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ficbrish · 2 years ago

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ME4: Aftermath Chapter 2

"Awakening" [AO3]

Rating: Explicit, 18+ only

Tags: Post-Reaper War, Destroy Ending (Mass Effect), Shepard Survives (Mass Effect), Biotic Shepard (Mass Effect), Colonist (Mass Effect), War Hero (Mass Effect), Sentinel (Mass Effect), Paragade (Mass Effect), Novel, Slow To Update, POV Alternating, Plot, Established Relationship, Queerplatonic Relationships, Eventual Relationships, Adventure & Romance, Fluff and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Found Family, Rebuilding, Reunions, Canon-Typical Violence, Dorks in Love, I Will Go Down With This Ship

[[TW/CW: Grief, pet death, hospitals, alcohol, pills, panic attacks, mentions of genitals]]

[Previous Chapter]

[All Chapters]

It was impossible to stop searching for Shepard.

Everywhere he turned, Kaidan looked for her. He felt obsessive walking through the Normandy these days.

Is this how she'd felt back then? Walking these same halls and entering these same rooms, hoping to find him; knowing it was impossible?

He’d made her feel that way. If she’d felt that way.

And then there were those six months Shepard spent all alone in that little room on Earth. That last full year of her life, and he hadn't been there. In Vancouver!

He had no excuse.

He could have been there. He even had been there, just not to see her. Well, except that one time... But words were said and they both got ugly, so that didn't count. If only he hadn't been such an ass! They had the chance to talk and truly resolve things all that time ago, had time, but he had to be so… Work had been the excuse he held onto, forced himself to stick to, as it had been in so many other situations, but he could have chosen differently. He could have!

He’d even had her in front of him a year ago; arms open, inviting him to come along on Horizon. Kaidan rejected her then too. But he still got her back! Shepard had stolen away from Cerberus just to be with him, risking everything. She'd been in his embrace and shared his bed. Just a few days. The best few days of his life. But he had to go and blame her for the Batarians after that! Left her alone with all those lives heavy on her soul...

Kaidan mentally kicked himself. He couldn’t have lost her. Not again. Especially not after he’d squandered their second and third chances. They had to find her.

They had to find her.

“Major?”

He stopped his swift, aimless pacing. It was Chakwas; she was peaking her head out of the Med-bay. He nodded in acknowledgment and made his way over.

“Javik says you smell like sadness,” she commented as the automatic doors shut behind him.

“I’ll try to contain the odor, ma’am."

“Very funny, Kaidan,” she admonished, “I’m worried about your stress. The Normandy can’t afford for you to suffer some infernal days-long migraine. Not now.”

He knew that, but the reminder stung. The journey back to Earth had been tentatively agreed on at best; something as small as two, three days of his absence could upset everything. The crew were all eager to find Shepard too, but it was just… things were different now. Uncertainty ruled.

“I’m fine,” he assured her.

“Bullshit.”

Kaidan rolled his eyes, “What? You wanna give me another check-up?”

Chakwas walked away to grab something that was tucked away in a drawer. She pulled out an old bottle of whiskey, and two glasses.

“I was thinking we’d have a drink.”

Kaidan smiled, embarrassed he'd snapped a bit and grateful for the grace she gave him, “Now you’re talking, Doc.”

He watched her give each glass a generous pour.

“In normal circumstances, I wouldn’t condone all this drinking, but…”

“These aren’t normal circumstances,�� Kaidan finished for her.

“Exactly. Just for the time being. A little sin in exchange for going to Hell and back.”

She handed him his glass, a glint in her eye defiant of the gloomy circumstances. It reminded him of Shepard. He might not be able to find her, but he saw her everywhere.

They held up their glasses, and she spoke.

“Shepard and I toasted to the end of times twice, and still here we stand. You weren’t there for those—”

You weren't there.

“And now she’s not here to toast the beginning of times with us,” she continued, “May we all meet again, and share a toast together, the first of many to come.”

They clinked their glasses, sharing a meaningful look.

“If we find her—when we find her,” Kaidan declared, “I’ll always be wherever she is. As long as she wants me around.”

“Hear, hear!” Chakwas agreed, and they threw their heads back.

* * * * * *

Wrex was worried. Shepard was asleep, always asleep.

It was hard to see her lying there unconscious like that, hooked into machines. The tubes were the worst part. They snaked in and out of her like sharp wires ready to tear her apart.

Delicate things, humans. Shepard might be Krogan, but she wasn't a krogan. She needed sleep to heal. Though, tough bastard that she was, she kept trying to wake up. The doctors had to keep increasing the medication.

There was no way he’d leave her side.

Recently, Wrex tried taking turns with Grunt, watching over her while the other rested—For a bit… before that fell brutally apart. One of those days, the one that ended up being their last, Wrex returned to find Shepard completely alone.

There had been a meatball cart outside.

A meatball cart.

Grunt left Shepard’s side because he wanted meatballs. Meatballs!

To make things worse, that day ended with Grunt getting detained for aggravated assault. Making him wait in line, and for food, was begging for homicide.

They made Grunt wait in line for food.

“Forever! It was torture!” Grunt told Wrex when he came to pick him up. “And then when I finally got my scoop of tender, sweet, juicy meatballs, some guy came and BUMPED me!”

“I don’t care!” Wrex shouted, making the Human guard shiver, “You should never leave her alone!”

“I was hungry!”

“I should leave you in there and teach you about hungry,” Wrex grumbled.

“I’m already starving! My precious meatballs—they fell to the floor!” Grunt cried miserably. Then he shook his face and growled, “That’s why I had to beat that guy up!”

“Grunt, you didn’t have to do anything! You chose to leave; you also chose to almost kill that human.”

The boy could lead a squad, but he couldn’t sit still. And Wrex couldn’t trust anyone else, not until the Normandy finally got there—if it was even coming at all.

There was absolutely no way he’d leave her room again.

Wrex watched Shepard’s chest rise and fall with the sound of the machine.

No matter what anyone said.

The tube in her throat couldn’t be comfortable. He rang for the nurses again.

“Yes, General Urdnot?” It was the Human male with the snarky voice. Wrex didn’t like him, but he was thorough.

“She still doesn’t look comfortable.”

The nurse sighed and went over to examine the patient. He checked the machines, adjusted her blankets and pillows, and triple-checked everything going in and out of her.

“She’s as comfortable as she was ten minutes ago, sir.”

“That’s not good enough. Look at her.”

“I am.”

Wrex growled but the nurse didn’t flinch.

“May I suggest something, sir?”

“What?” he snapped.

“Please get some rest.”

“I’m not resting until her crew gets here.”

“Is there any way I can help?”

“Yeah, you can get in touch with the Normandy.”

The nurse nodded and walked out of the room.

Wrex had lost track of time, but he knew it had been at least over a week since they’d found her. Messages were sent out, but they hadn’t been answered.

A few ominous datapads were stacked in the chair next to him. He knew he had to get to work and picked up the top one, sighing.

Councilor Merrit was blowing up his inbox again.

Wrex stood up, chucking the tablet aside, “Fuck this, fuck that, fuck him. No. No, no, no. NO!”

Shepard didn’t react.

“Don’t look at me like that!” he growled, even though her eyes were closed, “Merrit is an asshole. You’ll see. Hmmppff! Content enough to hide behind us, sniveling and clinging to our legs during the war—Throw my people in the front lines, and now he wants to throw them out!”

Wrex plopped back down in that uncomfortable seat. He continued to rant, “All my people want is some fucking farmland! We’re from Tuchanka; we don’t care how shitty it is. And he says, HE SAYS, ‘Do Krogan even farm?’ Like we don’t have the brains of a farmer and the bodies of an ox!”

Sitting there day after day, perpetually existing in a combination of uncertainty and boredom, Wrex was left with a lot of time to scroll through what remained of the extranet. Many things were lost in the data wipe cased by The Beam, but plenty of local information about Earth animals remained. He was learning a lot, and particularly admired these beasts called "oxen" when he'd stumbled across them.

Something beeped. A call from Bakara. Wrex rolled his eyes and accepted it.

“Come home,” she said unceremoniously. He could hear her surrounded by wailing babies in the background, but her face didn’t show it.

Home. More like the main Krogan encampment back in London where he’d left them.

“I can’t come home, honey. Shepard needs me here.”

“Urdont Wrex,” Bakara began, “You are a leader and a warrior. People depend on you.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right,” he said guiltily. “You need help with the babies.”

“No. My sisters and I can handle them ourselves. It’s the other Krogan, and these Humans. There are negotiations to be made, and females waiting to be fertilized.”

“Bakara, I already have hundreds of children at this point! Let other sires have a chance. I’m done! And I am negotiating! I’m waiting for the Alliance to come back with better terms before I sign anything.”

“Wrex…”

“Don’t ‘Wrex’ me!”

“Wreeex,” Bakara cooed musically.

“That’s not fair.”

“Wreeeeex.”

“Stop that.”

“I’m just saying your name.”

“Yeah, in that special way.”

“Won’t you please come out of that room? I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Bakara.”

“And I have practically a whole clan waiting for you to sire their children,” she started again impatiently, “I sent them to the hospital to make it easier. If you can get it all done before this evening let me know and I’ll—”

Wrex hung up. She brought them all here?

No! No more!

He got up and locked the door.

“Not like it’ll stop a horny Krogan, let alone enough to make up ‘practically a whole clan’, but a false sense of security is better than nothing. Right?” he quipped to the unconscious Shepard, desperately barricading the door with chairs.

She just laid there with her eyes shut: the machines beeping out that she was alive; the sound of her breath rasping like something wasn’t right.

* * * * * *

She had to come back.

Kaidan diligently cared for Shepard’s animals while she was… away. Someone else could’ve done it, but he wanted control. He had to make sure that she returned without a friend out of place. Every port made it harder to keep the whole crew together. But he had to. He had to keep everyone together. At least until they found her.

Or what was left of her.

It was a slow process, stopping and refueling—even with the fastest ship in the galaxy. There was a lot of room for dissent.

People were hard, pets were easier. So, he really didn’t mind. He actually kind of looked forward to it. Shepard had her fish, they were pretty. And her hamster, Kaidan Hamenko, he was cute.

Kaidan could see how she got so attached. They looked at you expectantly, sure, but all they wanted was food or attention. It was love, simply delivered.

But there was guilt too.

It came up and coated the back of his tongue when he thought about what they meant to her, how they helped. He’d left her alone in the jaws the enemy, and they’d been her little lifelines. That’s why she’d been so upset when her clone—that was a trip—had almost gotten rid of them. They didn’t take away the pain, but they made the moment brighter.

He grumbled as he pinched little Kaidan Hamenko’s teeny, floofy cheeks. He should forgive himself. Shepard had.

Truth was, he’d be kicking himself even if Shepard were with him right now. She could be standing next to him, Hamenko in her hands, smiling and talking about anything, and there’d still be that deep feeling of regret for any time spent away from her. Just to know her was to regret life without her, to ache for every lost moment. He’d spent 32 years not knowing her, and another two grieving her.

34 years is a long time to be apart. And then he had to go ahead and add a whole year. 35.

He sighed and kissed the top of the little creature’s head before securing him back in his cage. The tube of fish food was where it always was on her desk—she’d find everything the same when she came back. It would be like she’d gotten on the ship that night, and…

Kaidan smiled as he picked it up. He’d seen her hold it so many times, and could imagine the warmth of her hands.

He would make sure her animals were all happy and healthy because Shepard would come back, and when she was back he would—

Oh, no.

“No, no, no, no, no, no.”

Kaidan dashed over to the tank. One striped fish was floating at the waterline.

The tube of fish flakes dropped from his grasp and spilled onto the floor.

“Fuck!”

He bent down, gathering the fallen pile into shaking hands, careful to only pick up flakes that rested on others and leaving anything that directly touched the floor. But he didn't have to be on his knees, it was okay. Even if he threw out everything that spilled, there would still be enough. He’d miraculously been able to get more when they’d finally docked. His hands worked anyway, carefully, obsessively. They sweated and sorted, because these were the flakes she'd bought for them. She said a joke he couldn't remember as she paid. Her smile looked bright in the neon marketplace. Her red hair glowed. When she—the last she ever bought...

His breath was turning rapid and shallow.

And there it was again; his nose stuffing and his eyes filling. No crying. No more fucking crying. It never seemed to stop the moment he was alone.

Kaidan stood up and drizzled the flakes he'd saved over the top of the tank, sprinkling them as far from the dead one as he could manage. The live fish swam up to meet the bounty. He watched them as he scooped out the dead one with both hands.

Then he sat on the floor, palms held up to cradle the limp fish, forearms resting on his knees. He was surprised the eel hadn’t eaten it. It made him worry about sickness in the tank.

He wanted to get up. But his legs wouldn’t move, and his breath refused to settle.

There was just his stupid, desperate gasping and the fish that no longer did.

The noise in the room didn’t sound like his voice.

But it was.

Time passed. His head started to hurt. He needed to deal with the body in his hands.

Kaidan could hear her, Pull yourself together, Major. She’d say it kindly and with a smirk. She’d touch him and he’d feel peace.

His head was pounding. He stood up when he could.

Kaidan laid the fish out on the table and looked up at the stars. He walked into the bathroom and washed his face.

Tali also really loved Shepard’s fish.

He pulled up his omni-tool and sent her a message.

One of the Stripey guys is gone. (Kaidan)

He’d barely sent it out before he heard the responding ping.

I’ll be right there. (Tali)

He didn’t smile, but his breathing settled a little. A moment later it pinged again.

Is it cool if I bring Garrus? (Tali)

Yeah. (Kaidan)

They came up and found him sitting on the bed staring into nothing.

��Oh, Kaidan,” Tali sighed, “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” he replied.

Garrus sat next to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“I miss her too,” he told him.

“We both do,” Tali added, looking down at them.

“I know,” Kaidan thanked them.

“So where is the little guy—Oh…” Tali asked, turning around and seeing the fish on the table. She put her hands to her face.

“It’s so sad,” she said tearfully.

Kaidan’s migraine stung in his head.

“Sorry… but, do you have any water?” he asked, one eye half-shut.

Garrus and Tali looked at each other.

“I’ll get you some,” Garrus offered, getting up. Tali took his place beside Kaidan.

“You’re doing great, you know,” she said.

Kaidan chuckled weakly. The physical searing in his forehead took over for panic and heartache. It was almost a relief.

“Tali… I just collapsed on the floor over a fish.”

“Stop that. You’ve taken charge and got us all out of a bad situation. We might not know exactly how we’ll get there, but we have a destination. We have a purpose... Even if everyone doesn’t quite agree on it... You’ve done more than a lot of people could on a normal day. You’re not broken, you just have your moments of breaking. We all do.”

“That’s… thank you,” he said.

Garrus came back with some water. Kaidan drank deeply and thanked him.

Tali got up and walked over to one of Shepard’s drawers, searching for something. “Aha!” she exclaimed after a bit, holding a small object in her fingers.

“And here’s a fun pill,” she said, offering Kaidan her find, “Don’t worry, it’s for Humans. Shepard had a stash.”

“A stash?” Kaidan asked, concerned and surprised. He swallowed the pill with more water.

“From the Cerberus days. There's a secret compartment in that drawer. I know because I made it," she said proudly.

“Awaiting trial, my ass,” Garrus mused, “I always wondered if Anderson and Hackett shut her away for so long in order to get her some counseling.”

“She did tell me she had therapy while she was locked up,” Kaidan said, “but I know for a fact they didn’t hold her there just for that.”

"Shepard was well taken care of. Even if she didn't know it at the time." Tali sighed, “I wish I had mentors slash father-figures like them.”

“Garrus and I can be that,” Kaidan offered, equal parts levity and sincerity, and covered her hand with his.

She giggled, but Garrus cleared his throat and shifted his feet. Kaidan realized his error and squeezed Tali’s hand apologetically.

“Oh, right. Sorry guys. How silly of me. I can be a like a father-figure, and he can be your daddy.”

Tali howled.

Whatever that mystery pill was, it was working very fast. That or the water. He took another sip.

“I guess I deserve that,” Garrus said, doing the Turian version of blushing.

“After the ‘Hamenko’ incident? Yeah. You’re never living that down because neither am I.”

“It was almost a year ago!”

“I don’t care!”

“Tali and Joker were part of it too!” Garrus protested.

“That may be true. But it was your idea, Garrus, to set Shepard’s hamster free, and replace the cage by her note with a wildly large sex toy.”

“We had to!” Garrus exclaimed, “And we didn’t set it free, it escaped when Joker dropped it.”

“You had to?” Kaidan asked.

“Of course!” Garrus answered, exasperated, “Her note said, ‘Please take care of him. His name is Kaidan Hamenko. He’s given me a lot of joy.’ What else did you expect us to do?!”

“Uh… Not that!”

“It was based off of a couple different types of penises,” Tali explained, veering the topic with details no one asked for.

Kaidan and Garrus stopped bickering to stare at her.

“You know, Turian, Drell… there’s Human! And I think… was it Elcor? Or Volus? Maybe both… Anyway, nothing beats the Reaper version they came out with near the end of the war.”

They kept staring.

“What?” she asked.

“Reaper?” Garrus asked, ignoring her question.

“That big dark grey one with the blue glowing dots I showed you.”

Garrus nodded thoughtfully.

“This is a lot of information,” Kaidan stated.

“Life happens at you fast,” Garrus said.

There hadn't been laughter and lightness in this cabin since... and suddenly the three of them felt the shift, heard the noise of the previous moments. It made them silent again.

“So, what are we going to do about this poor little guy?” Tali asked, breaking the solemn freeze.

Kaidan gazed at it sadly.

“I’d like to give it a proper burial,” Kaidan said, “You know, but, uh, eject him into space instead of put him in the ground. You know what I mean.”

“Should we invite Liara?” Garrus asked.

“Of course,” Tali answered, already typing up the message.

They all met down in the Starboard Cargo.

Liara watched as Tali and Garrus walked forward, each with a hand on one of Kaidan’s shoulders. He held what she assumed was the fish in outstretched palms, a napkin draped over it.

“Hey Liara,” Kaidan said as they reached her. She was waiting right by the airlock.

“Hey. I’m so sorry to hear about the Stripey guy.”

They all nodded and gathered close, shoulder-to-shoulder in a little circle to pay their respects. A few words were mumbled, and they each took turns giving the napkin a little pat.

Their expressions knotted all in one big tangle, wondering how they'd eventually break the news. Wondering if they'd ever have to.

Then the limp fish was sent off flying into space.

* * * * * *

Biotics flared behind the eyes of both women. The hostility between them spilled over, blue.

“I am your superior.”

Jack cackled, “No, I’m better than you, and that’s fact.”

“No, Jack,” Miranda stated, hand on her hip, “I’m your boss. Like for your job? I’ve brought you here to inform you that—"

Jack mocked her words as she spoke, "Oh, I've brought you here to inform you."

"As I was saying, I've brought you here to inform you that I’ve been appointed the Head of Biotic Affairs & Development.”

“Bullshit!” Jack exclaimed, kicking her chair back so hard it fell over.

They were in Miranda’s new office, a swiftly built prefab placed in the middle of what was once a suburb of London—It was a crater now, made so by the impact from a Reaper beam. There was room for a desk and two chairs, and not much else.

Attitude bristled, gained form, and became sentient. It turned the walls of the windowless room into oppressors.

“And this is why I insisted on telling you privately.”

“I’m not working for you, cheerleader,” Jack sneered.

“Well, technically you already are.”

Jack began to pace around the tight space. She grunted, glowing with biotic potential.

“And there’s that charming feral quality of yours,” Miranda commented, arms crossed.

“I know why you asked me here. You brought me here to gloat!”

“Maybe a little.”

Jack smirked, “At least you’re honest.”

“That’s a surprise. Got something nice to say about me for once?”

“Call it a redeeming quality,” Jack said, smiling disingenuously.

“For me or for you?”

“Both of us, probably,” Jack shrugged, “But stop dicking around! That can’t be the only thing you wanted to tell me.”

Miranda rolled her eyes.

“Okay. You’re right. That’s not all I have to say.”

“In the middle of the night,” Jack added disapprovingly.

“In the middle of the night, yes,” Miranda grudgingly repeated.

Jack raised her eyebrows, “You know, I’m flattered, princess. Truly.”

Miranda rolled her eyes again, “You’re disgusting!”

“But you like it,” Jack teased.

“No, I don’t!” Miranda exclaimed, taking the bait. “Dammit, Jack! It’s about Shepard.”

Jack stood up straight, her voice softened, “Shepard?”

“Yeah, I think they’ve found her.”

“Is she—?”

“Yeah, she’s okay.”

Jack lit up, her energy flowering into brilliance.

Miranda was expanding too, finally having someone else to share the news with, someone who loved Shepard just as much. Her heart fluttered as if she’d just heard the news herself.

For fuck’s sake! They even started hugging—Until they realized what they were doing.

They instantly broke apart.

Miranda cleared her throat, “Would you… would you come with me? I want to be there. To help her.”

“Aren’t you the big boss now?” Jack asked, crossing her arms, “Are you asking or are you telling?”

“This isn’t exactly business as usual, but we’d have to pretend it was.”

Of course Jack was never going to hesitate when it came to Shepard—but Miranda needed something from her!

She smacked her lips and gave her a long, staring wait.

“What do ya have in mind?” she finally asked, milking it.

Miranda rolled her eyes. “I’ll be there to work with the doctors on Shepard’s recovery,” she explained, “You’ll be there with your squad rebuilding the local area. Both would be true, but you and I would also keep our eyes and ears peeled for anything suspicious. She needs people she trusts on guard while she’s vulnerable.”

“Shepard’s alone?!”

“She has Wrex and his Krogan. I don’t know if Grunt—”

“Where did they find her?”

Miranda sighed at the interruption but understood Jack’s hurry for answers.

“You’ll never believe it.”

“Try me.”

“In some pile of snow in Sweden. She’s in a hospital in the middle of nowhere.”

“Why’s she in the middle of nowhere?”

“Jack…”

“What?!”

“If you hadn’t noticed,” Miranda began, rolling her eyes, “The Reapers hit the major cities and other densely populated areas. They targeted infrastructure and important buildings like hospitals, but they left the less populated areas alone. Earth’s mom and pop hospitals are now the greatest on the planet.”

“Wooonderful,” Jack sighed, “What about the Normandy?”

“I’m not sure, but there’s reports of people who saw it leave the system before the relay exploded. I’m sure they’re okay, whoever was on board.”

“But you don’t know for sure?” Jack questioned.

Miranda smirked and shrugged, “There’s not a lot of ‘sure’ going around these days.”

* * * * * *

What we do now? The whole galaxy thrummed with that question every day.

No one had thought this far, hadn’t dared to hope there would even be a this far. And those that did, envisioned a return to before. Not whatever this was.

Nobody had thought about what victory looked like in a broken world.

“Hah!” Traynor shouted, “HAH!”

Fortunately, victory still looked the same around a poker table.

Vega grinned, proud of his pupil.

“Gloat all you want, Traynor,” Kaidan said, “It’s just a fraction of what I’ve won off you today.”

