richie groaned into his jaw as he smattered it with kisses, sounding pained. “It should be illegal. When you were in that tight white T-shirt all covered in oil? You were gonna give me a boner with my parents in the next room.”

“Like you’re one to talk Mr. ‘Let Me Try On My New Suit With Sexy Suspenders In The Middle of The Living Room,’” Eddie hissed back, nipping on his earlobe and making him yelp, and quickly shiver.

“Oh my god,” he laughed breathlessly. “Is that why you ran out of the room like it was on fire? Because of my sexy suspenders? Seriously?”

Eddie leaned back and arched an eyebrow at him, his cheeks alarmingly red.

“No,” he grumbled. “It was because of your stupid sexy shoulders in the suspenders, dickwad.”

With that point apparently being made, he latched back onto his neck like a greedy little vampire, muttering into his skin. “We could have been doing this for months now, Rich, fuck.”

A sharp stinging welled up behind Richie’s eyes (to match the one in his neck) as he briefly let himself think about all the time they had already lost, but it was quickly drowned out by Eddie tugging on his hair, pulling him even closer, capturing his lips and licking into his—

“We’re back!”

They sprung apart as if doused with a bucket of ice water, Maggie Tozier’s voice wafting in from the living room.

“Shit!”

“Fuck!”

Eyes bugging out of their sockets, Richie scrambled to help Eddie down off the counter and smooth out his clothes, while frantically fixing his glasses and patting his hair from where Eddie’s fingers had been raking through it.

“Oh. Hi.”

Maggie Tozier blinked at them from the doorway of the kitchen, Went visible from just behind her.

“You’re uh…back early,” Richie cleared his throat, rubbed the back of his neck and tried not to look as dishevelled as he felt. “Everything okay?”

Maggie tilted her head, looking from him to Eddie and back again.

“Yes, everything’s fine, sweetheart. Your father and I were just feeling a bit tired so we thought we’d have an early night because we’re meeting up with the rest of the Losers tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay. Yeah.”

He forced his feet to move, Eddie hot on his heels as they spilled back into the living room, Eddie taking a seat down on the couch while Richie stayed standing, locked in some weird staring competition with his mother.

He thanked every deity he didn’t believe in that her sudden presence took care of the semi he had been seconds from sporting in his pants.

Don’t blink. Don’t show her any weakness. She smells blood in the—

“Well, we’ll leave you to your dinner. G’night, boys. Margaret?” Went piped up from where he was half way down the hallway, dispelling the tension.

“G-Good night, Went. Maggie,” Eddie replied, sounding hesitant and raising his hand in a half-wave before wincing.

Maggie’s gaze flickered between them before she took a step towards her husband.

“Good night you two. See you both in the morning.”

He let out a relieved breath as she started to walk out of the room. Quickly, he glanced over his shoulder to look at Eddie who raised his eyebrows at him, mouth agape, his lips a plump, shiny red that had his pulse racing when he thought about how—

“Oh and boys?” Maggie called out suddenly, her back still turned. “I’m happy for you.”

Richie's stomach flipped.

“Ma, what—”

“You might wanna cover up that neck before we meet the rest of the Losers tomorrow, Rich,” she whirled around, waving her hand in a flourish, a twinkle in her eye. “They’ll never let you live a hickey down. I know I sure as hell won’t.”

With that she let out a loud chuckle and waltzed down the hallway, out of sight.

Richie, rooted to the spot, gaped into the space she had just left behind.

Seconds ticked by.

“So.”

“Yeah.”

“Your mom knows.”

“Yep.”

“Soon your dad will know.”

“Uh huh.”

“...probably won’t be long ‘til the Losers know too.”

“Probably not.”

“Okay.”

“How do you feel about—whoa!”

He stumbled as Eddie tugged him down onto the couch suddenly, so close that their thighs touched, a large grin on his face.

“Hi.”

They stared at one another, Richie knowing well he had a goofy grin the size of Texas on his face as they slowly, gently, closed the gap between them until their lips brushed again.

Eddie gave a little hum, sounding pleased as he wrapped his arms around his shoulders, his hands weaving into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Shit, Eds, you really are gonna give me a boner with my parents in the next room,” he groaned, both in pleasure and frustration as Eddie clutched at him.

“Sorry.”

“‘Sorry he says,’” Richie parroted as he leaned back, catching his eye.

Eddie bit his temptingly shiny lip in a very distracting way, looking conflicted.

“Sorry, I probably shouldn’t be rushing things. You’ve only just stopped dating Jamie and—”

“Heh, so funny story,” Richie interrupted, his face on fire. “We uh…weren’t exactly…dating. Technically.”

Eddie blinked slowly.

“What?”

Richie reached out and took his hand, squeezing it gently, staring as their fingers entwined, something warm pooling in his stomach at the sight.

“Well, I know I’ve never really done the whole dating thing before, but,” he shrugged, looking everywhere but at him, “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to like, ask them about themselves and shit, not spend the whole time rambling on about everything you find endearing about your best friend.”

He swept his thumb over his knuckles, taking a deep breath.

The truth will set you free, Trashmouth.

“And I’m extra sure you’re not supposed to confess to said date after being asked outright if you’re in love with your best friend that yes, you are, have been for the last thirty years, sorry man, you want dessert?”

A loud silence rang out.

It felt like hours.

Richie stared at their linked fingers and held his breath.

“...you’re in love with me?”

He exhaled. Squeezed his hand again.

“Yeah. Have been for kinda forever, Eds. Sorry.”

He finally let his eyes trail his entire face, marveling at every line, freckle, detail that he had first mapped out in grade school, it only more handsome with age.

“‘Sorry’ he says,” Eddie rolled his eyes before promptly pulling him back against him and crashing their lips together in a deep kiss.

“I’m in love with you. Have been for kinda forever too,” he gasped, their breaths mingling. “In case it wasn’t obvious.”

Richie buried his smile in his hair, his heart lighter than it had ever been before, something he had held inside since before he could remember, lifting from him in that moment.

Your secret is out. The world didn’t end. It’s just the beginning…

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool,” he pecked his cheek, pulling him against his chest and sinking back into the couch.

Their couch. In their home. That they had built together.

“Hey, Eds…wanna hear why I actually brought you to the kissing bridge, that day?”

(More Reddie fics)

#reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #my fanfiction #decided to post a full fic here to see how it does #love to hear your thoughts

89 notes · View notes

karadanverss · 11 months

Note

I would like to know about stoncy parents 👀

So this is going to be a direct follow up to a piece I did for Stoncy week this summer! Up All Night! This particular installment is about juggling their new relationship, the baby, and now Steve's parents getting added to the mix!

I'm happy to share a snippet of what I have so far!

“Are you two going to be joining us for dinner?” Jonathan asked after the travel talk finally ceased. “I’m not sure—” “Jon, you don’t have to—” Steve and his father began in tandem. “What a lovely idea,” Maggie said, shooting both Steve and Robert disapproving looks. “We’d love to catch up more with Steve and learn more about this… arrangement.” Jonathan’s face paled a bit as he gave Steve a nervous glance. “I hope you’re okay with spaghetti. I’m making a sauce—I could see if we have enough ingredients for lasagna or—” “Spaghetti is fine, Jon…athan. Thanks,” Steve said, answering for his parents. He was not about to make Jonathan go to all that trouble for his parents who had invited themselves over to the house in the first place. “But… maybe we should call Nance… to see if she has a preference.” Oh no. He shouldn’t have said that. He was doing so well, and he just wanted to give Jon a subtle way to warn her but… his parents immediately perked up at that, staring him down. “Nancy…Wheeler?” His mother asked, her eyebrows raised as she stared at him. “Or is it Byers now?” Robert asked shooting a look at Jonathan. “Uh…” Jonathan froze. Steve saw it, his mother’s eyes immediately zeroed in on Jonathan’s ring finger. No ring. All that legwork was out the window. Sure, his father could be as unfaithful as he wanted without consequence, but the idea of having a baby out of wedlock was too scandalous for Margaret Harrington. Steve sighed. “Yeah, that Nancy,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “And I don’t think their marital status is really any of our business.” Jonathan gave him an appreciative look at that. “Yeah, I’ll give her a quick call to check.” He excused himself walking up the steps to call from the bedroom. Good. Smart. “Steven, they have a child,” Maggie scolded him. “You cannot still be trying to win over Nancy Wheeler—married or not—” “Mom, that’s not—” Robert let out a disapproving sigh. “Honestly, son. When I told you to try and apply yourself and start a career, I didn’t mean for you to move in with your ex and her new… whatever they are. This is not going to end well—” “It’s not like that,” Steve snapped, pushing his hair back from his face in frustration.

#stoncy #stoncy fic #stranger things for ts #ask #answered #wip game #anonymous

7 notes · View notes

ash-and-books · 2 years

Photo

Rating: 2/5

Book Blurb: Love is in the heir in this royally good rom com debut releasing in Spring 2023 – perfect for anyone who likes relatable heroines (with great hair), hot and aloof book boyfriends, and near misses and almost kisses.

Despite living in an actual castle, happily ever after is evading Margaret ‘Maggie’ Moore.From her bedroom in the Tower of London, twenty-six-year-old Maggie has always dreamed of her own fairy-tale ending.Yet this is twenty-first century London, so instead of knights, she has Tinder, and instead of white horses, she has catfish. And with her last relationship ending in spectacular fashion, she swears off men for good.And then a chance encounter with Royal Guard Freddie forces Maggie to admit that she isn’t ready to give up on love just yet… But how do you catch the attention of someone who is trained to ignore all distractions?Can she snare that true love’s first kiss… or is she royally screwed?A right royal rom com, perfect for fans of Red, White and Royal Blue and The Royal We.

Review:

Margaret Moore lives in an actual castle but for some reason her happily ever after has eluded her. After breaking up with her ex after years of a terrible relationship, he now won’t leave her alone and visits her work trying to get her back. Did I mention she lives in the Tower of London? After a particularly bad run in with her ex she literally runs into a gorgeous guy... who just happens to b a Royal Guard. Maggie now can’t stop thinking about Freddie, the cute guard but he keeps giving her the hot and cold. One moment he’s inviting her to hang out the next he’s distant and hasn’t contacted her in months. Maggie wants her happily ever after so she starts going on Tinder and getting help from some very fun and sweet Royal Guards but for some reason she can’t keep away from Freddie. Yet when Freddie returns, he is pretty adamant that they are good friends... yet the more he draws her into his life the more she discovers that he has complicated secrets and that maybe they were just never meant to be. Unfortunately, despite how cute this sounded, it fell flat for me. The story felt bland and definitely needed a bit more. Maggie and Freddie didn’t really feel like they had any chemistry and Maggie’s entire personality consisted of either being clumsy, crunk, or embarrassed and awkward about standing up for herself. Honestly, the romance never felt there and I just didn’t find myself interested in any of the characters or the story. It felt Hallmark-esque, but without any of the fun. Despite how cute this could have been it just didn’t meet my expectations. Though this one didn’t work out for me, definitely give it a go if you are looking for some English romance with a castle, royal guard, and secret royalty.

***Spoiler: Freddie turns out to be a heir to a Duke... who just happens to also have a fiancee and he never told Maggie. Maggie confesses her feelings after finding all of this out and he tries to explain that he does love her but he is in an arranged marriage set up by his parents because thats all they want and Maggie doesn’t want to ruin his family relationship or reputation and says they have to end whatever was going on between them. Later on she runs into his fiancee who tells her he called off the engagement and stood up to his father and then maggie runs to him and they get together.***

*Thanks Netgalley and Avon Books UK, Avon for sending me an arc in exchange for an honest review*

#book review #romance book #romance read

7 notes · View notes

theburdenofresponsibility · 1 year

Text

Harry Prince and the Philosopher's Stone - Chapter 1 - Mr H. Potter

masterpost || next chapter

warnings: harrys angsty, stubborn and mad at his dad

read on AO3 | word count: 4,613

The name means nothing to him at first. Harry simply stares at the swirling cursive on the envelope, addressing it to a Mr H. Potter, but then everything clicks back into place. His tired mind races to catch up and he huffs out a surprised breath.

The letter is for him. He is Mr H. Potter. Harry Potter, because that’s his true name, isn’t it? He’s not a Prince at all, even though that name is written on all the labels of his muggle school uniform, and that name is the one that’s greeted him on every school register thus far. Of course, if Harry truly is famous, like his– Snape had told him, then it would make sense for him to be acknowledged by the wizarding world by the name he is known by.

The wizarding world….

“Oh, wow!” Harry half shrieks, scrambling his way across the linoleum floor of the kitchen to reach where the letter lies in wait for him on the table. He pushes his glasses further up his nose, blinking through the sleep still blurring his vision, and snatches the paper from the surface. It seems to sing with magic beneath his fingers as he turns it over, reverently tracing the shape of the wax seal.

This- This is it. This is his letter , surely. The insignia is stamped with a bold ‘H’ in the centre, so there’s little else Harry can imagine it could be. It’s shown up just like Snape said it would. He’s truly going to a wizarding school to learn magic.

The idea is so wondrous that Harry has to sit down lest he vibrate apart from the excitement buzzing beneath his skin. Even so, he doesn’t pause as he wriggles a finger beneath the opening to tear into the letter.

