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baepsaetan · 4 years ago

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Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) - Jungkook

Summary: You miss him so much, but it seems like getting to spend time with Jungkook is going to take a Christmas miracle.

Ao3 Link: here

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader, side Namgi

Length: 17.6k

Rating: Mature

Genre: Angst, fluff, hurt/comfort

Warnings: Suspicions of cheating, misunderstandings, panic attack, suggestive content, swearing

A/N: Oooof I am finally done my Secret Santa fic for @thebtswritersclub and only - *checks calendar* - too late. So sorry this is so late @jjeongukkie! It got so much longer than I had planned, and while I had a lot of fun writing it, I did not plan it quite well enough to finish in a timely fashion. Still, I hope you’re able to enjoy a last blast of Christmas vibes and fluff and angst as you slide into 2021! Thank you for your patience, and I hope you have an awesome new year!

I always appreciate all likes, reblogs and comments! If you enjoy reading this, send me an ask! Happy belated New Year to everyone!

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“You’re not coming home now?”

Even as you say it, you’re vaguely surprised you manage to get the words out. Your lips are numb with shock and disappointment, and Jungkook’s wince on the screen of your phone just makes the feeling even more jarring. More painful.

“I’m sorry,” he says, half pleading and half desperate. “It’s just, this project is so important, and we need to have it ready for rollout…”

Throat tight, the fingers of your free hand pushing into your thigh, you adjust the phone with your other before saying thickly, “You said it would be a few hours in the morning, Jungkook. It’s – it’s Christmas."

"I know, I know, I just..."

He’s still speaking, quick and anxious words about necessity and pressure, and while you’re listening, you’re thinking about the cute lingerie sitting next to you on the bed. You'd been planning a little gift for him when he got home, and when he'd surprised you with a Facetime request, you'd pulled them out of the drawer, thinking it might be a fun little tease to give him a flash of the red and black set. Now, though...

"Hey, Y/N, I'm sorry. Really." Biting at his lip, Jungkook somehow manages to look a bit pitiful, even with the dress shirt he's wearing, ironed to sharp definition. The collar of the black shirt is open, sans a tie – he’d mentioned this morning no one cared about perfect business attire while working over Christmas – and the bare curve of his collarbone just adds to the disjointed clash of his clean outfit compared to his dejected expression.

The look has your throat closing even more, and you try to force a smile. You're well aware of how stressful the new position has been for your long time boyfriend, seen the casualties of the job; late night arrivals at the apartment, distracted eyes while making and eating dinner, forehead creased with frustration every time his phone vibrates, fatigue that throws him into sleep before you and he have really even had any time to talk together. He's also been hitting the gym almost religiously lately, another outlet for stress, and while you love Jungkook's enthusiasm for staying active, two sessions a day, every day, is excessive for him. It also eats into what little opportunity is left for you two to spend time with each other.

But he's doing his best. You know that. You're sure of it. And he promised it would get better, soon.

Soon. So, you swallow the disappointment, and the thing that’s more dangerous, simmering below it and too perilously close to anger. You hitch on a smile, and hope it doesn't look quite as forced as it feels. "I get it, Kookie. I'm just sorry you have to work for so long. Will you be back in time for dinner?"

He hesitates, teeth still sawing into his lower lip as he jiggles his head indecisively and the camera frame shifts a bit. "I'm not sure but – probably?" Your expression must sink just as much as your stomach does, despite your best efforts, because Jungkook immediately grimaces, his hands making desperate little waves of abortive denial. "I mean, I will. For sure. I'll be home, okay?"

When he flashes a thumbs up, deliberately and extravagantly enthusiastic, you can't help but smile, just a tentative lift of your lips. "Just – I love you, Kookie. I hope we get to spend some of Christmas together."

"We will! Promise." Both hands are up now, clenched into eager fists under his chin, and he really couldn't look more earnest if he tried.

The smile comes a bit easier now, and you nod, feeling some of that enthusiasm reaching through the screen. "Okay." Taking a deep breath, you try to redirect the conversation, too painfully aware that sulking isn't going to help at all. "Have you eaten lunch yet? Don't miss it just for your stupid boss!"

His grin is a small, toothy thing. "Nah, I haven't. I –"

"Jungkook!"

"I was saving room for when I got home!"

"Hah! You think there's going to be food on the table for you?" This bickering is so much easier than anything else that you might say, and you fall into it with something like relief.

His eyebrows fall, nose scrunching dramatically. "On the table? Y/N, that's so unsanitary."

"So unsanitary...?"

At your puzzled look, the grossed out expression whirls away, replaced with a smirk that's so abruptly suggestive that you find your breath catching. The way his voice drops, becoming a low hum, just concentrates the effect. "I was saving room for you, of course. But I'm not gonna eat you out on the table, baby."

You huff in scornful incredulity, but it can't take back the fact that you almost choked a second ago. It also doesn't really hide the way your cheeks have heated up into a patchy red, and besides, Jungkook knows you too well. If anything, his smirk just gets even sharper, and he adds playfully, "Unless you have it on your wish list. Then I might consider it."

Fucking around with Jungkook on any surface is absolutely on your wish list, but you're too proud and currently too annoyed to tell him that. "With my luck, it would break trying to hold up your inflated ego."

"My inflated muscles, you mean," he says, and flexes. Which is just so obnoxious, and also the long sleeve hides his arms too well to be truly impressive.

"Do that again when you get home," you order imperiously, and immediately he bows his head.

"You got it, boss," he agrees, and it's that easy, sudden switch, that flexibility, that's at least part of the reason you love him so much. Jungkook is what you need him to be; he's always been comfortable with that role, and your flighty ass needs him in so many different ways. He's never failed you in that respect. Well – not much. You need him with you right now, after all.

Want, you remind yourself sternly. You want him, that's all.

Abruptly he stiffens, turns slightly. You hear someone speaking off camera, high and strained, and Jungkook replies in a confident voice, talking about something you don't have enough information on to fully understand. They have a short conversation before Jungkook says, "I'll be over in a moment, okay?"

Then he's turning back to you, the by now familiar crease back between his eyes. "I've got to go now, Y/N. I'll get out of here as quickly as I can, okay?"

"Okay. Love you, Kookie. And try to eat something."

He nods, curter now, already turning away from the camera. "See you soon."

And you're left with a call ended screen and no reciprocal "love you". The flicker of warmth that had been blooming in your stomach wilts until there's nothing but a cold tightness left. For a few minutes you scroll aimlessly through your apps and messages, fingers restless for something the phone can't give. There are too many Merry Christmas posts, too many pics of friends and family having a good time together with gifts and food, and it grows the hurt in your gut. You and Jungkook had decided not to travel to any of your families' gatherings, to save some money this year after a big and expensive move, but that had been with the assumption that you would be able to take comfort in each other. Now...

Before too long, you give up, toss the phone aside. It lands next to the lingerie, and for the time being you leave them both alone, suddenly anxious to get away from the remote device and the painful reminder both. Your apartment isn't large, and it only takes you a few steps to leave the bedroom and head to the kitchen. You spend several moments milling around there, but you've already prepped everything for dinner tonight; the only thing left to do is the dishes from this morning's simple breakfast, eaten long after Jungkook had already bolted his and left. You clean them with desultory effort, trying not to remember that you and your boyfriend had planned to make something fancy together. The restless feeling doesn't leave with the dishes done, and you check, doublecheck and triplecheck everything before you're even halfway to feeling like this part of the apartment might not need anything else.

The living room, attached to the kitchen, has been decorated with reckless abandon. You've got at least an ounce of beauty aesthetic in your bones, and so does Jungkook, but for some reason when put together it equals a pound of ugly. The tinsel – red, gold, silver, and green – is flung about the room over pretty much any surface that will support it, along with red and green lights. The Christmas decorations are a hideous mash up of whatever you and Kookie have scrounged together from your families or garage sales or cheap outlet malls, plus a few modest clay additions of your own making. Several of the larger succulents and other plants are bowed morosely under the weight of ambitious ornaments, and the cactus on the windowsill looks positively garish with a star perched jauntily on its crown.

And you love it all so much.

Remembering the absolutely wild hour or so that you and Jungkook spent together decorating the apartment – such a rare and precious moment, since you moved here – makes your eyes start prickling with unbidden tears. Jungkook's staggering workload hadn't been so bad, while you were working; acting as a long distance design consultant for a large collection of homegrown companies tended to keep you busy, and you hadn't noticed his absence in a way that demanded you address it. Now, though, with Christmas an enforced break, since none of your suppliers or other contacts will reply to emails, your loneliness curls itself up in your chest, all barbs and agitation. You’re beginning to suspect that maybe the long absences have hurt you more than you thought.

One of your projects is on the coffee table, the spread of files and print outs of possible designs covering the worn surface. You've always preferred working with physical copies for the initial stages, moving to a tablet for more detailed work. You fling yourself onto the couch, telling yourself you might as well do something productive and hoping it might provide a distraction. That lasts for about half an hour, but it's a constant fight to keep your thoughts on the papers in front of you. The unhappiness is curdling your concentration, and more and more you're aware of a simmering resentment, sharp and insistent under your sadness.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. There'd been so little conflict about moving when Jungkook got the job offer. You were already working remotely, and while the pay increase at Jungkook's new company wasn't that much, it was the promise of what could come that made it nearly impossible to turn down. Saying goodbye to your family hadn't been an issue; you were already living in a different city than them, settled there after university. It had been harder for your boyfriend, but not impossible, and despite both of you leaving friends behind, you'd left with excitement. Hope. The future opening up before you two, together.

With a sigh, you shove the papers away. Leave the living room and take shelter on your bed. Send and reply to some Christmas messages. Make a face at the snap Jin sends you, a little blurry, his flushed cheeks matching the red reindeer antler headband he's wearing. He's holding the gifts you sent several weeks ago, an adorable pair of windup salt and pepper shakers shaped like teddy bears that can walk across the table, along with a few duck-shaped strainers. The caption makes you snort. I'm bearly making it without you, sis. I'm like a duck out of water. The next snap is clearer, of him and his two roommates, Jimin and Hoseok, all making heart signs. Thanks for the gifts! Hope you have a Merry Christmas!

He's in the same city as your parents, and you know he spent yesterday with them. Looks like he's having a great time with his roommates, too. Before the affection can sour, you save the photo and put your phone down again.

Kitchen, living room, bedroom. A discontented circuit you don't know how to break yourself out of. It feels so dumb to be making yourself even more miserable like this. You should phone one of the few friends who aren't with their families, or maybe your parents – hell, you could even phone Jin, he and his roommates would be sure to talk with you for an hour or two. But the thought of admitting you're alone, Jungkook having chosen work over spending the holiday with you, has your shame rising to scalding levels. The mere prospect of hearing and seeing everyone happy while you’re alone is another hurt, one that makes you curl up more tightly on the bed, clutching his pillow to your chest like it could fill up the hollowness settled in your lungs. Just like all of the sheets, it has his scent, light and flowery and soft, and it inspires an aching, cloying feeling that isn't really close enough to comfort, but you hold it tighter anyways.

The day drags on like that, swamps of self-pity drained by bursts of frantic activity. You clean up a bit more, work on a project, watch some TV. And then the rush of drowning loneliness fills up your lungs again and you're reduced to more aimless pining.

By three, with no texts from Jungkook and the need to start cooking soon looming large on the horizon, you send him a message. Hey. Gonna be home soon?

About half an hour later, you add a ? that still gets no immediate reply, and agitated tension has you wondering if you should call him. But what if you interrupt something? Get him in trouble? Worrying the thoughts ragged in your head, you resolve to give it just a little more time. Hell, for all you know, maybe he’s on his way home now.

At around four, your phone starts vibrating. Not a Facetime request, this time, but the name that pops up is welcome all the same. You answer almost breathlessly. "Hey Kookie!"

"Hey Y/N."

Right away you know this isn't the kind of phone call you were hoping for. Jungkook's voice is gravelly and tired, more like a bruise than a sound. Your shoulders slump, and you can't find it in yourself to say anything.

Your boyfriend tentatively breaks the silence a moment later. "Y/N, I'm sorry. Things are spilling over and I'm not going to be able to leave for awhile longer."

"..."

"Y/N? Are you -"

"How much longer?"

You can practically hear the wince. "I'm not sure yet."

"Jungkook..." But once again, the words catch in your throat, trapped by just how ungrateful and immature you feel.

"Look, Y/N, I was thinking. Maybe, if I come home too late, we can move dinner to tomorrow? I'm definitely going to be home all day, so we can have a nice breakfast and dinner and maybe open our presents and..." There's nothing in the quiet between you two. Certainly not your agreement. "I know I messed up and that this isn't fair to you, Y/N, and I'm sorry. Maybe – couldn't we just... reset? Start Christmas for real tomorrow?"

"Reset?" you repeat. "Like – what, like one of your video games?" The swampy depression is bubbling now, surging with the outrage that's been building all day.

"No, that's not -"

"We can't just reset, Jungkook. This isn't a level you get to just do over!"

"I know that, that isn't what I meant, you're -"

"I've been waiting here all day, Jungkook! By myself! Just waiting here for you! Do you get how bad that makes me feel?"

Jungkook sounds choked when he replies, though it's hard to tell if it's from guilt or anger. "I know I've made you wait, and I'm sorry. But the project -"

"I don't care about the fucking project! You should have told them to fuck off when they asked you to work!" You're full on shouting now, eyes stinging with tears, the sound tearing from your throat. "This has been the worst Christmas I've ever had, and you just want me to forget about it?"

His voice doesn't get louder. If anything, it gets quieter, smaller, coiling in on itself into a tight mass. "Do you think I'm having a good time? I've been working since 8:00 on Christmas day! It's not like I asked to come in, and they barely gave me a choice! I'm the junior here, do you think they would have been okay with me shrugging today off?"

"Today? Today?" Your laugh sounds too cruel, even to your own ears. "It hasn't just been today, Jungkook! This is just – more of the same! More ditching me – ditching us – for work. For some stupid reason I thought that you might consider Christmas an important enough day to knock it off for just one fucking second. But I guess not."

"I'm doing this for us! For – I told you how much work it was going to be! I thought you'd be okay with it!"

"And I thought there might be a tiny little exception made for Christmas. I guess we were both wrong!" you spit furiously.

There's a pause, heavy with the sound of both of your staggered breathing. You're too angry to regret what you've said – or at least, to acknowledge how much you regret it – and the bewildered hurt is travelling straight to your head, leaving you dazed and disconnected. Could Jungkook really have thought you were okay with what's been happening? Okay with being left alone for what feels like months now? How can you be listening to his tense exhales and still not understand the person on the other end of this call?

"I'm sorry, Y/N." Too polite, too gentle by far. Where the hell did he get off sounding like that? You know that's Jungkook – that he's far more likely to shutdown during an argument, to close off – but it leaves you clashing against air. No opposing force to clamp down on your own anger.

Heaving in a sharp exhale, shaking your head even though he can't see it, you say, "Do what you want, Jungkook. I'm not making the dinner if you're not leaving right now."

"Y/N..."

"Merry Christmas." You hang up.

It feels horrible. The phone is a dead weight in your hand, the anger an even heavier weight in your heart. You make a fractured noise, a frustrated scream that quickly trails into a barely checked sob. If you felt bad before talking to Jungkook, it's nothing compared to the mix of self-recriminations and resentment assaulting you now. He was just - why did he have to - why couldn't he -

Why did I have to say that to him?

You know Jungkook. How hard working he is, how dedicated, how keenly he wants to do well in front of and for others. He isn't working late because he doesn't want to see you; you're sure of that. It's just an inability to say no to his superiors. And... and you really haven't told him how unhappy you are with how often he's away.

But still. Couldn't he figure it out? Did you need to spell out your misery for him to get it? Is that really what your relationship amounts to?

Another aggravated exhale parts your lips, and you start pacing faster, needing the release. The next few hours stretch in front of you with wretched promise. What do you do now? Just wait by yourself until he gets home? Have to see his ashamed, hurt, averted eyes, the way he would creep into the apartment with a shield set between you and him? And then what? Go to bed with that block between you two, wake up and somehow try to pretend it doesn't exist tomorrow?

The tears flow down your cheeks despite your hands’ furious attempts to press them away and there's no way to stop them once they've begun. You cry, the way people often cry when they’re lonely, like silence is their only companion and they're afraid of scaring even that friend away. Quietly, then, no longer trying to hold the tears back but unable to give voice to the magnitude of your pain, either. The wet, soft sobbing quickly sends you back to bed, where you curl up once again, struggling for some kind of self-control.

God, you just miss him so much. Not today, not now, not – it's a void of the little things. The snicker when you berate him for being messy. His warm, gentle hands on your neck after a day hunched over a project, massaging out the pain. A little giggle as you watch a Ghibli film together. The shoving matches when you're out shopping and competing for who can get the most stuff on the list. The quick kisses and the slow kisses and the deep, hungry kisses that always lead to you waking up in his arms the next day, far later into the morning than usual.

You miss him so much, and you just pushed him away even more.

With a muffled sob you push your face further into the pillow, hating how pitiful this is, how much you're struggling to get your emotions under control. This is so – it's ridiculous, that's what it is. Childish. It's not as if you've lost Jungkook forever, and you haven't lost all of the things you love about him, either. It's not like you never goof off anymore, or cuddle, or talk. It's just – it's just that everything has been so much more frantic, hurried, and stressful since the move. It seems like there's never a moment where you can just sit together and love each other and think of nothing else.

The anger, remorse and dejection feed off each other, first growing and prolonging the wrenching feeling choking your throat, and you cry until time doesn’t mean much anymore. The grief is so horribly thick it’s like you can’t even breathe through it, let alone do anything but lie in bed. It goes on and on and – and then exhaustion overtakes your convulsive crying. Eventually, without ever actually being filled, the hollow ache contracts into a hard pit, the tears all forced out. Nothing else, though. The guilt and resentment and sadness are still there, dulled to a grey, insubstantial mass.

But at least you can think a bit. Listlessly, with all the colours drained out of it, but you can do more than sob. Wiping at your clogged nose and tear-streaked face, you find you can actually breathe, something of an improvement. You sit up, gently set the pillow back on Jungkook's side of the bed, giving the soft material one last swipe, trying to rid it of the wet evidence of your meltdown. No luck there, but it'll probably be dry before your boyfriend gets home.

If he gets home.

The bitterness of that thought is too tired to summon more tears from the hole in your heart or your head. You shake it away, more because you're just too drained to cling to the heavy emotion than because of some angelic impulse to forgive.

You know you have to do something. Anything. Literally anything will be better than just sitting here, waiting for Jungkook to come in, getting pricklier with each passing minute. With the Christmas dinner off the table, you suppose you could just pick up something to eat. Fast-food or something... have it ready for him to heat up when he was done work... like you're some trophy girlfriend.

Once again you need to stop yourself, biting back the wave of resentment. God, this isn't doing you any good, and it's so, so unfair to Jungkook. Yeah, maybe he shouldn't have agreed to work on Christmas. Maybe he should have been more sensitive to how far you've been drifting apart because of his long work hours. But at the same time, yelling at him over the phone wasn't the answer, either. He's probably having as bad of a time as you are, and with no private room to cry in, either. He'll be totally repressing the argument now, shoving it into a locker and subconsciously telling himself he's to blame, that he's a horrible boyfriend. Trying to listen to his coworkers and do his work with those harsh criticisms running low and dark through his head. That's how Jungkook is. He takes everything onto himself, especially if you give it to him.

Running your hands through your hair at the thought, pity clenching your chest, you abruptly get up. You and Jungkook definitely need to talk, and soon. But – but there's no reason to close out this shitty day with an even more horrible evening of strained silence and brittle rebuttals. Neither of you are particularly good at apologizing, even though you're both great at feeling guilty. You just don't have the words for it. So, unless you do something – make some gesture – this is just going to stretch into an awful, prolonged fight that isn't a fight at all, both of you retreating from each other.

It's unbearable. You can't stand it. So… you're going to do something about it.

Resolved, as resolved as you can be, you change out of your PJs. The weather's been quite warm, with no snow to speak of, so it's not like you need to bundle up much. After a moment of hesitation, you choose to snag the ugly Christmas sweater. It's got a comically drawn pink bunny on the front, absurdly muscular, with a red Santa hat settled firmly between its ears, and a myriad of red and green patterns crammed into the background. It was the rabbit's expression and the accompanying phrase that had got Jungkook to laughing until he was doubled over when he'd seen it at the mall last year. A challenging, almost intimidating grin is plastered on the rabbit's face, with the words This Bun Don't Want None in cheerfully bedazzled white underneath. Your boyfriend had quite literally begged to get two and wear them to the upcoming Christmas party, and he'd been too imploring for you to say no.

Slipping it on, with the accompanying memory of his hysterical amusement, crinkled nose, and bunny grin every time he caught a glimpse of you at the party, is the closest you've felt to peace in the last few hours.

You throw on some dark jeans and apply your makeup with a thoroughness that's a little much, given that you're not going anywhere for long. You don't care; it feels good to dim the red-rimmed eyes and splotchy cheeks your breakdown has gifted you, to cover it over with something prettier. Finishing with the last of the mascara, you grab your transit pass and head out, closing the door behind you with a finality that could almost be a goodbye.

The air outside is cool, a relief compared to the stuffy apartment, at least for now. You inhale deeply, the mild cold burning your sinuses and clearing your clogged head a bit. In a while, you might regret not having a warmer layer on, but for now it’s a relief to begin to walk, to stretch both your legs and your mind from the cramped defensiveness the apartment had been inspiring. This is – this is a good idea. You’re positive about it now, and can feel your shoulders loosening, steps becoming brisker.

If Jungkook can’t come to you – well, you’ll just go to him. At least for now.

Your building isn't too far from Jungkook's work; you only have a short train ride and a shorter bus ahead of you, according to your phone. You’ve been to his work three times before, but always in your shared car, and you walk with eyes fixed on your screen, calculating the time schedules. Part of you wants to text him, send a little olive branch to smooth the way and let him know you’re coming, but a larger part longs for something romantic and cute to happen today. Fast-food might not quite cut it, but surely a surprise visit might? You won’t stay long, won’t interrupt his work, but just to see his face, confused and then quietly grateful and loudly gleeful when he realizes why you’ve come –

It seems like that shouldn’t be too much to ask.

The trip flies by; you're too anxious in your own head to notice much outside of it, and besides, there aren't many people out and about today. Probably busy celebrating with their families.