“Basic rule of survival, Alenko, don’t anger the lesbian,” she warned.

“’Alenko’, huh? I thought you were supposed to address me as ‘Major’?”

“Are you really pulling rank right now?”

“Not really,” he admitted, grinning, “but it's kinda fun to piss you off.”

“Mission accomplished then, Major,” she said, rolling her eyes and standing up to gather the rest of her winnings.

Cortez dealt the next hand.

Samantha looked at her cards and groaned.

“You’re making me regret giving Joker your coordinates,” she grumbled. Traynor was the reason Steven was with them here and not stranded by the ruins of a council estate. She said it was no big deal when they picked him up, but wouldn't stop slipping it into conversation since.

“Yeah, right! You adore me,” Cortez objected, blowing her a kiss.

“Well, now you’re just making me blush, Steve.”

Everyone’s laughter rolled across the table in a low rumble.

But Javik wasn't laughing. He was studying the fate in his hands, “I do believe I am fucked.”

Vega felt bad for the guy. This wasn’t just an unfamiliar game; it was an unfamiliar cycle.

“If I agree to step out, can I help him?” he asked the group.

“Sure, Vega," Cortez said, "We all know you’d rather quit than tell people I beat your ass.”

“Oh, I bet you’d like it if I beat your ass. Maybe I should stay in the game."

Everyone laughed except Javik who asked, “Why would he like that?”

The group went quiet. Vega cleared his throat.

“Well," he explained kindly, "because ‘beating someone’s ass’ can have a sexual meaning.”

“Yeah it can,” Kaidan and Traynor joked in unintentional unison. They smiled and leaned over the table to give each other high-fives.

“Why?” Javik asked casually, “Does it feel good?”

“Yes,” Vega answered, stifling his laugh, “It can feel good.”

Javik nodded thoughtfully.

“But like all things,” Vega continued, “It has to be done right. Let me show you how to play. Learn from a pro, Buggy!”

He stood up to move next to Javik, scooting passed Cortez and then Kaidan.

“Ow!” Kaidan complained, tangled up with Vega, “That was my foot!”

“Sorry, L2.”

“It’s like muscle-Tetris,” Cortez joked as Vega clumsily climbed passed Kaidan.

“Get a room, boys,” Traynor called out, eyes peeled on her cards, “Because I’m not leaving until I’ve robbed everyone here of everything they have or ever will have."

“Charming,” Cortez commented dryly.

“No one is gonna take anything from you,” Vega reassured Javik, settling in beside him, “Not while I’m around.”

“Thank you, Human soldier. I do not want to be robbed.”

They played on with Vega looking over Javik’s shoulder and whispering advice. The idea was that this would improve Javik's chances, but with the alien loudly asking for explanations for why he should make this or that move, Vega's expertise probably had the opposite effect. The rivalry between Traynor and Kaidan was fierce, and Javik was pushed quickly out of the game. Cortez held on for longer than anyone expected him to, and in the end clinched it all with a surprise hand.

“You cheated,” Samantha seethed.

“Yeah, accuse the dealer of cheating,” Cortez retorted sarcastically. “Word of advice, if you’re gonna lose, at least be original about it.”

“This isn’t over, shuttle boy!”

“I’m so hungry,” Kaidan interjected.

“Maybe if we get Traynor some cookies she’ll be a little less… scary,” Cortez suggested.

“Cookies?” Traynor perked up, “I would like some cookies.”

Kaidan put a hand on her shoulder, “Come on, then. Let’s get you some cookies.”

Vega and Javik remained in their seats.

“In my cycle, we would never have a game like this.”

“Cheer up, Buggy. You’ll get better with practice.”

“No, I don’t care about that. My people wouldn’t play this game because we can sense each other’s thoughts and feelings. The concept of bluffing wouldn’t exist,” Javik explained.

“Oh, so no poker faces, huh?”

“Not as you explained them.”

Vega walked over to the bar.

“I guess there’s no point hiding anything from you ever,” Vega said, pouring himself a drink.

“No, there isn’t,” Javik answered.

“Cool. You want one?” Vega asked.

“Why not?” Javik answered. Vega poured him the same drink.

“Good man,” he said, handing it over to Javik.

“So, what can you read from me?” Vega asked after they each took a sip.

“You are confident.”

“Damn right!”

“And you are sad,” Javik continued.

“Oh.”

He took another sip, “There’s guilt there too.”

“That’s impressive.”

“And yet you walk around and smile.”

“I have to,” Vega said.

“Is that a Human trait?” Javik asked.

Vega shrugged, “For some.”

Javik looked at him thoughtfully and nodded, humming as he made a decision.

“I admire you,” he told Vega.

“That makes two of us, Buggy. I admire you too.”

* * * * * *

“Where is this going?” Tali asked.

“To the Sol system. Eventually...”

“No, Garrus!”

“Kidding! Don’t hit me.”

“Oh, Mr. Vakarian,” Tali sighed dramatically, “If I was going to hit you, I’d tie you up first.”

Garrus shook his head, “Promises, promises.” Then he took both of her hands in his and kissed them.

Tali walked over to the weapons bench and hopped up on it. Garrus followed her, sauntering. He towered over her. Taking her head between his hands, he gently kissed the top of her visor.

“This is going wherever you want it to go,” he offered, his voice a tender low growl.

“For real?” Tali asked.

“For real,” he confirmed happily. He could see Tali smiling under her helmet.

He was hers, and it drove her wild.

“Can it go to the drive core again?” she asked excitedly, “I liked the way it vibrates.”

She pulled him closer until they were tightly chest to chest.

“Only if you’re nice,” Garrus teased, “and if I recall… you haven’t been that nice.”

“Oh, because I beat you in poker the other night?”

“No. I’m an adult,” Garrus said, “This is because of the night after that when you lost at strip poker and made me take off my clothes!”

“Garrus, I’m a Quarian. I would have died!”

“Then what were you doing playing strip poker!?”

“I’m not having this argument again,” she said obstinately.

Garrus held up his arms in mock defeat and walked backwards out of the room, “Then you’re not having me in the engine room.”

“Bosh'tet!” Tali shouted as the doors shut. It made him smile.

He walked over to the Mess and found Kaidan and Traynor arguing about ingredients again.

“I mean, this is all coming from a bisexual. By definition you all eat anything.”

“That’s not how it works, and hey! That’s offensive.”

“You think synthetic goat cheese, dill, and bacon make a good sandwich! You, sir, are offensive.”

They stopped when Garrus came over.

“Are you done?” he asked them, standing over where they sat, “Or are you ashamed of yourselves?”

“Garrus!” Traynor greeted him sardonically, “Just the person to judge a debate on levo-food.”

“I didn’t come here for that. I’m here for Kaidan.”

“What is it, buddy?” he asked.

Garrus took a moment, shut his eyes, and said, “I need you to show me your dick.”

Traynor did a spit take.

Garrus continued, “You saw mine the other night, and… I can’t get that out of my head.”

She did another spit take.

Kaidan chuckled, “Well, when Tali put those cards on the table, I just knew I had to ride you both as hard as I could.”

Traynor couldn’t breathe.

“Bastard! You didn’t have to fuck me like that!” Garrus exclaimed, pounding his fist against his palm.

Kaidan laughed triumphantly.

“WHAT the fuck are you two talking about?”

“Tali wanted to play strip poker with us—me, Liara, and a few of the crew—and she couldn’t lose any clothes because, well,” Kaidan gestured vaguely, “So she made Garrus—”

“She didn’t make me. I volunteered.”

“Ok, so Garrus volunteered to take his clothes off for her. I don’t know if it was skill on my part, or if Tali threw the game, but let’s just say I ended up with everything and Garrus ended up with—”

“Nothing,” Garrus finished for him, then said, “Now show me your dick. It’s only fair.”

Kaidan shrugged, “Sorry, bud. I don’t make the rules.”

“It’s a Human game. You literally make the rules!” Garrus argued, “Now show me your dick!”

“I don’t know how Turians do it, but you can’t just come up to a guy while he’s eating and demand to see his dick.”

“Whoa!” Vega exclaimed, arms up, “What did I just walk into?”

“A lot,” Taynor answered, “You walked into a lot.”

“Apparently! And I’m here for it,” Vega said, sitting down and leaning back in his chair, “So, who’s sucking whose dick?”

“No one is sucking anyone’s dick,” Garrus said, “I just need Kaidan to show me his so we’re even.”

“Hello!” Vega laughed, “I missed something.”

“You missed a lot,” Traynor said.

“What’cha got there?” Vega asked Kaidan, noticing his sandwich.

“It’s goat cheese with dill and bacon.”

“Sounds good. What else?”

“That’s it,” Kaidan said, taking another bite.

“That’s it?!”

“Thank you!” Traynor exclaimed, throwing up her arms.

“Like… no lettuce? Not even oil or mayo… or any sauce?” Vega asked, scratching his head.

“Stop changing the subject!” Garrus demanded, “I’ve come to collect my debt. I don’t care when, I don’t care how, but you will show me your dick, Alenko!”

“A dick debt…” Samantha mused.

Then they all heard Liara scream. She was in her room with the door shut.

They rushed over right away, spilling out of their chairs.

“How much you wanna bet she heard us?” Kaidan joked, trying to keep his head from spinning with the worst.

“Your willie, nothing less,” Garrus growled.

The door was open before Kaidan had a chance to answer.

They saw Liara on her bed, weeping.

“What is it?” Kaidan asked, voice cracking with dread.

“They found her,” Liara managed to get out between sobs.

None of them breathed until they heard her speak again.

“She’s with Wrex,” Liara said as soon as she was able, “Shepard’s alive!”

Garrus and Kaidan ran to her. They held each other, shouting and celebrating, crying with gratitude.

Samantha gathered up Vega into a big bear hug, lifting him off his feet, “Come here, you big himbo!”

Liara, Kaidan, and Garrus were standing close, heads pressed together as they celebrated. Traynor and Vega decided to leave them alone.

“She’s alive,” Garrus said eventually, still weeping.

“I know—I knew it,” Kaidan said, joyful tears smearing his face. He was sobbing from grief’s opposite.

“So, Liara wasn’t screaming because she heard us?” Garrus' tone had adopted a manic tinge. Then he gleefully explained, “You've lost the bet. You have to show me your dick after all!”

“I didn’t actually agree, but anything you want, friend,” Kaidan consented, kissing the Turian on his battle-scared cheek.

“What?!” Liara exclaimed from between them, eyes popping.

* * * * * *

“You are fierce. You are a warrior!” Grunt roared from his knees, fists pounding against his chest.

The tiny grey-black kitten stared back at him with wide blue eyes, its little tail curling into a question mark as it loudly purred.

“Grunt, leave that cat baby alone,” Wrex admonished him.

“Kittens," Shepard informed them, "Cat babies are called kittens.” She smiled as she played weakly with a sleepy, orange one.

Wrex had been taking care of some stray cats after the war. He saw some the night after the last battle and decided to feed them because he liked the way their eyes glowed in the dark. He told her about how a group of them started hanging around, stalking him and his men. Wrex said the whole group of them together looked like stars blinking in the bushes. He saw it as an omen; he’d find her because his vision was pulled towards the stars.

He fed them faithfully, his good omens. They stuck around the Krogan camp after that, wherever it went. Wrex even had a few brought over to stay here with Shepard. His ultimate favorite, a poofy white one, had just had babies. He'd told her it was almost as exciting as the birth of his own children.

Grunt had taken them with him for the day’s visit. He knew Wrex cherished every opportunity to see them but was stuck in Shepard's room. Plus, the kittens always lifted Shep's spirits. She could get a little bleak these days.

“What happened to the Normandy?” she’d asked as soon as the doctors finally allowed her to be conscious.

“We don’t know, but we’re finding out,” Wrex informed her. His rough hand had cradled one of hers. Her grip felt weak when she'd squeezed it.

“He’ll come, Shepard,” he'd reassured her. The look on his face didn’t fill her with confidence.

“I hope he’s okay.”

She said it again now out of nowhere. She did that a lot. Not looking at either of them, she concentrated on the kitten in front of her.

When this is over, I’m going to be waiting for you. You’d better show up.

“He has to be okay,” she added.

Wrex nodded, “I’m sure he is.”

The door slammed open and that nurse Wrex didn’t like stormed in.

“You cannot have animals in here, sir. I already asked you twice, please take them out.”

Wrex growled, “I told you these are service animals.”

“These are strays!”

“You’re a stray,” Grunt threatened, getting up in his face. The grey kitten pounced on the nurse’s pant leg.

“It’s not my policy. It’s the hospital’s,” he insisted, standing firm.

“Come on. Let them stay,” Shepard pleaded, still vaguely preoccupied with the kitten on her chest.

The nurse left the room.

Wrex sighed and sat back down next to her. Things were a lot more interesting now that Shepard was awake. She couldn’t move, so she introduced him to reality tv. Wrex found those shows fascinating in a way that fascinated her. It didn’t even matter when she told him they were scripted. Wrex was convinced the things that fell out of these Humans’ mouths defied premeditation. His favorite was about colony life on Bekenstein. Too bad that place blew up. All those people were dead now. Shepard preferred the show called, “Sexily: Junk in the Trunk”, about a pawn shop owned by an Elcor sex-worker. He couldn’t understand why.

She looked up at him, smiling.

“Wrex?”

“What is it, Shepard?”

“Thank you, for being here for me. I don’t know if I can tell you how much it means,” she said, “Both of you. Really, I’d be dead.”

Wrex waved it off, “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

She looked down at the kitten, avoiding his eyes, “Please don’t feel like you have to stay here because you think you owe me.”

“Why would I—? Oh, the genophage? Stop that! Grunt and I are here because we want to be.”

“Damn right!” Grunt confirmed from the floor. He was rolling around with the grey kitten.

Shepard bolted up when there was knocking at the door. Every knock could be…

Grunt opened it and two people spilled into the room.

“Jack!? Miranda!?”

They ran over to her side, flying past Wrex. “Shepard!” they cried out together.

She held them both tight, kitten protesting loudly as it moved to the other end of her bed to get out of the way. It was almost overwhelming how much crying there was these days. The three women would have normally been embarrassed, but relief eclipsed every other feeling.

Still, every reunion was bitter to Shepard while she was waiting for news. She wasn’t ungrateful, it just…

“I’m so happy you’re both here,” she said, hushing the wish that they were someone else.

The moment they broke apart, Miranda began examining the chart by Shepard’s bed.

Jack addressed the Krogans, “Good to see you both on the other side, and not the other side.”

“What the fuck is this?” Miranda exclaimed.

“Language!” Jack teased, laughing, “I think she meant to say it’s good to see you too.”

“No, this is all wrong,” Miranda said more to herself than anyone in the room.

“What is it?” Shepard asked, suddenly nervous.

“Oh, nothing. They’re just going about treating you like… Where can I talk to someone about this?”

Wrex got a huge grin on his face. “I know exactly who you can talk to about everything,” he said gleefully, leading her outside.

Jack said hello to Grunt properly as the other two left. Shepard watched her pick him up weightlessly in an enthusiastic biotic embrace. Grunt let out the Krogan version of “Wheeee!”

“I’m so happy you made it, big guy,” Jack said happily.

“Jaaaaack!”

Shepard couldn’t help smiling. The kitten on her bed screamed in her face as it walked back up to her. Its breath smelled like tuna.

“This little guy has things to say,” she joked.

Jack came back over, “Sure, I mean he’s bound to be the speaker of his generation. Just listen to him.”

The kitten shouted again in response. It made them all laugh.

“Have you heard anything about the Normandy?” Shepard asked as their laughing quieted.

Jack pursed her lips and worried her forehead.

“I guess not,” she answered for her sadly.

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

They hung their heads, searching for something else to say. It was quiet except for the sound of Grunt playing with kittens behind them.

“So, why are you here?” Shepard asked, coming off harsh when she didn’t mean to.

“To look after you, silly.”

Someone else barged in through the door.

Shepard’s heart leapt and fell.

“Excuse me, pardon me,” said the intruder, a man in an all-white suit and greasy hair, “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Who’re you?” Grunt asked, already on the defense.

“More visitors,” Jack commented, “You’re popular.”

“I didn’t mean to just barge in. Apologies, my name is Hansen. I’m one of the new Alliance Councilors.”

He came further into the room, holding out his hand to Shepard. She didn’t want to take it.

It was moist and cold when she did.

“Pleasure to meet you!” Hansen said, shaking her hand too vigorously for comfort.

“And you,” she said, careful to hide her repulsion. He reminded her of Udina, but skeevier and not bald.

“Sorry again for interrupting. I just wanted to let you know I talked to the hospital staff. I heard they’ve been bothering you about the kittens.”

“Oh?” Shepard asked, taken aback.

“They won’t be bothering you about that anymore,” he winked.

“Thank you.”

He nodded excitedly and stood there. They all stared at him, waiting for him to turn and leave.

“Well…” Shepard began, trying to get Hansen to take the hint.

“Well,” he agreed, “We’ll be seeing a lot more of each other. Get well soon, Commander.”

He left the room, but the weird vibes he brought into it lingered behind. The friends who were eager to catch up suddenly didn’t feel like speaking.

* * * * * *

“What are you doing in here?” It was Joker’s turn to ask and startle Traynor from her thoughts. He’d found her there with a hand on the body. She tore it away at the sound of his voice.

“This is the part where I tell you how startling you are,” she joked in a strained tone.

“Only if you feel like it,” he joked, “I already know how terrifying I can be.”

She felt his eyes on the back of her neck. She didn’t turn to meet his face.

“Terrifying is a big word. It doesn’t fit you.”

He came closer, “Fits me like a loose, sweater, huh?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The hum of the eezo core fell over them like thickened silence.

Joker went to the other side of the body and took its hand. It was a possessive gesture he immediately regretted. He hadn’t touched it since she went offline.

And then Traynor had the audacity to ask, “Look, I know you… I know you were the one with—who had the special relationship with her, but… could you—would you… leave us for a bit?”

She didn’t even look him in the eye. His heart beat fast with rage.

“Sure, go ahead,” he said nonchalantly, and got up. There was no point in jealousy over a dead woman.

He looked back at her with the body once more before he left.

Traynor kept her eyes peeled on EDI, only looking up to make sure Joker had really left.

Then she resumed her work.

* * * * * *

A week or two had passed by in an instant after Jack and Miranda showed up. Still no news from the Normandy, and the only privacy she had came from lying down and pretending to be asleep. It reminded her of the Cerberus days, crying under her eyelids, hiding her gasping under the sheets.

Shepard was never alone. At least two people were always in the room with her, and as much as she loved them, it was starting to wear her down.

“Before I tell you anything, Shepard, I need you to know that I’ve made everything okay now.”

“Miiiraaanda…”

“No, listen. I need you to understand that I’ve already fixed everything, and that I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

“I’m listening…”

“I’ll also make sure you get out of here a lot sooner than they—"

“Miranda! For the love of god, tell me whatever it is already.”

Miranda took a deep breath, and said, “Someone has been sabotaging your treatment regimen.”

“WHAT?!”

“But it’s okay! I fixed everything! You’re back on everything you need, and nothing you don’t. You’re going to be okay. I’ve got you.”

Wrex roared behind them.

“I knew it! I knew something wasn’t right!”

“How could this have happened?” Grunt asked.

Wrex replied angrily, “Maybe it had something to do with meatballs!”

“Excuse me?” Jack asked, taken aback. She’d been spared that story so far.

“I wasn’t gone that long!”

“It was hours!”

“You see now why I had to beat that guy!”

“Enough!” Shepard shouted at them, “I’m so tired of hearing you two go on about the fucking meatball incident!”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Miranda interjected, “It wasn’t something someone could have done to Shepard when no one was watching. It was subtle, a misdiagnosis here and there leading to a treatment plan that was actually going to kill her over time.”

“What?!”

“Or if not kill her, paralyze her forever. Shepard, you’re fine! I already have you back on the right track. Don’t worry yourself over nothing.”

“That’s my cold, hard bitch!”

“Jack…” Miranda protested tiredly, hand to her forehead.

“Do we know who did it?” Wrex asked, “Whose head can I crush?”

“No,” Jack answered, “But the cheerleader and I are about to go follow a lead.”

“I’m not a cheerleader!”

“Don’t let me hold you back,” Shepard told them. She nodded and they knowingly nodded back. It was as good as a direct command to go right away.

“We’ll get on it,” Miranda confirmed.

Jack started walking out of the room, “Let’s go get ‘em, babe!”

Miranda followed her out, “Don’t call me that either!”

The hallways felt tight as they hurried through them. Miranda walked briskly passed Jack, taking over the lead.

“You don’t know where we’re going,” she said.

“Yeah, well, I like going first,” Jack said. Miranda rolled her eyes.

One of Jack’s students had picked up a tip that Hansen’s office should be searched. But then, anyone could have guessed that from taking one look at him.

They left the hospital to take a transport over to what had been made into offices for visiting officials. The building had been quickly converted from an old library. It was covered in burn marks, but still structurally sound. Neither of the women talked on the journey over.

Miranda had set up an office there too, so it provided the perfect cover for their mission. Check out the office, grab any relevant data, get out! All they knew from the tip was that Hansen’s computer had some files related to Cerberus. It wasn’t a strong lead, but it was all they had.

“This is it,” Miranda told Jack when they stood outside the right door. She held her ear to it, ready to turn the handle.

“Move,” Jack said.

“Give me a minute!”

“No, out of the way.”

“Jack!”

“Miranda! See? That’s how you sound. Outta my way.”

She bumped Miranda over with her hips and put her hands to her temples. Her whole head began to glow, and she closed her eyes.

“What are you doing?” Miranda asked.

Jack shushed her.

“Okay,” she said after a bit, “No one is in there, let’s go in.”

She opened the door and led the way. Miranda closed it behind them.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Something you can’t do.”

Miranda huffed but didn’t give Jack the satisfaction of follow-up questions. Despite her burning curiosity.

“Don’t make a mess!” Miranda chided as Jack started picking up and examining the contents of a shelf. “We need to leave everything exactly the way it is.”

“Not if we get enough evidence to nail this guy.”

“What? No. That’s not how anything works. Put that down!”

“Make me.”

Miranda glowered at Jack, “You are a child.”

“Better a child than a cunt,” Jack said, smiling.

“Yeah, well… you’re both. So…”

“Brilliant retort, cheerleader.”

“I told you not to call me that,” Miranda grumbled to herself, turning to examine the computer.

She sat in the desk chair and typed a code into her omni-tool. Jack stopped what she was doing to watch Miranda scan the monitor.

“What are you doing?” Jack asked her.

“Something you can’t,” Miranda smirked.

“Ha… Ha.”

Miranda’s omni-tool pinged.

“We’ve got something here.”

Jack hurried over to her side and hunched over to look at the screen with Miranda.

“Look familiar?” Jack scoffed scathingly. The hidden files they were looking at contained correspondence on Cerberus letterhead.

Miranda was skimming the text.

“Actually… yeah,” she admitted, “I peaked in on this project before I left.”