There are two pieces of parchment inside the envelope. One seems to be a list, the other a letter reading:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Corc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

“It is,” he whispers to himself, awe flickering like a fireworks display in his chest – bright, cheerful, all-consuming. “It really is.”

Grin aching across his cheeks, Harry finds himself jumping to his feet, half-ready to rush upstairs and wake Snape when his feet falter. Should he really show Snape? He’s still furious with him. What he did, what he lied about, is unforgivable. Keeping that from him for so long…

Shaking his head, Harry sits himself back down at the table. Instead of rushing off, he reads the words again and again, as if half expecting they might evaporate straight off the page. By the time there’s a knock on the door, Harry thinks he must have the whole equipment list memorised.

He hurries to the door. While he knows he can’t tell his friends, he still half-hopes it’s Chris from next door come to play so that Harry can still share his excitement some way. It isn’t though; when he swings the door open he’s met with the smiling old face of Margaret.

“Auntie Maggie!” Harry beams. “What are you doing here?”

“I came as soon as I heard the news,” she tells him, pulling him into a hug that fills Harry’s nose with the scent of the flowers from her garden and dish soap. “Am I going to be invited in?”

Harry pulls back, nodding excitedly.

“Yes! Do you want me to put the kettle on for you?”

Maggie reaches down to pinch at his cheeks, which Harry ducks away from with a put-upon frown.

“I think I’ll manage myself, you go off and get yourself out of those pyjamas. You’ve got your letter with you, yes?”

Harry nods.

“It’ll be me and you off on an adventure later today, then,” she tells him. “We’ve gotta get all that on your list there. We’ll be taking the train into London so we can go to Diagon Alley – your father’s told you all about Diagon, I’m sure?”

“Snape’s not my dad,” Harry hisses. “And only a little. I’ve never been before.”

Maggie looks at him, utterly aghast. Her face seems to turn ashen and Harry almost feels a flicker of shame. Almost.

“You don’t really mean that,” Maggie insists.

“He lied to me, Auntie Maggie,” Harry insists, leading her into the kitchen. “He didn’t tell me that I was–”

“Harry Potter,” Maggie finishes for him. “Yes, I know who you are. I’m a squib, but that doesn’t mean I pay no heed to the news of the wizarding community. I get the Daily Prophet, just as your father does, and I might be getting quite on in years but I’m not blind enough not to recognise that scar after knowing you for nine years, young man.”

She accentuates the point by tapping a gnarled finger to the scar in question, the one Harry has spent hours since that first conversation staring at in the mirror. It seems like such a small thing, even for how much of his forehead it strikes across in silver lines, lighter than his natural skin tone. Yet they both know, apparently, what it means for him.

“I think,” Maggie continues, “Severus didn’t want you to live in the shadow of what happened when you were little, or, really, to admit that you’re in any way not his boy. He really loves you, you know?”

Harry scoffs, disbelieving.

“If he loved me he wouldn’t have lied to me,” he insists, making Maggie sigh.

“You’ll come around eventually, kid. I know you will.” She gestures for Harry to go upstairs. “Get out of those jammies and then we’ll get going. We’ll want to get down to London with plenty of time to explore the Alley, after all.”

Harry huffs an agitated breath but complies, hurrying up the stairs to put his everyday clothes on.

Being in London is an insane experience. Harry finds himself craning his head in all directions as they make their way through the bustling streets. After having never strayed far from Cokesworth, there is just so much around to capture Harry’s attention.

Maggie catches him staring in awe more than once and fondly rolls her eyes at his antics, making sure to keep a hand on him at all times so they don’t get separated when Harry becomes distracted once again.

“We need to get you out on more day trips, kid,” she smiles at him, turning a street corner and marching along with purpose.

Harry hums in agreement, eyes darting wildly in a bid to take in everything around them.

He almost doesn’t realise they’ve arrived when Maggie pulls him towards the entrance of a dingy little pub. His gaze is so focused on everything else, and the pub itself – The Leaky Cauldron – is so bland and unassuming that all the eyes of everyone around them, not just Harry’s, seem to glide right over it.

That changes when they walk in, and are met by an array of people dressed in all sorts of colourful robes. There are people in pointed hats, others waving wands, all chatting quite happily. Everyone seems to come in all shapes and sizes here, like this pub is some sort of magnet to the wondrous and magical. And maybe it is, Harry muses as Maggie leads him through the crowds.

They duck out another door into a small outdoor space where they seem to keep the bins and come face to face with another old woman, wearing periwinkle blue robes that match familiar blue eyes.

Maggie makes a sound of delight.

“Addie!” Maggie beams.

“Margaret,” the woman counters in a tone just as fond. “It’s been too long.”

Addie straightens up from where she was leaning back against a stone wall, distributing her weight onto a long, ivory-coloured walking stick. There are deep wrinkles in her face as she smiles – if Harry had to guess, he’d say this woman was a few years older than Maggie.

“Ah, Harry,” Maggie introduces, “this is my sister Adeline. Addie, this is my Harry that I wrote to you about, do you recall?”

Adeline huffs a laugh.

“How could I not?” she asks, turning to Harry with a conspiratorial look. “She spoke about you quite extensively. I rather thought my poor owl would struggle under the miles of parchment she spent blithering on about how amazing her honorary nephew is. I suppose it’s well past time I got to meet you, to see what all her fussing was over, hmm?”

Harry manages an embarrassed laugh, cheeks feeling hot. He feels quite relieved to notice the light blush on Maggie’s cheeks as whacks at her sister playfully.

“You’re lucky I can’t go telling to mother about your teasing,” Maggie tells her. “Now, come come, there’s lots to be getting on with. Open the Alley, why don’t you, and make yourself useful for once.”

With a fond huff, Adeline shifts, pulling a wand from a concealed pocket in her skirts, and taps the tip to the bricks on the wall she’d been leaning on. Within half a second of her wand being lowered from the last brick, the wall seem to shudder – shifting and reshaping until an archway reveals the hidden street beyond.

“Wow…” Harry breathes, stuck to the spot with wonder.

Maggie snorts a laugh.

“Suppose you’ll be a little less enamoured with muggle London now that you know this is here, huh, Harry?”

“Definitely,” he replies, shooting each of his guides a grin. “Can I go explore?”

His aunt steps forward to clap him on the shoulder.

“That’s the spirit! We’ve just got to stop off and withdraw some wizarding money from the bank before we can go around, but then you’ve got free reign, kid.”

“Obviously, there’s a few places we have to go,” Adeline cuts in. “Ollivanders, for example, for a wand – but other than those, we can go wherever you please.”

Huffing a delighted laugh, Harry reaches out to take Maggie’s hand.

“Let’s go then.”

The woman tuts in faux reproach, tittering about how he’s being impatient, but leading him along the Alley nonetheless. Adeline follows them, just behind as they head through as if to let them part the crowd for her, the clacking of her cane mostly lost beneath the joyous shouts flooding the whole street.

The marble exterior of what Harry realises must be the bank quickly looms over them. Adeline keeps up a stream of commentary about the bank – when it was built, the goblins who run it, and, importantly, the fact it is called Gringotts and not just The Bank – as they walk up to those enormous doors and push on inside.

The main floor is bustling with people waiting for help desks. Little creatures Harry assumes must be goblins are hurrying back and forth, and sitting behind desks. They’re odd looking things, or maybe Harry is the odd one, for being so unused to them with their shorter stature, inkdrop eyes and pointed ears.

Realising how he’s staring, Harry tears his eyes away and hurries up behind Maggie and Adeline as they join the end of a shorter cue. Within five minutes, they reach the front of this line and are greeted by a bored looking goblin.

“Harry Prince wishes to make a withdrawal,” Maggie tells him as he peers over the edge of his desk to look down at Harry, who is trying his best not to look too intrigued by the fact the bank teller is, in fact, a goblin.

“Does Mister Prince have a key?” the goblin asks in a creaky voice, displaying pointed teeth that make Harry shudder slightly.

“Not on us today, I’m afraid.”

“Very well,” the goblin nods, glancing between all three of them. “Does Mister Prince consent to a claim trace to see what vaults he is able to access?”

The goblin turns that black gaze on Harry who startles and looks between Maggie and Adeline for guidance. They each nod at him encouragingly.

“Uhm…” he manages. “Sure? Yes.”

The goblin – Harry glances to the nameplate on his desk, reading Gornuk – shoots him another smile, shuffling through some papers on his desk until he lays one across the surface closest to Harry.

“Now, Mister Prince, how old are you?”

“Ten, nearly eleven,” he answers.

“Ah,” Gornuk nods, like everything makes sudden sense. “So you’ll be starting Hogwarts this year, correct?”

Hesitantly, Harry nods.

“That’s right.”

“So you’ll likely not have any magical signatures linking you to any vaults. That just means we’ll have to do a blood trace to see. Slightly less comfortable, but utterly harmless,” he assures. “I’ll just need you to sign your full legal name on the line here–” Gornuk taps a manicured claw to a line below the title of the document, one of the only things on the whole document. “--using a blood quill.

“In case you are unfamiliar with blood quills, you’ll receive a sharp scratch on the back of your hand as you write, but the pain will be brief and the wound immediately healed. The blood will react with the magic of this form and any vaults you lay legal claim to will appear on this form – both those you have a dormant claim to, and those you can actively access currently.”

“...Dormant claims?” Harry dares to ask.

Gornak shoots him a grin as if pleased by the question. He puffs out his chest as he answers, clearly proud of his own ability to answer the questions – Harry wonders if the goblin is somewhat new to this job.

“Dormant claims include vaults you will be able to access when you come of age; with the permission of a co-owner; once you have met a certain criteria; or those you may never be able to access, but will be passed along to a later member of your family line according to the dictation of the previous owner.”

“Ah, okay,” Harry nods. “Thank you.”

Gornak blinks, as if shocked to be receiving acknowledgement for his help.

“You are quite welcome, Mister Prince. Now–” he reaches into a pot on his desk to retrieve a red-feathered quill, “if you could please…?”

Gritting his teeth against the sting he had been warned about, Harry scribbles his name onto the line. Once finished, he watches in morbid fascination as the Harry Evan Prince sliced into the back of his hand fades away and places the quill back in Gornak’s outstretched hand.

“Apologies for the discomfort, Mister Prince,” says Gornak, putting away the blood quill and surveying the form Harry had signed as red ink, deeper in colour than his blood signature, blooms across the surface. “Once we get the results, this form can be filed away for future use and we can give you keys to the relevant vaults so you needn’t go through this process every visit to Gringotts. When you reach seventeen years of age, your magical core should be stabilised enough for us to establish a traceable magical signature for use instead of another claim trace using the blood quill, for any future adjustments to vault claims.”

Harry nods. Waiting patiently as Gornak scans the sheet, letting out interested hums.

“It would seem you lay active claims to the Prince family vaults, and a Potter inheritance vault. You also have dormant claims to the main Potter family vaults, the Peverell family vaults, and the Slytherin family vaults.”

“Potter?” Adeline asks her sister with raised brows.

“Ah, yes,” Maggie flushes. “I didn’t say, did I?”

Ignoring the women’s fussing, Harry watches, enraptured, as Gornak presses his palm flat to the paper he had been showing Harry. Closing his fist over it and raising that hand, Gornak is suddenly holding a small gold key, and a long silver key. He then reaches out to offer them to Harry.

“The Prince key,” he notes, as Harry takes the silver key. “And the Potter inheritance key,” as he takes the other. “Which vault will we be withdrawing from today, Mister Prince?”

“Suppose we best withdraw from the Potter vault,” Maggie leans down to tell Harry, who relays the message to Gornak.

“Wonderful,” the goblin beams. “If you would follow me sir, ma’ams.”

“Oh, no,” Adeline is shaking her head. “I rather think I’ll go perch on the steps outside. Too much motion for me, those carts. You lot can surely handle this.”

Maggie snorts a laugh.

“Pathetic,” she teases, looping arms with Harry. “Let’s go, kid. Lead our way, if you would, Mister Gornak.”

“As you please,” Gornak nods. “And just Gornak is perfectly fine, thank you, ma’am.”

“Well,” Maggie counters as they follow the goblin further into the bank, “then you’d better drop the ma’am routine. Margret’s just fine, dear…”

Harry is grinning from ear to ear and shaking with adrenaline by the time they’re exiting Gringotts. Maggie has a magically extended purse, provided by the bank, to store all the money Harry could possibly need during his visit to the Alley tucked into her handbag. Despite the stomach-turning whirls their venture took them on, she’s grinning right back at him as they walk up to where Adeline is chatting with an incredibly tall man with great bushy hair.

“Behold,” Maggie announces; “a woman with the stomach for Gringotts’ bank system.”

Adeline rolls her eyes.

“A very polite way to introduce yourself,” she sighs, turning back to her companion. “This is my sister Margaret, and Harry.”

“Ah!” the giant man booms. “Harry! Dumbledore said I might be runnin’ into yer today. I’m Rubeus Hagrid, keeper of grounds and keys at Hogwarts.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“The honour’s mine. I’ll be seeing yeh when the school years start, then, I ‘spect. We’re all lookin’ forward ter welcoming yeh back into the wizarding world. But for now I’ve got ter go on some top secret Hogwarts business for Dumbledore. Enjoy yer day, Harry, ladies…”

With that, Hagrid dismisses himself and makes his way up and into the bank they’d just left.