You bite your lip at the thought, and violently yank your attention away.

At this rate, you should sign up for a game of Olympic tag. Surely nothing can run as agilely as you've been doing, avoiding every uncomfortable idea.

Jungkook's work is downtown, and there are tons of fast-food options nearby. You pick a smaller chain, KTown Fried Chicken, that both you and Jungkook enjoy. It's hard to convince yourself the cashier isn't judging you at least a little bit for your weird presence on Christmas night. Or maybe she's just eyeing the sweater. That’s another possibility.

With only one other person in line, the food comes quickly, and then you're on your way. Somewhere between stepping off the bus and smiling awkwardly at the girl behind the counter, it occurred to you that you didn't know when Jungkook was actually leaving work. He obviously didn't pack up right away after your argument – he would have made it home before you left – but that doesn't mean he isn't going to be heading home some time soon.

What if you show up and he's not there? What if he shows up and you're not there? What would he think? It is entirely too much to ask your wrung out brain to decide if it would be hilarious, infuriating, or some kind of karmic justice, but you do know that you'd rather just catch him at work with this peace offering. Much simpler that way, so you hurry your steps, snugging your sweater a little tighter around your frame as you do so.

You make it to the imposing office building of Projeck at around six, which is, as it happens, when two of Jungkook’s coworkers are leaving the building. Jungkook talks about them quite a bit – actually, gushes might be a better word – and you’d met them at the office Christmas party a couple of weeks ago. Namjoon, a tall, elegant man with blonde hair currently dressed in a black turtleneck, is one of the lead game designers, and he holds the door open for Yoongi, an audio engineer. The older of the two, in an oversized, comfy hoodie markedly at odds with his companion’s attire, slouches through with a tired smile of thanks.

Both had made a good impression on you at the party (it helped that they were obviously fond of Jungkook and appreciative of his talents) and you’re a little relieved to see them. Solved the awkwardness of trying to get into the building without letting Jungkook know you were here. Both pause at the sight of you, confusion creasing their features, before a grin flashes across Namjoon’s face.

“Hey, Y/N! Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” offers Yoongi as well, shoving his hands into the pockets of the hoodie he’s wearing. His eyes are on your chest, a little furrow across his brow, and it takes you a second to realize it’s the bunny again. After a moment his lips quirk, quiet amusement in the expression, and it makes it easier for you to reply brightly.

“Hey Namjoon, Yoongi. Merry Christmas! Are you heading home?” The prospect makes you a little excited. If they’re leaving, surely Jungkook won’t be far behind?

“Yup,” Namjoon agrees easily. His head tilts a little, scouring over you quizzically, before his gaze finds the bag in your hand. “Are you bringing something for Kookie?”

“Yeah… He, uh, was working so late I thought it might be nice to surprise him with some food.” You say it more like a confession, shoulders tight with the knowledge that this is making you sound way better than you actually are.

Namjoon whistles, eyes widening. “Wow, that’s really nice of you.”

“I mean, I haven’t done much today so –”

“He’s not here.” Yoongi states it so bluntly that it takes you a second to process what he said.

“…not here?” you ask, dismayed.

“Nah.” As your stunned eyes fall on him, giving him your full attention, he shrugs uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. He left like… twenty minutes ago?”

“He did?” Namjoon demands, and Yoongi just shrugs again.

Clutching at the paper bag that suddenly feels pathetic and cheap, a stupid idea, you say weakly, “Oh.” You don’t know what else to say, and both of the men’s expressions are soft with a sympathy that doesn’t make you feel any less stupid. “I guess… I’ll go home, then.”

Shifting again, a movement that has him brushing briefly against Namjoon, Yoongi trails a hand up to his ear. “Uh, I don’t think he was going home? Or at least, not right away?”

"What do you mean?" Maybe he'd mentioned he was stopping to pick up dinner, too? Maybe the fast-food you're lugging around is even more useless than you'd thought? Why hadn't you texted him? Why hadn't you -

"He was asking me about the fastest way to get to, uh, the Golden Closet Gallery. I think he was dropping by there first."

"Did - did he say why?"

"Meeting someone? Maybe? I dunno, he's been quiet almost all day, and he rushed away pretty quick."

You stare at him, tired and confused and more than a little guilty at the mention of Jungkook’s withdrawn state. What are you supposed to make of all this? You know about the Golden Closet Gallery – of course you do. You and he went a couple times, early on after your move here, both of you taking a lot of enjoyment from the art displays. But – it couldn't be open now, could it? And even if it were, why would he be going? Who could he possibly be meeting? Was he trying to take a late tour to calm down? Something else entirely? And – it didn't even matter. It wasn't as though you could reach him in a timely manner.

You were just going to have to go back home, and – you weren’t sure. Certainly not eat. The thought of trying to swallow any food right now, with your stomach tearing itself into pieces of shivering disappointment, is too much. Maybe Jungkook would already be at the apartment by the time you got there. Maybe you two could just – sit together. Just be together.

You’re not sure what’s sadder; how much happiness that simple picture gives you, or how sad you are that it makes you happy.

Trying to straighten your crumpled expression, you smile. "Well – thank you for letting me know. Guess I get all of this for myself." Your laugh as you heft the fast-food bag is a small and lost thing. "Sorry to keep you guys. I hope you have a good night!"

You've just begun to turn away, aching to end the conversation before you start bawling in front of these two men, when Namjoon clears his throat, his gaze shifting to Yoongi for a moment. The other man jerks a shoulder, bobs his head, and Namjoon looks back at you. You shuffle a little, desperate to be away but not wanting to be rude to two of the few people at this company who actually seem to be lessening Jungkook's stress.

"Did you take the bus to get here? We could give you a ride if you wanted."

Your throat tightens, and you're already shaking your head before you've even thoroughly processed the offer. "No, thanks, I don't want to take you out of your way."

"Well, if you wanted to drop by the Gallery and see if Kookie is there, it wouldn't be out of our way at all. We live pretty close by." Yoongi nods in agreement, his round face scrunching reassuringly with something that's not – quite – a smile.

When you waver, Namjoon says with studied nonchalance, "Even if he's not there, Yoongi and I don't have any plans for tonight. We don't mind dropping you off."

Still, the thought of inconveniencing them because of your stupid planning – not to mention that you don't know them that well – makes awkward turmoil roil in your stomach. Reading your reluctant expression and apparently hesitant to press you, Namjoon relents. “Well, if you’re sure…”

“Y/N. Come on. We’ll save you a lot of time, and I’m sure Jungkookie would be mad if we didn’t give you the ride. He already throws stuff at me when he thinks I’m not looking; I don’t want him to start chucking shit that actually hurts.” Yoongi’s eyebrow is lifted, an inviting gesture accompanied by a smile with just a hint of gums, and you can’t help but respond, a rueful chuckle that slips out at the picture his comment puts in your head.

Jungkook had mentioned there were a few people he liked to mess around with at work, but somehow it hadn’t crossed your mind that the quiet and slightly intimidating man would be one of his targets.

It decides you.

With a sharp dip of your head, you assent. "Okay, okay. Yeah, sure, and thank you guys. It means a lot to me, and, umm, if you need gas money or something..."

Namjoon throws back his head and utters a loud, barking laugh while Yoongi chuckles. "The company doesn't pay us enough, sure, but I think we can afford to cover this trip, Y/N. Besides, Jungkook's been working overtime so often, I feel like we practically owe you for stealing him so much."

That leaves a sour taste in your mouth that you're quick to swallow. Grinning weakly, you follow the two to their car, a compact grey Honda that's seen better days. Namjoon tries to insist you take shotgun next to Yoongi, but you're far too flustered at the thought of taking his spot and practically dive into the backseat. The first few minutes are a little strained, the fast-food bag on your lap rustling every time you move. Namjoon shuffles through a bunch of Christmas songs on his phone and Yoongi hums to them under his breath, seemingly unperturbed every time his companion switches mid-note.

Eventually, though, Namjoon finds a song he likes enough to leave on, and you find yourself drawn into a relaxed talk with them. Yoongi throws in a comment here and there, and together the two of them are so – easy. They add teasing remarks about each other without pausing for breath, Yoongi praises an arching plotline Namjoon had finished storyboarding today, and when a particularly loud Christmas jangle comes on, Namjoon's already changing it before Yoongi has time to huff in displeasure. You know they're roommates – more than that Jungkook hasn't said – and there's something uplifting about listening to their comfortable conversation.

They don't leave you out of it, either. You talk about your home city. You talk about how you met Jungkook in university, when you both arrived late to a morning Intro to Computer Animation course and were locked out of the classroom as a result. (You'd whispered furiously at each other about who should knock first until another hectic student had come charging up, bleary with sleep, and literally ran into the door when it failed to open. That had pretty much dissolved the tension between you two.) On a wave of laughter from that story, you tentatively ask how the job has been for Jungkook so far.

He's always so keen to hide his stress, so anxious not to talk about it and burden you. It seems like these two coworkers might be a good way to get a better picture, rather than the stitched together portrait you've gotten from the late nights and short, hesitant answers he gives you. At the thought, you pull out your phone to see if he’s sent you anything, but you have no texts.

The laughter dwindles, and you hear Yoongi rattling the spit in his mouth loudly enough to be heard over the music as he makes a lane change. In the other seat, Namjoon runs a hand through his blonde hair. Their silence immediately winds you up, and your hand, holding the phone, falls to the side. Had Jungkook not been telling you something? Was it worse than the late hours? Was –

"This isn't a great company," Yoongi states flatly, when it becomes obvious Namjoon is still groping for something more tactful to say. "They make you feel like you owe them your finger bones just because they pay a bit above average, and if those aren't showing from hitting the keyboards enough, you're some kind of failure."

"Yeah..." Namjoon sighs. "They tried that with me, but Yoongi's been there for several years, he's the best they've got in the audio department, and he made it clear that if I left, he would too. So they pulled back a little. Jungkook, though..."

"He doesn't say no. I've told him to – told him I'll throw in for him – but he's really afraid he's gonna get tossed. Can't blame him. People get fired too easily at Projeck." His voice is disinterested, but Yoongi makes another lane change, too abruptly this time, and that, plus his tight grip on the steering wheel, is a hint that he’s not quite as untouched as he sounds.

You press your back into the seat, trying to give yourself a semblance of a spine as your whole body threatens to fold. You'd had an inkling that Jungkook was maybe conceding too easily to upper management, but it sounds like he's having way more than a little pressure to work late put on him. This – actually this sounds toxic. Crippling. And Jungkook hadn't said anything about it.

And you barely asked.

Gnawing on your cheek, you lapse into silence, struggling for something to say.

Namjoon looks back, brows pulling together at whatever he sees on your face. "He's trying to get ahead of his workload, Y/N," he says gently. "I know after today he doesn't plan on going in until after New Years. He said he really wants to spend time with you."

"He was literally moping all over the office today," Yoongi adds. "Was surprised he didn't break his computer screen, he was sighing on it so much."

They're trying to make you feel better, reassure you that Jungkook had missed you and hated being separated on today of all days. They are accomplishing the exact opposite of what they intend, but that's not their fault. After all, they don't know what you'd said to Jungkook over the phone. Part of you wonders if they'd even have been willing to give you a ride if they did know. You're pretty sure you wouldn't have been if you were them.

You might also have tried to run yourself over on the way out of the parking lot, if you were them.

Before you can pull anything resembling words from the mire of rabid guilt curdling in your throat, the car pulls into the Gallery's small parking lot. It's almost surprising to find that there are two other vehicles already parked, and with the way the night is going, it's even more surprising that you recognize one of them as Jungkook's.

"He's here!" you cry out, relief and something heavier saturating your voice.

With a pleased exclamation, Namjoon gestures excitedly, smashing his hand into the roof of the car with a loud thud in the process.

"If you fucking dent my car..." Yoongi begins, but their mild bickering slips by you.

Your eyes are straining for some sign of Jungkook. The parking lot is empty of people, and the big sign above the building isn't lit up. However, it looks like there are some lights on in the Gallery, spilling out into the dimly lit lot, and as you fix your anxious gaze on the interior through the wide glass windows, you think you see the dim form of at least one person moving inside.

He’s here. You’re literally lightheaded with the joy of that certainty. This day has stretched out with excruciating discord, but now, everything is drawing tighter, shorter, focusing into a promise of reprieve. Finally, finally, something’s going right. The blissful expectation of getting to see Jungkook is almost enough for you to forget about everything else. For this moment, you think you’d forego everything Christmas – the gifts, the dinner, the decorations, everything – just to press your face against his chest and feel him holding you.

Hand on the door handle, you keep yourself from leaping out and dashing to the building only with difficulty. “Thank you so much for driving me. I almost can’t believe we caught him.”

“It’s Christmas, isn’t it?” Namjoon replies. “Escaping from Projeck before eight was our miracle – looks like this gets to be yours.”

The three of you chuckle at that, and then you’re opening the door. “I’ll let Jungkook know you helped me. Maybe he’ll stop throwing things.”

“And maybe Santa exists,” Yoongi grumbles, but there’s no annoyance in his rasping voice. “’Sides, that’s not what I want from him. Tell him to think about what we’ve said, ‘kay?”

Assuming he means saying no to the boss more, you nod, emotional with how lucky both you and Jungkook are to have run into such kind people. ‘Thank you’ doesn’t really cover the gratitude their thoughtfulness has inspired in you, and on top of everything else you’ve been through today, it’s almost enough to set you to crying again.

Namjoon seems to sense you’re at a loss for words; at any rate, he fills in the space. “If things change for the better in the new year, we’ll see more of you, Y/N. In the meantime, take care! I hope you and Jungkook have a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!”

Your voice comes out husky with gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you. I – Hope you both have a Merry Christmas, too! And a Happy New Year!”

Then you’re out of the car, shutting the door carefully behind you, your jaw tight to keep back the ridiculous tears. Yoongi and Namjoon wave, you wave back, and then Yoongi pulls away, leaving you standing and waving in the parking lot until the car turns and is gone. You take a couple of deep breaths, a smile easing the urge to cry. The excitement hasn’t dimmed at all, and, clutching the fast-food bag tightly, you pivot towards the Gallery, little shivers of anticipation darting under your skin.

You practically run to the doors, and nearly commit the same mistake that student had, years ago, when they don’t open at your touch. The thought of smacking into them and announcing your presence to Jungkook that way has a low laugh bubbling in your throat. Yanking yourself to a halt, you try pulling and pushing on the doors, to no avail; they’re locked. You give them one last jerk, just to be sure, but they remain stubbornly shut. It’s not enough of a deterrent to dampen your spirits, though you find yourself bouncing impatiently on the soles of your feet, unable to get rid of the fizzy energy coursing through your veins.

You’re okay to wait outside until Jungkook comes out – it’s still not that cold out, and how much longer could he really be? – but nonetheless you start heading to the right, circling around the building, peering into the windows on the off-chance you can catch sight of your boyfriend and get his attention. The lights are off in some of the areas, but a few are flooded in a soft glow, and you skim your eyes over all that you can see. The more you look, the more confused you are about why Jungkook would be here. There are no other customers that you can see, so clearly, it’s not some sort of special Christmas showing. You literally can’t think of another reason he might be here. And hadn’t Yoongi said he was meeting someone?

It’s a mystery you can’t solve yourself, and you keep up your roaming examination. Most of the building has glass walls, except for an area near the back, and you can see inside fairly easily, where the lights are on. The Gallery is pretty typical, all open spaces and white, dismantlable walls, the better to more starkly exhibit the art pieces scattered across the wooden floors. There are paintings and sculptures, a few more abstract works, little plaques beside most of them –

But no Jungkook.

Lips pursued, you make your way further around, until you’re on the other side of the building, ears keen for any sound of a door opening. Wouldn’t that just be typical? While you’re wandering around out here, he comes out and leaves…

You should text him. A surprise visit is one thing, but at this point you being outside is going to be surprise enough. With that thought in mind, you begin fumbling in your pockets, awkwardly cradling the fast-food in one hand as you search for your phone. Not in your back jean pockets. A horrified panic starts building, and by the time you’ve clawed all the lint out of your sweater’s pockets, you’re certain. You don’t have it.

A memory, stilted and strained, of your hand falling to your side when you’d been talking about Jungkook’s stress in Yoongi’s car. In your anguish, it suddenly becomes clear to you; you’d dropped it. Forgotten to pick it up again. It was in the car!

For a second, you think that’s going to be the breaking point. The straw on the camel’s back. Your frustration peaks, eyes stinging, hands balled into fists as your excitement is drowned in self-reproach and an overwhelming sense of despair. Why were you so stupid? Fighting with Jungkook, sulking around the apartment, this dumb idea to get fast-food that’s definitely cold by now, and now – now this. You start walking again, barely looking, just planning to get to the front of the building and maybe collapse on the pavement. The crushing unhappiness doesn’t let up. Were you cursed? Was the world out to get you? Had you kicked a puppy in a past life? Why did you end up –

Your raging internal soliloquy is interrupted by movement within the Gallery. Someone is moving inside. Someone tall and muscular, with his black shirt rolled up to the elbows, long, shaggy black hair tucked behind his ears as he lounges against one of the white walls. He’s partially turned; you can only see half of his face, and even that not perfectly because of the narrow angle, but the sharp definition of his jaw is obvious, even from here. There’s something rectangular leaning against the wall next to him, wrapped in brown packaging paper, but you barely notice it. He’s talking to someone equally as tall, their back turned to you, but you barely register them.

Jungkook. It’s Jungkook!

It is not an exaggeration to say that for a second you doubt your eyes. Everything has just been so, so shitty today that you’d almost believe he’s a hologram or a figment of your imagination before buying that your flesh and blood boyfriend is standing some twenty feet away and that all it will take to end this horrible experience will be to catch his attention.

The person he’s talking to must say something funny, because his nose crinkles, lips rising as he tilts his head back and laughs. It’s just a giggle, quickly stifled, but it’s also a needle; the second you see that laugh, your bubble of disbelief pops with a force that’s almost audible. You can’t hear him, but at the same time, you can, fully aware of the way his snicker of amusement started out low and then pitched higher in tandem with his head being thrown back. The sound that isn’t a sound but a memory and a gift and a promise altogether gives rise to something hot and aching in your chest.

“Jungkook,” you say, barely aware of the name slipping between your tingling lips. There’s a rushing sensation in your ears, through your veins, like your blood has just remembered that it’s alive and is eager to prove it. The misery of moments and minutes and hours ago doesn’t disappear, but the sight of your boyfriend is enough to lift you out of it, to buoy you above the churning waves and set you, heart alight, in the clouds.

“Jungkook!” you call, a shout this time, and start waving. He doesn’t hear or notice you, attention fixed on the man he’s with. You still don’t recognize whoever it is, but then again, with his back to you all you can see is the vibrantly patterned orange shirt stretching over his shoulders and a fluffy bit of brown hair. However, whatever he’s saying has sobered Jungkook; from what you can see of his face, his lips have tightened, and he shakes his head now and again.

Who the hell is that, anyways? More vigorous gestures still don’t pull Jungkook’s gaze away from the other person. You know that any second now he’s going to look over and see you, break into a silly, bemused grin, rush over to the window, if only you could just– You’re about to tap on the glass when whoever it is abruptly steps closer to Jungkook. From what you can see, the guy’s large hands are moving passionately, persuasively, and a moment later he grabs Jungkook’s wrist, other hand rising up towards his face. You can’t quite tell what’s happening, except that Jungkook doesn’t shake him off or push him away. Doesn’t push him away, even when he leans closer, their faces inches apart, and the way they’re standing, you still don’t know who it is.

Jungkook doesn’t seem to mind that his personal space is being invaded. There’s an attempt at a scowl on his lips, but you can tell it’s fake, a laugh on the verge of breaking through. You realize your hand is still raised to knock on the window, and let it fall. Brows pulling together, you try to make sense of what you’re seeing. The other man leans in even more, and when their lips are about to touch you wrench your eyes away.

For a long moment you stare at the pavement at your feet, mouth moving silently, like you’re searching for a word that fits what you just saw happen. It couldn’t be what you thought. Any second now, a reasonable explanation is going to come to mind. You’re going to find some frame of reference that makes this understandable. There’s going to be something that changes your point of view, makes reality into fiction. Because this can’t be true. This can’t be happening.

Jungkook could not have just kissed someone else in an empty art gallery while he thought you were waiting for him at home.

Except that’s exactly what happened. You feel yourself change. You’re not a person anymore, not a human; you’re a wound, red and open and weeping. With a strangled sob, you suddenly find your feet moving to match your reeling thoughts, and you stagger away from the warmly lit building. The disbelief is like novocaine, numbing the screaming pain of the betrayal, but it’s not strong enough to force your gaze back through the window. Back to your boyfriend and whoever he’s with. Who knows what they’re doing now?

Stopping yourself from crumpling to your knees and curling into a ball takes almost all of your strength, and you can’t keep yourself from doubling over slightly, one hand across your middle as you stumble blindly down the sidewalk and away from the Gallery. You press on your eyes to keep back the tears, cover your mouth to stifle the high, anguished gasps you’re making, but it does little to fool anyone, least of all yourself. Each sob rips from somewhere deep inside you, opens up the injury even further, until it feels like you might very well be tearing your chest apart.

He couldn’t have. He just– he couldn’t have. You can’t reconcile what you saw with what you know, but how can they be two different things? How can your boyfriend – loving, loyal, protective – exist in the same place as that man who hadn’t mentioned he was meeting anyone, who snuck around on Christmas day to see someone else? How can Jungkook be a cheater? How? How?

How could I not have known?

Bewildered, you scrabble through your memories like they’re a pack of spilled cards, struggling to piece them together, to pick them up and put them in order after they’ve fluttered to the ground in a chaos of white and black and red. At first you can’t find a hint. Can’t find a reason. There’s warmth and laughter and closeness in your memories together, with only spots of friction and hurt. What could the memory of you throwing tinsel around Jungkook’s neck and him parading around the living room teach you about this moment? What could the recollection of Jungkook’s arms wrapped around your shaking form when you’d received news of your grandmother’s passing tell you that you should have already known? What could the shadow of his quiet admiration as you showed him your most recent design reveal to your befuddled mind?

Was the staying late the only clue? The only ace card that trumped every other moment together? Or had there been others? Did you confuse his withdrawal from you as stress when it was really guilt? Had the silence been resentment? Boredom? Was he really going to the gym? Or into someone else’s arms? Did you do something wrong? Say something wrong?

Is this your fault?