“Not that I care, but what was it about?”

“It’s an archive. Top secret stuff. I only saw it once, contained pretty much everything Cerberus knew about different topics. Things like AI and dark energy. I never got another look because the Illusive Man started to question my loyalty and revoked my access.”

“So… nothing that concerns Shepard’s shady doctors?”

“Not that I can see. Unless there’s a connection here that isn’t obvious.”

“But this is still good, right? We found something?”

“Yes, Jack,” Miranda responded impatiently. She was trying to make sense of it all.

She shouted once she read the next page, “Yes!”

“Spill.”

“He’s got the archive!” Miranda cheered.

“Download it then, and let’s get the fuck out of here!”

“The main databank isn't here, but I know where,” Miranda said, saving the data on her Omni-tool.

“Hurry up!”

“Wait! …Okay… I’ve got it!”

The door handle turned as Miranda stood up.

“Fuckballs,” Jack cursed.

* * * * * *

Kaidan sprinted through the halls, aware of only one thing; 4th floor, room 8B.

His breath was hard like the kick of his boots against the tile as he ran, closer to her with every step. Exuberant joy mounted with each second and made it all feel unreal. This wasn’t life. This couldn’t be life.

He knew this moment would come, and he didn’t. There was always that voice. That shrill cry inside him that said he’d lost her forever. The same one that wailed they’d be stranded on Pragia forever. That part of him was wrong once, and it was wrong again.

Shepard was here, and she was alive.

Liara had gotten the news once they were closer to the Local Cluster. The journey across the universe had been rough, unlike anything they were used to. No relays meant long distances in FTL. The fear of fuel running low, the weeks at high speed, and the crumbling state of the Milky Way made the couple months it took to get back feel like years. It had been a relief to the whole crew when they’d docked in the half-burnt, remote mountain town.

Kaidan didn’t stick around long enough to share in the new spirit.

3rd floor. Maybe he should’ve taken the elevator.

His chest pounded visibly as he flew up the steps. He almost tripped as he flung open the 4th floor door.

Almost there. Oh God, he was almost there.

A doctor tried to stop him, startled by the man barreling towards him, “You! Slow down!”

Kaidan, gently, flung that doctor into a wall. No one was getting in his way.

It made a large crash and a scene. No one else tried to stop him.

A large red figure, Urdnot Wrex, appeared in one of the doorways. Kaidan changed direction.

“Do you know who that is?!” Wrex shouted down the hall at the baffled staff, waving Kaidan towards him.

They practically crashed into each other, and Wrex clapped him on the shoulder as he steadied them. Kaidan nodded enthusiastically and panted hard as his hello. Wrex nodded back and ushered him into the room.

Kaidan’s eyelids felt thick, and he struggled to breathe as each inhale smashed into the next.

There she was.

That little red head stood out bright against the dull colors of thin blankets and thick machinery.

[Next Chapter]

[All Chapters]

#shenko #angst #fluff #estrella shepard #kaidan alenko #mass effect #post me3 #full fic #fshenko #kaidan x shepard #shepard x kaidan #aftermath fic #BrishFics

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luxaofhesperides · 4 months ago

Text

the beginning - danny

The Lazarus Pit brings Danny back.

The child who went into them, however, is gone forever.

Danyal al Ghul is the soul who should reside in this body. Danyal has a life still to live and Danny died ages ago, old and surrounded by loved ones, ready to spend the rest of his forever in the Infinite Realms.

Something's gone terrible wrong, he thinks rather wryly, squinting through the cold green water that surrounds him. An ache echoes through his body and he brings a hand—small, a child's hand that shouldn't belong to him— to his stomach, where he can feel a large wound slowly pull itself together.

Did I get stabbed?

He means to continue the thought, but a sharp pain hits his head, making him curl up. He gasps and air bursts from his lungs, water rushing to fill in the empty space. Danny chokes, panicking, as memories slide into place, the lives of Danyal al Ghul and Danny Fenton fighting for dominance in his head. His lungs burn, throat working futilely to push water out, but there's nothing to be done.

Danny is a child again, and just like last time, he dies young.

1. So.

Assassins.

Danny honestly can't tell if this is a step up or a step down from mad scientist parents. On the one hand: he knows they loved him, as clumsy as it was, even though they loved their work more. On the other hand: assassin cult sounds like something out of a fairy tale, and while cool, is definitely not safe for kids.

And Danny, somehow, is a child again.

This really wasn't what he expected when he woke up on the sandy bottom of the pit. He's in ghost form, which is an unpleasant shock, but at least its familiar.

He is also, if his memory as Danyal serves him correctly, nine years old.

Kinda sucks that he died so young this time round. Didn't even make it to the double digits before he was taken out of the running.

He can't remember what it was like being so small in his last life. He can't imagine how anyone would look at a child and run them through with a sword. It's a cruel world he's woken up in. It's made worse by the fact that he's alone.

At least being down here without needing to breathe is giving him valuable time to think.

Danny has lived a full life already. He didn't really need or want another one, content to be a full ghost in the Infinite Realms. But going back isn't really an option, now that he's in a new body. The kid he could have been deserves to live fully, and the least Danny can do is live that life for them.

It'll be hard, but Danny's sure he can manage a decent life for himself.

Being presumed dead will make his escape from the assassins easier, though he'll miss getting the chance to meet his new mother; assassin as she is, Danyal knows her not by her blades but by her soft lullabies and jasmine-scented hair. The loss of her child must be hurting her deeply, but it's necessary. If Danny wants any semblance of a normal life, he has to leave her behind.

Besides, he's seen enough death. He doesn't want to ever be the cause of it.

So, he needs a plan for this new life.

Step one: get out of dodge.

The rest he'll figure out on the way.

Turns out assassins weren't the most shocking thing in this new life.

No, that honor goes to superheroes.

Genuine, honest to God superheroes! With powers and everything!

To think that Danny once called himself a superhero. Ha! As if! He's nothing compared to the likes of Superman or the Flash or even Green Lantern. They're in another league. Literally. They're part of the Justice League, which has a whole slew of other heroes, and Danny is possibly their biggest fan.

Not like that's weird; most people in this world are huge fans of superheroes. Makes sense, since they're the ones who rely on their protection the most.

It does suck to know that his background belongs to that of a villain. Assassins aren't known for saving people, after all.

Part of him contemplates becoming a hero again, taking up the role of Phantom and joining the ranks of Superman. But he's had many years to come to terms with the loss of his teenage years and the bitterness that came with it. That experience, that life once lived, helps him decide each time that being a civilian is the gift this life owes him.

At thirteen, Danny lives in a foster home with six other kids. He's the oldest and has his hands full taking care of everyone else while their foster parents work three jobs between them to keep them all afloat.

When his younger siblings play superheroes, he gladly takes the role of the villain, swooping in with a blanket to kidnap away an innocent bystander that has to be rescued. He falls over dramatically at the end of each fight and praises his siblings' strength and teamwork, making them puff up with pride.

It's all fun and games so long as it only stays fun and games.

Superpowers are cool and all, but his came at the cost of his life, his health, his future. He knows, better than anyone, the price of being a hero. He knows that even Superman carries heavy losses on his shoulders, struggles under burdens no one can see.

He's lucky that the small town he ended up in—Luray, Virginia—has no heroes or villains. Too small a place to be on anyone's radar, apparently.

His classmates often complain about how they wish they could live in a big city where there's more to do, more to see, superheroes flying through the streets to protect them.

Danny is happy where he is. It's quiet, and small, and nothing like what he's used to, but it's safe.

That's all he really wants.

Here's something that stays the same no matter what world he's in: Danny is a magnet for trouble.

If the trouble stopped at bullies, everything would have been fine. Danny could handle Dash, and he could handle Justin just as easily.

But the universe loves to escalate with Danny, specifically, which is why Danny had to reveal his powers when some villain-wannabe school shooter attacked his high school.

And to think he felt bad for Jackson when he didn't make it onto the track team.

Luray does not have a meta population. They're too small to have much of a population at all, and much of it is white which made him, half-Iranian, stand out even before he threw out a barrier of ice to protect his classmates a second before the gunfire began.

"Danny?!" his seatmate, Clarrissa, cries out in alarm.

"Everyone get out the window and run for it!" he orders, "I hold him back as much as I can!"

"You can't stay here!"

"Don't worry," Danny says, offering her a tight smile. "He couldn't kill me even if he tried. Now go!"

His classmates hadn't wasted any more time, sending him shocked looks as they escaped the classroom. A glimpse of his reflection in the window revealed glowing green eyes and blue mist wafting out of his mouth.

Looks like his time in Luray is up. He hopes his foster siblings won't be too mad at him for running away.

The gunfire stops, and Danny takes his chance to leap through his ice, intangible, and tackle Jackson, easily knocking the gun away from him.

"Monster!" Jackson spits at him, and Danny laughs.

"Bold of you to say that. I'm not to one trying to kill people."

He doesn't want to hear anything else that comes out of Jackson's mouth, so he knocks the guy out with a solid hit to a pressure point on his neck. Hopefully that'll keep him down long enough for the cops to get him.

Danny stands and means to leave, but something hits the back of his head hard and he's out before he realizes what's happened.

When he wakes up, he's strapped down to a table in what is undeniably a lab, and sighs.

At least he made it to sixteen before he went into another lab. Maybe in his next life he might even get all the way up to twenty before he's pulled back down here.

4. Though he has all his powers and a ghost form, that doesn't mean he is a ghost in this life.

No, he's fully a meta, which means meta-suppressing cuffs work on him.

It's not exactly a discovery he was hoping to have while locked up in a lab, but it's what he's got, so he has to roll with it. The cuffs are heavy on his wrists and around his throat, keeping him from escaping as a group of people in masks and lab coats bustle around, ignoring him.

His head is still foggy, though likely more from the drugs than the hit he took to his head.

He doesn't bothering talking to any of them; they don't see him as human, and Danny's dealt with enough of that in his past life.

Mad scientists love to talk though, so he still hears the gist of their plans: recreating the meta gene for normal people, making a profit from selling powers, getting rich and famous from their accomplishments. They had been using Jackson to get corpses for human testing, but they got Danny instead — someone they can harvest bio material for, a much better find than a couple dead kids.

If he had the energy to rage, Danny would have killed everyone in the room already. They planned to kill his classmates just for test subjects.

He doesn't want to be an assassin, but he'd gladly lean into those old lessons to make sure they never hurt anyone again.

But the cuffs and drugs do a good job of keeping him docile, barely able to think, as they transport him around to different locations and cut him open.

He's not sure how long it's been when they ease up on the drugs a bit. It still takes time for his body to work through everything, and he comes too with a throat that's dry and a stomach that hasn't had anything in it for quite some time.

The first thing Danny does when they start asking him questions is throw up on them.

If they wanted cooperation, they should have treated him better. This is fully on them.

It makes for a convincing argument for food and water and a bathroom break, at least, so he gets what he demands and takes care of his human body under the cold gazes of three scientists.

"You guys suck," he says conversationally. "Keeping test subjects alive is like basic knowledge. No wonder y'all suck at your jobs."

"Your comments aren't needed," one of the scientists says primly. "Get up. We need to study how using your powers affects your body."

They hook a bunch of different things onto him, then lock him in a glass cage and use the cuff around his throat to send jolts of electricity through him when he doesn't do anything. He throws a chunk of ice at them, watching as it breaks apart into small pieces when it hits the glass. The scientists scribble in their notepads, and when they look at him again, he flips them off.

He gets shocked again, but it's worth it.

The process repeats for another few hours, then he's pulled out of the cage, gets an IV stuck in his arm, and drops off into drugged oblivion before he has time to start throwing hands.

It must have been months. Danny's not sure; it's hard to keep track of time when locked in isolation.

He knows he's fed at least once a day. He's been getting a tray of bland food at random times, but he's counted over 50 trays sliding through the little slot on the bottom of his cell door.

Turns out insulting scientists and their procedures is a bad idea, especially when he has the language to really bruise their egos.

So.

Isolation sucks.

But at least they don't drug him anymore!

The cuffs do their job of keeping him in place, and if he didn't have memories of another life to keep him company, he definitely would have lost his mind long ago.

There's other people in here, other metas. He's heard them screaming and begging for mercy. He's heard them go chillingly quiet. He wonders why there are so many superheroes in this world when not a single one has come to save them.

Surely at least one would notice metas disappearing and would investigate?

But no.

No one ever comes to save them.

So Danny needs to figure out a way past the cuffs, and then he can be Phantom again long enough to free the other metas and make every scientist involve pay for their crimes.

He just needs to wait.

He just needs—

When Danny wakes up, the alarms are ringing. It makes his head pound, throbbing with each piercing sound.

He stumbles up, using the wall to keep his balance, and freezes when he sees that the door to his cell is open.

…Huh.

The hallway is bathed in red light when he steps out. No one's around. He wanders around the facility, searching for answers and only finds more questions.

There are other cells, also empty. Certain rooms have blood splattered across the walls and the floor, but no bodies. Labs are destroyed, broken glass on the floor. But every room is empty.

He wanders until he finds what must be a security room. There's a strange device dangling off a keychain on a rack, and Danny eyes it curiously. He runs his fingers around the cuff on his throat, feels the little depression where the collar comes together, and takes the rounded device. If it doesn't work, then it doesn't work.

But if it does work…

The cuff pops open easily, as if it hasn't been his greatest foe these past few months.

All at once, his strength returns to him. He has forgotten what it was like to breathe easily, to feel his powers come to his call so easily, to be reassured that he can take care of himself.

It's almost like coming back to life.

He transforms, settling back into his ghost form with relief, and flies through the facility in search of any other metas that may need help. He finds no one, but he does catch a glimpse of the outside.

The sky is so blue it almost hurts to look at. Part of the facility has been blown apart; rubble surrounds the place and the surrounding forest has been flattened. It looks as though a fight has moved through the area.

Maybe a superhero did come to save them? Rude of them to leave only Danny, though.

He continues his search, poking his head into different rooms and hallways. He finds a staircase going down and follows it into the basement. More labs greet him, and the glow of computers and strange vials of liquid leave him unsettled.

There's a green glow coming around the corner than reminds him of the Lazarus Pit he flew out of, once upon a time many years ago, and that's what draws him forward.

Tucked away in that familiar glow is a small body, floating in a tube of liquid. There's an oxygen mask attached to her face, but that doesn't stop Danny from recognizing her.

"Ellie?"

Just like in one life, Danny is cloned. The difference is that this time, there's no reason for it, no insane godfather trying to recreate a version of him that will choose him.

No, this time it's from a group of scientists who should have known better, who decided to mess around with his genes, and brought his once little sister now daughter into such a cruel, dangerous world.

Danny barely remembers breaking the glass to get her out of there. He doesn't know where he found the coat to bundle her up in, flying out of the facility as fast as he could. He feels sick, knowing it's his fault that she's here now, forced into a painful, terrifying existence because he wasn't strong enough to save himself.

He's a runaway meta victim of mad science. He can't take care of her.

"I'm sorry, Ellie," he whispers to her, pressing a kiss against her head. "I'm so sorry."

She small in his arms. She barely weighs anything.

Danny blinks back tears and tries to find some place he can stop and rest, somewhere safe he can gather his thoughts and figure out his next steps.

This isn't like when he first woke up in this world, with both sets of memories.

This is Ellie.

She deserves more than just a wish and a half-baked plan for a better life.

She deserves a family that wants her, that can care for her, that can protect her. She deserves to grow up normally and not worry about destabalizing or being a replacement for him or being hunted down.

She deserves one life to be a kid and grow up safe and be whoever she wants to be.

Danny will never be able to give her that.

But maybe he can give her to someone who can.

Danyal grew up with an assassin mother and a cruel grandfather who expected far too much from a child. He was taught to kill and be more weapon than child. He was taught the world was something for him to take, to protect, to water with blood.

Danyal was meant to be the next Demon Head, and the next Bat.

Danny knows he can't go to his mother. If they're both lucky, he will never have to see her again. Knowing his luck, he's already planning explanations for why he never went back to her.

Danny's father, on the other hand…

It didn't take much to put the pieces together. The notorious Bat is Batman, Gotham's vigilante and one of the founders of the Justice League. While a child would have been left confused by the many comments his mother made about his father, it was simple enough for Danny to line them up with what he learned about the heroes of this world and realize, oh, that's my dad.

It takes a few weeks of research, using public libraries with Ellie tucked securely in a wrap to his chest, but he's able to learn more about Batman.

The most important thing being that he has kids.

Of course, none of this is officially acknowledged, but everyone knows that the Robins are his kids. Current Robin, especially, likes to remind people that he's 'the son of Batman'.

Okay. Cool.

Danny has siblings.

Awesome.

He's… not looking forward to those conversations.

At least it means more people to look after Ellie. Assuming they take her in, which Danny's really hoping for.

But it's the best he can do, so Danny sets course for Gotham and hopes that just this once, everything will work out.

Meeting the Bats of Gotham is a lot harder than he expected.

A week in the city and he's barely caught more than a glimpse of them. He can't dedicate a lot of time to tracking them down either, needing to break into grocery stores to get food for him and Ellie.

She's so quiet as a baby, and it terrifies him. She's only cried twice the entire time he's had her, and Danny spends every day begging her to hold on.

Time during the day is spent catching naps and researching common vigilante spotting areas in Gotham. He's got a map of Gotham taken from a library and has been steadily marking it up, putting stars in the best places to find a Bat. There are places all over the city, and Danny has no idea how to know which ones are the best.

The only thing he can do is wait at a different rooftop each night, clinging to Ellie, wondering if this is the last night he has with her.

On the ninth night, someone finally arrives.

"Step away from the edge," a voice demands.

Danny turns to see Robin approaching, hands held out as if to catch him. He's bigger than Danny was expecting. Which makes sense; most of the stories Danny got online are from when Robin was a kid, and it's been a few years since then. He must be a teenager now. Older, but still young.

"Robin," he manages to say, his throat tightening. It feels almost like there's a noose around it. It feels like that meta-suppressing cuff has clicked back into place, leaving him helpless.

"Step away from the edge," Robin repeats. "There is no need for this to be your last resort."

"But it is," Danny whispers.

Robin darts forward and wraps a hand around Danny's wrist, yanking him towards the center of the roof. "Why on Earth would you come up here? Surely you must have known that someone would stop you."

"Batman," he gets out. "I need to speak to Batman."

"What for?"

"I'm… I was told, once, that I'm his son."

10. Robin stares at him for a long moment.

Then he takes off his mask.

Danny knows those eyes: he sees them every time he looks in a mirror.

"Danyal," Robin breathes. "You died before I was born."

"I did. Are you…?"

"Mother told me about you."

So he has a little brother. If only he hadn't left first chance he got, he could have known his little brother, gotten away from that place before it hurt him too. Danny has made many mistakes since he arrived in this world. Missing a little brother is perhaps the worst of them.

"Mother…" Danny repeats. "She put me in the Lazarus Pit. I remember that. She didn't want me to die."

"I was born to replace you."

Just like Ellie.

So many mistakes repeating. He's never felt like more of a failure.

"Batman. Our father. He treats you well? You are safe with him?"

Robins brows furrow, but he nods, which is enough for Danny. "Yes. Of course. Isn't that why you're here now?"

"I'm not asking for me." Danny carefully, gently, unwraps Ellie. "I'm asking for her. Please, take care of her. She deserves more than I can give her. Ellie… she'd be your niece."

Robin's eyes are wide. He's frozen until Danny pushes Ellie against his chest, forcing him to lift his arms to hold her.

"Wait, what about—?"

When Robin looks up, Danny's already gone.

It's for the best.

(masterpost for all parts)

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dcxdp #dpxdc #demon brothers #dcxdp fic #the harmless series #gonna make that a full series. all posts will be part of that. heres the beginning of it all!!#reincarnation + demon brothers + baby ellie #tw human experimentation #dw there will be more #i'll have a full masterpost to add to the end of each post once i write and post the next part #which will be damian's pov and the aftermath of danny revealing himself and leaving ellie #my writing

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tenowls · 1 year ago

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teacher getou au...... wauh

#jujutsu kaisen #geto suguru #gojo satoru #itadori yuuji #kugisaki nobara #fushiguro megumi #teacher getou au #satosugu #fanart #very funny how gojo leaves both yuuji and yuuta on their first mission hssdjshjdd #i know hes technically watching but. these kids do not know anything abt jujutsu at that point and theyre also KIDS. worst teacher HKSDKSD #anyway. been trying to look for fics but haven’t been able to find one i wanna read so i was like ok I’ll do it myself #however i am not a good writer so. DRAWINGS OF RANDOM LITTLE SCENES WILL HAVE TO DO #i want a plot focused fic w a side of shipping…. blease if anyone out there has any recs #as in like. the shipping written in a way that’s relevant to the plot #i want to see the rammies explored. yknowyknow #what happened differently in the aftermath of rikos death to make getou want to be a teacher instead #how is jjk0 different without him as the main antagonist and who does kenjaku take as a host #how does shibuya play out #how are both he and gojo different as characters #having grown up into adulthood together #getou as gojo’s moral compass etc #YKNOWYKNOW #i am aware that to explore all of that would be a monster of a fic which is probably why it does not exist (to my knowledge) but #IF THERES ANY FICS OUT THERE THAT EXPLORE EVEN SOME OF IT. PLEASE SEND THEM MY WAY #EVEN A FUN LITTLE CASEFIC WHERE THEY GO ON A QUICK MISSION OR SMTH #AS LONG AS THERES PLOT #another theoretical fic i would like to read is canonverse post-shibuya but like with a plot that makes sense #jjk my favourite mediocre shounen battle manga. could be so much better. has anyone attempted this #that one post thats like im not a hater im a dismayer. thats me

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zarnzarn · 2 months ago

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Athena shoots upright as soon as her eyes fly open, gasping. She calls on her spear and slashes in a brutal curve, provoking shouts from the enemies who'd been holding her down as they back off. Bares her teeth in a snarl as she grabs the sheets off the bed to whip at the eyes of the assailants and-

Light floods into her eyes as they step away from her attack and she freezes as she remembers a flash of brightness too fast to escape, heat and burning like never before, electricity that seeped into her very bones, thunder that deafened, lightning that hurt-

"Get back!" She hears and turns unsteadily back to- back to where Apollo is pulling Ares back by the cape against the far wall. Apollo. Ares. Aphrodite, Aephestus, Artemis.

"Wh-" She manages, before she's bowled over, coughing. She has never done it before, and she can't stop it from happening- chest rattling as her knees give out, barely holding herself up with her spear in time to reach the bed. It doesn't stop, doesn't stop, plumes of smoke escaping her mouth as she can't stop, can't breathe-

"Athena," Hera whispers, and a rough hand gently touches her on the shoulder, handing her a glass of nectar. She accepts it gratefully, tilting her head back to down it. It's soothing like it's never been before, stoping the coughing at last and it clears her headache long enough to realize that she isn't in her armour- she's in a chiton.

"Where is my armour?" She rasps as soon as she can, wiping her mouth. Looks around- Apollo's chambers.