“He’s a nice man, that Hagrid,” Adeline smiles. “Stopped to make sure I was alright here by my lonesome.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Maggie dismisses with a wave of her hand. “Let us be going on, then. Where’d you like to venture to first, Harry?”

The boy shoots each of the women a sheepish grin.

“You said something about a wand?”

“That I did,” Adeline smiles. “Towards Olivander’s it is, then.”

At one o’clock, Harry and the women break for lunch at a cosy little cafe named ‘Newt and Cradle’s’. It had plush cushions on all the seats, and beautiful wooden framework. The place was full of pleasant tittering from customers and had a sense for brightness and refreshment.

The whole place was lit with plenty of natural light from the large glass windows, and even the furthest corners were lit with candles. The bright feel was a nice break from the bustling crowds as Harry surveyed the lunch menu – the top of which was adorned with the name of the cafe and their slogan ‘Conserving Shopper’s Energy For Years To Come’.

In the end, they ended up getting sandwiches; Maggie and Adeline washing theirs down with cups of tea, where Harry opted for a glass of fizzy pop.

“So,” Maggie asked between bites of her bacon and sausage sandwich, “what’s left on your list?”

“I need…” Harry garbled through a full mouth. “My robes, and a- um… an owl, cat or toad.”

Maggie hummed in understanding while Adeline snorted.

“A word of the wise,” she told him as Maggie turned back to her lunch; “you’re allowed to bring other things, too. I knew kids who took in rats, mice, kneazles, pygmy puffs, and all sorts. That list’s nothing but a suggestion.”

Harry nodded but admitted: “You lost me halfway through those suggestions.”

The woman snorted a laugh.

“I suppose we’ll just have to head to the menagerie after this and show you exactly what I’m on about.”

“Well, that’s settled, then,” Maggie hums, finishing the dregs of her tea. “If we’re all ready, let’s be heading off to the menagerie.”

Within a few minutes, the three of them were winding their way down the alley again until they paused outside a store with windows displaying cages and tanks full of animals of all sorts. A sign on the shop front labelled the Magical Menagerie.

Making their way inside, Harry doesn’t know where to look. There are all sorts of creatures lining the walls. Some of them seem sweet and unassuming, others look more viscous and intimidating, though signs around the place assure the customers that all animals sold at the menagerie are handleable and trainable. Oddly, that doesn’t feel entirely reassuring.

Harry’s eyes catch on a tabby, curled up on the main desk, then on a bat hanging upside down from a hoop on the ceiling.

“Go have a wander, then,” Maggie coaxes. “We’ll be waiting for you over by the door.”

He nods as if in a trance, trailing through the store. It seems as if he’s being pulled about, moving on pure instinct. The many eyes of a spider blink up at him, little stick-like creatures scarper about in a tree-like enclosure, and a dog with two tails strains on its lead in an attempt to rush over to a little girl pulling silly faces at it from behind her mother’s skirts.

“Facessss,” a little voice whispers to his left, freezing Harry to the spot.

His head turns to the side, looking at two teenage boys peering into an enclosure. Blinking in confusion, Harry presses closer. The voice he had heard had been too feminine to have come from either of them, laughing in breaking voices at the creatures looking back at them, and too soft-spoken to have come from much further away.

“Sssso many facessss, peering in,” the voice says again and Harry’s eyes settle on the flickering tongue of a snake in one of the tanks.

When the boys move on, wanting to get a look at some other wonders, Harry steps even closer. The tiny snake burrows its head back under the ground at his approach, hissing quietly to himself.

“Hello?” Harry calls out. When he receives no response he glances about awkwardly, feeling his face heat. “This is stupid,” he mutters; “I’m talking to a snake…”

“How is that ssstupid ?” the little voice asks, as the snake peeks its head out once again. “Strange, strange humanssss .”

Surprised, Harry stumbles a step backwards.

“You do talk.”

The little head nods at him.

“And- and you understand me?”

It nods again.

“Well, uh, my name is Harry. Harry Prince.”

“Harry Princccce,” the snake repeats. “Friend? ”

“If you like,” he agrees. “What’s your name?”

“I am Eryssss.”

“Nice to meet you, Erys,” Harry acknowledges, then startles at a laugh coming from behind him.

He whips around to face a boy a good inch or two taller than him. The boy in question seems to be glowing with his amusement, even behind the dignified way he holds himself – looking at him almost makes Harry feel self conscious of his plain t-shirt and jeans he’d pulled on this morning, especially given how ridiculously muggle he looks in the ocean of magic folk milling around the Alley.

The other boy, though, hardly seems to mind at all. He only sticks out a hand to shake Harry’s, which he takes somewhat awkwardly.

“Do I not get a greeting,” he huffs, somewhat haughtily, “or is that only reserved for snakes?”

“Oh! Uh – right, sorry. I’m Harry.”

“Blaise Zabini,” the other boy introduces, eyes flicking briefly to the scar visible beneath the mess of Harry’s fringe. Rather than gawking, though, as Harry had noticed some onlookers doing, the boy merely meets his eye again with an interested upturn of his lips. “Are you not here with anyone?”

“No, no-” he assures. “I am. My - uh - Aunt Maggie and her sister are over waiting for me by the door.”

Blaise shoots him a smile.

“You’d rather looked lost over here on your own, though.”

“And you’re not alone?”

“Not in the slightest. My mother’s just paying for some owl treats at the register.”

There indeed seems to be a woman with Blaise’s complexion by the till, speaking quite smugly with an awed looking cashier.

“Are you getting things for Hogwarts, too?” Harry asks, shooting Erys a smile at her hissed ‘ Hogwartssss? What is Hogwarts? I have been hearing mention of it .’

“Not everything,” Blaise confesses, tilting his head. “We’ll be doing much of our shopping closer to the start of term when we return to the house in Italy.”

“You have a house in Italy?” Harry breathes out, awed.

Blaise shoots him a smugly contented look.

“Of course.”

“Wow, that’s–”

“Harry?” comes a call from the other end of the store.

“Oh- I–”

“I get it,” Blaise dismisses. “Until we meet again, Potter.”

Harry blinks in surprise.

“Um- Yeah. I’ll see you at Hogwarts, Zabini. And, it’s - uh - it’s Prince.”

The other boy nods in understanding, before vanishing backwards into the crowd.

“Ah, there you are,” Maggie huffs as Harry finds his way back to them. “Thought you might’ve been eaten by something.”

Adeline rolls her eyes.

“Come on, Harry. I’m sure there’s still much you’ll be wanting to see – and now that you’ve seen what kind of animals are sold in the Alley, you can negotiate what kind you’ll be taking to Hogwarts with your father at home.”

Harry nods.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. So… uniform?”

Maggie loops all three of them together by the arms and leads them off, declaring: “To Madam Malkins it is!” and striding onwards, leaving Adeline to fumble with her cane as she tries to keep up with her sister’s strides.

The rest of the trip is much of a success, with Harry getting everything he might need and even buying himself a couple of treats with the freedom of his own money to spend – even under the guidance of his Auntie. When the hours have moved on and Harry and Maggie have to part ways with Adeline to catch their train home, the woman pulls each of them into a hug.

“Don’t you leave it too long until we meet up again,” the woman warns her sister before turning to Harry. “Pester her about it for me, if you must.”

Harry laughs and agrees easily.

“Thank you for coming, Adeline,” he says.

The old woman scoffs.

“Just Addie is fine, Harry, sweetheart. And the pleasure is all mine, I can see why my sister is so besotted with you. Guess we’ll have to keep meeting up again, hm?”

“You’re trying to poach my honorary nephew,” Maggie accuses lightheartedly, to which Adeline lets out a creaking laugh.

“Auntie Addie has a nice ring to it, I must say.”

“Well,” Harry jumps in before the bickering continues on too long again, as it already had a couple times today. He’s grinning as he does so, though. “We’ll see you later, Auntie Addie.”

The woman’s eyes soften.

“Too right you are, Harry. You must write to me when you get settled at Hogwarts.”

“As long as you don’t write to her more than me,” Maggie warns jokingly.

With a full heart, the group finally manage their goodbyes and part ways. The countdown to Harry’s start at Hogwarts seems to begin.

#fic: hpatps

0 notes

bittersweetimaginings · 2 years

Note

Hi! Can you do what it would be like to date Queen Maeve (she/her pronouns please)

General Dating HC! • Queen Maeve

⚠️Content warning: none, I think?

*These characters do not belong to me, all rights to their respective owners, this is just a piece of entertainment by and for fans.

Summary: Title is really self-explanatory.

Reader’s pronouns: She/Her

Keys: Y/N = Your Name. In case you’ve forgotten: Margaret “Maggie” Shaw is the real name of Queen Maeve in the series.

Author's note: If you want to send your own request, please check the Disclaimer & Rules post and the MASTERLIST post to see more content and which characters are available

I must say, I do believe the relationship with Maeve might change slightly in certain aspects if you're either a regular human or a supe (and even if you’re a supe, the dynamic might also change depending on your powers), but because it wasn’t specified here if Reader is either human or supe, I made this HC as general as possible and only including aspects I think would remain the same in either situation.

If you met the Maeve who's been in the seven for a long time, a relationship is something she's avoiding rather than looking; this is likely because of either Vought, Homelander or both: Vought would be quick to find a way to capitalize on the relationship so they can pinkwash their image as much as capitalisticly possible, it's honestly disgusting. As for Homelander, he'll be furious; Losing is something he not only hates but something that threatens his fragile ego and the already distorted perception he has of himself; he still "loves" Maeve (in his own, very fucked up way) and he's been trying for a long time to rekindle their relationship, you forming a relationship with Maeve means he has lost one of the very few things people he cares about and therefore he might view you as a wall preventing him to reach his objective, so he'll make sure to break you.

If you met her before she joined the seven, she might be more lenient on the idea of beginning a relationship with you (especially if the two of you already had one) but she'll continue to push you away numerous times.

Maeve has shut down everyone she cares about, that way Vought nor Homelander can harm them and will make it much easier for her to give up her life if one day she has to fight against Homelander to take him down.

That's why, you're most likely the one to pursue the relationship in the first place.

Even when she starts catching feelings, she'll try her best to appear as if she either doesn't like you or doesn't care about you, especially if Homelander is near.

Which sometimes can be quite hard on you, because she might treat you so bad and cold-heartedly and might hurt your feelings in more ways than she ever expected or wanted.

But as the two of you inevitably get closer and share more and more small but beautiful moments, her feelings eventually start to catch up to her and she begins to open up slowly.

Once she does it might surprise you how vulnerable and sensitive Maeve actually is.

She pretends not to, but Maeve is the one who cares the most about everyone around her and it's filled with guilt and sadness for the ones she was unable to save.

And for that very reason, she panics when the realization of how closer you two have grown starts to dawn on her and your relationship might take two steps back before moving forward as Maeve tries to push you away once again.

Though this time around you're able to figure out how to get past that act of hers more easily.

After that I believe she'll start to be more honest with herself and you about her own feelings and stop putting so much of a front.

She'll treat you much more softly and tenderly than ever before and might allow herself to give in and give you the first kiss.

She smiles at you all the time, especially when she observes the little quirky things you do when you think no one is looking.

Maeve loves being of help to you, so whatever you need she'll make sure to provide one way or another.

One thing that doesn't change, is how protective she is of you, always making sure not Homelander or Vought know about or can get to you, and this might stir many conflicts in your relationship but over time you both might be able to handle it with more ease.

Maeve is a very supportive partner and loves listening and being involved in whatever you're passionate about or the goals you want to pursue, even if she doesn't necessarily understand them completely.

You're the one person in her life that calls her by her real name "Margaret" "Maggie" "Margo" whatever variant you choose, she's happy to hear her name coming from you, it's been a long time since someone has called her that and it's surprised by the feeling of comfort it gives her; since in many ways the alias of "Queen Maeve" has turned in her own prison.

I strongly believe Maggie is the little spoon in cuddle sessions; she always has to be the strong one in every other situation in her life, she really does enjoy the moments of vulnerability she shares with you.

Both find it funny that she can probably punch a building down but she appears as if made of paper in your arms, adorable.

She might struggle with remembering things like dates, anniversaries, birthdays, etc; she has a lot on her mind but she'll apologize and make it up to you, don't worry.

I also very much believe Maggie to be a foodie (notice most of her scenes with Elena there's some talk about food? Idk if it was intentional or not, but I like to believe that this is because Maeve really likes food and is a comfort for her on hard times).

She adores taking you out for dinner in all kinds of restaurants, exploring new foods and flavors is just one of her favorite things, plus she gets to watch your reactions when trying them out.

She knows all the best places in town to eat.

If by any chance you know how to cook and you're good at it, Maggie might just consider to slap a ring on your finger right then and there istg.

Overall Maggie, although difficult at first, I believe she'll make for a great partner once she opens up to you; she still has a lot of issues to work through, but she'll definitely try to be a better person not only for you and your relationship, but because deep down, I believe she also wants to genuinely be a hero her younger-more-hopeful self would be proud of.