You don’t know what to do, and as your steps slow, tears still going strong, you realize you barely know where you are. It’s fully dark now, and people are passing infrequently, with the streetlights only vaguely reassuring as they spill over faces. You haven’t taken any side streets, just followed this main road passed gas stations and boutiques, offices and fast-food joints, so you’re not lost, exactly. But you don’t have your phone. How are you supposed to get home?

Home. Suddenly the ache is more real. Present. Demanding. How are you supposed to go home when you thought home was Jungkook?

What do you say to him? What can you say? The thought of facing him has you trembling with something approaching nausea. Or maybe it’s the cold. It’s late enough now that the temperature is dropping, your heaving breath misting from your mouth, and you hadn’t planned to be out so late. The sweater is doing nothing to keep you warm. The sweater…

“Oh, God…” you mumble, your fingers digging into the tacky material, creasing the bunny that had made Jungkook so happy. “What do I do?”

What do I do?

---

With a grunt, Jungkook shoves Taehyung away using a hand against his stomach, the other man’s breath spilling across his face as he huffs in surprise. The push is strong enough to send Taehyung staggering back several paces, and he nearly trips and falls. Even as he catches himself, Jungkook is regretting the violence of the motion. It’s just – he’s feeling so vulnerable right now, so strained, and his friend acting like a clown doesn’t help matters.

Rubbing at his stomach, the other man complains reproachfully, “I was just trying to show you what to do!”

Jungkook sighs, rubbing at his face. “I don’t remember saying I needed help with how to make out,” he points out.

Taehyung throws up his hands. “You’ve missed the point!” he exclaims in disgust. “Didn’t you see the concern in my eyes? The tenderness? Dude, I was stroking your face. That’s how it’s done!”

He snorts but the irritation is already fading, replaced by the amusement he’d had when Tae first started his shenanigans. Jungkook shakes his head, clearing his hair from his eyes, and relents a little. “Do you really think I should do it like that?” A beat. “Well, I mean, not like that. Better.”

With a grand gesture at their surroundings, Taehyung ignores the insult (or misses it, it’s hard to tell with Tae sometimes) and tells him, “You’re already doing better. You’ve got her a painting from an artist she loves.” He stops, points to himself. “Courtesy of your friendly neighbourhood art dealer, who sacrificed his Christmas night and drove all this way to make sure you got it. Plus, there’s the big news – she’s going to lose her mind when you tell her. Anyways, yeah, Koo, I’m pretty sure she’s gonna forgive you, even if you don’t use my sweet moves.”

“But I still don’t know what to say.” Jungkook hates how whiny his voice sounds, how uncertain. At the same time, it feels… good, to admit how he hasn’t got a clue how to make up with you. Or– That isn’t quite right. He does know, somewhere in his gut, in the palms of his hands, in the way his lips ache to skim along your skin. It’s just turning that feeling into words that’s struck him dumb.

“Dude, say what’s in your heart.” There is no one in the world but Taehyung who could say that earnestly and not sound like a weirdo, yet there the other man is, mouth set solemnly, somehow almost making sense. “You love her, you’re sorry for what’s happened, you want to hear her opinion, you’re working to make it better… Koo, you’ve told me all of that in the last half an hour. Now you just need to say it to her.”

“But what if…” He can’t even put it into words, the fear and uncertainty and guilt. Is he asking too much of you? Does he even deserve to ask anything? And what if… what if…

Reading him like a book, Taehyung smiles, simple and brilliant. “She’s going to forgive you. You’ve already forgiven her, so what else is there? Just the getting it done.” Still Jungkook hesitates, and his childhood friend says, a little more gently, “You’re a good person, Koo. I know that, and she does too. Talk to her. You won’t regret it.”

He hangs his head, slowly running his fingers against each other, exploring their lines like they might lead him to the courage he’s searching for. The call with you this afternoon had – shaken him. Although Jungkook had been aware – painfully so – that the two of you weren’t spending enough time together, he hadn’t realized how much it was harming you, and your anger had been both shocking and hurtful. Work had just sucked, so much, and to have you yelling at him…

But after the initial defensive reaction, he couldn’t get the thought of you sitting alone out of his head. It was never his intention to leave you for the whole day, but when he broached the subject of leaving with the boss, the look he got on his face, the way he said, “Well, of course, since I assume you’re done everything you were assigned,” had just been…

You still shouldn’t have left her. Jungkook knows that, knows equally that he didn’t have all that much of a choice if he didn’t want to get fired. It was the balancing act between those understandings that had his shoulders hunched, his cheek fair game to be chewed on. He was working on changing the situation – Namjoon and Yoongi were helping – but what if you thought it wasn’t fast enough? What if you decided you had enough? How can he bear to face you with that possibility on the horizon?

Taehyung gives him space, just hums under his breath and wanders a little, examining the various pieces on display. The Golden Closet Gallery isn’t one of his usual haunts – he tends to deal with artists further up north – but he’d come at Jungkook’s hesitant request, with an alacrity that still has Jungkook wondering what he’d done to deserve such a friend.

He’d had his eye on your favourite local artist’s website, and when the painting went on sale, he’d known he had to get it. However, Projeck employees didn’t get paid until the 20th, and by the time he had enough money to comfortably purchase it, the artist wasn’t available on short notice and wouldn’t have been around to give it to him until after New Year’s Eve. Taehyung is well known in the community, though, and the painter had had no qualms letting him deal with establishing the price and then handing the piece over. It was practically a miracle, even if Tae had only been able to slip away from his family on Christmas afternoon.

Eventually, with Taehyung’s deep baritone hum a soothing presence, Jungkook tamps his fear down. Gets it to a manageable level. At the end of the day – Taehyung is right. He loves you, more than anything, more than he thought he could love anyone. That’s enough. It has to be enough.

He looks up, clears his throat. “Thanks, TaeTae,” Jungkook says quietly. “I really couldn’t have done this without you.”

His friend beams. “Nah, you couldn’t have. But what else are friends for, right?”

“I’ll get you an early release copy of Urban Anonymous. I think you’ll like it,” he promises. “But in the meantime… I think I’ve got someone to, uh, speak my heart to.” For half a second Jungkook thinks he’s about to die from the sheer cringe of saying that, a blush flooding across his cheeks, but at the same time – it feels kinda good to say. Goofily so, and very embarrassing, but still.

If anything, Taehyung’s beam intensifies. “Then my job here is done! I should hit the road anyways, I wanna get back home. I promised my parents I’d make them something nice for breakfast tomorrow.”

“Sure you don’t wanna stay over?” Glancing out the window, taking in how dark it is, Jungkook feels bad to be sending Taehyung out on the road at this time.

The other man snickers. “And get in the way of a beautiful thing? Nah. Besides, you know I like driving at night, and it’s only a little over three hours. I’ll be fine.”

“If you say so…” Jungkook snags the painting off of the floor, and together they walk through the Gallery, to the doors Taehyung had locked behind them when they entered. He unlocks them now, and they leave the aesthetically pleasing space, spilling out into the chilly night air. As Taehyung locks up, Jungkook glances around, breathing in deeply. Now that he’s resolved himself, he actually feels – a little better. Steadier, as though his world isn’t about to jerk out from underneath his feet.

Their cars are parked together, and once there Taehyung flings himself at Jungkook – scrupulously avoiding hitting into the painting, of course – and they hug, Jungkook staggering under the weight of his friend. The fond affection is a fluffy, sleepy thing, and, with one hand wrapped around Taehyung’s shoulders, Jungkook repeats, “Thank you, TaeTae.” It’s not eloquent, but with Taehyung, it’s enough.

They break apart, and Taehyung is grinning, a wide, boxy affair that has the nostalgia and warmth growing. “I’ve missed you, Koo. I’m glad we got to meet up. Tell Y/N that I miss her too, okay? And that I wish her a Merry Christmas.”

“We’ll have to get together again soon; Y/N will be disappointed she missed you. Although I know she loved your blue hair, so she’ll probably be sad you changed it.” It had even surprised Jungkook a bit when Tae had first ducked out of his car. The blue had just been so… riveting, and compared to that, the darker tone really changes how he looks. Not to mention that Tae went with a curlier style this time around.

Taehyung runs a hand through his fluffy brown locks before shrugging. “I got bored. Besides, I haven’t had brown in, what? Five years? It was a nice change.”

“It’s a good look. Almost as good as mine,” Jungkook teases, and Taehyung laughs in his deep, rolling way. “Okay. Merry Christmas, TaeTae. And have a Happy New Year! Don’t drive into a ditch, but if you do, call me.”

“I’ll get you to drag the car out by yourself,” Taehyung agrees amiably. “You look like you could manage it these days, and it’d save me the cost of the tow-truck.”

He gives Jungkook’s upper arm a cheerful poke, whistles in exaggerated admiration and then dodges Jungkook’s swipe at him. “See you soon, Koo! I’ll send you a text when I get home. Hopefully you’ll be too busy to read it until tomorrow.” And with a wicked little giggle, he gets into his car.

“Bye, Tae! See you! Thank you!” Jungkook waves until the other man has pulled away, blasting an R&B version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, and then he gets into his own car. Being with Tae is like inhaling a warmer version of helium, all uplift and expansion. It suddenly occurs to Jungkook, with a little jolt, that he’s excited to get home.

No matter how scared he is, scared of the future and scared of the conversation ahead, picturing you, thinking of walking into the apartment and seeing your face, is enough to drive a sharp spike of joy through his trepidation. You are the best thing in his life, and even with this fight, even with the hurt still nestled against his ribs, he wouldn’t have drawn it any other way.

It’s as he’s starting the car that he realizes he got a text from Namjoon and didn’t notice. Hey Jungkookie. Can you let Y/N know we have her phone? She left it in the car.

He stares at the words, waiting for the moment when they’ll make sense. When sense is not forthcoming despite scrambling his brains for what it could mean, Jungkook types out a reply, his fingers sweaty with sudden anxiety.

what car? you saw Y/N today?

…Yeah? We dropped her off at the Gallery. Did she not mention it?

at the gallery?? when?

His heart is in his throat, the unease ricocheting to unprecedented levels, and Jungkook shoves open the car door, begins looking desperately around like you two could have possibly missed each other in the empty lot. When his phone vibrates thirty seconds later, he almost drops it in his haste to unlock it.

Thirty minutes ago. Around there. Is she not there? Is everything okay?

Jungkook rips his eyes from the screen to the empty parking lot and back to the screen, a bewildered trek that gives him no hints, and he doesn’t know the answer.

---

When you finally get back to the apartment, your hurt has become a cramped, flattened pressure at the back of your throat, and every breath scrapes painfully on the way out. It’s taken you close to two hours to get back. The first person you’d asked for directions had given you the wrong bus number, and while you’d realized it eventually, you’d been going the wrong way for a significant period of time.

Usually, you and Jungkook laugh at how bad your sense of direction is, but this is just more humiliation to stoke an already raging fire of shame. Your steps literally drag – you almost trip on your way up the stairs – and your fingers are tingling, almost numb. It’s gotten progressively colder as the night wore on, and by now the icy feeling has sunk deep into your bones, passed the hard exterior until its wrapped around the marrow.

You’d thought about checking into a hotel. You at least hadn’t forgotten or lost your credit card. There was something tempting about postponing the moment when you had to see Jungkook. But at the same time… If you didn’t answer your phone and didn’t come back, he might worry (would he worry?) and worse, he might get other people involved. What if he talked to Namjoon and Yoongi? Or phoned your parents or brother? You can’t stand the thought of having to explain to them what happened without any preparation – without even knowing what happened yourself.

So here you are, facing the door, empty-handed. You’d thrown out the fast-food at the first trashcan you’d come to after deciding to return. Would Jungkook be home by now? Had he finished with – was he done? Or was he still out there, still… You have to say it eventually, you try to tell yourself firmly, but your whole being cringes from making that acknowledgement, from putting it into syllables that might somehow trap it in reality. It’s not something you can manage tonight. You really don’t know what will be worse, him being inside or not, but you can’t just stand outside forever.

Forcing the key to the lock is no harder than flinging yourself off a cliff, and you approach it with the same amount of dry-mouth apprehension. Your hands are shaking so bad it’s hard to get them to align, but when you finally do, the click of the key sliding in is too loud, like its announcing that you’ve slunk back in shame to all of the apartment building inhabitants. A ridiculous notion, but you flinch anyways, heart seizing as your stiff fingers fumble with the little jiggle required to get the door to open. It takes you three attempts, your anxiety growing, and when you finally manage it, you’re so strung out with tension that you don’t hesitate. You just fling the door open and stumble through.

Straight into Jungkook.

For just a second, it feels like the magnetism you learned about in school. For just a second you fall into him like there’s nothing else in the world more natural than falling, and for just a second you press against his chest and feel dizzy with the light, clean scent that surrounds you. For just a second, as he catches your weight and closes his arms around you, calling your name with a voice of choked relief, you let yourself forget.

For just a second.

And then reality floods back in, a tainted torrent of regret and grief, strewn with rage and humiliation that drifts just below the surface. Though you’re so unsteady you can barely see, your lungs blocked and battling to heave in enough air just to keep breathing, you struggle to get away from him.

“Let go of me,” you say, dry and curt, and when his arms only tighten – more, you suspect, to keep you from pitching over than in denial of your demand – your efforts become harsher, more violent. Without room you can’t get any momentum to really push away from him, but your motions are frantic with the desire to do just that. There’s a panicked, screaming need to get away from him, to get enough space, like he’s the reason your lungs are crumpling in on themselves. “Let go, Jungkook!” you cry, your voice spiking up into shrillness, shattering the syllables of his name.

Like he’s been electrified, Jungkook jerks, his arms flying open. Instantly, let loose, you scramble away, down the entrance hallway. Just as off balance as he’d feared, you nearly trip over something long and cumbersome leaning against the wall that you’re too distraught to look at, and you have to windmill to catch your balance. A moment later you slam your shoulder into the corner of the wall as you try to take the turn too sharply. “Y/N, please, stop!” you hear, and wish you hadn’t. Barely registering the sharp throb in your shoulder, you catch yourself and keep going. Seconds later you’re in the bedroom, and you slam the door shut.

It doesn’t have a lock. Putting your back to the door, your air rattling hollowly out of your mouth – too fast, too shallow, but you can’t seem to calm down – you slide down the solid surface. Pulling your knees to your chest, you rest your forehead against them, eyes tightly closed, still gasping. Your eyes are aching, but you can’t cry against the immense pressure of overwhelming panic. There’s just a stinging sensation and a pulsing rigidity in your face, like each and every muscle there has chosen to stage a personal rebellion at the exact same time.

I can’t, I can’t, oh God, please, I can’t do this I can’t look at him I can’t I –

“Y/N?” Jungkook sounds like he’s directly on the other side of the door, but he makes no attempt to open it. “Baby, please, are you okay?”

His voice is so raw with worry that it’s red. The colour blooms across your closed eyelids, swathes of crimson and scarlet, and you imagine that it’s blood, trickling from the wound inside of you. You can barely tell where your back ends and the door begins, like any moment you might slide through it, or maybe through the floor, or through the ground, or maybe you’re already there, floating in nothing, and the red breaks into jagged pieces of black and orange and you still can’t breathe.

“Y/N? Can you talk to me? Just – say something, okay? Just so I know you’re okay.”

You can’t even manage that. Even if you wanted to. Even if he deserved to know. Throat moving convulsively, you choke out a sob but nothing else comes after. Just wheezing breaths, and you think you’re shaking but you’re somewhere outside of your skin so it’s hard to tell.

“Okay, okay. I’m – I’m gonna be here, okay? Right here. If you need me, I’m here.” Even through the hazy distortion swamping you, Jungkook’s clear, resonant voice comes through. Maybe it’s the concern, too heavy to be swept away by the raging panic. Maybe it’s the compassion, too anchored in you to be broken away by the tremendous pressure.

Or maybe you just know Jungkook’s voice so well that even your disassociation can’t make it unfamiliar to you.

“You’re doing good, Y/N. I’m still here. Just on the other side of this door.” A pause, a deep chasm of silence, and then he continues. “I think it’s a panic attack. I know it’s scary, but it’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Later, you will be both annoyed and touched that Jungkook realized you were having a panic attack before you did. You’ve had a few throughout university, but none within the past year or two, and in the moment, you’d been too overwhelmed to identify what’s going on. The insight is helpful though, something to cling to and repeat to yourself. A grounding. It’s a panic attack. You’re going to be okay.

Jungkook keeps talking, slow and steady. Nothing serious. Just words. You lean on his voice just as hard as you’re leaning on the door, and, slowly but surely, in a stretch of time that doesn’t mean anything to you, the constrictive bands across your chest loosen. You sink back into yourself. The tips of your fingers make sense again.

And you start crying.

“Y/N? How’re you feeling?”

Funny. Now, with your throat something other than a fist and pain, you still struggle to say anything. This is a softer kind of crying, not quite quiet, with little, hiccupping gasps as the tears run down your face. Possible to speak through. You just don’t know what to say to the man who just talked you, with kindness and compassion, through a panic attack. Who cheated on you. Your fingertips might make sense, but nothing else does.

“I – Y/N, baby, I get that you’re upset, but I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.” So anguished. Why did he have to sound like that? What right did he have?

You don’t know if it’s outrage or bewilderment or grief or pity that has you answering. Is it possible to have all of them in your mouth, gritty across your tongue? At any rate, your tone is as washed out as you feel, fatigued and grey. “I saw, Jungkook,” you whisper to your knees.

There’s silence on the other side of the door. Denial? Guilt? His reply is sluggish, thick with confusion. “You saw what?”

That makes you laugh – or not really, though the tortured sound was supposed to be one. “I was there. At the Golden Closet Gallery.” Will he really keep pretending after he knows you were there? Could he really be that brazen? The Jungkook you know couldn’t. There’s no way he could carry a lie like that, holding it effortlessly in the face of the truth. The Jungkook you know would blush, shuffle, collapse like a house of cards. He’s really not good at lying.

The answer isn’t a lie, but it confuses you all the same. “I know you were. Namjoon texted me to say he’d dropped you off, but – Where did you go? I – I drove around for like an hour trying to find you, and I couldn’t and when I got home you weren’t here…” The stream of words dies out like Jungkook can’t quite find any more to say, or maybe he’s embarrassed to say them.

When your reply isn’t forthcoming, confusion churning up anything you might spit out, he continues, more subdued. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to push you after what you just went through, I just– Are– How are you feeling? Was it – did something happen while you were getting here? Is that what took so long?” Another pause that you can’t fill, that stretches on and on as you try to understand what he’s talking about. How he can apologize for that and not the actual offense.

Abruptly his voice bursts out. “Why won’t you talk to me!?” Tighter and more uncertain than you’ve heard tonight. Maybe more afraid than you’ve ever heard him.

It rips at your heart, and you realize in a swell of furious sorrow that you can’t stand to hear him sound like that. With a sudden, unstable surge, you get to your feet. Immediately your vision falters a bit, and you stagger, but catch yourself before you fall, clinging to the doorknob. You take a deep breath, fighting away the residual nausea and light-headedness. It clears within a few seconds, and your hand tightens on the knob as you take a deep breath. You can’t just leave him standing out there. You can’t just leave this incomprehensible thing hanging in the frame between your two lives.

You open the door. Slowly. Reluctantly. But you open it.

His long black hair is a wild mess, pushed back from his forehead, strands sticking up here and there. Even as you inch the door open, he runs his hand through it, ruffling it even further. His shirt is wrinkled, only partially tucked in, one sleeve rolled to bare his forearm, the other slipped down almost all the way. With his jaw so tense it’s a wonder he’s not cracking his teeth, Jungkook stares at you, lips set and pale. He doesn’t look like someone who committed a betrayal only hours before; if anything, the anguished panes of his face speak to a betrayal committed against him.

You’re so, so tired. Too tired to grasp at the outrage that wisps at the edge of your consciousness. Sniffling to clear your throat, you wipe at your face, trying make yourself a little less pitiful. “I was at the Gallery, Jungkook. I saw you,” you repeat because it’s still so hard to think of anything to say. When his expression doesn’t change – unless his eyebrows furrow, just a little, in innocent perplexity – you exhale. “I saw you with that guy. I saw you…”

“That guy? Who do you–” Jungkook breaks off, examines you more closely, like you’ve given him something to be concerned about. “Are you talking about Taehyung?”

The name is startling in its sheer unexpectedness. What the hell did Jungkook’s best friend have to do with any of this? “Taehyung? No, I’m not talking about Taehyung. I’m talking about that guy you were with tonight, in the Gallery. The guy you–” The words catch, but only for a second. You push them through with a surge of vehement exasperation for the blank expression he’s wearing. “The guy you kissed!”

In another place, the nonplused spasm across his face would have been hilarious. As it is, it just heightens your frustration, and the way he starts sputtering does absolutely nothing to reduce it. Even when he finally gets himself together and manages to talk, your aggravation is here to stay.

Right next to your mortification, as it happens.

“I didn’t– Y/N, that guy at the Gallery was Tae! Could you not tell it was him? I know he has brown hair now, but…” Jungkook shakes his head, flipping his own hair back. The tension seems to have slipped from his jaw, at least a little, and it might very well have crept into yours. “Is that– Is that what this whole thing has been about? You thought I did something with some random guy?” His lips twitch, and it doesn’t seem like he can decide if he wants to smile or scowl, and you feel the beginning of a flush heating up your face.

“It was Taehyung! And I didn’t kiss him. I mean, he tried to kiss me but it was just to–” Abruptly there’s a wash of faint scarlet crawling up his cheeks – cheeks that are rounder than they were a second ago, as he looks down and away, gaze slipping from you for the first time since you opened the door.

“Just to what?” you demand, the challenge extra belligerent to make up for the belated shock of suspended relief that hangs like smoke over your head. Too intangible for you to catch with your hands right now, though present enough to burn your throat with its sooty possibility.

He’s still looking at the ground, the blush becoming more prominent, and he begins to shift, the rustle of his dress pants loud in the fraught silence. “Um,” Jungkook begins awkwardly, head ticking to the side the way it always does when he regrets saying something or doubts his ability to do something. “It’s just, uh… he was helping me.”

“Helping you.”

Jungkook winces at your deadpan echo. “Yeah. I, um, asked him to…” Hands drumming on his thighs, drawing your attention for a second before you snap back to his flushed face, Jungkook bounces on the balls of his feet. “Uh… This is totally not how I planned this,” he mumbles, before hauling his gaze up to meet your own. “Hold on for a sec, okay? I just want to grab something.” For all that he’s definitely lightened a bit, the request is tinged with urgent appeal, his eyes scouring your face hesitantly like he’s afraid you’re going to retreat back to the room the moment he loses sight of you.