She'd always known being the favourite wouldn't protect her forever. But repeating the words didn't seem to reduce the hurt.

Nor the shaking fear.

"-not!" Apollo is saying, indignantly setting his hands on his hips. "Do you have any idea how hard you got hit? You're lucky I could even stabilize your aspect enough to reduce some of the damage, otherwise you'd still be having a seizure back at Mount Olympus!"

"Mount Olympus," Athena mutters oddly, without much intent to it. She tries to stand again and her vision suddenly cuts out, provoking a round of screams as she loses her balance.

When the world blurrily comes back into focus- and she doesn't like this, hates this sudden weakness; she's always been able to get back up from any blow, has never visited a medical chamber in her existence, even when they had to fight the Titans- she's in Ares' arms, oddly horizontal.

"Cease this stupidity, sister," Artemis hisses at her as she grabs onto Athena's arms to bring her back to the bed. "Calm yourself. You are alive. You are safe."

"My armour," Athena says, voice cracking, head rolling oddly on her neck, unable to look upright. She catches a glimpse of Aephastus holding onto a sobbing Aphrodite, staring at her with a strange sort of sorrow.

Something twinges in Athena's chest in reply, but she stumbles before she can address it, feeling a fission of panic at the instability before Ares' grip on her tightens enough to keep her upright. They're all staring at her like that, she realizes, with that same horrified heartbreak.

"Didn't Artemis just tell you to cease stupidity?" Ares barks, though it's rather quietly said, for him. He adjusts her on the bed until she can lean back against the pillows. His hands are shaking, and Athena stares at them with curiosity. "Weren't you the one to lecture me half to death about when to remove the armour?"

"What," She says weakly, then moans as an aftershock trembles through her, residual sparks humming maliciously as they exit her skin, leaving her trembling. "I- hmmm, what? What were- what were-"

"Athena, calm down, please, you're scaring us," Hera says, bangles jangling as she sits down next to her, taking one of Athena's hands with desperation. Athena tilts her head to squint, noticing the tears for the first time, before she shudders as her skin registers the heat, the unbearable heat.

"Scaring?" She murmurs when it stops, voice coming out smaller than she intended it to.

"Her fever keeps rising and falling," Apollo reenters the room before anyone can answer, carrying a large tub of some odd liquid. "Here, help me rub this on her skin, it should extract any remaining- any remaining lightning."

They all move towards the tub at the same time, dipping the cloths provided and then taking positions in a circle surrounding her. Athena stiffens, fingers twitching for a weapon, but the first touch of Hera's drenched cloth on her forehead makes her moan in relief, the blessed coolness of it making her melt back into the sheets. She has no strength to complain or protest when her fellow gods each take a limb to rub at, a sensation both horrifically terrible and unbearably good. She has never taken her armour off in her life.

"Easy, that's it," Apollo says coaxingly, lips downturned like he's trying not to cry. She whimpers as the cloth on her left leg suddenly burns as a spark escapes, instinctively pulling it away, but Aphrodite grabs it before she can and resumes rubbing, whispering apologies. She turns her head and weakly opens her mouth for the herb Apollo lifts to her lips, desperate for relief from the splitting headache.

She can't think. She can't think.

Athena has no idea how long it goes on, how long the other gods ignore their realms to tend to her. Slowly, they strike up a conversation, something light-hearted that she can't follow- different from their never-ending arguments and insults, as they talk about the past year and humourous stories and varied anecdotes.

Athena can't help but relax into it, the soft bed at her back and gentle hands massaging her sore muscles and warmth all around her. Feels something trembling within her since she first became aware of herself settling down with a sigh.

Until she suddenly smells ozone.

Hera and Apollo both notice her tensing up immediately, and look to where she can hear slow footsteps approaching. Apollo growls and shoots out a hand, bringing up the shields of his realm.

The conversation dies down as they all look to the side, at the distinct shadow at the other side of the curtain.

Rage, Athena realises, thoughts slow and muddied. They're angry with him.

"I will handle this," Hera says coldly, with the steel undertone that Athena strives for. She moves her cloth aside and leans down to kiss Athena on the forehead, like a mother would. "You rest, my daughter."

Athena's breath hitches, eyes burning. Nobody has ever cared for her, apart from Zeu-

Nobody has ever cared for her.

... Nobody has-

Hera turns sharply at the noise that suddenly escapes Athena, half hysterical laugh and half distraught wail.

"Did I win?" Athena asks desperately, pushing herself upright, ignoring the protests of the others as she pulls her limbs from their grasp. Hera stares at her and Athena grabs the side of the bed as she tries to lever herself up like a wild animal, demanding in a broken voice, "Did I win?"

A silence that stretches for a painful moment before- "Yes," Aephastus says, putting his hand on her shoulder to guide her back from the edge. "Yes, Athena, you won."

A strangled gasp of relief leaves her, making her light-headed as she leans back against the pillows. She shivers, then sobs- humiliation running through her before she hears an answering noise of sorrow from Aphrodite next to her, pressure all around as her five younger siblings embrace her carefully, gently, like she would break at any moment.

She's not the one who's been raped by a Titan's daughter for seven years.

The thought has her breath hitching, wiping her tears away with a hand that refuses to co-operate the first few tries. "I need to-"

"No," Artemis snaps, glaring at her. "I know you think of nothing but your work, but Athena, you cannot do it this time." Outside, Hera's and Zeus' voices rise as they begin to shout and scream. "You must rest."

"N-no, that's not- aah," She groans as another aftershock rips through her, leaving her panting and soaked in sweat when it's done. "I need to- I need-"

"Hermes has gone to his grandson," Aephastus says soothingly. "Peace, Athena. Your hero is free."

For a moment, it doesn't comprehend and she stares at him blankly. "Free," She repeats, words still infuriatingly faint and lilting. "He's free? I- I need my helmet, where is-"

"No, Athena!"

"Sister, please, you cannot resume your duties, you are in no state!"

"I need my helmet, please, please- just give me my helmet!"

Her cry echoes off the walls and she hears herself when it bounces back to her, broken and pleading and so unlike her she feels nauseous. Her siblings have gone silent and still at her begging, staring at her with shock and horror and fear and sorrow alike. Even Zeus and Hera have stopped talking.

Athena shakes, wishing she could rip this awful vulnerability out of her veins, wishes she could find a stone footing to stand on once more, wishes she wasn't in this horrible chiton.

"Please," She whispers.

Quietly, Aephastus gets to his feet and walks in the direction of the nearby drawers, where she can now see her belongings stacked up haphazardly, blood-stained.

"Sister, you must calm down," Aphrodite pleads. She takes her hands and Athena dazedly looks down at her, with her wide, scared eyes. Seizure, her mind registers finally from Apollo's earlier talk. Ah. She seems to have frightened them all. "You cannot afford a relapse."

Athena squeezes her fingers in acknowledgement, but reaches for the helmet when it's held out, dented and worn.

She touches the metal and feels the full force of seven years of silenced prayers hit her at once.

She's crying before she knows she's doing it, clutching the helmet to her chest as the warmth of the worship wraps around her like a shawl, and holds it tight against her as Ares tries to pry it away.

"No, no!" Apollo intervenes, shifting forward. He touches a hand to the helmet and suddenly the hymn bursts forth around them, loud even though the prayer itself is quiet and broken. Athena inhales at the feeling of it, soothing over the cracks in her own mind with their never-ending continuity, desolate, unbroken faith even when she never came to help-

He's still singing.

She shifts her hands on the helmet to make sure but- yes. Odysseus is calling her, still, at this very moment.

Her head snaps up, but even the dizziness the motion causes doesn't take away from how much clearer the room looks. "Where is he?"

"Sister-"

"If you do not answer me, I will take to the skies myself," She says firmly. "Where is he?"

Her siblings exchange looks.

"Three days out from Ithaka," Artemis replies with a sigh. "On a raft. But listen, wait but an hour, at least absorb these prayers-"

Athena stumbles off the bed and pulls on the helmet, closing her eyes.

"Wait, the bandages-!"

"Athena, you'll hurt yourself, please!"

"Daughter, be careful!"

Athena opens her eyes and looks out at the waves, rough and choppy, but not enough to sink the raft. She looks down and looks at the way the faded clothes don't fit him, the way he has no water left to drink but he still continues to sing.

"Odysseus," She says, and he freezes.

A wave rises and falls. They stay silent, unmoving.

"Won't you look?" The words break out of her, cracked and desperate.

He inhales and exhales, tears in the sound of it. "I don't want to look if you're... if you're not really here."

She swallows against the lump in her throat, takes a step forward. "Well, I-" Her voice cracks, but the fragile grin on her face is real as it spreads, the frailest thread of laughter entering her voice. "I would hope. That if you were hallucinating of me, that the spectre would at least have wisdom enough to tell you that you were."

Odysseus sobs and her heart cracks, feels his heart cracking in turn; yet it is akin to a misaligned bone that never healed right and has to be reset- she can hear the laughter before it comes, with relief coming from the brink of madness, with joy they'd both forgotten and missed. "It is you."

"I could not reach you on Ogygia," She blurts out, desperate to make him understand. "Could not hear your call. I would have come the second time you prayed, if I had."

"It is you," He whispers, swaying. A wave rises suddenly and they both burst into movement, grabbing ropes and pulling the mast, balancing together to keep it steady.

The wave passes. They are almost touching now.

"Won't you look?" Athena asks again, raw and grieving. "Odysseus. My companion, my friend. Please."

He turns at that, a stunned expression on his face- before it turns into wide-eyed horror as he looks at her. She laughs breathlessly, slightly dizzy, but- her friend. How lovely it is to see him again.

"Athena!" He rushes forward with unexpected vitality, the parts of him that she knew suddenly rising to light in his eyes, in his movements, becoming unhidden from the defeated, beaten figure he'd been moments before. "What in Gaia's name-"

"I'm sorry," She interrupts as she slumps forward into the hands on her arms, off-balance. "I should have tried better to understand, all those years ago. I understand now and I- Odysseus, I am-"

"Athena, shut up," Odysseus snaps, clearly panicking. She laughs again, because isn't it such a novelty, to have a person who will have the audacity to tell her to? "Of course it's forgiven, I'm sorry too, I should have fucking listened back then- but listen, what in Hades happened to you? Why do you look like this- why do you have bandages- Hermes wouldn't answer when I asked if something happened to you, fuck-"

"Peace," Athena rasps, even as her vision blinks in and out, forcing her to kneel. They both grimace as another wave crashes into the raft, but they don't upturn. Odysseus kneels down with her, staring at her with such worry and concern she can feel nothing but fondness. "The disagreements of gods are often violent."

"Gods-" His eyes flicker to the side of her face, and he frowns, reaching out to push back the helmet. She bends her face down to let him, feeling an odd burning on the left side that she has a vague bad feeling about- proved right when Odysseus' expression falls into blank horror. "You got into a fight with-"

"Yes."

"But he's your-"

"I know. He did not take kindly to my petition to release you," She smiles dryly, without mirth.

"To release me?" Odysseus wheezes, face cracking into anguish and disbelief alike. "Athena, what- I- I'm not worth-"

"It was worth it," She snaps. "Consider it my penance for abandoning my own. I certainly don't regret it."

"I never felt abandoned," Odysseus whispers, taking her hands as she shifts, supporting her body with his own as they lean against the mast. She looks at him, and remembers why Penelope is still weaving, why he's still out on the waters, why Ithaka is waiting out the suitors till Telemachus takes the throne. "I always knew you would come back. I just figured it would take ten years more, perhaps."

Athena is silent for a bit, absorbing that. And then, because she can't hold it back any longer- "I am sorry about your men." His breath hitches under her and she turns to take him in her arms, knowing what's coming. "I am sorry about your friends."

He sobs, ugly and loud, and she holds him tighter. "I am sorry that Titan's whelp had you for so long, and what she did to you. I am sorry the Fates were so unkind."

"Athena," He keens, finally falling to pieces. The sobs are mere loud gasps for air at first, before it dissolves into wailing, screaming, grieving for all the men they'd kept alive through a war, only to lose them to this cruel tragedy instead. Even she hadn't known- hadn't anticipated how wrong things would go after she left. Hadn't even thought that he hadn't reached home.

"It's all my fucking fault," He shouts, shaking. "If only I had- if only-"

"It is not. No one could have known," She whispers. "The Fates are unknown to us all."

He sobs louder and she closes her eyes.

But finally, their tears dry up. She holds him still, as the night fades and the sun rises again, trying to take his hurt into herself so he can be happy again.

"I am sorry," She whispers, seaspray around them. "That my enemies became your own. That I pushed you so hard. That I chose you, and brought pain to your life so."

"Hey now," Odysseus says, pulling back to look at her, a broken smile on his face. "Hold your blasphemous tongue, before you insult the wisdom of Pallas Athena." She laughs, even as tears spill over. "Even if I had the chance to choose again right at this moment, my goddess, I would still choose you."

"That means more than you know," Athena murmurs, overcome. She gathers all her strength and reaches out to run a hand over his head, soothing his mind and driving away the last tendrils of madness that were still holding onto him. He sighs and relaxes under her, some visible weight lifting from his shoulders. "Still. I will learn from my mistakes. If you would give your old friend a chance-"

"Stop right there. Of course I-" Odysseus scoffs, reaching out to hold her left cheek for emphasis. "Athena, your left eye is half gone."

"Ah. Well, that explains the depth perception," She mutters, then bursts into giggles at the incredulous look on his face.

"Are you drugged?" Odysseus demands, but he's already trying not to laugh himself. They both move on fast. "What am I saying, of course you are- have you been drugged this whole time? Who on Earth drugged you?"

"That would be me," Apollo says, crossing his arms.

Odysseus snarls, grabbing his sword and swinging wildly in an arc, half-animal in his panic, pushing Athena behind him.

"FUCKING- whoa, hey, calm down, it's her brother, it's Apollo!" Apollo half-shrieks inelegantly, jumping back. "Honestly! Athena, call off your hero, please."

"Apollo?" Odysseus tilts his head, lowering his sword and narrowing his eyes.

Apollo stares at him. "Wow, you two- really do act the exact same, huh. Yes, Apollo, god of please let me change your fucking bandages, do you mind?"

Odysseus bows and murmurs apologies, clearly wary of getting into more trouble, but to her mild surprise walks behind Athena instead of to the other side of the raft.

"I don't need assistance," She mutters to him, even as she grimaces at the length of the chiton as she tries to pull herself upright.

"You're still dizzy," Odysseus points out, settling in behind her to hold her steady. He wipes at the tears still on his face and smiles at her. She manages a half-smile back. "Do you need to go back to Olympus?"

"Yes," Artemis crosses her hands and Odysseus' fingers tighten painfully on her shoulders.

"I'm not quite certain there's space for so many on this raft," Athena mutters.

"It's a magical raft, it'll survive- but never mind that, could you not have at least sent a message that you were okay?"

"Well, maybe you should have thought of that before running off without a word!"

"Really, daughter, you should know better!"

Odysseus grip is bruising now, and his sword is in front of Athena protectively; she can already tell what moves he's planning to use if they choose to attack. "Who..?" He asks lowly.

"Pantheon. At ease," She replies back shortly, before looking up at the others. "I thank you, my fellow go- my family, for your worry and concern. But we are only two days out from Ithaka and I would like to see this journey completed."

"You are not going to see yourself completed, if you don't rest," Apollo says, roughly at the exact same time that Athena undermines her own argument by throwing up on the raft.

"Athena, go," Odysseus says urgently when it's over, handing her helmet back to her and adjusting her cape as Hera kneels down beside her to hand her another glass of nectar, looking at him oddly. Odysseus grimaces and changes his tone. "I will be fine, patroness. I'll call for you when I reach the shores."

Movement catches her eye and she sees Ares remove his own helmet, giving her a reproving look. She remembers the speech he was talking about now- the one she'd loudly ranted at him when she was drunk a year ago, thinks about how much more at ease he is now.

"Alright," She acquiesces and everyone breathes a sigh of relief. "Two days."

Mania fills Odysseus' eyes as he smiles back, finally home from a war twenty years ago. "Two days."

Athena grins, even as she feels Hera wrap an arm around her to take her away. "Penelope is waiting."

Odysseus' eyes widen, then fill with tears, like he'd never quite truly let himself believe it; but his smile is wide and true. "Penelope is waiting. Thank you, Pallas Athena."

"You don't thank friends," She murmurs, exhaustion settling in. Odysseus laughs and the last thing she feels is a warm hand on her cheek and their foreheads pressed together, before the world goes black and she knows no more.

#athena #odysseus #god games #the aftermath at least #epic the musical #epic the wisdom saga #listen athena is the oldest sister. seeing that 'perfect' and unbroken goddess have a seizure because zeus lost his temper and attacked her #would Not have been easy on them #tw sex assault #< for Calypso #seizures are scary as all hell and no god has ever been injured enough to have one before #which is why theyre all terrified #also both of them have not processed much theyre just keeping their focus on the horizon #hera #aphrodite #ares #hephaestus #i just liked the a theme but it is him #artemis #found kt weird she wasnt there???#apollo #zeus but everyone is currently on the brink of murdering him #does it count as #odyath #if i mean for that to happen wayyy in the future #rn they r just friends that also happen to be intertwined in each other's mannerisms #odypen #my fic

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loveinhawkins · 7 months ago

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”How do you do it?” Eddie asks.

The question slips out far too late at night, anxiety thrumming in his chest—he’s not escaped the feeling ever since the boathouse, when he simply couldn’t sleep, felt like a fox just waiting for hound dogs to get his scent, ready to run—

Steve doesn’t need him to explain further, as if he can somehow hear a whole lot of what Eddie’s not saying: like when he picked up the phone an hour ago and hadn’t even let Eddie tie himself in knots, had just said, so easily, “I’ll come get you,” like it wasn’t a huge inconvenience, like he’d been the one to call Eddie instead.

He’s considering Eddie from where he lies in bed, leaning on his elbow, and he’s still got the covers off pointedly—and that’s a big thing, Eddie thinks, a big thing he doesn’t know what to do with, because they’ve not talked, not really, not got much beyond the dizzying relief of still being alive.

But even fraught with profound lack of sleep, Eddie doesn’t think he’s misreading the look in Steve’s eyes.

I know, those eyes say, illuminated by the warm light of the bedside lamp. It’s okay, there’s no rush. I’m right here.

Eddie’s never seen that kind of look before. Not towards him.

“Sometimes Robin sleeps over,” Steve says thoughtfully. “And sometimes the kids are around, and they’re so annoying and I get, like, three hours, tops.” He says it with all the fondness in the world. “And sometimes I’m alone, and it’s fine.”

“What about the other times?” Eddie can’t help but whisper.

If it were a reasonable hour maybe he wouldn’t dare to ask at all, but exhaustion’s worn down the filter in his head—at this point it’s practically see-through.

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, they’re shit,” he says with such honesty that Eddie nearly asks it again, how do you do it?

“But then it’s, like, a new day,” Steve says slowly, like he’s carefully weighing up what to say, “and I can… drive.” The pause tells Eddie he means go to someone. “Or, like… call, if it’s really bad.”

Hey, I’m glad you called, man, Steve had said when Eddie got into his car earlier, like they were just going to the movies or something normal—like Eddie wasn’t shaking, forehead pressed against the passenger window.

Eddie feels his throat close up a little. Tries to sniff as quietly as possible.

“Eddie,” Steve says patiently. He moves back in the bed. Gives Eddie space. “C’mere.”

Steve keeps the lamp on which helps; this isn’t the boathouse, Eddie thinks, and the slightest bit of tension leaves his body. Even that feels like a miracle.

He’s just resigning himself to lying there, staring up at the ceiling so at least Steve can get some rest, when Steve turns and catches his eye, still wide awake.

“Tell me about The Lord of the Rings,” Steve says.

The tightness in Eddie’s chest loosens; he laughs in surprise. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Eddie turns so he’s facing Steve properly, attempts a casual shrug, knowing already that it’ll be too rigid. “I don’t know, man. We, uh. We kinda lived through Mordor already.”

His hand twists in the bedsheets, knuckles turning white.

I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never had…

Steve’s hand reaches across, eases Eddie’s grip on the sheets, like he’s saying, neither did I. Just give it a shot.

“The shire, then,” Steve says.

Eddie smiles. “Steve Harrington,” he says, suddenly finding enough lightness to tease; he’s missed it. “Are you asking me for a bedtime story?”

“Nope,” Steve says. “We’re just gonna lie here and talk.”

And they do.

Steve asks questions which works out for the best—Eddie can’t quite remember the last time he read the books. To tell the truth, anything that happened before March often has a kind of fog over it.

He’s sure he’s dropped at least a couple of plot points somewhere along the way, but Steve never once complains that he’s not making sense, just gently prompts Eddie until… until…

“Mm, I know what you’re doing,” Eddie mumbles through a yawn that catches him unawares.

“Oh, do you now?” Steve says, sounding smug. God, Eddie loves him. “Is it working?”

“Maybe.” Eddie says. His eyelids are heavy. “Um.” He yawns again. “Where… where was I?”

“Don’t worry about it, man,” Steve says. It sounds like he’s smiling—Eddie would check, but it’s suddenly impossible to keep his eyes open.

It’s okay, he thinks hazily, melting into sleep without even thinking about it. He can ask Steve in the morning.

There’s no rush.

#on struggling with the aftermath #the trust in falling asleep in front of someone ❤️#this may have a second part #a lil anxiety soothing stuff ❤️#pre steddie #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson

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shmorp-mcdurgen · 4 months ago

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A couple random Aftermath Gman doodles (feat. a freaked out Gordon)

#half life #Gordon freeman #Gman #HL Aftermath au #Aftermath Gman #Aftermath Gordon #shmorps art #I love this au so much you guys don't get it. Cause I barely share anything about it. So apologies for the constant aftermath-posting #Thinking of writing another fic for it soon but I dunno just yet

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dragonpyre · 6 months ago

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Here have a snippit for a fic I'll never write

"Jeez, what crawled up his ass and died?” Jason asked, watching as Bruce stalked out of the room. The silence that met him though made him turn to look up. “It’s April 27th,” Dick rasped. Like that somehow explained everything. “And? What, did I miss Passover or something?” Next to him, Tim flinched. Dick however… his eyes grew moist and his face fell. Before Jason could even think to ask what was wrong, the man had turned around and escaped the room. He looked about to cry. “Okay, what the hell?” Jason voiced. Because seriously, what the hell? “Jason,” Tim piped up carefully. “You died today.”

#headcanon that Jason didn't really register what day he died on #and cuz he also didn't live with the immediate aftermath he never developed a connotation for that date #meanwhile the bats who DID go through it have a horrible anniversary effect #text post #fic snippit #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #dc #dc comics #batfam #batfamily #batman

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sorinethemastermind · 2 months ago

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Aftermath

In which Corvus searches for Soren in the aftermath of Katolis' destruction.

They had fled to the forest while the fire consumed their homes, hoping that the trees would shelter them from the gaze of the rampaging dragon up above. The woods had obliged, but they did not feel welcoming as they usually did. Even now, nearly a day after the attack, the wildlife had not returned and the trees were eerily silent. Smoke hung heavy in the air.