#the boys #the boys x reader #queen maeve #queen maeve x reader #margaret shaw #Margaret shaw x reader #Maggie shaw x reader

191 notes · View notes

xriff-raffx · 2 years

Text

Do Over - Chapter 4

Masterlist

Chapter 4: Getting Good at Waiting

I woke up to find myself alone. The sunlight poured in through my window, causing me to roll away. I had almost convinced myself that last night was a dream, the way his hands felt on my body, the way our tongues danced together. It was too perfect to be real, or at least that’s what I thought until I was face to face with my mirror. My hands instinctively went to touch the dark mark on my neck, it was real but he was gone. Boy am I stupid.

“That’s it, Maggie,” I scolded myself, “sleep with the gang leader you just met, that’ll work out fine.” I can’t believe how stupid I was. I quickly get dressed, tossing my hair into a ponytail before turning to look at the bed, hands on my hips. I exhaled, taking in the sight of tangled sheets and disheveled pillows. I wonder when he left.

“Margaret!” Jo’s voice quickly pulled me out of my thoughts. I leave my room, closed the door behind me, and made my way over to where she stood by the stove. “I made you eggs.”

“That’s nice,” I say eyeing Jo suspiciously, “What do you want?”

She lets out a gasp “What do you mean? I’m just being nice.” She transfers the egg onto a plate smoothly, without making eye contact.

“Well then thank you,” I smirk slightly before grabbing the plate and going to sit at the table.

“I was thinking though,” I try not to laugh at Jo’s words - there's always something with her. She quickly joined me at the table, “there’s this dance.”

I nod slightly, beginning to eat my egg, “Let me guess, you want Mr. Wonderful from last night to take you.”

“Yes!” she exclaimed loudly, causing me to smile over at her, “Well actually he already asked, and I already said yes,” Her voice trailed off at the end, looking down at the table.

“Well,” I started, “If you already said yes,”

“Oh my god!” Jo shrieked making me jump, as she threw her arms around me. “Thank you thank you thank you!” I laughed as she jumped around our small kitchen. I finished my breakfast to the sound of Jo rambling about what to wear later until I managed to usher her out of the apartment.

We walked the 3 blocks it was to the subway station, and I waved her off like usual as she hopped on to get to school. It was unseasonably cold this morning and I couldn’t help but shiver as I walked back up to the top of the stairs.

“So I guess I was too late to catch ya this mornin’,” I looked over my shoulder to see where the voice came from and saw Riff. Looking as casual as ever, leaning on the stairway railing with a smoke in hand. “Or do ya always wake up so early?”

I scoffed, “Well someone’s gotta make sure Jo gets to school. Besides clearly you were in a rush to get out of there” I continued walking a few more steps before turning back towards him, he looked a little stunned at my words. “So are you coming or what?” I asked laughing slightly as he caught up quickly.

“I uh really thought I’d be back before ya woke,” I heard him mumble beside me, his hand went up to rub the back of his neck. “I had some business to take care of last night.”

“I get it,” letting a smirk appear on my face and nodding slightly, I continued to look at the ground as I spoke, “I’m sure being a juvenile delinquent is harder than it looks.”

He chuckled quietly, “Well it definitely has its perks,” he hopped in front of me, stopping me from walking. Smiling down at me, his blue eyes glistening in the sunlight, “I’m always free to walk ya round, girly girl.” He slid an arm around my waist pulling me into him.

“I can’t exactly walk like this,” I say looking up at him, feeling my cheeks redden at our proximity. Leaning down slightly, I watched as his gaze left my eyes and were now looking at where my hair rested on my neck. He slowly moved his hand up to my neck, brushing the hair over my shoulder with his fingertips, I watched a smirk appear as he noticed the hickey he gave me.

“Ya shouldn’t cover this up,” his fingers began to trace the mark lightly before he leaned down to whisper in my ear, “how am I supposed to show the fellas you’re my girl?” My breath hitched at his words before I found my confidence again, pushing him off me lightly.

“Who said I’m your girl?” I smirked up at him, moving around him quickly to continue the walk. I heard him laugh from behind me before he pulled me back into his chest so fast that I almost fell over in the process.

“I say, doll,” He smirked down at me again and I could feel the butterflies in my stomach. “You ain’t gettin’ rid of me that fast. Not after last night.” My face got hot at his words and I looked down at the ground. He pulled my face up to look at his, not letting me avert my gaze again.

We stayed like that for what felt like an eternity until I felt something bump into us both. Riff whipped his head around to see some paperboy riding his bike away, faster than I’d ever seen before. I could tell he was going to yell something, so I put my hands upon his chest, grabbing his shirt, and pulling his attention back to me.

“It’s some kid,” I said looking at his stern face melt slightly at my words, “I’m sure he didn’t mean it.” He nodded lightly, looking back in the kid’s direction to see that he was no longer in view, taking a long drag of his smoke before exhaling. I laughed, causing him to raise an eyebrow at me, “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Ready to punch someone at all times?” I asked laughing again, causing him to smile back at me.

“Well if a pretty girl is involved, I can’t help it,” His grip on me tightened lightly, “besides I didn’t hit anybody.” His expression changed momentarily and his blue eyes began to search my green ones. “Don’t wanna scare ya off too early, do I?”

“I don’t scare easy,” I said almost surprising myself at the response. I smiled up at him, “You’re going to make me late for work.”

He scoffed in response, “How abouts ya stay with me instead, I'll show ya the city.”

“As tempting as that is,” I say letting out a soft groan, “I have to go.” I pushed him lightly again and he nodded, reaching down to grab my hand before walking us off in the direction of my work.

—----------------------------------------------------

“Have you been here all day?” I asked with a smile, noticing Riff waiting for me outside of the building. He pretended to look offended before he offered me his arm, which I gladly took. I couldn’t help but notice the looks we got from people as we made our way through the city. “Do people always stare at you?”

“Not at me babe,” He said smirking, “they’re all lookin’ at you.” I took in his words. Looking around us on the street, I noticed he was right, they were all staring at me and avoiding Riff’s gaze completely.

“You have quite the effect on people.” He let out a laugh and shook his head lightly. I continued to watch as Riff kept his eyes focused in front of him, people dodged out of our way. I could definitely get used to this.

“So what’s the plan tonight girly girl?” He asked as we approached the apartment, “Are ya in need of an escort again?”

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Jo has plans,” I respond stopping in front of the building and turning to face him, watching him nod slightly at my words, “I’ll be in for the night.”

A smirk returned to his face, “So I guess you wouldn’t mind some company later?”

“We’ll see,” I said walking away back towards the door. He eyed me up and down and I watched as he placed his hands on his hips.

“You’re not going to make this easy for me are ya, doll?”

I laughed lightly, “You’ll have to wait and see.” I turn around, unlocking the door smoothly with my key.

“See that’s the problem,” he called out after me, “I’ve never been too good at the waitin’ part.”

I turned around smiling at him, “There’s plenty of time to get good at that,” I blew a kiss before entering the apartment and watched as he shook his head at me, still smirking while I closed the door.

#riff west side story #riff lorton #wss #wss fanfic #wss jets #riff imagine #riff smut #wss smut #fanfic #mike faist fanfiction #mike faist #mike faist riff #Smut

72 notes · View notes

havin-fun-imagining-twd · 2 years

Text

Just one scrap, Pt. 2

When - right after Part 1, seconds after Maggie revealed that her father is actually a veterinarian. You’re in S02E02 and 03, “Bloodletting” and “Save the Last One”, and as always, canon is maintained and show dialogue is mainly left word for word.

Relationships - this series is a slow burn Daryl x Reader. He’s out searching for Sophia, you’re with the Greene’s trying to save Carl. In this installment, he may or may not unwittingly provide the one scrap you’ve been begging for to keep you from sinking. Also, #Glaggie gets introduced whoo

TWs - stress and despair including stages of grieving, discussion and description of injury and a medical emergency including those of a minor, slight mention of thoughts of self harm or suicidal ideation, and some language.

Perspective - 2nd person

Pronouns - nada, it’s just you.

Plot points/ references to other stories - bro, so many of them. So many of them, y’all. Masterlist to the rest of the Slowpoke Series.

He’s a veterinarian. The man who is about to cut your nephew open and attempt to save his life is a veterinarian. It’s okay. It’s okay.

“It is okay. It ain’t ideal, but it is okay, Y/N.”

“Y-you’re right, Margaret, it’s, it ain’t ideal but it’s—” Breathe. Calm. “It’s okay.” You need to talk yourself through this, oh my God, oh my God. You run your free hand through your still-wet hair then bend your head down.

Sophia’s missing. T-Dog has an infected wound and the only chance he has is if it isn’t tetanus and if he manages to get treated with a heavy-duty antibiotic, fast. And Shane is risking his life for a chance to save Carl. Because Carl is dying.

It’s just—it’s all so—how is it that everything collapses so quickly? The world, the camp, the CDC, and now this?

“Are you praying again? I can give you some privacy if you need,” she offers.

“Please stay, just gotta get my bearings.”

“It’s no good to be alone when things are this...uncertain.” She puts her hand back on yours and waits while you catch your breath and think things through more reasonably.

“Veterinarians have to know all sorts of different anatomies and do surgery on ’em,” you begin. “That’s a good thing. And a human is a step up from a cow.” Was that you attempting humor? You don’t even know. “And they’re probably, yeah, they’re probably used to havin’ less fancy monitor equipment, right? So they gotta be extra careful and use their eyes and stuff.”

She’s still holding your hand even though yours is like a limp fish. You’re just...you need one fucking scrap of good news.

“Y/N, it’s okay.”

“It’s okay,” you repeat. You tighten your grip on her hand to offer something less floppy, then make a point to relax the tension in your neck.

Then a crash/thud sounds from inside. Didn’t sound too bad, but you stand to check it out. You need to move or you’re gonna burst, anyway. Trying to make light, you say, “I’m gonna go, um—knowin’ Rick, he prolly didn’t take it easy and that was him collapsing.” Breathe. Calm.

“I’ll talk with you later, okay?” Maggie offers you a half-smile that’s warm and apologetic.

“Okay.” Returning the smile as best you can, you head inside.

______________________________________________________

As you walk into the house, trying to process everything and remain level, you see that yes, Rick was the one who fell. At least it appeared to be at the dining room table. He’s donated too much blood. Granted, you agreed with him and would’ve done the same, but your blood type isn’t compatible with Carl’s. Neither is Lori’s, unfortunately. That’s one of the reasons that led to her c-section when he was born.

Your voice sounds flat as you order “Rick, c’mon now, drink up your Tang.” When you plop down into the chair beside him, your stitches ache.

“Hershel just refilled it,” Lori says quietly.

Rick tries to smile when he comments “You sounded exactly like Shane there, Y/N, just with a different voice.”

“Those two utilize double-modals, I noted. You’re the only sibling I haven’t yet heard do so,” the doctor converses politely and somewhat uncomfortably with Rick. “Or is it that you’re the other sibling?” he corrects himself, looking at Lori.

“No, it’s um, Shane and I have been best friends since we were kids,” Rick explains.

“Ah, explains the visual differences among you three. Family in heart, then,” the doctor says with a nod. “That’s a blessing.”

There’s such a tangibly tense air in the room that you don’t want to move for fear of upsetting it further. Almost feels like you’re unable to move even if you wanted to.

Lori walks back in with another two glasses of Tang and sets one down before you. “Here you go, honey,” she whispers, then leans on the back of your chair, sighs, and slides into the seat next to you. “You injured it again?” she softly points out, gesturing to your slinged arm.

“The doc...the doctor insisted.” You felt strange using the term ‘doctor’, even though he is still indeed a medical doctor. Just not a medical doctor for humans.

And the not-a-medical-doctor-for-humans noticed, and acknowledges with a patient kind of humility, “Margaret told you.”

You nod and take a long drink from your glass. “If you consider it, it’s a leg up. You’re used to all different sorts of anatomies and got less reliance on monitors.” Right? Please agree with me.

“That’s a very encouraging thought.”

Not the reply you were hoping for but you’ll take what you can get. “And Maggie can do an IV, she helped you with surgery before.”

“That she has, Patricia likewise. Pat’s the most skilled of everybody here but myself. And Otis has a wealth of experience from his years as an EMT, as I’m sure you do.”

“I w-wouldn’t call what I got a ‘wealth.’” Oh my God, you know nothing. You’d only just gotten your certification. Chugging down your drink and feeling the liquid hit your empty stomach only seems to exacerbate the impending sense of helplessness and doom.

Um, okay, what time is it? Would Shane be coming back soon? You look down at Dale’s watch, and it’s...

Your brother and Otis have only been gone for a half-hour. ___________________________

The light fades more and more. Every time you check your watch, it’s either barely ticked down or it’s ticked down too much.

Shane still hasn’t returned every time you look at it.

You finally grit your teeth and start to take the stupid thing off, but the doctor asks you to “Please, leave it on. I understand the temptation to remove it so that you won’t check it as often, but you need to have an accurate reference when takin’ the boy’s pulse.”

That was the other thing you wished you could avoid. Carl’s vitals are altering for the worse and every time you check them it becomes clearer and clearer. His blood pressure is dropping again, more steadily than before. The IV fluid isn’t cutting it and Rick can’t give him any more blood.

