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zepskies · 17 hours ago

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All righty, here we go, diving into more of the angsty love triangle!! *rubs hands together* 😈

However, it wasn't enough to block out the sounds that were coming from your bedroom or the subtle knocking of your headboard against the metal wall between his and your room that grew louder and louder every passing minute.

Oooh my God, poor Dean. 🫣 This is literally torture for him! lol

I had a feeling this was why he insisted on her living in the room next to his, our big protective man, but now it's coming back to bite him in the ass. 💀

He remembered how soft you felt under him, how you clung to his body as if he was the only thing grounding you to earth, how natural it felt to be there protecting you, how you sighed when he pushed your hair back from your face, and how all the soft parts of you seemed to fit perfectly against all of the hardened muscles of him.

He'd lost so many things in his life and he knew that he couldn't lose you, not without losing a piece of himself.

Sobbbiiiiiingggg -- oh Dean. 😭😭

It made Dean feel like someone had ripped at his insides with a pickaxe seeing you hurt and listening to the whimper of pain that passed through your lips. He knew that he went too far when you broke his nose, but damnit, Dean just wanted you to be safe! And you never listened to what he told you because you were just so damn stubborn and always got on Dean's last nerve.

God Dean! You can only bury your emotions under assholery and anger for so long. He can hate the fact that she's a hunter and want more for her, but he has to accept that it's her choice, and he can support her and be honest with her rather than succumbing to his assholery. 🥲🥲

But of course, his "I'm not worthy" mentality crops up as well. 🙃 Makes you want to throttle him (if in more than one way lmao)!!

The thought that he was suffering so much while trying to find her when she was in another world is also heartbreakingly on-brand for him. He'd so be tearing through every piece of lore and resource to try and get her back. 😭

"That better be a way for use to get rid of the walking Trojan ad." Dean huffs, throwing himself into the chair across from his brother. Please let them be using protection. The last thing I want is to be stuck here to raise super baby. I had enough problems with Jack.

💀💀💀 Come on now, Dean, don't be petty. 🤣

"Just listen to me for a minute." Sam points at him with the pen. "She might be stubborn and sarcastic on the outside, but she's not callous or emotionless. She hides what she's feeling deep down, just like you do. And I think that she likes Ben because he doesn't hurt her and he makes her feel wanted." But I do want her.

TELL HIM, SAM. SHAKE HIM UNTIL HIS GREEN EYES ROLL INTO HIS HEAD -- make him see how he's acting!! lol

Your eyes trace the way his dark hair has fallen into his face and over the pillow, and you reach up to push some of the strands back from his face. But with it comes the ghost of how you wanted to do the same thing to Dean earlier, that your fingertips had itched to feel his brownish golden hair in your hands.

Gahhh pain. so very pain, even though it hurts so good. 😭😭😭

Dean kissed like he wanted you to understand and that he wished to understand himself. Dean's kiss was passionate, filled with enough emotion that it left you breathless. Ben was never afraid to take what he wanted but Dean, he was almost asking, trying to let you understand, and trying to listen to what you wanted.

"I-" He swallows. "I'm sorry. I didn't know how much I hurt you. All I wanted was for you to be safe and to talk to me the way you talk to Sam." His voice is quiet, just a soft rumble, but you can hear a tremor on the edge of his words. "I didn't mean to make you hate me."

Omggg finally!! Finally Dean's being honest about how he feels without being a dick about it. 😪

But he didn't, he never did. And in the kiss is something else, years of emotions the two of you pushed down, years of being frenemies of almost losing each other, years of ignoring what was developing between the two of you, and years of watching the other fall for the wrong person.

Ughhh such soul-rendering description, and the spice here is oh so delicious. ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

But I have to point out that the reading is having a DAY loll. Two beefcakes in one night?? 😏

(Also, I'm afraid of how Ben is gonna take this. 😬)

"Don't do me any favors sweetheart, we had fun." Ben shrugs. "That's all this was."

Oh sure, pretend she meant nothing to you to spare your deep-down man feelings. 🙄

"Stupid, fucking piece of shit!" Ben growled at the computer monitor in front of him that had a bright red ERROR message splayed across it.

LMAOO Ben vs. Technology -- I think we all know who's winning. 🤣

And Ben secretly liking therapy just so he just has someone to vent to for an hour? Be still my heart, honestly. 😭

The version of you Ben knew from Dean's universe flashed through Ben's mind again. She was more confident and outgoing, but you looked a little shy, hiding back in the cardigan and using the iPad in your hands as a welcome distraction to looking Ben in the eyes and like a shield. He thought it was cute.

OMGGGGG I'M WEEAAAAK -- and he's already clocking IT girl's cuteness, I'm dead. 😂💞 The way he's already starting to like her better? I see what you did there. 😉

"To the ends of the Earth doll." Ben winks and watches the flush of your cheeks deepen to a crimson and hears the way your heart buckles and jumps when he does.

ahaha you charmer, you. 😂 A swoon-worthy line, even if we do know how sleazy this man can be lol. She really has no idea what she's getting into with this guy, but I love to imagine that with this nicely wrapped up ending! 💕💕

Part 3: Why Is It A Big Deal?

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Dean Winchester xf!reader

POV: Dean POV, Reader POV, Soldier Boy/Ben POV

Summary: Dean's in for a rude awakening when he finds out exactly what you did when you got stranded in another universe.

Tropes: Fluff, Frenemies (Dean and the Reader), Enemies to Lovers, Awkward Situation, Multiverse Problems, ANGST, Crossover

Word Count: 12.4K (I PROMISE I DIDN'T MEAN TO)

Listen While You Read: Treat You Better By Shawn Mendes

Warnings: I'm gonna label this 18+ just to be sure. There is some swearing, Making Out, Sexual Innuendo, References to Sex, Jealousy, A little homophobia (it’s Soldier Boy), Feelings, Angst, Self Deprecating Thoughts? References to Past Sex (it happens quite a bit). Soldier Boy Being Soldier Boy (Everyone knows he’s a warning). Dean Winchester Being Dean Winchester.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person

A/N: It's finally here! I have loved the return to this universe more than words can describe. Each of the POV's are crazy in their own way. And again, don't forget to read the fic "Stranded" by @justagirlinafandomworld that inspired me to write this series in the first place! ENJOY!

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

Dean POV

Dean leaned back on his bed at the bunker and jammed the pillow further down around his ears over his headphones. He was listening to a mixtape that he had burned forever ago, chosen because it had the loudest drum solos blaring through his Walkman. However, it wasn't enough to block out the sounds that were coming from your bedroom or the subtle knocking of your headboard against the metal wall between his and your room that grew louder and louder every passing minute.

Dean had tried his best to get Sam on his side when he proposed the idea that Ben didn't have to come back to the bunker and instead should be sent be sent back to wherever the hell he came from right then and there, but Cas was still out doing whatever it was he was doing, which meant that Ben was going to stick around for a little longer.

And it meant that Ben was finally getting his wish… you.

Dean's teeth gritted together when he heard another moan over the sound of the cymbals and felt a white hot spike of something in the pit of his stomach burn through his body.

When you'd agreed to move to the bunker Dean had insisted you live in the bedroom next to his. It meant that if there was a problem in the middle of the night, Dean would be the first to hear you scream and the first to protect you. But other than the time you stubbed your toe and Dean kicked down the door when he heard you yell with his gun drawn, there hadn't been an emergent situation that required his help.

Right now he was regretting the decision to have you live next door wholeheartedly, because it meant that he was having a front row seat to everything Ben and you were doing in your bedroom.

Dean sighed, his eyes squeezed shut, as he tried not to imagine what was happening, but he kept having flashes skate across his mind. He didn't want to see what it looked like or sounded like to have Ben's name tumbling from your lips, all Dean wanted was to hear you say his name like that and to be the one making you fall apart beneath him.

Not some asshole from another universe.

The image of you laying under him back at the school came back to him in a wave, pushing away the revulsion momentarily. He remembered how soft you felt under him, how you clung to his body as if he was the only thing grounding you to earth, how natural it felt to be there protecting you, how you sighed when he pushed your hair back from your face, and how all the soft parts of you seemed to fit perfectly against all of the hardened muscles of him.

He hadn't even made love to you and you laying there on top of you felt more intimate than any experience he'd had in his life. Dean wanted to exist in that moment with you a little longer, to savor those last few seconds of you staring up at him as if he was the only person in the world.

The memory of Ben kissing you after followed. Dean remembered the way Ben's lips roughly took from you and the way he held on to your face and it snapped Dean out of it. It hurt him more that you let Ben kiss you after Dean had been the one to save you.

Fuck.

His teeth gritted hard together so tight that he heard them grind. He hated watching you with Ben, hated watching Ben do the one thing that Dean had wanted to do for years. And Dean also hated the way that Ben treated you, as if you were something to be possessed and showed off, as if you weren't smart or anything more than just beautiful.

Dean had known from the first moment he saw you in Ellen's bar years ago that you were the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his entire life. You were funny, kind, sarcastic, and had a hard edge that you'd developed after years of being a hunter, but there was something else, a softer side of you that you didn't let everyone see, something hidden beneath it all that you only allowed yourself to have whenever Sam was around, but never with Dean.

It made him hate his brother a little bit, seeing how effortlessly the two of you had developed a friendship, while Dean had to practically Heimlich you to talk to him.

Dean wanted to see that side of you so badly. He wanted you to smile at him the soft way you smiled at Sam, and wanted you to laugh at his jokes or tease him playfully about his hair or about what he was wearing that day the way he'd seen you with his brother.

He tried to find reasons to be in the same room as you, drifting to sit nearby while you read or watched a movie. You always seemed different then. Your body was relaxed, open, with just a hint of a smile curving on the edge of your lips that made Dean want to stare at you for the rest of his life.

He tried to make you laugh whenever he could and tried his best to impress you, but each time he did you'd only roll your eyes and make a sarcastic comment. You didn't like him, Dean knew that, but he wished you did.

Sure he was maybe a little harsh on you sometimes, but Dean didn't want anything to happen to you, he was trying to protect you, because he knew the moment he stopped caring so much would be the moment he lost you.

He'd lost so many things in his life and he knew that he couldn't lose you, not without losing a piece of himself.

He hadn't felt like this about anyone else ever, and he didn't know what to do with his feelings. Bottling them up only seemed to hurt him more, but whenever something happened on a hunt or you tried to split away from him and Sam, he panicked and said things that he shouldn't instead of the three little words that he'd been wanting to say to you for years.

That's what happened a few weeks ago on a hunt, when you went into a house alone and faced a poltergeist that threw you across the room and into a glass cabinet. Dean had stood there yelling at you trying to tell you how stupid it had been for you to go in alone, while biting back what he really wanted to say- that he couldn't lose you. He couldn't lose you because looking at you was like watching the fireflies along a misty road at dusk, each one lighting a path in the darkness that showed him the way.

Yes he was angry, but all Dean saw was the bloody ripped sleeve of your shirt, and the way your face had contorted in pain when Sam picked you up and helped you back to the car. It made Dean feel like someone had ripped at his insides with a pickaxe seeing you hurt and listening to the whimper of pain that passed through your lips. He knew that he went too far when you broke his nose, but damnit, Dean just wanted you to be safe! And you never listened to what he told you because you were just so damn stubborn and always got on Dean's last nerve.

The truth was he hated that this was your life, hated that you were a hunter and each day you put yourself in danger, because he believed you deserved more. You deserved a normal life with someone who loved you, maybe a few kids, a dog, and a life far from the world that Dean and you knew so well.

Of course the thought of you with anyone else made Dean want to put his fist through a wall. The problem was even though Dean wanted you, he believed that you deserved better than him. You deserved the white picket fence and suburbia, not a darkened bunker underground with a man who wasn't sure he still had anything good left.

It was the reason why he didn't want to tell you how he felt, that, and Dean believed you absolutely hated him and hated being around him in the first place. It's why he buried it beneath the surface for so long.

However, when he was looking at you Dean often forgot the things that happened to him. You made him want to keep getting back up to fight if not for anyone else, for you.

But then Ben had shown up.

When you'd gotten dragged to another universe, Dean had tried everything in his power to get you back. He'd screamed and prayed for Cas so loud and so many times he went hoarse, he'd looked through almost every book he knew of to find the spell to bring you back to no avail, tried several rituals that promised results but gave him nothing, looked at his computer screen for so long that it made him cross-eyed, and drank coffee so strong it made his heart race.

But all Dean knew was that you were somewhere else alone, where he couldn't get to you or protect you, and it made him sick. He hated the thought of you alone trying to fight your way to survival in a place like the Endverse. When Cas finally came five days later and helped Dean bring you back, Dean had been so happy to see you that he'd almost hugged you, but instead he'd made an off-brand joke and you'd run into Sam's arms for a hug that made his chest tight.

Dean thought that he was having a nightmare when he saw Ben, a man who looked so much like himself, stride into the motel room confidently and kiss you. Dean was waiting for you to push him away, to tell him to fuck off, but you didn't, you liked it. And judging by the sounds Dean was hearing through the wall he could see that you wanted Ben.

All it did was piss Dean off that another version of himself got to have you and he didn't. Not when he'd known you longer and you'd only known Ben for five days.

Five fucking days. She's known that asshole for five days and she likes him. She's known you for years and she can't even stand to be in the same room with you.

The thought made Dean's heart clench in his chest. He didn't understand what Ben had that he didn’t have, he was him after all as Dean kept saying over and over to you. But Dean knew that deep down the real thing he was telling you over and over was not that Ben was him, but rather was asking the question: "why not me?"

Does she really hate me that much that she can't stand the thought of being with me? That she can stand to be with someone who looks exactly like me, but can't stay in a room with me for more than ten seconds?

Dean gets out of bed, stomps out the door, and down the hallway towards the library to try and escape the sounds coming from your room. They vibrate down the hall after him, like a flock of seagulls, mocking him all the way and doing little to ease the anger and jealousy swirling beneath his skin.

Sam is sitting in a chair with a large volume in front of him and a piece of notebook paper scribbling furiously when Dean enters the library, but he doesn't appear surprised to see his brother.

"That better be a way for use to get rid of the walking Trojan ad." Dean huffs, throwing himself into the chair across from his brother.

Please let them be using protection. The last thing I want is to be stuck here to raise super baby. I had enough problems with Jack.

Sam gives him a sympathetic look, and pushes his long hair back behind his ears. "Sorry. I'm researching a case in Kentucky, but Cas said that he'd be back in a few hours-"

"He said that ages ago! I want that asshole gone now." Dean's hand tightens on the arm of the chair, so tight that his knuckles are white. He was happy that the library seemed to be far enough away from your room to escape the noise, but he knew it was happening, which didn’t help at all. "I don’t understand what she sees in that dick."

Sam hesitates for a moment, tapping his pen against the notebook paper.

"Just spit it out Sammy." Dean sighs.

"He might be an asshole to you, but not to her." He replies simply.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Well you're kinda…" Sam shrugs and leans back into his chair trying to find the words.

"I'm kinda what?"

"You’re kinda a dick to her." He finishes. "She's getting fed up with it. The other day she told me that she's been thinking about moving out and going back on her own. I've been trying to talk her out of it-"

Dean's blood ran cold. He hated the thought of you leaving again, it meant that he wouldn't know where you were or if you were alive and he wouldn't be able to make sure you were prepared for a hunt or at least be there to have your back if something went wrong- because let's face it, something always went wrong. "What? What the hell are you taking about?! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because she hasn't made up her mind."

"But why?"

"Because ever since the first time we’ve been going on hunts with her, you’ve been rude and-"

Dean interrupts his brother with a shout. "What? Do you expect me to hold her fucking hand? We’ve seen experienced hunters get killed out there with one simple mistake! And she’s just some amateur-"

"Dean, she's not an amateur." Sam sighs as if he can't understand why Dean was being so difficult.

He was. Sam was used to it whenever the subject of you came up in front of Dean, but honestly his brother's stubborn attitude when it came to you was annoying him.

"She is!" Dean snaps back wishing that he had a beer.

"No, she’s not." Sam shakes his head. "She’s been doing this just as long as we have. You know who her mom was and you know that her mom was just as hard on her as our dad was on you-"

At the mention of their father, Dean can feel his jaw tighten, memories flashing across his mind that he wanted to forget. The cold feeling of disapproval begins to creep up his spine to his shoulders, but Dean shakes it off. "That doesn’t matter."

"I think it does."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, Dean you keep saying that he’s you, but I'm starting to think that she's you."

"You need to stop using all those hair products Sammy, they're messing with your head-" Dean scoffs.

But I do want her.

The thought rises before Dean could stop it and he wonders if you'd spent all these years thinking that he didn't want you around when it was all he thought about. Every decision he made was to try and protect you, to put you first, and the thought that you didn't see that hurt him.

"I'd never hurt her-" Dean's voice comes out a little softer and more broken than he meant it to, catching slightly on the words.

Sam shakes his head. "Not physically. But the two of you have been doing this for years and I think that she's sick of you treating her the way you do and then she met Ben. She met another version of you who appreciates her. I know that you’re a little jealous-"

"I am not jealous!" Dean says on instinct, but Sam knows the truth, he's always known the truth, and Dean knows it too.

Sam rolls his eyes at his brother. "You should talk to her. Take Ben out of it and talk to her the way you talk to other people."

"I talk to her like I talk to other people." Dean grumbles as he gets up out of his chair intent on going to the kitchen to get a beer or something stronger to take the edge off.

"No you don't. So go talk to her." Sam waves a hand in Dean's direction before his gaze drops back down to the book.

"She's kinda preoccupied." Dean mutters under his breath and the image of you and Ben tangled up in your bed makes him flinch.

Sam looks up at his brother again, sympathy flashing in his eyes. "Dean-"

"Just leave me alone Sammy."

And with that he turns and makes his way towards the kitchen, hoping that he won't be able to hear Ben and you, and wishing that you hadn't met Ben in the first place.

Reader POV

Ben mutters something in his sleep, rolling his body towards yours so close that his muscular right arm brushes against your bare shoulder. He was laying on his stomach, his face pressed into one of your many pillows, snoring softly, and taking up most of your bed.

It wasn't hard to. The full sized bed was hardly big enough for you, let alone two people, especially not someone as tall and broad as Ben. Which became more obvious when you noticed that Ben's feet were hanging off the end.

You sigh, laying on your back and staring up at the cracks in your ceiling, unable to fall asleep. You followed each one with your eyes, tracing the shapes they made like someone watching the clouds on a hill bathed in sunlight. You'd thought that after everything Ben and you did for the past two hours you'd be able to fall asleep as easily as he did, but you couldn't because your mind was awake and roaming everywhere it could.

It wasn't that you hadn't had a good time with Ben or hadn't wanted to have sex with him. Ben didn't force you into anything. You wanted to have sex with him. You had missed him and it had been a while for you, and you liked Ben. The problem was that now, after, there was an odd feeling stirring in the pit of your stomach, something that felt surprisingly like guilt.

I have nothing to be guilty about.

You chide yourself, hands curling and uncurling on the edge of the blanket the longer you stared up at the ceiling. But it was still there, bubbling up beneath the surface. Your mind kept slipping back into the memory of Dean and you in the broken auditorium.

Each time you closed your eyes you were back in Dean's arms, looking up at him while he pushed your hair out of your face and asked you if you were alright, his eyes filled with something that looked suspiciously like worry. He'd never acted gentle or caring like that before with you and you still felt odd from everything that happened.

Fuck. What is happening to me? I just spent the last two hours with Ben, I shouldn’t be thinking about anyone else but-

You sigh again and shut your eyes, but it just brings the image back to haunt you.

You hadn't had any thoughts like this about Dean, not ever, and you didn't know why now. You'd spent years thinking that he was a big jerk who hated you, but the Dean you saw earlier today was far from that.

In the past, Dean had your back a few times, but it hadn't been like earlier. He'd never held you close, covered you with his body as if he didn't care what happened to himself as long as you were safe, and he'd never brushed your hair away with such tenderness it made your heart flutter in your chest.

No. Dean has been a total dick from the moment I met him, he hates me, he-

The thought stutters to a stop when the hurt and jealousy in Dean's eyes when you kissed Ben comes flashing back through your mind.

Does he? Or did I just interpret that wrong? Maybe it was just the hatred he had towards Ben flaring but… why does he hate Ben? He has no reason to.

But despite everything that Dean had done to you over the years, you didn't hate him.

Even though he tap danced on your last nerve whenever he opened his mouth and often made you feel stupid you couldn't, not when you saw the way he cared so much for other people. Dean Winchester was selfless, he always put other people first and was willing to sacrifice himself if it meant someone else got to be happy and got to live.

You glance at the man lying in the bed next to you. Ben was handsome and strong. He possessed some of the qualities of Dean that you found attractive, but he treated you differently. It was what drew you to him when you got trapped in Ben's reality, not just that he looked like Dean, but that Ben joked with you, teased you, and he seemed to generally care about you.

Dean didn't act that way with you. At least, you'd never seen Dean act that way before today. Today was different than any other day and you wished that it hadn't been.