King Ezran had insisted that they ride directly back, and so they had; riding hard through the day and into the night. Now, as dawn’s light began to peek through the leaves above, Corvus took in what remained of the people of Katolis. Battered and bruised at best, and at worst… Corvus didn’t want to think about that. Especially when he had yet to find him.

He knew Soren. Knew that his fellow Crownguard would have pushed someone out of the way of an oncoming blast without a second thought. Some might call it bravery, and it was, but Corvus knew that it was also something else. And that was what made him worried.

He hadn’t wanted to leave the king’s side, not when the castle still smoldered on the hill above them and the dragon could be anywhere. But Ezran had insisted that he go and help where he could; had said that he and Opeli would be fine on their own, if only for a little while. And then the pair of them had disappeared further into the camp to offer what aid they could to those who needed it most. By the way the king looked at him before he left, Corvus thought that perhaps he knew.

And so Corvus had gone first to the hastily erected tent that was now serving as a hospital. It had been filled to capacity; understaffed and in need of assistance. He had offered help where he could; changing a bandage here, fetching something there. All the while keeping his eyes open for Soren, who had undoubtedly thrown himself directly into the line of fire. But despite the many guards filling the tent, their armor dented and smeared with blood and soot, Soren was not among them.

Everyone seemed to have seen him, but no one knew where he was. One guard said that he had been on the wall when the dragon attacked. Another said he had been in the courtyard, helping a trapped civilian. One even said they’d seen him enveloped by dragon fire.

Corvus pushed through the thought and the flaps of the tent and out into the steadily growing light. The man had probably been mistaken. Or, perhaps, if he wasn’t…

Corvus didn’t have the heart to check the mortuary, yet.

He wouldn’t be in the hospital, Corvus rationalized. He would be out on patrol, busying himself with one task or another. Helping where he could, as he himself was supposed to be doing. But Corvus couldn’t focus on anything so long as he didn’t know where he was. Everytime the flaps of the tent had opened to admit someone in need of assistance he had forgotten what he was doing to look up, holding onto the hope that it would be Soren coming in from the encampment, battered but still smiling.

He walked through the forest, scanning every gathering of survivors for the familiar slope of Soren’s shoulders and the stoic smile he knew he’d be wearing. But, though he did manage to spot a few fellow Crownguards, his friend wasn’t among them.

Corvus’s feet carried him to the edge of the wood, where it led up to the castle, smoke still rising from it’s demolished parapets. Some of the rubble had fallen down the side and littered the forest floor. His breath caught in his throat as he knelt down to pick up a small chunk of masonry. The castle may not have always been his home, but it had been becoming one.

“Corvus?”

The voice was weary and raw, but Corvus would have known it anywhere. He spun to the side, staring up the path that led to the remains of Katolis. There was blood in Soren’s hair and drying onto his face armor, and he was smeared with soot and dirt. But it was him.

He gave Corvus a weak smile. “I thought you were supposed to be eating cake and dancing or something.”

Corvus ignored him, crossing the distance between them in a few steps and throwing his arms around his friend. Soren stumbled back a step, arms going out in surprise for a moment before they closed around him in return.

“I’m glad you’re here.” he mumbled into Corvus’ shoulder.

“Me too.”

Soren’s grip tightened around him and Corvus heard his breath hitch. Pulling back, he looked up at his friend.

“You’re hurt.” Corvus’ gaze drifted up to Soren’s hairline, where fresh blood continued to ooze from a gash on his forehead.

“It’s just a scratch. I’ve had worse.”

“You’re going to get an infection.”

“I’m fine.” Soren assured him.

“I’m going to get something. Stay here.” Corvus turned to go, but Soren’s hand caught his wrist before he had taken more than a few steps.

“Don’t go.”

Corvus paused, turned back. The smile flickered back onto Soren’s face as he looked.

“I, uh. They need the supplies more.”

Corvus hesitated.

“Please.” Soren said.

He stayed.

They sat on one of the larger pieces of rubble that had reached the forest floor, leaning against each other for support. Corvus could feel Soren’s hair tickling his cheek. He reached up to brush it back behind the other man’s ear and his fingers came away sticky and tinged with red.

“Soren.” he said, looking down at his hands with concern, then back to his friend. “Please let me look at that.”

“We don’t have many supplies.” He replied. “The others need it more.”

Corvus knew this wasn’t a fight he’d win. He sighed. “Then we’ll make supplies.”

Before Soren could argue he stood, turning to face him again, and tilted his friend’s head up so he could see the wound more clearly. Soren stared up at him, their eyes locking. But Corvus wouldn’t be distracted. Tilting the other man’s head to the side, he inspected the gash more closely.

It wasn’t especially deep, thankfully. But there were bits of debris in it that were stopping it from healing properly.

“Hold still.” Corvus instructed, taking off his scarf and wrapping one end around his hand. “This is going to sting a little bit.”

“I can handle- Ow.” Soren hissed.

“I told you.” Corvus did his best to be gentle; carefully using the fabric to dab at the wound until it seemed mostly cleaned. “There. Better?”

“I mean, you just spent a while poking it, so not really.”

Corvus shook his head. “You’ll thank me later.”

Taking the clean part of the scarf, he wrapped it around Soren’s head a few times before tying it into a knot at the back. “There. Now you have a bandage.”

“I think you mean a bandana.”

“No. I mean a bandage.” Corvus fussed with the scarf again, worried it would come loose. “Just don’t play with it, okay? It might come undone and then-”

Soren reached up and placed his hand over Corvus’, holding it to the side of his head. “Okay.”

Corvus looked down at his friend of two years. It was hard to reconcile the man before him with the same one who had hit him with a rock, tied him up, and called him a traitor. He had come so far. Corvus wanted to tell him how proud he was but couldn’t find the words.

“Okay.” he replied, waiting for Soren to drop his hand. But he didn’t.

“Okay.” he repeated instead, standing up, hand still clasped over Corvus’. They were eye to eye now, faces just inches apart. Corvus leaned in, and he kissed him.

It was stupid, really. A really stupid thing to do. Stupider than any nickname Soren had tried to give him over the years. In his surprise, Soren had dropped his hand, and Corvus tried to take it back, beginning to step away.

“I’m sorry.” he began, feeling clumsier than he ever had. He backed away, nearly tripping over a chunk of masonry. “I didn’t mean to-”

Soren stepped forward, hands clasping around his waist, and pulled him close again. “Well, I do.” he said, and he kissed him again. For real, this time, hands tightening across his back as he held him.

After a long moment they broke apart, and Corvus looked at his friend. No, more than his friend. Soren’s eyes seemed to sparkle and he smiled. A real one, this time.

“Hey, that’s not part of your Crownguard duties.”

They jumped away from each other, both of them nearly falling backwards over the chunks of debris that still littered the floor. Ezran stood a few steps away, one eyebrow raised playfully in their direction.

“Oh, yeah. So, uh… This... this is a thing now.” Soren gestured between the pair of them, then paused, looking at Corvus. When he didn’t disagree, Soren nodded. “Yeah, this is a thing now.”

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idyllcy · 10 months ago

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frog - jinshi x reader (Spoiler Warning for Chapter 63 of the manga)

"hng." Jinshi whimpers, face flushed as you freeze.

It's a frog. You fucking swear it's a frog. You didn't just accidentally grab and squeeze Jinshi, a fucking eunuch's, dick. You did not. You are hallucinating. That was the frog that jumped on you and knocked you off balance— nOT Jinshi's dick or whatever. He shouldn't even have one!

"Sorry." You sit up, legs still straddling Jinshi as you get off of his chest. "I saw a frog and fell."

Jinshi sits up with you, face flushed in embarrassment as you pray you can play stupid out of this one. It was hard enough that he literally witnessed you hurl a rock at the assassin with eerie precision, but you would rather die than have to die with Jinshi because you found out he wasn't a eunuch.

Every day your loyalty is tested when around this man.

"That makes this way easier." Jinshi sighs, grabbing you by the shoulder as you tense up to lean back from him. "I have a confession to make. I—"

"I think I killed the frog." You mumble, face pale. You're acting. You have to. You are not following Jinshi to the grave and cleaning up the aftermath of his ass getting someone pregnant.

"No, listen, that wasn't—"

"Oh my god, I'm not gonna make it to heaven." You mumble again, staring at your hand before wiping it on your chest. "Master Jinshi, I'm going to hell."

"No, that wasn't—"

"I'm going to hell because I crushed a frog..." You mumble.

Jinshi gets fed up with your acting, pushing you backward into the dirt as he cages you in, lifting your leg as he presses his clothed erection into you. You yelp, trying to crawl away, but he holds you in place, eyes staring through yours to your soul as you shake underneath him. Playing stupid didn't work this time.

"That was not a frog," and he rolls his hips against yours for emphasis, watching as you mentally restrain yourself from moaning. God, since when were you this lewd?! "Stop playing stupid, pretty one. You gave it a good squeeze too."

You freeze up as he lowers himself ever so slowly, and you blurt your thoughts out before you can think of what the best choice is at the moment.

"I am not having my first kiss on the dirt in a cave!" You cry, praying that it's enough. Seriously, you aren't following Jinshi to the grave. He may be hot, and women may throw themselves at him and men turn gay for him and nations go to war for him but you are not following him to the grave. Your loyalty does not lay that strong. You don't want to die just yet.

Jinshi leans in anyway, lips brushing yours as a bark sounds above you as you call back, and you sigh in relief when you hear Maomao's voice.

You're saved. Oh heavens, you're saved.

#I have a 20k word jinshi fic coming out in like what 4 hours?? but listen guys I had this in my brain I could not get it out at all #☾.blurbs #apothecary diaries x reader #jinshi x reader #kusuriya no hitorigoto x reader #I would not have this kind of self control I would just start fucking him in the dirt but this was too comedic not to write #the aftermath of this is jinshi messing with reader every chance he gets btw that mas is gonna fuck with em SO HARD #☾.suggestive

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ficbrish · 2 years ago

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Finished Chapter 3! 🥳

It only took me a year lol

I'm giving it one last read-through and then I'm ready to post it!

Catch up here: [AO3] [Tumblr]

Snippet:

“It’s locked.” Miranda stated it like a fact she already knew.

“Let me try it,” Jack suggested, pushing her out of the way before tugging on the handle a few times herself.

“It’s locked.”

“That’s what I just said!” Miranda exclaimed, shoving Jack aside to deal with the lock herself.

“Okay, relax. Geez.”

#shenko #fic update #BrishFics #kaidan alenko #miranda lawson #jack subject zero #mass effect #fshenko #kaidan x shepard #shepard x kaidan #aftermath fic

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sketchydistortion · 6 months ago

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remeber when he killed a man

#i wish there were more fics about the aftermath of snb II #toki wartooth #metalocalypse #mtl fanart #mtl

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fantastic-nonsense · 1 month ago

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someone needs to do an issue tag fic to that one New Teen Titans issue where Dick gets tortured by Brother Blood for hours and then promptly turns around and still manages to be coherent and determined enough to save the Titans from certain death via cave monster the second they throw him back in the hole with the rest of his friends

#dc comics #dick grayson #new teen titans #I miss when comics fandom used to do tag fics #I miss seeing 'tag to [book and issue number]' and getting to read interesting explorations of what happened in those issues #or missing 'off-page' scenes #or issue aftermath fics #we need to bring those back I am being so serious

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saffusthings · 2 months ago

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You Know You're My Saving Grace

oscar piastri x personal assistant!reader

summary: the one where he comes when she calls. word count: 17.6k (i'm so sorry) warnings: descriptions and talks of abuse, trauma, disassociation, shock, other abuse aftermath, please don't read if any of this stuff is not the vibe, whump, poorly editing writing a/n: this is my first time doing something like this, so comments/feedback would be much appreciated! and let me if anyone wants a part two, bc i'm kinda getting the vibes for a multi-part fic lol

The sound of his ringtone feels louder and louder until finally, Oscar realizes it’s not just in his dream. Blearily, he blinks awake, before reaching across the bed to pick up his phone to check who the hell decided it was a good idea to call him in the middle of the night.

“…Hello?” he asks, voice heavy with sleep. Oscar is a man who knows the value of good sleep - he can’t imagine who’d be calling him at this hour.

He squints, vision bleary from his state of half-wakefulness. Huh? If the car had an issue or if he had a meeting, couldn’t she just wait until morning to brief him?

“Hello? A- Are you there?” she asks, voice hushed.

“Yeah, I’m here. What is it?” Oscar says with a yawn, now more awake, and propped up on his elbow in the bed. He reaches around, turning the bedside lamp on.

“I’m really sorry to disturb you but-”

Her hushed voice is interrupted by the sound of shouting in the background. When the booming voice finally stops, it’s punctuated with the sound of something shattering.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Oscar says quickly, his tone no longer groggy as his mind begins to put the pieces together.

“Are you alright? Where are you right now?” Oscar asks firmly.

“Shit- I’m sorry, but-” And something else shatters. Suddenly her voice becomes a lot more hushed and a lot more hurried.

“Are you safe right now?” He sits up fully in bed now. He gets out of the bed and heads over to the window, looking down at the sidewalk below to check to see if her car’s here by any chance. No such luck.

“Can you come pick me up? It’s kind of an emergency.”

“Okay, take deep breaths. In and out,” he says, trying to keep her as calm as possible. “Now, where are you?” He haphazardly shoves his head into the first shirt he finds, before slipping into his shoes and swiping up his keys. Once he has the address, he’s quick to run from his apartment to his parked car.

“I’m on my way, so don’t hang up on me, okay?”

“Y- Yes, yeah.”

“Good,” Oscar replies, making sure to keep his voice steady, acting as the levelheaded one. “I’ll keep you talking until I get there, okay?”

“I- I’m not sure I understand, Sir.”

“I need you to stay on the line for me so that I can hear you and keep you safe,” Oscar instructs her, peeling out of the parking lot and speeding through the empty streets.

“I- I’m okay,” she tries in a delayed attempt to reassure him. She’s his assistant, after all - she’s the one meant to be helping him. Though she’s only a year younger than him, she always strives to fulfill her role well, and tries to give her 110%.

Oscar lets out a sigh as he keeps driving. “…Just, stay with me, okay? I should be there in a few minutes.”

There’s some more yelling going on in the background, and it seems marginally closer now. Her throat feels so tight that she doesn’t even register her boss’s voice through the phone.

Oscar immediately calls out her name, his tone sounding a bit more sharp as he raises his voice a bit. He needs her to focus on his voice.

“Hey, talk to me, are you there?”

“Y- Yes.” Her voice shakes when she speaks.

“Now I need you to do something for me, can you do that?”

“I need you to get yourself into a room, any room, and lock the door, okay?” Oscar says, searching for her address amongst the row of houses lining the block. Different homes line the quiet suburban street, darkened windows and porch lights indicative of their sleeping residents.

“I’m in the corner of my bedroom,” she informs him. “I can’t lock the door or-”

“Okay, that’s fine. Now I want you to just stay there, don’t move and stay on the line, I’m almost there, okay?” he reassures. Why won’t this car go any fucking faster?

Finally, he slides into the parking right outside the house. He gets out of his car, and heads up the driveway and to the front door.

“Be careful-” she warns, and that’s all he hears before he hears a shout, and then the line goes dead.

“No, no, no, no,” Oscar mutters to himself, his heart rate increasing and his pace quickens as he runs up to the front door. He tries the door handle, before realizing it’s locked. Without thinking, he steps back, before ramming his body against the door in an attempt to force it open. It budges, but only slightly. It does however seem to attract attention, as the yelling emanating from inside seems to come to a halt.

Oscar steps back again, taking in a deep breath. Years of physical conditioning and resistance training means he’s strong enough to break the door down, but he’d probably wake the whole neighborhood up if he does. So, not efficient.

He quickly scans the windows on the first floor, before he spots a small window on the side of the house. Though it's hard to tell in the dark, its position raises his hopes that maybe luck will be on his side. Without wasting another second, he walks over to the window and tries to push it open. It slides open silently, and Oscar quickly pulls himself up and into the house.

He keeps his movements quiet and careful, eyes scanning the house that’s engulfed in darkness.

It’s then that he’s met with the realization that there’s not one, but two shouting voices - but none of them seem to be the familiar voice of his assistant.

Where the hell is she?

Oscar’s heart begins beating even louder. They don’t know he’s here, but he can still hear shouting from upstairs. Keeping his footsteps light, Oscar slowly heads up the stairs, stopping to listen for anything before proceeding further.

He hears the sound of something thump against the wall with force.

Oscar winces as he hears it again, feeling his adrenaline spike. Exhales leave his lips in the form of carefully controlled puffs as he forces his heartbeat under control. Worst-case scenarios flash in his mind, and then he’s quickly taking the stairs two steps at a time as he makes his way to the upstairs hallway.

Halfway up the stairs, she pauses to listen, he finally hears the sound of twin pairs of footsteps retreating. As he cautiously walks through the hallway, the shouting gradually gets louder as he begins to approach its source. He finally comes to a stop in front of a door, which has faint light spilling from underneath it. Risking being discovered by an unfamiliar face, he whispers, “Hey, you in there?” He reaches for the door handle and tries to push it open.

He sighs in relief as the door opens, as his eyes quickly adjust to the dark. Scanning the room, his gaze finally falls on her, still sitting in the corner. The shadows only reveal her silhouette, but he knows it’s her. Oscar quickly walks into the room, over to her, and crouches down to her level.

There’s a shattered lamp nearby, pieces scattered on the floor. She’s sitting in the corner, curled into herself, her head tucked in.

He sits down right in front of her, placing a hand on her knee. “Hey,” he says, his voice gentle and soft. “It’s me. I’m here now.”

She’s trembling when he approaches. Barely concealed cuts and bruises litter her body - deep purple blooms and angry white scratches peeking out from beneath sleeves and her collar and the rest of her exposed skin. He looks closer to see whether the mark around her wrist is really the print of a hand, but the sleeve of her shirt conceals the rest of it, leaving him uncertain.

His eyes roam over her now visible injuries. The sight alone is almost enough to make him forget where they are, but reality persists. He squeezes her knee gently.

Startled at the touch, she jerks her head up with wide, wild eyes.

He came.

“Hey, it’s me,” he says, trying to get her to focus on him. “Look at me. I’m here now,” he says, his tone gentle. He carefully moves his hand to cradle her face, tilting it up as his eyes search hers.

“Hey.” Her voice comes out shakier than Oscar is used to.

The sight of her is jarring - the shivering woman crouched before him looks nothing like the coworker he saw mere hours ago. His eyes move over her face again, taking in every little detail, his eyes lingering on the cut near the corner of her lip for a millisecond longer than usual.

“Can you stand?” She nods rapidly, even as her legs shake.

“Alright, come on,” he says, now standing up and holding a hand out for her to take. As soon as her fingers touch his, he feels like all sorts of red alerts go off in his head - she’s cold.

He can easily pull her to her feet with just a light tug, as he helps her up from the corner she was huddling in. He keeps a gentle grip on her as he looks her over again. Now that she’s in a standing position, he notices how her shoulders slump forward, as if she’s instinctively doing whatever she can to make herself smaller. He can only assume it’s because she’s trying to make herself less visible, as if she’s scared of being seen. Or worse.

“Can you walk?” he asks again, gently.

Seeing her boss, seeing Oscar here - feels surreal.

He notices how she’s still refusing to look him in the eye, as if on instinct. Instead, her eyes are focused anywhere but on his face.

“Hey, eyes on me,” he says, lifting a hand to gently grip her chin and turn her face to his. Suddenly brought back to some semblance of focus, she quickly nods. It feels easier than words at the moment.

Now that her eyes are on him, he takes advantage, as he attempts to assess her state. Her eyes are wide, and he can see the slightest shaking in her hands.

“You’re freezing,” is the first thing he says, noticing how cold her skin feels against his palms.

“They’ll come back,” she rambles hurriedly. “They’ll come back and they’ll-“

He can hear the rising panic in her voice, as he tries to think of a way to calm her down.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers firmly, his hand moving to her arm, giving it a slight squeeze to get her to listen to him. “They’re not gonna come back. I’m here, okay?”

The sound of distantly approaching footsteps interrupts him, accompanied by hushed voices. Oscar’s eyes widen in alarm, as every part of him goes rigid. Those must be the people she was referring to earlier, and he’ll be damned if they come back here. His hands instinctively move to her back now, as he pushes her behind him. He shakes his head as he moves so that he’s blocking her completely from their view. His mind works quickly, as he tries to think of a way out of here.

“Be quiet,” he tells her, his voice hushed. “I’m gonna get us out of here, okay?”

She nods silently.

Oscar then starts going over all the potential exits in his head - the windows, stairway, the front door. He knows that the window is too small, and the front door would have them walking right into them.

That only left the stairs. Shit.

He turns around partially so that he’s facing her again, his eyes flickering over her quickly to check for any new injuries.

“You’re able to run?” he confirms, his voice hushed to keep it from being overheard. She nods rapidly in agreement, desperate to do anything to make the dream of getting out of here come true.

That’s good enough for him, as he gently grabs her wrist and pulls her behind him. Frankly, the man has no idea what he’ll do if she’s not able to keep up, but he sneaks over to the bedroom door, quietly opening it so that he can peek out.

She listens for a moment. “They’re downstairs. In the room right under this one.”

A small plan starts coming up in his mind, as his expression morphs into something more serious.

“Okay,” he starts, as he takes a glance back at the stairs. “When I say ‘go’, I want you to run down the stairs. Go, and don’t stop. I’ll be behind you, okay?”

When she shoots him a wary look, he’s quick to project that collected, self-assured image that he’s well known for.

“Just trust me.”

He can hear the footsteps in the room down below moving around, as the voices get slightly clearer, meaning they’re getting closer to the stairs.

She swallows hard. It does nothing to quiet the loud hammering of her heart in her chest. He sees the look in her eyes, and he can clearly tell how terrified she is. It’s up to him to gently push her in the direction of the door.

“It’ll be okay - trust me,” he says softly, hoping it's enough to reassure her for this moment as he readies himself at the bedroom door.

He can hear the voices more distinctly now, and his pulse spikes up anxiously. He’s got to do this right, otherwise they’ll never have another chance. For a moment, everything falls silent, and the only thing either of them can hear is their own heartbeats as it threatens to beat out of their very chests. They wait there, poised to leave, their breaths held.

“Okay, go,” he says firmly, as he practically throws her out of the bedroom door and into the hallway.

He’s out right behind her, running down the hallway. He can already hear the voices in the room below turning to confusion as they hear footsteps. It’s in that moment that he realizes that he’s still gripping her wrist, and he mentally berates himself that that’s the only thing he can do.

It feels like everything is moving in slow motion as they bolt down the rest of the stairs. She can feel her legs and her heart is hammering in her chest and she’s not sure she’s ever been so afraid in her life. But Oscar Piastri is here, and he acts like he knows what he’s doing, and so she does the scary thing and follows his lead.