And as for blood types, no one else here (who knows their blood type) can donate other than Hershel, who’s still taking a daily anticoagulant since he hasn’t run out of it yet. “I’m so sorry, but the medication in my system would harm him further,” he apologized.

It’s just more and more bad news.

All you need is a scrap of something good, you swear. Just a little tiny something that can keep you afloat in this absolute shit storm. You don’t know how Rick and Lori can handle this, Carl is only your nephew and you’re going postal.

So, you decide to refuse to believe he’s dying. Because it’s bullshit. He can’t be dying, it’s not possible.

It’s not possible, it’s not fair, it’s not real.

_____________________________

The sun finally sets. Still no Otis and Shane. They should have been back by now.

When the doctor checks Carl’s BP again and announces that it’s going down and you can’t wait much longer to do the surgery, Rick’s had it.

“Take some more, whatever he needs,” he stammers, stretching arm out as if the doc will consider the idea of taking even a partial donation more from him. “Then I’m gonna go.”

“If you’re going, I’ll go with you,” falls out of your mouth before you can think better on it and consider that that is not something that should be done by any means. Rick is hardly able to stand as it is, and with your busted shoulder and new abdominal stitches, you’re dead weight.

Lori perks up out of her fog to ask her husband, “Go? Go where?”

“He said five miles, they should be long back by now. Somethin’s gone wrong.”

“Are you insane? You’re not going after them, neither of you.”

Hand covering your face, you stutter “I know, Lori. I’m sorry, m-momentary lapse.”

“Rick, listen to your wife,” Hershel tells him.

“If they got into trouble—”

“—You’re in no condition to do anythin’ about it.” The doctor is firm, but not cold. “You’ve given too much blood, you’re barely on your feet. You wouldn’t make it across the yard.”

Rick doesn’t appear to be in the headspace to hear the truth in it. “If something happened, I have to go,” he insists to the two of them.

Voice riddled with hurt and disbelief, Lori tells him “No. Your place is here.”

“If Shane said he’ll be back, he’ll be back,” you add for both your benefit and his.

“He’s like you that way, Rick,” Lori mumbles in agreement. Her hands are trembling.

Ever protective, he challenges “I can’t just sit here—”

“—That’s exactly what you do!” she finally snaps. “If you need to pray, or cry, or tell God he’s cruel, you go right ahead! But you’re not leaving, Rick. Carl needs you. Here.” Her strong facade begins to crack as she whispers, “And I can’t do this by myself. Not this one. I can’t, I can’t.”

Then she takes a shuddering breath and sits back down next to her son. Just glancing at Rick, you can see that his expression has changed.

You aren’t sure what’s he’s thinking, but you’re just now considering that he has no real frame of reference for what Lori went through when he was ‘dead.’

Finding out your spouse was shot and nearly dead would be bad enough on its own. But the regret and guilt she held about their crumbling marriage was something she couldn’t explain to anybody, not then.

Their problems began years back. To cope, or in lieu of it, Rick sort of threw himself into his work and in helping others when the problems began, which made things worse. Lori ended up resenting him for it, and it was beginning to come to a head when the accident happened.

She told your eldest sister about their particular fight the morning of the day he almost died where she said something along the lines of him not caring about his family, the usual stuff a significant other will say or think when things are rough—but that time, she said it in front of Carl.

She wanted to undo it from the moment it came out, but once it was said, it was said.

And several hours later, she gets the call that Rick was shot and on death’s door. Several more hours later, he was put into a coma.

Then a week went by and he was still in it, and every loved one had already gone through some kind of mourning and grief as if he’d already died. Hope was still there, but the understanding that it could go very wrong always lurked.

Rick’s health improved during the following week, but they wanted to keep him under because he simply hadn’t improved enough. Then two more weeks went by, and the outlook was much better.

But in those same two weeks, the stability of the world was shaken and the sickness was spreading. Changes and restrictions were enacted, followed quickly by unrest, and riots in the bigger cities.

Then another week passed, and while Rick was approaching being able to be taken out of his coma, the world had begun to fall apart and martial law was being enacted because the sickness was everywhere and the dead were walking.

And another week and a half later, nobody could keep count of how many loved ones and neighbors had died, your mother and her dog among them. Once Shane and you were able and the plan was set, you two rushed to the hospital to take Rick out because everything was collapsing and you needed to escape with those you had left; Lori, Carl, and Rick. Getting him out of the hospital was his only chance.

Whatever lapse or mistake Shane made in there that ended with him convinced he couldn’t hear a heartbeat, you aren’t sure. But the end result was still that Lori and Carl (and Shane and you) had to go through the stages of grief yet again, and fast.

And after she started to move on, he comes back perfectly fine. The guy was even wearing his uniform. Hell, you’d thought you were seeing a ghost when you first saw him at the camp.

You know it sounds awful and you don’t want to undermine what Rick went through; he woke up alone and still recovering, almost 6 weeks had gone by, civilization had come undone, and dead people were eating the living. But no matter those experiences in the couple following weeks he spent with the kind man and his son...you don’t know, but he didn’t live through everything that happened to make things that way.

It’s not his fault, but there’s a mountain of experiences for which he cannot have context, including that Lori, already wracked with guilt, had mourned his death not once, but twice.

And now, he had been ready to go out and risk his own life yet again without considering that she desperately needed and wanted him to stay with her this time. Her and their dying son.

Rick might be thinking the same as you based on how overwhelmed he looks. He remains standing for a few moments, then falls back into his chair and places his head between his knees.

You’re grateful when a gentle hand on your shoulder rescues you from any more inner dialogue. “Y/N, would you accompany me to the kitchen? Let’s see about getting these two some supper,” the doctor murmurs. _________________________________________________________

Jimmy is Otis and Patricia’s son, and Beth and Maggie are Hershel’s daughters, so Maggie filled you in when you both briefly laid out your families/groups to each other.

And as for her father, once bringing you back into the kitchen after you and he brought Lori and Rick a small plate of food, he had you sit, put a bowl in front of you, then directed you to “Eat. Patricia will take over monitoring the boy’s vitals for a while. No, please don’t argue. Consider it me needing everybody at their best for Carl’s surgery. Pat could use the distraction, besides.”

Maggie was diplomatic and whispered into your ear “He’s used to dealing with strong-willed because of me. Come on,” she then urged. “Let’s eat on the porch for when your brother and Otis get back.”

In the few hours you’ve known her, she’s been very honest and down-to-earth. You like her.

After a long stretch of silence during which you two picked at your meals, she puts her fork down.

“The circumstances are awful, but I’m at least glad to know that there are people out there willin’ to take care of each other,” she offers in her delicate way. “It’s also kinda nice to talk to somebody my own age again. It’s been a while.”

“The group at the quarry was a good one, I was very blessed,” you acknowledge. “And it was n-nice that I had Amy and Glenn who were my age. They both became very good friends.”

“Amy?”

Oh, right. You’d only mentioned to her those from your group who are still living.

“She was Andrea’s younger sister.” Your lips grow wobbly again, so you cover it up by taking another bite of food that you chew without tasting. Damn it, that sensation in your hand is coming back again. It’s survivor’s guilt, and it’s lying to you, you remember, just like Dale told you.

It started again when Carl was shot. After a glance to confirm that your hand is clean and not covered in blood, you swallow and try to keep things positive for Maggie’s sake when you say to her, “Just wait ’til you meet Glenn, you’ll love him. He’s like a sunbeam in a snowstorm.”

“Oh, you two are together, then?” she kindly assumes.

“No, never nothin’ like that. I did have a crush on him for a little while, but now we’re purely buds.” You move around the food in your bowl in the hopes it will disappear. That doesn’t work, so you keep chatting to prevent yourself from thinking much more. “He’s terrible cute, though. Mark my words, you’ll like him.”

“I look forward to it, then.”

During the quiet moment in the conversation, you look around the farm to try and appreciate the beauty of it all. It’s so...untouched here. Feels surreal, almost as if you’re asleep. “My two best friends in the before-times had a farm kinda like yours.”

“What type did they have?”

“Veggie. Had a bunch of hens, too, and a few animals for milk. Made cheese.”

“And sold raw milk on the sly, then?” she asks in a playful tone.

Feeling the dread in your gut ease, you admit “They sold the goat milk legally as ‘pet food,’ but might could’ve sold the raw cows’ milk under the radar on occasion...” You’re even smiling now. It’s enough that when you take another bite, you don’t not enjoy it. “You do that here, too?”

“Daddy kept us on the straight and narrow,” she chuckles, shaking her head. “Ours is more a cattle farm than a dairy farm, anyway, but we do enjoy it ourselves.” She glances at you with a warm grin. “You know, I had a friend in college, from Kentucky, she was in the agro program. Told me how you can only buy some over there if you got a doctor’s note.”

“A doc prescribing milk? That’s different.”

“You’re tellin’ me.”

Another quiet descends on the conversation and the heaviness of the day presses back down on you. “Margaret? Thank you. For being so kind to me, for bein’ so accommodating.”

She doesn’t respond right away. “I think that right now, focusing only on the doom and gloom will drag you under.” She angles her body toward you and places her hand on your back. “When things are like this, we need to make it okay somehow. Because life is gonna pull all sorts of punches we can’t go around, over, or under. We make it okay because we got to go through it.”

She must’ve gotten her degree in psychology or something. You take a moment before saying anything back and instead fidget with a thread sticking out of your sling.

Unfortunately, your tears start to flow again because what Maggie said reminded you of ‘We’re going on a bear hunt.’ Your nephews loved that story. Both the dead one and the one who’s inside dying—no, sorry, he’s not dying. He’s not, he can’t be. Sure you are just in denial, but fuck it, you’ll drown otherwise.

In your defense, you endeavor to laugh at yourself when you explain why you’re blubbering again because, good God, you need to try to add some levity to all this heavy, awful nightmare.

Gentle as ever, she smiles back sadly and tells you “My stepbrother read that one to Beth a lot when she was little. We all did, she thought it was the best story.”

“Shawn was the one wearing the baseball hat in the picture on the fridge, right?”

“Yeah.”

Softly, you ask “Fever or bite?”

“...Fever took my stepmother. Her bite took him.”

Now it’s your turn to place a hand on her back. “You must’ve loved them a whole lot.”

“I still do.” After wiping her eyes, she wonders out loud with a resigned smile, “How did a discussion about raw milk turn into this?”

“Holy Moses, I got no idea.” Taking your unfinished bowl and standing up, you offer “I’ll put this in the fridge unless you feel comfortable finishing it?”

“Save it for yourself, you’re gonna be hungry later.” Standing up as well, she brings her plate and starts to walk back inside with you. Back to reality. “Y/N? I’m glad I met you. You’re a good person.” ______________________________________________________

Rick and Lori took a break a little while after you got back. Without them there, Patricia and the doctor are being very blunt about Carl’s status.

“His belly is increasingly distended and his pressure is dropping further and further. Pat, I know Otis and Y/N’s brother must be on their way but I can’t advise puttin’ this off much longer.”

“That’s because he doesn’t have much time left without intervention, Hersh. Jimmy should be bringin’ in that surgical table soon, he’s sanitized it just like Otis showed him.”

“Would mouth-to-mouth be enough to keep Carl going without the respirator?” you pitch in. There has to be some way. “Or what about CPR the whole time?”

Patricia is concerned. “Will Y/N be able to do CPR with those injuries?” She’s massaging Carl’s feet while you take his respirations and pulse again, though you need to restart because you aren’t paying attention.

“My shoulder and stitches don’t matter, I’ll do anything.”

“It will be our only option, as well,” the doctor weighs in. After putting his stethoscope back around his neck, he slouches forward in his seat and closes his eyes. “If...if they don’t come back within the next hour, I’m going to ask his parents to make a decision.”

You don’t want his gaze to have turned to you, but it has, even though you tried to look busy checking Carl’s pulse and breathing rate again. He wasn’t going to die, he was simply temporarily dying right now.

Right? That’s all. It’s not possible that three of your own will be taken from you within days of each other like they were last time. It hasn’t even been a month, you can’t lose any more so soon. And not when this would be your fault. You can’t take that. You can’t.

“Y/N. I’ll want you to stay for the surgery. With the respirator, I’d have you continue to monitor him and alert us to any changes while Patricia and I go inside, remove the remainin’ fragments and stitch up that bleed.”

He then presses his palms together. “I need you sharp for the surgery, should we get that respirator back in time or should his parents decide to go through with the risk of doing so without, which may end up being his only chance. Without the respirator, he’ll need CPR the entire time and for a while after, until the medicine wears off enough that he can breathe on his own.”

“A moment doc, I keep losin’ count.” You don’t need to check bpm and rpm so soon again, but if it’ll make the doctor stop talking, you’ll do it. For thirty seconds, you count Carl’s breaths, then double them and record it. For the following thirty, his pulse, which you double and record. Slowly, you write it down as if that minuscule postponing of more bad news will spare you or save Carl from the truth.

But you ‘can’t go over it, can’t go under it.’ You’ve gotta go through it.

