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rons-hermiones · 4 years ago

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Come Find Me

by rons-hermiones

Summary: Unplanned, Hermione is forced to spend Christmas at the Burrow due to her grandmother falling very ill. After being ignored by Hermione for weeks, Ron is determined to show her how much she means to him. Just before he gets the chance to tell her, Bellatrix Lestrange shows up with other plans for Hermione. Can Ron get to her before it's too late? (Ron/Hermione Half-Blood Prince AU)

Rating: M for language & dark themes in later chapters.

Chapter Seven

It had been two days since she arrived at the Burrow for holiday.

Within that time Hermione has done her absolute best to avoid the entirety of the family. Well, specifically a certain gangly, freckled git.

Most hours she didn’t spend reading, the guilt was gnawing at her for being such an awful, unappreciative guest. She’d avoid meals when she could, but in the event she couldn’t evade Molly, Hermione would eat as quickly as she could before excusing herself.

Ginny, like her mother, was very perceptive and quickly caught onto what was happening. Oftentimes the girl would peel whatever book Hermione had been latching onto away from her hands and practically force her down the steps. And in the event Ginny successfully got Hermione to the living room, she’d just sit idly and watch the family interact, never interjecting herself.

Harry had stopped by from time to time, thankfully he never pried her from the bed, but surprisingly, he did make her talk. He knew, probably from Ron, of what Harry phrased as her ‘ridiculous’ plan to stay out of his way. When the conversation started turning to anything Ron, or even worse, Lavender related, she’d excuse herself and venture out into the garden.

And besides the three parties mentioned, no one really bothered her.

Fred and George did their best to get a laugh from her on the occasion she was downstairs. Mr.Weasley would greet Hermione warmly and ask if she’s heard from her parents.

She hasn’t. Not since the day after she arrived. They had sent a brief letter informing their daughter that they arrived in France, they loved her, and that they would write soon. Despite their silence, Hermione still wrote them everyday for any answers.

Bill, Charlie, and Fleur had just taken to small talk, but Hermione usually halted it, never allowing herself to get invested in conversation. Something she’d usually do.

And as for Ron, well, some nights Hermione swears she hears his loud, familiar steps shuffling outside the door as he whispers with Ginny. But, whenever the door opened, it was just Ginny and Ginny alone. These instances always disappointed Hermione for some silly reason.

Now, on the night before Christmas Eve, something she dreaded so much knowing she’d be unable to evade Mrs.Weasley’s insistence she join them, she sat in the garden.

Normally this is where she’d retreat if Ginny or Harry had taken to pestering her from the camp bed she was now seemingly glued to. Or often the contents of her prized book were too heavy, and the fresh air eased her. But tonight, she came out for a different reason. That reason being, the sight of her trunk had begun to make her sick.

Inside it held hope. Something she had lost months ago.

When her parents originally agreed to let her stay at the Weasley’s for Christmas (not under the pretense of a possibly dying Arthur), she was ecstatic. Immediately she began searching for the perfect gifts.

For Molly, she had found a lovely welcome mat with small embroidered stars around the thick lettering. It would look perfect on the front steps.

For Arthur, a Muggle alarm clock. It was both practical and for him, fascinating.

She had picked up a broom cleaning kit down in Diagon Alley. Harry was attached to his Firebolt, so Hermione figured he’d appreciate it. In addition, she had a picture printed of him and Sirius from last Christmas. The brunette just hoped she wasn’t over stepping with that one.

For Ginny she had gone with a few hair clips similar to the ones the ginger told her she liked over the summer. That and of course, a book on the best female quidditch players who ever lived.

Hermione had been perusing a Muggle shop before coming to the Burrow over the summer, and there were the perfect gifts for the twins. A Muggle joke book along with a bag of whoopee cushions. They were harmless, but would surely keep the pair thoroughly entertained.

Ron had informed Hermione early on about Charlie, Bill, and Fleur joining them for Christmas, so she was able to pick something up for them. For Charlie, she decided to go with something practical being this would be the first time they would meet. A few bottles of dittany (known to help burns and scratches from Dragons) along with a baby picture of Noberta, was what she had gone with. Bill and Fleur, being newly engaged, Hermione had gone with a joint gift. She had struck gold when she found a brilliant take on the Beauxbatons and Hogwarts shields combined. Something to remind them both of where they came from.

And as for Ron, well, now she was afraid her original gift may be too personal for where they stood right now. She had gotten the idea from a talk they had back in fourth year, when he was fighting with Harry...

“Where have you been?” Ron asked Hermione as she entered the common room. His tone wasn’t accusatory, just worried.

At this, she flushed red, “I was uh, talking to Harry.” At this he made a noise of disgust, “well I wouldn’t exactly call it talking.”

And for the briefest moment Ron paled, imagining the pair of them snogging.

“What do you mean?” He barely managed, fumbling over his words.

“Well,” she blushed again, “I mostly yelled and he well, he just stood there.” Hermione admitted sheepishly.

“Why’d you yell at Harry?” Not that he was opposed to the action.

And just like that she’s fired up again. Her hair crackles at the thought, “it’s completely unfair the way he’s treating you Ron! And I’m not going to let him get away with it.” She tutted.

He stared at her in amazement, “but you told me you didn’t think he put his name in.” He pointed out softly.

Hermione squirmed, “I don’t think he did, but that doesn’t give him the right to treat you the way he is. I suppose you tried to speak with him Ron and though I think he told you the truth, he didn’t have to be such an-” she paused, “he didn’t have to be so rude about it!”

“Bloody hell! You were about to swear.” The smile on his face only grew.

“No I wasn’t!” The brunette quickly defended, “anyway, he doesn’t understand it Ron. You’d think he would, you two are closer than I am to either of you.” Her voice dropped.

The smile he was wearing soon slipped, “that’s not true Hermione.” If only she knew...

At this, she remained silent, eyes trained on the fire.

“What doesn’t he understand?” Ron whispers after a moment.

Finally, her brown eyes meet his and she sighs, “Ron I know you better than you think I do.” If only he knew...

At this his face scrunched in confusion, imploring her to elaborate.

“You don’t particularly care if Harry actually put his own name in or not, you just care that he’s making you feel second best.” She whispered, worried he’d react in red hot anger.

Shocking them both, he merely gulped, “yeah, I suppose you’re right.” He admitted.

“Oh Ron,” she said sadly, “I don’t know how it feels, being an only child, but you have to know when I think of you, I think of you alone.” Hermione confesses bravely.

“What do you mean?” He dares to push her for more.

“I don’t think of how Bill may be a brilliant Curse Breaker, or how Charlie is bravely taming Dragons, I don’t think about how Percy was Head Boy and expect you to want that too. Even the twins, whenever you make me laugh, I don’t compare it to how much they make me laugh. Ginny too, she may be brilliant at Quidditch but that doesn’t make you any worse.”

He stares at her in shock, she takes this as confusion and goes on.

“What I mean is Ron, is that you’re you, Ronald Weasley, and I don’t want you to be anyone else. I don’t expect you to be like anyone else, alright? If I wanted to be best friends with any other Weasley I would, but I’m not, amI? Am I even making sense?” She rambles, desperate for him to speak.

Catching his breath, Ron nods and faces her, “I think I know what you’re trying to say Hermione.” A small smile finds its way across her face, “it’s just hard, when you’ve never had anything of your own, part of you feels like them. Does that sound mental?”

His mind flashes to all the robes, books, bed sheets, and toys he’s shared with his siblings.

In Bill’s old shoes, he feels like he has to be braver.

Whenever he’s reading one of Charlie’s old Charms books, he feels like he has to be daring.

In Percy’s robes, he has the sudden urge to make sure everyone’s doing what’s right.

When his Mum gave him a mixture of Fred and George’s old quilts, he felt like he had to make his dormitory laugh whenever he was nestled underneath them.

Even Ginny, his youngest sister, whenever he shared the family owl with her, Ron felt like his letter had to be an inch longer than hers.

“It doesn’t sound mental Ron.” She assures, and the look in her eyes conveys nothing but understanding, it warms his heart.