You’re not entirely sure that isn’t going to happen, but there have been so many emotional upheavals today you’ve just about exhausted your ability to feel more defensiveness. The more Jungkook speaks – the longer you’re in his presence – the more the sheer impossibility of what you’d believed is sinking in. He’s just – he’s Jungkook. Such a focal point of light and energy, such a reserve of easily offered comfort in a form so much more substantial than words. Somehow – maybe because of his prolonged absences, maybe because of your staggeringly challenging day – you’d managed to forget just what he is, but it’s in front of you now, demanding to be seen and acknowledged against the backdrop of what you’d thought. What had seemed so possible, even an hour ago, suddenly seems ridiculous when set next to the quiet solidity of him, of everything he is.

Wiping again at eyes that haven’t ceased watering yet, you nod.

He hurries away, down the short hallway and back towards the front entrance. You hear a thump, a muttered curse, a short dragging noise, and then Jungkook rounds the corner, hefting a rectangular object covered in brown paper. When you examine it more closely, you’re pretty sure it’s what you almost fell over when you ran inside. By the time he’s standing in front of you, the unwieldy item put on the ground and balanced against his knee, you’re pretty sure you know what it is by the shape and packaging alone.

And somewhere, in the back of your mind, you’re beginning to make connections. About Taehyung and the art gallery and the thing on the ground in front of you.

Jungkook just speeds up the process. “I was gonna wrap it in something nicer,” he offers apologetically, “but I was… Baby, I was so scared when Namjoon said you should have been at the gallery and I couldn’t find you and you weren’t at home. I thought – hell, I didn’t know what to think. That you got kidnapped or something.” He laughs, that shaky sound of amusement reserved for disasters that are absurd to imagine until they actually happen, and you shift, the heat crowding your face growing.

With a slight roll of his shoulders, he nudges the brown-wrapped object. “Anyways… Tae was helping me get this. For, um, you. Because I thought you might like it.” When you make no move to grab it, his eyebrows knit together. “Y/N? I swear, I didn’t do anything with anyone else. I wouldn’t do anything with–”

“I know.” You cut him off, unable to bear the imploring tone. It’s impossible to meet his beseeching gaze with the burden of your stupidity weighing on you, and you keep your eyes on your fingers. “I know you didn’t. Jungkook, I’m…” The winded feeling is still lingering, a hollowness in your lungs, and you have to inhale deeply just to remind yourself you can. Your anger at being abandoned by Jungkook for work died out so long ago it might as well be a relic, and with the betrayed grief swept so thoroughly out of your stomach, you’re left feeling strangely empty of anything but guilt.

“I’m so sorry. I – God, I’m so stupid. I saw you two and I thought – I assumed…” All of the logic that had founded your incorrect assumption is trickling through your grasping fingers, and you don’t know how to explain in a way that makes sense. In a way that justifies how you’d leapt to conclusions.

“I’m sorry,” you continue unevenly. “I just…”

“It’s okay.” When you keep staring down, Jungkook moves closer, reaches out, tentatively puts his arm around you. Light enough that you could break away if you wanted to. You don’t. You absolutely don’t.

The contact feels like an anchor, pulling you ever closer to reality. Making the trembling relief that much more real. The embarrassment, too. “Really Y/N, it’s – I know today has been…” After a moment he sighs, faint and low, shaking his head. “Today has sucked so bad, and Christmas isn’t supposed to be like this. I get why you thought what you did. After everything that’s been happening, after I’ve – I haven’t been around.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” is your whispered protest, still unable to look at him. “I should have just talked to you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that would have saved us both a bit of panic. But Y/N…” He waits, waits longer, until you’re forced to bring your eyes up. Meeting the dark softness of his gaze summons up more guilt, more regret – but also a clear, undeniable relief. Light at the end of a pitch black tunnel. You’re not out of the darkness, but with those sympathetic eyes on you, you have a sense of striving. Like taking a step, and then another, is possible. And might just be worth it.

“Y/N, baby, it’s not all your fault. It’s on me too.” His arms are resting lightly on your shoulders, fingers gently rubbing across the nape of your neck. “I haven’t talked with you enough. Kept just pushing it off, pretending it’s okay.” When he laughs softly, his breath tickles your face. “Not quite okay, hey?”

Your strained giggle isn’t heartfelt, and it fades quickly. “In the car, when Namjoon and Yoongi gave me a ride, they said – It seems like work has really, really sucked. More than I thought it did.” You lean back, just a bit, his arms a steady support against your back, and search his face. He’s biting his cheek, little lines skittering across his forehead. This close, the dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced, his skin sallower than it should be. He looks tired, but he doesn’t look away from you.

“Jungkook,” you say quietly. “How bad is it?”

Something flickers behind his eyes, a shadow of his normal reserve. You can feel the tightness in his body, the slight tremor that suggests he’s about to move away. The protective distance he clings to when he doesn’t want to worry you rears up – and you kill it with your hand, trembling only slightly as you tenderly trace your fingers along his temple, down his cheekbone, to cup the strong lines of his jaw. “Please, Jungkook. Tell me.”

The admission comes, fast and breathless, like he needs to get the words out before his teeth clench over them. “Bad. It’s bad. I hate it there.”

“Oh. I–” This is a different kind of pain from most of what you’ve been feeling today. More selfless, an anguish that extends and expands outward instead of curling up. “I’m so sorry. Kookie, I didn’t know. I should have but–”

“I didn’t tell you. How could you know?”

“I should have,” you insist.

His mouth quirks, a flash of teeth showing in mild amusement. “You can’t expect me to know you’re upset, but you should know when I am? I don’t think it works that way, babe.” When your mouth opens to object, Jungkook pulls you to his chest, cutting off your protest. You sink into his embrace, boneless and aching and grateful for the support, and if the gift’s hard frame weren’t digging into your leg, it would almost be perfect.

Perfect enough.

Pressing your face against his shirt, you feel him kiss the top of your head, arms still wrapped firmly around your shoulders. “I’m glad you’re safe,” he whispers.

“I’m glad you told me about work,” you mumble into his chest, reluctant to draw away. “If I told you to quit today, would you?” You’re not really joking, even though you know what the immediate answer has to be. You don’t have enough savings for one of you to quit without any other prospects lined up.

“Actually…” There’s something restrained in his voice, teetering on the edge of anxiety, or maybe excitement.

Shock has you looking up, resisting the comforting pull of his warmth for a moment. “You did!?”

“Oh, uh, no,” Jungkook says hurriedly, biting at his lower lip. Far from pleasure, the reassurance has disappointment funneling into your heart, funds be damned. To say that Jungkook’s job was the mother of all evils would probably be both unfair and exaggerated, but if it’s making him (and you) as miserable as he says...

“It sounds really bad, Jungkook. Killing yourself trying to please a bunch of jerks isn’t worth it.”

“You’re right.” He’s smiling now, smiling completely, showing off his teeth. “I don’t know if I can keep working for them for much longer, but… Ah, I was so scared to talk about this, and here you are, making it easy!” In his excitement, he’s playing with your hair, hands restless as they dance around. For once, the mystery isn’t extended. “Namjoon wants to break off. Start a new company, one that’s not an absolute dumpster fire to work for. He’s got several other people lined up who are happy to go, and Yoongi, obviously, and he asked me if I would join, too!”

“Is that why they gave me a ride?” Even as you demand it, you can feel yourself picking up on Jungkook’s energy. Not too much – the exhaustion sucking at your bones won’t allow it – but still, the lightness in your chest is a far cry from the sodden despair that’s taken up space there for most of the day.

Your boyfriend jiggles his head back and forth. “I dunno. Maybe. But I think mostly they did it because they’re pretty nice people.” He sounds a bit awed as he continues. “We can’t start for a couple more months – Namjoon said something about getting funding from some rich guy, Bang Sihyuk – but I still can’t believe they want me to come along. I mean, some of the people are, like, the best there are, Y/N.” You can almost see stars shining in his eyes.

Your response is firm, albeit playful. “So, it makes perfect sense that they’re having you join! Kookie, you’re gonna fit in so well, because you’re one of the best, too.” And honestly, you’re not even just shovelling empty praise; Jungkook is a truly talented artist in his medium.

His smile grows, eyes thinning with happiness. “And – you’re okay with it? There aren’t any guarantees that it will work out, with it being a new company.”

The trials of the day – mostly made from your own mind, though no less difficult for all of that – pass through your head. The loneliness and anger and sadness. All of it dimmed if not gone entirely, simply because here you are in his arms, speaking to each other instead of covering your hurt up. “Jungkook, one of the few guarantees I have of anything is that I love you, and you love me. If you’ll be happy working with Namjoon, with moving companies, then that’s all I need to hear.”

With a low hum, Jungkook sweeps you into another hug, and you’re glad to give up what space is between you two. Enfolded in his arms, listening to his steady heartbeat, is about the securest place you can imagine being. “I love you,” he says, voice thick with the truth of what he’s saying.

“I love you, too. Thank you. Thank you so much for everything.”

“I haven’t even given you your presents yet. Here –” And you’re breaking apart again – although not really, because you can still feel the connection as a thin warmth snuggled beneath your ribs – and Jungkook bends down, picks up the item sandwiched between you two. “Feel up to opening it?”

“The mystery gift that almost broke our relationship? Yeah, I’m up to it.”

Nose scrunching, he hands it over, and in your haste to see what’s inside, you make short work of the brown packaging. You can’t honestly say you’re surprised with the first glimpse of the mahogany frame – you expected a painting – but as more of the brown rips away, you feel shivery awe cascading down your spine. Once the painting is completely uncovered, you clutch it with sweaty palms, well aware of how precious a gift you’ve been given. You’d recognize the style anywhere.

“Jungkook,” you breathe, “oh my God, Jungkook, this is one of Ayeong’s, isn’t it? You – you actually got one of her paintings!?”

The quality is unmistakable. It’s a detailed piece, zoomed in on a small, dilapidated house. Almost everything about the house is bleak; the colours are all dull greys, blacks and browns, the porch is crumbling, and the shutters over the windows are chipped and cracked in places. However, right in the center of the house, taking up a good portion of the painting, is a door flung wide open, and the inside is flooded with warm colours and details in stark contrast with the exterior. There are people inside, crowded around the entrance, laughing and vibrant, and they dominate the doorway with their collective presence. One person, the only one who is looking outward, has her hand raised in greeting, as though inviting the viewers in.

“It’s called Homecoming.”

Soft and reverent, the name feels like an echo, a reverberation of your hopes and fears, and against a suddenly blurry vision, you smile. “It’s beautiful! It’s so, so beautiful. Thank you, Jungkook.”

“Do you feel like opening the rest of our presents? Or should we wait until tomorrow? We can grab your phone in the morning, too.”

Your fatigue drags at you, overwhelming even your hunger, but you try to rally, lifting your chin up. “What do you want to do? Do you want to open a present?”

His head tilts as he looks you over, a quick assessment. “I don’t have to. It’ll be nice to look forward to it later.” You’re absolutely positive he’s saying that for your sake, and it makes you just that closer to crying in gratitude for what’s in front of you.

Swallowing hard, you suggest, “How about tomorrow, then? We can…” You pause, scrambling for the memory, and then grin tiredly. “We can reset. Start over tomorrow.”

Jungkook’s laugh washes over you in cozy tides of amusement. “Now there’s a great idea. Whoever thought of it is a genius.”

With a chuckle, you carefully set the painting to the side, planning on figuring out where to put it tomorrow. As soon as it leaves your hands, Jungkook is there again, claiming the free territory. His grip firm and warm, he asks you, “Do you wanna eat? Or maybe nap for a bit?”

Your panic attacks always leave you drained, and the fact that Jungkook remembers is just another fond ache to add to the collection in your chest. “Nap,” you reply gratefully. “But… do you wanna lie down with me? Just for a bit?”

He couldn’t have looked any more solemn, or any more beautiful, if he’d tried. Squeezing your hand, he says, “I’d lie with you forever, if I could get away with it.” A second later the somber façade breaks apart, leaving a blush and a squirming, quietly giggly Jungkook.

With a snort, you pull him along with you, into the bedroom, a tightness across your chest that has everything to do with just how much you love the man next to you. “Now I know you were with Taehyung.” That makes you remember, and as you both walk to the bed, you glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Are you going to tell me what Taehyung almost kissing you had to do with helping you out?”

As expected, his blush grows, painting his cheeks with a pale pink, but he surprises you by pulling you closer. With a hand under your chin, the other arm wrapped around your waist, he tilts your head up. Meeting your eyes with a tenderness that floods you with reassurance, he brushes a thumb along your lips, leaving a tingling trail. When it comes, his voice is hoarser than before, firmer. “He was trying to teach me something I already know.”

And then his mouth is on yours, steady and certain. Your lips soften against him, and time becomes languid, moving by the count of each breath that flutters against your lips. Jungkook isn’t demanding, not tonight; he kisses you sweetly, gently, conveying everything that he hasn’t managed to put into words. His body has a gravitational pull all its own, drawing you closer, and you skim your hands against his back, relishing the powerful certainty of his shoulders and the intimate confidence of his mouth on yours.

A second later, he sweeps you off your feet, and you gasp in surprise, breaking off the kiss. Jungkook places you on the bed, stands looking down at you with unmasked adoration. You open your arms, a wordless invitation that unwittingly bares the front of your top. His eyes fix on it, and if anything, they soften.

“I like your sweater,” he comments quietly, and as you laugh, he climbs onto the bed with you.

You take off the sweater in question, and your jeans and bra, easy and unhesitant in his presence. He follows suit, and then grabs your pajamas, placed as they always are at the foot of the bed. You wiggle into them, and for his part, Jungkook just throws on a pair of loose pants. The feeling of familiarity sinks into your system like a sigh of contentment, and when he pulls you against his chest, you snuggle into the embrace.

Wrapped in his arms, the smooth warmth of his skin pressed against your cheek, you let the drowsy bliss sweep over your body, and you relax, sinking against the sheets even as you curl closer to him.

Jungkook’s voice ripples against your mind, a soothing undercurrent taking you closer to sleep. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

“Merry Christmas,” you mumble. With one last faltering effort, you say, “Jungkook?”

“Hmm?” You feel the inquiring murmur just as much as you hear it, a smooth hum on your cheek.

“Thank you for coming home.”

#thebtswritersclub #networkbangtan #jungkook x reader #jungkook #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #bts fic #bts fanfiction #my fic

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gay-ghosts-committing-crimes · 4 years ago

Text

But the Way That You Act Isn’t Good for Your Health

AO3 link here

Summary: Once upon a time, Alex's parents were cool. They cared deeply about him and his friends. Once upon a time, Alex hadn’t come out yet. OR Five times Alex’s parents were there for him and his friends, and the one time they weren’t.

Warnings: Homophobia, swearing, mention of conversion therapy

Words: 3,899

taglist, just ask to be added or removed: @barrel-of-cat-mituna @completekeefitztrash @tiergan-andrin-alenefar @lemontarto @hershis-kotlc @genesiscaveat @everything-else-and-mars @juline-dizznee @chaotic-basics @an-absolute-travesty @classyfunnyquotesmuffin7 @iamstealingyourgenderaswespeak @itstiger720 @introvertedscarecrow @sunset-telepath @an-idiot-in-a-trenchcoat @cowboypossume @anaccidentwaitingtohappen @sofia-not-sophie @fire-sapphics @dr-alan-grant-blog-blog @real-smooth @juline-dizznee @it-tastes-like-lizard

Alex's stomach twisted and his fingers twisted into the hem of his shirt, tugging and pulling at it like it was a lifeline. The yelling outside continued. Beside him Luke patted his arm, his nine year-old face screwed up in concern for his friend. On his other side sat Reggie, leaning close and fidgeting with Alex's free hand. He was solemn too, but in a different way than Luke, closer to Alex's anxious tap-dancing heart.

Alex's chin jerked up as his dad opened the driver's seat door and stepped in, and he subconsciously tightened his grip on Reggie's hand.

"What's going on?" He asked, when his mom finally got in as well. It was supposed to be a fun outing for the boys; The day was warm and the beach was open, and the three nine year-old boys were tired of being cooped up inside. He stopped twisting at his shirt and his fingers moved to tapping at his leg when his parents shared a look.

Reggie pressed closer to his side, and Luke did his best to put his arm around them both.

"I've got you," He said gravely, his soft voice offset by the slight whistle caused by the gap left behind where a top tooth had once lived.

Alex's parents finished their silent conversation and Mary, Alex's mom, turned to face them.

"Sometimes people get angry and don't act well, but that doesn't mean it's right, okay? That man out there is one of those people right now, so you boys and I are going to stay in the car for a little bit while Mr. Mercer gets out and makes sure the man doesn't hurt that young lady, that sound good?"

Alex nodded and his breathing evened a little bit. The yelling was scary, but he knew his dad could handle it, his dad was the strongest man in the whole world.

Reaching across the console, Mr. Mercer gave Mrs. Mercer's hand a light squeeze.

"I'll be alright, Mary." Alex's mom gave a soft smile and nodded, but the crinkle in her brow stayed in its place.

"I know Paul, I love you." A quick kiss was pressed to her knuckles and then he was out of the car, the door closed behind him.

The three boys waited with bated breath as the shouting paused, started up again and then stopped abruptly. There was a low discussion, and even through the car Alex could tell the words were angry. He took Reggie's small hands in his own -he knew how his friend got when people yelled- and rubbed it with his thumb. Reggie gave him an appreciative smile, and Alex smiled back, glad that the action had helped calm them both down. A man rushed past the front of the car, pausing a moment to aim a kick at it before running off, swearing profusely. The three boys jolted and Mary's hand flew to her mouth with a gasp, but he didn't come back and they relaxed a fraction.

After another minute, Mr. Mercer returned to the car, slipping into the driver's seat silently and sitting there for a long moment. Finally he moved, putting the car in reverse and getting ready to pull out, then stopped abruptly. He turned to the backseat, studying the boys' faces.

"Boys?"

"Yes, Mr. Mercer?" they responded in unison.

"Always respect women. Treat them decent and keep them safe, okay? And the same goes for you, if someone isn't treating you right, get out of there, you deserve to be safe." The boys shared wide-eyed glances as Mr. Mercer started pulling out again, but they nodded anyway.

It took a long time for the boys to start talking again, but eventually the silence was broken by Luke, who elbowed Alex in the ribs.

"I think your dad is a superhero, 'Lex."

Alex thought of the girl his dad had protected, her face shiny with tears when he had managed to twist around in his seat to look, shiny but relieved, and he agreed. His dad was a superhero.

"Hey 'Lex? Is it... Is it okay if I come over to your house for a sleepover? Bobby can't and Luke-" Alex was already asking his mom before Reggie even finished his stumbling words, his voice tinny through the Mercer family's Nokia, knowing after a few years of friendship that his voice only wobbled on days where it was too much for him to be alone.

(Alone with two people. Two people who never stopped fighting for long except to criticize the kid that did everything to make them happy. Everything except be enough, apparently. Alex sometimes wished it was okay to want people to go to hell, but Reggie didn't want that, and his mom said that was bad... Still, Alex was Not a Fan of the Peters’ parents.)

And if Bobby wasn't available...

Bobby had shown up about a year prior, and Reggie had immediately decided that he was going to be a part of their friend-group. To Bobby's credit, he seemed to be fond of Reggie, and that was a quick in to the group in Luke and Alex's book. After a while, Bobby grew to be the one Reggie went to when he needed someone, but couldn't handle being around everybody. He'd go over to Bobby's and all of the other boy's gruffness would melt at the sight of him, and Bobby would make it okay.

Bobby was Reggie’s go-to, but Reggie was coming to him, so Alex needed to be there for Reggie.

"Mom?" He waited patiently as she finished putting the casserole she had been preparing in the oven, her blonde hair shimmering and haloed in the evening light coming in through the kitchen windows, and he was reminded of the art of Mary, Jesus’ mother, and how a golden halo had adorned her head too. His mom brushed her hands off and peeked in the oven one last time before tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear and turning to face him, eyes smiling.

“What’s up, bug?”

“Can Reggie come over?” And then her eyes were softening even more, and for a moment Alex wondered if Mary was as kind as his mom. His mom who always made sure to give Reggie an extra hug, to praise Luke on his singing, and to press a kiss to Bobby’s head and laugh when he twisted away and pretended that he hated it, even though a smile tugged at his lips. His mom who always knew just how to cheer his friends up. Alex thought about it for a minute more and then decided no, his mom was the kindest and prettiest out of all the moms, even Jesus’.

“Of course he can, I’ll even make my special macaroni and cheese!” Alex’s mom gave a small grin and ushered Alex back out of the kitchen. “Now scooch! I’ve got to finish the casserole.”

He giggled and let Reggie know that he could stay, that it was gonna be okay, that Reggie could probably even bring over the guitar he was starting to learn how to play, and they could jam together.

He glanced back at his mom, her hair still gold in the light, and grinned at her soft, tired, and slightly sad smile. She blew a kiss and tucked a strand of gold behind her ear, and then Alex was away again, cheering his friend up over the phone while he gathered some stuff for their sleepover.

Alex heaved a sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face; He had a terrible headache, and the way practice was going? He wouldn’t be surprised if the rest of the band did too.

“Okay Luke, I get we want this perfect, but it’s hot and I have a headache, is there any way we could take a quick breather?”

Luke, surprisingly, just gave a loose nod and flopped onto their couch, face in a weak scowl, more brought on by frustration at the music than any anger towards Alex. It had been a rough week at home for him, and in his mind their struggle with this song was probably one more confirmation that his mom was right, that his music was only dragging him and his friends down.

It tore Alex apart, to see Luke like that, so he slumped onto the space beside Luke, elbowing him slightly before relaxing into the cushion, making sure to “annoyingly” slouch against Luke. The couch was big enough for all four of them to squeeze together, and had taken three of them to carry it into the Mercer’s garage the day they had found it at some estate sale the summer before, and now it was a regular occurrence to find the boys gathered together, bodies tangled together haphazardly on the worn piece of furniture.

Soon, Bobby joined in, grumbling about how sweaty Luke was, but taking the time to ruffle his hair before settling in, patting the spot beside him for Reggie to take. Luke swatted at Bobby’s hand and rolled his eyes as he half-heartedly tried to shove Alex away, inevitably giving in to the crushing affection of his friends and sighing heavily.