Ben mutters something else, and this time he leans more towards you, his arm coming up around your waist to hold you against his side. The warmth and weight of it was familiar, but it made the feeling of guilt grow larger in your stomach.

Why is this happening? I didn’t feel guilty the last time I had sex with him.

Before he'd drifted off Ben had asked you to come with him when Cas sent him back to where he was from, said that he wanted you there with him. You had an inkling that it was the first time that Ben had asked something so serious from a woman. But you weren't convinced that it was because Ben wanted to have a relationship, rather that he didn't want to be alone.

You'd be lying if you said you weren't considering it. Ben was kinder to you, gentle (in his own way), and he seemed to appreciate having you around. But there was something holding you back.

At first you thought it was Sam. He was your best friend and you didn't want to abandon him, but there was another feeling, an ache deep down that you didn't know the cause of. Other than Sam there really wasn't anything in this universe that would hold you back from going with Ben, but obviously there was, you just couldn't figure out what.

Sure Ben's reality was fucked up… yours was too. Demons and Angels duking it out for supremacy while other creatures hid under beds and in the dark to kill people or worse wasn’t ideal either. But you weren't sure what your life could look like there. There wasn't anything to hunt which meant you'd probably be dealing with supes instead and the thought wasn’t appealing. You weren't sure that you belonged in his world.

Maybe I should have asked him to stay with me?

The thought made you bite the inside of your cheek. You'd been thinking about moving out of the bunker. Yes it was the only permanent home you'd ever known, but Dean was getting on your nerves and you thought that maybe you should get a little bit of distance from him. Moving out and Ben staying meant that he could come with you on hunts, but you weren't sure that was the solution either. Ben was strong and brave, but you weren't sure that he had the precision or the delicate side you needed when approaching a hunt to do well here.

It was these thoughts that were keeping you awake and you decide to get some water to clear them.

You slowly begin to slip out from under the covers, gently moving Ben's arm off of you as slowly as you can as to not wake him before you make your way to your dresser to find a clean pair of panties and an oversized t-shirt. Ben sighs and shifts in the bed, the sheets pulling down just a little bit so you can admire the expanse of his freckled muscular back.

You'd seen Dean shirtless before once. He had come running out of his room with his gun drawn when you'd stubbed your toe on your bedside table and yelled. He hadn't put on a shirt before coming into your room, just aggressively kicked down the door wearing only a pair of hotdog pajama pants that you did mock him relentlessly for afterward. You didn't know why he'd looked so frantic when you yelled. It was just a toe after all. There wasn't anything for him to be worried about. Sam had showed up maybe ten minutes later rubbing the sleep from his eyes not worried at all.

But you'd remembered how Dean had looked shirtless. Sometimes the thought came flying into your mind at the most inopportune times, when Dean pissed you off and stuck his face so close to yours that you could feel his breath against your lips and the warmth of his skin through he air. The thought of him shirtless with his pajama pants hung so low on his hips that you could see every single hard defined muscle of his abdomen including the ones that made smart girls like you stupid.

You slipped on the clothes, but stop before you open the door to cast one more glance at Ben.

Although you knew that Ben and your relationship was more physical, there was a part of you that believed it could grow into something more if you went with him, something that you'd been wanting for a little while. Not just Ben specifically, but with someone.

Yes you were lonely, and Ben lessened the ache whenever he was around, but sometimes you wanted more than this and being a hunter didn’t help at all.

You never met anyone or tried to have a real relationship with anyone in a long time. The last permanent boyfriend you'd had wasn't a hunter, but someone you'd met in a bar after a hunt with Dean and Sam. It lasted Four months. Four months of you missing anniversaries, dates, and his birthday. He'd accused you of cheating on him with Sam and you'd found him in bed with his work partner when you'd tried to surprise him one weekend. You hadn't been surprised. Surprising was when the guy had tried to follow after you and both Dean and Sam had blocked his path and told him to "get lost." That was putting it nicely.

Sam had to hold Dean back from breaking the guy's arm when he shouted over the two of them at you that you "weren't worth the trouble." You didn’t understand why Dean was also just as pissed at the idea of the guy cheating on you as Sam.

You shake off the thought and tiptoe out of the room in the direction of the kitchen.

The bunker was silent, the metal floors cool beneath your bare feet as you walked down the desolate hallways. You glance at Dean's closed door for a moment as you pass and the feeling in the pit of your stomach tightens. A flash of the emotions on his face when you kissed Ben in the car and at the school flickers through your mind and you clench your jaw.

What the hell is wrong with me?

When you enter the kitchen you realize that you're not alone. Dean is leaning over the metal table his large hands braced on the top, his back to you, and his head bowed. A bottle of expensive whiskey sits on the counter in front of him next to a glass with the maple colored liquid inside. But the weird thing was that this wasn't the usual stuff Dean drank. This was the bottle that he had Sam hide from him for emergencies, the stuff that you'd only seen Dean drink when he was really upset and nothing else would cut it.

But what?

He turns when he hears you walk in.

You watch his eyes darken slightly as they skate over what you're wearing making your cheeks flush. You didn’t think he was still awake. If you had, you would have wore more than your favorite Metallica t-shirt that was worn soft from years of wear. Dean's gaze catches on the end of it where it hits mid-thigh, lingering a second too long, and makes something spark in your chest.

"Sorry. I was just getting some water." You clear your throat awkwardly.

"Romeo didn't get it for you?" Dean frowns as if the thought of Ben is an annoyance to him.

"No, he's asleep." You shake your head. "I thought you were asleep too-"

"Kinda hard to be sweetheart when the two of you are shooting a porno in the room next door to mine."

You feel your cheeks flush an even brighter pink. You didn't know that Ben and you were being that loud. The bed was a little squeaky, but you hadn't worried about the sound. The icky feeling in the pit of your stomach is back, the guilt rising in a wave the more you realize how much Dean heard.

Again? Why am I guilty? Ben and I had fun, he didn't force me to do anything. I wanted to have sex with him but-

"I'm sorry. I didn't know we were being that loud." You shake off the feeling and move around Dean to get a glass from one of the shelves.

"Guess he was making up for lost time huh? All those lonely months away from you fucking other women were hard I guess." Dean's words bite through the air and made your own temper flare up.

"He's not cheating on me. We weren't exclusive-"

"But you haven't been with anyone since you came back from his world."

Your hand freezes around the glass you reached for on the shelf. Why did he notice that? And why does he care?

The flicker of emotion in Dean's eyes when you kissed Ben in the auditorium comes roaring back, jealousy and hurt. It makes the guilt worse.

You let out a breath to calm the anger that wishes to bite back at Dean's comment. "Look, I know that you don't like him, but Ben isn't a bad person and even though it's not any of your business, we had fun."

You don't know why you felt the need to justify what you'd done with, but the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. Standing here in front of Dean felt awkward, and it never had before. And it wasn't just because of what you were wearing, there was something else charging the air between the two of you. You were expecting a giant purple elephant to appear in the corner.

Dean chuckles, his eyes dark. "Did you now?"

"Yes." You reply, but you can't hold his gaze, not when he's looking at you like that.

Dean takes a long swig from the glass in front of him, his lips curling on the edges in a cruel smirk. This was the Dean you saw more often, the one that made you feel like a failure and a bother, but it was the first time that you longed to see the soft Dean who protected you from the fallen debris.

"I could hear just how much fun the two of you were having sweetheart." He continues. "But the man who isn’t a bad person toasted a woman that he slept with without batting an eye. Imagine what he'd do to you."

"A woman who was going to kill me." You say to defend Ben. "And he wouldn't hurt me."

Dean's eyes flick down to your thighs, his gaze hardening. "What do you call those?"

You glance down at the place where your shirt meets your thighs and notice the bruises. There were five on each leg and each was a perfect imprint of Ben's fingertips. They didn't hurt and you certainly hadn't felt or noticed them before Dean pointed them out.

But you knew that Ben would never hurt you. He wasn't like that.

Sure he killed that woman today, but she was crazy and she was trying to kill me and-

"He didn't it on purpose. He's stronger than us and sometimes-"

"Don't you dare make excuses for that asshole." Dean growls eyes flashing. "I don't care if he didn't do it on purpose, he still did it. He knows how strong he is and if he can't control himself he shouldn't be sleeping with you!"

"You're being ridiculous!" Ice clinks against the sides of your glass as you make your way back towards the sink.

"No, I'm not. And I want him gone!"

"Oh really?" You snark while placing the glass under the running water in the sink. "I had no idea. You've been so calm and collected since the moment Ben showed up."

Dean opens his mouth to respond, but instead huffs out a breath and pours himself another glass. The amber colored liquid splashes against the sides of the cup as Dean violently picks it up to take another drink.

An uncomfortable silence settles over the kitchen.

The water is cold, but you can't feel it when you take a sip, and you still can't quite look at Dean.

If he really is jealous, why can't he just come out and say it? Why is he being so stubborn and nitpicking someone else?

You sigh quietly to yourself and take another sip of water. The guilt was building again, prickling beneath your skin and bringing an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of your stomach the longer you stand there.

Why am I guilty? Dean being jealous has nothing to do with me and everything to do with him!

You think about going back to your room and being done with it, but you can't something is keeping you in that kitchen with Dean just as something is keeping him there with you.

"He-um-" You swallow. "He asked me to back with him to his universe."

Dean's entire body tenses as he explodes. "What? Are you fucking kidding me!?"

"No I-"

"Are you seriously considering that?" He demands looking at you like you're crazy.

"Yes. I am." You answer him honestly. There's something hidden beneath the surface that makes you want to tell Dean this. You're not sure if it's morbid curiosity or if it's something else, something that you can't quite place, but you want Dean to tell you what he thinks.

"But why?! You've known that asshole for five days!" Dean snaps back, but you can hear something in his voice, almost as if he's holding himself back from saying something else.

Dean please just say it! Don't keep it in!

"He's not an asshole, he's just rough around the edges." You shrug continuing to make excuses for Ben and thinking about the bruises on your thighs.

"Oh please." Dean rolls his eyes so far into the back of his head you wonder how they didn't get stuck on his brain. "If I took a piece of tree bark and ran it along his arm, he'd make it smooth."

"But-"

"Sam told me that you were unhappy here, but I didn't think you would throw your entire life away to be with that asshole!"

His words make you hesitate for a moment in surprise.

Sam told him that I was thinking about leaving? Why did he tell Dean that?

"What life Dean?" You shout, throwing your arms out to gesture to the entire room. "I don't have anything here! I can't keep a relationship because I let people down. I don't know who my dad is because he walked out on my mom as soon as he found out she was pregnant. My mom died four years ago. I go to bed every night wishing for something else to happen but-" Frustrated tears were burning in your eyes now.

You didn't want to cry in front of him, but the urge to was overpowering everything else, the emotions you tried to keep down for so long beginning to curl and reform from the dark recessive parts of your mind where you buried them the night you met Dean Winchester.

"You deserve better than that asshole!" Dean shouts over you taking another step in your direction.

"Oh and what do you think I deserve Dean? Are you saying that I deserve someone like you?

Dean grits his teeth in frustration, anger blazing behind his eyes. "No I-" He finds his words. “I can’t believe you slept with him.”

"Oh good! That dinosaur. Falling back on something familiar, what a typical Dean Winchester move!" You gesture wildly with your hands sloshing water onto the floor. "I don’t understand why you’re so upset about it. We’re both consenting adults. He didn’t force me to do anything.”

You put down the cup to avoid throwing the glass at him.

“I just don’t see why you did it!” He towers over you, his body pulled taunt with his own anger and frustration.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You shouldn’t be sleeping around with people like him!”

Is he out of his MIND?!

"Why not?" You demand, fists curling into balls at your sides because you know that it's not safe to put them anywhere else. The anger that was flaring in your chest was starting to rival how you felt the last time that Dean and you had an argument and you broke his nose. And it had just finished healing a few days ago.

"Because he treats you like a piece of meat!" Dean shouts it so loud you can hear the frying pans hanging in the kitchen clink together

"Do you even hear yourself? I have seen you in bars picking up women after a hunt-"

You had. Countless times. The bravado Dean had when the three of you were still floating on the adrenaline that was pumping through from a hunt you'd seen first hand in the bars where Sam and you sat at a one of the high top tables watching him weave through the crowds with the sound of classic rock blaring over the crackly speakers. You watched Dean find another woman for the night, saw how he tried his best lines and got what he wanted while you sat in the motel room next to his trying to read beside a sleeping Sam and avoid the noises coming from next door.

"This is different!" He fumes.

"How is it different Dean? I want to know!"

Is it different because he's jealous? Or did I just imagine that?

You didn't think that you did.

Dean's face is bright red with the force of his anger and you're sure yours must be too given how it feels like it's on fire.

"He's always touching you or kissing you, putting his fucking hands on you!" Dean's jaw is clenched tight. "I've never heard him give you one compliment other than how you look-"

You laugh in his face, but it comes out crueler than you meant it to. "In contrast to how many compliments you give me? Because I don't think there's been any of those."

"I compliment you." He huffs back.

"Oh really?" You scoff. "When?"

Dean is quiet for a minute. His eyes drag over you again, but this time the sweep of them bring a heat vibrating against your skin and your throat gets tight. "I like your shirt."

"HA!" You shout triumphant holding up a finger. "That's looks based."

"You didn't let me finish!" He scrambles. "I like your shirt because I like that band too and you have okay taste in music."

"Oh wooowwww. I have "okay taste in music" let me just swoon right here." You wave your hand back and forth. "Fuck you. I have awesome taste in music!"

"That's not what I-"

"And who is it that should I be sleeping around with? You?!" You roll your eyes trying to take a step away from him, but he moves to intercept you.

His fists are clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles are white. “I didn’t say that! Don’t put words in my mouth.”

His green eyes darken as he stares down at you, the fluorescent lights above the two of you catching the familiar hard lines of his face. Even though Dean looked like Ben, he still looked like himself in his own way. The familiar crows feet that graced under his eyes, the subtle tilt of his head, the rough stubble that pebbled over his chin and cheeks, the soft freckles, and the green eyes that you always found on you. There was a small scar just barely visible on the bridge of his nose and a few flecked on the edges of his face that made him more handsome.

You'd noticed how handsome he was in the past, but never like this. You'd never looked at Dean as other than someone who annoyed you. And yes he was annoying you now, but there was something else that you could feel threatening to explode, something you buried deep down and refused to unearth.

“I’m not putting words in your mouth Dean, I’m trying to figure out why this is such a big deal to you!”

Why is it a big deal?

“It just is!"

"Why? Because you're jealous?!" You hadn't meant to say it, but Dean's body goes taunt again.

"I am not jealous. I just don’t want you sleeping with him!”

“I think you are! And you’re not my dad Dean. You don’t get to decide who I sleep with!” You'd had enough of hearing him yell at you, of hearing him bitch about something that wasn't any of his business.

Who does he think he is? We're not together.

“That’s not what this is about-“

“Then what is it about Dean?! Why are you so hung up on something that is none of your business?!”

"It is my business!"

"How? How is it your business? Because you think that Ben is you somehow?"

"He is me!" Dean roars again and you wished he would stop saying it, because it was snagging on something in your chest.

A lie that you told yourself when you first started sleeping with Ben. You knew it. That you liked Ben because he looked like Dean and he appreciated you, that he didn't make you feel stupid, or ugly or not worth his time.

"No, he's not!" You shout back shaking off the feelings for what you hope is the final time. “Why do you care so much about this?!”

“Because I-“ Dean shouts, eyes narrowed at you. “Because I just do!”

“WHY?” You poke your finger into his chest. “I don’t care who you think you are. You don’t get to tell me who I can and cannot sleep with!"

“I’m not trying to!”

“Yes you are! And I am so sick of your bullshit Winchester. This is none of your business. None of this is. It's my life! So why don't you just take your unneeded opinion and-"

The rest of your sentence evaporates into thin air as Dean grabs your shoulders so tight you're sure they're be bruises and pulls you in for a searing kiss.

Your body is frozen in shock, the warmth of his lips against yours holding a softness that you'd never known.

Everything about this kiss is different than the ones you'd share with Ben. You knew better than to compare them, but Ben kissed like he meant to devour you. He wasn't hesitant or afraid to take what he wanted when he kissed you, but Dean?

But just as he deepens the kiss you push him away and slap him across the face. The sharp sound rings through the kitchen and for a moment all you can do is stare at him shocked while the red mark on his face forms.

"What the hell was that for?" Dean shouts, but the emotion in his eyes wasn't anger, it was hurt.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" You shout back still out of breath. The ghost of his lips presses against yours and the taste of the whiskey remains on the tip of your tongue.

"I thought that-" He clears his throat, eyes widening.

"Thought what?"

"That you wanted me to-"

"To what? Kiss me?" The frustration was building again, because yes it had felt good to kiss him, but you hated that he was doing this now. That after years of him hating you, now when you had the possibility of being happy Dean was making this harder for you.

"Well-"

"No." You poke your finger into his chest, and this time you can't hold back the tears. They slip from your eyes, hot against your skin, as you feel every emotion that you'd kept bottled up beginning to surge up in a wave. "You don't get to do this Dean. Not now. Not after years of you treating me like shit."

Dean sighs and reaches for you, but you pull back from him. Hurt flashes in his eyes again and you can feel your own in the center of your chest. "I didn't-"

"Yes, you did. Damn it Dean, I'm not some shiny toy the two of you can fight over."

"That's not what I'm doing!"

"Then why now?" You ask in a half sob.

Dean pauses. "What?"

"Why after years of you hating me-"

"I never hated you." Dean's voice is more of a whisper than anything else.

"Oh bullshit. Yes you do!" You raise your hand to scrub at your cheeks, the tears falling quicker now.

It was the first time that you'd allowed yourself to cry in front of him, and you were fighting the urge to run back to your room. Ben was still there and you didn't know how the hell you were going to explain to you why you were crying.

"Will you just shut your damn mouth for five seconds and let me talk!?" He snaps running his hand through his hair, frustrated.

"Don't you dare tell me to shut up."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm going to break your nose again if you do!"

"You need to because I'm trying to explain-"

"Explain what? Explain that you've completely lost your mind? Explain that all the years of you undermining me, making me feel like a burden, teasing me, yelling at me, making me feel like I was stupid, and driving me absolutely insane, has just been you trying to say that you love me?!"

You hadn't meant to shout that at him. Hadn't meant to say the word love, but now it was there hovering in the air between the two of you. Dean's eyes are locked with yours and you don't think he's taken a breath since you spoke.

Because love was a little word, only four letters, but why did it always seem so heavy? How could one word have the same weight as a loaded gun? How could something so small cause so much pain and so much hurt?

"Yes." Dean looks down at the ground, not able to meet your eyes. He looks ashamed and you can't find the words to fill the silence.

Because Dean Winchester was in love with you. The man who you'd always thought hated you, who you thought wished that you were never around, and who you thought believed you to be an annoyance.

Holy shit.

The words strike you right in the center of your chest and it shocks you so much that you stop crying. You'd seen different sides of Dean before. Seen him angry, happy, annoyed, frustrated, sad… but Dean Winchester had never looked broken around you, not like this, and certainly not over you. Whenever something went wrong Dean would isolate himself from you in his room with a bottle of something to numb the pain. It made you feel like someone was gutting out your insides with a pitchfork.

The silence grows between the two of you again, and his head is still bowed and looking down at the floor in shame.

You exhale softly, controlled by something that you're not sure, and reach out towards Dean's face.

He flinches back from you, eyes rimmed red, looking at you suspiciously as if he believes you're going to break his nose. In hindsight, you supposed it was a reasonable fear to have since you'd done it in the past.

"What are you doing?" He asks, voice cracking. Dean's green eyes have dimmed, looking more like an aged jade pot that's sat outside in the sun for too long.

"Please shut up." You sniffle, the end of your mouth twitching into a smile, before you place your hands on the sides of Dean's face and pull him down to you.

The kiss is quick, only a brush of your lips against his to give yourself a taste and when it's done you pull back letting your hands fall to your sides. You're not sure why you did that. Maybe it's because Dean admitted to loving you and he looks like a lost puppy, but-

Dean steps forward into the space, his hands reaching towards your face, and you flinch.

“What are you-“

“Please shut up.” Dean murmurs, echoing the words you'd whispered to him moments ago.

His hands are rough and warm against your cheeks. Worn from years of carrying a gun in his hand and hard work he never shied away from. But they’re nothing but gentle against your skin as he pulls your face to his.

You could be standing on the surface of the sun and not feel as hot as you do now. A volcano could erupt and bathe you in lava and you would just scoff at it like it was a normal day, because kissing Dean feels infinite. It's all consuming. The scrub of his five o'clock shadow against your cheeks, the slide of his hands down your arms that bring goosebumps in their wake, the smell of his shampoo that you always catch when you walk into the bathroom, the nudge of his nose into your cheek, and the soft supple welcome of his lips that draw the breath from your lungs all take you somewhere otherworldly.

You couldn't stop. It was a compulsion, like magnets, like it was something you wanted to do for so long but buried it deep down to avoid the inevitable. Fueled by the belief that Dean would push you away, because Dean Winchester hated you.