He huffs quietly, “Harry, I mean, he was my friend, and now, everyone’s gonna go around and want that too. And he’ll probably let them because what am I next to someone like Cedric Diggory?” He admitted.

“Hey,” her hand fell atop his knee making him look at her with wide eyes, “you’re the best friend I’ve ever had, I wouldn’t trade you for a dozen Cedric Diggory’s.” Hermione gave his knee a small squeeze.

And the action, the expression on her face, it all felt so sincere. So real.

Bravely, he grabbed her small hand from where it was resting on his leg and held it snugly.

“Thank you for yelling at Harry, it must’ve been wicked.” He teased with a light laugh.

A chuckle moved past her lips, “that’s not exactly the word the first years who watched would use.” She said blushing.

Ron beamed even more at this, imagining a feisty Hermione scaring away little first years as she took her anger out on the chosen one.

“Ron, I just wanted to let you know,” she’s looking away, suddenly feeling shy, “that if you’d have me you know, I’m yours. Just yours.” It’s nothing but a whisper, barely heard over the crackling fire.

The breath leaves his mouth so fast, it’s like a dementor’s kissing him. Quickly, he berates himself for allowing himself to think she means as anything more than friends. He’ll take it anyway. He thinks he’d take anything she has to offer.

“Yeah,” he says softly, “yeah I’d definitely like that.”

A grin etches its way across her features as she twines their fingers together.

They sat like that the rest of the night. Not letting go even when Dean and Seamus eyed them from nearby.

It wasn’t a grand gesture or declaration of love, but it was the start to the possibility of something more. And as Hermione spent the remainder of her night holding his hand as they talked in hushed whispers, Ron realized she could’ve been anywhere else. But instead, she was here.

And for the first time in Ron Weasley’s life, he felt like the first choice.

When recalling that night on the common room couch, something always stands out in Hermione’s brilliant mind.

The fact that Ron said he’d never had anything that felt like his own. So with that in mind and the ever growing feelings the witch had blossomed for him, Hermione decided on something bold.

It wasn’t exactly an ‘I love you’, but it was personal to him, and if he had cared that much about her to read into it, well he might figure out how important to her he really is. The fact that she’s cataloged just about every interaction they’ve had in the past six years.

Wanting to convey as much without spelling it out, she had found a lovely oak whittled Wizarding Chess set. And in the box that held it, she had gotten ‘Property of Ron Weasley’ carved on the top.

She’d even preemptively written the card:

‘Something to call yours, Happy Christmas Ron.

Love, Hermione.’

She had signed plenty of letters to him with those four letters, but part of her hoped that the note coupled with the gift may wake something within him. The possibility he feels the same way.

However, she knows now that isn’t the case. It can’t be. Not when Lavender Brown will be waiting for him when they return to Hogwarts.

So here she is, out in the garden, the Weasley’s garden no less, her precious book thrown aside, contemplating on whether or not she should give the gift.

The selfish part of her says no. Hermione tells herself he doesn’t deserve anything from her after how he’s made her feel.

Her morals scream otherwise. They’re telling her she’s the one who expected anything more than friendship from him and that she’s stupid to get so upset because he didn’t feel the same.

Weighing her options, Hermione makes the quick choice to just give him the damn thing. One last act of friendship. A goodbye of sorts.

She closes her eyes in pain, she just wants him happy, even if it kills her. And if that means distancing herself from him, then so be it.

For the smartest witch of her age, she sure is oblivious to the fact that inside, only meters away, Ron is feeling the exact same way.

...

“You know I don’t like how she just sits out there. She’s so far away.” Ron comments boldly from his place on the couch.

“Ronnie, she’s not that far, you can see her from the window.” Fred says.

“I don’t think he exactly meant physical distance.” Bill commented over the book he was reading, making the room laugh, as Fleur elbowed him harshly.

He blushes, “shove off! The lot of you, I just mean that things aren’t exactly safe.” He points out.

Ginny scoffs from the couch, “please Ron, the wards here are almost as tight as the ones at Hogwarts.” She points out.

Bill speaks again, “yeah, Dumbledore himself helped put them up. He came by here with Mad Eye over the summer while we stayed at Grimmauld place.”

Ron sighed, “you still don’t know, I mean, look at Charlie. He just waltzed on up.” He defended. Harry seemed to agree, but said nothing.

“Well to be fair Ronnie, I know exactly where the Burrow is, I reckon You-Know-Who and his followers could care less about where a bunch of pure bloods live.” Charlie pointed out.

“Technically, we’re blood traitors.” Ron commented.

They ignored this, “anyway, there is an apparition line, why do you think I walked up from the pond? That’s where it ends.” He reminds.

“Still it’s rather close and look at Hermione, she’s not far off from the pond at the edge of the garden.” The youngest Weasley boy says peering out the window again, watching as the witch reads that same damned book soundly under a tree.

The twins began to laugh, “you sound almost as paranoid as Harry over there.” Fred teased causing the dark haired boy to give him a small shove, but a grin played on his lips no less.

“Ickle Ronniekins just wants his girlfriend inside so she’ll finally talk to him.” George reminded.

Ron opened his mouth, no doubt to say something nasty to his brothers, before Bill stopped him, “even if someone did apparate we’d hear it first Ron.”

“Yeah,” Ginny chimed in, “we heard Charlie the other night.”

“Exactly.” The eldest Weasley agreed.

“Ron if you are so worried you could always go out there too, no?” Fleur suggested with raised brows and a mischievous smile.

At this Bill proudly kissed her cheek as the room erupted in snickers as the blonde joined the fun.

“Yeah Ickle, listen to the last, why don’t you go sit with her? Unless...” he began knowingly.

“Unless what Fred?” George asked his twin.

“Unless little Hermione would rather be taken by death eaters than spend time with Ronniekins.”

“That’s not even something to joke about Fred!” Ron boomed angrily, suddenly feeling faint at the idea of the likes of someone like Malfoy’s dad anywhere near Hermione.

“Alright.” Charlie said standing, “Ron, don’t you have reading to do or something?” He asks his heaving brother who looks like he’s about to pounce on Fred.

Surely, this calms his breathing, “right, reading.” He says gruffly, quickly exiting the room.

“Honestly, he’s so sensitive.” George mutters to his brother.

The room is still tense. No one speaks for a few minutes, and it’s Ginny who breaks the silence. Her eyes are wide as a somewhat amused smile strikes her lips.

“Wait, did you just say Ron’s reading?”

#ron x hermione #ron and hermione #rons-hermiones come find me #ron weasley #hermione granger #sixth year #hp fanfic #hp #romione fanfic #romione

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ashtheshortstack · 5 years ago

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take my scars & make them stars - ch 8

Rating: M Ship: Kristoff/Anna Chapter Eight

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Sick Fic, Cancer Fic, Chronic Illness, Chemotherapy, Modern AU, Coffee Shop AU, Fluff and Angst, Fluff, Eventual Smut, Angst with a happy ending, Mutual Pining, Mentions of Character Death

Read on Ao3

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A small light... white walls… There was a heaviness in Anna’s limbs. As well as a dryness in her mouth, her ulcers ached and burned from the lack of moisture. There was intrusive air blowing into her nostrils. She felt sore all over. Dull pain shooting through her fingers as she attempted to bend them.

“Anna?”

That voice… definitely wasn’t Elsa. But instead, she realized after a moment that was definitely the sound of a certain blond.

Blinking open her tired eyes, Anna languidly processed her surroundings. She was in the hospital. It was dark in the room aside from a small light on the wall. Searching the room, she found Kristoff sitting in a chair in the corner. He was looking up from his phone that was still illuminated in his hand.

“K-Kristoff…?” she gasped out. Her voice was raspy, clearly she’d been out for a few hours.

Dropping his phone in the seat, he moved over to her. “You’re awake, huh? The sedative must’ve worn off.”

She blinked slowly, taking him in. What was he doing here? Why was she here? Wait. Sedative? Anna felt her heart rate spike, panic washing over her as she glanced around the room. Moving to sit up, she gasped at the ache in her bones.

“Sedative? Wha--? Kristoff, why am I? What’re you--?”