Despite how hard they’re running, it still feels like they’re not moving fast enough, as he can hear the sound of the door down below swinging open. His grip on her wrist tightens as he practically yanks her to the front door, throwing it open with his free hand. Desperation fueling his every move, he pushes her out and follows right behind her, fighting every urge to look back.

He’s never been more thankful to see the sleek metal of his car as he practically pulls her over to it. Throwing the passenger door open, he gently shoves her into the passenger seat and shuts the door behind her. Instincts override all else as hops into the driver’s side of the car, starting his engine.

Everything’s in flashes - Oscar’s grip yanking her along, the hard pavement beneath her feet, the night wind whipping in her hair, the rapid thumping of her frenzied heart.

He can barely focus on anything besides getting the hell away from that house, as he pulls the car out, driving as carefully as he can without drawing attention to them. Now that they’re seated, she finally takes a few shaky breaths, trying to allow her brain a moment of reprieve so that it can catch up.

He glances over at her. In the artificial lighting of the car. There’s a beat of silence throughout the car, no noise other than the sound of the engine, until he speaks up,

“You okay?”

She nods dazedly. His eyes move back to the road as he grips the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, his eyes not leaving the road. He takes another left turn.

“Yeah,” she breathes. Her voice still doesn’t sound like her usual self when she speaks, but Oscar is glad that she’s at least saying something.

Having a moment to breath turns out to be both a blessing and a curse as her thoughts begin to run haywire. God, why did she bring him into this whole mess? She had tried calling the McLaren front desk but no one answered, and so Oscar’s was really the only other option whose number she knew by heart.

He takes another glance at her, noting her fidgety hands, and his tone softens again as finally catches his breath.

“Can I see your hands?”

“M- My hands?” She looks up at him with wide eyes.

His eyes linger on her face for another second, taking in the wide-eyed, somewhat startled expression.

“Yeah, your hands,” he clarifies, his tone a bit more gentle. “Lemme see ‘em, yeah?”

She nods once in quick agreement, but is so out of it that she forgets to actually give him her hands. He reaches over, gently taking one of her hands in his much larger ones. He runs his thumb over her fingers and knuckles, taking a closer look at her hands now. They’re shaking violently in his grip, though that’s probably from the adrenaline and panic rushing through her body right now. His face falls the moment his eyes land on several of her knuckles. Some are badly bruised, and some more have small scrapes and cuts on them. He’s actually surprised that there’s no blood.

He gently runs his thumb over the scraped knuckles, his fingers slightly curling around her hand.

“Ouch,” she says, voice sounding more faraway than it should. “I think that hurts.”

“Yeah, I’d say it hurts,” he responds gently, still continuing to gently run his thumb over the scraped knuckles on her hands. It then that he spots a nasty bruise on the back of her hand, which is in stark contrast to the surrounding skin.

His eyes narrow when he sees the obvious shape of a handprint.

Coming to the same realization, she steals her hand away, tucking it back into its sleeve. Since when is the car so cold? He glances over at her, but her eyes are averted from him, looking out the window.

There’s an unsettling feeling in his chest when she tucks her hand into her sleeve, as if she’s trying to hide it, and he knows why.

She holds her hands tightly together, as if desperately trying to warm them. Or to stop them from shaking. It’s unclear which of those it is.

Perhaps it’s both.

Oscar lets out a quiet sigh of relief when they arrive at his street, but he’s still focused on her.

He takes one hand off the wheel.

“Hey - listen to me, alright? We’re here now, and it’s gonna be okay,” he says as he tries to park the car. “That’s all you need to focus on, okay?”

“My heart…” she trails off. “It’s beating really fast.”

Instead, he responds with a soft, “Yeah, I know. I know. You’ll be okay, though, alright?”

“Here’s what we’re gonna do, alright?” he says, his other hand still on her shoulder.

“We’re gonna get out of the car, and I’m gonna take you upstairs, and we’ll get you all settled, yeah? And we’ll get some ice and stuff on those hands of yours, and we’ll just take it easy, yeah?”

Directions help thought. The way he talks her through it… it gives her things to focus on, details to center her attention toward. She nods, looking up at him.

“Let’s go,” he offers gently.

She nods, allowing him to guide her. It feels a little bit like a lighthouse in a storm - your sole light, sole direction in the midst of the chaos and turmoil of everything else. She looks up dazedly at her lighthouse as he pulls her gently out of the car.

Her lighthouse happens to have kind brown eyes.

He manages to unlock the door and push it open, and he holds it open for her to enter in before him. “Don’t go anywhere yet, alright? We gotta get some ice and antiseptic on those hands of yours first.”

“It’s nice,” she comments softly, looking around. She's been here before, of course - bringing him files he forgot late at night, waking him up when he overslept for a meeting, delivering his trainer-approved meals for the week so he can stock up his fridge.

But never like this. She’s only ever been here as his personal assistant, not like… this.

Surveying the room, she notices things she hadn’t had the time to notice before. His apartment is more just plain simple then it is minimalist, but there’s still the odd touches here and there to make the place more personable. Throw blankets folded haphazardly on couches, potted plants stacked into a bookshelf by the window, a stereotypical wall of photos - there’s bits of Oscar’s touch scattered across the space. The air itself smells like dishwasher steam and some warm candle she can’t discern the name of.

He smiles, gently squeezing her wrist, tugging her to make her follow him to the bathroom. The light flicks on as they walk into the bathroom together, and he immediately steers her over to the small sink.

Shades of charcoal contrast with white porcelain, making up the picture of the bathroom. There’s a hand towel hanging embroidered with a little whale on it, and a ‘rustic’ looking soap dispenser that turns out to be plastic upon closer inspection. As she notices the cool overhead lights, she feels warm hands guide her to stand in front of the sink, before gently letting go of her wrist so he can reach over to pull out the first-aid kit that’s likely been sitting there since his mother snuck it into his things.

“Keep your hands up underneath the faucet,” he instructs, opening the box and quickly finding the antiseptic before turning his attention back to her. She audibly grimaces at the feeling of the freezing water seeping into her skin. The water pressure falls against her bruises and washes into the small cuts littered about her hands as well.

“Shit-” she winces.

He gently wraps a hand around her wrist again, tilting her hand from side to side to get the water flowing over all the scraped and cut parts of her hand.

She immediately goes to pull her hands away from the stream of water, but his grip around her wrist doesn’t let her pull back by much.

“It’s too much, please, s’too much-“

The movement that she makes to pull away has his grip on her hand tightening slightly to keep her still, not letting her jerk her hand away like her instincts want her to.

“Hey, hey, no,” he says, his tone still soft and gentle. “I know it hurts, but I gotta do this, alright?”

His hand continues to hold hers in place, the water continuing to run over her cuts and scrapes. She whimpers in pain, still fighting him to pull her hand away. The unwanted tightening of his grip also reminds her of the events of tonight - a person’s hold on her that won’t go away even when she tries.

Immediately, her body responds by trying to pull back even more.

His eyes widen when she suddenly jerks back to pull her wrist back hard, as if she’s trying to fight him away. Instinctively, his other hand goes to gently grip the underside of her forearm, in an attempt to get her to stay still.

“Hey - hey, we’ve gotta stay still, alright?”

“Let go of me,” she thrashes, trying to peel his hand off her. “Get your hands off me!”

Her struggle has his concerned expression growing more and more worried. He’s trying to calm her down, he really is, but the cuts need to be cleaned, so he has no choice but to tighten his grip on her.

“You need to stay still,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady as she continues to struggle. “I need to get your hands cleaned and antiseptic on them, alright? You’re making this more difficult-”

“Stop!” she practically shrieks, voice hoarse. She scrambles away from him, prying his fingers off her in her panic and backing against the wall of the bathroom like a frightened animal. “Don’t touch me!“

When she finally manages to jerk her hands out of his grasp and back up against the wall, he can practically feel a pit form in his stomach. He immediately holds his hands up, as if in surrender, but still takes a step towards her.

“Stop! Stop!” she cries. “P- Please, please don’t do this.”

Caught off guard, his eyes widen and he holds his hands up again, simultaneously taking small, careful steps towards her.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he tells her, keeping his voice soft and gentle, but firm enough that it’d incline her to believe him.

She can feel her heart pounding in her chest, her lungs gasping in quick bursts of air. Her chest is heaving wildly as she struggles to just breathe and her eyes are wild as they dart around the room, refusing to focus on anything.

When Oscar looks at her - wild eyes, flushed skin, and frantic breathing - it’s difficult for him to not go over to her to hug her, to comfort her in some way, but he’s afraid of spooking her even further than she already is.

“Hey,” he says again, trying to get her attention again. “Hey, look at me, okay?”

He waits for her eyes to shift towards him, which takes longer than he’d like it to, but he can’t push her. Her panic is high and he has to take this carefully and gently.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Alright? I swear. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe, alright? You’re safe.”

Her eyes flicker towards him again, and he takes another step towards her, only for her to jerk away again and press more firmly against the wall. Her irises reflect an even greater degree of panic now, and the pit in his stomach deepens.

“Hey,” he says again, a bit more firm this time. “Hey, look at me. I need you to trust me, okay? I’m not going to hurt you.”

He takes another step towards her again, trying to keep his stature as non threatening as possible, while keeping his tone firm, but gentle.

He wants to reach out and pull her into a hug. He wants to wrap his arms around her and soothe her, and promise her that he’ll keep her safe. But she’s pressed so hard against the wall like she’s trying to fuse with it, that he doesn’t want to risk sending her into a panic attack by touching her.

“Alright,” he murmurs, as he takes another step closer, closing the distance further. “I’m gonna try something, alright?”

He waits for her to respond, but all she does is look at him, wide eyed. He takes that as permission enough to continue, and slowly reaches out, gently gripping her wrists.

She clenches her eyes shut, trying to fight her breathing into control. He tries not to use his full grip on her as he gently takes hold of her wrists, but the way she turns her head away, as if she’s bracing herself for something, as if she’s scared he’s going to hurt her, makes that tightness in his stomach worsen.

She nods, a tad slower this time. Her heart is still thudding against her rib cage, but warm, honey-brown eyes meet hers.

He takes a deep breath, the kind that’s meant to release some of that live wire feeling from his muscles, his thumbs still soothingly stroking the inside of her hands as he speaks. “I’m not going to hurt you, alright?” he says again, his tone quiet, but firm. “I need to get your hands cleaned. D’you trust me?”

A beat of silence.

“I’m gonna bring you to the sink, alright?” he asks quietly, continuing to state his actions aloud in advance. “I’m not gonna hurt you, I just need to clean your hands because there’s blood all over them. You trust me?”

After a moment of her eyes flitting across his face, she gives him an almost imperceptible nod. Despite the firm grip around her wrists, she focuses on remembering that this is Oscar.

Oscar Piastri.

The same Oscar that ran late to meetings because he kept stopping to pet street cats while they were in Jeddah.

That Oscar.

Careful not to let go of her or make any sudden movements, he slowly starts to tug her towards the row of sinks, taking baby steps so as to not startle her again.

He takes careful note of how she responds when he phrases it as a question - like she’s somewhat included in the decision-making process, that it’s not just being done to her. He can see that maybe some of the tension in her body has left her and she’s not as taut as she had been against the wall, but something in his gut tells him they’re far from being out of the woods yet, and he needs to proceed carefully.

“We’re here,” he says quietly, as they reach the sink. He turns on the water, making sure it’s warm, but not too hot, before he looks towards her again.

She’s still breathing pretty heavily, but her panicked eyes have cleared somewhat, as if she’s not quite as panicked as she was before.

“We gotta get your hands cleaned up, alright?” he says again, as he turns to look back at her. “Will you let me clean your hands?”

Slowly, her face turns towards him, her eyes still a bit out of focus. He swallows hard. “Hey,” he says, his tone gentle and quiet. “I’m gonna touch your hand now, alright?”

She moves her head in a single nod, and it’s all he needs, and he slowly eases one of her wrists from his grip. He gently, slowly, carefully turns one of her hands so that her palm is facing up, so he can start cleaning the blood off of it.

“W- Will…?” she tries to ask, but her voice comes out shaky and hoarse.

“Will it hurt?” he asks, finishing her question for her. At her slow nod, he gently shakes his head no, as he continues to hold her wrist with one hand, and starts softly wiping the blood away from her injured hand using a clean bit of tissue with the other.

“No, I’m being very careful,” he assures her, his tone soothing. “I’m very gentle, I won’t hurt you, yeah?”

She watches carefully as he works. He’s surprisingly careful and gentle, taking care to pay attention to each and every part. The lighting of the bathroom paints him as a portrait, his eyebrows scrunched, his lips pressed together in concentration. Smooth fingers delicately dance across the skin of her hands, wiping them with feather light touches.

He can feel her gaze on him as he works at gently wiping the blood off her hands, keeping his pace slow and steady. Each movement is careful and precise, and he does his best not to hurt her more than she probably already is as he cleans the blood and dirt off her skin. He doesn’t say anything, not wanting to distract her, but every so often, his gaze sneaks up to glance at her face anyway.

“Thank you,” she murmurs into the late hours of the night, sat atop the surface of his bathroom sink. “For coming tonight.” Oscar had never even considered a universe where he didn’t. Of course he’d be there. “Of course, anytime," he tells her. “But you know you don’t have to thank me.”

She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand, she doesn’t know that she’s so much more than just his assistant, and that he cares more about her than just as the person who brings him his coffee and files his paperwork.

He mutters under his breath, his hand holding her chin. “You’re not just my assistant, alright? You’re so much more than that, you’ve always been more than that to me.”

Her brows furrow, trying to understand. “I mean, I’d like to think we’ve become friendly over the past two years-“

Friendly. Friendly. It’s so much more than that.

“Friendly,” he laughs, practically mocking the word. “That’s not even close to what I mean, and I don’t think you’re stupid enough to not know that.”

“Unless you’re trying to call me stupid, I’m not sure I’m understanding what you’re saying.”

“You’re not stupid,” he sighs. “I’m trying to tell you that I care about you much more than just my assistant. How do you not get that?”

There’s a beat of silence where she tries to process the words, turning them over in her mind as she analyzes them. When she speaks, her voice is quiet, her tone polite. “That’s kind of you to say.”

Kind to say? Kind?

It feels dismissive, like she doesn’t quite believe him. But the truth is - he’s not being kind, he’s trying to tell her the goddamn truth, and she doesn’t believe him.

Her eyes scan his face, looking for any indication that he isn’t being truthful. She knows his tells by now - almost two years of paying attention to him when he lies to get out of an interview or when he fibs about how late he’ll be to the meeting. She knows these habits of his, his little quirks.

She knows him.

He nods, his eyes holding her gaze.

The fog of night settles around them like a haze, silent and ever present. Looking at his face, pale skin reflecting moonlight and irises dark with exhaustion, he appears like a dream. When he’s stood before her like this, after everything that unfolded tonight, time seems to transcend reality.

“Thank you,” she whispers, throwing her arms around him. She almost doesn’t care that her dislocated shoulder is screaming in pain - she adjusts it marginally to make it a bit more comfortable. She hugs him in gratitude, eyes closed so the tears of relief don’t slip out.

He freezes as soon as her arms go around him, stunned, but his body quickly catches up to his mind. His arms wrap around her immediately, like it’s an instinct. One of his hands slides gently up her back to rest against the back of her head, holding her to him. “You don’t have to thank me,” he manages to gasp out, his words choked, as he tightens his grip on her.

When she goes to pull away, it’s almost like he’s acting on autopilot, like his body is just moving on its own, without regard for reason. He gently grasps her arm again, his fingers wrapping lightly around her wrist, and he gently pulls her back towards him, his other hand resting gently but firmly against her hip.

Oh.

He has her against his chest again, her smaller frame held against his, and his brain registers just how good this feels, how right it feels - having her in his arms like this.

If she could just get her heart, that has randomly decided to beat out of her chest, to calm down, then maybe she’d be able to speak. She’s breathing fast, her heart beating a mile a minute against his chest.

Then, he does the stupidest thing in the whole world when she starts to speak, something he’s been silently wanting to do for months now. He bends down, ignoring her starting words, ignoring absolutely everything but the fact that he wants to do this, and finally closes the rest of the gap between them. His lips press against hers, silencing the rest of the words she’d been saying.

She’s stunned. Her brain is somehow working both too fast and not at all at the same time. What the fuck just happened?

She freezes in place, completely still.

He freezes as soon as he breaks the kiss, realizing in a flash that he just kissed her. His assistant.

He kissed her. He had kissed the woman who basically helped run his entire life for the last two years, the woman who probably had no idea how he feels about her, and still thinks they’re just boss and assistant. Perhaps not his best work.

His brain scrambles, trying to come up with some sort of an explanation, anything to justify what he just did.

Immediately, he’s desperate to hear her voice, to prove to him somehow that he hasn’t just ruined everything. He needs her to say something that will indicate that things won’t be horribly, terribly awkward between them after this.

She tries her hardest to come up with something to say – she really does. But she keeps coming up empty. So instead, she follows the next impulse her brain comes up with: she pulls him closer by the shirt and kisses him.

Oh. He sure as hell wasn’t expecting that.

For a single beat, he’s frozen, stunned, like his mind can’t really comprehend what’s happening. Then, all at once, his whole body reacts. He responds in record time, calloused hands cradling both sides of her face as he kisses her back. He kisses her with fervor, with a passion that he’d been holding back for months, ever since he realized that he had feelings for her. The kiss is desperate, as if he’s afraid he’s going to never be able to kiss her again, as if this is his one and only chance at having her like this, in his arms, against his body.

She pulls away out of her body’s need for oxygen. Stupid oxygen.

When she does pull away, she looks up at him, tentative, hesitant – she both needs to and is scared to see how he will react.

He groans as she pulls away from him, and his lips automatically try to follow hers as she moves, as if he’s unwilling to let her move away from him, as if he needs her to always be this close to him. When she finally does move away from him, his arms automatically loosen their grip around her, though his hands stay on her. He looks down at her, his breathing coming in short pants, and he can’t help the look of awe that appears on his face.

She ends up being the first to speak. “That was-“

His brain automatically tries to finish her sentence for her - he’s spent so long with her, working with her, that it’s almost second nature to him now, to try and finish her sentences when she can’t find the words.

“A mistake?” he supplies, his tone suddenly hesitant as he watches her. Part of him knows that it’s true, that this shouldn’t have happened, that he shouldn’t have kissed her.

Another part of him doesn’t give a damn.

“Oh.” Truthfully, that wasn’t what she was going to say. In fact, if it were up to her, there was a high likelihood that she would have said it was nice. Really nice.

She had never kissed anyone before, but if every kiss was just as spectacular for everyone as this one was for her, then she could certainly see the appeal. That certainly doesn’t seem to be the case for Oscar, however.

Subconsciously, she pulls back, away from him.

“No,” he says, his hands immediately moving to grab her again, to stop her from pulling away. He gently tightens his grip on her, wrapping his arms around her, and pulls her back against his body.

“It’s just that-“ he starts again, trying to find the right words, “You’re, well, you’re my assistant. You work for me.”

“Yeah,” she breathes half-heartedly. “Yeah, I’m aware.”

Oscar can hear the resignation in her voice, the disappointment. He hates that he put it there, but he can’t help the feeling of relief that washes through him as he realizes just how okay she is with the fact that he’s her boss.

“I’m just saying that it’s-“

His brain scrambles for the words again, his mind trying to think of some sort of excuse, some sort of reason why she, his assistant, is here in his arms, why he’s holding her against him.

“It’s alright,” she says, trying to steady her voice as she slinks out of his arms. “I understand, it was a mistake for you.“

“No, it wasn’t a mistake!” he protests, his tone sounding more insistent than he’d intended it to. He mentally smacks himself - he’s the one who started telling her that it was a mistake, why in hell is he sounding so mad now that she’s agreeing with him?

He reaches out, wrapping a large, strong hand around her wrist.

“I’m trying to explain myself and I’m doing a shit job at it, aren’t I?” he says, his voice half amused and half frustrated.

“Yeah,” she laughs lightly, breaking some of the awkward tension. “Yeah, you kinda are.”

Some of the tension between them does ease - her laughter is a good sign, he thinks. She’s relaxed enough to laugh with him, and so he can breathe a little easier.

“It’s just-“ he starts, trying to think of the best way to try and explain. He can’t say I’ve had feelings for you for months because he’s not sure she feels the same way.

She watches him fumble over his words for a minute, first trying this sentence then that. After a moment, some deity has mercy on him, and she decides to help him out a little.

Her hand, gentle, barely there - goes to rest on his shoulder. She’d squeeze his shoulder reassuringly if everything wasn’t broken or bruised right now. Instead, she settles for rubbing it gently up and down against his arm.

“Breathe. Tell me what’s going on in your head,” she offers gently, her kind eyes looking up at his.

She’s the only one who knows him like this, he thinks. The only person in the world who would know when and how to give him a moment to collect his thoughts, knows how he prefers green tea or energy drinks instead of coffee, knows what his tells are.

He looks at her and finds the same kind face that become an integral part of his life and function over the last two years. Sure, it looks a bit different, with the cut on her lip and the bruise peeking out of her hairline - but the face is the same one that’s been unbearably patient with him on hard days but also kept his ego in check on the good days.

God, the timing may be awful, but… it’s her.

Her hand, small and gentle, rests gently on his shoulder, rubbing it up and down to help soothe him and calm his mind, and it works.

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as he gathers his thoughts - he has to tell her something, something that’ll let her know that what just happened was more than just some sort of a “mistake”, that there was something behind it.

“Talk to me,” she prompts him quietly.

He takes another deep breath, opening his eyes to look down at her. Her hand is still on his shoulder and he lets the feel of it ground him. He hesitates for a beat - he isn’t sure how she’ll react to what he has to say - but he has to say something, and so he decides to just speak and not think.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” he says, making sure to keep his tone firm, like what he’s saying is absolute fact.

“Okay,” she acknowledges, tone carefully neutral. There’s a pause there, a moment for him to think. A small, kind smile appears on her face, trying to reassure him. She can clearly see there’s something else he’s trying to say - he’s just having trouble finding the words.

“C’mon, you know the drill. Talk to me, even if it’s messy. And then…” she takes a deep breath, as if to steady herself. “And then we can figure it out from there.”

It’s what they always do - whenever he’s excited about an idea or rambling about a theory or trying to figure something out, this is what they do. She lets him ramble to her about it, no matter how disorganized or chaotic or downright crazy he feels he sounds. And then, they parse through the craziness together. It’s gotten to the point where people around the paddock joke that she’s the one who can understand what he’s saying when he’s like this - Lando will often drag Oscar over to her office before a meeting to have his ideas “translated from yapanese” for the team to understand.

He looks down at her, at that kind, familiar smile of hers, and he feels something in his chest relax and loosen. He knows how this works, how they work, and he lets himself fall into the familiar rhythm of it all, even if this is different than every other time they’ve discussed ideas or ranted about something - this is foreign territory, and that makes this all the more scary.

He takes another deep breath, looking down at her, and he just… speaks.