They sat that way for a stretch, silence strung between them like unlit Christmas lights; Noticeable, and somehow liminal, waiting for something to flick them on. The thick air felt like an inverted weighted blanket, just as heavy but the direct opposite of comfortable, and Alex lazily found himself wondering if they should add Christmas lights to the garage.

“Alright, enough of the moping guys, we’ll get this!!” And then Luke was hopping up off the couch, so what if it was clear that the pep in his voice was fake? He turned back to the boys and swung his arms wide, “We just gotta take a short break and come back and whip this song.”

His smile was achingly wide (and painfully put-on) but Alex found himself smiling back. Luke might be a hardheaded dumbass sometimes, but they were still friends, and Alex wanted Luke to see that he wasn’t the failure he thought he was.

“Sure, because we were the ones moping,” Alex rolled his eyes and heaved himself up, tugging Reggie up behind him, and headed to the door, yelling back over his shoulder-

“Last one into my parent’s kitchen gets the armchair!”

The rest of the boys launched after him, knowing the stakes of being forced to sit alone on the Mercer’s uncomfortable armchair versus being able to crowd together on their couch was more important than whatever claims of friendship came before. Bobby attempted to shove Luke behind him, only managing to allow Reggie to get a head start, and scuffled at the doorway, Luke pulling at his shirt and biting at his hand.

“No fair man, I was already farther away!!”

Alex only laughed, throwing open the door to his house and making a break for the couch as the other boys tumbled in after him.

“Hey mom!” He called out, “The boys are trying to kill m-” He was interrupted by a decorative pillow to the face and a crow of laughter from Luke as Reggie gave Bobby a high-five.

“Oh hi boys, I didn’t know you’d be coming in today! Reggie, it’s so nice to see you again, how’s your sister?” Mary Mercer walked in smiling from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.

“And Luke!! I haven’t seen you in weeks besides creeping into our garage to play that marvelous music of yours. When do you plan on giving us a concert? I expect a friends and family discount of course,” She winked and gave a small chuckle.

“Paul and I have loved hearing you boys practice, and you’ve developed so much just this summer! Of course, I’ve always loved your music, but lyrically? Why, you’ve become a genius when it comes to lyrics. We’re so proud of you.”

She squeezed Bobby’s shoulder and gave him a fond smile before heading back to the kitchen.

“I made some sugar cookies and lemonade; I’d planned to bring it out to you boys, but since you’re inside now… Well, might as well enjoy the air conditioning.”

Luke, who had practically bloomed like a flower previously wilting, followed her into the kitchen, his smile now genuine and brighter than the sun itself, and the rest of the band followed.

“Say Mrs. Mercer, do you think we really could do a concert?”

The boys had sat down at the kitchen table, quickly downing most of the cookies, and Luke had taken the pause in eating to probe what Mrs. Mercer had said earlier. She stilled from where she stood at the sink and hesitated before turning to look at the boys with a gentle smile.

“Of course I do, Luke. Mr. Mercer and I have always admired your talents, and all of you boys are amazing musicians. I would love to see you build your skills even more, and I’m certain other people would adore your music.”

Alex watched as Luke grinned and tucked into another cookie, warmth filling his chest.

And later, when his mom pulled him aside and asked if Luke was doing alright, he pulled her into a tight hug and replied, “I’m pretty sure he’s doing a lot better, thanks to you.”

Alex wasn’t sure what to think when his chest started tightening and his breathing became erratic and painful. Maybe he was dying. Maybe he had a terrible hidden sickness and now something had triggered it and, oh God maybe he was dying.

He was dying and he didn’t tell his mom that he loved her that morning, and Luke didn’t know that he was one of the most incredible songwriters Alex had ever known. He couldn’t breathe and Reggie didn’t know that he meant the world to Alex, and Bobby didn’t know just how fucking much Alex cared and how much he loved it when Bobby gave him one of his rare hugs.

Because now Alex was dying and he couldn’t breathe and everything was foggy and maybe he was sobbing but his chest was so tight that he couldn’t see how he could breathe in enough to cry, let alone sob. And this was it, wasn’t it? Alex was dying alone and it was so fucking stupid because how did he go from writing his essay for English homework to this? To this sobbing panicked mess, rocking on the floor?

He was fucking dying and it was on his kitchen floor. And he was freezing and sweating and God, his stomach hurt too and maybe he wasn’t dying, maybe Alex was just going to lay there and be tortured. Nope, he was going to die, and holy fuck he wasn’t ready for heaven. His heart was going a mile a minute, and of course this was going to be how he died and-

His death was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder and Alex tried jerking away but he couldn’t move. He could only shake and suck in for breath as the hand carefully pulled him into a sitting position and a low voice started pushing through the fog in his brain.

“Alex? Alex, bud… breathe with me, okay? It’ll be okay.”

But how could he fucking breathe? How could Alex breathe when it felt like his heart was going to explode at any second, his lungs captured in a vice, when his mind couldn’t hold onto a single thought for more than a second-

“Alex, you gotta work with me kid, you just gotta breathe, okay? Breathe in for as long as you can, and then hold that breath. You got it ‘Lex, c’mon, breathe with me. Alright, slow breath out now- you got it-”

And then the hand was his father, and the voice telling him to breathe was his dad, telling him he loved him and that it was okay, that Alex was okay.

Alex kept breathing, and his dad kept holding his hand, and telling him he could do it, that he was proud. Eventually Alex’s heart rate slowed, and while he felt nauseous and exhausted, he could breathe now.

It was okay, he was okay.

“Dad?”

“Yeah ‘Lex?”

“I… Thank you.”

“Always kiddo. And Alex?” Alex looked up at his dad and gave a weak hum. “If you have another panic attack, tell me? You don’t need to be going through that alone.”

Alex nodded and sagged back into his father’s waiting arms.

He was okay.

“Alex! C’mere really quick, I need your help with something!”

Alex looked up from where he sat cross-legged on the floor of his room at the sound of his dad’s voice. He sighed and pushed himself up, ruffling Bobby’s hair on his way out. The band had been brainstorming which songs to perform at their next gig, not that it was going to be very big, but Alex figured that Luke and Reggie were more of the brains of that particular operation, so he set off without a complaint.

Bobby swatted at his hand and rolled onto his back, closing his eyes and leaving Reggie and Luke to be the only one’s actually going through their songs.

“Yeah dad?” Alex leaned over the staircase railing, eyeing the way his father sat hunched over at the table, a scratch piece of paper in front of him, and a pencil tucked behind his ear. Paul Mercer was a tall man with piercing blue eyes, soft brown hair, and a wry smile. Alex liked to think he took after him, aside for the blondness of his own hair.

“Ah, Alex. Can you come over here? I’m making a list.”

Alex raised an eyebrow at that.

“O….kay?” He hopped off the last step and pulled up a chair beside his dad, taking a closer glance at the paper.

Extra blankets

Extra pillows

(extra clothes??)

Pool money for mini fridge

Add loft

“Dad, what’s all this for?”

His father scrubbed a hand over his face, pulling his hand down to rest his chin on his palm.

“I’ve been thinking, well, your mother and I have been, and… your friends…”

“Yeah?” Alex’s voice was sharp, but his dad was acting weird, and he was protective of the boys.

“They don’t have the best home life, so your mom and I were thinking about making the garage more your space. The couch is already in there, so we figured, if you boys wanted, to give it fully to the band. Blankets and pillows for when one of them needs to stay over, a fridge, which, granted, you boys would need to pay for part of it, some odds and ends you boys might need. What do you think?”

Alex turned his eyes up to his father’s and worked his jaw, his throat tight.

“Dad… That’d be great, yeah.”

His dad’s face broke into a relieved smile, and he clapped Alex on the back.

“Alright, well then. You can go back up, but if you think of anything to add, I’m drawing blanks for anything else.”

“Yeah, okay, thanks dad.”

When Alex walked back into his room a few minutes later, Luke and Bobby in an arm-wrestling competition on his bed, Reggie egging them on, he rolled his eyes and smiled.

He was grateful that his parents cared as much for these dumbasses as he did.

“Alright boys, break it up!” He sat on the bed with them, giving a yelp when Bobby launched at him and put him in a headlock before rubbing his knuckles on his head.

He smiled.

+1.

“Supper’s ready!” Mary Mercer called from the dining room, and Alex took a shaky breath and rubbed his sweaty palms on the front of his shirt before walking into the room and sitting at the table.

His dad wandered in next, pressing a kiss to his mom’s forehead, and settling hard into the chair across from Alex.

“Ah! Chicken pot pie! Delicious.”

Alex gave a half-hearted nod of agreement, his stomach churning as he eyed the food in front of him. This was usually one of his favourite meals.

“Well, shall we say grace?” The family of three held hands, Mr. Mercer saying a short blessing while Alex sent up his own frantic plea.

Just let them accept me, God, please.

“-Amen.”

Mrs. Mercer began serving the food and Alex waited anxiously until all of their plates were full to interject.

“Hey mom, dad?” His stomach twisted harder, and he felt his face already heating up. His parents waited expectantly, his mom smiling encouragingly and his father giving a nod. He could do this.

“I’ve been thinking about this, and… I’ve been really struggling with it. It’s been this way as long as I remember, it’s not a big thing it’s just- I’m gay.”

There. It was out.

Alex’s shoulders were hunched, and his eyes tightly closed. A piece of silverware clattered on a plate, a gasp. Good sign or bad sign? Good sign or-

An awkward throat-clearing.

“Son.” His dad’s voice was low and oh shit, Alex had misjudged this and his dad wasn’t happy and-

He opened his eyes.

Fuck.

His father’s eyes were full of anger, and his mother… Alex’s mom sat in shock, her hand covering her mouth, the tablecloth in front of her a mess of food, her abandoned fork lying prone and vulnerable. Alex found himself relating to it.

“Alexander…” his mom tried, pausing a moment before giving a small unbelieving scoff. “Surely you’re joking. You know our family isn’t like that.”

“And!” Mr. Mercer added, “It’s not funny either.”

Alex’s stomach dropped even further.

“No, dad- mom- I’m actually gay. That’s just part of who I am! I’m still Alex, I just. Can’t make myself like girls.” And he should have stopped. He should have stopped before he even said anything, but he was anxious and why weren’t his parents saying it was okay? Why weren’t they saying they still loved him? And-

“I… like boys instead.”

If words could be knives then they could also be nails, and Alex had just successfully finished the construction of his very own coffin.

A chair slid across the floor, and then his father was pointing angrily and telling him to “get to his fucking room” but Mr. Mercer didn’t yell, and he didn’t swear. Mr. Mercer helped Alex through panic attacks over school, and told him stories about the ocean, and Mr. Mercer never, ever swore.

Except Alex was stumbling, shell-shocked and heartbroken, up the stairs and to his room, and his dad was turning back to his mom and saying “How the hell did we raise him to be a homosexual?” and Alex’s eyes were filling with tears, his chest was tightening up, and he couldn’t breathe.

He shut the door behind him, leaning against it and sliding to the ground as his breathing became even more ragged. Alex wasn’t okay and his parents weren’t okay with him, and as he felt another panic attack coming over him, he used the breathing exercises that the very same man who was now talking about kicking him out, had taught him.

Alex fell asleep to the sound of raised voices.

He woke up to a conversion therapy camp’s pamphlet being shoved under his door.

#alex #Alex Mercer #alex mercer's parents #bobby #bobby shaw #luke #luke patterson #Reggie #Reggie Peters #jatp #jatp fanfic #julie and the phantoms #julie and the himbos #felony writes shit

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unholyobsessions · 4 years ago

Text

Welcome to my dorm pt. 3

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader

Description: After eight months of dating, you finally go visit Spencer and are inconveniently introduced to the team.

Warnings: Implied sex

Word Count: 2.8k

Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 4

You bounce your leg impatiently as the crowded metro finally pulls up to your station. You pick up your duffel bag and push your way to the sliding doors. You frown when you feel someone else’s sweat drip on your arm and wonder if it is always this crowded or if it’s just because it’s Friday. It takes you a second to find who you’re looking for in the sea of people but when you spot him, he’s the only person you can focus on. You jog up to him and drop your bag at your feet before throwing your arms around his neck.

Spencer’s joyous laugh fills your ears and you smile, happy to finally be in his arms again. It has been two months since you have last seen him, two months of absolute torture. Keeping a long distance relationship is stressful, even more so with his chaotic work schedule. Every time he calls you when he has a case, you spend the whole time worried sick, praying that the next call you receive is from him and not from a hospital.

This is an important weekend though, this is the first time that you make the trip to D.C. in your eight months of dating since it’s always him that goes to visit you. And it is finally time for Spencer to make good on the promise he made when you first met of giving you a personal tour.

He picks your bag off the floor and leads you out of the station. You grip his hand tightly in yours and make conversation as you walk all the way to his apartment catching up on what you couldn’t over phone calls.

His apartment is everything you expected it to be. The living room is lined with dozens mismatched bookshelves that are most likely thrifted or bought at garage sales, his coffee table is empty except for the two piles of FBI files stacked on the edge and there is a small television in the corner with Doctor Who DVDs next to it. His kitchen is neat and looks mostly unused except for the old coffee machine sitting of the counter. He guides you over to his bedroom and you stop at the doorway to study it. There’s an old wardrobe against the wall that he obviously thrifted, the walls are a pale grey color, contrasting the dark green of the living room. The king sized bed is in the center of the room against the back wall. The bedsheets are a navy blue and there is an abundance of pillows on top.

His bedside drawers hold pictures of who you assume are his coworkers at different events. You smile at the picture of a younger looking Spencer, his mother next to him with a book in her hands. The one that catcher your attention however is the three picture frame holding pictures that make the butterflies in your stomach flutter. The one on the right is of you smiling brightly at the camera, a half-drunk iced coffee in your hand. The one in the middle is of you and Spencer sitting next to each other in a bench, you’re laughing at something he said and he is looking at you, a lovesick smile on his face. The last one has both of you sitting on the same bench, but you are now kissing his cheek and Spencer is grinning at the stranger holding the camera.

You remember that day perfectly. It was the third time Spencer went to visit and you spent all day at a park frequented by students. You can’t help but smile at the memory and don’t even realize you are walking toward the frame until you are holding it in your hands. Spencer saying your name inevitably breaking you from your trance.

“That’s my favorite day with you. You were so worried about the midterm you had just taken when I arrived so I made it my goal to cheer you up. It didn’t take long after I bought you coffee.” You turn to look back at him. He had set your bag by the door of his closet and looked like he stared at you for a while before breaking the silence.

“I took you to the park because it was the only place I hadn’t showed you. When the photographer came up to us you reached for your gun before you realized that it wasn’t there. You did not let him anywhere near me until he showed you his id.” You giggled at the memory and set the frame down. “I never got the pictures, I just thought he never sent them.”

“He sent them to me and I guess I just forgot to tell you,” he shrugged.

“You forgot?” Your gaze was doubtful and his playful hum in reply caused you to roll your eyes.

He crosses the room and pulls you into a long awaited kiss. “I missed you,” he mumbles against your lips.

“I missed you too,” you pause and pretend to be in deep thought for a while. “In fact let me show you how much.” You push him to the bed and he grips your hips as you straddle his legs.

��What happened to me showing you around D.C?” He questioned as you kiss his jaw and suck lightly at the spot.

“We have the whole weekend, right now I just want to be with you.” He grins at you pulls you back into a kiss.

. . .

You stand in the kitchen in shorts and Spencer’s purple button up, the strap of your brallette visible as the oversized shirt slips off your shoulder. Spencer’s bare chest is pressed against your back as you whisk the batter of the chocolate chip cookies you decided to make.

“You going to help me roll the dough into balls or what?” You ask, turning around in his arms.

“Or what,” he cheekily replies. You slap his chest and gesture him to help you. He reluctantly agrees and you press play on your laptop, your playlist playing loudly throughout the kitchen. You take double the time you normally would as you take breaks to dance around the room or throw flour at each other. You make it halfway through the dough when there is a knock at the door.

“I’ll get it, don’t burn the cookies!” You call to him, walking away and shaking the flour off your hair.

“How could I burn them?” He called back incredulously.

You laugh as you walk across the wooden floor, making a stop in front of the door. You open it, expecting it to be one of Spencer’s neighbors complaining about the loud music you’re playing. However, you are met by the surprised stares of vaguely familiar people.

“Oh sorry we must have gotten the wrong apartment,” a pretty woman with blonde hair speaks up. “Do you happen to know where Spencer Reid lives?”

The realization hit you like a truck. Your eyes widened as you call out, “uhh Spence?” You glance down at what you’re wearing and curse under your breath. How is it that I am always dressed inappropriately when I open the door, you think.

The people in front of you look confused and are even more surprised when a familiar voice speaks up from deeper in the apartment. “I didn’t burn the cookies! They’re not even in the oven yet!”

You allow yourself to smile before turning a head over your shoulder, “No baby it’s for you.” The pet name slips past your lips so effortlessly that you don’t even notice but the people who have yet to be invited in definitely do.

“Who is it darling-“ he freezes. My team is here, he thinks, my team is here and I am shirtless with my girlfriend none of them know about. You notice his discomfort, so you grab one of his cardigans hanging by the door and toss it at him. He catches it with ease and slips it over his shoulders. “What are-what are you doing here?” He gulps. Morgan is blatantly staring at you, trying to determine why you look so familiar to him. You shift uncomfortably and hide behind Spencer.

“It’s your turn to host game night,” piped up an eccentric curly haired blonde. “But we can come back another time.”

Spencer opens his mouth to tell them that that is a great idea but you interrupt him. “It’s okay.” Spencer looks down at you surprised because he really cannot think of a worst way to introduce you to his family. He really did not want the first time you met them for both of you to be half-naked.

“No really we don’t want to intrude,” an older looking man spoke.

“You’re not,” you assure him. “We weren’t going to do anything tonight anyway. I’m y/n.” You step out from behind Spencer and lean forward to shake the man’s hand.

“That’s right!” The dark skinned man on the left exclaims, startling everyone. “We interviewed you for a kidnapping about nine or ten months ago.”

“Umm yeah. Agent Morgan right?” You question, although you know perfectly well who he is.

“Derek’s fine,” he answers.

They all introduce themselves and Spencer ushers them in. You skip back to the kitchen and place the cookies in the already preheated oven.

“So how long have you been dating boy wonder?” You jump and turn around, the woman who you now identify as Penelope smiles at you.

“Oh about 8 months, Spence could probably tell you the exact time down to the hour though.” You shrug. You start wiping down the counter as she gathers drinks for everyone.

“You love him don’t you?” She questions.

“I really do,” you reply.

“Good.” She links both your arms and you walk out of the kitchen together. You sit down next to Spencer on the couch and conversation flows easily, considering you are the main topic of it. You only leave to take the cookies out of the oven once the fifteen minutes are up. As you place the freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on the table the dreaded question comes up and both you and Spencer freeze.

“How old are you?” Prentiss didn’t mean any harm by it, but they can all instantly tell that it made you uncomfortable.

“I’m twenty-one,” you say shyly. You don’t know how they’ll react. Spencer already turned thirty and you won’t be turning twenty-two until another month. The age gap doesn’t bother either of you--you had a long conversation about it when you first got together--but you know it can make other people uncomfortable. It seems that they do not know how to react either because they all sort of stop their movements. Spencer’s grip on your waist tightens and is ready to defend you when JJ speaks up.

“Cool. For a second I though you were going to say twenty and that you were drinking illegally in front of a bunch of federal agents.” You started laughing and the tension immediately leaves the room.

“I am very much a legal adult even though my frontal lobe is not fully developed,” you say. Spencer takes your comment and starts explaining the functions of the frontal lobe and you turn your eyes to him and listen intently to what he says, even though you already know all of it.

Morgan waits for him to finish and proceeds to takes out the UNO cards. You all place piles of m&ms in the center at the table as your means of exchange. Hotch teases you and asks if you even know what gambling is and you stick your tongue out at him, further proving his point of you being young. The game is extremely intense and there is absolutely no mercy. At some point you give Spencer a +4 and he looks at you like a betrayed puppy.

“I’m sorry baby but this is war,” you lean forward and kiss his cheek. About one hour in, Emily, Dave, and Hotch have all been on the verge of winning but end up having to take dozens of cards before they are able to. Now, both you and Morgan have two cards left and everyone starts conspiring, trying to find a way to prevent the two of you from winning. You look Morgan in the eye and place a card down. “Uno.”

“Ohh pretty girl it’s so on,” he smirks. Spencer goes, then Emily, Penelope and finally Morgan. At his turn, he places a blue 2 on top of Pen’s yellow 2 and she curses under her breath. “Uno.”

When it’s his turn, Hotch, who has the turn before you, places down a +4 with a triumphant smirk on his face. They all look relieved, especially Morgan, until they see the smile on your face.

“Oh guys,” you start. “You really think I didn’t prepare for that?” With that said you place your own +4 on top of Hotch’s and they all let out load groans. “Don’t try to beat the college student. We take UNO very seriously.” You pull all the m&ms to you and pop one in your mouth.

Rossi angrily throws the cards on the table. “How about we play something that she won’t know, how about poker?”

“Noooo,” you whine. “The only card game I know is speed. Let’s play monopoly!”

“God no,” Penelope exclaims. “We will all end up hating each other.”

“That’s the fun part,” you reply. They all look iffy at your suggestion so you decide to play your cards right and turn to your boyfriend with a pout adorning your lips. “Please?” One look at you and Spencer falls.

“Okay let’s do it. And it is me hosting sooo what I say goes.”

“Yeah yeah pretty boy just admit that you’re whipped.” Morgan chuckled.

Spencer blushed a deep shade of pink and everyone laughed. You kiss his cheek and lean against his side.

Monopoly is even more deadly than UNO, if that is even possible. Emily and Rossi yell at each other over property, JJ screams because she keeps landing in jail, and you keep sneakily stealing Hotch’s money when he isn’t looking. Spencer gives you a disapproving look every time but says nothing. Spencer wins (he brags about it at work for a week) and you all vow to never play monopoly again.

By the end of the night you understand why Spencer loves his team so much.

Morgan is an ass but in the best way possible. He instantly takes to you and you find yourself wondering where he comes up with all his nicknames. You glare at him most of the night though because he keeps messing up your hair.

JJ is basically Spencer’s sister and it is obvious how much she loves him. She was cautious at first, and slightly offended that Spencer never told her about you, but by the end she bid you goodnight with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to invite you to girls night the next time you visit.

