#Send help it is so irreparably stuck in my head and has been for three days now

[tired-nonbinary-rat]

[doorsclosingslowly]

From Each According to Their Ability, To Each According to Their Need

A good relationship is just teamwork: everyone has their strengths and some things they can’t or won’t do, and the trick is fitting everything together. Jesper has the charm, the shamelessness, the beauty, and the reckless disregard for his heart and self-preservation, so he’ll be the crumple zone in-between Inej’s morals and Kaz’ cold reticence. He’ll get them through this fight. He’ll make this relationship work.

10k | Jesper/Kaz/Inej | Sun Summoner Jesper AU | content note: explicit sex

Jesper has a good reason for why he’s been sitting inside Kaz’ office while Kaz does paperwork and Inej sharpens her knives. A great, important reason. He’s not a masochist for boring himself to death. Okay, so he’s also miserably bored and jittery and it’s been an hour and he’s already tired of un- and reloading his guns over and over so the motions become as fast as possible. The minutes are crawling like ants under his skin. If he was anywhere else, he’d have left in search for a card table a long time ago, but those busy eyes will focus on his back the second he gets up, and they’ll know exactly where he’s headed, and—maybe he doesn’t want to give them another reason to talk about him when he can’t defend himself. It isn’t spite that keeps him rooted down here, but… close enough.

So if putting his cards to their intended use is out, why not… On the first try, though, the stack of cards that was supposed to take the loose shape of the Crow Club collapses when he’s at the third layer. Fucking ants. Kaz doesn’t even look up from his paperwork, only grits his teeth and viciously swipes away the three of hearts that landed right on the last word he’s written. The word’s smudged, and the card’s back has an ink blot on it. Marked. Ruined.

Before Kaz can get in the customary insult about his lack of work ethic, Jesper huffs, “I’m finetuning my dexterity.” Kaz doesn’t even bother with the easy follow-up insult (“If that’s supposed to be dexterity, you’d better write your will before I send you on the next job. Except you can’t even bequeath anything but your ugly shirt. How long did it take you to lose the last kruge I paid you? Forget dexterity, practice winning a single card game sometime.” But why is Jesper doing all of Kaz’ work for him when he doesn’t even care enough to look up?!)

Either he’s genuinely too busy or still angry from whatever fight he had with Inej two days ago that they stopped the instant Jesper opened the door—and still taking it out on Jesper, who wasn’t even there—or he’s decided that scattering playing cards all over his table is still better than the next form of fidgeting Jesper might come up with. Either way, Kaz leaves him alone to try again. It only barely helps. There’s no thrill in playing with himself—at least this way, but even wanking’s no fun when the only two faces he wants to imagine above him right now are angry and keeping secrets.

No, they need to talk first. That’s why he’s here. Why he’s enduring this agony.

He’s waiting for the tension to burst. He just didn’t expect it to take hours. Kaz and Inej, though, are both some sort of hyper-patient freaks. Utterly devoid of mercy. Trust Jesper to fall for the strangest, worst, cruellest amazing people in all of Ketterdam. They’re not going to make the first move. And Jesper doesn’t want to, either.

It was going so well in the beginning. He had Kaz coming undone—coming, from his hand, in his arms, and passing out from how great the sex was, and then the next day him and Inej and Kaz had a conversation that went incredibly well, too. “Yesterday was so good and I think you liked being able to touch me when I’m glowing, so let’s do it again sometime? And I like Inej as well as you and she likes me too and she adores you, and you love her, so—let’s try this as the three of us?” or however it went in detail, Jesper was honestly too nervous at the time to really remember anything but the way Kaz frowned until his blotchy red cheeks betrayed him and he nodded and Inej said something moving and clever that Jesper wishes he could recall. They agreed, though, he’s sure of it. They agreed to give it a try.

So after that he’s been going up to Kaz’ bedroom in the night sometimes and practicing “unleashing the sun” as he now calls it (no not his dick), and complimenting Inej and kissing her hand like she’s a lady from a penny play, the way he’d usually do anyway but it’s more, now, since they’ve both agreed it can mean something different. It makes her laugh at him, anyway, careless and bright, which is what matters. Calling her darling and love and dearheart. Buying her snacks. And he’s made himself scarce occasionally when Kaz and Inej are together, but they probably didn’t notice neither his exit nor his presence in the first place, caught up in some silent conversation.

Anyway. It went great. Jesper spent weeks almost bursting with joy. He got sent out to intimidate a guy from the Liddies and terrified him into submission just on the strength of how widely he was grinning. He’s happy. Inej was happy. Even Kaz was vituperating failing Dregs with less hatred than usual, and it was all because they’re together now, together as more than a quasi-Barrel Boss and his favoured stooges, which honestly is a rush much bigger than gambling, bigger than alcohol, bigger than going supernova (Reverse order of fun there. Lighting up is the most intense thing Jesper’s ever felt, blotting out every other desire, the only time outside a gun battle when he can’t even remember what gambling feels like, but he does not like it).

And then, a two days ago, the fight. He interrupted something that wasn’t meant for him—that was about him, though, he’s sure, if the way Kaz’ dark eyes back then bored bloody holes into his chest were anything to go by—he saw them and they shut him out and later, Inej materialized in front of him and asked Jesper whether he was okay, for reasons he cannot understand. When he went back up to Kaz’ bedroom Kaz hissed at him to leave, because he ‘just wanted to sleep’. He looked tired, too, but not the exhaustion of work but emotional turmoil, loathing, dread, that Jesper could have helped him forget. Except he didn’t want Jesper to try. He didn’t want Jesper. He’s been avoiding Jesper like the Queen’s Lady, not even assigning him work, and he’s been even more grumpy than usual, too. Vicious, brutal, with everyone. Even Inej.

So now Jesper’s stubbornly sitting in a room with a man who suddenly hates him and a woman who won’t explain, enduring the torture of quiet parallel work until someone cracks, and maybe it won’t even be him.

If it’s not working out, it’s, well—not fine, Jesper’s going to be absolutely heartbroken, but he’s broken up before with people he might not have adored as much, and didn’t work for besides, people who weren’t the terrors of the Ketterdam underworld, but it was okay. He got over it. He’s not a child.

He’d just like to know it’s over before he makes an absolute fool of himself. No. Makes more of an absolute fool of himself. Thanks, imaginary insulting Kaz, but that one was pretty weak. Jesper’s even losing his Kaz imitation skills now, and it’s only been two days of complete disregard and freeze-out. What if he can’t solve this? What if it’s forever?

The cards scatter across Jesper’s corner of Kaz’s working table—one landing right next to Kaz’ pen, again—and they spread out all over the floor and, ignoring Kaz’ hateful glare and Inej’s concerned one, he quickly dives under the desk to pick them up. Kaz’ good leg is tensing rhythmically, as if he wants to tap it, wants to run—except Jesper’s wrong there, because Kaz never runs away—and his bad one looks miserably taut. Yet another thing the Sun Summoner could help him with, if Mr Dirtyhands Bastard of the Barrel Brekker, terror of Ketterdam, inspiration for the sexiest creep in all of dirt cheap fiction, gang leader in all but name, would deign to speak to him. It’s the only thing Jesper’s power is good for. No use, though. Jesper comes back up and sits down with a baleful sigh and expertly shuffles his cards. Shuffles them again. He could invent a few new tricks, but… he checks the pockets of the coat he’s slung over his chair, and he doesn’t have a marked deck in there. He’s stuck with the genuine article. He doesn’t usually play with marked cards after all: if Jesper’s in control of what’s going to happen, it’s not gambling anymore, just work.

It’s just, if Jesper messed it up again, he’d like the chance to make amends. Apologize. Work it out, maybe, if that’s on the cards, get screamed at, or find a place on a boat if it’s so irreparable Kaz just wants him gone. If it’s something in Kaz’ or Inej’s past, he can’t do anything, since Inej barely trusts him with the clean-picked bones of what was done to her at the Menagerie and Kaz doesn’t trust him at all, so. Fuck.

Whatever it is, Jesper didn’t notice because he’s an idiot. He was floating on what he thought was requited love, and the sudden safety of Kaz hiding his identity as the Sun Summoner, and how well they all fit together. Kaz, the miserable bastard, opening up slightly and allowing himself to feel good; Inej being safe and cherished and in control; and beside them, Jesper, laying the world and his heart at their feet. He thought.

But now everything’s fucked, and Kaz and Inej still haven’t cracked. They’re working as normal, if without any of the little exchanges that Jesper’s come to cherish. Still: he’s almost bursting out of his skin with the need to run, to gamble, to fight and maybe even lose, get worked over a little (if he’s lucky, at least Inej will worry about his bruises), and his paramours are both just at work. They’re both okay. It’s not fair. Jesper’s wanted for more money he’s ever seen in every country he can name because he’s the fucking Sun Summoner, but honestly? He’s normal compared to those two. How are they still sitting still? How is anything they do now up to their own exacting standards? Don’t they feel the tension? Can’t they feel Jesper’s agony?

Card houses are boring; shuffling is excruciating. Shooting cards in mid-air? But Kaz will definitely complain if the office smells like gun powder, let alone the potential damage to his precious stolen décor. He’ll complain, which means he’ll look at Jesper. Insult him. Eviscerate him. Order him to fuck off even, probably, and Jesper’s already got his gun out and ready but—it’s no use. It’s not what will scratch this bleeding itch. He can’t bear this anymore.

Someone has to throw themselves on this kindled bomb before it explodes, so it might as well be Jesper. He’s got the least dignity to lose.

He pulls on his most devil-may-care smile, and then he says, “You’re both breaking up with me, right?”

“Jes…” Inej looks up, shocked.

Kaz doesn’t say anything. His face hardens, and he looks back down at his paperwork. Not writing anything, though, so Jesper knows at least he’s paying attention. At least he’s vaguely interested.

“You can tell me. It’s fine.” I should have expected it, Jesper bites back. This is bad enough already. He doesn’t need to look more of a sad idiot than necessary, but they’re just staring up (Inej) and down (Kaz), giving him more time to think: more time to make mistakes, with cruelty so well-aimed it might almost be intentional, time to be to be impulsive, maudlin. I was pretty sure you’re in love with each other even before this started. Fuck, I was great playing third wheel before, and I’m pathetic enough I’ll cheerfully go back to it. I love you. I want you to be happy. The itching under Jesper’s skin is still there, and he needs a gamble, a fight, a—he needs to stop. He won’t hurt them. “Just tell me, please?”