“That thing that just happened,” he starts, his voice still firm and insistent, even though his heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest. He looks down at her, and he makes sure that she’s not just hearing his words, but also listening to them.

“It wasn’t a mistake. It was…“

He hesitates again, struggling to find the best words to explain why he did what he did.

“It was…?” she tries to prompt. However, she’d be lying if she said her heart wasn’t also frozen in anticipation.

“…A confession.”

He says the word with such finality, as if now that the word has been spoken, it’s the absolute truth - as if it can’t be denied.

“A… confession?”

Her question makes him falter - he can’t quite read her tone, can’t figure out what that question means.

She can’t be that stupid, he thinks - she’s smart, one of the smartest people he knows - there’s no way she’d be that confused by the concept of someone confessing to someone else, so he can only assume that she’s asking him why he’s confessing.

Instead, what she does say comes completely out of left field for him.

“Look, it’s been a long night, and…” she trails off. It seems it’s her turn to search for the right words now. “And I get it. People do weird things when emotions or adrenaline is running high. I get it, I do.”

There’s a pause before she continues, finally settling on what it is she’s trying to say. “So I’d understand if that’s what this is. Was. Is. Whatever.”

His brain stalls when she speaks.

No, he thinks, no. That’s not what this is, this isn’t just some sort of “adrenaline rush”, this has been building up between them for at least a few months now, if not longer.

He stares at her, frozen as he tries to figure out what to say - how does he convince her that this is more than just a stupid thing caused by adrenaline?

“I- I’m giving you that out, I guess,” she finally says. “If that’s what you’re looking for.”

God, why the hell does it feel like her heart has suddenly forgotten how to do its job, beating irregularly instead?

She’s giving him an out - she’s saying that if he wants to just sweep this whole thing under some rug, she’ll believe him. She’ll believe him if he says it was just a moment of “weakness” or “high emotions”. That maybe that’s all it really was.

God above, that’s the last thing he wants - he’s spent the last month trying to keep his hands to himself, trying to keep his feelings in check…

“Hey,” she calls softly. Her voice sounds a lot less scared, a lot less uncertain than she feels. “I need you to talk to me, yeah?”

He looks down at her - her tone is still gentle and reassuring, telling him that she’s open to listen to him, that she wants to listen to what he has to say. It takes a lot for her to speak this clearly and calmly, especially given everything that’s happened, he imagines.

He reaches up and gently wraps his fingers around her wrist again - he needs to touch her, needs to feel her, needs to know that this is actually happening, that this isn’t some weird fever dream. She winces as his fingers wrap perfectly around the hand shaped bruise that’s already developing around her wrist. She tries to bite back the grimace before it slips out, but it’s still there. He instantly notices her wince, her grimace barely suppressed, and his hold loosens on her wrist almost instantly.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, his eyes scanning over the bruise that’s already forming around her wrist, anger flaring through him as he looks at the angry, dark mark. He gently prods at the bruise, testing to see just how bad it is.

“It- Shit- It’s okay, I should’ve been more careful.”

His jaw clenches when she winces again when he pushes against the bruise, and all he wants to do is go find her parents and beat the ever-loving crap out of them for having the audacity to put their hands on her like this.

He’s careful when his fingers brush over the bruise, his touch light as his fingers ghost over the injury.

“…You were saying something?”

Damn.

She’s so damn calm at the moment, and it’s making this all the more difficult for him. It would be easier if she was crying or yelling, because he knows how to handle those outbursts, but damn, she’s so put together right now.

His gaze softens as he looks down at her, his hand moving from her wrist to cup her face.

“You have to know,” he says softly, his voice steady, “that wasn’t a mistake.”

She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Her eyes look up at him expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate.

He knows that he should probably take a step back, give her some space as he tries to find the right words to help her understand, but he just can’t make himself do it. He keeps his hand on her face, thumb gently stroking over her cheek.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” he repeats again, his voice still soft and firm. “It wasn’t an adrenaline rush. It wasn’t a-“

He almost says he didn’t mean to do it, but the words feel like a lie. And he’s tired of lying.

“I- I’ve wanted to do it longer than I can remember,” he admits, his voice quiet. “And I don’t know if that makes me a horrible person or not, but that’s the truth.”

He watches her face, searching for a reaction, trying to figure out how she’s processing all of this. He hates the fact that she’s so stoic, so neutral - it’s not her. She’s expressive and animated and she’s always letting him know what she’s thinking.

She leans a little bit closer to him. Her eyes flit upwards, meeting his, before looking back down again, to where they’re both standing just inches apart from each other. They’re now standing so close to each other that she can feel his warm breath mingle with her own.

Then, she kisses him.

He’s frozen when he feels her breath ghost over his lips.

He’s not expecting her to kiss him, not after everything he’s just said. He��s expecting, if anything, for her to step back, to tell him to give her a minute to cool down. But, when her lips brush against his, it takes him a few seconds to register what’s happening. Once his brain does catch up, his reaction is immediate. His hand gently grabs her face, pulling her back in as he kisses her back.

The initial kiss this time is awkward, hesitant, clumsy. It has all the trademarks of someone who hasn’t really done this before. But it works nonetheless.

Her soft lips brush against his – once, twice. Right after is when she finally puts her poor heart out of its misery, and tilts her face ever so slightly so she can press her lips against his, her eyes falling closed.

The feeling of her lips against his is like electricity - he feels goosebumps erupt on his skin, and he lets out a low sound from the back of his throat as he responds to the kiss. He gently cups her face, tilting her face up more, wanting more - needing more contact, needing to feel her and taste her.

She can taste him. He tastes like saliva and jaffa cakes and that little bit of toothpaste from when he probably brushed before bed. It’s so uniquely him that she fears she could get high on it.

The sound she makes when he deepens the kiss a little, his tongue slipping into her mouth, is a muffled thing, almost a whine. His brain is struggling to process everything that’s happening - it almost feels like he’s drowning in her, slowly drowning in everything that’s her. When they finally pull apart for air, their gazes are immediately drawn to one another.

His hand lingers on her face, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip - he can’t help the way his eyes are glued to her face. He tries to sort through the thoughts in his head, but most of his brain is just completely shut down right now, trying to process the fact that she kissed him.

She was the one that kissed him - she initiated, she made the first move.

“That was…” she trails off, breathless. Something akin to molecules of light dance in chest thrumming in her veins and tickling her fingertips.

He nods slowly, his lips curving into a small smile before he lets out a soft huff. “I didn’t expect you to make the first move," he admits, his voice quiet. “I actually thought you’d be mad as hell.”

“I kissed you back before too,” she reminds him.

He lets out a soft huff of laughter, his smile widening.

His gaze is still focused on her face, and his thumb brushes over her jawline in a soft, soothing gesture.

“That you did,” he agrees softly. “Why?”

“Honestly?” she asks.

“Honestly,” he affirms, his smile still on his face, his gaze still on her. He gently grabs her chin to ensure that she’s looking at him as he waits for her response - and so he can look at her.

“Because when you kissed me I was caught off guard, and so I just froze like an idiot,” she rambles. She takes a deep breath, trying to be a bit more calm and collected. “Because it felt like the right thing to do. And honestly?” she pauses. “Because it felt really, really nice.”

The confession makes his smile widen into a grin.

“Oh did it now?” he asks, his voice quiet. His tone is teasing, almost sly as his hand moves from her chin to her neck, his hand wrapping gently around it.

“It felt nice?” he repeats, his thumb gently stroking over her pulse point.

She hums thoughtfully. “Enough that I did it again.”

“You did,” he says, his grin never leaving his face.

He takes a step closer, his hand on her neck gently pulling her closer, his body now pressed against hers. “I think you need more experience though,” he murmurs, his voice quiet. “You should probably… practice. Frequently, if possible.”

“Yeah? You think so?” Her smile is small and weak, but it’s there.

“Oh absolutely,” he agrees. He loves the fact that he’s the one who’s making her smile when a minute ago, she was trying so damn hard to stop crying.

“I think it’ll help you… perfect your technique,” he says, his voice quiet as he moves his hand from her neck to her hair, playing with the strands of hair. She shuts him with another kiss - this time, her lips lock firmly against his, her hands splayed out flat against his chest.

This one takes his breath away.

His response to the kiss is immediate, nearly automatic. His hand in her hair moves to her waist, pulling her closer as her hands make contact with his chest. He makes a soft sound in the back of his throat - almost a moan - as she kisses him, as she’s pressed up against him.

“…How’s that for technique?”

His brain takes a few seconds to turn itself back on - he’s practically stupid after that kiss - but he eventually manages to put together a response. He lets out a soft laugh, his hand moving from her waist to her hip, holding her close against him.

“Oh yeah,” he agrees, his voice slightly rough. “That’s a good technique, yeah. But I think you might need a few more… practice rounds. To truly get a feel for it.”

“Oh? Sounds serious.”

“Very serious,” he says, his voice still hushed, his fingers now tracing soft lines up and down her hip. “It’s important to be well-practiced in this skill.”

His hand moves from her hip to wrap around her waist, grabbing her more intently, his hand spanning the entire width of her waist.

“And I don’t mind providing the… equipment you’ll need for more practice.”

“Hmm,” she hums, pretending to consider it. “I could be talked into that. Maybe over coffee…?”

His grip on her waist tightens - just briefly, just for a moment - at her words. His brain is struggling to put words together right now, and the idea of coffee with her doesn’t help. He’s trying to get his head to stop spinning, and the last thing he wants to do is say something stupid, but all he can think about is her - the feel of her, the taste of her lips.

“Yeah,” he manages, his voice still hushed. “Yeah, coffee. Coffee sounds nice.”

She gives him a small smile. It's faint, but at least it's there.

Standing close to him, she lets her bods lean in against him. Her head falls against his chest as the two stand there in his bathroom. Silence envelopes them, allowing her a moment to breathe. It's been a whirlwind of a night, with both highs and lows.

He lets her lean against him, wrapping one arm around her waist and pulling her tight against him, his other hand moving to gently cup the back of her head, his fingers gently stroking her hair.

He’s silent as well, his chin resting on her forehead as his hand strokes her hair. He’s not thinking, not really. He’s just existing, just… feeling the comfortable weight of her against him.

“Sit down on the counter, yeah?” he says, his voice still soft. “And take your shirt off, I need to see the damage.”

"No."

His hand that’s been gently stroking her hair stills at her response. “Why not?” he asks, his voice still soft and gentle. “I won’t hurt you, I just want to check you over.”

"I'm not taking my shirt off," her voice shakes. Oh, right.

He realizes the issue. “I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to,” he says quietly, his eyes focused on her face. “But I’ll have to patch you up, and I can’t do that with your shirt on. Just your top half, yeah? I won’t look at anything else.”

"I..." her voice quivers, as she tries to think of a way out.

“You don’t need to be embarrassed or scared,” he says quietly. “It’s just me. There’s nothing I haven’t seen,” he assures her. “I just want to fix you up a bit. That’s it. I won’t look anywhere else.”

"It- It's not that..." she eventually stammers out.

“Then what is it?” he asks, his voice still soft and gentle. “You can tell me.”

"I, uhm, can't?" she says awkwardly so it almost sounds like a question.

“You… can’t?” he asks, a frown settling on his face as he tries to work out what she means. “What do you mean, ‘you can’t’?”

"My left shou-" she grimaces in anticipation of what she's about to tell him. Fuck this.

His frown deepens at her grimace - a sense of foreboding and worry sets in. “What’s wrong with your left shoulder?” he asks quietly, dread already building inside of him.

"My left shoulder," she tries again. "I can't, uh, move it much."

It's dislocated, she should tell him, but she can't seem to bring herself to say the words.

His heart nearly stops in his chest at her words. God, what have her parents done to her?

He tries to keep his voice calm and even when he responds, but it’s a struggle. “You can’t move your left shoulder at all?” he asks quietly.

"Just this-" she says, demonstrating by moving her arm about four, maybe five inches off her side. She winces when her shoulder screams in protest.

“Your shoulder is dislocated, yeah?” he asks, trying to keep the worry and dread out of his voice. “That’s why you can’t move it?”

"Yeah," she answers..

“How do you know it’s dislocated?” he asks quietly, his voice still steady.

“Not my first rodeo,” she says, an attempt at humor to break the tension. He desperately wants to ask who did it, what happened. He doesn’t want to press her for the details now, when she’s in enough pain as it is.

He’s silent for a moment, trying to figure out the best strategy to take her hoodie and shirt off.

“Alright,” he says eventually, his voice soft. “I’m going to take your hoodie off, yeah?”

Hesitantly, she nods.

He hesitates for a moment himself, worried that he’ll do more damage to her shoulder - but there’s no way around it.

He gently grabs the hem of her hoodie, and starts to carefully pull it over her head. A slight gasp escapes his throat as soon as her bare arms and collarbone are revealed.

“Ahh!” She bites her lip, trying to muffle the sound as white hot pain shoots up through her shoulder at being moved.

His hands release the hoodie and pull back the minute he hears her gasp, his jaw clenching to stop himself from swearing. His eyes roam over her collarbone and arm, taking in the deep bruises and angry red scratches.

She’s biting her lip so hard she’s worried it’ll split open again. Fuck, moving that shoulder hurts. She’s trying her best to contain it, but hot tears prick at her eyes.

Oscar’s gone concerningly still in front of her.

The moment the hoodie finally comes off and he’s left with the full view of her body, the breath gets stuck in his lungs. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t bruises and scratches and scars. God, the sight of it feels like a damn sucker punch to the chest.

He wants to say something, anything - but he’s so incredibly angry that words just don’t come. He’s paralyzed by anger for a moment, before he’s able to pull himself together - but the fury is still there. The sight of her bruised, cut and beaten body in front of him, her arms covered in scratches, her collarbone a mess of deep purple, and her lip split… it’s a rage he’s never really experienced in his life. He has to take a deep breath to keep himself composed.

Once it’s finally off, she lets go of the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Immediately, her gaze goes to Oscar’s face to note his reaction.

He does his best to keep his face neutral, although his expression still betrays a hint of anger and outrage. He doesn’t want her to know how much it all angers him - because, knowing her, she’d try to say it wasn’t as bad as it looks or that it’s not a big deal.

But to him it is. It’s the biggest deal in the world.

She sits before him now in just a bra and pants, and his eyes take the opportunity to scan over the upper half of her body. He takes note of each detail - the bruise beneath her hair line, her split lip, the one around her wrist.

Scanning lower he finds more. When he finally takes a look at her torso, he has to try and force himself not to visibly react.

It isn’t easy.

There’s a nasty bruise on one side of her collarbone, he briefly wonders how much force it actually takes to bruise a person’s collarbone. He sees the shoulder he’d reset for her - it looks sore still, but it seems to be doing marginally better.

But what his gaze lingers on is the parts he didn’t get to see before - the deep blue mark that blooms on the left side of her rib, the deep red scratches on her side and her forearm that were previously concealed by the hoodie.

He lets his eyes linger over each bruise or injury that he finds. Every single one of them makes him angry again - that somebody put their hands on her body, left their mark on her skin, hurt her.

She can feel her heart rate spike when he moves closer, but she does her best to stay perfectly still for him. Seeing the way she tenses up and her heart-rate increases, he knows that she’s scared.

This is why I hate your parents so much.

“Lean back on the counter,” he instructs, his voice still soft. “Let me look at your shoulder.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She pulls in a tight breath, like both inhaling and exhaling hurt too much with the pain shooting through her arm.

He’s completely focused on her - all he cares about right now is getting her shoulder back in the right place and getting her patched up. He watches as she struggles to breathe through the pain, and it hurts him. It hurts him that he can’t do anything to help her, that he can’t take the pain away.

“It’s okay, it��s okay,” he says quietly, both for his benefit and hers. “Just lean back for me, yeah? Don’t worry about anything else. Just let me look.”

She leans back - gradually, as if it hurts her to move every centimeter. A shaky exhale finally escapes her once she’s leaned all the way back.

He takes a moment to survey her collarbone - it’s even more bruised up than he had originally thought. His eyes linger on one particular spot that looks an awful mix of pinks and deep purples, and he wants to rage until his vocal cords give out. But she needs him to be calm and logical right now, so he pushes down the anger as much as he can.

His eyes next move to her shoulder, and he grimaces slightly. The joint is visibly swollen, and it’s clearly out of place. A wave of nausea overtakes him as he thinks about how much pain she’ll be in when he moves it.

“I’m gonna have to move it into the right place,” he says quietly. “It’s going to hurt - but try and relax for me, yeah?”

Nodding, she takes a shaky breath. It’s then that she speaks up, voice strained.

“Could you… could you talk?”

He’s a little surprised by her request, but he understands why she wants it. Any sort of distraction will take her mind off the pain, so that’s exactly what he’ll do - he’ll talk. “Yeah,” he says quietly, his eyes focused on her face. “What d’you want me to talk about, exactly?”

“Anything,” she mumbles. “Just… Just talk.”

He hates that he’s about to cause her even more pain, but he knows there’s no way around it. The longer they wait, the more it’ll hurt in the end.

One of his hands reaches out and cups her cheek, gently stroking her bruised skin. “I’m going to count from one to three, yeah?” he tells her, his voice still quiet. “And on three, I’m going to move your shoulder back into place. Ready?”

She nods.

“Okay, here we go,” he says, his voice still soothing.

He places his other hand on her upper arm to get a good grip.

“One,” he begins slowly, his eyes fixed on her. “Two…”

He notices the way she’s tensed up against the counter, bracing herself for the pain. “Relax,” he instructs quietly, his thumb rubbing her cheek. “Just listen to my voice. Don’t think about anything else. One more counting till three, and then it’ll be done. Deep breath. Ready?”

Once he’s satisfied that he’s given her enough time to mentally prepare, and now it’s time to finally deal with her shoulder.

“Just listen to my voice,” he tells her again, his hand still gently stroking her cheek. “Okay, one… two-“

She nods. She’s just begun to inhale, when-

Without any further warning, the muscles in his arm tense as pushes her shoulder back into place.

“Shit!”

He’s never heard her scream like that before. His heart clenches in his chest at the pain she’s in, the way she’s screaming, the way he’s caused her even more pain.

“I know, I know it hurts but it’s done now,” he says quickly, keeping his voice soft. “It’s over, okay? You’re okay. Just breathe.”

She chokes out a dry sob, until it finally devolves into short whimpers of pain. He hates this so much. He hates the fact that her shoulder is in so much pain, that she’s sobbing, that he had to be the cause of it.

“You’re okay,” he repeats again, trying to reassure her. “It’s over now. I know it hurts, but it’ll get better. I promise.”

She falls limp against him from the exertion, as the whimpers meld more into soft murmurs, her breath hitching as her body adjusts to the relocation of the joint.

As her body slumps against his, he brings his other arm around her, gently guiding her into his chest. He holds her against him, hoping that the physical contact will reassure her.

“You’re okay,” he repeats again, speaking into her hair. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. Just breathe for me.”

She continues to whimper in pain, the soft whimpers being the only sound in the bathroom. Oscar feels as a few stray tears fall against the fabric of his shirt, wetting it.

His heart clenches in his chest at the feel of her tears. He can’t even begin to imagine how much pain she’s in.

“I know it hurts,” he repeats quietly, bringing one of his hands up to gently pet her hair. “I know it hurts, love. But it’s almost over, I promise. You’re doing so good. Just breathe for me, yeah?”

She gives him a weak nod. Feeling a bit more settled at that, she resumes leaning against him. Eyelids droop, heavy with exhaustion - it has been a long night.

He feels the way she’s gradually going limp in his arms. He understands that she’s been through enough tonight. “Let’s at least get you seated, yeah?” He suggests quietly. “You look tired. We need to get you taken care of and then you can rest, alright?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, nodding into his chest.

Her voice is soft when she speaks, like a cool balm. “I am sorry.”

He almost laughs at the absurdity of that statement.

“Don’t apologize,” he replies, shaking his head. “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.”

“For throwing this all on you, I mean. I… I should’ve thought twice before putting all this on you – I know it’s a lot. I didn’t mean to bring you into this mess when I called you tonight, and that’s on me,” she explains.

How is she even worried about him right now? How? He almost wants to laugh, she’s so ridiculous. “Don’t you dare apologize,” he mutters, gently tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Don’t- I- God, you have absolutely no reason to apologize, alright? So just... stop.”

“You’re upset,” she replies, observant. “Maybe I’d even say angry, if I didn’t know you any better.

He tries to find an argument against her claims - he tries hard. He tries to deny it, at least a little bit, to make himself seem better somehow. But he can’t, and she’s too observant to let him slip one past her anyway. “Maybe angry is a generous assessment,” he admits, his jaw clenching again.

Her eyes are drawn to his face, waiting for him to elaborate.

“I’m pissed,” he finally responds, his voice still somewhat restrained. “God, I’m pissed. I’m angry. At them - at your parents.” His eyes dart to hers to check her reaction, to see if he’s crossed a line.

“You have no idea how angry I am, actually,” he continues, his frustration rising more and more by the second. “I am… furious. They laid a fuckin’ hand on you.”

She listens to him while she reaches out to gently clasp his hand in her own, bringing it closer to her, guiding him to rest his palm in the space between her fractured collarbone and where her bra covers her chest. His hand is placed directly over where her beating heart lies.

“Do you feel that?” she asks softly, looking up at him.

He nods wordlessly, his anger and frustration momentarily subsiding to give way to the feeling of her heart beating. Her pulse is thumping against his palm, her heart racing beneath the skin of her chest, and all he can do is watch her intently.

“I’m here,” she whispers, brushing a loose lock of hair back from his forehead. “I’m alive, I’m okay.”

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until the moment she touches him. His shoulders sag as he lets out a breath, his hand gently rubbing the skin where her heart beats as if it would help soothe his temper.

“You’re not okay,” he replies quietly. “You’re... the opposite of okay, Y/N. I don’t know why you’re trying to pretend like you are.”

“I’m alive,” she counters gently. He wants to argue - he wants to tell her that being alive doesn’t mean being okay. He wants to insist that she’s not okay, to try and convince her that she’s been hurt, that she-

But he knows that it’s a pointless exercise. She clearly refuses to admit there’s a problem. Instead, he shakes his head in frustration before gently shifting his hand to graze her injured ribs.

“You’ve made your point, Oscar,” she concedes quietly, wincing at the contact - a very real reminder of the damage done.

He knows he’s won the argument, but he doesn’t quite feel victorious.

“So why are you still pretending like you’re okay?” he asks, shifting to sit on the bed next to her.

“I felt bad for making you worry. I feel relatively okay, I mean.” She pauses for a moment, and her voice gets quieter.

“When I called you tonight…” The way she suddenly drops her voice has his jaw clenching again.

“What about it?” he asks, trying to keep his voice patient. It’s like he wants to hear what she has to say but is also dreading the answer at the same time.

“When I called you tonight…” she says, trying desperately to make sure her voice doesn’t shake. “It was because I thought I was going to die.”

There. It’s out in the open now.