He hushed her, shaking his head as he gently pushed her shoulders back into the bed. “I’ll go get Dr. Mattias, okay?”

Taking a deep breath, Anna nodded. “Y-Yeah. Okay.”

Giving her a small smile, he bobbed his head before his hand left her arm. Kristoff gave her one last once over before leaving the room.

While he was gone, Anna tried to calm herself as she’d been taught. Slow breathes. In the nose and out the mouth. In and out. In and out. She grounded herself, taking note of her surroundings. What she could feel. What she could see and hear…

The door opened, and Dr. Mattias walked in with Kristoff in tow. The blond hung back, going back to the chair in the far corner of the room. He said nothing, but Anna could see the worried lines on his forehead. She watched as he leaned forward, placing his face in his hands.

But her attention on him was disrupted when Dr. Mattias began to speak.

“Hello, Anna. It’s good to see you’re up.”

Anna smiled at him. “Thank you. Um, what exactly am I doing here?” she asked, glancing between the doctor and Kristoff.

“Well, you collapsed, technically, yesterday afternoon since it’s about three am now. There’s nothing wrong with your numbers, so we just assume maybe you overwhelmed yourself,” he said. Dr. Mattias pulled up another chair, taking a seat beside her bed. “Have you been pushing yourself too hard lately?”

“Uh,” she looked at Kristoff. He was staring out the window. She knew he was listening, so she didn’t want to just blame him for the situation. It wasn’t his fault. Yes, she had been a little overly emotional because of the situation regarding him. But it was her decision to try to distract herself with constant remedial tasks that she normally wouldn’t have. Anna nodded shamefully. “Y-Yes… I’ve just been stressed. I’ve been doing a little extra.”

Dr. Mattias hummed. “I see. Well, Anna, your treatment is so close to completion that I’d recommend you really take it easy. We’re so close to the end of this journey, and I’d hate for you to get too overzealous and relapse. I don’t want to put you on bed rest, but I do want you to stay home for a while, okay? No long walks through the town for a while, alright?”

She agreed. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Alright,” he smiled and patted her on the shoulder when he stood. “Just stay hydrated. Don’t skip any meals, either. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We’ll release you in the morning. If you need anything, just let one of the nurses know.”

“Thank you, Dr. Mattias.”

He gave her a nod as he opened the door. “Good night, Anna. Get some more rest. See you in the morning.”

Anna watched her doctor take his leave. Her heart tightened almost painfully in her chest as she gazed over at Kristoff. His attention was on the city lights shining through the window, not daring to take a peek at her. She couldn’t blame him… the last time they’d seen one another hadn’t ended well. They both said some stupid things. Anna knew Kristoff wasn’t actually angry with her, it was just his defense mechanism. Didn’t everyone have that? Especially those who had been through such a tragedy.

Swallowing thickly, she willed the dryness in her throat to dissipate before she spoke. “Will--Will you tell me about her?”

Kristoff’s eyes shifted, giving her a sideways glance.

“A-About Pepper?” she elaborated.

He turned to face her fully then, eyebrows raised above his hairline. The stunned expression on his face had her stomach churning, but she wouldn’t give up. Surely, he wouldn’t have stayed here if he hadn’t wanted to make things right between them.

“Anna, I--I am so sorry. I know I should’ve told you about her a long time ago. I was just so afraid to scare you.”

Shaking her head, she smiled. “I know, Kristoff, I know. I’m sorry for how I acted. I was just--I was so hurt that you’d kept such a big part of your life from me--”

“And I shouldn’t have.”

“I know, but it’s okay. You wanted to keep me hopeful. I’ve… I’ve never had someone look out for me like you do, Kristoff. Not even Elsa. Or Gerda. Or my parents. I just--I took it so personally. Like I had done something wrong. Like… I wasn’t mature enough to handle it.”

Kristoff sat up then. “Anna, it was never that. I never, ever meant to make you feel inadequate. Or like you were a child I was protecting. Or--Or a charity case like you thought. It was never that. You were just so… positive. And shit, if I ruined that, I would’ve never forgiven myself. And of course, I did ruin it by not being honest with you.”

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

“What?”

“You didn’t. I promise you. If anything you brought me back to reality. This isn’t over, and I can’t be stupid like I was,” she gazed down at her hands, clasping them together and twiddling her thumbs. “I was trying to help around the house too much. Walking from here to the coffee shop all the time was way too much on me too, but I ignored it because…” Anna felt her cheeks flush. “Well, I wanted to see you.”

He let out a soft scoff, he shook his head. “You don’t have to walk to the coffee shop to see me.”

“I need to get my license.”

Kristoff snorted. “Yeah, that too. But Anna, I’ll come to you wherever and whenever you want. You don’t have to burden yourself to see me.”

“It seemed silly to drive when the coffee shop is just down the road from here. Barely a mile.”

“Anna. I will be there. Wherever you need me.”

She couldn’t help but smile at that. “Okay.”

Kristoff stood, surprising her. His hands were at his sides, fingers nervously twitching and rubbing along his palms. Brow pinching, he glanced down at his feet. She tilted her head before beckoning him over with a hand. Tense shoulders sagged in relief as he strode over to her in two steps.

He sat beside her in the bed, perching half himself on the mattress as his opposite foot rested on the floor. But Anna shifted instead, making room for him on the tiny bed. It really wasn’t meant to fit two people, but Anna maneuvered herself enough that she laid in Kristoff’s lap, his legs on either side of her hips as she laid against his chest. She wasn’t sure how on earth Kristoff would even fit in a hospital bed without her included. But it worked well enough, and he was able to fully sit on the bed… so she called it a win. Especially since she was so comfy against him. It amazed her, really, that any time they cuddled up together it was always a perfect fit.

They were quiet. The silence was comforting as she felt the rise and fall of his chest against her back, his soft breaths echoed behind her. Anna looked down at his hands perched on his knees, grabbing them, she pulled them into his lap and played with his fingers. His hands were so rough, nails bitten-down, fingers calloused… he must have really worked hard. She admired that about him.

“Pepper was diagnosed when she was four. Acute lymphoblastic leukemia… Chemo had a lot of the same effects on her body that you’ve experienced,” his fingers traced over hers before massaging over her numb digits. Kristoff leaned forward, his lips pressing to her ear. “I know it’s hard. I’m sorry you’re going through this.”

His voice sent shivers down her spine. Glancing up, she pressed her head to his shoulder. “You make it easier… and I’m sure Pepper felt the same.”

Kristoff chuckled at that. “Our favorite pastime was, uh, reading princess books.”

“Oohh, princess books, hm? You seem like the princess type.”

“Yeah, yeah. I did whatever I could to make her feel better,” he murmured. She noticed the flush on his cheeks as he looked away.

Squeezing his fingers the best she could, Anna nuzzled her nose into his neck. “You do that for me too, you know. I can’t thank you enough for all that you’ve done.”

“I haven’t done enough.”

She hummed. “You have, Kristoff. You’ve done more than enough. You have given me more than I ever thought could have come out of--well, a relationship.”

Kristoff snickered. “And we aren’t even a couple,” he teased.

“Uh huh, I’m serious. I can’t believe you wanted to see me after I puked on your shoes.”

Shrugging, he laughed slightly. “It wasn’t anything I hadn’t seen before.”

Anna agreed sadly, glancing away. She was silent for a moment before taking in a deep breath. “When… When Pepper was diagnosed did--did your parents…?”

“What?”

“Did they, ya know, pay more attention to her?”

He stiffened at that. “God, no, Anna.” With a sigh, he wound his arms around her middle, pressing her flush against him. He nuzzled into her crown, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry your parents did that to you. That’s not how family works. Anna, you’ll never be second. Not to me.”

Tears pricked her eyes as she sniffled, sucking up her emotions the best she could. “I… Thank you.”

Smirking, he wiped a stray tear for her cheek. “Except maybe to Sven.”

Anna barked a laugh. “I can understand that.” How could he cheer her up so easily? With just a little comment like that?