Dean moans softly into your mouth and picks you up, his muscular arms fitting under your legs to place you on the counter, not pulling away at all and stepping into the space between them to fit himself closer to you. Your hands come to the back of his head, tangling in the short strands at the nape of his neck, shuffling your nails through his hair in a way that makes Dean shudder and pull you tighter to his chest.

Dean pulls back from you out of breath, but rests his forehead against yours, as if any further is too far from you and he doesn't wish to ever let you go.

"I don't hate you Dean." You whisper before he can say anything. "I can't. And I was only with Ben because I thought that this could never happen because you hated me-"

Dean's lips fall against yours taking your next words with it. "I don't hate you. I never did."

"Then why?"

He sighs. "I hated that you were a hunter, that this was your life, that you'd been doing this for so long with no one helping you."

"I'm okay."

"I know that, but I-" Dean hesitates. "I shouldn't have done what I did, but I didn't think that you'd want this-"

"This?"

"Me." Dean closes his eyes leaning further against you, almost as if he can’t hold himself up.

"Why?" Your grip on the back of his neck tightens.

"Because I'm-" He tries to find the word. "I'm not perfect. I'm a jealous asshole. I've done terrible things, made you cry.” He sighs. “You deserve better."

You kiss him softly. "There is no one better. I'm not looking for perfect, I'm looking for human. There's nothing wrong with making a mistake and being imperfect. The imperfections are what make you, you." Your fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck. "Dean, you're not a bad person. You are the most selfless man I have ever met. And maybe you've messed up a few times, but I have too. Do you think I'm a bad person for the things I've done?"

There was a list of them that seemed to grow longer each day and it was difficult not to dwell on the things of the past. But standing here with Dean, watching the weight settle on his shoulders, while he told you that he didn't think he was enough for you made you throw it all away.

"No.”

“Do you think that I’m not deserving of love?”

“No. But-"

You shush him. "Then don’t talk that way about the man I love."

Dean's eyes widen, but you watch the end of his lips twitch into a smile. "You love me?"

"Yeah." You whisper. "I think I always have, but I was afraid because you were-"

His mouth falls over yours so fast you don’t have time to finish the thought. "I love you too."

Your heart flutters in your chest with his words.

"Kinda hard not to." His thumbs stroke along your hip bone over the soft t-shirt sending electricity dancing along your spine.

You smirk. "You're right. I am pretty great."

"I think the word you're looking for is high maintenance." Dean smirks back at you.

"Aww… That means I'm out of your league and you're lucky to have me in your life." You giggle with a smile.

"I am." He murmurs, nudging his nose forward into yours moving in for another kiss.

Someone clears their throat from the other side of the room drawing your eye. Ben is leaning against the doorway dressed in his suit, watching where you're wrapped up in Dean's arms.

Any warm feelings you were having standing there with Dean immediately evaporate and the guilt comes roaring back. You'd forgotten that Ben was still here and you felt bad for him. You didn't want him to think that you used him.

"Ben I-" You begin to stutter, but he only shakes his head at you.

"You don't gotta explain anything doll, I know what this was." Ben smirks, but you see something flicker in his gaze for just a second before its gone. "And I'm man enough to admit when I'm beat. Even if I don't like it."

"But-" You try to say again.

Oh this is so awkward.

"Don't do me any favors sweetheart, we had fun." Ben shrugs. "That's all this was."

Cas walks into the room with Sam at his heels, who looks much too smug when he spies where Dean has you on the counter. You push Dean back and stand up, while Dean shoots daggers with his gaze leveled at Sam.

Sam isn't phased, but chooses not to say anything.

Ben rolls himself off the doorway and walks confidently to where Dean and you are standing, extending his hand towards Dean. "You take care of her." Ben's eyes flick to you for a second before focusing more on Dean. "She's special."

The hand of guilt on your throat tightens just a little more, because somewhere you wondered if Ben really was as aloof as he seemed or if he had started to care about you a little more than he let on.

"I will." Dean's smile is forced, and you see him squeeze Ben's hand a little tighter as he does. It only makes Ben smirk wider.

Cas begins to write the symbol on the floor taking care with each intricate detail to open the portal, but you stop him at the last minute.

"Wait." You take a step forward and hug Ben tightly. "Thank you."

"You're thanking me for fucking you?" Ben snorts throwing a smug look in Dean's direction that makes Dean bristle. "Guess I am a gift."

"Shut up." Your cheeks blaze bright red and you hear Dean growl something under his breath. "No, just thank you. For being here."

Ben hesitates. He raises his hand to your cheek, fingers tracing along your skin before he brushes away some of your hair. It was a gentle gesture from him, one that you weren't accustomed to. The emotion in his eyes shifts to something else, but he hides it with a smirk. "You're welcome sweetheart."

"Maybe you'll meet the me from your reality." You say, because you're not sure what else you can say, not when Ben is looking at you like that.

The entire situation was again reaching soap opera proportions and there was only so much you could take before you drove your car off a cliff.

The truth was, you did like Ben. You thought he was attractive, bold, strong, but there was always something a little gentle that lurked under the surface he never let anyone else see.

But you loved Dean. He understood what it was like to be a hunter, understood what it was like to not be able to live up to someone's expectations, and he loved you. You couldn't see a life with Ben, but you could see one with Dean. Ben didn't belong in your world and you didn't belong in his.

Ben's smirk twitches. "Maybe. But she won't be the same as you doll."

Dean clears his throat and steps forward to pull you back into his chest possessively. "I think your ride's leaving." You don't have to look up into his face to know he's frowning.

Ben chuckles. "You know what kid? You're alright." His eyes flick back to yours. "You give me a call if you get bored with him."

"She won't." Dean snaps. “And don’t call me kid.”

Ben only laughs at him and steps closer to Cas as he begins to finish the ritual and when the portal finally opens, Ben goes through without looking back.

And you don’t feel guilty anymore, because you knew that Ben understood.

"Finally." Dean breathes a sigh of relief that makes you snort, dropping his head to your shoulder. It was so casual that you had to remind yourself that Dean loved you and you loved him.

Sam clears his throat. "Hey Cas will you help me with something in the library-"

"What do you have to do in the library?" Cas frowns at him confused.

"Just something come on-"

"But why-"

"CAS!" Sam shouts casting an obvious look in the direction of where Dean and you are standing.

Cas looks at the two of you. "Are they coming with us to the library?"

Sam huffs out a frustrated breath and grabs Cas by the back of his trench coat to drag him out of the kitchen so Dean and you can have a few moments alone.

You snort at the confused look on Cas's face when Sam drags him out, before you turn your body in his arms to look up into Dean's handsome face. "Do you have any idea how ridiculous it is to be jealous of yourself?"

"I thought he wasn't me?" Dean smirks, his eyebrow arching with his tease. His fingers are resting resolutely on your hips, thumbs softly trailing in circles.

"He is a little bit." You admit defeated. "But don't look so smug Winchester."

"I think I'm allowed to be a little bit." His smirk grows and he leans his face down to yours. Instead of feeling angry at the appearance of his smirk it only makes you smile.

Standing here in the aftermath made you see Dean in a different light, made your heart buckle and jump in your chest the longer you stood there in the kitchen basking in the warmth that began to bloom in your chest.

"Maybe…" You gently touch the front of his buffalo print flannel, smoothing the fabric beneath your fingertips. It looked good on him, very little looked bad on Dean.

"Do you regret staying with me?" He mutters.

"What?" You glance back up to see his face and notice that he's not smiling, he's frowning at you, and his eyes aren't as bright.

Dean clears his throat. "Well you seemed like you were really going to miss him and-"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence. You throw your arms around his neck and pull him back down to you, putting you everything you have into the kiss, hoping that Dean can feel how you have no regrets staying with him, that all you want is him.

"Dean Winchester." You breathe, moving your hands to cup his cheeks so he can't look away from you. "I do not regret staying with you, because I love you." You pull him as close to you as you can, his warm hands splayed over your back. "This is where I belong." You kiss him on the tip of his nose. "And this is where you belong. With me."

Dean's eyes warm the longer you hold his gaze. "I'm starting to believe you."

"Anything that I can do to convince you?"

"I can think of a few things…"

Ben/Soldier Boy POV

"Stupid, fucking piece of shit!" Ben growled at the computer monitor in front of him that had a bright red ERROR message splayed across it.

It had been two days since he'd left your reality, and he was trying his best to shove away the disappointment at the fact that you hadn't decided to come back with him. It wasn't that Ben wanted more than what the two of you had, it was that he liked having someone to talk to or try to talk to, and you were a good listener.

He didn’t like opening up to people, but there was something about you. He could trust you and Ben hadn't found anyone he could trust since he got back from Russia.

Ben also wasn't about to admit that he was lonely, he had plenty of women who were eager to warm his bed, but there was something about you that always made him feel different. He wasn't sure what that was exactly.

He'd also be lying if he said that he had wanted to explore it a little more if you'd come with him to his reality. The thought of you staying with him for an extended period of time in his apartment hadn't been unwelcome. Ben had never allowed other women to stay more than a day, but you… Ben would have let you stay as long as you wanted to.

Fuck.

He knew that he wasn't in love with you, but Ben knew he liked having you around. He liked being friends with you and he liked fucking you.

And yes he was disappointed that you had chosen Dean instead of him, but at the same time Ben didn't blame you. You had a history with Dean and when you'd been forced into Ben's reality, you'd talked to him a lot about Dean. Ben knew that you liked Dean more than you cared to admit.

But there was still an unwelcome feeling in the pit of his stomach that Ben wasn't accustomed to.

Ben huffed out a breath to push away the thoughts, while looking at what was left of the keyboard on his desk. The keys were scattered across the wooden top like bits of confetti, broken easily underneath his large fingertips when he'd tried to write an email

When he'd come back from Russia, Ben had taken a job working for the Department of Supe Affairs, but he was "grounded" due to the "anger issues" that he swore he didn't have, and because he didn't listen to Butcher whenever he gave him an order.

I don't need to follow orders. I'm Soldier Boy! I should be giving the orders!

Basically it meant that he was stuck on a desk indefinitely until Annie January, the new department head, released him. She'd also ordered that Ben go to company mandated therapy sessions once a week. He'd refused to go, but after Annie threatened him with termination of his contract, which meant that Ben would have gone back to being someone who "looked like someone who used to be famous," he'd gone to therapy.

And he refuses to admit this to anyone… but he liked it. Someone who was paid to listen to him bitch for a whole hour about whatever pissed him off and actually kept their trap shut was just what he needed.

Sometimes it reminded him of when he would talk to you, but there were still things that he refused to tell anyone and some of those things he had told you.

Ben ran his hand through his hair frustrated at his predicament. He would have liked to go into the field and take out some of his frustration on another supe, but Annie refused to give.

Ben didn't like listening to women, but even he had to admit Annie had a set of brass balls and he respected her for it. She didn’t take shit from anyone and especially didn't listen to Ben's bitching over why he should be in the field instead of being chained to a desk.

"Oi you all right mate?" Butcher calls and Ben can hear the shit eating grin without looking up from his computer screen.

The error message was still displayed in bright red letters, mocking him.

Ben knows that Butcher doesn't give a shit, and is probably about to start teasing him about his inability to adapt to modern day technology.

It wouldn't be the first time.

"Don't you have something better to do? Like fucking that little bitch that Annie is ploughing?" Ben spits back, clicking on the mouse but all it does is bring up another error message in another language.

"Oh mon ami, that doesn't look good." Frenchie walks by to stare at the computer screen that has now gone slightly fuzzy.

"I don’t think that's going to fix it mate." Butcher laughs. " But I called IT."

"I don’t need any of those four-eyed fucks helping me!" Ben snaps turning to narrow his eyes at Butcher.

He's holding a white cup of tea, wearing his usual long trench coat and Hawaiian shirt, with the shit eating grin that Ben knew Butcher was going to have when he looked up.

The last thing Ben needed was some nerd telling him everything that he did wrong. He was already on a first name basis with the director of the IT department, who was a little weasel of a man and who no longer picked up the phone when Ben called to yell at him.

"I think you're gonna want to listen to this particular four eyed fuck. She's new." Butcher gloats. "But don’t say I never did anything for you Soldier Boy."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Ben shouts at Butcher's back, but he's already gone.

Ben turns back to the error message that has begun to flash an even brighter red and now has a countdown.

"Fuck, fuck fuck-" Ben growled and to remedy the situation he puts his fist through the computer screen. It makes a high pitched electrical popping sound, showering his desk in sparks, while the overhead lights flicker, before the screen goes completely black.

Ben was not stupid, but he was a little slow when it came to modern day technology. He was doing better than he had initially, but it was taking him a longer time to understand using his desktop computer at work than his cell phone.

"Hi, I'm from IT. Mr. Butcher called and said that you might need a little help." The voice was small and tentative, coming from somewhere on Ben's left.

"I don't need any help. Especially not from a fucking four-" Ben started to growl, but then he looked up and the words died in his throat.

Because the person standing next to his desk was you.

This version of you looked different. Ben was used to seeing someone in old band t-shirts, worn blue jeans, and flannel shirts, someone who carried themselves confidently and had a hardness surrounding their outer exterior that simply said "don't fuck with me."

But this version of you was softer and a little gentle. Your hair was longer and pushed back from your face by a simple black headband, you were wearing dark framed glasses, an oversized cardigan sweater that covered a simple pair of blue jeans, a striped blouse, and a pair of dark blue converse. The converse made Ben smile. He hadn't seen anyone wearing Chuck Taylors in a little while and it was a welcome sight, something from the past that he actually recognized.

He thought it was cute.

As much as Ben liked the version of you he knew who didn't shy away from anything, Ben found himself smiling at this one. You were definitely more soft spoken and a little less confident, but Ben could see a sweetness and sincerity in your eyes that he hadn't come across since he came back to the US.

It was the thing that always made him trust the other version of you, the part of him that made him want to tell the other version of you things that he hadn't told other people.

"I'm sorry." You say, even though you have nothing to be sorry about. "I-"

"No. I'm sorry." Ben clears his throat awkwardly and for the first time in a long time he feels nervous. He wasn't sure why that was, not to mention he never apologized to anyone, ever, but he didn't want to scare you away.

"It's okay." You give him a soft smile. "Computers can be frustrating, but sometimes it’s better not to put your fist through the screen."

Ben chuckles. "Probably not my best work."

You shake your head, a wider smile on your face, the motion of it sending the smell of your perfume over him, something floral and a little old fashioned. You look at the remnants of the computer and bite the inside of your cheek deep in thought.

Ben found himself tracing the furrow of your brows and the scrunch of your nose. You were beautiful in every reality to him.

"Well, Mr. Soldier Boy I don't think-"

"Please call me Ben." He interrupts.

Ben wondered if you were this shy all the time and if you'd be just as shy if he took you to bed. He wanted to find out.

Ben had slept with many women in his lifetime and he was usually drawn to women who were more confident and outgoing, sure of themselves, but there was something about your shy attitude that Ben found attractive.

"Ben." You say it in the soft voice of yours, cheeks flushed a little bit as if you're embarrassed to say it. "I don't think that there's anything I can do for this." Your hand waves over the computer. "But I can go talk to my boss and tell him you need another one."

"I'll go with you." Ben stood up.

He didn’t want to let you out of his sight, not when a part of him worried that you weren’t really there or you would evaporate into nothing before his very eyes.

"Oh, it's okay. You don't have to-" You stammer, shaking your head, and not quite looking at him as if making eye contact was a little harder for you.

"I want to." Ben smiles at you. He hears your heart beat quicken and can hear the small intake of breath you have when he smiles. "He's an asshole and I don't want him to chew you out for something I did." Ben explains.

It was partly true. The guy was an asshole. Not to mention, Butcher had said it was your first day and Ben wasn’t going to stand by and have the head of the IT department screaming at you when you had done nothing wrong.

"Oh." You clear your throat, cheeks blushing that cute pink color that makes Ben smile wider. "Well if you'll just follow me."

He hadn’t met someone like you in a long time. And even though he liked the other version of you, Ben was starting to like this one more.

"To the ends of the Earth doll." Ben winks and watches the flush of your cheeks deepen to a crimson and hears the way your heart buckles and jumps when he does.

And the longer he stands there watching you blush, Ben begins to feel an odd feeling flicker in the pit of his stomach racing up into his chest that he’d never felt before and for the first time in a long time Ben was curious to see where it could lead.

A/N: Alright we made it to the end and everyone got a happy ending! Thank you again everyone for all the love and support while I was writing this mini-series 💗

Reveal of the Poll:

🥫: Meeting the reader from Ben's Universe in a grocery store.

💻: Meeting the reader from Ben's Universe in the IT department.

Personally I liked the IT more, and the problem is now I really like the shy reader with Ben. They are so cute and now I'm hyperfixated on Ben with a shy reader so we'll see where that goes 🤣

Thank you so much for reading! As always likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, but are not required. I love hearing what y'all think!

Taglist For It's Not A Big Deal:

@roseblue373 @mrsjenniferwinchester @livya99 @zepskies

@winchesterwild78 @ladykitana90 @spnfamily-j2 @whyyouegg

@suckitands33 @pizzagirlxnsfwx @s0uz4s @schinug @just-levyy

@xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @minas-fantasies @ladysparkles78

@mochminnie @peachhiz

@impala67stellawinchester @nancymcl @lunaleah @lightdancingwords @kamisobsessed

@justwhisperingfantasies @lunaleah @kamisobsessed @kmc1989 @djudy99

@chriszgirl92

@toxicfataldestiny @im-bili @anniebannanie0315 @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @schinug

@shara-ne @gaida-511 @xxmusic13luverxx @bakugotypecrashout @n-o-p-e-never

@thoughtfullyfurryangel @youroldfashioned

@marvelgeeka @myceliumsunshine @hobby27

@funkenniffler

#why is it a big deal?#supernatural #spn #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female reader #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy #dean winchester #jensen ackles #sam winchester #dean x you #dean x reader #supernatural fanfiction #It's Not A Big Deal #lovely mutuals #zepskies reads

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wlwsoccerfics · 1 day ago

Text

Clingy Girlfriend (Grace Clinton X Russo Reader)

Summary: If is time England Camp and you finally See your girlfriend again. You two are doing Long Distance because she plays for Manchester United and you okay for FC Barcelona.

Warnings: some talks about siblings having to compete with one another, migraine, throwing up.

"Baby!" You hear Grace voice and then you nearly got knocked over because she was jumping on your back, but you managed to keep her up with your arms and steady yourself so you wouldn't fall.

"hey Love!" You said and smiled gently. "I guess asking If you missed me isn't necessary anymore after this!" You replied and giggled softly. Ella walked over with your sister.

"hey little Sis!" Alessia said and smiled at you.

"thank god you are here! Every day at practice she was talking about you y/n! It was getting annoying!" Tooney told you, playfully rolling her eyes.

"hey Less! Hey Ella! What can i say? I am amazing!" You let them know. Winking softly, obviously joking. "But on a serious Note, GracieBean? Where is my kiss?" You asked. Grace quickly got down from your back and turned you around. Kissing you softly. You kiss back and smile into the kiss.

"get a room!" Your sister yelled out, chuckling softly.

"These two in one room and the entire floor won't be able to sleep at night! They haven't seen eachother in a while! So they aren't sharing!" Leah stated, walking over. Smirking softly.

"hello Captain!" You answered teasingly. Hugging Leah, before hugging your best friend Hannah. "Hi Hampton!" You playfully said. "Hi little R." She answered, hugging you back. Smirking softly.

You shared a room with Beth while Grace shared one with Lucy. It did feel like the two were chosen to make sure the two of you didn't sneak into eachothers rooms. Both of you clearly weren't happy about this.

It didn't take long before there was a knock on the door of your room, which Beth opened and Grace walked straight past her, into your open arms.

"i needed some cuddles!" She informed you.

"you two saw eachother like 40 minutes ago!" Beth stated. "I know long distance sucks. But please remember to Focus on Camp too!" She added.

You and Grace look at her, frowning softly.

"playing for two different countries and making a relationship work is way harder then playing for two different Teams in the same country. Both hard but it's even more challenging for us." Grace explained. She sure didn't sound like a 21 year old. But more like someone in their 30s with way more life experience then she actually had. Same goes for you though. You are 22 years old.

"yeah Beth i agree. For you and Viv it's challenging, for us it's even worse." You replied and held Grace close.

"i know, i know." Beth answered with a soft sigh escaping her lips.

"we are very professional and when we are on the pitch or at practice we will be very focused!" You tell her gently. Offering her a small smile.

"okay good. i will be downstairs and play some games with some of the Girls. So you two can have some alone time, just remember we have practice in three hours." She stated and smiled at you before leaving the room. Leaving the two of you alone.

You cuddle with Grace, fingers intertwined. Kissing every now and then. Just enjoying eachothers company.

"i feel so lucky that i get to love you!" Grace told you. You smile at her.

"you are sweet Babe. But i am the lucky one! I can't believe how much love i always feel from you. You don't make me feel like i am second best or like i have to compete for favorite Russo." You explain to her. "I know it's not a competition and i am proud to be Lessis sister but it just sucks that people always seem to compare the two of us!" You admitted. She kissed your head. Holding you as close as possible.