“Jesper, no—”

“You’re both tense and angry, and you haven’t talked to me in two days.” He looks at Inej, who’s furrowing her brow, ready to argue, but— “You asked me how I was doing but you didn’t talk. Kaz won’t even look at me. You won’t even give me work, boss, and I know you don’t tolerate freeloaders. And you shied away when I tried to hug you, Inej. You didn’t do that before. I saw you arguing, and I know it was about me, and—I’m sorry. Whatever I did, I’m sorry. I’ll go, if you want.”

There. It’s out. He’s done his part. Fighting this would be more humiliating, and if there’s anything that gambling has taught him, it’s how to take a loss on the chin and keep on going. The itching under his skin’s receding, but he doesn’t feel any better. Just tired.

“No, Jesper. Why do you assume—” Earlier, Inej turned her whole body towards Jesper, arranged in a careful pose of openness that couldn’t disguise her nerves and that made Jesper feel more exposed but less alone, at least, but now her body turns as her eyes flicker over to Kaz. They stare at each other, another silent fight, and then he glares back down at his paperwork. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

This time, Kaz should say here, and doesn’t. Fuck, Jesper misses his mockery.

“We’re worried it’s not reciprocal,” Inej says.

“Not reciprocal? What do you mean? That’s ridic—” except Da used to tell Jesper he’s overwhelming in his enthusiasm, just like a whirlwind, when Jesper cried to him about some neighbour kid or other not coming shooting with him even though she’d agreed; that when he got into something it was hard to say no to him even if—fuck. Fuck. And now, Inej had to protect Kaz from—

“No, Jes, not that,” Inej cuts in quickly, shocked by his bare-faced horror. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“What do you mean, then?” Jesper can’t keep himself from glowering, still bruised from the implication.

“You pleasure Kaz and then you leave. You don’t have to do that. You’re not a servant. Not a sla—” She bites off her words, but Inej’s said enough. Jesper knows what she means.

“Something reminded you of the Menagerie, didn’t it?” he asks softly. In the corner of his eyes, he can see Kaz—flinch, as if Jesper had struck him, as if he’d touched him, and he doesn’t know what it means. What it means for them, for the relationship with Kaz that Jesper still wishes he could have. What it means, that Kaz acts as if Jesper can hurt him.

He still doesn’t understand the fight, Kaz’ reaction, but he does know what Inej’s afraid of. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine. I really like it, actually.”

“Even so—” Inej looks dubious, and Jesper’s got to move ‘world-class actor’ way up to the front of his truly extensive list of skills, if he’s somehow managed to fool her into missing the torch he’s carried for Kaz for pretty much the entire time they’ve known each other—“you’re vulnerable, Jesper. No, Jes, listen to me—” because of course she’s anticipated his grimace— “you don’t have any control in this situation. The Dregs. The Sun Summoning. The kruge you owe. Kaz has far too much power over you.”

“Kaz is our boss. He’s ordering both of us around.”

“And there are things I won’t do for him. Can you say the same? What if you want to stop one day? Could you?”

“I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it.” Jesper chances a look over at Kaz. He’s blank, not even angry, completely still except for the muscle jumping in his jaw. But he’s watching Jesper. Finally, finally, he’s meeting Jesper’s eyes.

“Jesper—”

“Look at me,” Jesper says, and since they’re already watching him more intently than any fat-walleted Pigeon already, he stretches his arms over his head—gratifyingly, despite the tension, both Kaz’ and Inej’s eyes trace the strong lines of his jaw and neck. He pulls his shoulders back when he drops his arms so the open collar of his lush pale green shirt reveals as much of his chest as possible. “Look at me again. I’m the most handsome guy in Ketterdam. The funniest. The best lay. I slept with plenty of people before I started this thing with you, and I could pick anyone if it ends. There were cries of despair all over the Barrel when they realized I was off the market.”

“Stop blowing smoke up your own ass and get to the point.” Kaz, as intended, looks disgusted at Jesper’s ego, but no longer miserably vicious. Viciously miserable. And he’s talking. Inej loses a little of her worry to involuntary amusement, too.

“The point is: I’m here instead. So clearly, I want to be here. I want this, I want you—” Inej wears a tiny smile— “and if you keep questioning me, what you’re really impugning is my incredible beauty and sexual magnetism and superb taste, and honestly, that’s offensive.” Even Kaz snorts, so score… let’s say, five, for Jesper. “Also, really, you should have stalked me back to my bedroom after. The images I get are more than enough for some quality time with my hand.”

(Kaz, flushed and stunned and staring straight into Jesper’s eyes.)

(Inej’s lips on his cheek and on his neck.)

“I’m good. Don’t worry about me. I’ll follow you whenever, whyever, wherever. That’s my job, right?”

“That’s the problem, Jes.” Inej’s rolling her eyes, but she looks much less apprehensive now. Just fond.

“We both know you couldn’t… well, obviously you could make me do something I don’t want to, you do it all the time. I don’t like bouncer duty, especially if no fight breaks out. I don’t like watching card games when I’m not allowed to play. I don’t like sniping in the middle of the night. You think I lucked into a face like this without guarding my beauty sleep? But that’s it, right? I’d be complaining the whole time. I’m not complaining here. I’m an enthusiastic participant.”

“You will kill Mark Heener, even if you have to stay up all night for a month. That’s an order,“ Kaz rasps, and really? That’s what he got out of Jesper (almost) baring his heart?

“I feel safe with you.” He looks at Inej, who’s actually fucking interested. Inej, who’s starting to look less afraid now, and because he’s always going to feed his own heart to hungry dogs to make her happy, he adds, “I like you. Both. That should be obvious.”

Inej glows. Jesper keeps his eyes trained on her, because he really doesn’t need Kaz’ derision, he doesn’t, even though he’s curious—oh yeah, he’s already looked. And Kaz doesn’t look happy exactly at Jesper’s dangerously-close-to-a-confession, but there’s none of the contempt or revulsion that Jesper forced himself not to be afraid of that made him keep his feelings quiet, more—fear. Confusion. As if the problem isn’t that Jesper hopes that Kaz loves him back. But that Jesper loves him.

“Oh, seriously, Kaz, I was never subtle about finding you attractive.”

“There is a vast difference between lust and… this. I can’t give you what you want. I will never touch you. I’m the Bastard of the Barrel. Dirtyhands.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “I’ve never actually cared—”

“I know three channels by which to contact the Little Palace,” Kaz hisses. “Five ways to lure you there without you catching on, and at least fifteen to subdue you should you resist. All your fears. Your secrets. Your addictions and abject weaknesses. Should I ever need the money—”

“And yet, I’m still here,” Jesper cuts in, before Kaz can say something that really hurts. “You saved my life more times than I can count. Three million kruge wasn’t enough for you to sell me out. And two weeks ago, you bullied me into promising I’ll only gamble at Dregs establishments because—”

“I’m tired of paying you wages only to watch everything disappear into the Dime Lions’ coffers. You’re the pigeonest pigeon in all of Ketterdam, and I want those fat stacks of money you lose every night to go to me exclusively.”

Jesper grins at him. It won’t help his case much to continue the argument about how only gambling in Dregs’ houses means Kaz can cut Jesper off, or make sure he won’t get beat up by those he owes money to, or that Kaz actually explained his contingency plans for when Jesper’s revealed as the Sun Summoner to Jesper, in person, only a few weeks ago. Kaz knows what Jesper suspects, and Jesper knows that Kaz knows he does, and Kaz knows what Jesper thinks about the fact that Kaz knows Jesper suspects he secretly does like him, and so fucking on and so fucking forth, and Inej does too, probably, even though she doesn’t enjoy the dance, the paper chase for affection, even half as much as Jesper does. Anyway.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me, Kaz,” Jesper purrs. The way you look at me when I’m touching your dick, like you want to burn my face you’re your brain. “You’re not as good a liar as you think. You want me too. You both want me. I can’t blame you, I’m gorgeous.”

“I can’t give you what you want. I will never touch you, Jesper. Never.”

He��s so focused on that, as if Jesper hadn’t told him—three times, probably, already that those words won’t hurt him, won’t scare him off. “That’s a fairy tale view of sex,” Jesper says. “The idea that there’s one true way of sleeping with people. That everything must be symmetrical—that within the confines of anatomical possibilities, everyone has to act out their role or it’s not true love, and that it’s penetrative, and naked, and kissing, and with the lights on. Out. I don’t really care.”

Kaz bristles, though Jesper hopes it’s more because he called an aspect of Kaz’ worldview fairy tale than because Kaz actually believes some of that horseshit. He can’t quite read Inej. Impressed, worried, sorry? He ploughs on..

“I’ve never planned a decent heist before. I can’t disappear into thin air like a fucking ghost. Not that good with knives, but neither of you can actually handle a gun—not that well, boss, or you wouldn’t send me out to play sniper. I can’t look at a bleeding wound, but you can. Et fucking cetera. We do different things, and that’s what makes us a lethal team. Sex is just another heist.”

“An interesting philosophy,” Kaz rasps. “Simplified to the point of complete incoherence.”

Fuck him. Jesper’s put thought into this, okay? “There are far more ways to have sex that don’t involve touch. That don’t involve the guy sticking his dick somewhere and rutting until he gets off. It’s only fun when you’re doing it with your partners, not acting to a script.” Jesper smiles at Inej, Kaz, Inej again, open and friendly. Trying not to let his heart betray how desperate he is for them to believe them, for this to work. “You have to trust me, though. Trust me when I say that something gets me going. Trust me when I say I’ll stop you if I don’t like it. You don’t have to understand, it doesn’t have to be something that arouses you, but if I say I like it, I do. And if you don’t like it, if it brings back memories you don’t want or you just don’t want to do it, we’ll stop, of course, but that’s for you. Don’t make my choices for me.”

“I hope this plan of yours is better than the last one you came up with,” Kaz rasps.

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” Jesper grins widely. Gently. He’s so close now to everything he’s ever dreamed of. “I promise I’ll stop this when I’m unhappy, if you promise the same thing.” Then he offers his hand for Kaz to shake, and Kaz actually takes it. “The deal is the deal.”

He repeats the ritual with Inej, and then watches her and Kaz shake, even though she’s not Kerch enough to put much trust into the oath and also too clever to really need it. This is for Kaz, though: so he can believe he’s not forcing anyone because they’ll veto, and for Inej to see that Kaz sees this as the terms of the deal. Watching the reflections of shadows, et cetera.