When he sees you write the final count, he waits until you finally drag your eyes up to meet his. There’s nothing cold or dismissive about the way he states “You need to understand that there is a very strong chance this child does not make it through. If you have faith, hold onto it. But we need to accept the things we cannot change, the courage to do what we are able, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

Gee, thanks for the Serenity Prayer, veterinarian. What is this, AA? you spit inside your mind. Your denial is quickly transforming into anger, but at least you have a shred of wherewithal left to keep your mouth shut.

He looks at Carl and takes a deep breath. “We can and certainly should hope and pray in the meanwhile, but please understand the likelihood that he may pass despite our best efforts.”

Shut up, old man! What would some barnyard quack know about this shit? You kick back those gut reactions, nod your head politely, and stand there dumb. Then fuck it, you try to pray again for whatever good it will do.

Please not him, just not Carl, you repeat in your head. Please, please, please, I’ll do anything. If you’re gonna take somebody, fine, just don’t let it be that boy. Pick anybody else. Pick me if you want, it should’ve been me anyway, or pick – whoa, whoa, calm down.

Whoa. Okay, you know what’s going on. This is bargaining. You remember this part. It’s just another common aspect of grieving, nothing more. It’s natural in desperation.

But offering up somebody else’s life like it’s goddamned dark magic or something doesn’t sit well with you and you hate it, so you rethink your plea and the situation into a more healthy sentiment.

I'm asking that Carl lives. And please, give me one scrap of good news so I can get through whatever happens and help the others get through it. Please.

________________________________________________________

“You missed Rick retelling the story about how your brother stole the principal’s car.”

“Oh, man,” you mumble. That was during the acting-out phase Shane went through after your dad died. Same dark timeline as that...incident, between Shane and that women’s athletics coach. “That happened before you moved here, right Lori?”

“It did, but the kids at school talked about it even the next year when I transferred there.”

“’Cause it was legendary, they’re probably still talkin’ about it.” Is Rick loopy or something? “Shane beelined out of lunch, middle of the school day, headed straight for the teacher’s lot, and right into Kingsley’s Hyundai.”

“The day my poor mama learned her recently deceased policeman husband had taught his stepson how to hotwire,” you mention under your breath. You love this story. It’s outlandishly bonkers. You’d have called bull and written it off if you didn’t know for a fact every dang word was true.

“Then he drove straight to that chicken farm, Y/N, and you know what he did next, yes you do: he rolled them windows down as he drove into one of the enclosures.”

“Grandma Jean was furious, Ricky, I never seen an old lady spit more fire.” Your words aren’t coming through with much emotion, but that one would’ve been said with an air mischief.

“And he spread chicken feed all in the interior—then ran off. I tell you, he was wasted on the football team. Should’ve run track.”

“I promise there’s a good point to this, honey,” Lori hushes to you quietly.

“Y/N, your brother then ditches the car and runs over three miles to get back to school—back to the dang cafeteria, no less—by the time the lunch bell rings. Legend.”

“Being fast runs in the family, you could say,” you remark. You and Glenn are the fastest in the group, don’t nobody forget it.

“So if you’re worried why he ain’t back yet? Don’t. What you said before, what Lori agreed with you about before, when I couldn’t see things clearly? You were right. Shane always comes back.” He smiles, exhausted. “He’s gonna make it back with what Carl needs. And Carl’s gonna be alright.”

___________________________________________________

He’s not alright. He’s worse, he’s so much fucking worse and it’s completely dark outside and Shane isn’t back.

Carl just looks so small and pale on that bed.

No one is talking anymore. There’s nothing good to say about what’s happening, no silver lining, no scrap of something to hold onto for hope. Shane and Otis should have been back well over an hour ago at the latest.

The despair contorts into a familiar, all-encompassing numbness.

Shane is not coming back. Hopefully, he went quickly and with little pain. In an almost mechanical way, you go through a checklist. Shane is dead, and Carl will be soon. T-Dog will most likely follow within a day or so, and if we find Sophia, she will be found either dead or walking with them. Then Andrea will probably find a way to end her life relatively soon, and Carol will obviously be a suicide concern as well. And though you’ve been vehemently against entertaining those thoughts for yourself ever since the outbreaks...well…

When you notice two figures walk through the doorway, you don’t pay any mind. You’re in your darkness, busy with your checklist.

Until your eyes briefly flit up and you’re blurting out “Teddy?”

T-Dog is...right there. He’s standing in the doorway with Glenn.

They’re here? “Glenn?”

“Hey.”

Before you know it, you’re out of your seat and stumbling over, oblivious to any pain or injury you have as you squeeze them both as hard as somebody can wearing a sling. “Sophia?” you whisper.

T-Dog avoids eye contact and Glenn’s shoulders fall, which is enough to tell you.

The two of them appear struck blank as they look at Carl on the bed and offer what support they could to Lori and Rick.

“Um. We’re here for you, okay?”

“Whatever you need.”

Rick can manage a nod in acknowledgment, Lori quietly utters “Thank you.”

You catch Maggie’s eyes in the doorway behind them and point to T-Dog’s arm as you join them in walking down the hall. She motions for Patricia to come with you all and leads the way to the table in the main room.

“Teddy, your arm,” you breathe. He’s up and walking, obviously, but he looks like shit. “Did Dale check it for you? Any striated veins? Fever? Spasms?” You’re peeling off the bandage as fast as you can with one hand until Patricia takes over, upon which you turn to Glenn and ask “How’s his mental state? He actin’ normal?”

“Doing better, believe it or not,” T-Dog answers for himself.

Better? How? “Miss Patricia, it got sliced on this sharp part of a busted car. I-I cleaned it best I could but it still got infected.” And there you go again trying to hold back the waterworks. Good Lord, if you had an apple for every time you started crying today, you’d have a whole damned tree by now.

Maggie gestures to the table. “Check out what they brought with them. Finally some good news, I’d say,” she hints, pointing to where...what are those pill bottles?

You wince as the stitches on your abdomen bump against the chair when you clamber over to snatch one up. Doxycycline, 100 mg tablets.

Doxycycline.

Doxycycline?

Those are antibiotics. Those are heavy-duty antibiotics. “This...this ain’t even the generic stuff, this is the primo – oh, Moses, these were Merle’s.”

Somewhat entertained, T-Dog responds with a begrudging “Mmhm.”

“Daryl wanted us to let you know he forgot all about these,” Glenn says, holding a mug of something warm. “They, um, were in the bike’s saddlebags.”

T-Dog’s gonna live.

Daryl just saved T-Dog’s life again. And probably Carl’s, he’ll need an antibiotic most likely and holy shit Daryl just saved T-Dog’s life! Again!

This is...this is – holy shit, this is more than just a scrap to keep you afloat, this is a bonafide fucking lifeboat! Next time you see that mangy hick, you’re gonna hug him so hard. Hell, you could kiss him!

“You okay?”

“Happy tears this time, Maggie,” you cry back. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

“Theodore, this was cleaned well, but I’m gonna have to stitch it up to keep it that way,” Patricia then tells him as she begins sanitizing the area.

“You’re saying you took one of these already?” you have to repeat, still sniffling and in disbelieving, happy shock that T-Dog isn’t on death’s door from blood poisoning.

“Yeah, already took a dose. You shoulda seen it before. Didn’t look too good.”

“It got real bad then?”

“All the things you was worried about,” he admits to you with a snort.

Patricia efficiently readies the needle, dons gloves, and positions T-Dog’s arm so she can work. Maggie is holding his hand on his injured arm to keep it steady and to give him something to hold onto if it gets too painful.

You grab the little emesis basin from the kit and hold it ready, then pull off your sling to take his other hand into yours. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

“Are stitches really that bad without no painkillers?” he checks with Patricia, brows lowered at the fact that both yourself and Maggie are holding his hands.

“It ain’t pleasant. Y/N knows better. Had some earlier.”

“The hell happened to you, Y/N?”

“Dude, you okay?” Glenn pipes in.

“Ain’t nothing, just tryin’ to get more street cred,” you brush off. You only just stopped crying and feel too happy to delve into how when Carl was shot, a small bullet fragment got you as well. “Stitches feel sorta like a fiery tugging. You might could get nauseated, too, that’s why we got this thing,” you mention, gesturing with the basin.

“It’ll be about 15 of them altogether,” Patricia lets him know before starting the first one. “Make as much noise as you need to, but keep this arm still. If you feel yourself about to get sick, Y/N’s got the container there for you.”

T-Dog’s breath hitches when she begins. The swelling from the infection must be making the pain even worse. Attentively, you watch her technique so you can learn.

Patricia is breezing on through them, thank goodness for T-Dog’s sake. “You got here right in time, this couldn’t go untreated much longer.”

At that, you rest your head on T-Dog’s and offer up another thank you.

“‘Merle Dixon,’” she reads, casually looking at the bottle. “Is that your friend with the antibiotics?”

Glenn answers for him, and very politely. “No ma’am, Merle’s no longer with us. Daryl gave us those, his brother.”

“Not sure I’d call him a friend,” T-Dog grunts out in pain.

“You’d best mean Merle, now, Theodore,” you lightly scold, even as you’re leaning your head again his. “I think Daryl considers you a friend, believe it or not.”

“He what now?”

Patricia looks more relaxed and amused than you’ve seen her all day when she cuts in “He’s your friend today. This doxycycline may have just saved your life.”

“Daryl’s your new best friend, admit it,” you snicker in his ear, grinning wide while tears of relief, joy, and you-don’t-even-know-anymore slide down your cheeks.

“You know what Merle was takin’ it for?” Patricia inquires.

The innocence in the way Glenn delivers “The clap,” makes you cough and subsequently wince because of those abdominal stitches you have. Then the way he clears his throat, blushes, and awkwardly rewords it to Maggie “Um, v-venereal disease. That’s what...Daryl said...” makes you crack up and simultaneously moan in discomfort right along with T-Dog.

Unfortunately for your stitches, “I’d say Merle’s clap was the best thing to ever happen to you,” being so dryly delivered by Patricia makes matters worse so you just let your laughter out.

“I’m really trying not to think about that,” T-Dog blurts out in response, holding back a shudder as he groans in pain.

You affectionately lean your head on his again and excuse yourself, one hand pressed over your bandage. “You best get to praising, T-Dog, how’s this for the Almighty using all things for good?” you tease him as you leave.

_______________________________________________________

Glenn follows you out to the front porch. Together, you two lean on the railing and let out an exhale.

“Thank you for bringin’ him here in one piece, man.”

He’s staring out into the dark fields. “Once Daryl remembered the pills, it was the only thing we could think of doing. He um, he wanted to make sure you were okay, too. Phrased it ‘going postal?’”

“We had a talk about that a few days ago,” you explain. Daryl is a good man, isn’t he?

“That poor kid, man. His poor parents. And the guy who shot him, like, he must be...” Glenn shakes his head. “He must hate himself.”

“Otis. He’s out there right now, put his life on the line to save him. Shane’s with him.”

“This all couldn’t have come at a worse time, dude. It’s like that thing we talked about, bad things in threes? I guess that the Greenes are here is a silver lining or something, but like.” He sighs heavily and seems to well up. “It was both kids. Why did it have to be both kids?”

The weight of the situation settles itself back down on your shoulders, but it seems easier to carry now. Maybe it’s because you feel stronger.

After all, that one little scrap you’d begged for to keep you going turned into a four-course dinner; Merle contracting gonorrhea turned into T-Dog not dying of sepsis? Go figure. When you see Daryl again, you have no idea how you will possibly be able to convey your thanks.

“So ‘Greene’ is their last name,” you think out loud. After a pause, you quietly check “How’s Carol?” as you pull your sling back on. On second thought, you keep taking it off anyway, so you instead hang it off your arm for when you can actually keep it on.

Exhausted, Glenn mumbles back “How do you think?”

“I don’t want to think, man. Must be the worst possible feelin’ in the world when it’s your child.”

Seeing your hand by your ribs, he asks with concern “Shoot, you didn’t rip them or anything, right? The stitches?”

“Nah, they just smart a bit whenever I move.” You check Dale’s watch then squint at the horizon, hoping to see the headlights indicating that Shane and Otis are on their way.

Nothing.

Suddenly, Glenn announces “Dude. I’m gonna try praying, okay? I know it’s not magic, but anything I can do to help is—this is all just—” He bows his head and sits down in the porch rocker. You stay quiet to let him gather his thoughts. “So, you once told me it’s just like...talking, right?”

“Just like it, it’s a relationship. Do you, um, do you want privacy, or company for it, Glenn?”

“I might cry, so...alone this time, I think. First time and all.”

“I find it easier that way, too,” you murmur. Leaving him to it, you give him a side-hug and mention “Maggie might will come out to check on you, she’s good like that,” before heading back inside.

T-Dog is still at the table, stitches all finished, and Jimmy is sitting with him.

“How many you get in the end?”

He holds up his arm on display. “Lucky number thirteen, Y/N. At least I ain’t superstitious.”

You head back to Carl’s room to find Rick and Lori sitting on the floor in the hallway. Delicately, you avoid eye contact and sidestep around them. “Any changes, Dr. Greene?”

“More of the same.” He holds onto the stethoscope around his neck and peers at you. “How are you faring? You look as if a weight has come off your shoulders, although you’ve taken that sling off. Any good news from your two friends?”