"you two may be sisters but you both have your own personality! And you are different people! There shouldn't be people comparing you with one another!" Grace stated. "And if that helps, i like your sister but for obvious reasons you are my favorite Russo!" She added and smiled a little. You smiled back.

"i would hope so." You replied with a genuine giggle escaping your lips.

You two get ready for practice in your seperate rooms before meeting up with everyone else in the Hotel Lobby.

"the lovebirds actually managed to make it on time!" Tooney said teasingly.

"i am always on time!" You stated and chuckled softly.

"not always!" Alessia replied, teasingly.

"okay you two leave the little lovebirds alone!" Mary answered with a soft smile. You walked to the trainings pitch, holding Grace' hand while talking to Hannah.

You did some drills and partnerd up with Grace, no one was surprised about that. The two of you were working well together. It was like, you didn't even have to talk to one another ,but still managed to communicate with your eyes.

After that you did some practice games. 3vs3 and you played with Ella & Leah against Beth, Lucy & Jess. This was alot of fun and a good way to start of England Camp.

When practice was done you all went to shower and decided to meet up for Team Dinner later that day.

You got out of the shower and dried yourself off. Putting on some England shorts & an England Hoodie, before walking out of the bathroom and over to your bed. Beth went to take a shower next. You felt a migraine coming up so you took some meds, hoping you caught it just in time. But unfortunately around 10 minutes later you realized that it in fact was too late so the migraine was in full swing now.

You laid on your bed. Legs pulled up to your stomach. Eyes closed. Focusing on your breathing, wanting to breathe through the pain.

Beth walked out of the bathroom, dressed up in an outfit that was similiar to yours. She saw you lying there and knew right away what was going on. Having seen that many times when Viv had a migraine. Cause unfortunately the dutch Woman struggled with it as well.

"sweets, anything i can do?" Beth whispered out. You sniffle softly.

"can you get Grace for me, please?" You asked her.

"yes of course." She answered but closed the blinds before she left, walking to Grace' room. Lucy was the one who opened the door.

"what's up, Meado?" Lucy asked.

"is grace here? Y/n is asking for her. She is having a full on Migraine right now." The blonde answered.

"damn, poor, Russo!"Lucy stated, not having much time to say anything else because Grace was already walking past them. In a hurry to get to you. Beth quickly followed her. When the door to the room was opened you weren't in your bed anymore though. No both Grace & Beth could hear you throwing up.

"i will be hanging out with Leah, good luck!" Beth turned around and walked out quickly. She wasn't good with hearing people throwing up but always managed to pull through when it came to Viv.

Grace walked into the bathroom , kneeling down next to you. Rubbing your back and holding your hair. "I have got you babe." She whispered out.

After a few minutes you were finally done. Leaning against Grace.

"i am so angry with myself." You sobbed out. Grace was really confused, frowning softly.

"Love this isn't your fault!" She said softly. Kissing your head gently.

"feels like my body is betraying me! We see eachother only a few times a year and i now manage to ruin one of the times with a migraine. I am sorry Baby!" You sighed sadly and tried to stop yourself from having a full on emotional breakdown.

"hey stop. This isn't your fault! You didn't ask for that migraine!" She answered. Cuddling you and managing to calm you down. Helping you brush your teeth before carrying you back to bed. Holding you close. Laying down with you. You took a hold of her like a koala baby did to it's momma, but you didn't care how clingy you were right now. All you wanted was to be close to your girlfriend.

You ended up sleeping for the rest of the day, Grace staying with you the entire time. She even spend the night and Beth stayed with Lucy.

You felt much better the next day but everyone still was keeping an eye on you. Especially Grace but also your sister. It was good to know that you both were clingy. And neither one of you cared.

#woso x reader #graceclintonxrussoreader #Grace ClintonXReader #lucy bronzexreader

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happyheidi · 22 hours ago

Note

Hello love. I felt the need to tell you this.

For the longest time I’ve been following you and I thought you were another one of those bot run accounts that have a massive following and occasionally post ads and whatnot. You know the ones.

But then I saw your tags on some posts and it just… made me smile. And I don’t know why it never crossed my mind before. That behind one of my favorite blogs of all time is a beautiful human being. But now every time I see your posts on my dash I look forward to seeing your little comment in the tags.

Anyways, all this to say you bring me lots of joy. Please keep doing what you’re doing. 🩷🌷✨🌱

“accounts that have a massive following and occasionally post ads and whatnot. You know the ones.” Funny you should mention that because I remember I got contacted by one of them and at the time I was crazy broke and had vet bills up to my neck so I thought ok I’ll try it out. So, I got some “merch” from them and bought some myself to see if it was what they said it was (this was many years ago and another blog than this + I wanted to make sure my followers weren’t getting tricked or anything) and after the ages it took for me to get the items I wasn’t impressed .. I lost lots of followers (bcus of all the ads I had to post - ugh I hated the repetition) and I actually care about my blog and how it looks to people - and myself - so I said to the person, I can’t do this anymore. She said “no one has complained etc”. But I’m a real person who cares about the blog so it was a short “collaboration”. I thought It really took away from my cottage aesthetic.. being all capitalism-YAY.. lol Anyway, I’m rambling.. just wanted to tell that story.

I’ve gotten this type of message before and to me it’s the best compliment ever! Thank you so so much! I haven’t paid attention to this blog as much as I did before.. yk because life, but I’m very happy to hear that! Thank u so much for taking the time to cheer a girl up <3 ur awesome!

A rose, for you 🌹

#ask #moomin #my gifs

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bestalbertcamuslover · 2 days ago

Text

In the Name of Commitment

↳ Masterlist

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

✯ pairing: Sebastian Vettel x GF! Reader ✯

✯ content warnings: none ✯

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

The sun glowed a bright orange as it dipped below the horizon, drinks and laughter flowed effortlessly among her group of friends, each accompanied by their current partners. It wasn’t something they often did, but every once in a while, the group would invite their significant others to join.

Sebastian’s arm rested casually on her thigh, completely at ease. He knew what her friends were like—cynical, much like her, the kind of women you’d call quintessential 21st-century women: independent, versatile, open-minded, and, as previously mentioned, deeply cynical.

“Yeah, she’s on her second marriage already,” one of her friends commented, or rather gossiped.

“I just don’t get why people keep getting married,” another friend interjected with a soft chuckle, sipping from her drink.

“Exactly. It’s just a piece of paper,” the first friend added.

“A piece of paper that seems to screw everything up,” y/n chimed in with a subtle grin. “Like, how many people do you know who are actually happily married?”

This wasn’t an unfamiliar conversation for the group of friends, but their respective partners seemed more surprised by the topic. Sebastian, at least, was. His future plans undoubtedly included marriage. Still, he stayed quiet. The conversation was lighthearted, and there was no need to turn it into a debate. Yet, he remained silent for the rest of the hangout—offering occasional nods and smiles, but not much more. He was definitely pondering what her aversion to marriage might mean.

She squeezed his thigh after buckling her seatbelt, a gentle smile on her face. “You okay?”

He glanced at her, instantly noticing her contentment from the hangout—the kind of brightness someone exudes after having a good time. “Yeah,” he said, “just exhausted.”

“You want me to drive?” she asked with a subtle smirk.

“Yeah, not happening,” he chuckled, still remembering the scratch that had magically appeared on his car the last time she drove.

She shot him a playful glare as he started the car. Silence filled the space again, hovering somewhere between comfortable and uncomfortable.

“Seb, are you sure you’re okay?” she asked again.

He glanced at her for a split second before turning his eyes back to the road. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, his tone lacking firmness. “It’s just… something you mentioned has been nagging at me.”

“What thing?” she asked, her voice tinged with subtle amusement.

“The stuff you and your friends said about marriage,” he replied, looking at her briefly before focusing on the road again. “Marriage is in my future plans, and so are you.”

“Oh,” she said, her tone softening with a hint of apology. “So, you want to get married someday?”

He nodded. “It’s what most couples do, you know?” he said, his tone a mix of seriousness and dry humor.

“I mean, don’t you think it’s a bit archaic and pointless? It’s just an institution that lost its true meaning a long time ago,” she argued.

He glanced at her again, an amused expression crossing his face at her sudden expertise on the topic. “And symbolically? Nowadays, it’s about commitment. Don’t you want that?”

“Do we really need to get married to symbolize commitment?” she asked with a subtle grin, giving his thigh another gentle squeeze after noticing how seriously he was taking this.

“Well, yeah,” he replied, still a bit serious.

“It’s not like I’m against it. If it’s something that matters to you, then it’s fine,” she conceded.

Sebastian glanced at her again, his expression softening. “You’d do it just because it matters to me?”

She shrugged, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Marriage might be pointless, but making you happy isn’t.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s the most cynical yet romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

She grinned. “I contain multitudes.”

He let out a deep breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “You know, it’s not just about the piece of paper or the tradition. It’s about standing up in front of everyone we love and saying, ‘Hey, this is my person. And I choose them, forever.’”

She bit the inside of her cheek, studying him for a moment. He meant that. Every word of it. And damn if that didn’t make her heart squeeze a little.

“Forever’s a long time,” she mused.

“With you?” He shot her a small smile. “Not long enough.”

She giggled, resting her head back against the headrest. “You and your sentimental one-liners.”

He laughed, the tension between them dissipating entirely. “You love them.”

She rolled her eyes but squeezed his thigh again, this time lingering a little longer.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

✯ authors note: I've been watching too much SATC lol

English is not my first language and I hope you liked it <3

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randomfoggytiger · 3 days ago

Text

The Truth Is Out There: Dispelling the Lingering Mysteries behind Chris Carter

OBSERVATIONS

To better understand the dynamics behind-the-scenes of The X-Files set, I invested in a six-part book series, the first of which is "The Truth Is Out There, The Official Guide to The X-Files" (written by Brian Lowry.) Well. More accurately, I wanted to delve deeper into the motivations of Chris Carter.

Even more particularly, I wanted answers to a few remaining questions. What was the point CC lost interest in and passion for The X-Files (because his perfectionistic, hyper-focused, workaholic drive drifted away from his first love to greater and grander things.) How could a man so woo the studios that he was given unparalleled control, without question, for nearly eight years? And how was this same man so beloved by everyone he came across, yet turned his own fans (and Nic Lea and Gillian Anderson) against him? If you want the answers to those, skip to the CARTER’S PHILOSOPHY, AND GUARDING THE VISION and FINAL THOUGHTS AND ANALYSIS sections.

**Note**: Most of this post will be directly quoting the book-- cutting out all but the most necessary context, of course (go read it)-- and, thus, will be fonted in italics.

ONCE UPON A TIME: CARTER’S JOURNEY UPWARD

Context: Lowry's book was written while "The Blessing Way" was being filmed.

As with most Hollywood success stories that don’t involve flat-out nepotism, the labyrinthine journey that resulted in The X-Files is almost as twisted as an X-File itself….

Carter began dating his wife, Dori Pierson, four years after leaving college…. Pierson prodded Carter to write movies, and his work caught the attention of Jeffrey Katzenberg, then Disney Studios chairman, who signed Carter to a writing deal. There he was put to work writing such Disney TV movies as "B.R.A.T. Patrol" and "Meet the Munceys".

A pickup softball game in Brentwood, California, provided another inning in Carter’s career, since that was where the writer met Brandon Tartikoff, the president of NBC Entertainment…. After Tartikoff had a chance to read some of Carter’s work he brought him over to NBC, where Carter developed a number of pilots. “Chris wrote a good script,” Tartikoff says, adding that, to a degree, he was victim of NBC’s success, since the network was riding high at the time and didn’t have a need for a family series.

…Tartikoff left NBC to become chairman of Paramount Pictures and says he tried to bring Carter there, but it wasn’t to be. In recent years, the relationship has been mainly of a social nature, and as Tartikoff puts it, “He’s too busy to play softball now.”

Still, Tartikoff wasn’t Carter’s only admirer. His writing also impressed Peter Roth, the president of Stephen J. Cannell Productions. …”I loved his feel for dialogue,” Roth remembers, shortly thereafter trying to bring Carter in as writer-producer on a CBS drama series called Palace Guard.

That show was canceled, but Roth kept Carter in mind when he moved from Cannell to Twentieth Century Fox as president of TV production. In 1992, he took a chance by signing a few relatively unknown producers, among them Carter….

Despite his association with comedies and family-oriented Disney fare, Carter had been kicking around for years a darker concept stemming from his childhood love of programs like "The Twilight Zone", "Alfred Hitchcock Presents", and, in particular, "The Night Stalker"….

Roth expressed some enthusiasm for that notion, indicating that vampires, which were at the heart of the original movie, might indeed be hot given that a big-screen incarnation of Interview with a Vampire was in the works at the time. Carter wasn’t interested in vampires per se, saying his vision had more to do with UFOs and, more broadly, the paranormal.

…Various ideas were batted around, but Roth and Carter felt they were on the right track in trying to do a contemporary variation on "The Night Stalker". “It was just something that had been lying there sort of dormant since I was a kid,” Carter says….

In retrospect, Carter clearly sensed a void-- and thus a window of opportunity-- in the crowded primetime marketplace…. “You look at the TV schedule,” he told Roth as they munched on their entrees, “and there’s nothing scary on television.”

…Carter didn’t remember many specifics about "The Night Stalker", other than how the show made him feel as a teenager. “I just knew that I couldn’t get enough,” he says. When he revisited the show he realized that it had a confiding premise: Carl Kolchak, an unlucky newspaper reporter, kept stumbling upon vampires, werewolves, and zombies. Starring as Kolchak was Darren McGavin, who Carter considered to play Mulder’s father in homage to the series, but schedules couldn’t be worked out.

…The Oscar-winning movie The Silence of the Lambs had just been released, which helped spur the idea of using the FBI as a natural means of entry into this world of the paranormal.

With some further modification and research, Carter had his foundation-- namely, that there must be somebody at the FBI investigating unexplained cases. The show, then, would focus on two FBI agents-- one a believer, the other a skeptic-- investigating cases involving paranormal phenomena. One of the main characters would be driven by personal experience, having witnessed the abduction of his younger sister, Samantha, when he was 12 years old.

The cherry on top for Carter came when a friend who happened to be a research psychiatrist at Yale showed him a Roper Organization survey saying, essentially, that three percent of the U.S. population believes they’ve been abducted by aliens. Whether those results were valid or not, Carter felt he’d found a potential well-spring of interest in a topic getting short shrift elsewhere. “I thought, ‘This is too good to be true,’” he recalls.

…Delving into his own skeptical nature, Carter also planted seeds for what was to become an integral part of the show….

CARTER’S FOCUS FOR THE SHOW

Though he was still a teenager at the time of the Watergate hearings, those events clearly left their mark on Carter, who admits that coverage of the scandal and President Richard Nixon’s subsequent resignation was “the most formative event of my youth.” Small wonder that he named a key character Deep Throat after the Watergate reporters’ shadowy source, and that he came up with lines like “Trust no one” (“My personal philosophy,” he says with a laugh), “I want to believe,” “Deny everything,” and “The truth is out there”-- the last in that series a double entendre, he suggests, nicely summing up the atmosphere he wanted the show to convey. Given his acumen for sloganeering, Carter muses, “I guess I’ve got a bit of the advertising man in me.”

THE PITCHING PROCESS

According to Greenblatt [Fox’s vice president of dramatic series development], those initial meetings in late summer and fall of 1992 were somewhat awkward because "The X-Files" concept was so difficult to pitch verbally. Roth also remembers Carter being somewhat uncomfortable during the pitching phase, network and studio executives second-guessed the elements within each show. “Chris and I mixed it up pretty good during that process,” Roth adds.

…”I pitched it once and they said, ‘No thank you,’” Carter recalls. “I pitched it again and they finally said, ‘Okay, we’ll buy it, leave us alone.’”

…Carter didn’t quit there, becoming, as he puts it, “my own public-relations agency.” He created visual aids-- charts that looked like little TV screens-- as a means of selling Fox executives on the show.

Certain frustrations nevertheless continued to dog Carter, among them questions as to just how “real” the show was going to be. Reality programming like "Cops", "Unsolved Mysteries", and "Rescue 911" was popular…. “Everyone thought this has got to be as real as possible,” Carter says. “No one could understand why someone would want to watch a show if it weren’t true.”

…According to Greenblatt, the fact that the production company is also part of Fox probably helped the network make the decision to take a gamble with the show, even if there was still considerable doubt regarding its viability. “It’s easier to take a flier with your sister company,” he admits.

CASTING CHALLENGES AND PRODUCTION HURDLES

…As is usually the case, various actors read for each part before the field was whittled down to a few contenders. The decision on Mulder came down to David Duchovny…. And one other actor. The alternative was “cooler, and a little more tortured” than Duchovny’s take on the character, says Carter. Though Fox officials maintain Duchovny pretty much walked away with the role thanks to his wry sense of humor, which came across in the audition and meeting, Carter says he had to steer them a bit toward his preferred choice.

A more rigorous wrestling match ensued over Scully. …If some Fox officials were looking for the equivalent of Baywatch’s Pamela Anderson, however, Carter and Twentieth Television’s casting chief, Randy Stone, immediately locked in on Gillian Anderson….

“When she came into the room, I just knew she was Scully,” Carter says. “I just felt it…. She had an intensity about her: intensity always translates across the screen.”

Anderson had her own misgivings about doing television but circumstances had softened her reluctance-- having found film work scarce and her bank account dwindling. The actress hoped a few weeks working on a television show might increase her profile, at least, when she next came calling for film roles.

What Anderson didn’t fully realize was the battle taking place behind the scenes over casting her. Carter maintain that he “had to put my career on the line to put Gillian in the show,” still taking some delight in “proving the naysayers wrong.”

“They didn't see the package,” Carter says. “There was one actress who did an okay job, but she wasn’t, in my mind, Dana Scully.” Finally, Carter recalls saying, “‘Look, this is the person I want. This is Dana Scully.’ And everybody looked at me and said, ‘Okay.’”

Even so, there was still some head-shaking, and Carter clearly felt as if it were “me versus the world” in that room. Millions of dollars were at stake, and at this point the pilot was only days away from shooting….

Still, doubts about Anderson didn’t end with her casting. Even as footage started to come back from the pilot filming there was, Roth says, “tremendous negativity toward Gilliam” from some quarters-- questions as to whether the character was too cold, or if she was likable enough. Carter remembers hearing qualms about Anderson, in fact, even after the pilot was completed.

Another point of contention involved the nature of the relationship between the leads. Carter insisted that they stay clearly platonic despite those urging him to establish more sexual chemistry.

Filming began in March 1993, and the first scene… involved the sequence where Dana Scully first meets Fox Mulder…. The actors had only been able to rehearse at what’s called a table reading, not on the set, and Carter knew those first dailies… would be closely scrutinized-- in part because of the haggling that preceded Anderson’s casting, in part because the nature of the actors’ relationship would be central to whether the show itself would work.

That first meeting, Carter says, was “all-important” to not just the show but to the future of the project….

The actors, however, had an immediate rapport (Anderson has joked that Duchovny has a pretty good rapport with most women…) despite difficult conditions. Duchovny, in fact, was taken with Anderson’s grit and determination as they filmed on scene in the face of freezing rain….

The two-week shoot completed, Fox received the pilot that spring just as dozens of other contenders streamed in hoping for a slot on the primetime lineup…. Postproduction, which includes adding music, sound effects and editing, wasn’t completed until early May….“Each step of the way,” Carter says, “until that day in May when the pilot was seen by Rupert Murdoch and the Fox brass, they really did not know what they had.” In fact, when the rough cut came in, someone at Fox who’d seen it told Roth simply, “Nice try.”

…During the screening for Fox executives, [Greenblatt] recalls, “There was some nervous laughter in the room, and I though, ‘Oh, we’re dead.’” The conclusion, however, was met with applause-- a rare occurrence….

…Hands shot up immediately when he asked what everyone thought. People spoke over each other to get their opinion in, which was unusual in such sessions.

…when Fox saw how the audience responded to "The X-Files", the network quickly increased promotion for the show, which lagged at the outset….

…Fox was equally pleased to discover "The X-Files" could play as more than just a one-note concept. “The first year we analyzed the show a lot,” says Greenblatt. “We didn’t want to become ‘The UFO Show.’”

By the second season that issue [lack of closure], at least, had almost entirely subsided, as the network began to realize that the cryptic, spooky endings served as an integral part of the show’s appeal….

Carter did agree to come conciliatory modifications… and even he says some of those changes have been for the better. The idea of a Scully voice-over while typing up her field report notes, for example, was tacked on to the first regular episode, “Deep Throat,” to mollify Fox’s desire to provide resolution to the story-- “bringing closure,” as Carter puts it, “to a non-closed case.” While he resisted the idea initially, Scully’s narration “became a kind of a staple through the first season,” he says, “and I think it actually added to the show.”