Hotch, surprisingly, is the one you click most with. From what you heard from Spencer, he has a reputation of not being able to smile but you don’t agree because in the few hours you have been in his presence he has done nothing but send caring, fatherly smiles your way. He offers to help when you complain about struggling with a political science class you decided to take this year and gives you his card telling you to call him anytime.

Penelope is protective. She will die before she lets anyone in her family get hurt. And although she isn’t a profiler, you find her studying you all night, trying to see if you are good enough for her boy genius. (You are, she concludes)

Dave reminds you of your grandfather. He teases you about your inability to play cards and promises to teach you the next time you visit. He tells Spencer that he will not be welcomed into his home for family dinner unless he extends the invitation to you.

Emily is…well Emily. There is no way to describe her. She is a total badass and you find yourself identifying with her sense of humor. She whispers to you that if you ever break up with Spencer, she would like to inform you that she is single.

After closing the door behind his team, Spencer pulls you to bed and lays his head on your chest. You protest at first, claiming that you need to clean up the mess, but eventually succumb and hold him close.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“For what?” You move your neck to be able to look at him. He has his eyes closed and hums as you run your hands through his hair.

“For being you. For being so perfectly yourself.” he shuffles up and presses a loving kiss to your lips. “I love you. You have no idea how much you mean to me.”

“I love you too,” you mumble against his lips. He lays against your chest again and you both drift off to sleep.

tag: @rexorangecouny

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keelywolfe · 4 years ago

Text

FIC: Knick Knack Paddy Whack (BAON)

Summary: As far as Stretch is concerned, there's only one solution when you're addicted to thrift stores. Selling all the crap you bought so you can buy more!

Notes: Stepping outside of the main storyline for a moment, we'll get back to the aftermath we're all expecting in a moment. 😁

Tags: Spicyhoney, Established Relationships, Domestic Fluff

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

Stretch was a bonafide thrift-a-holic, he honestly was, and he knew it. It was an important thing to know about yourself, really, because certain problems arose from bad case of oooh-shiny-itis.

Sure, one ceramic zombie hand thrusting up from the dresser to hold his rings and change was an awesome thing to behold, but an entire collection of zombie hands was a tough sell to the person you were living with, especially if that person was Edge. Not that he’d managed to find a collection of zombie hands and if he had, that thrift store would have been on the weekly check list, for sure. But the same premise applied to ‘zombie hand plus an entire horde of other bizarre ceramics surrounding it’.

Stretch wasn’t bitter about the limitations when it came to his collection, nah, he got it. There were certain things you couldn’t ask for from the person you love, and a house filled up with weird tchotchkes that looked like they belonged to the grandmother of the chainsaw massacre family was a step too far. Plus, asking Edge for more space would be unfair. He’d either agree because he didn’t want to tell Stretch no, or he’d say no and feel bad about it. Nah, the set of porcelain dragons playing instruments in a rock band he’d found wasn’t that important, not if it gave Edge a case of the guilts.

Problem was, Stretch really couldn’t resist sometimes. How was he supposed to turn away a wedding painting of Yoda and Kermit the frog? Or a coffee mug with a penguin orgy on it? He couldn’t, that’s how, but his allotted space was filling up in the house proper and soon he’d started to amass quite the collection in his lab, too. It was when the overflow expanded enough to start infringing on his erlenmeyer flasks that he decided he needed a new strategy. Science waited for no one and definitely not anything with the word ‘taxidermy’ included.

That’s when Stretch came up with the plan. Okay, it wasn’t a plan, exactly, more like a flash in the pants of brief inspiration, but hell, he’d been flying by on those his entire life, why stop now?

One of the places he frequented was an antique mall, which was a fancy way of saying one rung on the ladder above actual thrift store, except they rented stalls for people to sell their stuff, so maybe it was more like a glorified garage sale. People carted in their junk for other people to buy and the cashier up front handled all the transactions. Minimal time, minimal effort, that was exactly what he and his kitsch needed, so Stretch went ahead and rented a stall of his own.

The not-exactly-a-plan worked out pretty well. He could buy something at the thrift shop and proudly display it for a while around the house, and then when it came time to replace it with a new find, he’d add it to his stall and whatever money came from it, he donated to the local kid’s charity that the Antique Mall supported. That meant he got in his kicks and joy without looking like a prequel to a Hoarders episode and Edge only had to deal with the octopus tentacle ashtray for a few weeks.

Seriously, it was a win-win all the way around.

A few things did take up permanent residence, of course; he couldn’t give up his zombie hand. But so long as it wasn’t a clown, (clowns were disposed of by Edge immediately and with great prejudice), he was allowed things like his nested Matryoshka dolls of Nicolas Cages for a time.

About once a week he went down to add new things to his stall, mostly during the weekday hours when the buses were on the empty side and he could take up an extra seat with his box of additions. It wasn’t exactly a secret, Andy came along a few times to help, but he never really mentioned it to Edge. Not until today when Stretch realized he’d let things go a little too long and he had some extra boxes to haul down.

Better to take care of it while he was thinking about it, otherwise it tended to turn into an endless cycle of ‘oh, I should do that today’ and him forgetting, but aside from the extra lugging required, it was also Saturday and the bus would be loaded. Hitching a ride would be required, plus a little extra muscle, and his husband was his favorite source for both.

He found Edge in the kitchen, sitting at their temporary table with his laptop and yeah, it was Saturday, time to drag him away from whatever bullshit work he was doing. Stretch put on his best wheedling face and asked, “babe? can you give me a lift today?”

“Of course.” Edge didn’t look up, what a total waste of Stretch’s beguiling charms. His gloved fingertips were soft against the keyboard as he finished whatever he was typing before glancing up at Stretch, and maybe his schmoozing wasn’t entirely wasted; the way Edge closed the lid on his laptop spoke of a guilty conscious for working on his day off. “Where are we going?”

“downtown,” Stretch tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. “i need to hit up my junk and disorderly shop.”

That got him a pause, “Your what?”

“heh, you’ll see.” Stretch curled a finger at Edge in a ‘come hither’ motion that his husband didn’t follow, only watched suspiciously. “c’mon, i need you to help me carry some stuff.”

“This ride is starting to sound less like transport and more like a chore.” But Edge followed him to the basement for the boxes, and, surprise surprise, his willingness to help went up a few notches from wary to eager when he figured out what Stretch was doing. Eh, couldn’t blame him. At the top of the pile was a plush frog with the top hat that played ‘hello my baby’ whenever you pushed on its foot, something Red did every single time he walked past it, plus anytime he’d felt like shortcutting in for a quick press. Time to let it damage the sanity of another family.

The boxes were tossed into the trunk of Edge’s car, frog and all, and soon they were on the road, heading downtown. Truth be told, Stretch wasn’t sure what Edge would make of the place. He tolerated thrift stores well enough, but the antique mall was a different kind of beast. An entire building of obscure collections cluttered together into eclectic displays that others were trying to barter and sell.

There were stalls filled with milk crates of old records, shelves and shelves of antique glassware and dishes. Some stalls had vintage clothing, feathery boas mixed in with disco pants and ruffled aprons. Old instruments, rusty farm equipment, strange kitchen gadgets that looked more dangerous than useful, this place had everything and then some.

Plus, the mall had a certain sort of smell, a musty, dusty scent verging on decay that settled into the sinuses and hung around for a while. Stretch thought it was the smell of a life well-lived and he kinda liked it; after years of thrifting, he associated it with finding treasures, but who knew if Edge felt the same. His tastes in smells (heh) ran more to clean and green, not old-timey funk. Could be it reminded him of shower mildew.

Whatever his opinion of the odors, Edge kept it to himself. He helped with the box carrying and checked out Stretch’s stall curiously but didn’t say much. Probably recognized the stuff on the shelves as having once been on a table or Stretch’s nightstand, until the glee wore off and it ended up gathering dust in the basement. He wandered off at some point, heading into the depths of the mall, and left Stretch to restock his meagre wares.

It took longer than he’d expected. Since he’d opened up his stall, not everything Stretch found thrifting found its way into the house proper anymore. Some of it he bought as a straight-to-video option and he was getting pretty good at finding interesting doodads at the thrifty places that might sell better here, location, location, location, that was the ticket.

Stretch always priced his junk reasonably, usually not much more than he’d paid for it. Wasn’t like he needed the money, and besides, Stretch knew himself pretty damn well, therapy did that to a guy. At the end of the day, he knew what this was really about; all an elaborate scheme to satisfy the inner packrat in his soul that struggled sometimes with giving things away.

Bartering had been built in him before he could say the word; in the Underground, he’d gotten damn good at getting deals for what he could scrounge at the dump. This was the same thing, really, just with slightly different stakes. Dinner wasn’t riding on his latest stash of dvds anymore, always a plus, and these days he could simply look at the empty shelves, content in the knowledge that his Smeagol cardboard cutout had found a new home.

Hey, therapy wasn’t the only way to work out a few kinks in your internal lines.

When the last box was emptied, Stretch wandered up to the front desk to give the lady who ran the front register his new inventory list. That was when he heard it.

There was an old piano up front with a sign on it that said, ‘Do not ‘play’ if you cannot play’. Most of the time it sat silently but someone up there was giving it a good try today. The notes were slower, with obvious hesitations as the player searched for the correct keys, but the song was one Stretch knew. Gently melancholy, a match to the cautious playing.

His curiosity piqued, Stretch wandered over to watch and he wasn’t entirely surprised to see Edge sitting on the piano bench, his attention on his hands as he slowly played. It was a tough choice between watching him play and simply listening to the song and Stretch found himself trying to do both. The uncertain skill in hands he knew so well as they coaxed the music free.

When the last note faded, a faint smattering of applause came from the different stalls around them. Stretch waited for it to end before sitting on the bench next to Edge.

Quietly, Stretch said, “i didn’t know you played.”

“I don’t,” Edge said. He smoothed a hand over the keys, not pressing down, simply touching them. “Not really. I can’t read music, but I know a song or two by rote. A friend of mine pushed me to memorize them.”

Welp, Stretch didn’t have to ask what friend, now did he. An old friend back in another world, and people weren’t replaceable even if they wore the same face. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to; Stretch understood in a way only a few people could, and he settled a hand on Edge’s leg, squeezing his knee gently.

“that was really good,” Stretch offered, “you have a good memory, babe.”

“Some of my memories are better than others,” Edge said. The words were more contemplative than sorrowful, and he didn’t look at Stretch, only touched the back of his hand briefly with his gloved fingertips. “You tend to feature in the best ones, love.”

He reached for the keys again and started to play. The song was more confident this time, bright and cheery, with only the occasional missed note. A handful of other people drifted over, some pausing to watch and some moving on, going about their day with a song to carry them along.

Stretch only tapped his toes and listened as Edge played, more than willing to let him go on until he was ready to stop. If Edge wanted to take a brief dive into the past, then the antique mall was a place for it, where memories and times past mingled with the present.

Besides, a new memory to take home was better than any knickknack.

-fin

Note: The first song Edge was playing was 'Clair de Lune' by Debussy and the second was 'The Entertainer' by Scott Joplin. In case you were wondering. 😁

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #by any other name

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of-a-chaotic-mind · 4 years ago

Text

Crisis Averted

Summary: Shit hits the fan after Dean finds out that Reader and Sam have slept together. Crisis is averted once Reader has a chat with Dean about it.

TW/CW: Platonic!Reader x Sam & Dean Winchester. References to Sam and Reader sleeping together.

Requested?: Yes! A lovely Anon said, “Hi! Idk if you’re doing requests BUTTT if you are, I was wondering if you could do like a platonic one where you and the boys hunt together and have become like family but dean finds out through the Supernatural books/the internet or whatever that you and Sam hooked up the very first night you guys met.”

Word Count: 1,468

A/N: So I have a lot of Anons that request and I was just thinking maybe I should give you all a cool special name or something (any other followers could also be called by said name if that’s a thing that you all would like). Why was the first thing to pop into my head Tonics??? Like then we’d be Gin and Tonics.... Idk thoughts? As for this imagine, I kind of feel like it’s a little off for some reason but I hope you all enjoy the reader anyway. Love to all!

Your POV I sleepily shuffle to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee. I take a sip before yawning and stretching on my way to join the boys. I plop down into one of the chairs at the table and drop my head onto its surface as Sam chuckles, “Wow, I think that’s a record, 2pm is the earliest I’ve ever seen you get up the morning after returning from a hunt.”

I look up to glare at him as Dean grumbles something under his breath but all I caught from it was, “You would know.” Shrugging, I pull one of the various lore books spread across the tablet closer to me and open it up. We’re currently working on tracking down a demon who Crowley wants dead. The damn thing is literally off the radar so were looking for a new way of tracking it. Why the boys decided to do this for Crowley, I don’t know but it’s time consuming nonetheless. If it weren’t for the three of us being on the brink of insanity from being cooped up in the bunker we wouldn’t have gone on the aforementioned hunt. I flip through a few pages of the old, musty book before sighing, “I need food before I can try to focus on any of this.”

“There’s not much left in the fridge,” Sam responds.

I weigh the options for a moment before deciding, “I’m gonna run to the store and pick up food on the way back. Text me want you want, will you?” Sam nods but Dean doesn’t bother acknowledging anything as I get up and head to my room to change out of my pajamas. I have tendency to wander around the bunker in my pajamas if I know we shouldn’t be going anywhere that day. Sometimes it’s a bad idea though because it leads me to curling up in an armchair and falling asleep when I should be studying lore. Once I’ve thrown on the usual unofficial hunters' uniform i.e. a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, a flannel, a leather jacket, and some boots, I head to back through the bunker and to the garage. Knowing it’s not advisable to get groceries while riding my motorcycle, I opt to take my 1967 Camaro instead.

Climbing into my car, I immediately grab a Metallica CD and pop it in before cranking the car. I notice that my gas gauge is rather low and make a mental note to stop for gas while I’m out as well. It feels nice to be back in my own Baby after riding with Sam and Dean for so long on cases. I got this car when I was sixteen and it has been a great companion ever since. If it weren’t for this car, I probably wouldn’t have met Sam and Dean. It caught their attention outside Harvelle’s and we’ve been best friends ever since. Those boys have become the only family that I have left. I pull up to the gas station and get out to fill her up, of course being met with the usual stares of awe at my car. I ignore them and go about my business before getting back in to head for the store.

Before I leave, I pat the dash lovingly and check my phone to realize that I haven’t gotten a text from the boys yet. I tap on Sam’s contact and then wait as it rings. He answers rather promptly and sounds rather annoyed, “Hey, sorry I got side tracked. I’ll send you the list in a minute.” In the background I hear a door slam before Sam yells, “Fine, be that way but at least text (Y/n) your order.”

“Is everything alright?” I ask furrowing my eyebrows.

On the other end of the line, Sam sighs, “He found out about our thing and now he’s being pissy.”

I look over my shoulder at the backseat, I had kind of forgotten about that as we agreed to never talk about it, “I’ll talk to him when I get back.”

“Good luck,” Sam responds, “I’ll see you when you get here. Be safe.”

“Will do,” I reply before hanging up. I put the car in drive and head for the grocery store hearing a couple of dings from my phone as I do. Once I pull into a parking spot at the store, I check my phone to find two messages, the one from Sam reads:

Thanks for going to the store and everything. I don’t know where you’re going for food but I just want some salad stuff from the store if you could. Thanks again.

Dean’s is a little stiffer:

burger and fries

Oh yeah, he’s definitely upset. I begin to wonder how he even found out as I get out my car and head into the store. I gather up some pretty basic items and even grab a few steaks as they’re on sale. I manage to fill the shopping cart with groceries by the time I decide I should head for the checkout line. A short while later, I am loading groceries into my car before returning the cart to a rack and then heading towards home. I make sure to stop by Dean’s favorite burger joint in town and pick up food for me and him on the way.

When I pull into the garage, Sam is waiting to help unload groceries but Dean is nowhere in sight. Together, we silently make several trips to carry the groceries to the kitchen and then put everything away as well. Once we’ve finished, Sam sets to work making himself a salad so I grab mine and Dean’s food and head towards his room. I knock softly on the door, “I have your food. You and I need to talk.”

I hear some shuffling before Dean opens the door, “Damn right we do.” I offer his bag of food to him and he snatches it before making his way over to sit on the bed. I join him and let it stay quiet for a few moments as we both pull our food out of our bags and begin eating.

After a few bites of my burger, I speak up, “So, how did you find out?”

“Fucking Becky of all people, (Y/n). My brother and best friend banged the first night they met but no they didn’t fess up. I found out through Becky and some freaking creepy ass books,” he answers.

“Well, that explains why she’s never liked me. I’m guessing she let it slip the other day?” I muse.

“Yeah, she referred to you as the ‘reason Sam won’t ever like me’,” he mumbles through a bite of burger.

“That’s definitely not what’s keeping him from finding an interest in her. Especially considering it was a one-time thing that we agreed to never talk about.”

“You guys could’ve at least told me,” he grumbles.

“You’re telling me that you would’ve been cool if Sam and I were just like, ‘Oh hey Dean, we just banged in the back of (Y/n)’s car,’?” He’s doesn’t answer and instead seems to be rather fascinated by his fries. I sigh, “I suppose that’s what it is though. You’re hurt that we would keep something from you. Look Dean, I’m sorry that we didn’t tell you. It’s just not exactly something that can come up in casual conversation.”

Dean takes a deep breath, “I forgive you. I would very much be okay with continuing the ‘don’t ever mention it again,’ tactic. Definitely not an image I need in my head.”

I shake my head and laugh, “So why exactly did you blow up on Sam about it?”

“Because when I confronted him about him hiding something from me, he lied to me about it and said he wasn’t hiding anything. You admitted to it,” he answers.

I nod, “Gotcha. In that case,” I get up and make my way over to the door to yell, “Sammy, get your ass in here!”

I return to the bed to gather my food and trash and when Sam arrives in the doorway, I point at Dean, “Make up. I’ll be in my room when you two are on good terms with each other again. We can have a movie night or something.” With this, I leave them both avoiding eye contact with each other and make my way to my bedroom. It takes a while but finally, Sam and Dean appear at my open door with popcorn and a movie. I pat the bed on either side of me and they join me after putting the movie in. Things feel like they’re back to normal as we laugh our asses off at our favorite movie and stuff popcorn in our faces.

Masterlist

Taglist: @akshi8278 @emiijemii @deandaydreaming @castiels-majestic-wings

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester imagines #dean winchester oneshot #dean winchester oneshots #sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester imagine #sam winchester imagines #sam winchester oneshot #sam winchester oneshots #supernatural #supernatural imagine #supernatural imagines #supernatural oneshot #supernatural oneshots

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rachelkaser · 4 years ago

Text

Stay Golden Sunday: Blind Ambitions

Rose’s blind sister Lily visits and might need more help than she’s willing to admit. The Girls have a garage sale.

Picture It...

The Girls are having a barbecue on the lanai with their guest, Rose’s sister Lily. Lily lost her sight six months ago, and is still adjusting while Rose tries not to be a mother hen. Blanche reminisces about Southern barbecues and Lily tells a story about their St. Olafian camping trips. The Girls discuss Lily’s adjustment -- she claims she can cope with most things now, and she even still watches television. When Sophia grouses about their TV being broken, Lily gives them the idea of having a garage sale to get money for a new one.

DOROTHY: Listen, mom, we cannot afford a new TV. We’re using the household money to repair the roof and repave the driveway. SOPHIA: Great, and what am I supposed to do while every other old lady on the block is watching Cosby? DOROTHY: Well, you can sit in the new driveway and hope that an amusing Black family drops by.

Later, the Girls are gathering together the things they could sell at a garage sale. Dorothy pulls out an old doll, Blanche has a hippy outfit she wore to Woodstock (the movie), and Rose finds a pair of candlesticks she decides to keep. Lily offers to put them in the alcove, and tells Rose not to be so protective. Rose apologizes -- while discreetly moving aside a lamp Lily was about to walk into. Lily then announces she’s going to her room and Dorothy and Blanche scramble to move a half-dozen boxes out of her way without her noticing, and she triumphantly declares, when she makes it to the hallway, that she doesn’t need anyone’s help.

The next day, Lily is cooking bacon on the stove, and when she turns away for a moment, the pan catches fire. She cries out for help, and Rose and Blanche come rushing in, with Rose putting out the fire with an extinguisher. Dorothy runs in as Blanche tells Lily she shouldn’t have been cooking on the stove. Lily apologizes but says it was just an accident as she sulks out. Blanche and Dorothy confront Rose, saying Lily isn’t as independent as she’s saying she is, and she might need to go back to the school for the blind, despite dropping out due to alleged boredom. Rose agrees to talk to her.

LILY: I remember when you were six years old and dad got you that puppy for your birthday. You worried because you thought her paws were too big and that the other dogs would laugh at her. ROSE: Well they did! They used to bark and point at her! LILY: Everybody pointed at her. You made her wear a bonnet and matching booties.

Rose goes to her room, where Lily is staying, and Lily reassures Rose that she’s fine. She says Rose is a worrier by nature, and Rose says not to change the subject. She tells Lily that she’s trying to do much by herself, and the independence of which she’s so proud isn’t serving her now. Lily finally breaks and tells Rose she just wants things to go back to the way they were, but they’re not going to. Rose tells her she needs help, and Lily begs Rose to come back home and live with her before bursting into tears.

Later, Rose tells the Girls that she’s seriously thinking about moving with Lily to Chicago, but both Blanche and Rose are skeptical that it’ll actually help Lily. Dorothy accuses her of doing it out of guilt, and Blanche relates a story of how she lost a male friend because her husband made her feel guilty about it. Sophia has a slightly more relevant story about how she struggled to get back on her feet after her stroke. It took Dorothy pushing her to be independent for her to actually make the effort, and Sophia tells Rose she needs to help her sister “to help herself.” Rose goes off to think some more.

DOROTHY: *after Blanche rebuffs a customer’s offer of $1.25 for her Elvis shakers* Blanche, I can’t believe that you did that! I mean, they’re just a silly salt and pepper shaker. BLANCHE: The King is gone, Dorothy. But we must cherish the things he left behind. His movies, his songs... DOROTHY: And his seasonings.