He pressed a kiss to her auburn locks. “I mean it, though. My parents--they always made sure that I was okay. When I told you I was kind of a jerk for a while there? It was right after Pepper died. I was angry. Thought it was unfair. She was so young. Six year olds aren’t supposed to die, you know? Especially not like that. I… Watching the pain she went through hurt more than anything I’d ever seen. And I just--I was so upset. I couldn’t handle it. I was depressed, I went to therapy… and then my parents got me Sven. So, I finally had someone to take care of again.”

“You had every right to grieve.”

“I know. I just couldn’t let it go for a year. I held all of my emotions in and it came out as anger at school. I lost interest… stopped trying in class. Quit the football team. Kept beating up anyone who looked at me twice.”

Anna reached up, cupping his cheek. “I’m glad you made it through that.”

“Me too. I’m happy I’m able to treat you right, Anna.”

Giggling, she nodded.

He paused, smiling slightly. “There’s something else… You know how you said sunflowers were your favorite?”

“Yeah?”

Sucking in a breath, he continued. “They were Pepper’s favorite too. Her casket was surrounded by them, and I saved one of them from the display. Call it a hunch or--or you may just think this is weird, but I also thought whatever girl I’d end up with would love sunflowers too.”

Her heart tightened in her chest. Oh, wow… That felt different. The words sent a warmth through her veins, making her heart pound. She couldn’t explain what she was feeling, but it seemed like a confirmation. That wasn’t just a coincidence, was it? Suddenly, Anna knew. She just knew Kristoff was the person she was supposed to be with. Forever.

Anna didn’t know how long her forever would be, but with Kristoff by her side she hoped it was for many years to come. She had Elsa back by her side. She had Gerda who had been the mother that Anna had never had there for her. Anna had always wanted a dog of her own, but Sven would do. She was grateful Kristoff had a companion when he needed one the most. And while Pepper may have not been physically there… Anna couldn’t wait to get to know her too. As well as the rest of Kristoff’s family.

There was a bright future ahead… and Anna could finally see it. She could picture it in her mind. She could fight this. She could get past it. She had to.

Anna refused to let Kristoff lose another person to this horrid disease. Kristoff had been the first person in a long time to see her. To see Anna as she truly was. And that meant more to her than she could ever explain to him. As much as she tried, there would never be words that could tell him.

Except maybe three… She loved him.

She loved this man with every fiber of her being. The last few months spent with him had changed her life in the best way. Maybe, she wasn’t grateful for cancer, but she was grateful for what it had brought to her. Her sister… maybe even the love of her life. It got her away from her horrid ex that just wanted her for money.

Anna knew she needed to tell Kristoff how she felt. And she would. But not yet. She needed more time. And Anna knew she had all of the time in the world.

#kristanna #kristoff x anna #the queen & her reindeer king #ash writes #frozen fic #anna x kristoff #kristanna fic #tw: cancer #tw: character death #cancer fic #angst #hurt/comfort #mentions of chemotherapy #tms&mts #take my scars & make them stars

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xxx-cat-xxx · 6 years ago

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New Beginning

While recovering from the injuries sustained during Civil War, Tony becomes addicted to morphine. In typical Stark fashion, he decides to quit cold turkey and deal with the withdrawal symptoms on his own. Fortunately, Bruce won’t let that happen.

As requested, here is the tumblr version! This is an AU in which Bruce returns to earth after Civil War. Pepper and Tony still haven’t made up, but everything else is roughly the same.

TW for mentions of drug abuse. Angst and Whump and lots and lots of Hurt/Comfort in the second half. Thanks to @whumphoarder and @sallyidss for beta reading.

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The front doors of the compound open with a bit of a squeak. It leaves Bruce to wonder whether no one has realised, or whether the two remaining permanent inhabitants simply don’t care enough to fix it.

“Welcome, Dr. Banner,” FRIDAY greets him.

Bruce startles a bit at the sudden voice. He’s visited the compound quite a few times during the three months since his return to earth, but it’s easy enough to forget the existence of AIs when his own shabby apartment still doesn’t have a working WiFi connection.

“Hello, FRIDAY,” he replies. “Uhm, who all is home?”

Initiating a conversation with the AI makes him nearly as uncomfortable as initiating one with an actual human being, but it would take the better part of an hour to check all the rooms of the compound, and he’s not keen on experiencing the despondent feeling he would get upon seeing most of them empty.

“Only Boss. Colonel Rhodes left for Florida for his long-term treatment and is not expected to return before next week. Boss arrived home from his weekly meeting with Peter Parker at noon and has been in the upstairs bar ever since.”

“Could you let him know that I’m here? He should have gotten my message, we, uhm, had plans.”

“Of course, Dr. Banner.”

Bruce is looking forward to “doing crazy science” (Tony’s words) with his friend. Most of his time nowadays is spent alternating between attending yoga classes, seeing a therapist, and trying to establish a routine for himself. Returning to a planet where a year has passed for everyone else, just to find that his only friends had not only split up, but done so in a violent way, wasn’t exactly helpful for getting resettled on earth.

Bruce sets down his backpack in his own room. He has never gotten a chance to use it, but he is touched by its existence, by the fact that Tony, while planning the compound, seems to have been so sure he’d return one day. He changes into a comfortable sweater and grabs a lab coat. Now it’s onto science.

“FRIDAY, is Tony already in the lab?” he questions.

“I am afraid Boss is busy and won’t be able to join you for the experiment,” she reports.

“What?” Bruce looks up in confusion.

“I said that Boss is busy and-”

“No, I got you, FRIDAY, just…”

This is weird. Tony has been looking forward to this nearly as much as Bruce, as he was the one who first suggested measuring the half-life of the alien element that Bruce accidently brought with him from Sakaar.

“Uhm, he’s still in the bar?” Bruce asks tentatively.

“Yes, Dr. Banner.”

Bruce waits for an elaboration, but none is forthcoming. He really misses JARVIS. The old AI would always find a way to let him know what was going on, even if Tony had instructed him otherwise.

Bruce makes his way to the upstairs bar, getting lost only once along the way in the huge building. He finds Tony sitting slumped over at the counter, head resting on his folded arms. There is no drink next to him, no tablet in his hand, no rock music playing.

“Tony?”

The engineer turns his head a little when Bruce sits down on the stool next to him, but the hood of his sweatshirt is keeping his face in the shadows.

“I, uhm, hi,” Bruce begins. When no reply comes, he continues. “We were going to check our theories about the Sakaarium’s rate of decay, you remember?”

“I’m busy,” Tony mumbles into his sleeve.

“You don’t look busy...”

Tony doesn’t respond.

“You were with the kid this morning, right?” Bruce tries to change the topic.

“Yeah,” Tony answers in a brisk voice. “What do you want, Bruce?”

“I - I thought we were going to take the measurements?”

“I told you, I’m busy. Told FRIDAY, actually. There was no need for you to come up here.”

“Okay, what’s going on?” Bruce asks, slightly exasperated.

“You can just send me the data later. Easier that way.” Tony’s tone is almost hostile now.

Bruce tries very hard not to let his self-confidence slip away, but it’s futile. Maybe he overestimated the importance of their work to Tony. Their friendship has been a bit tense lately, with Bruce rationally knowing that the other man doesn’t blame him for going away, but still not being able to not feel guilty for his absence during Tony’s fallout with Steve.

“Okay, then I’ll just - go and do the experiment on my own.” He tries to keep his tone neutral while getting down from the stool.

“Bruce.” Tony’s voice is quiet, unlike him. He lifts his head and finally Bruce can get a look at his face. Exhaustion is written all over his features. He looks sad, sort of lonely, but also distinctly ill. His eyes are red, his nose is running, and his normally tanned skin tone is now an unhealthy grey.

Bruce frowns. “Are you sick?”

Tony scoffs like he’s about to give a snarky comment, but then he seems to think better of it. “Morphine withdrawal, to be precise,” he admits with a sigh.

Bruce blinks at him. “You - what?”

“Yeah, funny isn’t it? And people always thought the alcohol would be the drug that kills me…” He lets out a bitter laugh.