Carter also notes that the Cigarette-Smoking Man was a mysterious figure in the pilot and was supposed to remain that way. “I never anticipated that he would be speaking as much as he is,” the producer notes, “but I don’t care who you are, you can’t think that far ahead. The show takes on a life of its own, and you sort of have to be true to it and ride it into the sunset…”

Indeed, any casual glance at the Nielsen standings provides a misleading appraisal of the show’s first-season performance. "The X-Files" finished the 1993-1994 season ranked 113 out of 132 primetime series broadcast in terms of the number of homes tuning in; however, that ignore the fact that she show aired Friday-- a night when fewer people in general, and younger viewers in particular, are apt to be home watching television….

CARTER LEARNS TO DOMESTICATE THE SHOW… ON HIS OWN TERMS

Another unplanned event in the show’s evolution involved Anderson’s real-life pregnancy, which came at a critical time in the show’s cycle and sent panic running through executive suites in regard to what it might mean for the series’s production schedule, particularly on such a two-character concept. “As an executive, if you weren’t concerned about that then you didn’t have a pulse,” Grushow laughs. “At the time, the real question was how do we turn a potential liability into first, a non-liability, and second, a possible asset.”

“I think we were all very upset,” says Roth, noting that various scenarios were tossed around-- down to having Scully give birth to an alien baby-- before settling on the story arc, told in the memorable episodes “Duane Barry,” “Ascension,” and “On Breath.”

The actress herself feared that she might be dropped from the show, first confiding in Duchovny about her condition, then Carter. Whatever angry rhetoric might have greeted the news from executive suites, replacing her, apparently, was never seriously considered, though her pregnancy was kept secret from the crew and press for several months….

Ultimately, Anderson’s grit and dedication impressed everyone involved, with Roth calling her “a real trouper,” in the old-time show-business sense of the word, as she filmed up to and just six days after the birth of her daughter, Piper….

Again, Carter admits he didn’t initially intend to head down that path [Scully being abducted, resulting in emotional resonance between the lead characters.] “I think it actually forced us to make choices that helped the show,” he says. “It proved to us that people wanted shows about characters and their lives.

“It was a way for me to do what I had resisted doing, which was to domesticate the show. I don’t want to know what Mulder does with his softball team. I don’t want to know what Scully does with her friends. It’s just of no interest to me.” Their breakup and reunion at the start of the second season, he says, provided “an interesting way to explore the characters that I hadn’t anticipated doing.”

Fox immediately renewed the show for a second season….. Certain episodes actually drew bigger audiences for repeat airings than their first showing, and that snowball effect was evident in the second-season premiere: a 10/3 rating (which translates to more than 9.8 million households) and 19 percent of the audience, a 17 percent jump over the season finale. Still nervous about Anderson’s status, Fox breathed a sigh of relief, as "The X-Files" had clearly established its credentials as a bona fide hit.

…To its credit, Fox’s patience allowed the program to reach that plateau, and Carter says he “never got a sense that there was any fear” about the show’s ratings, even at its Nielsen nadir…. “I always said that we would have to create an audience on Friday nights, not steal one, and that I think that’s what we have done,” Carter notes.

CARTER’S PHILOSOPHY, AND GUARDING HIS VISION

Not surprisingly, the arduous trek that took "The X-Files" from his boyhood memories to the television screen has made Carter both protective of his vision and secure in his belief that he knows what’s best for it. Asked about maintaining the quality of the special effects, he says, “Part of the job-- and I’ve learned this in the process-- is never accepting ‘No’ for an answer. There will be a final ‘No’ if the answer is ‘No,’, but ‘No’ is always the first answer you get, and you’ve got to make sure that the final answer you get is ‘Yes.’ That’s really the way I proceed.”

…”I was really the lone voice saying we cannot have these people romantically involved. There cannot be real TV sexual tension here or else the show won’t work. As soon as you have them looking googly-eyed at each other, they’re not going to want to go out and chase these aliens. The relationship will supplant or subvert what’s going to make the show great, which is the pursuit of these cases.”

…Even so, Fox still harbored various creative concerns, not the least of them being the issue of closure, or how completely and neatly the episodes would be resolved. Carter remembers having a shouting match with a Fox programming executive who wanted the endings to be more explicit, helping the audience make sense of what happened. “There’s no sense to make!” Carter told him angrily. “You make the sense yourself.”

…”I feel like Lewis and Clark: I know where I’m going, but I don’t know what the hills and valleys and streams that I have to cross are.”

The producer has no qualms about letting his star [Duchovny] in on that [contributing] process. “He’s got good ideas for the show,” notes Carter. “Why not use them?”

“Everything else I do past this is a big question mark to me,” he says thoughtfully. “I don’t know if it’ll be a hit or miss. It’s a business of failure mostly. While I’ve got this garden growing, I want to make sure that I tend it and that it represents my best efforts.”

Carter, for his part, remains vigilant regarding over-exposure while still submerged in the series itself, spending about 12 days each month in Vancouver during production. Although some executive producers create a series and then segue in the second or this season to new projects, Carter has stated that he made a commitment to the actors to stay with the program as long as they do….

…“You can lay on really thick if you lay on a good scientific foundation,” notes Carter. “The show’s only as scary as it is believable. Everything has to take place within the realm of extreme possibility.”

Carter himself takes pride in "The X-Files" never settling for routine, even as he tries to manage the equivalent of juggling and tap-dancing at the same time. As for his attention to even the smallest elements in each episode, Carter-- his desk awash in material from past and future episodes-- simply considers that a responsibility that comes with the territory. “If you don’t know what every frame is going to look like,” he says, “you’re not doing your job.”

Carter’s role is not unlike the side-show act of spinning plates, a task that requires keeping an eye on various objects simultaneously, lest one of them spin out of control. “You’ve got five shows going at once,” he explains. “You’re writing a show, prepping a show, shooting a show, editing a show, and adding the sound and music to the show.” In fact, he adds, the show runner (a Hollywood term that applies to the main executive producer) really has to have his head in seven shows at the same time.

Seven shows and at least two places, since Carter, the writing staff and selected crew members spend most of their time in Los Angeles while production takes place nearly 1300 miles away in Vancouver. The L.A. contingent includes a visual effects supervisor Mat Beck and postproduction whiz Paul Rabwin, who oversees the sound, editing, Mark Snow’s evocative music composition, and other measures required before raw footage can achieve broadcast quality.

A DAY-IN-THE-LIFE, ON THE SET: ULTIMATE FREEDOM

I decided to include this section to give a broader scope of CC "at work"-- another link in the chain of repeated compliments his friends, cast, crew, coworkers, and overhead gave him over the years.

…The Los Angeles office, housed in its own bungalow, is nicely appointed but relatively spare.

The [Los Angeles] office itself is bustling this particularly morning, as writers move in and out--- occasionally invading the space of researcher/officer manager Mary Astadourian, where various drawers full of research material are kept. In there, the scribes will find literature on the paranormal, diseases, viruses, and various monsters, with folders that carry labels like “Roswell” or “Loch Ness.”

…Part of the morning is devoted to the regularly scheduled writers’ meeting, with the entire staff… assembling to go over that week’s script, blocking out the teaser and all four acts….

The other writers question each nuance, throwing out suggestions to refine the story and make sure it’s clear…. Despite the need for exposition, Carter also stresses not letting the pace drag, wanting to spread action within the hour (or more precisely, 44 minutes or so minus commercials) allotted them. “Make sure you keep it hoppin’,” he says.

…Eventually, it’s suggested they shift some action from the second act into the first in order to achieve the proper sense of pacing. The move requires some reconfiguration of other plot elements, but once those are blocked out the producer and other writers seem content. “That works for me,” says Carter, sending the show’s writer off to do another rewrite.

Carter’s daily schedule, however, is just beginning. The writers’ session is followed by what’s known as a concept meeting-- a teleconference with the staff in Vancouver to grapple with various production issues before the begin filming a new episode….

Other issues involve the number of extras they can use….

Because money is always an issue, and time a luxury the crew usually doesn’t have, compromise and ingenuity remain key….

The producers also pride themselves on finding means of scavenging resources, then developing different ways to capitalize upon them. A prime case involves the crew getting access to a Canadian Navy destroyer that was then used in three different episodes, including “Dod Kalm”... and “End Game”.... “It’s fun,” Carter says, “to make something out of nothing.”

Episodes must be plotted down to the most minute details-- in part because Carter is a perfectionist, and in part because the show is under a microscope now, with fans picking and nitpicking every conceivable aspect. Issues raised include what sort of garb Native Americans depicted should wear, with an emphasis on being as faithful as possible to tribal customs. (A Navajo group has complained because a character wore his hair down, something the elders in that tribe wouldn’t normally do, in the episode entitled “Anasazi.” Carter subsequently visited a Navajo reservation and attended one of their ceremonies.)

From a more practical standpoint, the Vancouver team wants to know whether they can wardrobe the actors in blue jeans because some postproduction special effects shots use blue-screen, which essentially eliminates that color.

The L.A. staffers are also assured that a shoot-out sequence will be top-notch, with bullet hits and ricochets plus a movie-style car explosion. Can it be done? “The answer’s yes… with disclaimers,” quips Beck good-naturedly adding, “One big disclaimer: How much money you got?”

…The crew clearly takes enormous pride in the series, which presents them with such challenges on almost a daily basis and allows them to put their skills to the fullest possible use. Some freely admit, in fact, that they’ve been spoiled by their involvement with "The X-Files" and would have a hard time working elsewhere. “They’d have to drag me kicking and screaming off this show,” Gauthier says.

The same goes for makeup special effects supervisor Toby Lindala…. Still, Lindala has proven up to most any task, with the Flukeman-- a costume his crew created in 10 days that had to weather water and other shooting ordeals-- still his proudest accomplishment. “That was probably the most insane undertaking for a time period,” says Lindala, who worked a 28-and 28-hour day during that stretch to get the suit ready in time. Even so, Lindala grew up watching monster movies and isn’t complaining, relishing the opportunities the show has provided to fool around with such projects. “I love making ‘em,” he says.

Goodwin, a veteran producer who has worked on such series as "Life Goes On" and "Mancuso FBI", now tries to provide more lead time to prepare such major undertakings, but in most instances Lindala and his team (four people, including Lindala, work full time in that area) have just seven days’ notice to put a makeup effect together, and his services are needed in virtually every episode.

…Careful planning remains the main hedge against both cost and time crunches, with Goodwin pointing out that in television time essentially translates directly into money. “The quicker you have to do it, the more it costs,” he says, adding that while some in the industry are tempted to cut corners, “My motto is, ‘Quality, whether they want it or not.’”

…Kim Manners, also one of the show’s pool of directors, lauds Carter for treating each installment like a mini-movie. The process gives the individual directors-- who in episodic television, which is dominated by executive producers, are often viewed as transient guns for hire-- the opportunity to truly ply their trade. “He insists that you go out and be a filmmaker,” Manners says. “He doesn’t want you just go out and be a traffic cop.” Because of that freedom, he adds, the show is “the zenith of my career.”

…Unlike most television shows that shoot on location, on "The X-Files" whoever scripted that particular episode goes to Vancouver to scout out locations and do other preparatory work. “To make sure,” as story editor Frank Spotnitz puts it, “everything is in sync with what the writer had in mind,” from casting to production design. In the cryptic vernacular of the show, the process stems from commitment to “purity control.”

…For the episode in question, that means co-executive producer Howard Gordon, the only member of the writing staff other than creator Chris Carter who has been with the show virtually since the beginning, has made the sojourn to Vancouver. “As a writer, you don’t get that experience on any other show,” says Gordon.

…Other matters have also arisen, some remarkable in their degree of minutia. Gordon’s script for the episode being prepared, for example, contains a seemingly innocuous reference to being “in the mood for some Quarter Pounders,” and Fox’s legal department wants them to clear the wording with McDonald’s…. “That’s a great line,” says an only slightly exasperated Manners…. Hours later, it’s decided to change to a more generic term rather than hassle the legal issue.

…A later shot involves disposing of the [dead] cow, and Gordon-- a city kid from New York-- has actually researched the matter…. …But in light of McDonald’s headache, Carter has another suggestion. “How ‘bout if we just have a truck with golden arches on the side?” he jokes, spurring laughs from everyone in the room.

…The attention to detail, again, proves remarkable, driven by Carter’s commitment to perfection.

The entire process involved in shooting an episode of "The X-Files", from the first day of preparation to the last day of postproduction, usually takes six to eight weeks, with the seven days of preparation key to ensuring that the eight days of production that follow go smoothly-- though even the enormous effort that goes into planning can never account for every detail that can delay filming and raise blood pressure rates all around. In the middle of the season, as time grows shorter, there’s occasionally been as little as five weeks from prep to air.

Just two days before shooting is to begin, Manners, Gordon, Carter, and co-executive producer R.W. Goodwin cram into a small audition room, where they’re scheduled to see more than 20 actors in just over an hour….

Manners, Gordon, and about 15 crew members, including special effects ace Dave Gauthier, production designer Graeme Murray, and others from various departments, later embark on a technical survey. They pile into an air-conditioned bus to scout out all the locations that will be involved in the upcoming shoot, usually a six-to-eight hour pilgrimage. “And this is the easy part,” laughs set decorator Shirley Inget.

Carter follows the group to the door but has too much work at the office to come along. “I’m gonna miss this one, you guys,” he tells them, which is met with a collective “Aw” from the bus.

…The bunch straggles back to the studio around 7:30 P.M., almost eight hours after their departure. On a near-by soundstage, meanwhile, Bowman is directing stars David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson, trying to keep the level of enthusiasm up with another long night of work to do. Shooting is frequently a tedious process, with long lapses between the action as shots are set up. The two stars carry out an emotional scene in front of an elevator that isn’t really an elevator, with a crew member behind the soundstage wall sliding a wooden door closed to approximate the effect. “I love it!” Bowman proclaims as the scene ends, watching the shot through a monitor and lauding his star as “One-take Duchovny.”

Outside, Anderson’s baby, Piper… plays with various staff members as well as her father, assistant art director Clyde Klotz, who’s just returned from the technical survey. Piper shows off her mother’s piercing eyes and frolics later with Duchovny’s dog, Blue (his constant companion on the set), both seemingly fascinated with and a bit perplexed by the other. "The X-Files" is, indeed, a family affair, underscored when Goodwin brings his 10-year-old son and a friend into the production office the next morning, the latter collecting autographs from everyone on that week’s script.

A short time later Duchovny and Anderson arrive, enjoying a few quiet moments while Piper plays nearby in a small red tub, watched carefully by her nanny. …Though he isn’t shooting that day, actor Mitch Pileggi (who seems to create quite a stir among the female office staff) also pops by to look over dailies, or raw footage, of a fight sequence featuring him shot earlier in the week.

…Bowman has to deal with five actors (Anderson, Duchovny, and Gunmen Dean Haglund, Bruce Harwood, and Braidwood) in a relatively confined space, so the staging will be critical. After Bowman aligns them one way, Duchovny suggests an alternative in handling the shot, and various configurations are tried. As they begin rehearsing, everyone still seems a bit punchy, and the mood is light. Haglund keeps wanting to call a Nazi scientist “Kempler” instead of “Klemper”, and Duchovny has a hard time not laughing each time Braidwood (who comes up roughly to the actor’s chin) approaches him, with Frohike supposed to act relieved to see Mulder alive after the events that closed the second season. “Did you ever see the Star Trek where Spock thought that Kirk died?” Duchovny tells him with his trademark deadpan delivery. ‘That’s what you want to be doing.”

Production ultimately won’t conclude until near 2 A.M. that morning….

FINAL THOUGHTS AND ANALYSIS

A few key points stand out.

Chris Carter miraculously won the trust of Fox, and maintained that trust (and an ability to be creatively liberated, by and large) until Season 8 (upper-left corner of the screenshot here.)

Carter has a perfectionistic, remembers-every-detail brain: he was, in essence, the show bible. ...Unfortunately, his memory (like anyone's) is faulty; and that began the slow, gradual collision that marked later mytharc entries.

Chris was at his best when he was hyper-focused on and passionate for the show. As Brian Lowry notes, Although some executive producers create a series and then segue in the second or this season to new projects, Carter has stated that he made a commitment to the actors to stay with the program as long as they do…. The problem became: his aspirations towards a movie franchise turned his focus away from "The X-Files"; and that, along with compounding projects (i.e. Millennium and The Lone Gunmen), further scattered his attention. By the time Season 7 rolled around, there was no mytharc, no movie franchise, and no other successful venture that was equaling the show's former height.

CC learned that 'No' is not the concluding answer in show business. Like Lowry wrote earlier: Not surprisingly, the arduous trek... has made Carter both protective of his vision and secure in his belief that he knows what’s best for it. Asked about maintaining the quality... he says, “Part of the job-- and I’ve learned this in the process-- is never accepting ‘No’ for an answer. There will be a final ‘No’ if the answer is ‘No,’, but ‘No’ is always the first answer you get, and you’ve got to make sure that the final answer you get is ‘Yes.’ That’s really the way I proceed.” To Carter, the initial 'No' often proves to be a first, but not final, hurdle (which explains his self-righteous anger at Gillian Anderson post Revival.)

Chris Carter had an idea where the show was going-- the feeling he wanted it to evoke, the journey he wanted to take himself and others on-- but not the important markings along the way. Mulder and Scully were created to have unspoken chemistry (we'll get to that), Scully was coded to have a maternal interest (we'll get to that), and Mulder and Scully's final coming together (a kiss) was planned for the last scene of the series.

CC planned MSR from the beginning (post here) but on his OWN terms.

Chris thought that character exploration was "domestication"-- that exploring Mulder's life outside of work or Scully's friends or motherhood aspirations in any depth would distract from the show. Why?

Carter always envisioned Scully as someone who wants children (noting in the Pilot's script The hour closes with Mulder calling Scully after the evidence relating to their case has disappeared, saying he’ll see her the next day. As the description in Carter’s original script eloquently puts it, “...there’s no doubt from the unsettled tone in her voice that it is much more than work. It will become the defining event of her life. Nothing that comes now-- religion, motherhood, anything-- will not pass through the filter of this experience"; and bringing back her interest in "a normal life" and families and dogs repeatedly throughout the show, i.e. [The Jersey Devil] subplot shows Scully trying to balance having some semblance of a personal life against the dedication (bordering on obsession) that Mulder has toward his work. She meets with a married friend, Ellen, who has a child and asks her if Mulder is someone with whom Scully might get romantically involved. Though she does go on a date, Scully opts to pursue cases with Mulder instead of that path. The purpose of those scenes, Carter says, was “to show the life she’s passing on. I just wanted to open up Scully a little bit for the audience.”)

However, he envisioned that "domestication" in the same realm as her and Mulder's romance: a hypothetical, post-series conclusion-- the happy ending as both leads ride away from the files and into the sunset. "The X-Files", to him, does not coincide with "domestication"-- therefore, Mulder and Scully must be free of it in order to have their happy ending.

However, again: CC is easily distracted.

These are my four key takeaways:

Chris Carter consciously linked Mulder and Scully as a couple from the start-- giving him a transitional goal (finding his sister) and her an end goal (settling down and enjoying a "normal" life) for their journey. He tied up the possibility of a relationship and the conclusion of their hopes in the files-- which were to take precedent over the accomplishment of each character's aspirations-- and used "the work" as the vehicle (and sole focus) to "reach" those "happy endings". In effect, the show is wired around "the truth" because it is the ultimate tease: we are teased about Mulder and Scully's relationship, we are teased about Samantha's return, we are teased about Scully's hopes to be a mother, and we are teased about a resolved mytharc and final ending.

Chris Carter is easily distracted from his own vision. He'll try anything once, then backtrack to his original "vibe". He remembers how he felt, as a boy, watching "The Night Stalker", but not the details of how bad the plot sometimes was. He remembers that Mulder and Scully became partners in the rain, that Mulder lost a sister, that Scully was abducted and returned; but not that Samantha's abduction story changed, not that you can't give Scully a daughter on a show that eschews domestication, and not that Mulder and Scully can't kiss until the last episode of his show (especially when his crew tempts him to have a big, grand, once-in-a-century kiss on-screen.) He then projects that distraction onto others, and scolds those others for bringing up abandoned plot threads and character arc trails.

Chris Carter doesn't believe in anyone-- he quite literally trusts no one-- not their praise, and not their "no". So many times in Hollywood, 'No' is the default until backs are scratched and concessions made; and when Gillian Anderson said "No" after Season 10, then changed her mind and did Season 11, he saw that as just another stepping stone to a "Yes" after Season 11. She had, many times, changed her mind in the past-- signing on for Season 9 after his wheedling, for example-- and he (assumed (wrongfully) that this would be exactly like other "No"s. When GA publicly flamed his finale episode, that shocked, angered, and mortified him, because--

Chris Carter is chronically afraid of failure. As he says: “Everything else I do past this is a big question mark to me. I don’t know if it’ll be a hit or miss. It’s a business of failure mostly. While I’ve got this garden growing, I want to make sure that I tend it and that it represents my best efforts." When that garden begins to fall apart (due to neglect), he panics, and rushes back to rehydrate, prune, and fertilize it. When it wilts and dies, he blames other sources-- Fox (who gave him unlimited creative freedom, within reasonable limits), the fans (who "didn't understand" his vision), and Gillian Anderson (who publicly pronounced My Struggle IV as a failure.) Anyone who forces him to face reality-- boiled down: the reality of his failures-- causes Chris to protectively lash out, blame others, and shift goal posts to distract himself from facing that fear.