His guns, Jesper leaves on top of Kaz’ paperwork next to his scattered deck and his holster.

Then, he saunters into the pitch-black bedroom. It’s probably best the curtains stay closed. Jesper has negative amounts of control over his power at the best of times, and when he’s getting lucky—well it didn’t used to happen, but then, he didn’t used to sleep with Kaz Brekker and Inej Ghafa either. Kaz lights a candle before he closes the door, and that’s better, anyway. Whatever the situation may warrant—and there’s conflicting opinions, perhaps, because Kaz would laugh if he heard but—it looks romantic.

Jesper undresses slowly. One by one, he pushes the shirt buttons through their holes with deft, deliberate movements. It’s not nerves. He’s not shy about his body: he knows he’s gorgeous, has undressed for others often enough though he’s never had the chance to take his time like this, and even before he tried talking it out with Kaz and Inej today he knew they found him attractive. That, at least, was assured. His body is the one thing he’s always been sure of, and he isn’t baring himself now, not like he did earlier. There are no painful, invisible scars on his skin, not like those his lovers bear. The lines and holes on his belly are from battle or clumsiness. What you see is what you get. And what you see is…

He grips the right cuff of his gorgeous pale green ruffled shirt—worn especially for Kaz today, because Kaz hates it—and then he pulls his arm out before he swings the empty sleeve over his head, stretching, showing off the taut long line of his torso, and then he lets the shirt drop to the floor. He doesn’t look at either of them. He doesn’t need it. He’s not that insecure.

Besides, the utter silence in the room, apart from the ticking wall-clock, is answer enough. No rustling of minuscule movement, no words, no breath. Like awe. Like fear. And so—

“You know, this is usually when the applause starts.”

Two voices in unison. “Shut up, Jesper.”

And that’s what Jesper’s been missing. If he makes this fun, exasperating, ridiculous, then maybe he can steal the tension from their backs. He’ll convince them he likes it. Them. It’s lucky, then, that Jesper’s as exceedingly talented at being a jokesmith as he is as a gunslinger and a lover. They’d never get through this without him.

Jesper bends down to unbuckle his boots. He doesn’t bother with graceful this time, and then he says, “We should hire DeKappel.” A beat so Kaz can start formulating various schemes Jesper might be proposing, and then, “Jurda fields are nice and all, but if he’s trying to capture true beauty… Well, he’s not going to, not until he paints one of me undressing.”

“DeKappel is dead, Jesper,” Kaz rasps drily, and Jesper throws his boots into a random corner.

“I thought you were a criminal genius. You’ll find a way to hire him anyway, for this ass,” Jesper shoots back, and then he pulls his trousers and underwear down with a single, suave movement. Unfortunately, he’s trying too hard to be cool: never a good look, and so uncharacteristic for Jesper who usually does not put any effort to enhance his natural amazingness—he doesn’t need it, but he might be a little nervous—but anyway, he fails getting them off in one fell swoop and tangles up his legs somehow. He hops around the room, trying not to fall. It wasn’t even planned, and Inej’s laughing. Unburdened, bellydeep delight in his misfortune: music in Jesper’s ears. Kaz is scowling, either because of the chaos Jesper brought to his once-pristine bedroom, or because he’s trying not to join her. Definitely the second. Jesper’s lost count of how much he scored already in the private game of putting Kaz at ease.

Inej strips down to her quilted undershirt and her underpants efficiently. No flourish, no stumbling: the master showing how it’s done right, which Jesper tells her, and is rewarded with another huff of laughter.

Jesper preens. Stretches, showing off his half-hard dick, and realizes he’s still wearing his striped socks.

“Leave them,” Inej orders.

And who is Jesper to deny his lady her wishes?

Kaz is still standing by the door. Awkward gloved fingers picking at the collar of his shirt. His eyes meet Inej’s for some time while he loosens his tie, and then Jesper’s. Jesper quickly looks away, before Kaz can get angry at him for seeing something he shouldn’t. Still. “Should I…?”

“If you feel better wearing your clothes, keep them on,” Jesper tells him as confidently as he can with his heart beating against his throat. “Like I said, there are no rules. No implications. No meanings. Sit down on your chair, if you like. Pull it over here, so you can get a good view,” and without even a complaint, with gratifying haste, Kaz obeys. “You’ve never met a rule you didn’t break, creatively, viciously, for enormous profit. We’re thieves. Gangsters. And I like your suit, it makes you look hot.”

Kaz glowers at him, but his cheeks are red.

Jesper grins back. “Very sleek. Modern. I know you’re dressing as a mercher, but honestly, none of them come close to looking anything as good as you, so I’m sorry to say. Failure. You’re too handsome to be a mercher. Have you seen them?”

It’s fun, complimenting Kaz, and it’s even more fun having both of them stare at the way he marches over to the bed and languidly stretches out, lies down, cock bobbing slightly, their eyes tracing up and down his body, but… “Not that you’re not really stroking my ego right now—stroking it hard, wet, twist at the end, just how I like it,” Jesper does his best lustful leer, and nearly ends up laughing at himself because he’s trying (too hard? Not enough? Trying to sabotage it before it even starts?), “but you do know I’m not good at laying still? I’m going to fidget unless we do something.”

“If I minded your need for movement, I’d have gotten rid of you years ago,” Kaz rasps. “These are your rules. I thought you were all about breaking them. If you want to move, move.”

And Jesper hates to admit it, but once again, Kaz is right. “I guess that’s why you’re the boss, boss,” and blissfully, Jesper braces his feet against the footboard, arching his back, dangling the left foot over the edge and then changing his mind, tapping his heel against the wood in an offbeat rhythm.

Kaz is watching him, eyes gone even darker with arousal, and yeah—from his vantage point, he’s probably got a really decent view of Jesper’s ass right now.

“Inej—what do you want to do? Or if you haven’t decided yet. if you’re comfortable, on the bed with me, I just want to lay my head in your lap.”

And then, Inej’s suddenly next to him. Jesper still doesn’t know how she manages it. He was looking at her! Only glancing back over to Kaz to find out how he took the suggestion, and then the next instant Inej’s pushing Jesper up by his shoulders and sliding under him. Jesper lets his head plop down. “You’re such a weird fucking miracle, you know that?”

Inej, grinning, pets his face.

“Hey! I mean it. You’re the weirdest person in this room. The nicest, and you do know we’re all gangsters, so nice is weird. Not the most beautiful, though—I’m afraid that adjective was created just for me,” because if he doesn’t make a joke now he’ll only get sappier, and then Jesper starts lightly touching his own skin, running his hands over his nipples and his stomach and the burls and snarls of long-healed wounds. Inej’s generous hands touch his mouth, and from behind the foot of the bed Kaz’s heated stare completes the tableau. They mocked him for it, but this is safe. This is nearer than heaven. This— “I like this one.”

“You nearly bled out. And when that wasn’t enough, you burned up,” Kaz hisses.

“But I didn’t. Inej got me back to the Slat, and you refused to even look at me for the week I spent in bed until she found a healer. You were so angry. I thought you were going to kill me if the sepsis didn’t.” You were angry because I was showing off and it nearly got me killed, Jesper doesn’t say. Because you wanted me to live. That’s when I found out you care.

Kaz, though, looks far too uncomfortable, and Inej’s stopped petting Jesper. That’s what happens when he gets too distracted. Too comfortable with them. “You don’t have to say it,” he soothes. “I know why. But this is getting boring, so, tell me what you want me to do. What you’d like to do to me. This is a judgment free zone. Except for Kaz judging me, I think I’ve developed a fetish. At this point I don’t even know whether I could get off without a rasped insult or two.”

Kaz scowls at him.

“I could pretend to be deeply embarassed, if you like.”

Kaz scowls.

“I did actually mean it when I said, ‘tell me your fantasies’.”

Kaz keeps scowling. Then, after a while, while Inej slowly grows bolder exploring Jesper’s face, pushing her fingers into his mouth and asking him to suck, he whispers, “I would touch your face first, Inej. Pull you toward me and kiss you, and feel your breasts against my body. Slide down, lick it, while Jesper kisses my neck.”

He speaks clearly, without hesitation, but something keeps Jesper from sinking along into the fantasy. Kaz, naked, caressing Inej and licking her tits, while Jesper sucks bruises into his neck… something feels off, wrong, and Kaz is smiling confidently but then, he’s a great actor when the heist calls for it. He’s a great actor. He’s acting. Kaz, naked… This isn’t him, or if it is his genuine fantasy: this is him wishing he wasn’t himself.

He’s sharing his fantasies but—

“How about something a little more practical. Inventive. We don’t need to skip straight to touching. I have plenty of fantasies where you’re not touching anyone at all, or not touching me with anything but your gloves or your boots or your cane. A letter-opener. The Crow Club’s expense filings. I’m not picky.”

Torn between disbelief and—intrigue, Kaz looks intrigued, and that’s going to fuel so many nights now, that cane head trailing down Jesper’s naked chest, the idea that Kaz might actually want…

“You can use a lot of things to touch people. You do it all the time, Kaz. It’s not a power thing,” because he doesn’t want to worry Inej right now, and if the idea of Jesper stroking Kaz off reminded her of bad experience he might need to talk to her in private before he expands on this. If only the two of them actually trusted him and told him, out loud, what fucked them up and how Jesper can reconcile both of their issues. He’s running blind, though, and the only safe territory is jokes. “Not always, anyway, and not right now. Right now, object insertion’s called being practical.”

But Kaz has fixated on something else entirely. “Expense filings? How the fuck would I use paper to get you off?”

Jesper just threw it in there for fun, but actually, “Paper bends. You could wrap your dick in it, get a layer between yourself and my lips, and I bet it’ll feel at least as weird as getting touched by the sun. You could make an entire paper suit, too, it’s thinner and stiffer than cloth so it’ll distort the sensation of Inej’s hands. With a nice paper tie, too, and maybe a paper hat.” He’s really getting into this, now. Kaz, stripping down, and then slowly building up a new armour just so Inej and Jesper can touch him… “In solidarity, both Inej and me have donned paper suits as well. Inej doesn’t even rustle when she moves because she’s ridiculous, and mine has strategic cut-outs. Wouldn’t want to deprive you of all this beauty. It really makes a dent in Kaz’ paperwork, anyway—at least halves the amount of things he has to read tonight, so he has much more time to spend with us. Which is good, because it takes hours to construct all our suits.”