“Tony, this…How did this happen?” Bruce immediately feels guilt bubble up inside him. How did he not notice? The Hulk stirs in the back of his mind and Bruce takes a deep breath to calm himself down.

“I’ve gotten in a little too deep since… since I came back,” Tony replies hesitantly. “Had, ehm, couple of bad injuries. My sternum was cracked, and I needed shoulder surgery, among other things. And then… guess it was just convenient. Drowning out the pain.”

He doesn’t say what kind of pain he is talking about, but Bruce has an idea that it’s more than just the aftereffects of the injuries.

“You...You didn’t tell anyone.” It’s a statement, not an accusation. Bruce has been carrying secrets around with him for so long that he would never judge anyone else for doing the same.

Tony shrugs. “I told you now, didn’t I? Can’t see you walking around with this sad puppy face of yours. Plus, I hate lying.” He squints and starts massaging the bridge of his nose. “Sorry about the experiment. You can go ahead without me. Give me a few days and I’ll look at the data afterwards.”

“Tony, you could easily afford the best detox in the world. There are people who specialise in this - they could work out a treatment plan, maybe give you methadone…you don’t have to do this cold turkey.”

“Not all problems can be solved with money.”

“But this might just be one where money can help.”

“I don’t want anyone else involved.”

Tony’s voice is a bit louder now, almost angry, but there is something else in it - shame, a feeling Bruce has always thought alien to Tony. But then, this is not partying, not sex, not drunk-crashing a new suit into the Hudson. There’s nothing glamorous about addiction.

“What about Rhodey?” he asks softly.

Tony just shakes his head, guilt creeping up in his eyes.

“Okay.” Bruce takes a deep breath. “Then I’ll stay with you.”

“Go do your experiment, Bruce”, Tony dismisses. “You’re not the type for this. Leave me alone.”

Translation: I don’t want you to see me like this. I don’t want to be a burden.

“No, I mean it. I can…” Bruce tries to think of a way that won’t have Tony refuse immediately. “I would feel better if I could at least take care of the medical side of things.” He hesitates a beat. “I won’t hover, I promise. I just don’t want you to do this alone.”

Another shrug. “You really don’t have to. Not gonna be pretty.” Brown eyes glance up at Bruce. They’re full of distrust, a slew of broken promises - and a flicker of hope.

“It’s okay,” Bruce assures.“I...I want to.”

Tony’s eyes hold his for a minute. Then, slowly, he nods.

Bruce doesn’t have to ask Tony why he agrees. He knows it’s not that Tony trusts him more than others; he doesn’t trust anyone, really. It’s not that Bruce is closer to Tony than Rhodey is. No, he agrees because he knows that Bruce isn’t a threat to him. It’s the same reason he once opened up about his PTSD. Because Bruce doesn’t judge, and Bruce would never use his knowledge against him.

“Okay, then.” Bruce takes a deep breath, mentally preparing a list of what he is going to need. He is not stupid, withdrawal isn’t a pony ride, and this isn’t going to be easy for either of them.

“Let’s go.” Tony gets up from the barstool, stumbling only a little.

Bruce frowns. “Where?”

“The experiment? We’ve waited for weeks to get these readings. Now that you’ve figured out what’s going on, might as well get some work done.”

“Tony, are you sure?”

“I figure I’ve got half a day until the worst of it starts, so let’s get to work.” He flashes a familiar grin at Bruce, who follows with a sigh.

“Care for a nap?” Bruce asks hopefully.

It’s four in the morning and they have been working non-stop for hours. Tony is trying hard not to let his discomfort show, but he’s sniffling constantly, a slightly haunted look in his eyes, and even his right hand is trembling now. Bruce has been trying his best to act normal too, making sure that Tony stays hydrated and eats something in between, and he’s attempted more than once to get his friend to sleep.

But the engineer just shakes his head, not even looking up from the tablet in which he is modelling the element’s other isotopes. “Go ahead, Brucie. I, uhm” - He rubs his dripping nose with the back of his hand - “distraction is good.”

The cravings must be worse than he’s letting on.

When Bruce keeps staring at him worriedly, Tony swivels his chair around and gives him a stern look. “Bruce, you promised not to hover. I hate hovering. Go to sleep.”

Bruce obeys, but he doesn’t want to leave Tony completely alone, so he stretches out on the couch. It’s the same one they used to have in the tower, judging by the very familiar scorch burn on the upholstery. The low hum of the laboratory equipment in the background and the sound of Tony tapping on this tablet are surprisingly soothing. Despite the lingering sense of worry and guilt, Bruce falls asleep quickly.

When he wakes up late next morning, Tony is still working.

“Hey, groundhog.” Tony wheels his chair around and rolls towards Bruce with a smirk.

Bruce sits up, groaning at the pain in his back that definitely didn’t approve of the idea of sleeping on the couch. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes and squints at Tony. “You didn’t...”

“Nah. I’m clean.” He looks worse, though. His brown eyes are slightly glassy, huge dark rings below them and a light flush to his cheeks.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce ventures.

Tony shrugs. “Been better, been worse.”

Bruce raises a hand to gauge his temperature, but Tony flinches away reflexively. That’s new - another souvenir from Siberia.

“Sorry.” Bruce drops his arm. “Are you running a temperature?”

“A little above a hundred,” Tony dismisses. There’s a sparkle in his eyes that could stem either from the fever or excitement. “Made a lot of progress on the Sakaarium while you were getting your beauty sleep. I’ll brew some coffee if you have a look at it.” He presses a tablet into Bruce’s hands.

Bruce sighs. “Tea, please.”

After studying the data (Tony wasn’t lying about making progress - Bruce doesn’t think anyone would be able to get this much done in a week even in full health), Bruce goes to take a shower and gather supplies that he has a feeling he is going to need later. By the time he’s done, it’s almost noon, so he cooks pasta for them - something easily digestible. Tony, now visibly less energetic than before, picks at the food with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

“Do you want to lie down?” Bruce asks after he’s made Tony finish a small plate.

Tony shakes his head, trembling a little. He gets up gingerly, as if his whole body is hurting. “Let’s just...let’s get rid of it all.”

“The drugs, you mean?”

“No, Clint’s secret stash of Skittles. Of course the drugs.” It’s the first time he’s mentioned Clint since Bruce came back. It must have been an accident, because Bruce can see emotions swirling in Tony’s eyes just before he turns abruptly and walks out.

Bruce sighs. Tony has always been a notoriously hard person to talk to about personal topics, but since whatever happened in Siberia, it’s almost impossible to get anything out of him besides the constant stream of (increasingly cynical) sarcastic comments, the occasional remark about Peter Parker, and a never-ending flow of tech ideas. Bruce tried to carefully ask about the rest of the team a few times, but only got rapid topic shifts in reply. He still hasn’t worked up the courage to mention Pepper.

“Bruce?” Tony calls from the hallway.

“Coming…”

It takes longer than Bruce would have thought to get rid of all the pill bottles.

He knew that the compound was large, but he never thought about the sheer number of bathroom cabinets and kitchen shelves it contains. He doesn’t ask how Tony managed to get his hands on so many rations of morphine. He doesn’t ask why Tony felt the need to spread out his supply throughout all of the rooms. He tries not to think about Tony alone in the compound, wandering empty halls and sleeping off his highs in his former friends’ beds.

By evening, Tony is visibly shaking and ghostly pale except for the fever-flush of his cheeks. Bruce doubts they’ll be able to finish their task before his condition deteriorates.

“Just how many are there?” Bruce frowns, finding another pill bottle in a drawer in Sam’s old bedroom and throwing it into the garbage bag.

“Honestly? I don't know,” Tony replies from the medbay next door where he is bending over the medicine cabinet. “I reorder them every week, so they just kinda keep piling up. Funny, isn't it?” His tone is light, slightly ironic, but when Bruce catches a look at his face through the glass door, all he can read is pure self-loathing.

“Let’s take a break,” Bruce decides. He gets up stiffly and starts walking towards the common kitchen. “Tony?” he calls when the other man doesn’t follow.

“Just...coming.” Tony's voice sounds strained. The next moment, there is an audible thump and the sound of breaking glass. “Ow.”