CONCLUSION

It's hard to dislike the guy when you read about his sacrifices, easy nature, and complete dedication. But that history and those qualities and my charitability are, unfortunately, then consumed by Chris's most recent escapades-- a shame, that his past isn't his lasting legacy.

Still, one question remains: at what point, exactly, did CC lose interest in The X-Files?

Final note: this took an absurdly long time to type (and there are more parts still coming), so future installments won't be as... extensive. But it was important to lay the foundation, here; and so, it's been done.

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

#txf #xf meta #x files #CC #The Official Guidebook to The X-Files #Brian Lowry #DD #GA #Rob Bowman #Kim Manners #Fox executives #etc. etc.#xfiles #x-files #the x files #interview #very informative #catchin up on old news

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freshl6ve · 14 hours ago

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𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒. 𝐒 | 𝐒𝐇𝐔𝐓 𝐔𝐏 & 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄⁷

⭑.ᐟ : 𝐀𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭’𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞. I was lounging on the couch, mindlessly scrolling through my phone, when a sudden knock at the door startled me. Confused, I set my phone down and got up, walking over to the door.

I reached the door, opening it slightly to see who was there. A feeling of uneasy recognition washed over me as I saw Chris standing in the doorway, an expectant smile on his face.

I rolled my eyes and walked away from the door, already feeling annoyed by his unexpected arrival. Chris followed me in, closing the door behind him.

“Whoa whoa whoa,” he said, grabbing my wrist and stopping me in my tracks. “What’s with the sudden switch up? You were all up on me last night, what did I do, ma?”

I spun around to face him, fixing him with a serious look. “Putting your clothes on me and leaving your shit around my house is what you did,” I repeated firmly, the annoyance clear in my voice.

I crossed my arms over my chest, continuing to glare at him. “I literally got in an argument with Matt because he thought I was sleeping with you,” I added, my annoyance and defensiveness rising.

Chris looked mildly surprised at my revelation that Matt had been over. “Matt was here?” he echoed, his eyebrows raised.

I nodded, still scowling. “Yeah, he was. He wasn’t happy to see me wearing your clothes,” I retorted, the sarcasm evident in my voice.

Chris chuckled, a cocky smirk on his face. “Aw, did little Matty-boy get jealous?” he teased, clearly amused by my situation.

Chris took a step forward, his hands reaching for my waist. “Let him,” he said, his gaze locked on mine. “He’s just mad ‘cause you look better in my clothes than his, ma.”

Chris’s hands on my waist pulled me closer to him, my resolve weakening as he neared. “Stop, Chris,” I protested weakly, the proximity and his nearness making it difficult to resist him. “God, you make it so difficult…”

Chris pretended to be clueless, looking down at me with an innocent expression. “Why?” he asked, his hands still on my waist.

I let out a frustrated sigh, gathering my thoughts. “You’re a player,” I began, staring up at him. “I know I should be staying away and I know you’re nothing but trouble.”

I continued firmly, raising a finger between us. “We can’t happen,” I stated firmly, my voice determined. “And we’re never going to happen, ‘cause I’m not going to be another victim of whatever game you’re playing, Chris.”

Chris’s smirk stayed in place, not even fazed by my words. He leaned down, his face only inches away from mine.

Chris leaned down even closer, our faces almost touching. “Just remember,” he said, his voice suggestive, “you were the one who wanted to kiss me last night.”

He moved his head even closer, his breath warm against my face. “Don’t let Matt’s words get to you,” he muttered, his voice dropping to a low murmur.

I swallowed, trying to hold my ground. “Matt only wants what’s best for me,” I countered, my voice weaker than I wanted it to be.

Chris chuckled, his hands tightening their grip on my waist. “And what if what’s best for you isn’t what Matt thinks?” he asked, his lips hovering just above mine.

Chris pulled me even closer, his voice sultry and persuasive. “Maybe I’m what’s best for you,” he whispered, his breath hot against my skin. “And Matt’s just talking down on me so you’ll have this perspective of me as a horrible person. It’s true I’m far from perfect, but everyone’s got a story and reasons behind it, don’t they?”

Chris’s tone turned softer, less teasing. His hands loosened their grip on my waist, still holding me close but with a gentler touch.

“I wasn’t always like this,” he murmured, his gaze never leaving mine. “People can change you, ma. I’m not the same person I was five years ago, or even a year ago. And maybe… just maybe you can change me too.”

Chris moved his mouth from my ear down to my neck, his breath hot against my skin. “Just drop the hard act and live a little,” he murmured, his lips brushing against my sensitive flesh.

“There’s nothing wrong with having a little fun,” he continued, his voice a seductive murmur. “And I can show you a whole lot of fun, ma…”

Despite my better judgment, I found myself melting under his touches, his words both tempting and dangerous.

“Chris…” I protested weakly, my resolve weakening as his lips continued their path along my neck.

Chris’s lips continued their path down my neck, his words a husky murmur against my skin. “Matt doesn’t have to know,” he whispered, his voice low and sultry. “It’ll be our secret, ma.”

His mouth moved down my neck to just under my jawline, his kisses gentle yet persuasive.

“You’re a big girl who can choose her own decisions without someone else making them for you,” he murmured between kisses. “So decide wisely.”

As Chris continued his trail of kisses down my neck, my thoughts began to spin, a mix of desire and guilt flooding my mind. I knew that I was about to make a decision that could have serious consequences, and yet… I couldn’t bring myself to push him away.

I thought to myself, This is my decision. Whatever happens from here is on me. I own it all. Not Matt, not Chris… Me.

The realization of my own agency hit me even harder, and any last trace of resistance faded. I knew what I was about to do was risky, and there were definitely going to be consequences, but at that moment… I didn’t care.

I raised a hand, my fingers tangling gently into the soft strands of Chris’s hair. Not pulling him away, but instead holding him closer, surrendering to the moment and my own impulses.

I tilted my head slightly to the side, granting him more access to my neck. Chris chuckled against my skin, his breath hot and heavy.

“There you go,” he crooned, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “Let yourself go, ma. I’ve got you.”

His hands gripped me tighter, his mouth now trailing over my collarbone. I gasped softly, my fingers clenching his hair as my body arched against his.

My mind was reeling, caught between the heady rush of desire and the cold reality of what I was doing. But in the heat of the moment, it was difficult to think clearly.

Chris’s mouth continued kissing, the sensitive skin there responding to his every touch. His hands roamed over my sides, up my back, and down to my hips, their grip firm yet gentle.

“Don’t think,” he murmured against my skin, picking up on my internal struggle. “Just feel, ma.”

His hands moved from my hips to my chin, gently tilting my face up to meet his.

Our eyes locked for a brief moment, both of us seeming to hesitate. But then Chris leaned in, his lips descending on mine in a slow, deliberate kiss.

Fuck it felt wrong, and yet so right at the same time. I found myself melting into it, my body responding to his even as my mind screamed that this wasn’t supposed to happen. I was supposed to hate him, to resist him, to not fall for this.

Yet here I was, returning his kiss, my body quivering under his hands as the guilt and pleasure warred within me.

Chris’s lips left mine, moving down to the opposite side of my neck. At the same time, one of his hands moved to the back of my head, his fingers tangling into my hair as he pulled my head to the side to give him better access.

The combination of his mouth on my neck and the slight sting of my hair being pulled made me gasp, a moan escaping my lips despite my best efforts to hold it in.

Chris chuckled against my skin, his free hand gripping my hip. “That’s good, ma. Let me hear you.”

He gave my hair another gentle tug, his lips continuing their path down my neck. I couldn’t help but let out another soft moan, this time louder and more desperate than the last.

As the moans escaped from my lips, a sudden realization hit me like a bucket of cold water. This wasn’t right, I couldn’t keep doing this.

“I can’t,” I gasped, pushing weakly at his chest. “I can’t, Chris. We can’t do this. I can’t…” I repeated, my voice quivered with both desire and fear.

Chris paused, his lips leaving my neck as he looked down at me with a mixture of surprise and understanding. He didn’t fight my hands as they pushed at his chest, instead taking a small step back, giving me a bit of space.

But he didn’t go far, his intense gaze never leaving mines. “Why not?” he asked, his voice a soft murmur. “Is it cause of Matt?”

My gaze held his, my voice firm despite the conflicting feelings surging within me. “No. It’s got nothing to do with Matt right now,” I answered, my hands still pressed against his chest. “This is a bad idea, and we both know it.”

Chris just watched me silently, his hands now at his sides. But his gaze was intense still, those blue eyes holding mine trapped. After a moment, he spoke, his voice a deep murmur. “Why is it a bad idea?” he asked, his tone curious and sincere. “What makes it so wrong?”

My voice grew quieter, the fear and uncertainty evident in it. “Because I don’t want to be another trophy to you,” I confessed, my words barely above a whisper. “And I don’t know where you’ll be in the morning, or who you’ll be with… and I can’t… I can’t handle that.”

Chris just looked at me, his expression unreadable. I could see the wheels turning in his head, processing my words. After a moment, he took a small step forward, closing the distance between us again.

“So you’re just going to assume the worst?” he asked quietly. “That I’ll just toss you aside like a piece of trash?”

I bit my lip, a mixture of shame, fear, and disappointment flooding through me. “Can you blame me?” I responded, my voice shaking. “You’re not exactly known for sticking around long-term, Chris. You don’t even remember half the girls you’ve slept with. How am I supposed to believe I’ll be any different?”

Chris’s gaze stayed locked on mine, his expression hardening, almost defensive. He slowly pulled back from me, his hands moving to his pockets.

He was quiet for a moment, before a bitter chuckle escaped his lips. “You’re just always gonna see the bad side of me, huh?” he muttered, his tone a mixture of hurt and annoyance. “You’ll never believe that I might want to change, will you?”

I felt a pang of guilt and sadness in my chest, the truth of his words stinging. “Chris, I do believe that you want to change,” I said quietly. “But you can’t blame me for being hesitant. You have a track record, and I’m sorry, but that’s not exactly easy to forget.”

He gave a harsh laugh, bitterness lacing his words. “Right, right. My track record. Always gotta bring it back to that, don’t you?” He took another step away from me, clearly hurt and frustrated by the direction this conversation was going.

I took a deep breath, gathering my thoughts. “You know how I feel about people like you,” I said, my voice firm yet soft. “You did this yourself, Chris. You can’t be upset at me when I push you away, when I’m scared of being hurt.”

Chris’s expression darkened, frustration and anger mingling in his gaze. “Then stop letting fear get in the way of what you want, for once in your life,” he spat, his voice edged with annoyance. “God, you just let what Matt says get to your head too much. Don’t you have a mind of your own?”

I turned away from Chris and walked over to the coffee table, picking up his hat and jersey from it. The anger and hurt fueling me, I walked back over to him and shoved them against his chest.

“Here, take your shit and go” I said, my voice cold and hard.

His expression darkened even further as he took the hat and jersey from me, gripping them tightly in his hands.

“So that’s it, huh?” he said, his tone a mix of anger and resignation. “You’re just going to push me away again? Ignore your own feelings because you’re too scared to give in to them?”

I felt a pang in my chest as the words left my lips, but I had to do it. I had to shut him out, push him away before he had a chance to break me.

“Just go, Chris,” I said, my voice firm though the sadness was edging through. “I can’t do this right now. Just go.”

Chris just nodded in response, a bitter smile on his face. He turned and walked towards the door, his footsteps echoing heavily in the silent room.

As he reached the door, he paused, glancing back at me one last time. “You know where to find me if you want a quick fuck,” he muttered, his voice hard and bitter.

“Fuck you!” I spat, anger and hurt bubbling over. “Just leave, get the hell out of here!”

He paused, a mix of anger and hurt flickering across his features, but he said nothing else. He opened the door and was gone, his absence leaving a cold void in the room.

I felt the anger and pain wash over, the reality of what just happened crashing down on me like a tidal wave. I walked over and sank down onto the couch, burying my head in my hands and cursing myself for letting things get this way.

The silence in the room was almost deafening, the only sound being the clock ticking away the seconds in the corner. I felt a mix of emotions swirling in my chest—anger, hurt, disappointment, and guilt.

“God dammit,” I muttered to myself, clenching my fists in frustration. “What have I done?”

As I sat in the silence, the memory of last night came flooding back. The way he had listened to me, how kind and caring he'd been, even as I was telling him about the worst moment of my life.

I felt a pang of guilt as I realized that I might have been too quick to judge him, that maybe I'd let my fears and insecurities get the better of me. Maybe this time, he was telling the truth.

But the damage was already done, and now maybe Chris wanted nothing to do with me ever again.

TAGS: @st6rify @jetaimevous @certifiedstarrr @slvtf0rchr1s @l3sbiancvnt @wh0remikasas @r0s3luvr @emely9274 @mimiluvzpicklez @courta13 @talia-unknown @ivysturnss

── .✦ MASTER—LIST ⭑𓂃

#★┊[𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒.𝐒] .ᐟ 🦌₊˚⊹#₊ 𖦹﹕𝐒𝐇𝐔𝐓 𝐔𝐏 & 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄 ₊˚꒰🏁꒱‧#chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo triplets #chris sturiolo fanfic #chris sturniolo x reader #chris x y/n #chris x you #chris x reader #freshl6ve #street racing au #street racing

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crackedpumpkin · 2 days ago

Text

All Too Human (04)

taglist: @chennqingg @theblindhag @elysiuansstuff @professionalrodent @mikadough @jenniferontheblock @blackparacosm @goth-detectives365 @crystalbeetle888 @filiswingman @beescomet

a/n: if anyone would like to be removed or added to the taglist, do let me know!

| 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 | 𝗻𝗲𝘅𝘁 |

You can’t remember the last time you said ‘I love you’ to your parents. Their faces are blurry in your dream, stuck in a time when you’d stormed out of the house after a heated argument about your future.

The whole idea that blood is thicker than water has always made no sense to you. Just because they made you doesn't mean they know what's best for you.

It's like watching an old movie, an out-of-body experience as you see your past self storm out the door with a packed suitcase and bag, plane tickets to another country already purchased and transportation arranged .

The door slams shut behind your past self. You silently watch the tears roll down her cheeks before gripping the handle of her luggage with a newfound intensity. Mom always said that you inherited your temper from your dad, but you never really understood what she meant until now.

Defiance and fear swirl within her gaze, each footstep away from the front door growing heavier.

Shards of grief that you’ve pushed down a long time ago begin to resurface, slicing your heart and leaving raw, open wounds in their wake. The scene shifts to a later memory — when you’d first got lost in a country after leaving your home, crying alone at a bus stop.

During this moment, a pickpocket had taken your phone, your lifeline. Everything was gone: personal info, bank cards, even your one contact back home. You watch your past self wipe her eyes and wander to a nearby phone booth.

She picks up the receiver, fumbles for a coin, and dials by muscle memory. The rings echo across the line until, finally, a familiar voice breaks through.

“Hello?”

A strangled sob escapes from your lips as you watch your past self, silent and staring blankly at the phone pressed to her ear. You’re the one sinking to the floor, as if the weight of it all has finally buckled your knees, tears streaming down as if a dam has burst. "Mom," you whisper hoarsely, feeling the words break free, “Mom, it’s me.”

It’s been so long since you last heard her voice, almost long enough to have forgotten its warmth. But that same warmth brings about a chill, knowing that she can’t hear you.

Pain blooms in your knees as they scrape against the ground, but the blood goes unnoticed. “Mom, I miss you. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I want to come home.” Your words tumble out in broken fragments, your chest heaving, breaths shallow between each shaky sentence. "I’m sorry I let you down, I’m sorry I left. I miss Dad. I miss home.”

Your past self remains motionless, a shadow oblivious of your pleas. But here, reliving it, you feel the words ripple through your body, pulling raw grief and regret to the surface. The ache has never left; it’s only buried itself deeper.

“Hello? Must be a spam call,” you hear her mumble to someone else before a click in the line signals that she’s hung up. Your past self remains there, tears forming in the corners of her eyes but her pride refusing to let them flow.

Then, the scene shifts once more.

You’re in San Francisco now, a brand new apartment a friend of yours had let you stay in. She’d been gracious enough to lower the rent, though it’s still pretty expensive given that you’re only working part time in a bar and at the community pool.

Picking yourself off the ground, you wipe away the tear streaks on your face through the sniffles. Feeling your breathing calm somewhat, you watch on as your past self lays on the floor with a smile, blissfully unaware of the future that awaits her.

Then the world spins.

Inhaling sharply as your eyes snap open, you’re met with the worried faces of Bilbo, Fili, and Kili hunched over you. Your body jerks up with a choked cough, water spilling from your mouth and into the water below.

Throat burning and eyes watery, you assess the situation. The riverbank, with no orcs in sight. Just as relief hits you, so does the pain with full force. A soundless gasp pushes past your lips as your fingers clench into fists.

You’re almost afraid to look.

However, you force yourself to angle your head down, and your gaze falls on the arrowhead still lodged deep in your thigh. The metal tip glints darkly, surrounded by a ring of torn fabric and smeared blood.

Crimson trickles from the wound, pooling around the shaft and soaking into your clothes, each heartbeat sending another wave of fresh blood spilling over your skin. The area throbs, a pulsing agony that radiates up your leg, making it difficult to keep from crying out.

Your breath catches, eyes darting to Kili, who grips your shoulder firmly, his face drawn tight with worry. “It’ll be alright,” he says, though his voice wavers just slightly, betraying his own anxiety. His hand hovers near the arrow, uncertain, clearly torn between wanting to help and knowing that removing it now could make things worse.

Bilbo’s face pales as he watches the blood seep steadily from your leg, and Fili clenches his jaw, casting nervous glances between the wound and his brother. The pain sharpens, and a tremor runs through you as the realisation sinks in. You’re hurt, badly. Moving seems impossible, yet the urge to press on gnaws at you.

“We must leave now.” Bilbo’s worried eyes turn into a glare that’s aimed at Thorin from the announcement he makes.

“Thorin, she’s injured!” He protests, stepping forward in a protective stance. “She can barely move, and you’re here in one piece thanks to her!”

Your lips part in a murmur. “That’s sweet.” The hobbit remains firm in his posture, the leader of the group relenting.

Kili gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, his gaze steady. “I’ll carry you if I must,” he murmurs, a quiet resolve in his voice.

“Two minutes. Bind the wound and prepare to leave in two minutes.” Bilbo’s shoulders relax, moving to stand near you. He’s too kind for his own good, and that bull-headed dwarf Thorin could learn a thing or two from him. What a bastard, truly.

Maybe he’s a Taurus.

But as much as you want to cry like a baby and just writhe in pain, you can’t die now.

“I need a knife,” the plea barely makes it past your lips, Bilbo fumbling around briefly before handing you his own blade. Unsheathing it, you muster all the strength in your body to cut through the fabric, revealing bare skin that’s been torn open.

Blackened veins spider around the wound’s edges. Poison, you realise with dread. “Stay still lass,” Balin pushes past the brothers to the forefront, grabbing the closest arm and pulling it to you. Unfortunately, it happens to belong to Fili, who officially becomes your stress ball replacement.

“I’ve got you,” he says, bracing himself as Balin’s steady hands close around the arrow’s shaft. Balin glances from the arrowhead to your teary eyes, muttering, “On the count of three. One—”

He yanks the arrowhead out in one swift motion. A pained scream rips from your chest, and your face buries into Fili’s arm as the agony sears through you, leaving you breathless. The arrow clatters to the ground, stained in crimson, and blood flows freely from the puncture in your thigh.

Your breath comes in shallow, shuddering gasps, and for a few moments, you simply let yourself cry. Each sob rakes through your body, as though it might somehow release the pain.

When you finally manage to draw in a shaky breath, the metallic taste of blood taints your tongue. Forcing down a swallow, you squeeze your eyes shut one last time before mentally putting on your big girl pants.

Patching up the wound before it bleeds any more comes first, but your frantic gaze finds no bandages or supplies around you, nothing even close to resembling gauze. Once again, you’re left with the bitter reminder that you’re in another world with none of the resources you’d grown so used to.

Desperation sharpens as you glance back and forth from Balin’s empty hands to Bilbo’s wince. The river washed away anything you might have used, and the rest of the group definitely lacked anything to do with medical supplies.

Swallowing the bile rising in your throat, you look down at your soaked tunic. It’s waterlogged and bloodstained, but it’s all you have. With a grim determination, you slip your arms out of it, leaving you bare with only a bound cloth around your chest, shivering slightly in the cool air.

As you pull off your soaked tunic, the dwarves go silent, their gazes averted — mostly. Fili’s eyes linger a little too long, clearly caught between worry and curiosity at seeing you in just your undergarb.

But before he can get too distracted, a firm nudge from Kili snaps him out of it, his brother throwing him a hard, narrow-eyed glare. The unspoken signal is clear, and with an apologetic cough, Fili looks away, his cheeks turning the slightest shade darker.