Kaz looks sincerely disturbed. Inej’s hiding her face in her hands. She groans in despair, and the sound goes straight to Jesper’s dick. At least one out of the three of them’s getting off on his hard creative work.

“Oh, come on! At least half of Kaz’ schemes are more convoluted and incomprehensible than this. And yet, they always work. I really think I deserve the benefit of the doubt here. I’d really like to wrap my lips around a roll of those dull reports you read while you’re ignoring me. Slick them up with my tongue. Bleed the ink. Lick all the way down to the signatures…”

“Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not, boss. But improvising a million plans with whatever’s available is your job, boss. I’m just thinking out loud.”

“Stick to your strengths, Jesper. Thinking clearly isn’t it.” A beat. Kaz looks both impatient and strangely, uncharacteristically unsure. “You don’t mind? Not that. Using gloves?”

That’s what spurs Jesper into honesty. Overcompensating with humour keeps him safe, but if one of them must be embarrassed here—well, it’s just wrong when it’s Kaz. He flushes. “The leather’s hot, Kaz. It’s what makes it special. They’re a part of you, and I wonder what it would feel like, those gloves on my body. The cane’s you, too. And I think about you, not some person you could have been. You, and if that’s feeling your gloves… I’ve imagined it.”

“So that’s what you like,” Kaz rasps. “Being fondled by a cripple.”

“Kaz—”

“The last person who said something far less insulting about my boss, I shot in the head,” Jesper snipes back. “You should know, I don’t tolerate anyone dismissing Kaz Brekker like that.”

Inej looks angry, but now that she can see Kaz’ quick incredulous flush, far less angry than she was back then. They’d both gone out for pastries, and in the queue a couple of patrons had been talking about the Dregs’ recent expansion into Liddies territory and the woman had made the unwise choice of talking about the Dregs’ de-facto leader in front of Jesper. Inej had tried to pull him home quickly after they bought their gemberbolussen but Jesper’d waited for the woman outside the shop, and—

Kaz, though, swallows what might have been pleasure. He probably doesn’t like being defended, or being seen to like being defended, or… Anyway, he hisses, “Are you ashamed of the monster I am? We should end this farce now, then. The idea that I might become anyone but Dirtyhands, just for you, is illusory.”

Inej hides her face in her hands. It’s impossible to tell whether it’s exasperation or an attempt to hide her laughter.

Jesper, at least, is hiding both. “Kaz, I just said I kill people for mocking you. I meant—well, most of what I said about using objects. I’m not claiming the moral high ground. And you know I don’t mind Dirtyhands—I even found Matz Drescher hot and he was way more of a dick than you. Sorry, he was a much smaller dick,” he says, when Kaz starts scowling. “I meant to say—he had a much smaller dick.”

Kaz still looks hilariously offended—or offended again for a new reason—and so does Inej, who’d complained to Jesper at length after Pim brought The Misfortunes of Virtue to the Slat’s eating room and then explained to her what it was about. Jesper couldn’t really understand then whether she disliked the impropriety of reading pornography in a common room or the blasphemy more, or how funny Pim found the Kaz caricature, but he didn’t care: he went out and bought it the same day.

“But Kaz. I don’t mind a single thing about who you are,” Jesper spells out, because Kaz is a genius, but if he’s still hung up on the idea that Jesper’s not totally in love with him, he’s also the stupidest man alive. “I’m game for whatever you need. Gloves, no contact, dickishness, whatever. What either of you need. I’ll be the crumple zone. I’m committed to figuring this thing out.”

Then, because Kaz is still just staring, surprise, want, grief and so much more flickering over his face: and Jesper hadn’t dropped out of university he’d probably be ready to write a monograph or two about his chosen field, Kaz-expression-ology, now… Because Jesper could watch him forever and it still wouldn’t tell him any more than he knows right now, he hides his face against Inej’s quilted undershirt.

And quickly emerges again, because Jesper doesn’t hide from his feelings. Often. More than once a minute, at least, but he’ll force himself to make this one of the occasions. Because if he doesn’t, if everything grinds to a halt here, they’ll realize what lies below what he just said, the abject love, and so he puts cheer in his voice and says, “But anyway. Back to business. We were in the process of having sex.”

Inej’s still watching Jesper far too keenly.

“How about I eat you out?” Jesper allows his eyes a quick dart to Kaz—who looks hungry, no problems there right now—before he stretches his head back as far as it’ll go, looking up at upside-down Inej now grinning down at him. “I think you might like it. I’m very, very good. What do you think, o invisible silent Wraith, robber of all Ketterdam’s secrets? Ready to find out why every nonnevot is so incredibly lucky to be devoured by me?” He raises his left hand with pointer and middle finger spread, and licks, slowly, all the way up from the v to the tips and down again, while giving his best, most intense smoulder to Inej. Inej, who’s giggling at him again.

“Stop, stop,” she begs, hiding her face in her hands.

“I thought you were supposed to be good at this,” Kaz rasps, sounding fond and just as amused as Jesper wants him.

“Sorry.” Jesper licks his lips and drops his voice even lower, a suave rumble he can’t hold for long until he’ll have to gasp for breath. “I forgot to mention. The Jesper Fahey Seduction Experience is limited to Crows who haven’t already agreed to go out with me. You get the leftovers.”

“Fair.” Inej shimmies out of her underpants as well and drops them off the side of the bed. She pats the blanket in-between her thighs when Jesper, stunned into silence, doesn’t react for a second. “As long as you only wildly exaggerated the skills of your tongue in terms of talking. Not… Come here, Jes.”

She laughs at him again when he crawls slowly closer like the caricature of a hunting cat and when he softly caresses her right leg, then pulls it up and deposits the thigh atop his shoulder.

He licks a slow stripe up along the outer seam of her cunt, then again, focusing on the trembling in her thighs and the laughter and the shy hand that settles in his hair, just trying to get a feel for it. Not the act itself, but Inej’s reactions. In his eagerness he’s chosen a tactically stupid beginning: he can’t monitor Inej’s minute expressions from down here with his face buried in her sex. If he could completely trust she’ll stop him when it gets too much, or, alternately, if he could trust this will never hurt her at all, he could lose himself, but so… She’s wet already, and that’s good. Jesper doesn’t know what Kaz is doing at all, either, except for the drag of the chair that may be him finding a better place to watch.

He pulls one arm up slowly—and maybe Jesper’s overthinking this, but these are the most important people in his life: he needs to protect them, and his mind won’t shut up—slowly, he reaches for her, I’m not restraining you don’t worry, and starts toying with Inej’s lips, not penetrating, while he laps at her clit. Gently, at first, while he learns the way she squirms—while he guesses what might mean too much pressure and no, here please and anything she’s not saying, because Inej’s far too quiet, and only her hands digging into his hair and pushing him down give him the certainty to not try and look at her face for clues.

Carefully, he puts his hand into service. One finger, then two, curling towards the front, massaging, matching the movement of his mouth, and again and again until Inej’s body curls all around him when she comes. Silent, of course.

Kaz is utterly silent as well. Maybe he’s not even there. Maybe he went back to work, and Jesper turns, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and— “So you are enjoying the show!”

His arms are hanging down straight and his hands are balled into fists, and Kaz is hunched forward, but still—those trousers are bulged a little more than usual. (It probably says things that Jesper’s got a yardstick for ‘usual’ here. But—)

“Why don’t you take care of this? For me… us?” Inej, asking gently somewhere above Jesper’s head.

“It’s easier when you do it.”

Jesper can’t help it. He snickers at the way Kaz glares-pleads at him, and apologizes, and tries hard not to crow with delight but— “Kaz Brekker, admitting I’m better than him?! Don’t be ashamed. You can’t excel at every single thing, and hand jobs happen to be one of my areas of expertise.”

“You’re scrubbing the floor in my office tomorrow, Jesper.”

“Is that what Inej meant with the dangerous power—“ Jesper bites his tongue. Just in time. Kaz looks pissed, but neither Kaz nor Inej have stormed out yet, though they might if he gives them time to process… “Give me a pillow, Inej.”

She pulls it out from under her back, somehow making that appear dignified, and Jesper throws it at Kaz’ face. Kaz, unfairly, catches it.

“We’re practicing a new trick today. It’s a shame, I’d love to watch that erection but it might not be enough to get you off. Hold it against your crotch and hump it. More friction.”

A beat. Kaz just sits there, clutching the pillow against his lap, and then— “You said after you finish getting me off, you touch yourself thinking about us. Show me.” His voice is even hoarser now. It’s unfair.

Jesper was so focused on him and Inej and making sure neither of them got hurt, all along, that he almost forgot he had a body. Now, though—now, with Inej still slick on his lips and Kaz’ rough voice and the knowledge he wants to watch Jesper—wants to watch Jesper jerking off, it all bleeds back with a vengeance. He’s close already. He’s so close. He squeezes the root of his dick tightly, staving off the end, thinking about wounds, open, bleeding, full of pus—squeezes, lies there, eyes closed, breathing, breathing, and listens to the soft rhythmic rustling of a pillow. Which doesn’t help.

“You’re in the right position,” Jesper whispers, when he dares softly trail his hand up and down his prick again. “Look at me. That’s how I imagine it, usually. I’m on my back in my room, and you’re both watching. With interest.”

Kaz laughs at him. It sounds more than a little breathless. “I should have known you get off on being the centre of attention, you egotistical asshole.”

Jesper doesn’t look across at him, or up at Inej. It would be over too soon. He can’t stop feeling the heat of Inej’s thighs underneath his head, though, and that… Kaz could mock him, for how incredibly turned on he is right now, for the certainty that if anyone was to touch Jesper’s too-sensitive skin now it would be over—but Kaz doesn’t know shit about sex. Point, Jesper. Instead, blindly, he starts needling, “You’re doing well, boss.”

“Fuck you.” Kaz can’t even muster his normal bloodlust. He sounds vaguely humiliated, and shouldn’t.

“No, you’re fucking you.”

Inej actually slaps Jesper’s head, and Kaz groans—and the smack and the sound travel down to Jesper’s dick, better than anything he could imagine, so he’s down a couple of points again, or up? It’s hard to tell now. It’s hard to tell, because his hand’s sped up without giving Jesper notice, and he can still smell Inej, all around his head, on his face, and Kaz is breathing audibly now, moaning, then not, because he’s biting either his glove or his cheek again Jesper thinks and honestly, either—and the pillow’s still thwacking, thwacking away and—thwack, a groan, a word that’s definitely not Jesper but still it’s—

And Jesper bites his own lip bloody when he comes because any word he might say can and will be used against him.