Concerned, Bruce hurries into the room and finds Tony on his butt, a growing puddle of disinfection liquid soaking his pants. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to, uh, sit down for a moment.” Tony’s face is sweaty and his eyes a little unfocused.

“Let me clean this up.” Bruce goes to grab a rag from the kitchen and returns to try to control the damage.

“Have you -” Tony cuts himself off, swallowing thickly. A hint of green has crept up his cheeks. He’s starting to tremble harder under his oversized sweatshirt.

“I think we should move to the bathroom,” Bruce states as calmly as he can.

“Yeah,” Tony says, swallowing again. “Agreed.”

It takes half an hour of shallow breathing and spitting into the toilet accompanied by less and less convincing jokes until Tony actually brings something up, but then he doesn't stop for a long time. Being a doctor, Bruce has ample experience seeing people vomit. Still, he can’t help but feel a little queasy himself when he watches Tony bring up everything he’s eaten over the past day before descending into dry retches.

“You ever had a hangover that makes you feel like your stomach is literally trying to evacuate your body?” Tony pants, slumping onto the toilet seat after another round of dry heaves. “Because that’s what this feels like.”

He discarded his t-shirt long ago and his whole upper body is shiny with sweat. Bruce can still see some of the fading bruises from the fight. Tony’s chest is a whole maze of scars, some still fresh from the operations he must have undergone after returning from Siberia.

“You know I don’t drink.” Bruce cringes when another heave wracks through Tony’s body.

“Yes, Brucie, atta boy - how could I forget?” he says upon surfacing.

Even through the worst of the nausea, Tony is keeping up something resembling small talk, but it’s getting harder and harder for him to hide the pain and fatigue on his face.

Bruce puts a wet cloth on the ground next to him and Tony takes it gratefully, wiping the sweat off his forehead and pressing his face into the coolness.

“Here.” Bruce offers a cup of water.

“Noooo,” Tony whines. “What’s the point?”

“You're dehydrating fast. And I was told it hurts less if there's something in your stomach.”

“Blatant lies.” Tony drinks, his face contorting into a grimace. “God.” He bends over the toilet bowl, waiting for the inevitable.

Bruce carefully lays a hand on his back, rubbing up and down and checking the fever. Tony is definitely running warmer now.

His breath hitches. Then the few sips of water he managed to swallow splash back into the bowl.

When Tony is done puking for the time being, Bruce suggests they shift to the bedroom, but Tony insists on moving back to the lab. He settles on the same couch Bruce slept on the previous night, listlessly moving holograms to and fro in the air above him. Bruce isn’t exactly sure what he’s working on, but he suspects that not much progress is being made. Still, as long as distraction seems to help, he chooses not to say anything.

After a while, Tony gets up again and shuffles towards the bathroom.

“You’re gonna be sick again?” Bruce asks.

Tony just shakes his head with a scrunched expression, then locks the door behind him. Bruce sighs, guessing what’s going on, and decides not to disturb. Instead, he gets up to brew a special mint and ginger tea with a lot of sugar that he puts into the fridge for later use.

Tony returns after a while, his mouth a tight line, and refuses the saltines and water Bruce pushes towards him. He’s looking worse than just hours ago, as if he’s been ill with the flu for weeks. He drops onto the couch, picks up the tablet, and holds it up in front of his face. Bruce suspects that he closed his eyes, since he isn’t even scrolling.

After a while, a holo screen next to Tony lights up. “You have a voice message from Peter Parker, Boss,” FRIDAY informs him. Bruce blinks in surprise. It’s late evening already. But then, teenagers are not exactly known for their regular sleep schedules.

The warm feeling he got upon realising that FRIDAY is programmed to directly pass on Peter’s messages vanishes when Tony tells the A.I. to ignore it.

“Are you sure?” Bruce asks before he can stop himself.

“I’ve got stuff to do.”

“But Tony, what if something happened?”

“His A.I. would have alerted me. This is nothing important.”

“Don’t you think -”

“Geez, Bruce, give it a rest. You’re not my PA, okay?”

“I’m sorry, I just -”

“I knew this was a bad idea. You shouldn’t be here.” Tony runs his shaking hands through his hair, looking more pathetic than actually angry. “I, I need a break. I need a shower.”

He pushes himself to his feet with visible difficulty and stomps off towards the bathroom.

Bruce shakes his head in confusion. Peter seems to be one of the few good things that have happened during the time Bruce was gone. The doctor mostly keeps to himself these days, but he has met Peter once or twice during their lab afternoons and was touched by how awkwardly paternal Tony acts around him. Ignoring his messages doesn’t fit into that schema at all.

The message on the screen is still blinking. Bruce’s curiosity, fueled by a little bit of defiance, gets the upper hand. “FRIDAY, can you play the message to me?”

“Yes, Dr. Banner. You have full security clearance for it.”

“Hey, uhm, Mr. Stark, it’s Peter,” the teenager’s high-pitched voice issues from the speakers. “I’m, uh...I just wanted to apologise again for yesterday in case, uh, in case I said anything wrong? I know that you’re busy and it was probably really dumb of me to ask you, I am so sorry, I should have thought about that before. It’s really just a stupid school thing, and, uhm, I really get it you don’t have time for that. I was just thinking because May said it’s a good idea… and because you seemed a bit...down lately, so I thought I’d invite you. Anyway, I just, I’m sorry if I upset you. Just, uh, I hope that we can meet next week in the lab? I got an idea for the suit upgrade that you suggested, so… Okay, that’s it, I guess. Good night, and, uh, sorry again.”

“Tony, what did you do?” Bruce exhales, sitting down heavily on the chair. He’s starting to get a pretty good idea of what’s going on. Another point added to the long list of things Tony Stark won’t talk about.

His thoughts are interrupted when he hears retching from the bathroom.

“Tony?” Bruce knocks hesitantly. He knows that the whole Internet has seen Tony Stark nude, and Tony probably doesn’t care, but Bruce is uncomfortable with the thought of walking in on him after showering.

The only reply is a non-committal noise. Bruce carefully opens the door, his chest going tight with worry when he sees Tony curled up on the bathroom floor next to the toilet, dressed only in a silk bathrobe, his forehead pressed against the base of the cold bowl. His hair is still damp from washing. All residual anger in Bruce is replaced with worry.

“Hey, Tony,” he says softly.

“Hey yourself,” Tony croaks.

“Let’s move you to the bed, okay?”

“Hurts,” Tony mumbles, not responding to the question. “‘s like my skin’s coming off.”

Bruce winces in sympathy. “You’re gonna be alright. Can you sit up?”

“‘m pathetic. You don’t - you really don’t have to - “

“It’s okay. I’m here, Tony, alright?” He crouches down and slowly puts his arms under Tony’s elbows to prop him up, feeling the heat coming off him in waves. He has a suspicion that part of the withdrawal is actually alcohol-related, which would explain the intensity of his symptoms. Tony flinches at the touch and starts to shiver violently.

“I-I’m gonna -” He gulps. Bruce guides him over the toilet bowl and holds him upright when he heaves, bringing up acidic smelling bile.

“You’ll be okay,” Bruce murmurs.

Tony huffs and pushes himself upright with visible effort. He rinses his mouth while steadying himself on the washbasin, then shuffles to the elevator that leads to the bedroom. Bruce follows with a trash can, the tea, and a sinking feeling in his gut.

Throughout the night, Tony gets steadily worse.

He doesn’t fall asleep, unable to get comfortable enough to rest. Instead, he tosses and turns on the bed, kicking the sheets off his sweaty body just to pull them up again minutes later when the chills wrack through him. The little bit of ginger tea Bruce manages to make him drink comes back up every time in painful bouts of vomiting. At some point, Bruce turns on the TV in the hope to provide some distraction, but Tony doesn’t seem able to focus.

When the night bleeds into morning, Tony is an anxious mess, going from incoherent rambling to sudden silence. His fever is still rising. He’s been calling for Pepper intermittently, regarding Bruce with large, confused eyes each time before remembering where he is.