At the garage sale, every time someone shows an interest in one of the Girls’ things, they react badly. Rose isn’t willing to give up her teddy, Mr. Longfellow; Blanche believes her Elvis salt and pepper shakers must be cherished; and Dorothy squabbles with a teenager over a hockey stick used by Bobby Hull. They come to the conclusion that they’re not willing to part with any of their things, and decide to just pay for a new TV in installments. Blanche and Dorothy go to shoo out their customers.

Lily enters and tells Rose how much she appreciates Rose being willing to help her. She asks Rose to get her a glass of water, and Rose freezes before reminding Lily that she’s capable of getting a glass of water — and if she isn’t, she needs professional help that Rose can’t give. She’s made up her mind: She’s not going to Chicago. Lily gets angry and accuses Rose of turning her back on her, storming out.

DOROTHY: *after the third time Rose leaves the house and returns* Come on now. Come on now, get out of here. You’ve come back more times than Shirley MacLaine.

Two months later, Rose is on her way to visit Lily. She’s sure that Lily is going to pressure her into living with her again and is nervous because it was hard enough to refuse the first time. The Girls encourage her to stick to her guns. She leaves, but not without kissing her friends goodbye. When Rose arrives at the airport later, she thanks the flight attendant for all the extras they provided her (including pillows, Dramamine, and 10 packs of smokehouse almonds).

Rose is surprised to see Lily at the airport, waiting for her. Lily introduces her seeing-eye dog, Becky, who Rose of course melts over (side note: I don’t think you’re supposed to pet service dogs the way Rose does here, but considering the dog is likely not an actual service dog, I’ll excuse it). Lily apologizes to Rose, saying Rose did the right thing by pushing her. She went back to the school for the blind, and is finally in a place where she can take care of herself -- with Becky’s help, of course. She and Becky take the lead to the baggage claim, with Lily tossing off a one-liner that has Rose a bit concerned:

ROSE: I’m so proud of you. LILY: Oh this is nothing! What till you see me drive home!

“If it’s a choice between the two of them, let the blind one make change.”

After Blanche and Dorothy had their turns with sisterly conflict episodes, it’s now Rose’s turn. This time it’s not long-standing animosity or bubbling resentment that sets the two against each other, but a new life change that prompts an adaptation in the relationship. As depressing as it may be, I think Lily and Rose might be the healthiest sister relationship in the show’s history, not that that’s saying much. Lily is one of the more memorable guest characters on the show, mostly because she’s given room to have complex emotions.

In the episode, Lily is played by Polly Holiday, whose main claim to fame is playing Flo “Kiss My Grits” Castleberry on the sitcom Alice -- a catchphrase I’ve always found a little baffling, but at least it’s memorable. If you’d asked me based on what little I’d seen of Alice if she’d be capable of giving one of the most memorable guest performances on Golden Girls ever, I admit I’d have been a little skeptical -- and I’d be wrong, because she really brings it. It’s not often an actor can be in a scene with Betty White and completely command all the attention (and probably some of the credit goes to White for being a great scene partner).

SOPHIA: Why are we cooking outdoors? DOROTHY: Ma, we’re having a barbecue. SOPHIA: You know what they call cooking meat over an open fire in Sicily? DOROTHY: No, what? SOPHIA: Poverty.

I appreciate what the episode does, making Lily an . . . well, I don’t want to say antagonist, but definitely the person who’s causing the conflict. She’s not actually dealing with her problems, but she wants to look like she is because she’s too proud to ask for help -- and when she finally does, it’s from a person who’s not qualified to help her. The first time I watched this episode, I was a naïve youngster who didn’t understand why Rose didn’t go help Lily -- I felt that I would, under the circumstances. Now that I’m an adult, I understand better why that situation is untenable, because Rose would have to quit her job and, given that she can’t really teach Lily to be independent, would never be able to have her own life because Lily would be dependent on her.

The show is also not shy about showing how Lily’s lack of control over her situation is making her lash out, and that this isn’t excusable: During the pivotal scenes between Rose and Lily, Lily does everything she can to deflect taking responsibility for herself. She tells Rose, “You’d be worried if you couldn’t find anything to worry about” when Rose comes to check on her (keep in mind, she’d been screaming for help mere minutes earlier), begs Rose to fix the problem for her, and finally escalates to accusing Rose of abandoning her when Rose tries to get her to take care of herself.

DOROTHY: Will you look at this? I got this doll on my 10th birthday. I can’t believe I’ve kept her all these years. *Sophia enters behind her* Her hair’s falling out, her clothes are all worn, she smells of mothballs... SOPHIA: Hey, I may not be Ann-Margret, but I’m still your mother!

There is a difference between toughing something out and truly coping with it, and I think anyone who’s gone through a major life change would agree. The difference lies in confronting the reality of the situation. For most of the episode, Lily adamantly refuses to do that, and Rose enables her -- the other Girls recognize that and try to help Rose see it. For me, the best (and hardest) part of the episode to watch is that little moment in the kitchen when Rose says Lily is very independent, and Dorothy firmly says, “No she’s not, Rose.”

I’m not disabled myself, so I looked up details on common reactions to late-onset disabilities. We never know how Lily became blind -- if it was something that had been coming on for a while or if it was the result of some kind of trauma -- but I found an article on the Royal National Institute for Blind People’s website that clarified what Lily is going through: Grief. If you watch closely, you can see Lily’s going through a few different stages of grief -- denial, anger, and fear. While her situation is resolved mostly off-camera, it’s nice to see that she’s allowed to have those emotions.

ROSE: *about Lily* She served three terms on the city council, and she was the first woman in St. Olaf’s to ever have a pilot’s license. BLANCHE: Oh really? Well we have something in common, Lily. I was the first woman in my hometown ever to have a pilot! DOROTHY: Blanche’s bed is next to the X-15 at the Space and Aviation Museum.

Still, as much as I like the episode, I do think there are a few parts where the writing isn’t as strong as it could be. Most of the episode is tipped on the serious side rather than the comedic side. The garage sale scene is really funny, but doesn’t make sense. Presumably the Girls went through all their stuff before putting it out on the lanai, to confirm they wanted to sell it and to price it. Why is it that only on the day of the sale do they decide they want to keep all their bric-a-brac? Also, I’m not exactly sure how they plan to get a new TV with a $60 down payment and paying “the rest of it” off on time. Side note: The scene of them frantically clearing Lily’s path of boxes is funny, but it’s really their fault for leaving boxes of stuff lying around while a blind guest is trying to navigate their house.

While the episode is balanced really well between the four Girls, I think Blanche’s major part of the episode -- her extended story about her male friend Andrew (an excellent lover . . . no, riveter) -- doesn’t really serve either the episode or the scene it’s in, which is a recurring problem with first-season episodes. Her anecdotes from the opening scene about barbecues with the Darcy triplets (Hank, Beau, and . . . Dove?) are much funnier and feel more appropriate to the scene.

BLANCHE: *about Sophia’s stroke* But you got better. SOPHIA: Yeah, because [Dorothy] stopped coddling me. She screamed, she hollered, day and night. She made me do my therapy. She forced me to rebuild my life because she knew I could. And for that I’ll always be grateful. DOROTHY: Aw, thanks, Ma. SOPHIA: I only have one question: Now that I’m better, why do you still scream and holler at me?

Also, bit of dubious-but-fun trivia for you: I already said that Holliday is great as Lily. That said, she allegedly wasn’t the first choice for the role. If the information in Golden Girls Forever is correct, the person who the producers originally wanted to play Lily, the actress whose name was thrown around early in the process . . . was Lucille Ball. Yes, that Lucille Ball.

Keep in mind I couldn’t find a secondary source for this information. Contrary to the impression I probably give, I don’t take Golden Girls Forever as gospel and I generally do try to confirm what’s written via some other source. If I can’t, I don’t want to present it to you as fact. So allegedly the reason Ball declined the role was that she didn’t want to do too many serious roles, and I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad Polly Holliday got the role instead of Lucille Ball. If she had, I think the whole episode, including the dramatic scenes, would have been less about the characters and performances, and more about “OMG, that’s Lucy!”

Episode rating: 🍰🍰🍰 (three cheesecake slices out of five)

Favorite part of the episode:

Sophia shows how much patience she has for haggling:

CUSTOMER: How much? SOPHIA: Two bucks. Get wild. Treat yourself. CUSTOMER: Nah, I’ll give you a dollar-fifty. SOPHIA: What does this look like, Baghdad? *pulls vase out of her hands* Get the hell out of here! DOROTHY: Ma, that’s no way to sell things! SOPHIA: Hey, go to Neiman Marcus sometime, see if they treat you any better.

#golden girls #stay golden #rose nylund #sophia petrillo #blanche devereaux #dorothy zbornak #stay golden sunday #blind ambitions #picture it #s01e23

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findmeinpops · 5 years ago

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FindMeInPops’ 12 Days of Ficmas: Day One - Pen Pals

I’ve actually tried to post this twice already today but it keeps glitching? I don’t why but hopefully third time’s the charm 🤞🏻.

It’s that time of year again where I try to pump out a drabble or one-shot for each of the twelve days leading up to Christmas! I have a couple already written but some of them will be written by prompt and on request - I have a prompt list that I’ll reblog now, if you want to take a look - so bare with for any editing errors! Enjoy, my loves, and have a happy festive season :)

And a quick fyi for those who prefer AO3, my 2019 12 Days of Christmas collection is at this link and should be uploaded with an hour of this being posted.

Prompt: Two friends have exchanged letters since a childhood letter exchange program and one delivers their Christmas letter in person this year

Ship(s): Cheryl Blossom x Toni Topaz

Rating: T

CW(s): reference to child abuse (not detailed)

‘Dear Cheryl,

Merry Christmas, gorgeous! At least, I hope this will get to you before Christmas. Can you believe that we have now been speaking for seven years… It seems like yesterday that I sent the first letter. Eleven year old me had no idea that that one letter could lead to the best friendship that she would ever experience.

Right now I am actually sat at the table in my trailer, it’s not very warm, what with the snow beginning to fall, but I managed to get hold of an old oil heater from a garage sale which helps somewhat. If it gets too bad, Jughead and Betty have me to stay with them for a while but I feel bad with taking up their spare rooms when there are Serpents more in need of it than me. Once I’ve written this I’m heading to the Whyte Wyrm for the Christmas party, they often have a fire going so I can hide in the warmth there for a little while.

How’s the new house? At least it’s big so you don’t have to interact with your mom too much. As for a job, you could try a local corner store or bar, at least until you’ve got a little money under your belt.

I’ll be having a similar Christmas to you. Jughead and Betty have invited me over, I’ll probably just pop in for Christmas dinner and leave it at that. I don’t know what I’ll be doing otherwise but I will be thinking of you. I wish that I could get you out of that house, maybe I can come over to NV when I have saved more money from these jobs I’m taking on and help break you out. Maybe the bar’s open over Christmas, they should pay more for that, right? I won’t have anything to do so might as well put my time to good use.

I love you so much, Cheryl, hang in there, we’ll work something out together and, if not, the Serpents may be able to lend a hand, especially if you head back here with me.

Merry Christmas, my love,

TT x’

I held the letter tight in my hands, the paper crumpled from the number of times it had been folded and refolded it, the corners fiddled with, and pulled in and out of my bag.

I was doing the correct thing, right? I wasn’t insane or delusional...right? It was too late for that, I tried to remind myself - I was here now.

I readjusted the large holdall digging into my shoulder, as I tried to work up the nerve to knock on the door. I had raised her fist so many times but could not seem to actually do it.

The lights were on inside so, in theory, she should be home.

What if I had the wrong address? Oh God, what if she didn’t even want to see me?

Movement inside jolted me from my thoughts as heavy footsteps shook the small building, the lights switched off as keys jangled inside.

Half of me considered bolting but there was no time and nowhere to hide.

The front door swung open, almost hitting my nose and I stumbled back almost slipping in the frosty grass.

“Hello, can I help you?” A familiar sweet voice asked.

I recognised it from the one time I had snuck away from my mother when we had been in town and made it to a payphone. We had never managed it since but I still remembered that voice like it was yesterday.

“Are you alright?” She questioned further before pausing. “Hang on, let me turn the porch light on, I can’t see you.”

With the click of a switch, a blinding light turned on above me before Toni appeared in the doorway. Goodness, she looked better than the picture she had sent me last month.

She no longer had the pink stripes, but her black hair still fell in soft curls down to her waist, delicately framing her face. She was dressed to go out for the evening, it was Christmas Eve after all. Smokey makeup and pretty pink lipstick, a tight black dress hugging her figure, paired with fishnets and heeled boots, she looked drop-dead gorgeous.

“Wow,” was all Cheryl could get out in disbelief that her TT was actually in front of her.

All the fighting and struggle seemed worth it for just this moment: to be free from my she-witch mother and to be in the presence of my love. Yes, I loved her and it was only confirmed by finally being able to properly see her and hear her voice - all I wanted to was gather her in my arms and hold her.

Without TT, I did not know how I would have gotten through the last six years.

“Cheryl?” Toni’s jaw had dropped open, her body frozen in shock as she tried to process what she was seeing. “Cheryl? Seriously, is that you?”

She suddenly moved, flying down the steps and jumping down so we stood in front of one another; she grabbed my arms, holding me at a length in front of her, thoroughly inspecting every aspect of me, no doubt seeing the doozy of a bruise which decorated my cheek, curtesy of mother dearest.

“Yes, it’s me TT.” My voice barely a murmer but it brought her gaze back to my face, her eyes flitting between each of my eyes, her mind probably running a million miles as hour.

“Oh baby.” She whispered, tears beginning to slip from her eyes as she ran a thumb over my unmarred cheekbone before throwing her weight at me, wrapping her arms around my neck and burying her face against my chest. Despite the throb it brought about in my injured leg, I happily took the burden. TT was here, she was in my arms.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” She kept whimpering against my shirt, it broke my heart.

Dropping the hold-all onto the frozen floor, I reciprocated her embrace, one hand finding its place in the small of her back and the other on the back of her neck.

“It’s alright, I’m here.”

I wasn’t alright an hour ago, but now I was. I was still just as beat up and everything at ‘home’ was still as it was but I was here with TT in my arms.

“You’re here.” Toni whispered pulling back, wiping tears from her cheeks before noticing the smudged eye make-up on my top and deciding to give up her futile efforts.

“You’re here...how are you here?”

“It’s a long story.” I answered. “One for inside in the warmth but, long story short, I’m eighteen and stole some money from a visiting rich uncle, taking the first flight to New York.”

I crouched down and picked the bag back up before swinging it back over my shoulder, wincing slighly as it met yet another developing bruise.

“Alright,” Toni offered her hand, which I gladly took,, “let’s go inside and get you into some clean and comfy clothes. We’ll drink hot cocoa and you can tell me what you need to but I’d also rather like to take you to the doctor,” at the rapid shaking of my head she backtracked, “or at least Mr Jones, he won’t ask too many questions and will be able to sort him out but you can trust FP, he might even left you join the Serpents.” She squeezed my hand before leading me back into her trailer.

Not all was right in the world but I was with my TT and that was all that mattered.

#bugheadfamily #southsidearchive #riverdale #cheryl blossom #toni topaz #choni #cheryl blossom x toni #harry’s creations and additions #harry’s word creations

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a-coulter-winchester · 6 years ago

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For Sale: Dead ends

Warnings: Some confrontation and excitement.

Sunlight filled the room, birds chirped somewhere in a tree nearby. The hum of a car on the road droned off into the distance. Miles popped his head up and huffed at something out the bedroom window. The room was mostly peaceful except the soft snores and leveled breathing coming from you.

“I LOVE BOOMERANGS!” You shot up in a blaze of glory as a loud drilling noise came from across your window.

Miles was howling and barking at the intrusive sounds. You had fallen asleep with your laptop. The sound was starting to give you a headache or the lack of sleep was. You swallowed trying to wet your throat and pushed the laptop off your lap. You checked your phone to see that it was eight in the morning.

“Miles, who the hell drills at 8 am??” You hissed your grogginess was quickly replaced with anger.

Your back and neck felt stiff from the awkward position you had slept in. Stomping towards the window you observed the situation in shock. You could see straight into Eric’s bedroom and he could see right into yours if he wanted to.

There he stood directly in front of the window. He didn’t have a shirt on, he had what looked to be a pair of boxers or pajamas bottoms on. The V peaking out of his waist band lead your eyes to his beautiful sculpted abs. You subconsciously bit your lip while studying every little detail of his perfect body.

In that moment you completely forgot about what a jerk your neighbor was. All you could think about was how much you wanted to run your tongue over his... your thoughts were broken as you made eye contact with him. He was staring right at you and even stopped drilling. His eyes seemed to see right through you.

“Shit.” You awkwardly turned and then did a little 360 spin to face him again.

You pulled your window open and tried to throw on your best angry face. He copied you and shoved his window open before leaning out the window picking up on the fact that you were about to yell at him.

“Can you not drill this early in the morning?” Your blood boiled as he smirked at you and looked down for a moment.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join me in here? You can get a better look that way.” He said holding onto the ledge of the window. His broad shoulders made the frame look a lot smaller. His muscles tightened with his grip on the frame giving you every detail of his hard body.

“Wha-N-no. No! I was still waking up. Ew no thank you.” Infuriated at the comment you slammed the window shut and turned to leave the room. The drill started back up and now the image of the beautiful jerks smug smile stained your mind. “No just a dumb jerk Y/N, he’s not beautiful!”

You weren’t sure how he could literally threaten you to stay off his property and then to turn around the next day just to tease you about coming over.

A sigh left your lips as you stomped down the stairs. Annoyed with the events of the morning had you craving a hot fresh pot of coffee. While the coffee brewed you propped your elbows on the table leaning your face between your fingers. You gently massaged your temples wishing the kitchen would have been your quiet safe haven yet all you could still hear was his stupid power tools.

As If possessed you cradled your cup and walked out your front door. Was there peace on your porch? Not, now the sound seemed to echo from there so you let your feet carry you to your car which was parked on the street luckily instead of your garage. You climbed in lazily and shut the door with sigh as the sound was drowned out. You sipped on the thick warm liquid in peace while trying to recollect your thoughts. Surprisingly you had very little success in digging up any information on your Hot but Jerk of a neighbor. He had somehow managed to keep a substantial amount of information off the internet.

All you knew was that he was an ex-Marine and worked for Dauntless Inc. the rival company of Divergents International. That was also apparently where Four and Tris worked. Once your coffee mug was empty you sighed and opened the car door reluctantly you had to get some work done. You prayed that he would be silent now as most of your work would be done at home from your laptop. To your surprise it was completely quiet.

You managed to get a few hours of work done and decided it was time to take sweet little Miles out, who has been so patiently cooped up. Things seemed quiet over at the handsome devils house yet you didn’t want to assume he was out of his house. Knowing your luck he would be creeping through his house trying to figure out how he’d control the neighborhood next. Keeping Miles close you let your thoughts drift, it was a really nice warm day out with a perfect breeze. The Neighborhood was mostly quiet except for the distant buzzing of someone mowing their lawn, the occasional car passing by and birds chirping back and forth.

“Hey.” Four called out walking up the hill. You shook off your trance and smiled politely at him.

“Hi Neighbor.” You chuckled watching as he stopped a few feet away from you.

“How was your first night?” Four asked. shifting as he looked around for a moment then back to you.

“Good...until about the ass crack of dawn.” You partially joked but there was a heavy dose of annoyance in your tone.

“Yeaah.. He’s going to try and push all your buttons. Don’t let him.” Both of you nodded in agreement about the asshole to the left of you.

“Why don’t you come over tonight for dinner. Will and Christine are coming. it’s a BBQ thing.” Four offered and inside you were excited to hear that. Eric was starting to make you uneasy.

“Yeah sure. it’d be nice to make some friends.” You smiled and crossed your arms.

“Ok. See you at 7:00.” You barely heard what Four said as You caught movement out of your eye.

Miles decided the best place to poop was in the one yard that could end up being fatal for him. You felt frozen not wanting to yell to draw Eric out but also wanting to hurry up and get your dog. Four stood there next to you probably assessing the situation. You began to move before he reached out and gently gripped your arm.

“Wait..” Four whispered. His eyes searched the premises and the house as best as he could. “Go low.” He advised and so you took a minute before crouching down.

You made it to the hedges and froze again this time at the sound of the door to Eric’s house creaking open.

“Fuck!” You hissed and faltered before bolting towards your dog. You caught Eric in your peripherals He grinned and bit his lip in a ominous way.

He bolted across the lawn directly towards you covering more ground than you could of imagined. He was quickly closing in on you. Your heart raced and your vision tunneled in on Miles who had just finished crapping on Satan’s lawn. Your hands wrapped around Miles clutching him quickly to you.

A yelp left your lips as you sunk to the neatly manicured lawn to embrace the impact of Eric’s body. Nothing happened except for a very gruff “Oomph.” Followed by a hard thud. You turned to see Eric and Four wrestling on the ground.

“Y/N! Run!” Four yelled and you didn’t hesitate, you took off and B lined straight for your door.

You shut and lock the door panting and still cradling Miles close to your chest. Your legs burned as you took off up the stairs finally in the safety of your room. Worried about Four and the tussle you experienced outside you gathered your wits and took a peek out the window. The Lawn was empty and there was no sounds. No police sirens, sounds of pummeling or two brute men having a heated conversation. You sighed and started to pull back out of the window when your heart leapt up into your throat. Eric was glaring at you through his window.

He was angry and it made you feel many things. Your fear made sense but the heat spreading between your thighs is what confused you. “Shut the curtain and walk away!” A small voice in the back of your head screamed.

“Four won’t always be there to protect you. Next time I see you outside, You’re Mine!” He hissed and slammed his window shut. Hard enough to break the glass but it stayed in tact.

Everything felt weird, You should have been feeling more afraid. Angry even to be threatened. Maybe it was shock. You couldn’t figure out what he meant by that. That threat could have meant so many things. Not only did you need to Thank Four but you needed answers from all of them at the BBQ tonight. how dangerous was Eric.. The more you thought about it the more you felt something odd stirring inside of you. Something that was almost curious to push Eric’s buttons back to see how far he would really go. You took a deep breath and tried to calm your nerves chalking it up to being an Adrenaline rush.

Tags: @o0idk0o @iammarylastar @every-jai @angeli-fucking-cat @shitfire599 @12monkees @maddisach

#Eric Au #eric divergent #Eric Coulter #four divergent #jai courtney fanfic #jai courtney #Eric fanfic #divergent fanfiction #Tris Prior #eric x reader #divergent fandom #theo james

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fire-bear · 5 years ago

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I have had a really eventful week - so much so that I lost track of days at the start of the week... Here are some things that happened (mostly unrelated to Covid-19):

I went to the theatre last Saturday to see Curtains (before Scotland/the UK banned gatherings over 500) which is really good and people should go see it in, like, 6 months when we can go out again.