Inej starts petting his head.

Before Jesper even has his breath back, he can hear the quiet scratch of Kaz’ chair: can hear the cane and the limp, coming closer to the bed, a drawer pulled open and then shut again. Movement towards another corner.

“Kaz,” Inej says. She sounds neutral. Carefully neutral. Viciously neutral. Not like she’s sounded the rest of the night.

“You interrupted me before I finished reading my reports,” Kaz rasps. “I need to get back to work. Stay here.”

Inej shifts under Jesper’s head, jostling him off. She’s about to go after Kaz. Jesper touches her arm: turning the grab into a telegraphing move just in time, showing his intent to pull her back into bed without actually doing it. “Leave it,” he says—pleads, probably, he doesn’t have his shell fully back, and then he shouts after Kaz with as much obnoxious enthusiasm as he can muster, “That was fun, right? I had a great time. Let’s do this again!”

The door shuts.

Jesper burrows his head back into Inej’s lap, and then he says softly, “Let’s give him a little time to calm down. We all have our troubles.”

“I don’t know how you can do this,” Inej replies, stroking his hair. She sounds sad now: the last thing he wants for her, and Jesper doesn’t know how to make it better. “How you’re so reckless with your heart.”

“It’s nothing.” He’s laid out far more tonight than he’s ever intended, and that’s probably the answer. Jesper just doesn’t know when he should shut up. He gambles with everything. He’s only here because he gambled away the kruge he would have needed to escape Ketterdam, and because he carelessly lost his heart, too. Why not give everything else away when he’s not paying attention? He’s tried, Ghezen knows; he’s been watching Kaz and Inej for signs and made jokes and he weathered this pretty well for someone who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, who isn’t even trusted with their demons, but at the same time, when he’s trying to disguise and reveal so many things at once, something real’s bound to slip through. He whispers into Inej’s soft thigh, “Someone had to do it. That’s the point of partnerships: finding the person who can do what you can’t, and forcing them to do it.”

“Let me up for a second.”

Jesper doesn’t know what he’s going to do when Inej leaves too. Find another card game at the Crow Club, probably. Maybe even the Kaelish Prince, to really piss Kaz off. But Inej just pulls the duvet out from under him and gets onto the mattress again, spreading it over both of them. She puts her head on his shoulder and lies awkwardly half on top of him, the ribbing of her undershirt balancing out the mattress spring digging into his back, wrapping her arms around him. It’s almost too much.

This, more than anything that’s happened tonight, is too much. Jesper turns his head to the side. He rests his hands loosely on Inej’s back, then starts tracing random shapes.

“I’m sorry,” Inej says suddenly.

It takes a moment for Jesper to catch up. “For being concerned I was letting Kaz have his sordid way with me?”

Inej pokes him in the ribs, hard.

“You’re looking out for me, that’s good. I’m glad we talked. But I’m not as weak as I look, right? I know what I was getting into. I know how to take risks. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Jes, you’re the worst risk-taker I know. You don’t make many good choices. I’ve never seen as much money as you’ve gambled away. Don’t just gamble away your heart. You’ll get hurt,” Inej whispers.

Jesper, bravely, pretends to have suddenly fallen asleep.

+

Jesper’s hand is tangled in Inej’s hair. He uncurls it and then, his whole body, stretching out his arms and legs and the neck that’s aching from a severe lack of pillows. He uncurls, and regrets it immediately. Those long dark strands were the only thing that’s comfortable here: Inej must have moved a lot during the night, fighting for her place, and now she’s with her back to Jesper taking up more than half of the already narrow lumpy mattress, and she’s also wrapped up tight in Kaz’ thin duvet. The only duvet. Kaz could surely afford more, and Jesper doesn’t ever sleep with fewer than two blankets and a duvet and his old throw from home, not in the dank Ketterdam nights, but Kaz is an austere bastard who luxuriates in suffering, other people’s and his own, apparently, and even if he had another duvet then Inej would have stolen that one as well.

The bed smells of sweat: Inej’s, faintly, Jesper’s own, but below it, the soft sour odour of a certain someone not changing his bedclothes often enough after—knowing him, unpleasant dreams.

At least Jesper’s feet are still warm. Unlike everything else about him, because he’s still lying buck naked except for his socks in Kaz Brekker’s bed after getting him and Inej off and also singlehandedly solving everyone’s relationship troubles. His feet are nicely toasty and the rest is an icicle, goosebumped and shivering and he’s so lucky the room is pitch-black thanks to the curtains and Inej’s asleep and Kaz is gone, because roosting on top of the Slat may be a power thing on Kaz’ part but it’s also far draftier up here than down in Jesper’s room, so frigid that Jesper’s dick’s probably shrivelled back into his body. Not that it matters, and given the stuff they’ve been doing… Not that it matters, probably, to anyone but him. But hey, there’s value in being a little vain about your beauty. It got him into this bed, after all.

If Jesper let his teeth clatter so loud it woke up Inej, that would be pretty funny. She’d be mortified about hogging most of the mattress and the entire duvet. She’s also the one who had to do actual work the past two days, though, and probably even more than usual because Jesper was on his non-consensual vacation, so it all depends on how much of an asshole Jesper is. She was pretty sweet to him this night, so—

Jesper’s pulse jumps when a thin stripe of light appears on him, growing thicker, and then he closes his eyes and starts feigning sleep. A heartrender would call his bluff immediately, because his pulse is still racing: but a heartrender would know he’s awake even when he’s calm, most likely, though he’s never actually asked one about their powers. Maybe he should. At least find out whether it’s possible to force the light back under his skin when it’s started glowing out. But the only place where he’s gonna learn that is the Little Palace, and that’s the last place Jesper’ll ever go to.

If a heartrender got into this room, they’d have much bigger problems than whether Jesper can convincingly pretend to be asleep, though. It’s Kaz’ bedroom. No-one’s supposed to come in here uninvited. Except for Inej. Also, the door didn’t squeal when it opened. Someone knows those hinges intimately.

The quiet limping gait and the cane seal the deal. It’s Kaz. No reason for Jesper’s heart to gallop with terror, and at the same time—the best reason. What’s Kaz doing in here? Apart from this being his bedroom, and him probably needing to sleep too. Time to kick Jesper out, probably. Thanks, until next time, by the way why haven’t you sniped the Liddies’ treasurer yet. Should Jesper have gotten up as soon as he realized he was awake? But Inej’s here too, and Kaz wouldn’t just kick her out of bed.

He wouldn’t… this close, Jesper can hear the faint creaking of his leather gloves somewhere over his head. Somewhere to the left of him, where Inej’s sleeping, roughly where her head should be. Jesper doesn’t dare open his eyes, but he’d bet a thousand kruge Kaz is very softly petting her hair. He’s not jealous. He’s not hurt. He isn’t. He always knew what Kaz feels for Inej. Besides, Kaz is already hiding him and giving up a lot of money to keep his secret. Asking for anything more would be far too greedy, the kind of greed that costs everything: and Jesper doesn’t mind losing that much when it’s gambling, but Kaz… So he’s definitely not jealous.

He's opened his eyes, though, to confirm his suspicion, and sees Kaz pull back his hand and raise the tips of his gloved fingers to his lips. It’s too intimate. Jesper was never supposed to see Kaz like this, and he screws his eyes shut again, keeping his breathing free and even.

Fingertips ghost against the corner of Jesper’s mouth, so hesitant he almost misses them.

He might have, if he was still asleep; but those fingers are warmer than the air, and the rich earthy smell of leather tinged with the iron of old blood—the odour and sensation burn into him like the dark spots on his retinas when he once looked at the sun, and though he can’t taste any wetness, any spittle, he imagines them anyway. The glove touched Kaz’ lips before Jesper’s. He never imagined that Kaz would kiss him. Kiss Jesper. He licks his lips, because if these are the only traces of Kaz he’ll ever have inside him then—

“You’re awake,” Kaz hisses, still quietly enough not to wake Inej. “Get up.”

Jesper’s never managed to deny Kaz anything. The bed’s uncomfortable anyway.

He tiptoes quietly out into the office after his boss.

Kaz is proffering Jesper’s holstered guns, when Jesper turns around from trying to close the bedroom door as quietly as possible. It still made a tiny screech, but maybe, if Kaz lets him spend more time here then he’ll learn it well enough to…

“It’s a little past three bells. Mark Heener of the Liddies tends to leave his house at four to visit Lispet at the Sweet Shop so his wife won’t notice. It’s a good opportunity, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yeah, boss,” Jesper mumbles, still too mellowed by the scent of leather and old blood to come up with a decent riposte. “You got it. Anything you want.”

“Change the socks first, though,” Kaz rasps, and lets his eyes trail slowly up from Jesper’s feet to—yeah, Jesper’s still as good as naked.

“You know enough about anatomy to be aware that dicks shrink when it’s freezing, right?” Jesper means for it to come out more teasing and less self-conscious than it does, but Kaz is just staring at him. And not at his face, either. “You’re basically the Dregs’ boss. You can afford more than one duvet. In fact, I insist, and more pillows and a new mattress as well. When we’re doing this again I want to be actually comfortable.”

Kaz’ ears are slowly pinking up. It’ll have to be answer enough, because instead of reacting to Jesper’s unspoken question, the bastard just rasps, “It’s fifteen past now. You might need to hurry if you want to catch Heener before he gets to the Sweet Shop. And get to your room before anyone in the Slat wakes up, because I’ve already sent yesterday’s clothes to the laundry, so you can’t even slink to your room in my cast-offs.”

“I could protect my modesty with one of those gorgeous sweaty socks.” Jesper waggles his toes. In the green-and-yellow stripes, his feet look almost like grotesquely distended caterpillars. Sometimes he really misses the farm.

Kaz scowls.

“Don’t worry, boss.” Jesper buckles his holsters around his hips and winks at Kaz again. He’s too off-balance for a mock-seductive pose, but this will have to do. “This is all yours.”

[mcfanely]

The Ice Emperor and the Earth Dragon

As their routine becomes intrinsic to their day, and honestly more enjoyable as time seemed to go on, the pressing matter of the mech and the broken processing unit couldn’t be put off indefinitely. Much to Cole’s chagrin. 