Finally, in the late morning, he falls into a fitful sleep, more out of sheer exhaustion than anything else. Bruce leaves him alone for a few minutes for a hasty breakfast of cold, leftover pasta and a much-needed change of clothes. By the time he returns, Tony is mumbling in his sleep, his face lined with agony, small tremors running through him as his hands seem to clutch the bedsheets for dear life.

Bruce settles in the armchair next to the bed and reaches for Tony’s fingers, holding them tight, trying to provide what little comfort he can.

Bruce must have dozed off against his will, because what wakes him up in the late afternoon is the sound of Tony screaming. It’s neither an angry shout nor a quiet whimper. It’s low and guttural, reminding him more of a wounded animal than anything human. He’s witnessed many of Tony’s nightmares over the years they’ve shared a lab, with Tony falling asleep on the workbench after hours of trying to power through the exhaustion, just to wake up with a gasp and wetness in his eyes. But Bruce has never heard anything like this.

“Hey,” he soothes, his voice still hoarse from sleep. He squats next to the bed and lightly pats his friend’s elbow. “Tony, wake up.”

Tony's eyes open, his gaze panicked. His arms fly up to his head in a defensive posture, as if shielding himself from an attack.

“Tony? It’s okay, you’re okay. We're here, at the compound. You’re safe.”

Tony takes in the room, slowly seeming to recognise Bruce, and lets his hands drop down. He’s breathing heavily and far too fast. He clutches his chest, fingers digging into the scar tissue where the arc reactor used to be.

“You’re okay. You’re sick, but you’re safe.” It’s all Bruce can think of to provide reassurance.

“Gimme - minute,” Tony rasps, looking on the verge of a panic attack.

“Okay. I’ll get you some water.” He stands up to give Tony some privacy.

When he comes back, Tony’s eyes are half-closed and his breathing has calmed down, but that’s about all there is for good news. The fever, if anything, seems worse than before, and the shaking hasn’t let up.

Bruce reaches for his wrist and checks his pulse. It’s slightly irregular and a little too quick. Heart palpitations are normal for people going through withdrawal, but with Tony’s history of cardiac issues, Bruce can’t help but worry. He pinches Tony’s skin and frowns when the white doesn’t fade as quickly as it should. He hopes they won’t need an IV, but dehydration is starting to become problematic.

Bruce has to raise the cup to Tony's mouth in order to make him drink while the man follows him sluggishly with eyes that seem almost delirious. His face is slick with sweat. Bruce wets another washcloth and lays it over Tony’s forehead.

“Cold...”Tony flinches away, seemingly from something else than just the physical pain. His hand wanders to his chest again, and Bruce thinks he can make out some newer scars across the old ones. Tony slurs something and Bruce catches Steve’s name.

“Steve’s not here, alright? It’s just us, Tony. Please, have a bit more water...”

Tony shakes his head, his expression conveying fear, sadness, and guilt.

What happened in Siberia, Tony? Bruce thinks. What did Steve do to you? What did you do to each other?

“...Bruce?”

The doctor hears the voice while he’s busy cleaning out the trash can in the bathroom from the last vomiting episode, but if he hadn't known it was Tony, he wouldn’t have recognised it. It’s weak and scared and nothing about it seems to belong to Iron Man. Bruce quickly rinses the can and steps back into the room.

“Hey, I'm here,” he reassures, trying to keep the tiredness from his tone. Tony is much, much worse off, but two days with hardly any sleep are starting to take their toll on Bruce as well.

Tony is sitting on the edge of the bed, his whole body swaying, his eyes large and wet. “B-Big guy?”

“Yeah, it's me.”

“For a minute, I thought…” Tony stares at him, blinks, shakes his head and sways dangerously. “Never mind.”

Bruce is there in two large strides, sitting down next to the other man and offering his shoulder for support. “It's me. It's really me, I'm real, I promise. Okay?”

“Yeah.” Tony slumps into him, burying his face in his shoulder. First Bruce thinks that it's sweat that's soaking his shirt, or that Tony had thrown up on him. But then he hears the sobs, quiet and terrified.

“Oh, Tony.” Ordinarily Bruce is not a fan of physical contact, but he’s never had such a strong urge to hug someone as he does now. He pulls the other man to his chest, holding him, shielding him. “It's okay, you're gonna be okay.”

“'s not about me,” Tony whispers. “Every life I touch just falls apart.”

“That's not...that's not true, Tony. You did so much for me.”

I hadn't had a home in decades when you took me in. I hadn’t had anyone who knows what I am look at me without fear before I met you. He thinks of ways to vocalise the feeling, but Tony goes on, speaking so quietly that Bruce can hardly hear him. “I let the kid down.”

“What happened?” Bruce asks softly.

“He... He had a thing, a competition, from his college. Wan’ed me to come to Washin’ton this weekend. But I...he can’t know. So I, I snapped at him. Was...yesterday, maybe… I dunno. I felt like my father. I spent my whole life tryin’ to be someone else, just to find that ‘m no different. No different at all. And I don’t wanna…” he sobs, chokes. “And then… I had to stop, Bruce.”

And suddenly, Bruce understands. “You’re not your father. You are better, Tony. You’re doing your best.”

Tony weeps silently, Bruce holding him, until night bleeds into day.

“It hurts.” Tony is slumped over the trashcan after the latest fruitless attempt at keeping Bruce’s iced tea down. His eyes are bloodshot, his face haggard and his whole frame trembling. A trickle of bile falls into the receptacle. Bruce rubs his back, wishing he could find a way to ease the nausea, to take the pain away.

“I need-” Tony abruptly sits up straight, swaying as he does so.

“Tony, it’s alright. Everything’s okay. Just, lie down, okay?”

“No, you, you don’t understand, it hurts...I need my meds.”

“You don’t need anything. It will get better, you hear me? It will get better, I promise.”

And suddenly Tony is shouting. “You’re lying! Fucking get out! I don’t need you! I need - I need Pepper - I need a fucking painkiller!” His voice is hoarse from all the vomiting, and the shout is more of a croak than anything else, but it still hits Bruce unexpectedly.

Tony tries to get his feet under him. Bruce pushes him back down without thinking, realising his mistake a split-second too late.

There is no recognition in his eyes when Tony lashes out, barely missing the doctor. He is much too weak to do any real damage, but the Hulk is immediately alert, always ready to protect Bruce.

Bruce grits his teeth as he tries to force him back into his mind with sheer determination. This can’t happen, not now, not with Tony sick as a dog and unable to protect himself. Bruce sinks onto the bed, his knees feeling weak. All he can think is that Tony was right, that it was wrong to call Bruce, wrong to trust Bruce, because he is a monster after all.

He can feel the Hulk roaring in the back of his head, and then he’s hit with memories from a long time ago. His father, the row of bottles on the ground next to the armchair he would occupy on the days he didn’t go to work. Bruce in the hallway, and then the angry eyes turning on him, then the belt, the hands, the fear. His logical brain knows that it’s nonsense, that Tony is not drunk, that his father’s been dead for years, but the flashback is so strong that it takes his breath away for a few moments.

He slowly counts to ten in an effort to calm himself, keeping his eyes closed and listening to his own breaths pounding in his ears.

When he feels safe to open his eyes, Tony is sitting on the ground below him, looking on the verge of passing out.

“Okay.” Bruce forces himself into a calm tone despite the emotions churning in his stomach. “Can you stand up if I help you?”

“I need...it really hurts, Bruce. I need a pill.”

“You can’t have any drugs. That’s why we’re doing this, Tony, remember? Remember Peter?”

There's pain in his eyes, then his body flattens, the energy bleeding out. Tony sways on the spot until Bruce kneels down next to him, wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him into his chest.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry,” Tony mumbles.

“It's okay,” Bruce whispers, sadly. “It’s okay.”

He isn’t quite sure how he finds the strength, feeling dizzy himself from exhaustion and barely contained panic, but he manages to move Tony back to the bed. The other man isn’t unconscious, but he doesn’t seem very aware of his surroundings either. Bruce mechanically checks his temperature, blood pressure, and pulse, and finds all of them worrying.