That same day I drove over a massive pothole - like, it was a huge square in the middle of the road that I didn’t register as a problem (I think I thought it was a patch of road that had been dug up and covered over) until the last second. This resulted in...

Discovering that I had a slow puncture exactly a week ago (confirmed by my more knowledgeable sister when we went to a farm café along the road from us for a get together) and had to go buy a pump to pump it up as the garage my mum suggested wasn’t open on a Sunday. So I decided to go up early on Monday morning when...

My mum discovered that our washing machine had decided to pack it in - it’s been playing up for a while, but it wouldn’t stop (it had 1 minute to go! according to it) and wouldn’t open to get the clothes out. So when we went to the garage (who asked me to come in the next day to get it sorted) we also stopped at Argos to get a new washing machine - it’ll be delivered this coming Thursday... I hope. In the meantime, handwashing it is! And also using the washing machines at the Gulf petrol station nearby.

Got my tyre replaced.

On the Monday, my mum had to get my Grandpa to come over to help disconnect it (he’s 69 so it’s okay!) but when he reconnected it he had some trouble and accidentally pulled the pipe out of the other one it was connected to in the cupboard under the stairs. When my mum started to move stuff to get the things she’d arranged an uplift for (we’ve been meaning to do it for ages), she discovered that the carpet in the hall was soaked because any time we used the kitchen sink there was water going everywhere. Cue using a basin and then crossing the road to throw it down the drain because the one at our front door was covered with all the stuff getting uplifted.

Monday evening is when my mum found out that she needs to socially distance/self isolate/stay at home - she’s an at risk person cause she gets the flu jab for underlying health conditions so she’s been doing housework and reading books and she’s gonna be bored in a couple of weeks.

Started cleaning everything at work because they gave us stuff and they had notices up saying we were gonna do it more and no-one else seemed to be doing it. This was both good and bad - I have a very mild dermatitis which is exacerbated by heat and certain soaps/cleaning products. And also by washing my hands too much. So...

When they put up a sign in work on, like, Thursday, about gloves, I asked about it when they talked to us about what was going to happen. (We get paid for the first couple of weeks at our normal rate as if we were actually working and then get sick pay. Plus company sick pay but I think that’s only if you’ve been with the company since 2012 and I’ve only been there since 2016 so...)

People at work kept going on about big announcements and then watching it on their phones, hoping they were saying they were closing the shops (because it makes sense and because it’s been so quiet that we had nothing much to do) - and then nothing happened.

On Friday morning, I went to run errands for my mum and couldn’t get out of the parking space in the way I wanted to because of the van parked across the road from me and the angle. I ended up scraping the car beside me and I only found out because of some old guy. I still have the P plates on and he helpfully said, “You need to go back and pass your test again.” I bet that guy doesn’t drive so... Urgh. Also, like, I was worried about it and decided to leave a note with my name and number (still no call about it, though) and the guy was all, “Just leave it. I would just leave it.” Why did you stop me to tell me about it, then??

Drove to and fro across town yesterday doing the shopping - and also looking to see if anywhere had toilet paper. Thankfully, my sister shops at Costco sometimes and she’d gotten a lot from one of their deals or something a while back so she gave us some today so we don’t need to worry about that for a couple of weeks. And our local village shop has industrial toilet roll for sale if we’re struggling so that’s cool.

Got called today about how the chain of shops I work in is closing all its shops in the UK (already closed them in other countries) so I can get stuff done at home now. (Such as rearranging my room and stuff.)

#things

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mattness · 5 years ago

Text

Space Dementia

Another chapter is here! Pleasant reading! Hope you enjoy and always... Sorry for mistakes and stupid typos OTP: Jennifer Wright/Robert Grey /////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Chapter XIII.

The cold wind chilled her to the bone, making shiver. Slowly began drizzle and heavy gray clouds covered the sky. Jennifer hugged herself around the shoulders with the regret of not brought to the cemetery warm shirt. Gradually, all the friends and acquaintances who knew Chester Wright gathered. There weren't that many people, but Jen was pleased that they had decided to come and honor her father. To her right stood was Tyra, who had opened her umbrella as everyone else had done. The priest began to say a prayer, standing at the head of the closed coffin, on top of which lay flowers.

The warm fabric of coat fell over Jennifer's shoulders, and she immediately looked at the man who decided to share his thing. The girl gratefully smiled Robert, who is also still came. He pursed his lips, hugging Jen's shoulders and trying to warm her. Wright sighed heavily, clinging to him. Tears again dimmed eyes, should have listened to the speech of the priest. She felt so useless and empty, as if she had been ripped off a vital part of her soul. And how to cope with everything now? How to live without seeing every day the kind father's eyes and his smile? How to live without his support and funny jokes? What will she do now? There's no need to rush home where there's no one else. There was no need to stay in that damned Derry who had taken everything she loved from her. Jennifer thought about what the old house would, where repairs have not yet been completed, for sale. With the money, she would go to New York and quit the magazine to get a small advance. Here is so vacation have… Then the girl will go somewhere in Pennsylvania or California. She wanted to get as far away from past as possible to start living anew. Yes, it would be necessary to part with Robert, who was already clinging to her heart, but Jen thought it would be better. Better for both of them.

The brunette was distracted from her thoughts, suddenly noticed among the crowd of people in black suits familiar dark red hair. The wrinkled woman looked down at Jen's blue eyes and pursed her plump lips. Jen could not believe what Mary Wheeler arrived on the scene. Her heart sank painfully with the realization that she had seen her mother for the first time almost eleven years later. She hasn't been here all this time, and now she's decided to come to her ex-husband's funeral. Jennifer was very confused. Shouldn't Mary not care about her own past, the ex-husband she ran away from? She ran away and left him alone with a little girl, determined to live another life. This act Jen will never forgive her, even if she pleads on her knees.

After the coffin was lowered into the grave and everyone threw a handful of earth, everyone began to disperse. Wright decided to go to his mother and find out what the hell is she doing here. The girl let go of Robert's hand, who was heading for the car.

"Jennifer, are you coming?" Grey asked in surprise.

"Yeah. I'll be there in a couple of minutes", the girl said, trying not to lose sight of Mary. "Wait for me?"

"All right", Robert nodded.

Jen said goodbye to Tyra, who took a taxi to her house, and quickly climbed the hill, noticing the red-haired woman among the tombstones. She walked slowly between the graves, thinking about something of her own. Mary paused beside the tree, wiping the tears from her face with her black-gloved hand. Mrs. Wheeler's daughter approached her cautiously from behind, stopping a few yards away and hesitating to come closer.

"What are you doing here, mother?" Jennifer asked first, what made Mary turn around.

She smiled sadly as she looked at her noticeably grown-up daughter. Jennifer grew up a true beauty, she thought.

Jen frowned, crossing her arms.

"I loved Chester, Jennifer", Wheeler admitted in a slightly husky voice.

"And that's why you decided to show up at his funeral? Eleven years later?" the brunette began to get angry. "Without ever calling and asking how your own daughter is doing? What a strange love you have."

"It's much more complicated than you think, Jen", the woman tried to justify herself, taking an uncertain step toward her.

"Not necessary now to justify it to me!" Jen cried out indignantly, clasping her hands. "I don't know what was going on in your head when you decided to leave me with my father, and I don't want to know! You're ran away like a cowardly bitch, leaving everything behind, and for what? To show up eleven fucking years later and say it's a more complicated?!"

"Jennifer, please..."

"You're were never a mother to me and never will be, despite the fact that you're the only one left from my entire family", firmly and coldly said the girl, gritting her teeth. "The people who truly loved me and cared for me are now in their graves! And you're dead to me immediately, as soon as you're went over the threshold of our house. So you'd better go now, like you're did years ago."

Mary pursed her lips, feeling the tears running down her cheeks. The rain increased, and there was a loud clap of thunder in the sky. Jen adjusted the coat on his shoulders and decided to go back to Robert's car. The girl took one last look at her mother, whom she would probably never see again, and left. Jen got into the dark blue car, handing Grey his coat. He breathed in the smell of rain and the familiar bitter pain of Jennifer's conversation with her mother. Robert made a worried face and looked at the girl, who wiped her eyes and bit her lower lip. She looked down guiltily, not wanting him to see her like this. In fact, he didn't know what to say to comfort her. He had imagined how people comforted each other, but he had never tried it himself. Robert could scarcely restrain himself from breaking into a pleased smile as he absorbed the girl's negative feelings. Jennifer began to bite her lip nervously, shivering in spite of herself. No, not from the cold outside. From cold being between her and Robert. She'd never felt this way around him before, despite the fact that he'd been on her doorstep a lot lately. Maybe it was Jen's sudden depression, but there was nothing she could do about it. Robert wanted them to continue dating, kissing and making love more often, but Jennifer was grieving and he didn't seem to understand. When Grey reached out to kiss her one night, the brunette made it clear that she was not to be touched. The girl freaked out and yelled at him, in the end she burst into tears. He tried to comfort her, and after that moment they only hugged occasionally. Wright snapped out of her reverie as Robert reached for the key in the ignition. The car's engine started, and Grey pressed the gas pedal smoothly, twisting the steering wheel. The car drove down the wet road to Derry, straight to Jennifer's house. Finally, the Aston Martin parked in front of the garage of a familiar house, and she sighed heavily, glancing at Robert. "Not coming in?" Jen asked him cautiously. She wanted him to spend a little more time with her. Even when he was just around, it really did get easier. Still, without the support of Tyra and Robert, Jennifer would hardly have coped with all that in an instant fell on her fragile shoulders. For the past two weeks, while the funeral was being prepared, Wright had barely kept herself from doing something to herself. "No", Robert said rather sharply as he watched the wipers clear the water from the car's windshield. "I have a lot of work to do."

"Can't you come tonight?" Jen asked cautiously, tears stinging her eyes. Her heart pounded in chest at the feel of the end beginning. The girl once again wanted to throw a tantrum, but skillfully restrained herself.

"I'm sorry, Jen," he said, finally looking at her.

"Do you resent me for that quarrel?" the girl laughed nervously, frowning. "Robert, don't you see I can't-... My father has just died! I have no family left! I'm alone. What do you want from me?" "To let them go..." the man gritted his teeth, and Wright saw reddish spots begin to appear in his green eyes.

"Robert, it's not as easy as you think! You sound like you've never lost anyone, but I know you haven't", she gasped, barely able to keep from screaming. "If all you want from me is sex, we should break up. The sooner the better."

"I didn't say that, Jennifer!"

"But your actions prove otherwise!" the brunette raised her voice and jumped out of the car, slamming the door behind her. Treacherous tears poured streams down her cheeks, and hatred of herself and Robert in this moment was overwhelming from the inside.

"Jennifer!"

"Go away, Robert", Jen said, turning to see Grey walking toward her. The rain was getting heavier by the minute, and they were standing in the middle of Jennifer's front lawn. The girl managed to get wet through, continuing to cry. Robert carefully closed the distance between them to a single step. "I'm sorry", he said suddenly.

"For what?" Wright asked, wiping her eyes.

"I was wrong. I'm willing to wait as long as I can just to be with you", he said, and he smiled faintly at Jen, who looked suddenly hopeful. The brunette sighed heavily and ran a hand through her wet hair.

"Robert, I'm going to sell this house and leave Derry." Grey frowned, not understanding. Had his beloved Jenni decided to run away? Would she fall head over heels in love and leave him? So weird. Did he do something wrong? Was there a flaw in the plan that he missed? His thoughts raced madly in his head, trying to find a reasonable solution to the problem. It was too early to move on to the last points, and especially to drag her into the sewers to the main lair. God, why is this so bad timing? It made him angry. "Where are you going?" the man asked, peering into the blue eyes opposite.

"Probably California", Jen admitted. "I can't stay here any longer, and I can't stay in New York, either... I'd rather start a new life away from my memories." Robert gritted his teeth as blood began to fill his mouth. He swallowed and took the last step between them. Jennifer watched him closely.

"So you'll leave everything? Me too?"

"I don't think you'd follow me halfway around the world", she snorted, crossing her arms over her chest. "If you're telling the truth... Then come with me." Grey turned away from her, thinking. In Derry he could eat without fear of the police on his trail. He had caused about twenty people to go missing in Derry in the past three weeks, but the law enforcement agencies were still not going to do anything about it. People were reported missing, and Robert calmly continued to eat. He didn't know if he should run somewhere else, if he was happy enough here. And whether it is necessary to continue to stalk Jennifer? Continue to ingratiate himself and play the fool in love? Maybe, just now, to snap her neck and calmly to eat? He looked again at the girl, who was waiting for some answer. Robert looked down at the pulse beating in her thin neck, feeling no hunger. The beast inside didn't react. What was wrong with him? "I'll think about it, Jenni", Grey said quietly, and Jen nodded. He pulled her to him and lowered his mouth to hers. Wright opened her mouth for a kiss, and Robert gently covered hers. Without thinking, Jen answered and ran her fingers through the man's hair. This resolution of their quarrel satisfied her, and for the first time Robert felt real pleasure in the kiss. He ran his thumbs gently over the brunette's cheekbones, not wanting her to leave. Jennifer pulled back, noticing for the first time the gleam of her own emotions in his green eyes. She seemed to have one reason for staying in Derry after all. Wright took a step back and said softly:

"I'll call you when I decide where I'm going."

Robert nodded, watching her go. As soon as she was out the door, he sighed and went back to the car.

The Aston Martin pulled onto the road and headed straight for Neibolt street. Robert felt a mixture of anger and anger at himself. He gripped the steering wheel of the car and felt his fingernails dig into his skin, leaving a trail of blood.

The rain outside was a downpour.

The car pulled into a vacant lot near an abandoned house, hiding behind bushes and trees so as not to attract anyone's attention. Robert jumped out of the car, slamming the door, and in no time was in the old ruin. The anger continued to swell. His eyes turned bright orange, nervously searching for something to grab. His heart was pounding, a guttural howl coming from within. A strange pain began to compress everything to microscopic size.

Grey turned into his favorite clown as he paced the empty house, kicking up dust with every step. Pennywise snarled and whined and clutched at his red hair for safety. He could not understand what was happening to him.

The clown, swaying unnaturally from side to side, came into the room with the long-rotted piano and instantly turned it upside down. The piano fell with a terrible crash, breaking the floor beneath it. Pennywise continued to whimper, banging the dusty piano lid with his fist. Such despair and pain he's not experienced long. It was as if he had been deprived of his only source of food. The clown immediately awoke from his delusion, thinking that satiation would help to calm him down. He quickly ran to the old refrigerator, which sometimes put the remains of meat victims. But as soon as he opened the door, flies flew out: the meat was covered with mold, already beginning to rot. Pennywise growled angrily, aware that he was not hungry. The pain continued to drive him mad.

The clown sank to the floor, legs spread wide. He whined like a dog his master had thrown into the street. An unpleasant salty liquid stung his eyes and spoiled all the makeup, and painted lips and then trembled. Pennywise could not understand what had happened to him.

"Damn girl!", the killer clown suddenly realized, screaming and banging his fists on the floor. This is all her fault! Her! He knew.

He knew it was a bad idea. And now he couldn't even attack her. What had she done to him? What?! Pennywise clutched at his red hair, wondering how to get rid of the wretched woman for whom he now had strange feelings. How to get rid of these feelings? Maybe once she was out of town, he'd feel better. Maybe without her, he would go back to his normal routine entirely.

Pennywise's red hair was fading, turning dark brown again. The makeup drained from his face and was gone. Lush clothing in the style of the Victorian era was transformed into a modern expensive dark suit. The clown was gone, bringing back the image of Robert Grey, who had struggled to his feet and wiped the wet tracks of tears from his face. He sniffed loudly and decided to go back to the other house, where he could think better. * * * Jen felt terribly broken after what had happened. Everything reminded her of father. It was almost unbearable to be at home. Here was the scent of a loved one and everything reminded her of him. Tears rolled down her cheeks every day, and she often sat on the sofa in front of the TV, as her father liked, and clutched her head, trying to restrain another fit of hysteria. Pain clenched her insides, biting into skin in sharp shards. Her heart was bleeding, and no one could help. Jennifer felt more broken and depressed than she had ever felt before. Tyra came to see her. She was saying something, trying to get her out of this terrible state for a couple of hours at least. Jennifer appreciated her friend's concern, but nothing helped. The world has acquired a grey tone. Every day in Derry was a dull, gloomy day, no different from any other. Nothing happened, and everything ceased to matter. No one seemed to be able to help her. Jen knew she should have handled it herself. But no forces already on this not was. There was no strength left to stand firm, to withstand all the blows of fate. One evening she was sitting on the sofa again, once again clutching her head. Tears dripped silently from her nose onto the soft carpet, and soft sobs filled the living room. Jen was completely oblivious to Robert's arrival in the house. Unlike Tyra, he hadn't been here as often since the conversation on the day of the funeral. But Wright was grateful that he had dared to come at all. Robert paused in the doorway of the living room, noticing Jennifer, who looked like a little girl who had been hurt. The man sighed and walked into the room, sitting down on the floor in front of her and stroking his knees to make himself felt. Jen gave another sob as she looked into the worried green eyes. Grey pressed his forehead against hers, trying to convey his sympathy. Or rather, he tried to pretend. Jennifer was too depressed to analyze anything now, and Robert was taking advantage of her. She began to cry again, and Grey immediately sat down on the sofa, holding her tightly in his arms. Jen nuzzled his neck, trying to calm herself. She could feel Robert gently rocking her like a small child, stroking her back. He radiated an incredible warmth that warmed her and made her feel safe. She believed that Robert would not let her drown in the terrible ocean of pain that filled her. * * * As she packed a large suitcase, Jennifer kept track of the number of flights leaving Bangor for other States in the coming days. The first thing to do was to go to New York, where she would have a serious talk with Mrs. Johnson. Jen had already written to tell her she was coming. Last night, Wright escorted Tyra back to Los Angeles. A friend for a long time did not agree to leave, not believing that the brunette will be able to cope with everything herself. Thanks to the realtor, buyers for the house turned up pretty quickly. Less than a month later, the man informed Wright that the house was about to be sold to a small, happy family with two children. They examined the future home and were satisfied with everything. The girl was glad when got her hands on revenue for the house. Now it was safe to leave Derry, where all the memories of his childhood and his father and grandmother would remain. Her heart sank painfully, reminding her of Robert, whom she had seen the other day. Grey don't said whether he wanted to go with her or not. He had simply spent the evening with her in silence, lost in his own thoughts. And Jen didn't mind. Them both hard. She could tell by the way Robert held her hands tightly each time. They just sat in each other's arms all night without saying a word. Jen fell asleep, listening to the steady heartbeat in Grey's chest as he stared gravely into the distance... An insistent knock on the door jerked her out of reverie. She looked up from her suitcase and hurried downstairs, hoping to find Robert on the doorstep. But she was disappointed when it wasn't Robert. Three men stood in the doorway. One of them was holding up a police badge. Jennifer frowned, not understanding. "I'm David Ross", the man in the beige coat said, "a private detective who arrived in Derry three weeks ago." "Hello..." Jen said uncertainly. "Did I break something?" "No, miss Wright. May we go inside?" She nodded uncertainly, letting in a private detective and two plainclothes policemen. She closed the front door and went into the kitchen, where they decided to settle law enforcement. Mr. Ross motioned Jan to a chair, motioning her to sit down. The brunette obediently sat down, folding her hands on the table. "What is it, detective?" Wright asked, still not understanding. Two police officers decided to inspect the house while the detective conducted the interrogation. Jennifer frowned, realizing that these fellows didn't even have a search warrant. She wanted to protest, but didn't, because the detective was talking: "Do you know that about thirty people have gone missing in Derry in the last month?" "I heard about it", she said confidently, embarrassed. "Miss Wright, please listen to me," David said quietly, sitting down across the table from her. "I came to Derry at the request of the local chief of police to investigate the matter. The previous detective who worked on him is on the missing persons list, and the goonies here still can't find the killer. That's why I'm here." She still didn't understand. How did the police get her mixed up in this? Jen certainly didn't know who the killer was. The girl even TV-not really watching. Only at work in the store, and even then, they are constantly turned on music channels to distract visitors. "The police have a missing persons report on Riley Briggs, who worked in the same store as you", the detective went on. "I thought Riley quit. The authorities didn't say a word about the missing girl", Jennifer said honestly, dreading what might have happened to the high school girl dropout. "I got a lead", Ross said honestly, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "It leads to the house at 29 Neibolt street. Just the other day, several operatives searched the house and came across human remains." The girl involuntarily covered her mouth hand. "I think we're dealing with a cannibal who's changing his location. The same missing persons were reported to the Philadelphia and New York police. The only place we found a lead was in Derry", the man explained. "Why are we here, miss Wright? Because we have three people who are alleged suspects in this case." The other two officers returned to the kitchen as the detective took three photographs from his coat pocket. She frowned as she saw two unfamiliar faces and one damned familiar. Robert Grey. The detective seems to have snapped a picture of him as he got into his car, in the Parking lot of Derry's biggest shopping centre. Robert frowned at the glare of the sun, staring off into the distance. "Do you know any of them?" the brunette immediately guessed that it was just a leading question with a test. Lie or not. "I know Robert", Wright said honestly, pointing to his picture. "We're... just friends." "Pretty close friends". The next picture on the table was of Grey standing in the same parking lot, his arm around Jennifer, leaning down to kiss her. "You’re followed us?" she said, feeling her temper rise. "A necessary measure", the detective explained, clearing his throat. "About Mr. Grey. Did you notice anything strange about him? Did he talk to you about his hobbies or his love of anything extraordinary?" "No. Robert is just an ordinary man, just like you and me", Jen said, not really knowing who she was protecting. "He wouldn't hurt a fly, and what about people?" "I see", said Mr. Ross, clearing away the photographs and preparing to leave. "Thank you for answering my questions and listening, Ms. Wright. Good day." She closed the door behind them, frowning. Again strange thought about Robert have filled head. Maybe what she was accusing him of was true? Jennifer was confused, completely confused about the man she loved. She went up to the second floor, still packing. Maybe tomorrow she could talk to him about the missing. Jen doubted Grey knew anything about the dead. She hoped to the last that he had nothing to do with it.

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