Chapter 06 - Out of Sight, 2571 words

Cole let out a heaving breath from where he was laid on the floor, his hair was stuck to the sweat beading on his forehead as he paused, forcing some oxygen back into his body. He eventually got up, and easily settled back into a fighting stance. His legs a shoulder width apart and his arms raised in front of him, fists clenched. 

Zane mirrored the position meticulously. 

This was the morning routine. 

Just because they were stranded in a foreign realm didn't mean they were going to let their skills and training be wasted because they weren't actively using them. 

That, and any form of inactivity, Cole could swear he could hear the phantom words of Sensei Wu when he'd realised that they'd taken being lazy to a whole other level after the defeat of the Oni. 

He shuddered lightly at the memory, at all the booby traps that had been set around the monastery. All the times they'd been caught out, and called out about going soft. 

He wasn't going to go soft now, and the best thing about fighting against Zane, they each knew the others limits. 

They knew when the other was holding back, and being in a cave, just the two of them, they could fight and train to their heart's content without someone else encroaching on their training area or having to rotate and spar with someone else. 

They could just fight, and if they felt like it, agree that other than severe and possibly major physical trauma; they wouldn't hold back. 

Cole hadn't held back when he'd struck Zane hard enough to send him flying clear to the other end of the cavern. 

Zane didn't hold back when he'd used his shoulder to barge Cole into a wall and will the ice there to grab onto his clothing; weave into his hair until all he could do was stand there like a frozen popsicle, feeling every inch that the ice encroached further. 

This time it was hand to hand combat, strictly no powers; Cole had cracked the floor where he'd flipped Zane, and Zane had probably successfully given him a black eye. So they were even, and frankly enjoying themselves. 

No restrictions. No interruptions. 

Zane was the first to move forwards, and Cole made the mistake assuming he was going to aim high. His posture lent towards it, arms up and covering the face and his shoulder level. Only, Zane dropped at the last second and swept Cole's feet out from under him.

He was down in a second, but recovered even faster. Cole hooked a foot behind Zane's knee and pulled. Zane dropped forwards, but Cole kept up his momentum. He wrapped his legs around Zane's, locking them into place as they scuffled and rolled on the ground for some form of purchase. Zane was going for it, he was twisting in the hold, striking his elbow backwards into where Cole's chest was in an effort to get his strength to wain and relent. 

Cole winced with every contact, but carried on. He flipped Zane over on the ground until his back was pressed against Cole's chest. One arm threaded around the front of Zane's neck, and the other acted as a way to lock it in place. Then the struggling and brawl came to an end when Cole tightened the choke-hold and straightened out his body. 

Zane wasn't going to be going anywhere. His legs were immobile, his back had limited movement because Cole was forcing him to keep his body straight with the arm over his neck. 

There was a moment where neither of them moved, Zane's hands were wrapped around Cole's wrist. After a couple seconds, he released the hold and Zane promptly rolled off to the side, rubbing his neck lightly. 

Cole sat up, a hand coming up to rest against his lightly bruised ribs, but that wasn't important at the time. "Are you okay, I didn't hurt you too bad, right?" He questioned. He liked to think he knew his own strength. 

Zane eventually dropped his hand and sat back, shaking his head with a smile. "I am perfectly fine, nothing severe. How's your side?"

Cole laughed, "Okay. Little bruised but at least I won." And that was the whole point, technically. Or it wasn't, no one was really keeping score. 

"What's that, the first time in three days?" 

"Shut it, tin can, let me revel in my victory."

He definitely heard the quiet exasperated sigh that came from Zane as he collected himself up off the floor. He didn't miss the eye roll either. 

"Sore loser?" he joked as Zane held out a hand to help him up off the floor. The offer was accepted easily and eventually Cole was up and dusting himself off.

"Just sore." 

Cole grinned, "Because you lost."

Zane waved a hand, as if to say that it’s all water under the bridge before he retrieved their makeshift bucket, fashioned from a domed piece of metal that had fallen off the mech. It held water collected from a nearby river, still very cold, but after a fight, very refreshing. 

"Thanks," Cole said as he took some water into his hands and wiped his face clean of any grime. Training was probably the best part of the day, and the least stressful. 

It was their form of relaxation, a way to zone out from the actual pressing problem of trying to survive day to day. 

"What are your plans for today?" Zane questioned after a second, spurring on the conversation. 

Even though day to day, the routine stayed the same. More or less. 

"Head out, the storm from last night has dropped a bit - I mean, it's still snowing but we need to stock up on food for a couple days, just in case it starts up again. I'll go to that lake we scouted, spend today fishing."

Cole pushed himself up off the ground. Better head off sooner rather than later, more time fishing would ideally translate to a higher turn around of fish. That was the idea, anyway. He brushed himself off. 

Zane had made his way over to the computer screen, connecting one of the jumper cables back to the battery so it powered up.

"What're you going to do? Tinker with the mech again?" He asked, walking over to his companion with a slight smile, "You could always take a break from it, have a quiet day. What can be done today can be done tomorrow."

"You should never put off tomorrow, what can be done today." 

Cole sighed and rolled his eyes, "Quoting Sensei Wu, really?" 

"I was only observing the fact that the advice you gave me was not accurate to what we've previously been told." 

"And I was saying, there's no harm in taking a break." He gestured over to the mech loosely, then brought his hand up to brush some hair out of his face. It was starting to get unruly. "I'll go and catch some food, maybe scout the area a little more, you can take a break here. Your job today can be keeping an eye on the mech."

"You know I'm not a fan of sitting around."

Cole held up his hands in a mock show of surrender, "I know that. You've just been doing stuff constantly--" 

"As have you--

"-- Over the past couple weeks,"

"Twenty-five days," 

"I'm just saying," He shrugged, "no harm in a day off."

Zane seemed to think on the advice for a second, though when his eyes flicked quickly between the mech and the green cable they'd trailed from the motherboard down to the ground the day prior, Cole was ready to shut the idea down. 

He knew what Zane was going to say, "We," Cole gestured between the two of them when his brother's attention moved back over to him, "Will sort out the damage to the processing unit later on, when I'm back."

"A system diagnostic to discern the problem would barely take more than two minutes. If at all that." 

As if the whole process was as simple as that. 

They'd sat down and spoken about what could be done with the problem when they'd first figured it out. It had been awesome, a big relief to even know a possible cause for the mech's inactivity. 

Then Zane had given the details about what would be done next, how he'd have to connect himself to the mech to get a better idea of what was wrong. 

And what could go wrong with the process itself. 

On the mech's behalf, an irreparable system failure. 

But for Zane… 

"Cole, we can't keep putting this off, we need to do it at some point." He reasoned, placing one hand onto Cole's shoulder to keep his attention, though his eyes were trailing elsewhere around the room. 

They could talk about it later, do it later. 

Anything not to see his friend at risk. 

"If we can get the mech working, we can scout more of our surroundings, move over the snow and ice both quicker and much more safely. We can leave it running and get warm." Zane sighed, eyeing Cole's gi. The one dotted with rips and holes and was probably in no way keeping the biting winds at bay, yet he was still the one volunteering to go outside. 

He was going to head out the cave soon too, and here Cole was giving a small speech about safety and how he didn't want Zane risking himself when that was exactly what he was doing. 

Unless, he had a way to protect himself, keep himself safe, an extra line of defence. 

Zane cleared his throat, then said, "You should take the staff with you." 

Cole paused and raised an eyebrow as if he hadn't taken in what had been said, though in reality he had, he just wasn't so sure, "I should what?"

"Take the staff. If you're so insistent on risking freezing to death, you should take something that can prevent that."

He stared. 

Then he moved his attention to the staff. 

Then back to Zane, who had promptly busied himself with the screen and the wiring in the back of it. 

"I'm not insistent--" Cole sighed and moved over to his brother, to properly get his attention away from his not so subtle attempt at avoiding the coming conversation. "Neither of us have used the staff since we moved the mech in here," He gestured over to where the staff was situated, on the exact wall it had been propped against when Zane had put it down previously. Cole intended for it to stay there. 

Sure, the rush of power it gave was truly an… Experience. It was like a tidal wave, a huge oncoming force that seemed to crash over the wielder and drowned out all sense of anything but the sheer force and power it wrought with it. 

Sometimes Cole laid awake in the dead of twilight just staring up at the cavern ceiling, long past when Zane had turned in for the night. He found his mind wandering, getting lost in thought, and for some reason it always ended up on the same subject. 

If he picked up the staff, if he used it, then it could make their current situation a whole lot easier. He could use it to hunt more effectively, get different foods other than the fish he managed to catch on a daily basis. He'd seen rabbits hopping about, birds in trees, and whilst they were fair game; the energy expenditure in comparison to sitting down and waiting for a fish to bite his line wasn't worth it. 

Energy conservation in a cold environment was key, there was no sense in wearing himself out going for trickier prey animals just for some sense of variety to a meal. 

But the staff… Cole wouldn't have to worry about contending with the elements. He wouldn't have to stress out over getting tired, or not catching much food, some extra power could help with that. 

The staff… 

The scroll. 

"Cole?" came a questioning voice, and his attention quickly flicked to Zane's face crowding his own. 

If Zane hadn't been standing right in front of him, Cole would have been staring directly at the staff. 

How long had he zoned out? 

"I'm not going to take the staff." He concluded after a moment, running one hand through his hair. He'd been out multiple times already to fish, the track there and back was already etched fairly solidly into his brain and it wasn't as if it was a mile off. Barely five minutes, nothing really. 

Cole didn't miss the slightly relieved look that passed over Zane's face. He'd probably settled on his recommendation being a bad idea. "We should figure out a way to cover the thing, you know, when I get back later." He mumbled. 

Zane nodded slowly, "Out of sight out of mind."

Had he been thinking about the staff too? Or was Cole on his own with that? 

Cole clapped his hands and cleared his throat, startling them both back into their initial route of conversation. 

"We'll run the diagnostic when I get back. We can have something to eat, clear our heads, then run the diagnostic."

He could see Zane pondering over that idea at that very moment, and Cole knew what his rebuttal would be, it was fairly simple to predict. 

So he beat him to it, "If it takes two minutes, then we can do it when I'm here. I don't want you doing this on your own, just trust me on this. I want you to be safe."