Meanwhile, Kili’s focus remains locked on your face, searching for any sign of your discomfort beyond the pain before you hear a loud thwack, Balin having smacked the side of his head and forcing him to turn his back as well.

Amusement darts through you in the haze of pain for a mere moment, catching the reddened tips of his ears. With no other option, you set to work, cutting the tunic into strips and winding each piece tightly around your leg.

Unfortunately, most of your strength is spent. Your left arm falls down, numb beyond belief. Everything in you is screaming to not ask for help, to not be a burden any more than you already are. But without someone to assist in bounding your leg, you’d bleed out and die.

“Kili.” The dwarf in question turns, eyes widening when he sees the helpless look in your eyes. “Please,” you croak, gesturing to the remaining material barely clinging to the skin of your thigh.

He’s instantly by your side, his hands getting to work as he binds up your leg using the same method you’d taught to him back in the dungeons. Gritted teeth don't hold back the sharp inhales at each jolt of pain he can feel.

In an attempt to distract yourself, you cast your gaze up to the clear blue sky. It helps somewhat, blinking away the involuntary tears that form. Once his movements cease, you look back down and meet his eyes briefly.

A flicker of admiration sits in his irises, mingled with worry and guilt. Your breath hitches for a split second before you both look away. “It’s done,” he announces with a shake of his head. He glances around at the company, scanning each dwarf quickly as you tug whatever’s left of your tunic back on.

There’s no spare fabric left from the packs, and most of their clothes are just as worn and torn from the escape. Watching him pause and his jaw tense as he makes a decision, you’re caught off guard when he reaches for his own tunic.

Without hesitation, Kili slips his knife from his belt and cuts a length of cloth from its bottom. The tear leaves his shirt a bit shorter than usual, but he hardly notices. “Hold on now,” he murmurs gently, inching closer to you.

The makeshift covering he’s prepared in his hands is soft, but sturdy enough to offer a thin layer to protect your modesty. "Like you said,” his voice warm but still teasing, “we should still take care of ourselves when injured.”

Your voice dies in your throat as he leans down, wrapping the cut fabric around the exposed skin between the bottom of your now torn tunic (or makeshift crop top, you silently dub), and the top of your pants.

His fingers work deftly but carefully, tightening the bandage with an ease that belies the tension in his jaw as he tries not to look too closely at the scrape and blood pooling around your thigh.

You’re pretty sure your brain’s short-circuited now, forgetting how to breathe when his gaze meets yours once more. The ground doesn’t even feel solid under your fingertips at this point, heart turning to mush.

His gaze should be illegal, you decide. He should be in jail for the things he’s doing to my stomach right now.

The other dwarves, sensing Kili’s dedication, glance over now and then but quickly return to their tasks or their stances, giving you both the privacy the moment demands. Fili keeps his head turned but can’t resist casting a sideways look every so often, protective but still wary of intruding.

Kili pulls the bandage securely once more, his hands warm and steady. He finally lets go, resting one hand lightly against your knee for a moment as he steadies himself, catching his breath. “It should hold,” he says, his voice soft but resolute, and you can sense the relief mingled with pride beneath his words.

The pain subsides slightly with the firm bandaging, and for a moment, there’s a shared silence between you, broken only by your own slightly laboured breathing.

“You were—” Kili begins, then hesitates, a trace of his earlier admiration still in his gaze. “You held yourself well. I doubt many could do as much.”

His praise stirs something in you, though the discomfort of vulnerability lingers just beneath the surface. You’re exhausted, but his words somehow give you strength, grounding you through the pain and fatigue.

You manage a faint smile, nodding to him in silent gratitude, watching as he rises and moves back, though his eyes linger on you just a moment longer than usual. Fili coughs loudly to shatter the moment, trying his very best to ignore whatever just happened.

Don’t blame him at all, because what the fuck was that all about?

You blink. Get a grip. You’re not actually supposed to feel this way. He’s just a character. Just focus on surviving, that’s all you have to do now until you can go home.

Your fingers press against the makeshift bandage, testing it, and though the pain has dulled somewhat, each movement sends a sharp reminder throbbing through your thigh. You grit your teeth, willing yourself to focus. The pain is almost grounding, in a twisted way; keeping you alert, reminding you that you’re still here. Still needed. You won’t let it slow you down.

“I think I’ll be alright now. Why don’t we-”

The sound of a branch being split open makes the breath hitch in your throat, interrupted when you spot a man standing on a jagged rock above everyone else. His shoulder-length hair is tied back into a scraggly half-up style, an arrow notched onto his bow in expert manner.

The arrow pierced through the branch in Dwalin’s hand makes everyone else hesitate. His figure seemed familiar. Where do you know him from? Your fingertips brush against the edges of another memory partially shrouded by exhaustion, a name rings clear in your mind.

Bard. The fisherman? Or ferryman of Lake-town. Again, the details remain frustratingly out of reach, scraggly bits and pieces floating around in your head like an unsolved puzzle waiting to be pieced together. One thing’s for sure though, he’s one of the good guys.

Before you can tell the others what you know, another arrow slices through the air, knocking away a rock that Kili instinctively picked up.

“Do it again, and you’re dead.”

Okay, so maybe you might be wrong.

Fuck it, only one way to find out.

“You’re Bard, aren’t you?” you ask, voice strained as you struggle to remain composed through the dull throb of pain in your thigh. His head tilts in mild confusion when he spots you among the band of dwarves. “Of Laketown. The… guy.” You manage a faint smile, but the lingering ache distracts you from delivering anything close to poise.

Bard’s expression hardens, narrowing his eyes as he lowers his bow, though his stance remains guarded. There’s a flicker of surprise in his gaze, perhaps at the way the dwarves seem to fall into step behind you. “And what does it matter to you?”

The question lingers as you struggle to get up from the rock, pushing past the ache in your thigh. Bofur, quick to notice, moves to your side, offering a steadying hand, which you accept gratefully. Together, you hobble forward, keeping Bard in your sights.

Oin’s sceptical voice cuts in from behind. “Ye know this lad?”

“Not personally, no.” You shake your head, trying to inject some nonchalance. “But if we need to get into Laketown, he’s our best chance. We’re just some… merchants.” You direct your words at Bard, keeping your tone light despite knowing the cover is flimsy at best.

Bard’s eyes narrow further, clearly unconvinced. “Merchants.” The flatness of his voice draws a tired nod from you.

By now, he’s drifting toward a small boat nearby after deeming you a non-threat, and you press on, following with uneven steps, each one jarring your leg. Kili’s worried gaze catches yours, and he inches closer, hands poised to help if you stumble. You look away, avoiding his concern. There’s no point overanalyzing whatever tension lies between you two. At least, not now.

Balin steps forward, taking over with his usual warmth. “Aye, and I’ll wager you’ve hungry mouths of your own to feed?” As he speaks, Bofur helps you settle onto a nearby rock, and you give him a grateful smile, shifting your attention back to Bard.

Bard’s stance relaxes slightly, a touch of softness entering his expression at the mention of his family. Balin notices and pushes a bit further. “How many bairns?”

Bard sighs, pride slipping into his voice. “A boy and two girls.”

“Aye, and your wife’s a beauty, I’ll wager?” Balin continues, keeping his tone gentle, disarming.

Before Bard can respond, you blurt, “Oh no, she’s dead, actually.”

The bluntness drops like a stone into the conversation, the air growing heavy as all eyes snap to you. The dwarves freeze mid-reaction, their expressions ranging from horror to disbelief. Balin looks like he might choke on his own words, while Bard’s gaze sharpens, settling on you.

Well, shit.

You bite your lip, heat rushing to your face as you realize the weight of what you’ve just said. The ache in your thigh is messing with your focus, your usual filter unraveling with every throbbing pulse. Now your mouth is just running wild, practically begging to land you in trouble.

Bard doesn’t flinch, though his eyes narrow slightly, studying you with unnerving precision. “I suppose you’ve seen many a dead body, then?”

The question hits harder than you expect. His gaze dips to your bandaged thigh and the faint bloodstains on your clothes, a flicker of understanding sparking behind his eyes. You can’t tell if it’s pity or suspicion, and frankly, you’re not sure which would be worse.

You shake your head, feeling the rawness of his words cut through the haze. “Just my grandfathers and grandmother,” you say quietly, the vulnerability slipping through your usual guard with a hint of shame that clouds your words.

A beat passes, and Bard’s expression shifts slightly, perhaps a mix of understanding and solemnity. “Were you there when it happened?”

You shake your head again, guilt seeping into your cheeks in the form of a heated flush.

He nods slightly, turning back to his barrels. “Then you are blessed.”

There’s no malice in his tone, just the hard edge of someone who’s weathered his own losses. For a moment, you’re caught off guard by the strange gratitude his words evoke, though defensiveness lingers in your chest. You hadn’t expected him to care.

Kili’s sudden voice breaks the silence. “Please.” He takes a step forward, glancing at you before focusing on Bard. “She’s injured. She needs medicine, and we have none. You may choose not to help us, but surely you wouldn’t forsake your own kind.”

For a moment, Bard says nothing, watching Kili with a sharp, assessing look. But as the silence stretches, he finally steps into his boat, shuffling through his belongings.

A flash of doubt crosses Kili’s face, but before he can speak again, a heavy fabric lands on your head. Startled, you grab it, realising it’s a cloak. “Put it on,” Bard mutters, his voice firm. “Your tattered clothing will draw unwanted eyes.”

Relief flickers in Kili’s expression as Bard helps you into the boat — a quiet, unspoken agreement in his actions. As you settle in, you clutch the cloak around your shoulders, watching Bard closely.

Before he pushes off, you reach out and catch his sleeve, surprising even yourself. “My companions. I won’t leave without them.”

He raises an eyebrow, his expression cautious. “And what makes you so sure that it will matter to me?”

His question lingers, a subtle warning in his tone. You steel yourself, masking the tremor in your voice. “Because you don’t leave people in need. We’ll pay you — double, in fact,” you add, feeling Thorin bristle behind you. Balin gives him a firm look, urging him to stay silent.

Relief washes over you in waves when Bard pauses, assessing the state of the dwarves, and the desperation in your eyes. “Triple, and you will do exactly as I say.”

Balin seizes the opportunity by the neck, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. “Seems like we have a deal.”

— — — — — —

“So what really brings you here?” It’s difficult to answer the sudden question that Bard springs forth, fiddling with the edges of your cloak as you lean against Balin. There’s a certain familiarity in his demeanour, one that resembles that of your own father.

Hesitating, you look to Balin for approval. He nods.

“I can only speak for myself.” The words come out slower than you intend, as though admitting them makes the whole ordeal more real. “Thranduil…let's just say he didn't take well to me pointing out that he's… a few brain cells short of a functioning idiot. So he locked me up for it.” You manage a weak smile, shrugging as if you’ve come to terms with the absurdity of it all. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I just want to go home.”

You’ve lost track of the number of times you’ve made that wish, both out loud and to yourself. Maybe if I do it two hundred more times, there might be a pot of gold by the end of this rainbow, you think wryly.

Wow. I’m actually going insane, aren’t I?

“Did you run away?” Bard’s follow-up question catches you off guard. There’s a gentle curiosity in his gaze, as though he’s seen this kind of longing before.

It’s difficult to answer without seeming like an absolute lunatic seeking asylum at the mention of other worlds, so you just nod, offering a half-smile. “Guess you could say that.”

Bard chuckles lightly, a sound warmer than you expected. “I’d bet you were a handful to your own parents.”

You manage a small laugh, feeling a flicker of warmth in spite of yourself. “They might’ve mentioned that… once or twice.”

At that, Bilbo, who’s been listening in with a quiet attentiveness, speaks up with a thoughtful look. “Leaving home is no easy thing,” he says, his voice soft. “I did the same, not so long ago. Not quite running away, but… close enough.” His eyes meet yours, sympathetic and knowing. “Sometimes, what starts as a reckless idea can lead you exactly where you’re meant to be.”

You arch a brow. “Even when it means getting thrown in prison?”

Bard raises an amused brow at Bilbo, half-smiling. “This hobbit here has an odd way of putting things.”

Bilbo clears his throat, a little embarrassed but smiling anyway. “Let’s just say it doesn’t always turn out so badly.” He shifts closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “And… between us, I think Thranduil might be due for a few more words from you. For his own good, of course.”

Bard chuckles, shaking his head. “Let’s hope he doesn’t put a bounty on your heads by the time you reach Laketown.”

For a moment, the tension eases. You drift along in the heavy mist, watching the shifting shapes of stone structures emerge on either side. There’s a chill in the air that seeps through your cloak, though you find a strange comfort in the silence shared between the three of you.

Even the pain in your leg has lowered to a dull throbbing, but you know better than to simply move it. Your fingers itch for the familiarity of your phone once more, wanting nothing more than to go to a hospital and get proper medication and treatment.

But when in Rome, do as the Romans do, you suppose.

The boat rocks gently, and you glance at Bard. His hands work the tiller with practised ease, his gaze steady, navigating the inky water as though the mist doesn’t faze him at all. His silhouette is calm, almost statuesque against the ghostly outline of ancient archways rising from the lake’s surface, relics of a world much older than you can fathom.

You lean back, letting the mist curl around you, but your gaze drifts to Kili. He’s watching the ancient stone structures slip by, the flickering light from the lantern near him casting shifting shadows over his face, softening his usual sharp, playful edges.

You can still feel the tension from earlier. His hands steady against your skin, the warmth of his gaze in that unguarded moment. It’s enough to make your chest tighten all over again.

A part of you aches to reach out to him, but another part, one you can’t ignore, wonders if it’s really a good idea. You’re already more involved with him than you wanted to be, and each shared glance, each touch, seems to draw you deeper.

Oh. Oh god no.

It dawns on you with mortification, your heart sinking in your chest. You are not about to get into a situationship with him, not with your literal life at stake. You shake your head slightly, as if to clear the thought, focusing instead on the mist-laden waters and the steady, quiet pain that reverberates in your leg that anchors you to reality.

Thorin approaches, his impatient voice cutting through the silence.

“What are you trying to do? Drown us?”

Bard doesn’t even flinch, his expression calm as he turns to Thorin. “I was born and bred on these waters, Master Dwarf,” he replies smoothly. “If I wanted to drown you, I would not do it here.”

The dwarves exchange glances, and you hear Dwalin mutter darkly to the others, “I’ve had enough of this lippy lakeman. I say we drop him over the side and be done wi’ it.”

You bite back a grin at Dwalin’s suggestion, sharing an amused glance with Bilbo. Unable to hold back an exasperated roll of your eyes, he stifles a chuckle of amusement from your blunt honesty.

“We do not have to like him. We simply have to pay him ... come on now lads, turn out your pockets.” Balin instructs calmly, as if he’s used to the unfriendly attitude the rest have. You frown slightly.

“You could at least say thank you to him.”

“Of course. After you apologise for speaking about his dead wife, perhaps?” The harshness of Thorin’s reply sends a jolt of embarrassment through you, a heated flush creeping up your neck and into your cheeks.

Bard’s indifferent voice drifts over, his eyes focused on the waters ahead but still within earshot of the conversation. “She is injured and by my estimate, lost quite an amount of blood. I did not think that you would treat your companion with such unkindness, especially when she insisted on not leaving you behind.”

Kili glances between you and his uncle, conflict in his eyes. The warmth in your cheeks fade, reality sinking in as you realise that Bard has come to your defence. “I’m sorry about earlier,” you say softly, head slightly bowed in apology. “I really didn’t mean to blurt it out like that.”

“I am not worried about your bluntness, but I am curious as to how you came to know of this.”

Bard’s question lingers in the air, his voice calm but probing. You hesitate, eyes darting to the dark waters slipping by as you fumble for an explanation. “I…” you start, but the words dissolve on your tongue, weighed down by the impossibility of explaining the truth.

Everyone’s watching. Bard with mild, detached curiosity, Balin with a hint of concern, and Kili with something softer, almost protective. Thorin’s gaze, however, is more impatient for answers.

So much for thinking that he’s chill with you joining the group.

Unable to meet their eyes, you swallow, finally settling on a response, however insufficient it feels. “I can’t tell you,” you murmur, barely above a whisper. Your hands knot together in your lap, a shield against the expectant silence.

Thorin’s jaw tightens, but his expression doesn’t turn openly hostile. “You’re a mystery to us, it seems,” he says slowly, the suspicion in his voice tempered by caution. “But you've proven helpful thus far. I'll grant you that.”

But Bard’s expression softens, though his eyes remain sharp. “Everyone has secrets, Master Dwarf. Especially in times like these.” His gaze returns to you, a hint of understanding in his eyes. “I won't ask you to share anything that you're not ready to answer.”

Kili shifts beside you, his hand hovering near your arm before he quickly pulls it back, as if unsure. “She’s done more than enough,” he mutters under his breath, almost defensively.

You glance at him, surprised by the support, though it only makes the tightness in your chest more acute. His eyes hold a warmth that cuts through the tension, silently assuring you that he trusts you, even if the others don’t.

Balin clears his throat, ever the diplomat. “Aye, let’s leave things as they are. We’ve a long journey yet, and nothing to gain by second-guessing those beside us.”

Bard returns his attention to the tiller, the boat cutting through the mist as silence settles back over the group. Thorin finally looks away, though his stance remains tense, as if he’s reserving judgement until he can be certain of your intentions.

In the stillness, you sense Kili’s gaze drift back to you, his expression softened, though he quickly looks away when he catches your eye. For now, his silent support is enough.

It’s a while later before you wake up from having dozed off, finding yourself on Kili’s shoulder. Blinking away the sleep in your eyes, your hands find the edge of the boat’s seat, pushing yourself to sit upright.

His gaze is warm and slightly teasing, but there’s a flicker of something else too—a hint of hurt that surprises you. “Looks like you needed the rest.” The smile in his voice doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You give him a sheepish look. "I didn’t mean to doze off on you."

"Don’t worry about it," he replies, but there’s a hesitation, like he’s holding back. "You’re injured after all. Just let me know if you need it again."

There’s a small pause as you glance at him, feeling the familiar pull to let your guard down, to simply enjoy the warmth and kindness he offers so freely. But it’s not mine to take, you remind yourself, an unease settling in your stomach. Kili belongs with someone like Tauriel — someone from his world, with his bravery and his spirit.

Yet, here he is, looking at you with that softness in his eyes.

"Why are you always so… nice to me, Kili?" you murmur, hating how vulnerable the words sound but unable to stop yourself. "You barely know me, and you don’t… you shouldn’t have to go out of your way like this."

Kili looks at you, brows knitting in gentle confusion. "Because I want to." He pauses, voice lowering. "And you’re not as alone as you think, even if you feel that way. I can see it."

His words settle around you like a blanket, both warming and suffocating. A pang of guilt tugs at you as you look away, biting your lip. This isn’t supposed to happen. Not with him. But the thought of putting distance between you, of brushing off his kindness, hurts more than you expected.

"Well," you manage, forcing a playful smile as you steady your breathing, "maybe you’re just terrible at making new friends."

Kili chuckles softly, but there’s a question in his eyes. "Maybe. Or maybe I just see something good when it’s right in front of me." He hesitates, searching your face as though waiting for you to let him in. "Are you sure you’re alright?"

You feel your heart race at the sincerity in his question, the way he sees right through your defences. But the closer he gets, the more you realise that pushing him away now might hurt him, especially since he doesn’t understand why. "It’s nothing," you lie, hearing how hollow the words sound.

Kili watches you for a moment, his gaze lingering, as though he can sense the struggle within you. He doesn’t press you further, but his voice is softer when he speaks again. "You know, you don’t have to pretend with me. If you ever need to… talk, I’m here."

Your heart tugs painfully, and you fight the urge to reach for his hand. "Thank you, Kili," you murmur, forcing a smile that barely reaches your eyes. "I’ll keep that in mind."

He nods, his expression kind but uncertain, as though he’s trying to decipher the wall you’ve put up between you. But before he can say anything more, you turn away, pretending to be interested in the dark shapes of trees drifting by. You tell yourself that distance is for the best, that keeping him at arm’s length will prevent the hurt that’s bound to come. But dread pools in the depths of your soul, inching closer with each betrayed flutter of your heart.

A few clearing of throats and shuffling of feet draw your attention, spotting an uneasy look on Balin’s face as he counts the coins in his hands. He glances up at the dwarves around him, before turning to their leader. “There’s a wee problem ... we’re ten coins short.”

Without thinking, you instinctively reach into the cloak Bard had lent you, rummaging through the inner pockets. Your fingers graze something cold and rough, and you pull out two coins, which must have been left there by Bard himself.

With a soft hiss of pain, you manage to push yourself to your feet. Bilbo, ever attentive, quickly moves to steady you, helping you shift closer to the group. “I don’t have much, but this is all I could find.”

Balin accepts the coins with a grateful nod, his eyes softening. You silently hope Bard won’t notice that his own money has ended up among the dwarves’ funds.

But as you settle back, trying not to aggravate your injury further, the atmosphere shifts. Gloin is grumbling about the expense of this venture, but the rest of the company has fallen silent, their eyes transfixed on something in the distance. You turn, following their gaze… and the sight stops you cold.