Looking up, you smile and shake your head in disbelief of how much more manageable things feel. “They found doxycycline. And the one who was showing signs of sepsis earlier isn’t anymore after taking his first dose.”

“That is very good news.”

“Felt like being tossed a lifesaver in the middle of a stormy ocean,” you happily admit. “Would you like to step out for a rest, sir? You haven’t had one for a wh—”

—Carl’s coughing.

Oh my God, Carl’s coughing and his eyes are open, he’s looking all around! “Lori!” you yelp, but she’s already at his bedside and cupping his face in her hands.

“Hey, buddy,” you whisper in disbelief.

“Where am I?”

Lori can’t respond, she’s too happy. Rick is all smiles, too, as he says “Hey, little man. That’s Hershel. We’re in his house. You had an accident, alright?”

“But you’re gonna have a mighty cool scar, munchkin,” you tell him with a kiss on his forehead.

He’s still taking in the room as he looks down at his belly. “It-it hurts, a lot.”

“Oh baby, I know, I know, baby,” Lori coos.

Carl’s eyes lock onto her. Then the corners of his mouth turn up and his face alights. “You should have seen it.”

“The what?”

“The deer.”

Your vision blurs with tears again and you cover your face to let out a sob of both relief and guilt. Heck, it hurts your minor abdominal injury to do so, so you can’t imagine what that poor kid is going through.

But looking around the room, you’re in good company. Even Hershel’s eyes are glistening. Today was a nightmare, and now it feels like you’ve woken up. T-Dog’s healthy and Carl is awake! He’s not crying in pain, he’s smiling!

“It was so pretty, Mom. It was so close! I’ve never been—”

Never been what? Hello?

At first, you think he’s pausing to figure out what he wants to say. Never been what, Carl?

Then his eyes go blank.

Carl? Carl. Why did he stop talking? And why did his eyes just do that? And his muscles are tensing up, is he about to — “Dr. Greene?”

“Y/N, get the manual suction pump and go to the other side of the bed, quick,” he instructs.

Rick tries to get his attention. “Carl?”

“What’s happening?” Lori breathes.

Which is when Carl begins to shake.

Hands reach out to hold him, and the doctor immediately orders Rick and Lori, “Don’t. It’s a seizure.”

Within seconds, he’s removed the pillows from the bed and has guided Carl onto his side. “Y/N, be ready to use the pump once he goes limp.”

“You can’t stop it?” Lori cries out.

“He has to just go through it.”

The shaking of the bed and Lori’s sobs become the only sounds in the room. Please, please, please, please, please.

Then the shaking abruptly stops and Carl slumps onto his back.

Smoothly, you tilt his head back to the side and begin to suction the excess fluids from his mouth. He’ll need clean sheets and a change of boxers, too. “That was intense, huh, buddy? There we go, sweetheart, let’s get you cleaned up,” you repeat in a soft voice. “You’re okay now, it’s over now.” Louder, you let Hershel know “No blood in the secretions.”

“Good.” After a brief exam, he states “His brain isn’t getting enough blood. His pressure is bottoming, he needs another transfusion.”

“Okay, I’m ready.” Rick is extending his arm where the IV catheter is still inserted.

“If I take any more out of you, your body could shut down. You could go into a coma or cardiac arrest.”

“You’re wasting time,” he warns.

Nothing else is said between them and you don’t look over to see what’s going on. Next, you become aware that Hershel is now on your side of the bed and has Rick sitting. They’re going through with another donation.

“Lori,” you utter, voice still soft. “In my bag under that chair? Baby wipes.” In silence, she finds them, and in silence, she and you clean off her son.

Patricia enters the room at some point with new sheets and another pair of undergarments, then enlists Lori to carefully and delicately move Carl so that fresh linens can be exchanged. There’s no blood on those either, which is a consolation.

His color turns a little better midway through the transfusion. Hershel has overtaken monitoring all vitals so you don’t know how much he’s improved, but he does comment out loud, “Looks like all that movement did not nick the other blood vessel. We’re beyond fortunate for that.”

Lori has been rubbing Carl’s neck in a broken daze. Patricia sits with her and wraps an arm around her for a while. You wander to the kitchen and bring your dish of leftovers and a bowl of pecans from the counter back to Rick and make him eat both in their entirety.

If it weren’t for T-Dog arriving at the house, standing and on the mend? That seizure would've been the last straw.

You don’t know what you would be doing right now, but you confess that some form of adverse action against yourself would be taking place.

But you aren’t. No, you’re still afloat, you’re with your family and are taking care of them—and are thinking clearly, more’s the miracle. You’d prayed and begged and bargained for a scrap, and were handed a whole-ass treasure chest. All thanks to the most unlikely circumstance of Daryl recalling his brother’s STD.

Whenever that redneck sumbitch gets here, you’re gonna hug him so damned hard. _________________________________________________________

Another 10 minutes have gone by.

Lori’s hand cramped from giving Carl a neck massage, now she’s hunched on the floor.

No Shane, no Otis, no respirator. But that’s okay...well, no, not ‘okay,’ but you can all get through it. This will pass and you will all get through it. You’ll make sure you all do.

“Rick? Y/N? What was Carl talking about? The deer?”

He’s still in his chair, hands on hers. “Before it happened, we were standing there in the woods. And this deer just crossed right in front of us. I swear it just planted itself there and looked Carl right in the eye. And I looked at Carl lookin’ at that deer and the deer looking right back at Carl.”

“He looked so innocent and happy, Lori, as if there were nothin’ bad in the world.”

“And that moment just...slipped away. It slipped away.”

“Yet that’s what he was talking about when he woke up. The good moment,” you remember. “Your sweet boy forgot all about his pain and fear and instead smiled and talked about the buck instead.”

“Not about getting shot, or about what happened at the church. He talked about somethin’ beautiful. Something living.” He leans in and looks at her with a tender pleading, so tender that you feel as if you’re intruding.

Lori bursts into tears when her husband soothes “There’s still a life for us, a place maybe like this. It isn’t all death out there. It can’t be. We just have to be strong enough after everythin’ we’ve seen to still believe that.” His tone alters to one of upset. “Why is it better for Carl to live, even in this world? He talked about the deer, Lori. He talked about the deer.”

“You make life worth living, punk,” you murmur as you press a kiss to his cold hand. You’re in the middle of monitoring his radial pulse, and it’s...that isn’t good.

That’s very bad, in fact.

Keeping your voice cool and neutral, you call, “Doctor?”

Patricia hurries in first, Hershel following.

Standing up too fast and swaying, Lori’s voice trembles when she asks, “Honey, what’s changing?”

“His pulse is pretty fast.” Way too fast. Please, please, please, please, please let us get through this.

“What does that mean?” Lori and Rick question.

“It means his body is working too hard,” Hershel answers. He’s got a silver pocket watch out as he counts Carl’s beats per minute. No one makes a sound.

When he releases Carl’s hand and tucks his pocket watch away, you realize you haven’t been breathing, either. “He’s still losing blood faster than we can replace it. And with the swelling in his abdomen, we can’t wait any longer. Or he’s going to slip away.”

Patricia beckons you to follow her, and leads you to the bathroom and you both wash your hands. “Scrub up to your elbows. If his parents consent, we’re doing the surgery now. The silver table in the hallway is sanitized,” she details to you. “We’ll bring it into the room first, then put gloves on.”

“Patricia! It’s time!” the doctor shouts.

A cold spills forth from your stomach and spreads through your veins. Please, please, please, please you beg, and for a moment, you don’t think you can handle it.

But a voice cuts through the dread. “Y/N, Patricia, you got this.”

T-Dog is looking at you from down the hall. The voice you were convinced you’d never hear again.

The icy cold in your chest eases and lessens as you help push the surgical table into Carl’s room. The panic and urgency in the room doesn’t drag you away in the current because you were given that anchor to keep you grounded. That mangy, confusing, wonderful hick pops into your head and you feel nothing but gratitude for a moment.

Hopefulness then takes over, as fearful as you still are.

With hope, you connect Carl’s IV fluids to the catheter, with hope, you move the lamp close to the table and remove the shade as Patricia directs. And when you’re in gloves and positioned beside Carl, ready to begin, you aren’t shaking anymore. You can handle whatever happens tonight. You’ll get through it, and will help the others get through it.

Hershel begins to scrub the area clean while Patricia preps some kind of rags. “Rick, Lori. You may want to step out.”

________________________________________________________

Headlights shine through the curtains as the sound of a truck pulling over the gravel driveway reaches your ears. Rick and Lori haven’t even left the room yet.

Rick is at the window in an instant. “Oh, God.” The hard lines of his face soften and he turns to bolt out the door.

“They’re back?” Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.

“Patricia, Y/N, you stay here with him,” is the last thing Hershel says as he rushes out with Rick and Lori.

Patricia clasps her hands and cries “Dear God. Oh my God, thank you. I feel like I can breathe again!” She’s laughing even while shedding tears of relief as she administers the sedative drip through the IV. “Okay, sweetpea, start to watch his respirations. They’ll be inside with either the machine or a bag-valve soon enough.”

You hear the doctor say something loudly outside, but neither of you even care to know why. You just look at each other and smile. Because they’re back! You know that your brother and Otis will have found something to help Carl stay breathing, there is zero doubt and no more fear.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you for bringing them back. Bringing my brother back. And...thank you for Daryl, okay? That’s he’s part of the group and in our lives. Okay?

Holy Moses, you can’t wait to see that redneck again.

62 notes · View notes

alliedbiscuit · 3 years

Text

msr fic / s7 post-closure but pre-all things / wc: 3398

Scully takes Maggie out for a birthday dinner, and you'll never guess who they run into.

************

“So, how are feeling about dessert?” the waiter asks hopefully.

Maggie Scully scoffs. “Oh, no. I couldn’t eat another bite. Maybe just a cup of coffee? Decaf, please.”

“Mom, are you sure? You should get dessert,” Dana Scully prods, stopping herself short before she could let it slip, “It’s your birthday!” The last gift her mother would appreciate is a gaggle of underpaid waiters singing some public-domain-compliant version of a birthday song while the whole restaurant turns its attention toward her. Like mother, like daughter.

Well, the daughter made an exception and found that kind of thing charming exactly once. But at least she got a nice keychain out of it. All her mother would get was humiliation and a chocolate lava cake.

As soon as the waiter leaves to fetch their after dinner coffees, Maggie reveals her true intentions.

“I was thinking we could go to that ice cream parlor down the street. If I’m going to indulge, I think I want a hot fudge sundae. Or maybe we could split a banana split?”

“Or you could get a hot fudge sundae and I could get a banana split, and we could split both,” Scully suggests.

“See, that’s why you work for the FBI.”

“Dessert Conflict Resolution was part of my training at Quantico.”

Both Scullys giggle.

“Does Fox have the same specialty? Or is that what you bring to the team?”

“Mulder’s dessert strategy is just to eat everything and then swim a mile and run five the next day. No, he’s a Takeout Menu Marksman, though. He knows where to order from and what to order so it travels the best and doesn’t get cold and congealed by the time it arrives. Might sound like a trivial skill, but it’s a lifesaver on movie night.”

Maggie continues smiling but cocks her head slightly. Dana realizes why almost instantly.

“You have movie night?”

“It’s not a set thing or anything. We just…if we’re not busy with a case.”

“You just watch movies? As coworkers?”

“As friends.”

“Just friends?”

Dana lets out a long sigh as she stares her mother down. Her mother, maintaining that gentle yet challenging grin. Dana considers her response carefully. She could offer a simple yes because that is the fact of the matter. They are just friends. She could criticize the wording choice. “Just” friends? Why does it have to be “just” friends? As if friendship isn’t somehow enough or isn’t valuable?

She could realize it’s her mother’s birthday and she’s the only other Scully woman left to confide in about matters of the heart, and although she doesn’t want to bring up the New Year’s kiss because she still doesn’t really know what it meant, maybe they both need this little gift of honesty, filled with tempered excitement and promise.

“For now,” Dana Scully finally admits.

Maggie’s grin grows as Scully just shakes her head and manages to keep her slight eye roll from reaching embarrassed teenager level. The waiter does bail her out a bit by choosing that moment to deliver their coffees.

“How is Fox doing? After his mother…” Maggie trails off, but her daughter knows not to expect any more specifics.

“Better? I mean, as well as can be expected. The thing is, right after that, he found out some more about his sister. About what happened to her. It was just so much all at once. I was really worried…”

Maggie reaches across the table to lay a hand on hers.

“But, it was almost like he was ready for it. He finally had some answers. Like it brought him some peace.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Yeah. He needed that.”

“We all do.”

*************

Maggie is the one to spot him first as they’re heading for the door.

“Is that- is that Fox?” she asks her daughter.

“What? No, he wouldn't…” Dana trails off as she looks straight ahead to where her mother was indicating and confirms that it is indeed Fox Mulder, standing with his hands in his pockets and his eyes trained to the floor as he appears to be waiting near the vestibule for the restrooms.

“Mulder?” Scully questions as she approaches, her voice giving away her confusion and growing concern.

His head darts up in surprise, but a beaming smile of recognition quickly overtakes his face.