Zane let out a slight laugh, "Says the person who always braves the snow to go fishing. What if I want you to be safe too? It's a miracle that you haven't gotten hypothermia, or even a cold over the past few days." 

"Hey, it's not just been me going out, you've been doing it too. And I don't like watching you walk out of this cavern anymore than you like watching me, but we gotta eat. Or, like, I do." He waved the point away with a flick of his hand, "You risk your life as much as I risk mine, and we agreed that we can't just leave this place unguarded. Just because we haven't seen anyone around doesn't mean this place is empty."

"How observant of you."

Cole's eyes widened and he scoffed, "Wow. The sarcasm." He put a hand to his chest and winced in mock pain, "That hurt. I'm hurt."

"Go fishing, Cole." 

"And now you're sending me away."

There was an audible and exasperated sigh. 

That just made Cole grin more. He walked over to the entrance of the cave and retrieved his fishing rod, a simple stick with a stripped and useless fried wire they'd found during their preliminary check of the mech. Though it did its job, it caught fish which was it's main and only purpose. 

He was about to step out into the light flurry of snow, though he gave a quick glance back. Zane was still tinkering lightly with the computer screen, for whatever purpose, though as if sensing someone looking at him, he looked up and caught the Earth ninja's eye. 

They shared a small smile, and a nod before Cole went on his way. 

-

From the beginning

Ch 05 > Ch 06 > Ch 07

AO3

[the-awkward-writer]

My Angel

Pairing: Jared x daughter!Reader, the entire Supernatural Family

Word Count: 1.8k of pure angst

Warnings: ANGST. ALL THE FREAKING ANGST. swearing, childhood cancer, death of a major character

A/N: Holy shit am I sorry about this one. I actually cried multiple times whilst writing this. This is the fifth, and last fic for Angst Appreciation Day. Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me. Also HUGE shoutout to @iputthesininbuisness. They beta’d ALL of my fics for AAD and they probably hate me.

Based off of: Angel by Sarah McLachlan

x

You were surrounded by people.

Your Uncle Jensen and Aunt Danneel and their kids. Your Uncle Misha and Aunt Vicki with their kids. Your dad. Uncle Mark and Aunt Sarah with their children.

You were surrounded by people you love.

Right now, Jensen and his friend Jason Manns were singing your favorite song from their album, Simple Man.

Tears were in everyone’s eyes including your own as you smiled softly to their melody.

Everyone knew this night wouldn’t last forever, you especially. The tumor that had originated in your brain had metastasized to virtually your entire body. It was in your lungs, and bones deeming it as irreparable.

The tumor was killing you, and you were going to die.

From the day you and your father found out that the tumor had spread, the doctors had given you three months to live.

Now, exactly three months later, you were on your last night. Everyone could feel it in the air, even the children who are usually rowdy in the presence of each other were dead silent.

The entire Supernatural family was crammed into the small hospital room. They all wanted to be with you when the time finally came, lord knows you were all there for them.

“Take your time,” Jensen breathed out. He knew this line was the worst possible thing to sing in this situation, “Don’t live too fast.”

The tears forming in Jensen‘s eyes were becoming harder and harder to conceal as the lump in his throat made it hard to sing.

He swallowed as Jason continued strumming, “Troubles will come, and they will pass.”

Misha looked from Jared, to Jensen, to you. Jared watched you intently, the love and worry clear in his eyes. He loved you more than life itself. Misha knew it would kill his best friend when your time came. Jensen sang while Jason played the guitar. It was obvious it was hard for the both of them to not break down and cry. You were laid on your back in the small hospital bed. Jared was at your right side, holding your hand. Your head was turned to the left, your eyes focused on Jensen and Jason. A small smile was playing on your lips.

It took almost all of your strength to turn your head to the side. Jared gave you a soft smile and wiped his eyes of tears.

“I love you, Daddy,” you voice cracked from your dry throat.

The tears that Jared tried to hide came flowing back tenfold, “I love you too, baby. I always will.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” you whispered as tears of your own came flowing down your face.

Jared scooted closer to you, a large hand falling on your bald head, “There is nothing you need to be sorry for, Y/N,” Jared said fiercely, “Nothing at all. You are everything I could’ve asked for in a daughter, you understand? I love you more than anything else,” he said.

A tear fell from the corner of your eye, and you nodded. You gave him a weak smile, “Don’t be forever alone, okay?”

Jared raised an eyebrow, “I don’t know what you mean.”

You rolled your eyes, “Find someone, dad,” you said, “You’re not getting any younger,” your voice was raspy, the strain on your vocal chords obvious. “Find yourself a hot lady friend.”

Jared huffed a laugh, “You’re insane.”

“I wonder who I got that from.”

Jared’s tears fell against your hospital gown as he leaned over and kissed your forehead.

“I don’t want to see you for years, you understand?”

The dam broke behind Jared’s eyes, “I don’t think I can wait that long.”

Your eyelids became heavy. You knew the end was drawing near. “Daddy, I‘m scared.”

“I know, honey. I know.”

“Does it hurt?”

Jared shook his head, “Quicker and easier than falling asleep.”

“You’re not Sirius Black; how do you know?”

“Because all the pain that you’re feeling now will be gone. You’ll be in your happy place. You’ll be happy.”

“But I’m happy here. I want to stay here with you guys.”

“I know, baby. But sometimes you need to let go,“ The words Jared was saying almost killed him, but his baby girl was in pain, and she needed relief.

“I love you, Daddy,” you could feel your heart rate slowing, “I love all of you guys,” you tried to say slightly louder so everyone could hear you.

Almost everyone nodded or hummed, they heard you. They know you love them, and you know they love you.

That was all you ever wanted, so you did as your father said.

You let go.

Your body shuddered as you drew in your last breath and released it.

Jared watched as your chest fell. He was waiting for it to rise again, but it never did; it never would. The long drawn out beep from your heart monitor only confirmed his worst fears.

His baby girl was dead.

He took your small, pale hand in his much larger ones, and pressed his forehead to his knuckles as sobs wracked his body.

Danneel pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to contain her own tears. She looked over to her husband to see tears flowing down his face.

Misha’s crestfallen face soon had his own tears sliding down to his chin, not stopping until they got to the collar of his shirt.

The entire room was in tears.

But no one more than Jared.

His entire body shook with the force of his cries.

The only thought running through his head was enough to send him through a downward spiral lasting for years:

My daughter is dead.

Jared sat at the first pew, just staring.

The service had been done with for over an hour, and everyone had left him alone.

He looked at the small casket, the memories flying around in his brain, burning him with nostalgia.

The first time Jared saw you, you were in a baby carrier on his front steps.

There was a piece of paper pinned to your shirt with a name and date scrawled across it.

‘Y/N Padalecki’ it said. ‘07/23/02′

Next to your carrier was a diaper bag filled with clothes, diapers, bottles, formula, and large manila envelope.

Jared took you inside his house and set the carrier down on the kitchen island.

He opened the manila envelope, pulling out its contents.

Inside there were six things.

One, your birth certificate. Two, a paternity test proving that the child in the car seat was his. Three, a picture of the baby next to a woman that Jared vaguely remembered. Four, a letter addressed to Jared. Five, a letter addressed to Y/N Padalecki. Six, signed custody papers from a courthouse in Texas.

Jared opened the letter first. The letter described the night two people met. The two people being Jared and this mystery woman. The letter told Jared that this mystery woman stole a toothpick from Jared’s trailer trashcan and used it later to prove Jared’s paternity. The letter then described the predicament the baby’s mother was in. She is a drug addict and can’t take care of a baby. She grew up in an orphanage, and didn’t want to put her child through the same things, so she dropped the baby off on Jared’s front step. The letter said that there was another letter with Y/N’s name on it, and she wanted Y/N to open it when she turned 18. It was signed by a person named Becca Wilson.

Jared looked from the white college ruled paper filled with black ink, to the sleeping baby in the car seat.

Jared could see the resemblances. You had his nose and hair. Your eyes were not yet open so he couldn’t see the color of your eyes.

Seconds later, your eyes fluttered open, and in an instant, Jared knew that he couldn’t let you go. You had his eyes.

Jared ran a hand down his face. He never regretted his decision to take you in. You were his daughter. No matter what.

Even when you were ten, and the doctor spoke those horrible words, Jared never wanted to let you go.

The doctor knocked on the door. Jared voiced a quiet “Come in.”

Your migraines were getting worse as the days wore on, so Jared finally took you to your pediatrician.

The doctor took off his glasses and rubbed his aged face with his right hand.

“Mr. Padalecki,” he said as he replaced his glasses. “Y/N has a tumor in her brain.”

Jared felt the air being punched out of his gut at those words.

His baby girl had cancer.

He held you close to his chest that night as you slept. After the doctor’s appointment, and scheduling a consultation with a pediatric oncologist, you and Jared went home to watch a marathon of cheesy movies and pig out on ice cream.

That night, as he held your small frame, he cried.

He cried and prayed to a God he’s not sure he believes in to spare your life.

You were the greatest kid Jared knew, and he wasn’t just saying that because you were his daughter.

You were kind and caring and compassionate. You were understanding of Jared’s depression and helped him get through it.

He wanted to walk you down the aisle, and threaten the boys that you brought home. He wanted to protect you for the rest of his life.

Jared buried his face in his hands. “God, Y/N,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry sweetheart. I wish I could have done more to protect you.” His voice broke and he was yet again reduced to tears.

He jumped as he felt a hand land on his back. Through tear filled eyes, he could see his best friend.

Jensen sat down next to Jared. Jared’s body shook as a sob was ripped from his body. Without a second thought, Jensen wrapped his arms around his best friend’s neck, bringing his head to his chest, “It's going to get better,” Jensen found it hard to speak around the lump in his throat. “I promise.”

Years after your death, Jared listened to your words, and found himself a hot lady friend.

Her name is Genevieve Cortese.

Well, Padalecki now.

Jared had three kids with her. Two boys and a little girl.

All throughout their childhood, Jared’s kids knew about their big sister, watching them from Heaven

And when the famous actor and generous man died of old age, you jumped happily into your father’s arms.

“I see you took my advice,” you said with a smile.

please don't kill me

tags: want to be added or removed? shoot me an ask!

Forevers:

@evyiione, @iputthesininbuisness, @mogaruke, @thatshellfiredean, @jannalionheart, @thing-you-do-with-that-thing, @whit85-blog, @allofmyimagination, @ria132love, @stressedbisexualwinchester, @infinity-dreamchaser, @not-impala, @bluedefundead, @bluecookiesandbooks

Jared Tag List:

this is open! shoot me an ask to be added!