There, looming far ahead, is the Lonely Mountain. Its peak cleaves through the morning mist, jagged yet majestic, as the first light of dawn spills over the horizon. The dwarves fall silent, captivated, reverent, their gazes fixed on their distant homeland.

You stare, awestruck yourself. For all the marvels you've encountered in your own travels, like the serene slopes of Mount Fuji, and the magnificence of the Colosseum…none of it compares. The mountain is more than a landmark; it’s a vision woven from longing and memory, a piece of lost history carved into stone and sky.

But then, like a crack through still glass, the memory hits.

So came the hot dragon breath from the north, about dusk, over the Lake... Smaug came hurtling from the North, licking the mountain-sides with flame, beating his great wings with a noise like a roaring wind... Then he settled over the town, slowly turning up the heat with fire and wrath.

A wave of nausea swells in your stomach, and you press your lips together, forcing back a gag. The image in your mind is too vivid. The flames licking at Laketown, the choking smoke, the screams. You close your eyes, clutching the edge of the boat as if grounding yourself could push the memories away.

Really? Right now? Talk about bad timing-

Beside you, Gloin silently presses a leather purse into Thorin’s hand, his voice thick and reverent. “Take it... take all of it.”

Thorin’s eyes stay fixed on the mountain, unreadable, but you sense the significance of their silence, each dwarf carrying the burden of years and losses. You breathe deeply, willing the nausea to subside, focusing on the chilled air and the steady rhythm of the boat snaking through the waters.

As you manage to steady yourself, a soft nudge from Bilbo catches your attention. His brow furrows, eyes flickering with concern as he glances between you and Bard, who’s steering with an intent gaze on the dwarves’ silent devotion. Bilbo opens his mouth to speak, but before he can voice his question, Bard interrupts, his voice firm.

“The money, quick - give it to me.” he commands, drawing you all back to the task at hand.

Maybe it’s the sight of his homeland that spurs forth the sudden distrust in Thorin’s voice, his hands gripping into fists at Bard’s urgency. “We’ll pay you when we get our provisions and not before.”

“If you value your freedom, you will do as I say. There are guards ahead.”

Turning at the loud shout that travels across the water, the memory from moments earlier fades away at the sight of a town looming out of the thinning fog. Every building and path is made of wood, the dimmed lanterns revealing dark shapes of crooked buildings and the golden glows of torchlight.

“In the barrels, if you value your lives.”

Muttered complaints and glares directed toward him go ignored. Making a move to stand up, you’re stopped by Thorin who places a heavy hand on your arm. “You will stay here. I will not have another dying before we reclaim our homeland.”

Too exhausted to argue and too numb to disagree, you sit back down. “Have you at least thought of a better disguise than a merchant?” Bard questions, sarcasm laced through his gaze. “If I were you, I’d go with mercenary.” His eyes drift down to your injury once more. “It’d explain that, at the very least.”

His advice rings true, and you nod your head in response. “Mercenary it is.”

He gestures to the back of the cloak, a silent instruction for you to flip up the hood. The material rests atop your head, shadowing your face to the dwarves in barrels behind you.

As his boat nears the town, you take in row upon row of crooked, thatched houses that balance on slumping piles. A long wooden bridge is the only connection with the shoreline a distance away.

So this is Lake-Town.

A small fleet of early morning fishermen, pulling nets in from small boats, eye your hooded figure on Bard’s boat as he passes. The boat comes to a slow stop, and you watch as he moves a few boats down with practised ease.

He stops, exchanging a nod with a couple of fishermen in a hushed conversation.

A couple of guards patrol nearby, and you hold your breath in anticipation, praying they wouldn’t notice you. Luckily, they get distracted by a noise to their right, veering sharply away from the boats and into the town.

“What’s he doing?” Dwalin’s baffled question elicits dissatisfied mumbles from the rest.

“He’s talking to a couple of fishermen,” you say, just loud enough for them to hear. Your fingers twine together in your lap, a form of prayer for steadiness. “They’re pointing at us now, and shaking hands.”

“What?!” Thorin’s outrage is prominent, Dwalin chiming in.

“He’s selling us out!”

“No, you guys!” You hiss, frustration creeping into your voice. “He’s bribing them. You all have trust issues, I swear.”

A sharp, audible inhale cuts through the rising tension, and you glance over at Bilbo. His eyes are wide, his expression unreadable at first, until they flicker to Bard. A glint of distrust forms in his gaze, sharp and fleeting when he sees him gesturing towards the barrels. For a moment, that look in Bilbo’s eyes feels like a betrayal…like you’ve been doubted, like something you thought was understood has been called into question.

You flinch, the hurt stark and unexpected, but just as quickly, you shake it off. It shouldn't matter. After all, it's nothing but words on a page, written by a stranger, long before any of this started. But even so, the sting lingers for a moment longer than you’d like.

The fishermen hand Bard baskets of freshly caught fish, and he makes his way back to the boat without spilling any. The parkour skills this guy displayed is enough for you to grow a newfound appreciation for him, a sense of awe in your eyes. Even at your best, you’d probably have tripped over and fallen face first into the murky waters.

Not probably. Definitely.

He reaches the boat and approaches the barrels, pausing when he sees you stand up with difficulty and reaching out your hands for one. He ponders for a moment before deciding that time is of the essence, and pours half a basket of fish over Dwalin’s barrel before handing you the remaining.

As you approach Kili’s barrel, the dwarf looks up at you, glancing from the basket to your sympathetic smile in mild panic. As he accepts his fate with a small sigh, you proceed to pour the rest of the fish on top of him.

You and Bard work quickly, the fishermen handing him more fish as needed. You manage to cover Balin, Oin, and Bombur who gives you a reassuring nod, though the disdain at the extreme smuggling is clear in his gaze.

“Now, you will have to be quiet. Let me handle the talking.” You sit back down, the sudden movement sending another shock of pain through you. Biting back yet another groan, you take slow, deep breaths.

His demeanour becomes watchful, shoulders tense as he steers the boat towards a canal that leads into the heart of Lake-town. Audible dwarvish grumbling from the barrels makes Bard kick at one with his foot, the boat nearing the bridge.

“Quiet - we’re approaching the toll-gate.”

A heavy iron gate blocks the canal entrance, reminding you of the pictures of mediaeval drawbridges you’d walked past in museums. A voice calls out in the gloom.

“Halt! Goods inspection, pull alongside! Papers, please!” A voice cuts through the fog as the boat drifts closer to the checkpoint. Your heart skips a beat as the lantern light sweeps over the boat, and the guard peers in. He squints for a moment, then recognition flashes across his face. “Oh, it’s you, Bard.”

The guard lifts his lantern a bit higher, casting a wary glance at your figure, cloaked and keeping to the shadows. Your grip on the fabric tightens as you try to shrink further into yourself, hoping to blend in, but the movement only draws more attention.

If you can’t see them, they can’t see you, right?

Bard nods in easy familiarity. “Morning, Percy.” He hands over a paper (maybe their version of a passport?) and you try to keep your breathing steady as Percy studies it. The guard’s eyes flicker back to you, brow furrowing with obvious curiosity. He hesitates, and your pulse quickens.

Is he going to say something?

“Anything to declare?” Percy’s gaze lands squarely on you, and you stiffen, forcing yourself not to shrink further or look away. Every instinct screams to turn and bolt, but you keep still, willing yourself invisible.

“Nothing — except that I’m cold and tired and ready for home.” Bard’s smooth answer cuts in, calm and final. The hint seems to work; Percy shrugs, his curiosity satisfied, and stamps the paper with a grin. “You and me both. There we are... all in order.”

Just as you feel the relief starting to settle in, your shoulders dropping, the paper is intercepted mid-air by a pale hand, snatched with a suddenness that makes you involuntarily flinch.

“Not so fast!”

A short man holds the document up to inspect it, his long fingers curling possessively around the edges. His small, narrowed eyes sweep over Bard and then land squarely on you.

“Consignment of empty barrels from the Woodland Realm…” he drawls, his gaze now shifting to the barrels stacked with fish. As he pauses, his lips curl in a sly smirk. “Only… they’re not empty, are they, Bard?”

Out of the corner of your eye, one of the barrels shifts ever so slightly — the one you recall Kili had climbed into. Even through the wood, you can sense the simmering frustration of the dwarves, each second in this tense exchange testing their patience.

“And who might this be?” he sneers, looking back at you.

“She’s no one of importance,” Bard replies quickly, his tone tight.

The man’s smirk broadens. “I can’t just let strangers slip past without proper inspection, can I? Pull back your hood.” His voice drips with false charm and a hint of malice, his smile stretching to reveal teeth yellowed by age and neglect.

You glance at Bard, who gives a brief nod. Reluctantly, you lower your hood, revealing your face and hair, messy from the journey. Realisation dawns on you, a name flickering in your mind: Alfrid, the gross coward from Lake-town.

Alfrid’s brows shoot up, and he steps closer, leaning in with a sickly grin that tries (and fails) to pass as charm. The look he gives you is laden with oily interest, each lingering second making your skin crawl.

Bard steps forward, his voice calm but edged with tension. “She’s with me — a mercenary from the southern lands,” he explains, keeping his tone firm and steady. “Hired to help navigate some of the more dangerous roads. Not that it’s any business of yours.”

Alfrid’s oily grin doesn’t falter, his gaze now shifting between you and Bard, calculating and clearly unconvinced. “A mercenary, is it?” he repeats, his tone mockingly sceptical. “Quite the unusual ally for a bargeman. Seems you’ve found yourself a rather… unique guard.”

You lock eyes with him, fighting to keep your face neutral, even as your heart pounds against your ribs. His gaze feels like a rotting weight, heavy and invasive, each moment dragging on longer than the last. "I go where the coin does," you say, your voice steady despite the unease coiling in your stomach. "Bard's needs matched my skills."

Alfrid’s brows arch as his grin turns sickeningly sweet. “Oh, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of… skills.” His tone is drenched in insinuation, and your stomach tightens with revulsion. From behind him, Bard’s fists clench, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he barely restrains himself.

That motherfucking BITCH-

Stomach tightening, you hold your ground, forcing yourself to meet Alfrid’s gaze without flinching. You can practically hear the dwarves behind you, the muffled, contained fury rolling off them like a tide, and just as you tense, one of the barrels shifts behind Alfrid with an audible creak. A low, strained groan follows. You instinctively stiffen, placing the voice immediately.

Kili. It has to be. You can almost feel the seething anger radiating from the barrel he’s packed in. If it weren’t for the tight walls of the barrels and the risk of giving their position away, you know they’d be out by now.

Alfrid doesn’t seem to notice — yet. He shifts slightly, distracted by the movement. His eyes flicker back to the barrels, a flash of suspicion crossing his face. "If we’re not done here," you say, forcing the words through your clenched teeth, "do know that I bill by my time. And unless you plan to pay on his behalf," you gesture with a dismissive wave to Bard, "I suggest you stop wasting it."

Alfrid’s eyes narrow, and for a brief moment, it seems like he might back off. Then his gaze slides back to you, lingering on your face with something more predatory. He tilts his head ever so slightly, and a low chuckle escapes his throat, like a rat sniffing around for something it can devour. "I do wonder, mercenary," he drawls, his voice sweet and mocking, "how much you're really worth... in coin, or otherwise."

You fight the urge to shudder at the way his gaze slides over you, not just seeing you, but almost stripping you with his eyes. The stifling atmosphere feels too thick, the air pressing down on your chest, but you force yourself to breathe through it.

Behind him, the faintest creak from the barrels sends a warning shot through your body. You glance quickly at Bard, and for the first time, you notice the barely contained rage in his eyes.

You’ve handled creeps like Alfrid before, more than your fair share of them back home after years of living alone. "It’s not like you could afford it," you scoff, leaning back with deliberate indifference, inspecting your nails like this is just another boring encounter.

But the pain that flares in your thigh sends a sharp sting through your senses, a cold sweat prickling the back of your neck. You swallow it down, giving nothing else away. “Now, are we done here?”

Playitcoolplayitcoolplayitcool-

Bard steps forward, his voice colder than before, and you can feel the weight of his presence rise behind you. "Yes, are we done here?" His words drip with authority, and as he towers over Alfrid, it's clear the situation is reaching its breaking point.

Alfrid sneers, reluctant to let you both go without one final jab. He glances from you to Bard, but the impatient tap of your knuckles against the boat makes him pause. He hesitates just long enough to dig in one last time. "Ever the people's champion, eh, Bard? ‘Protector of the common folk.’ You may have their favour now, but it won’t last. The Master has his eye on you. You would do well to remember — we know where you live."

As the gates open, Bard steps back onto the boat, pushing off. “It’s a small town, Alfrid,” he calls out, a tremor of anger in his voice, “everyone knows where everyone lives.” As the boat drifts away, you slide the hood back on in an attempt to block out the lingering stare before the gate closes behind you.

Bard navigates through the canals, drifting past alleyways filled with scattered scraps of food and animals fighting over the remaining. “Don’t pay him any mind.” You look up at Bard, who glances down briefly in an assuring manner. “He has no courage to try anything, especially around me.”

“I’ll do my best,” you reply, throat dry while you try to mentally shake off the remnants of slimy creepiness from the earlier interaction. Besides, if Alfrid pulled anything, you’d kick his balls with your good leg, or punch it if needed.

The villagers you pass by throw suspicious glances, but they immediately return to their tasks when they see who you’re with. It’s like you’re with a police officer during a parade, his assured gait warding off any threats.

So this is what main character plot armour is really like.

One of the barrels shifts again, drawing the attention of a stall owner nearby. Leaning down slightly, you use your good leg to kick its side, a pained grunt belonging to Dori making your eyes widen. “It’s not yet time,” you whisper with a sheepish smile.

“So, how does a child of Men end up in the company of dwarves? I imagine you’ve gone through the ordeal getting out of the Woodland Realm together, but loyalty being developed so quickly is almost unusual.”

His observational skills are parallel to none. A part of you hesitates, yet you decide to speak. “They’re my best bet at surviving,” you say truthfully, “sure, some are a little rough around the edges, but they’re not as bad as you think they are. They helped me, after all. Could’ve left me behind.” Your voice drops to a whisper, mild happiness tinging your words, “but they didn’t.”

The dreariness of Lake-town is hard to ignore. It’s not quite as you expected. You'd read about this place before — of its waters, its sturdy wooden bridges — but now that you’re here, it’s more of a cold, grey, intersecting web of buildings than the majestic town you had pictured.

Bard glances at you, sensing your momentary distraction. “Something on your mind?” he asks, his voice softer now, though still carrying that knowing weight.

You can’t help it. The words slip out before you realise what you’re saying. “It’s just… nothing like I pictured it. It sounded... grander, like a beacon of hope or something.” You laugh softly, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I was expecting bright lights and clean streets, maybe a place where hope is still something you can believe in.” You quickly recover, forcing a smirk. “Guess that’s the romantic in me.”

Bard raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press, though his silence speaks volumes. You regret the words as soon as they leave your mouth, hoping you haven’t revealed too much, but the damage is done.

“What did you expect?” Bard asks after a beat, his curiosity piqued. “To be honest, I’ve never thought much about how others see this place. For me, it’s just… home.” He watches you carefully, his expression unreadable, though there’s a subtle softness behind his gaze.

You hesitate, then shrug, choosing to be as guarded as possible. “I guess I thought it would be more... full of life. Like the people here were all bound together by something. But instead, it feels like everyone’s just going through the motions.”

Bard’s eyes flicker for a moment, but he says nothing, merely nodding in understanding. “Here we are,” he says, his voice breaking through your thoughts, though you barely hear him as you take in the surroundings.

The more you see, the more industrial this part of the town looks. The wooden walkways, so prevalent in the main part of Lake-town, are replaced by grimy planks and decrepit platforms, making the whole area feel more like a forgotten factory district than a place of life. The smell in the air shifts too, thick with the scent of metal, oil, and the faintest tang of decay.

It’s an eerily similar vibe to the industrial areas back home.

I guess architecture transcends worlds, you think, almost disbelievingly. The reality of Lake-town seems like a far cry from the idea you once had, but seeing how the people who live here adapted to survive, it’s a sobering thought that grounds you to this reality.

Bard’s eyes flick to you again, though this time, there’s a quiet understanding. It’s almost like he’s aware of the thoughts swirling behind your expression, but he doesn’t press, letting the weight of the moment settle between you.

The boat slows as it reaches a series of docks. There are no shops here, no people idly wandering. Just empty spaces, and the faint echo of villagers from the village marketplace. You glance back at him, but his face is unreadable. This is just another place to him, just another part of his harsh life.

RIP Bard, you would’ve loved skyscrapers and electricity.

Once the boat stops, Bard uses his foot to tip the barrels over.

Fish and indignant dwarves spill onto the deck. A singular dock worker watching on is amazed at the sight, as Bilbo and the dwarves extract fish from all parts of their clothing. Bard presses a silver coin into the dock worker’s palm.

“You didn’t see them. They were never here. The fish you can have for nothing.”

He is so fucking cool.

Casting a brief glance back at you, he deems your injury as non-critical. “Follow me,” He orders, helping you stand up and acting as your support. Before he can make another move however, a young boy runs toward the group.

“Da!” Bard’s steps slow to a halt, eyeing his son with concern. “Our house,” he says through rapid pants as he catches his breath, “it’s being watched.”

The panic in his voice is enough to make you snicker, and the look of confusion his son gives you when you giggle only makes it worse. Bard peers down at you, like he’s just realised he’s helped an idiot.

You know this scene. You’ve read it a hundred times, and it was hilarious back then, but now that you’re actually standing here, all you can feel is a deep, almost painful pity for the poor dwarves.

You turn to the group behind you, and Bilbo — bless his oblivious little heart — blinks innocently. You open your mouth, barely able to hold back another laugh.

“You guys are really not gonna like this.”

— — — — — —

The stairs creak beneath your weight, each step a battle as you grip the wooden railing like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Every breath is laboured, but you push forward, determined to make it to the top without looking completely out of breath. No way you’re letting Bard see you struggle. Not when you’ve already made a fool of yourself enough today.

“Do they even have elevators in this place?” you mutter under your breath, trying to take your mind off the ridiculous number of steps. (10. There were 10 steps.) Whoever decided to make up the standard route to any house in this town needed a serious reality check.

Finally, you reach the door, entering it quickly before Bard shuts and bolts it behind you. The sound of his children’s voices follows, lilting and full of that chaotic energy only kids have. You’d almost forgotten what it felt like to hear that kind of noise in a home, what with being in prison and all.

At least you could check that off your bucket list and Bingo for this year.

A small girl runs up to him, her face scrunching in a mix of impatience and joy. “Da! Where have you been?” she repeats, a hint of a pout tugging at her lips.

“Father! There you are,” another girl, much taller than the first, says, letting out a long breath as if she’s been holding it in forever.

And for a second, it strikes you—a simple, quiet moment of what could almost be normal.

“Sigrid, Tilda,” Bard introduces them to you, pausing to add your name like it’s something to be remembered. You barely keep a straight face—like you really need an introduction right now. You already feel like you’ve been here for a decade, getting your life threatened, nearly dying in a few places. One more person wouldn’t make much of a difference at this point.

Bard’s gaze flickers toward the window, his usual caution coming through, then turns back to his son, his voice low and steady. “Get them inside.” Bain who’d been introduced to you along the way nods, rushing down the stairs.

Sigrid’s concerned eyes fixate on the fresh patch of blood leaking through your bandage. You hadn’t realised it had started bleeding again. “I’ll get you some water,” she says brightly before hurrying off to what you guess is the kitchen.

Tilda guides you to a seat you all but collapse into, a weariness in your body that threatens to drag you back down into the depths of unconsciousness.

“Thank you.” Taking a moment to finally breathe, your adrenaline decides to take a rain check at the exact moment the scent hits. You smell them before you can see them, the all too familiar smell of ammonia and worse, drifting through the house.

And then — just as you're about to choke on your own laughter — Dwalin appears in the doorway. You don't even need to look up to know exactly who it is, the smell's that distinct. You can only imagine what their expressions look like.

Just then, you glance up and see Bilbo, still hovering at the back of the room. He points at you with a raised finger about to say something — only for him to pause. His mouth opens, then closes. A long sigh escapes him. “Yeah, I’m done with this…” he mutters under his breath, his shoulders slumping. You watch, struggling to hide the smile tugging at your lips.

He’s completely defeated. You almost feel bad for him, but the humour of it all? You really wish you could film this and get it on video.

“Well,” you manage, feigning innocence, “it’s nice to know I’m not the only one who stinks around here.”

The reaction is instant: a few groans, a couple of muttered “I-can’t-believe-this” comments, and you can’t help but laugh despite the ache in your leg. You look up at the dwarves' faces — tired, exasperated — and in that moment, you know they can't even be mad at you.

After all, you did help in their escape and get shot while doing so.

Fatigue comes in waves, eyelids starting to drift shut when it occurs to you that you’re probably still bleeding out. Still, you manage a tired wink at the group before one last exhale has you fully passed out on Bard’s chair.

#Kili x female reader #kili x female reader #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit #kili x you #kili x y/n #kili durin #kili x reader

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