“I called the front desk at MTC first, and then my friends, but it’s the middle of the night, so naturally, they didn’t pick up. Yours is the only other number I know off by heart.” She exhales, letting out a soft chuckle. “I guess I’ve had to call you so much for work that dialing your number was muscle memory.”

She takes a deep shaky breath, before continuing. “So yes, I know things are bad. God, you don’t think I know that? Of course I do. But right now I find it hard to throw myself a pity party when I’m so fucking grateful to be alive, to have gotten out, to be here.” With you. To be here with you, she was going to say.

“So, there it is,” she mumbles. It’s there, out in the open for him to hear and dissect and know. The confession is a lot to take in, especially coming from her. She’s always so collected, so composed, so good at keeping a cool head. He takes a moment to try and process everything she’s just told him, his mind struggling to grasp the reality of it all.

“You-” he begins, still struggling to find the right words. How do you tell someone that you’re glad they’re not dead?

He eventually settles for reaching forward and wrapping his arms around her, pulling her to him gently for a careful hug.

“I..“ he begins, stumbling over his own words as he struggles to get his mind to form a coherent sentence. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m so goddamn glad you’re here,” he finally manages to say, resting his forehead against hers.

Foreheads touching, his face so close to hers… the moment is quiet and intimate. It makes her glad she’s alive, that she didn’t die before she could experience this with him, that she’s here with him now. Her eyes are closed but a few tears of relief slip past anyways. The feeling of her tears against his skin nearly breaks him in half, and it’s everything he can do to reign in his own emotions right now. Just hold it together for her. That’s all he has to do - just hold it together long enough for her.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers as her tears wet his skin. “You’re safe now. I’m... I’m here, and you’re safe.”

“God, I was so scared, Oscar,” she cries quietly, shaking against him. Her words and her sobs send a sharp stab of pain through his heart, his arms clenching a little more, holding her a little tighter.

“I know, I know,” he mutters, his own voice shaking as he fights to maintain his composure. He can’t break down when he needs to be strong for her. “But it’s okay. You’re here, and you’re okay, and you’re safe.”

It takes a few minutes of reassurance before he feels like her crying is slowing. Her body is still shuddering in his arms though, and he lets her cling to him, letting her bury her face in his shoulder. His hand finds its way to the back of her head and he runs his fingers through her hair, trying to provide any comfort he can.

Finally, once she settles, her sniffles tapering off into what resembles normal breathing, Oscar tilts her head up to look at him. He notes the exhaustion in her face, in her body. It’s been a long night, for both of them.

“You need sleep,” he mutters quietly, his hand still tangled in her hair.

“Can’t,” she mumbles, giving him a small, lazy smile. “My really hot nurse won’t let me rest until he’s patched me up or something.” He rolls his eyes affectionately at her, unable to help a smile rise to his lips at her comment.

“Very funny,” he mutters, shifting his hand around to rub her jaw gently between his fingers. “Let’s get you cleaned up, smartass.”

“Least m’your smartass,” she mumbles under her breath, before carefully sitting herself upright again so that he can finally finish patching her up.

“You think I’d let anyone else call me a hot nurse?” he retorts, pushing himself up and standing in front of her. He takes a moment to study her body – all of her body – in front of him, trying to take stock of the damage.

“Would you?” she asks curiously, her head tilted drowsily.

His eyes take in the way she looks; disheveled, he concludes. Her hair is completely ruffled, the skin of her stomach littered with scratch marks and bruises, and god, those dark blue marks on her chest and collarbones - he has to push down the anger that threatens to rise to the surface again.

“No,” he replies after a moment, his eyes roaming over her body again. “Absolutely not.”

“Yeah?” she smiles softly, a glimmer of something sparkling in her eyes before she tilts her head back, closing them. He continues to work on her when he hears her mumbling.

“I think I like that.”

“Which part?” he asks, his voice soft as he wipes at a particularly bad-looking scratch. “Me not letting anyone else call me a hot nurse, or the fact that you’re the only one who does?” he teases a little as he continues to gently clean her.

She winces at the feeling of antiseptic against her cuts.

“Hmm, both,” she hums.

His heart leaps at her words, a little thrill of excitement rushing through his gut. He tries to hide the way his cheeks warm at that, busying his hands with cleaning a particularly ugly scratch on her collarbone. “And what if I also said you’re the only one I’d call my smartass?”

She audibly hisses at that one, her collarbone sensitive from the fracture. Trying to relax a bit, she focuses her mind back to his question. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” he hums in agreement, gently pressing another piece of gauze against the cut.

“I’ll be your smartass if you’ll be my dumbass,” she offers.

He actually laughs at that, a bright sound in the dark room. “I’m a dumbass, huh?” he asks, looking up from his work to smirk at her.

“My dumbass,” she corrects, “if this deal of ours works out.”

A small, happy smile rises to his lips at her words.

“Your dumbass,” he echoes, his heart fluttering again.

Your dumbass.

He could probably get used to that. He continues to work over her skin gently, carefully cleaning each bruise and scratch. “You know I don’t like sharing, right?” he says after a minute, breaking the silence with a hint of possessiveness in his tone. His face is twisted in careful concentration as he works, only pausing to smile or laugh or react to her comments.

She likes his smile, she decides. And perhaps his hair, too.

“Good,” she replies. “Me neither.”

“Goodnight” he says quietly, before slowly taking a step back and switching off the lights. He heads towards the door, quietly switching off a bedside lamp on the way out.

“If you need anything, just let me know,” he says, pausing by the door to throw a glance over his shoulder.

“…Osc?” she squeaks out, voice small. At the sight of Oscar about to go, leaving her on her own in this dark and foreign room - even if it is Oscar’s - has her heart beating a little harder in her chest. After everything that happened tonight, being left like this has something resembling fear melting her chest like hot wax.

This room is dark and foreign to her - she doesn’t have the layout memorized, or the exits, or hell, even the light switches. Which means that if she were to be in danger again–

“Yeah?” he prompts gently, his voice quiet in the dark.

“Do you…” she hesitates, before finally deciding to just do it. “…Could you stay?”

He pauses for a moment, the request taking him a little by surprise. “Yeah,” he replies, his voice quiet. “Of course I can stay.”

The anticipatory tightness in her chest loosens a bit at that.

He walks around to the other side of the bed before slowly slipping under the covers next to her. He tries not to think about the feel of her body heat next to his, as he adjusts his position slightly to try and give her as much space as possible.

She lays there for an unknown amount of time, but sleep eludes her. For some unknown reason, despite having the longest night of her life and being exhausted beyond belief, her body feels as taught as a live wire.

Still, she tries to even her breathing as a sleeping person would, making an effort not to keep shifting around. There’s a high probability Oscar’s asleep, and she doesn’t want to disturb him.

Oscar is, in fact, not asleep.

He’s acutely aware of her body next to his, every little movement, twitch and twist of her body. She’s trying to stay as still as possible, and for a minute he wants to point out that she doesn’t have to, that she can make herself comfortable - but then she lets out a small sigh of frustration, and he decides to say something instead. “Can’t sleep?” he dares to whisper, breaking the silence.

She freezes at the sound of his voice. Shit.

“Yeah,” she admits, voice small. “You?”

He gives a small shake of his head, keeping his voice low like .

“Nah,” he says, his voice a little groggy, “I’m awake.”

For a long moment, silence falls between them again. He can literally feel how tense she is.

After a long moment passes, she asks, “Why?”

That actually gets a small snort out of him. “Could ask you the same question,” he retorts quietly, shifting slightly in the bed. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Unh unh,” she tuts in denial. “I asked first.”

He chuckles quietly at her response. “Can’t shut my brain off,” he finally relents, keeping his voice quiet as he tries to answer her question. The comfort of night embracing them like a favorite blanket has a way of loosening people’s tongues. “Too much thinking going on up there right now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a brief moment of silence before he speaks again, his voice soft and gentle. “Can I ask you something?”

She hums drowsily, granting him permission.

He hesitates for a moment, trying to find the right words to phrase his question. “Why did you ask me to stay?” he finally asks, not sure whether he’ll get an honest answer from her or not.

“You’ll think it’s stupid.”

“I won’t think it’s stupid,” he reassures her quietly, shifting in the bed next to hers. “Just… tell me, alright? Please?”

She’s grateful she’s still turned away from him at this point.

“It just…” she trails off awkwardly, unsure how to explain. “I dunno. Just thinking about being here, on my own, after everything that happened at home…”

She shrugs. “Even thinking about it made me feel… kinda like antsy? I don’t know how to explain.” She huffs in frustration, trying and failing to find words that sound more coherent than whatever the hell this response has been so far.

“You… you make that go quiet.” She mumbles quietly. And then, even quieter: “You feel like… like safe, I guess.”

Oh.

He’s honestly a little stunned, at both her admission and her choice of words.

You make that go quiet.

You feel like safe.

After silence takes the place of any audible response from him, she painstakingly makes the effort to turn over so that she can face him in the dark.

“Is that… weird?” she asks nervously.

“No,” he rushes to reassure her, his voice quiet and a little strangled with emotion. “No, it’s not - I just…”

He trails off for a moment, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I just wasn’t expecting that to be your answer,” he admits hoarsely.

“Oh,” she replies dumbly.

He’s glad he’s lying in the dark right now.

She’s turned over to face him, and the thought that she’s laying a mere few inches away from him, with a bruised and battered body and telling him that he’s her comfort, is both the most amazing thing he’s ever heard and also so painful his chest physically aches.

He clenches a fist around the sheets.

“You want to know what I’m thinking?” he finally asks, taking the opportunity to shift the conversation away from her question.

“Always.”

“That if I ever met your parents,” he finally admits, his voice pained and his breath hot against her neck, “I’d probably break their goddamn jaws.”

She winces at his words. She turns away from him.

He immediately grimaces at her reaction, sitting up slightly in the bed as he sees her turn away from him. “No, don’t turn away,” he says quickly, his hand reaching out reflexively to grasp at her nearest arm.

He gives her arm a little shake. “Hey. Look at me,” he instructs, his voice low.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she replies coldly.

He falters for a moment, taken aback by the coldness in her voice. “And why’s that?” he questions, still reeling from her immediate retreat.

“Because I am tired,” she deadpans.

There’s a long moment of stunned silence as he processes her response, and then she hears his bed creaking faintly before his voice rings out in the dark.

“Come here,” he orders quietly.

“Why should I?”

“Because I said so,” he replies, his voice still quiet.

He shifts on the bed, moving closer to her. “Come here,” he says again, a hint of gentle firmness in his voice. Disguising it as stretching, she moves marginally closer to him. The second she shifts closer to him, he takes action, moving until he’s directly behind her. He scoots closer to her, his body curled protectively around hers, and wraps an arm around her torso.

“There,” he murmurs. “That’s better, right?”

She lets out a small huff. Just because being in his arms is surprisingly warm and comfortable and soothing doesn’t mean she’ll just forget what he said about her parents.

“It’s… fine,” she lies through her teeth. He needs to know that the matter isn’t resolved that easily.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure it is,” he replies sarcastically, not falling for her half hearted attempt at indifference.

“I know -” he lets out a quiet huff, his arm tightening around her before he even speaks. “- sorry for saying that. I didn’t mean to…”

“I- “

For once, he’s at a loss for words, his thoughts swirling around in his head.

He did mean the words. They were true for a reason, after all.

“Don’t -” he finally tells her. “- Don’t you dare feel sorry for them, you hear me? Just- just don’t, alright?” He shifts, moving his face away from her neck to speak. “You don’t need to feel guilty at all for the way they’ve treated you, and for the shit they’ve put you through,” he says fiercely.

She sighs exasperatedly, letting her eyes fall short for a moment.

He knows she’s not as receptive as he’d hoped, but he can’t stop himself from spitting out the next few words like a curse. “I don’t care that they’re ‘family’, or that they’re your parents - because they’re abusing you. They’re hurting you in the name of ‘tough love’ or whatever shitty reason parents think they have for treating their kid like that,” he all but growls out in the dark.

After a beat of silence, she asks quietly, “…Would you ever like to hear me say that about your own parents?”

He opens his mouth, and then closes it again. Once, twice, and maybe even three times, until finally, he manages to force out a response. “…That’s not the same,” he tries, and immediately wishes he had just kept his mouth shut. He sighs, swallowing hard before mumbling out a confession - “It’s just…“

He presses his face into her neck again, his breath coming in heavy, uneven puffs as he struggles to keep himself together. “They’re supposed to protect you, goddammit,” he grits out against her skin.

“Yeah,” she agrees softly.

“They’re supposed to care about you,” he all but mumbles into her skin, his fingers tracing circles mindlessly against her stomach as the angry words spill out.

“Okay.”

“It’s not ‘okay’,” he grits out.

He tightens his arm around her, shifting slightly until he’s got a thigh over her legs as if he’s holding her in place.

“You’re not the one who’s wrong here,” he adds, frustrated with the fact that she’s the one who’s bruised but he’s the one who’s getting choked up.

“Let it out,” she encourages softly, gently stroking her thumb across his cheekbone.

Goddamn it. Something about the way she says it, like she’d be willing to share the burden of the sky if that’s what he needs - it gets to him. He’s trying to be the strong one here, the one who’s supposed to be protecting her - not the one on the verge of a goddamn breakdown. But she’s just too damn sweet.

He lets out a quiet huff and buries his face in her neck again. “Okay,” she agrees. “Whatever you need.”

“Stop with the agreement thing,” he mumbles into her skin, his voice frustrated even though it’s lacking the edge from before and more filled with emotion.

He swallows hard, his hand tightening momentarily on her stomach. He’s angry at himself for so many reasons.

He’s angry that she got hurt and he can’t take away her pain. He’s angry that he’s got a goddamn lump in his throat right now because he can’t handle seeing her hurt. He’s angry that he’s the one getting emotional when she’s the one who’s supposed to be falling apart.

“Hey, hey, hey,” she coos softly, using her hand to gently guide his face out of the crook of her neck so she can actually look at him. “What is it? What’s going on in that head of yours, hmm?”

Those eyes are really going to be the death of him. He swallows hard, shifting slightly so he’s facing her a little better.

“I’m not supposed to be the one falling apart right now,” he admits, his voice coming out quiet - so quiet that he almost hopes she misses it. “It’s not… it’s not going how its supposed to go.”

“Oh?”

He lets out a frustrated sigh, his fingers tapping uselessly against her stomach.

“It’s not going how it’s supposed to - you’re supposed to be the one falling apart, and I’m supposed to be the one picking up the pieces,” he mumbles out, his voice still quiet.

“But now I’m the one on the verge of losing it, and you’re being annoyingly sweet and supportive and nice and I don’t know what the hell to do with that.”

“Okay,” she tells him, her voice all level and sure and reassuring. “Okay, that’s okay.”

He takes a shaky breath, and it’s taking everything in his power to not bury his face back into the crook of her neck because the feel of her skin against his might actually help.

“No-“ he shakes his head, his voice quiet again. “It’s not. It’s not okay. You’re supposed to be the one falling apart right now, but I’ve got… I’ve got this damn knot in my throat and I can’t tell if it’s anger or guilt or something else-“

“Breathe, Oscar. You gotta breathe for me, okay?” she says, gently rubbing her palm up and down his sternum in what she hopes is a soothing motion.

She doesn’t know that the gentle touch against his skin is a little too much right now, the feel of her palm across his bare skin and her voice in his ear and just the sight of her looking at him with that kind look in her eyes is making his head spin.

But he does as she says - tries to steady his breathing, letting it out in slow, even puffs as her palm moves up and down his chest. “There we go,” she says, giving him a drowsy smile. “Just like that, yeah? You’re doing so well f’me.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, clenching his jaw for a moment because of the way her words make something in him flutter. “That’s not helping,” he grits out, his voice coming out a little rough as he takes another slow, shaky breath.

“Alright,” she says, her hand stopping its movements. “Okay, I’ll back off.”

“No, no-“ He shakes his head quickly, his fingers grabbing her wrist to bring her hand back down against his chest.

“Just- Keep going,” he says, his voice coming out gruff and quiet. “Don’t- don’t stop that, just-“

He swallows hard, closing his eyes for a moment. She can probably tell he’s still a little shaky, but she listens to him as her palm tentatively starts moving over his chest again, and she lets out a soft exhale. He closes his eyes when he feels her hand on his chest, a slow exhale of breath leaving his lips involuntarily as her palm glides across his skin.

He lets go of her wrist and moves closer, his head dropping against her shoulder, and mumbling into her skin. “M’sorry. I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “This is dumb. I’m freaking out over nothing.”

“Is that what you would tell me if the roles were reversed?”

“No,” he responds, almost immediately.

He would tell her that she had every right to feel what she felt, and he would pull her close and tell her that she should let him help carry the burden, and he would do anything to keep that sweet, broken look off her face.

“Then I need you to believe me when I say – I get it. I understand why you’re freaking out – anyone in your position would. You can’t be calm and collected 100% of the time, and no one expects you to. No one.”

Her hand traces broad strokes around his body - across his chest, over his shoulder, up to his cheekbone. She finds herself playing with the locks of hair that keep flopping onto his forehead.

He tries to steady his breathing as her hand continues to glide gently over his body, the touch of her fingers against his skin and the feel of her body so close to his is making his head spin all over again. He feels himself shiver as her fingers brush over his cheek and through his hair, leaning into the touch. “How are you always so goddamn patient with me,” he grumbles, lifting his head slightly to look at her.

She shrugs.

In the sacredness of whatever this bubble is that exists here and now, the words slip past her lips before she can even think of stopping them.

“It’s like breathing.”

She’s really going to be the death of him one day. The fact that she doesn’t even need to think about it just makes him want to pull her close even more and press messy, thankful kisses against her skin. He swallows back the urge instead, trying to regain some of his composure. He lifts his head, taking her in as she continues to gently trace her fingertips over his face.

“You’re thinking something,” she notes, fighting back a yawn.

Her words drag his attention back up to her face, and he can’t help a small, lopsided smile at the fact that she’s tired right now because of how well she knows him.

“Is it that obvious?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe not to other people. But to me it is.” She gives him a small smile. “My whole life revolves around knowing you.”

He’s almost certain that he stops breathing for a moment, because her words are like a punch to the chest for multiple different reasons. Of course he knows how much of her work life centers around him, but it's the way she says it.

It means that she knows him better than anyone.

And, when paired with the fact that she’s half-naked - in his clothes, no less - and just inches away from him right now it just makes it even harder to control that flutter in his chest.

She brings him back to the present. “But I need you to talk to me,” she says, tentatively trying out the pet name again after he’d said no earlier. “Need you to tell me what you’re thinking so we can figure this out, yeah?

He pauses for a moment, then speaks, his voice low and coming out a little grumbly.

“If I tell you, you’re not going to like it.”

“Maybe. But keeping it in will only make it worse, won’t it?” she smiles sadly.

She waits for him to continue, her fingers slowly tracing the skin of his jaw. She can basically see the thoughts rushing through his head. He leans into the touch a little more than he means to, his eyes half-lidded as he tries to get the words out.

“It’s just…” he repeats, his voice coming out gruff as he swallows again. “It was so hard to stay calm, alright? I was trying so fuckin’ hard to stay calm, but Christ, you just…”

He takes a shaky breath. Before he can continue, she speaks.

“You did so well. You kept your cool, you were exactly what I needed when I called you to come get me tonight.”

“Oscar, you need to get it out of your system. I know you’re angry. Your allowed to be, as long as…” she pauses, taking a steadying breath. “Just… talk to me.”

He glances at her again, gauging how she’s reacting before he continues. He takes a shaky breath, swallowing hard.

“It’s just…” he repeats, his voice coming out barely a whisper now. “When I saw you… and all the… the marks, and the cuts, and the… the scratches-“

He breaks off abruptly, trying to regain control of his breathing. His fingers start tapping restlessly against her stomach again, trying to soothe himself.

“It just made me so… angry. And the fact that they left these goddamn marks on you- goddammit, you don’t understand how hard I had to resist just punching a wall right then and there.”

She nods in understanding, tucking herself a bit closer to him by leaning her forehead against his chest.

He lets out a shaky breath as she leans against his chest, his arms instantly wrapping around her, pulling her close - his grip isn’t hard enough to hurt her, but it’s tight enough that he has her completely pressed against his body. One hand comes up, reaching up to grab gently at her hair, guiding her even closer to him.

“I’m sorry I put you through that,” she mumbles, voice weary, against the fabric of his shirt.

He makes an instant noise of protest at the apology, shaking his head.

“No,” he says, almost sternly. “No, don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong, alright? None of it is your fault. ”

The emotions that have been curling in his gut like a hot coil fuel the stem of his words. “They’re idiots,” he continues, the word spoken fiercely. “They have no idea how goddamn lucky they are to have you as a daughter, and even less of an idea about what they’ve just done to you.”

His hand in her hair continues to brush through it, almost on autopilot, trying to soothe her and him. Oscar is surprised when instead of staying silent or outright refuting what he’s said, he finds her mumbling against his chest.

“I guess so.”

He glances down at her when he hears her speak up, a little surprised to actually hear that she agrees with him. He pauses, then continues combing through her hair - she hasn’t complained yet, so he doesn’t stop.

“You guess so?” he says, gently pushing her. “You guess so? You’re so goddamn good, you have any idea how many people would kill for someone like you?”

“It's not that big a deal,” she murmurs.

“It is,” he shoots back immediately, a fierce bite to his tone. “It is a big deal. Don’t- don’t do that, alright? Don’t try to brush it off and pretend like you’re not the best thing that’s ever happened to me - to anyone.”

“I’m your assistant,” she says with a small smile, as she tries to stifle a yawn. With each blink she sees less and less of Oscar’s silhouette in the dark of the room, her eyelids heavy with sleep as she’s trying her best to stay awake to listen to what he has to say.

Oscar’s jaw clenches at the sound of her holding back a yawn - she’s probably exhausted and in some kind of pain, and that’s not even considering the emotional trauma she’s just been through tonight - and yet here she is, still trying to stay awake.

He glances down, noticing her eyes keep drifting closed, and he lets out a huff. “You’re much more than my assistant,” he mutters. “More than I deserve.”

He looks down to see what she has to say in response.

Only to find her fast asleep, passed out from exhaustion.

The warm cocoon of Oscar’s arm, the steady lull of his heartbeat, and the rhythmic feeling of his fingers running through her hair was enough to help her loosen up enough to finally fall asleep, it seems.

He looks down at her with a little smile - even asleep, she still looks like a goddamn angel.

He’s not expecting to sleep any time soon, he’s had enough caffeine on top of the adrenaline still pumping for him to be completely wired. So instead he just holds her - her face pressed in between his chest and shoulder, his arms wrapped around her, his eyes focused on the ceiling.

Part 2

a/n: if you stayed this far, thank you so much! i'd love to hear what you thought of it :) and credit to @saradika-graphics for the lovely dividers!!

#oscar piastri #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri fanfic #formula 1 fic #saffu's works #this took me so long #i think ive read this too much #oscar my beloved #they're in love your honour #oscar piastri angst #oscar piastri fluff #hurt/comfort #hurt/aftermath #tw: domestic violence #tw: abuse #tw: panic attack

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