Additional Tags:

@faifre123

[the-pontiac-bandit]

Teacher/single parent au or meeting in the E.R au for peraltiago obvs

Thanks for asking, anon!! I love these!! since we’re all in need of some peraltiago fluff this week, here ya go! 

15. Meeting in the ER AU

Dr. Amy Santiago (she’s only been able to officially use that title for six months and she’s damn proud of it) is running down the hallway, her dark ponytail swinging back and forth as her brand new white coat fans out behind her like a cape. She always thought being an ER doctor would be a bit like being a superhero, and she’s not wrong, she decides, thinking about the way she must look running through the hallway of Brooklyn Methodist Hospital – a scrubs-wearing, white-coat-caped superhero.

She’s shaken out of her reverie when she runs headlong into the glass door separating her from the ER, dropping the suture kits she had gone to fetch and losing her brand-new stethoscope. What can she say? She’s still a resident.

Furtively looking around to make sure no one noticed, Amy bends down to pick up her suture kits, dropped as her forehead hit a locked glass door at full speed. She catches a few of the older nurses tittering from the nurse’s station on the other side of the door, but she doesn’t take it personally – she remembers three days ago when those same nurses brought her coffee and a muffin during hour 13 of a particularly grueling shift.

Amy takes a deep breath, feeling her hair to make sure her ponytail is still in place and sighs, deciding it doesn’t matter anyway – she’s exhausted and she’s worked fifty hours this week and it’s only Wednesday, so this is as good as it’s gonna get. Instead, she straightens her shoulders and steels herself before taking a step back, tapping her ID against the sensor, and walking into what her new friend Rosa, a fellow emergency medicine resident, calls the “chaos-ridden-pit-of-hellfire”.

A wall of sound hits her instantly – screaming, crying, laughing, small talk, of all things, and the incessant beeping that has come to haunt her dreams on the rare occasions she actually sleeps. Despite her difficulty with hospital doors, Dr. Santiago navigates the ER like a pro, zeroing in on the patient she’s supposed to treat in an instant.

He’s probably about her age – in his mid-twenties – with disheveled hair and a sweaty red face. Red dirt covers his face and saturates his NYPD t-shirt and cargo shorts. She can see from here that gravel is stuck in his bloody knees, and that the long gash on his elbow, only partially covered by a makeshift bandage made out of someone’s tie, and the shorter cut on his right cheek are why she was told to get suture kits. His friend, a smaller man in his early thirties, looks distraught, with tear tracks staining his face. The patient, though, is laughing with the largest smile Amy’s ever seen and gently patting his friend’s back with his good arm.

She stops at the nurses’ station to grab his file before she walks over. The nurse on intake had already taken his basic medical history, which let her know that the man with a captivating smile and – unbelievably – Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle sneakers is named Jacob Peralta, age 29.

She keeps reading intake notes as she walks towards the bed, expertly navigating the deluge of people rushing to various patients despite the fact that she’s nose-deep in a chart. Finally, all those years of reading while brushing her teeth and walking the hallways at school are coming in handy.

“Mr. Peralta? Hi, I’m Dr. Amy Santiago. I’m going to be taking care of you this afternoon. Would you mind telling me more about what happened? It says here you fell off a bike?” She leaves the sentence open-ended, hoping he’ll fill in more details.

“Yep! A bike! Because I’m a BMX rider – a professional, if you will,” Jacob replies, with a pointed glance at his friend.

His friend, however, is too busy looking at the needles in Amy’s hands to notice his friend. “Actually, it was roller skates. Is that medically significant? I just want to make sure Jakey’s okay. It’s our day off, and we were roller skating. I told him he needed knee pads, but he didn’t believe me because ‘John McClane wouldn’t wear knee pads’. See,” he turns back to Jacob, “this is why roller skaters get such a bad rep!”

“Yep,” Jake replies to his friend cheerfully. “That’s why everyone hates roller skaters.”

Then, he fixes his blinding grin on his doctor, whom, he notes, is quite cute, despite her disheveled hair and the mysterious stain on the bottom of her scrub top she apparently hasn’t noticed yet. There’s something about her eyes, sparkling and interested, contradicting the bags hanging under them, that hold him mesmerized.

“I’m Jake, and this is Charles. We’re two hot-shot detectives in Brooklyn’s best precinct.”

At Amy’s stern look (which maybe turns him on more than he’d like to admit), he adds, “…and there may have been roller skates involved in, well, this.” He gestures towards his various leg wounds, grimacing when he feels a twinge – he’d used his bad arm.

Amy can’t help but smile. Mr. Peralta – Jake – is absolutely ridiculous, but so far, he’s by far her favorite patient of the shift. Not that that’s any kind of real accomplishment – her previous patients included a projectile vomiter and an old man convinced he was in the middle of a jungle in Vietnam. Sane and not spewing half-digested food is a major step up. That’s it – nothing to do with the fact that his over-the-top flirting is almost as endearing as his smile.

“Well, Jake, since you just reopened that gash on your arm, we’re going to get started on that first before you bleed all over my bed.”

“Ooooh,” he says, with an eyebrow wiggle and a wink. “Am I in your bed? Dirty, Dr. Santiago! I thought we were keeping this professional! If we’re taking this to the bedroom, I should definitely get to call you Amy, though.”

She doesn’t dignify this with a response. Instead, she grabs his arm, unties the tie holding the gash shut, and goes for the antibacterial wipes. Charles, at the sight of the reopened wound, covers his mouth and heads for the waiting room, telling them hastily that he’ll go watch some Top Chef while they deal with “that monstrosity”.

He winces as she starts to dab at the cut. “Sorry, this might hurt a bit. I’ll put on some anesthetic before I stitch you up, though.”

“Oh, no big deal. I’m a detective with the NYPD. I get hurt all the time. I live for pain.” His words sound proud, but he’s clenching his teeth like he’s holding in a scream, and she can see his other fist balled around the sheets, his knuckles white, as she starts to pick gravel out of the wound.

They’ve been taught to keep patients talking – they’ve been told it distracts them from the pain. That’s definitely why Amy asks her next question. There’s no way she’s just curious about this guy. “So, then, why’d you decide to be a detective, if you get hurt so much? At least I don’t come home with any stitches at the end of the day.”

“I don’t know, Dr. Santiago. Run into that door any harder—” he nods towards the hallway she came from, “—and I’d be the one giving you stitches. Blood gushing out of your face and everything – suuper graphic. I’d probably have to write up a police report for that kind of accident.”

Amy rolls her eyes dramatically, never once wavering in her cleaning of the wound, but Jake can see the blush tinting her cheeks and the tips of her ears at the realization that he saw her run headlong into a very visible door. It’s more than a little adorable.

“Speaking of horrifically maimed, irreparable faces, then, we should probably page a plastic surgeon to deal with yours so you don’t end up with a scar,” Amy informs him, trying to get this conversation on track. She’s not supposed to find patients cute. She’s definitely not supposed to be flirting with them. Even though she maybe is. Just a little bit.

“No! Don’t do that! I need the scar – to look badass for the ladiesssss.” Jake is wiggling his eyebrows at her, contorting his face into the most ridiculous expression she’s ever seen, somehow keeping his left cheek carefully still to protect the cut while the rest of his face moves wildly. “Come on, Amy – I mean, Dr. Santiago – you know I’m at least 3,000% hotter with this scar.”

“Trust me – I’m a first year emergency medicine resident. You don’t want me anywhere near your face. And I’ll be making no comments on how attractive you are.”

“Hah! You said I’m attractive! You loooooove me!”

Amy wants to be annoyed by Jake Peralta. She really, truly does. But she can’t seem to stop talking to him. He explains why he wanted to be a detective – a fifteen minute speech involving a do-gooder attitude, the uniform, and a lot of Die Hard references. Then, they start making bets – how long will it take for her to stitch up his arm, or how many rocks will she find in his right knee. She wins three of four, much to her delight.

Her mini-victory dance in her seat is objectively adorable, Jake decides. Anyone would think so.

An hour later, she’s still by his bedside, cleaning increasingly smaller cuts and scrapes. By the time she gets to the brush burns on his palms, even she knows she’s stalling. She keeps cleaning them, though. His hands are surprisingly warm and soft, and a small part in the back of her brain wants to keep holding that hand forever, or for the rest of the afternoon, at least.

She just isn’t ready for this conversation to end. Only because the other patients are so awful today, she tells herself. Nothing to do with Jake Peralta.

Finally, though, there’s nothing left to do. So she sighs, using her heels to roll back her chair as she looks up at the man who’s now her favorite patient so far as a doctor.

“So, you’re all set. You should probably go find Charles – make sure he didn’t die while you were unable to supervise.” Jake had told her about Charles’ various mishaps somewhere around minute 43, and he made his friend sound like such a klutz Amy briefly considered sending a med student after him, just to make sure he didn’t kill himself on a scalpel somewhere.

Jake shrugs. “I’m sure he’s fine, since he hasn’t already been rushed to the emergency room. Food Network can keep him occupied for hours.”

“Well, it can go keep him occupied at home – I need my bed back.”

“Kicking me out already, Dr. Santiago? Without even a signature for my cast? I’m hurt, nay, crushed by this blatant dismissal.” He’s clearly hamming it up for her benefit, but she catches a moment of earnestness behind those adorable brown eyes.

“Those are bandages. We went over this – you’re supposed to change them when you wake up in the morning, Jake.”

“Aw, come on, Am—Dr. Santiago! This injury will be, like, 200 times cooler if a cute doctor signed my bandage!”

From any other patient, this comment would have made Amy grind her teeth and walk away. Rosa had to physically restrain her from punching a patient who called her, “Sweetheart,” last week. And yet, somehow, this is different. So she pulls the Sharpie out of her coat pocket and uncaps it.

Amy Santiago, she writes slowly, carefully avoiding putting pressure on the new stitches while she signs her name in her perfect script. He starts to comment on how slow her signature is, and she can hear him counting the seconds, but she’s focused on something else.

A pause, as she chews her lip, debating.

Then, below her name, she adds her number. Jake waits patiently for her to finish before fist-pumping and whooping, imitating her victory dance from their third bet.

“Okay, dork, but you’re still gonna have to change that in 12 hours.”

“Don’t worry – I’ll have used this loooooong before then.”