“Hey, Scully! Mrs. Scully, it’s so nice to see you!”

“You too, Fox,” Maggie kindly replies, although a quick glance to her daughter confirms her suspicion that Dana is still very confused by his presence.

“Did you…did you need something?” She suddenly feels silly for presuming that he must have come there with urgent news or a case or something, but why else would Fox Mulder be at Petrino’s on a Saturday night? Did his informants trade in clandestine meetings in parking garages for family-style Italian?

“Hmm?” Mulder asks.

“You didn’t come here to find me? I told you I was bringing my mom here for her birthday, didn’t I?” He didn’t look like he had rushed to the restaurant from the office or his apartment as she had originally assumed. He had clearly shaved and combed his hair nicely. He wore an olive green sweater with dark blue jeans and a black wool pea coat rather than his leather jacket. He had definitely made an effort.

“You did, but I thought you were going out tomorrow night on her actual birthday. Happy birthday, by the way, Mrs. Scully.”

“Thank you, Fox. I’m going to have lunch with some ladies from church after mass tomorrow, so I asked Dana if we could do Saturday night instead.”

“Ah. What a weird coincidence then. I can’t believe we didn’t see you at all during dinner.”

We.

Oh God.

Mulder was on a date.

Mulder was on a date in this restaurant on the night he thought Scully wasn’t going to be there. Mulder was on a date right after Scully had confessed to her mother (and herself) that their “just friends” status was in the process of changing. Mulder was on a date right after he’d been through so much pain but seemed to come out lighter and more open and he wanted to share it with someone…who wasn’t Dana Scully.

“So, you’ve already eaten then?” Maggie asks since her daughter appears unable to form a coherent statement at the moment.

“Yeah, we just finished. I’m just waiting for her…” he seems to trail off just to motion towards the restroom rather than say anything indelicate, but then he notices Maggie’s poorly masked look of concern toward Dana, and then he notices Dana’s completely unmasked look of shock.

And then he gets it.

“Oh, no! It’s not…I want you to meet her,” Mulder insists as he grabs a hold of both of Scully’s elbows and then glances anxiously toward the restroom door.

Dana Scully looks like she might be ill.

Thankfully Mulder only stammers a moment longer until the restroom door opens and he finds reprieve when a tall, thin woman appearing to be in her mid-60s walks through the door.

“Aunt Helen,” Mulder calls.

Somehow Scully’s eyes manage to get even wider as some of the color returns to her face.

“Aunt Helen, there are a few people I’d really like you to meet. This is my partner, Dana Scully, and this is her mother, Margaret Scully.”

Aunt Helen smiles widely in recognition, first shaking Maggie’s hand and then Dana’s. “It is such a pleasure to meet you both. I’ve heard such wonderful things.”

She lingers with her hand holding Dana’s while she says this, and the younger Scully is left blushing. She hazards a look at Mulder, but he doesn’t look embarrassed by this revelation. He holds her gaze with nothing but pride.

“This is my aunt, Helen Briggs. She’s my mom’s sister. She’s visiting for the weekend from Charlotte.”

They all kind of marvel over the fact that they were in the same restaurant and what a coincidence and oh, we were seated near the back bar, that must be why we didn’t see you and Scully is just starting to feel her pulse return to normal as Aunt Helen laments not having a chance to talk with the Scullys.

“Well, Dana and I skipped dessert so we could go to The Big Dipper for some ice cream. Would you two like to join us?”

“Oh, that would be lovely. As long as we’re not intruding,” says Aunt Helen.

“Not at all,” Scully assures her. “There is one catch, though.”

“It’s not real ice cream. It’s that Tofutti nonsense, isn’t it?” Mulder groans.

“It better not be,” Maggie insists. “I don’t know how she eats that stuff.”

Scully ignores her mother and her partner’s bad mouthing of her frozen treats as she returns her attention to Aunt Helen.

“I’m afraid if you want to come along, you will have to reveal a few good Young Mulder stories. And by ‘a few,’ I mean as many as you’ve got. And by ‘good,’ I mean the more embarrassing the better.”

“I’ll start thinking now,” Aunt Helen laughs.

“I knew I should’ve picked a different restaurant,” Mulder says regretfully.

***********

They’ve just sat down to a small, round table for four with their ice cream when Mulder stands up to get them all more napkins, and Aunt Helen retrieves a small, rectangular piece of paper from her purse that she then deftly slides to Dana.

“Oh my god!” Scully exclaims with joy.

Staring back at her from the paper is a very young Fox Mulder. She guesses he must be around 8 or 9 in the school photo. His long, sandy brown hair falls just above his eyebrows. He doesn’t have his distinctive nose yet, but his bottom lip is already a little pouty. The real give away is the eyes. He’s grinning for the camera, but his eyes still have that soulfulness, that slight sadness.

She’s surprised. She knows she shouldn’t be. His eyes didn’t suddenly change when Samantha was taken. His eyes were probably always like that.

But she had always assumed that the great tragedy had flipped a switch for Young Fox Mulder. That before that single event, he had certainly been a perfectly happy child. Funny and athletic, popular for sure. But the humor developed as a defense mechanism later in life. And the sports were a great physical release as well as an excuse to be out of the house as much as possible. She didn’t actually know what he was like before, but now that she thought about it, home life was probably never all that great if it eventually led to a father sacrificing one child and leaving the other to always live with the guilt and loss.

It was very possible that Fox Mulder had always been a little boy with a lot on his mind.

In contrast, present day, adult Fox Mulder looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world as he returns with extra napkins, ready to tuck into his chocolate peanut butter ice cream in a waffle cone – that is until he realizes what his friend and partner Dana Scully is looking at.

“Oh come on. I was gone for thirty seconds, and you have the visual aids out.”

Scully continues to beam as Maggie finally gets a glimpse of the photo in her hand.

“Oh, Fox!”

“Okay,” Mulder said exasperatedly. “Does this meet your embarrassment quota?” he asks, looking pointedly at Scully.

“Not even close! This isn’t embarrassing. It’s adorable!”

Mulder rolls his eyes but can’t hide his bashful grin at her comment.

“It’s only fair, Fox. I know you’ve seen family photos of Dana at my house,” Mrs. Scully says, sounding like a mother well practiced in settling disputes between children.

“Just a couple. I do like that high school graduation picture, though. I still don’t know how you kept your cap on with all that hair.”

“That was the style back then. Everybody teased their hair and used a ton of hairspray.”

“I thought it might be a religious thing at Catholic school. The higher the hair, the closer to God,” Mulder teases.

Maggie and Aunt Helen chuckle, though the latter gives him a good-natured swat on the arm in admonishment.

“See, this is what I need, though. I need something from the teen years. That’s peak embarrassment fodder,” Scully says.

“If you ask our colleagues, I think my peak embarrassment fodder would come from about 1991 to present,” Mulder points out.

Aunt Helen just looks slightly regretful. “I’m afraid I don’t have many stories from those years, Dana.”

Mulder makes eye contact with Aunt Helen. “You didn’t miss much,” he insists. She looks like she wants to debate him, but he just places a hand on hers reassuringly, and they seem to make a silent agreement to not argue the point any further.

Mulder had never really mentioned any other family before. She knew his grandparents had all passed before she met him, but she had assumed, just like with everything else, that any other extended family connections had disappeared along with Samantha. That no one would know how to comfort and console The Mulders in a situation like that, with no explanation.

His aunts and uncles must have had questions, probably even had their own theories. Did his mother’s side suspect his father’s involvement, or did his father’s side blame his mother somehow? Did any of them blame…no, she couldn’t go down that route. Besides, did anyone ever suspect horrific things like that before the days of cable news and supermarket tabloids?

The point is, it was a tense situation, so Scully assumed they had all done what wealthy white people in places like Martha’s Vineyard and Boston and Raleigh did with any uncomfortable subject – they avoided it completely.

And that meant avoiding the little boy with a lot on his mind as he became a teenager with even more on his mind.

Scully had accompanied Mulder to a small burial service for his mother in Raleigh a few months ago. It was just the service. No gathering or dinner after, or at least not one that Mulder told her about. The attendees at the service were all pretty spread out, not much mingling. Again, it was another sudden loss shrouded in mystery. They all avoided particulars as much as they could.

Scully didn’t remember seeing Aunt Helen that day, but maybe she was there and just couldn’t bring herself to say anything. Maybe she wasn’t there because she couldn’t bring herself to go and then regretted it. Dana Scully didn’t know, and it didn’t actually matter. The point is that she’s here now. And that’s exactly what Mulder’s look of reassurance and acceptance seems to say.

It seems to help her perk up because she offers playfully, “Oh, what about that summer on Quonochontaug? I think you were 9 or so, and you were collecting leaves for one of your Indian Guide badges.”

“Oh god!”

“I’m hooked already. Not to jump ahead, but please tell me there’s poison ivy involved,” Scully says gleefully.

Aunt Helen’s bark of laughter and Mulder’s exaggerated eye roll are all the confirmation she needs.

“It was heavily involved! But that’s not the worst part. While he was working on his Leaf Collecting badge, he also earned credit towards his Wildlife badge when he came across a skunk in the woods.”

“No!” Scully shouts.

“Ivyed and skunked at the same time,” Mulder admits.

“Oh you poor thing,” Maggie adds sympathetically, but with barely contained laughter.

“He had to jump right from a tomato juice bath for the skunk smell…”

“Which didn’t work!”

“…into an oatmeal bath for the itching.”

“Which worked better, but I still smelled like a Grateful Dead concert.”

Both Scullys are full on giggling at this point.

“Do you remember what Grandpa Ralph said when he walked in and saw you and mom dunking me in a tub of oatmeal?” Mulder asks.

Aunt Helen pitches her voice deeper and amps up her Southern twang, “Why don’t cha dip him in some egg and flour next? We toss him in the frying pan, we got supper! We’re havin’ Fried Fox tonight!”

Now they’re all in hysterics. Even the man who usually hates his given name can’t help but laugh along, especially when it makes his lovely company so happy.

*****************

Scully enters the basement office Monday morning to find Mulder already there, flipping through an open drawer in the filing cabinet.

“Good morning,” she says cheerfully.

He looks up and smiles. “Good morning. Long time no see.”

“How was the rest of your weekend? Did you guys do any sightseeing or anything?”

“No, we just had a late breakfast yesterday before I took her to the airport, but it was good to catch up some more. She told me to thank you again for letting us tag along for ice cream. It was really nice.”

“It was,” Scully agrees.

Mulder appears to be considering something for a moment before he crosses over to the desk and picks up a small envelope.

“She also told me to give this to you,” he says almost bashfully, extending the envelope in Scully’s direction. “She told me I couldn’t look inside, and I didn’t. But I think I know what’s in there, and if I’m right, you don’t have to keep it. You can just leave it here on the desk.”

Well, now she’s intrigued. Scully opens the envelope to find a small handwritten note at the top.

“I thought you might like these. I have plenty more too, if you’d ever like to see them or want any more stories. Please don’t be a stranger.”

Scully lifts up the note to see the remaining contents inside and finds a small stack of photographs, a mixture of more school photos along with a few wallet-sized family portraits and a couple candids taken on the beaches of the Vineyard or Rhode Island, she can’t tell. But she sees the same set of eyes in all of them.

She looks back to read the rest of the note.

“I’m so glad I got to meet you, Dana. Take care!”

Below Aunt Helen’s elegant signature, she has also written her home address and phone number. Scully will have to call and thank her.

“She tried to give some to me,” Mulder explains, “but I didn’t really want…and like I said, you don’t have to…”

“No, I’d like to keep them,” Dana insists.

Mulder lets her statement hang in the air for a moment, but he can’t help but diffuse it.

“You just want more blackmail material.”

“Something like that,” Scully says teasingly, but there’s no bite behind it.

“I knew I should’ve picked a different restaurant.”

She chuckles lightly as she shuffles the photos into a neat stack to place back in the envelope, thinking that this is the point where they get back to work. Mulder stays standing in front of her and appears to be considering something again. Does he have another envelope that he’s afraid to give her?

“You know it was pure luck that we ended up at Petrino’s the same night as you. I actually gave Aunt Helen a few options and let her choose. I was pushing more for that Thai place in Arlington, just off Old Dominion. The one that’s been there forever,” Mulder explains.

“Oh, the one with the secret menu? I’ve still never been there. Can’t say I’m surprised that Aunt Helen wasn’t up for Thai food, though.”

“Yeah. Fair point,” Mulder nods for a moment too long before continuing. “Would you like to go there sometime? Like this Saturday? With me?”

Scully slowly looks up from the envelope to see Mulder’s face because in all matters, other than the divine, Dana Scully needs to see to believe. And the slightly nervous yet gentle grin that she finds allows her to believe it to be true – Fox Mulder has just asked her out on a real date.

“I would like that,” Scully says gently.

“Good. You wanna say 7:30? Or we can always figure out time later,” Mulder states, aiming for practicality to keep him from grinning like a complete idiot. He ends up grinning like a moderate idiot, but he’s okay with that.

“Sounds good.”

Yep, Scully will definitely have to call Aunt Helen and thank her.

#msr fanfic #txf fanfic #msr #mulder and scully #dana scully #maggie scully #fox mulder

177 notes · View notes