He decides on an IV then, setting it up with calm hands despite his racing thoughts. It takes a while to find a good vein. Tony flinches a little when the needle pierces his skin, but otherwise doesn’t react.

Bruce sits down on the edge of the bed first, but then he shifts to the headrest and pulls his feet up on the mattress. He looks down at Tony, who has fallen into an unsettled sleep, looking ill, exhausted, and frighteningly old. There are traces of tears on his cheek. Bruce strokes them away, then moves his fingers up to Tony’s sweaty curls, smoothing them lightly, wishing he could give the man more comfort than that.

This time, Bruce wakes up from his own nightmare involving his father and the Hulk. He takes a moment to orient himself. He’s in Tony’s bed - must have fallen asleep in a sitting position and slowly slid down, judging from the pain in his neck.

Tony is asleep on the other side of the bed, curled into a fetal position. One of his hands is clutching Bruce’s shirt. He’s still pale as a ghost, the circles under his eyes so dark that they almost look like paint, but when Bruce reaches over to touch his forehead, he finds the fever has finally broken. He carefully uncurls Tony’s fingers and checks his pulse - a little weak, but thankfully regular.

After removing the IV, Bruce goes into the kitchen and starts to make tea for himself and a milkshake for Tony. He puts both drinks on a tray and returns to the bedroom, finding Tony awake and leaning heavily against the headrest, looking exhausted and thoughtful.

“Room service,” Bruce says in a sudden attempt to take over Tony’s role and lighten the mood.

“God, Bruce, you look terrible,” Tony observes, visibly guilty.

“You should see yourself,” Bruce comments. He sets the shake down on the bedside table.

“You didn't have to - we could have ordered -”

“It's okay. I wanted you to have something made with care on your first day.”

Tony takes the beverage with a frown. “What is it?”

“Vanilla milkshake. Easy to digest, and you need the energy.”

Tony takes a few sips, then, apparently realising how starved he is, finishes the glass. Bruce smiles and pours him another.

“That doesn’t work with my diet plan. Hope that FRIDAY approves of it.” He grins.

“Oh, I doubt she has any objections. You could use a few pounds, honestly.”

After four days of barely eating or drinking, Tony's cheek bones are more pronounced than ever, and his shirt traces the outline of his hollow stomach. But, looking back now, Bruce is sure that his clothes were hanging loosely even before the withdrawal.

“How’s the shake settling?” he asks, not keen on having to use the trash can again.

“Okay, I guess. I’m - Maybe I’m hungry? I’m not so sure anymore.”

“That’s good,” Bruce says with a measure of relief. “Maybe give it half an hour and then you can try some solid food? You can shower in the meantime, if you feel up to it.” He pauses before adding, “No offence, but you need it.”

Tony looks down at himself as if only now realising that he has a body. “Oh. Yeah.”

He unsteadily goes to take a shower while Bruce prepares a proper breakfast for both of them. Tony looks a little bit better by the time he steps into the kitchen, wearing athletic shorts and an old sweatshirt, his dark hair still wet. He all but inhales two cups of coffee and a slice of toast before leaning back in his chair, eyes half-closed.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks, putting more toast on a plate and setting it down in front of his friend.

“Sore. Shaky. But also almost human again,” Tony replies, opening one eye. “And like I might actually be able to sleep, and when I wake up, maybe I wouldn’t be weak as a kitten.”

“See, that’s a start.”

Tony squints at him, insecurity bleeding through his attitude. “I guess I owe you a thank you.”

“You don’t owe anything to anyone, Tony,” Bruce asserts.

The engineer snorts out a bitter laugh. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

Bruce sighs, wishing for the day when Tony will stop feeling like he is indebted to the whole world. He doesn’t know what it will take, and he’s afraid to think about it because something tells him that Tony won’t ever stop before he breaks.

“And I…” Tony looks down for a moment. “I want to say thank you. You didn’t have to do it, and...I don’t really remember much of the last three days, but I know it can’t have been easy for you either.”

Bruce softens. “It’s okay, Tony. I’m glad I was there with you.”

“I don’t know how to make good on that.”

“If you want to do something, then call Peter Parker.” Tony’s jaw goes rigid and Bruce adds, “Not right now. Eat. Sleep. Try to establish something like a routine. But do call him eventually. Don’t let this chance slip away.” He pauses. “I’m- I'm proud of you, Tony. And Peter will be, too.”

“He can’t know. Ever. I’m serious, Bruce.”

There’s no sense in trying to tell Tony that there is no shame in addiction. He already knows that, in theory at least, but the standards he holds himself to have always been superhumanly high.

“Fine,” Bruce sighs. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise. And you promise me that you’ll call the kid.”

There is something almost like insecurity in Tony’s eyes, something vulnerable, but he nods anyway. “Okay.”

Bruce weighs his thoughts and then decides to go a bit further.

“You...Your fever got pretty high, and you said some things. You mentioned Steve, and Siberia.” Tony sets up to speak, his expression defensive, and Bruce raises his hands. “Hear me out. I won’t force you to tell me anything about it. Ever. Just, you don’t have to keep it all inside. If you want to talk, I promise I won’t fall asleep this time. Consider it an offer.”

Tony looks at him, tired and a hundred years older than a few days ago, but there’s something like the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you,” he says earnestly. “I...Not now. But someday, maybe.”

And that’s all Bruce needs to hear for now.

Tony almost nods off at the table while checking his email, so Bruce firmly takes the device out of his hand and ushers him back to bed. His heart goes warm when he notices that Tony has created a reminder on his tablet to call Peter later that afternoon.

After making sure that Tony is sound asleep, Bruce heads off to his own bedroom, swaying slightly himself from tiredness. Sunlight is flooding the compound. It’s still empty, but a different empty than it was the day when he arrived. It doesn’t feel like an ending anymore, but rather like it could be the beginning of something new.

All my fics

Taglist: @toomuchtoread33

#tony stark #bruce banner #peter parker #science bros #withdrawal #tw drug abues #tw morphine #tw addiction #sick tony stark #sick tony #sickfic #whump #tony!whump #bruce banner is a good bro #tony stark has a heart #and cares a lot about peter

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cas-lost-grace · 6 years ago

Text

Dare

As demanded by @mythicalesbian , @dascean , @ailuromatron , @theladydetective , @anxious-gay-dinosaur , @casbeanie (I probably forgot someone)

A sequel of Truth or Dare, explicit, college!au, first time, friends to lovers

It must be Murphy’s law that when you drunkenly decide to do something you don’t have the courage for while sober, the moment you are about to actually do it, you instantly sober up.

Dean watches as Cas closes the door and sits on Dean’s bed and his head is suddenly painfully clear.

Dean leans his back against the door and runs his hands over his face.

"Dean? Are you okay?"

Dean shakes his head but doesn’t elaborate.

Castiel stands up and with a concerned expression on his face walks towards Dean.

"What’s wrong?" he asks tilting his head.

"Do you... do you really want to do it?"

"What? Finger you? Yes. I’d like to suck your cock too if that’s fine."

Dean closes his eyes and lets his head hit the door.

"How can you just... we- we’re-"

"Friends?"

Dean looks at him and nods, glad that he understands.

"Yes, we are, Dean. But I’m also very attracted to you. And it´s mutual judging by how determined you’ve been all night to get me undressed."

Dean’s lips part, but he doesn’t get a chance to say anything.

Cas gives him a small sad smile and brushes his fingertips down Dean’s jaw.

"But you’re right, Dean. We shouldn’t do it. Not like this, not because of a dare. If I’m ever going to do anything sexual with you, it has to be because you actually want it." With that, he reaches around Dean for the door handle.

For a moment, Dean imagines he lets Cas go, then wakes up in the morning still wanting him but never ever finding the courage so they will stay very frustrated friends.

"Wait!"

Cas looks at him. His eyes are wide and his cheeks are still flushed and he’s wearing just his boxers. How the hell could Dean let him go?

"I want it," Dean basically spits the words out. Cas squints at him.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, yeah I’m sure just... could we like... maybe... kiss first? If that’s okay?"

Cas looks like he’s trying to hold back a grin, but his lips still curl into a smile.

"Of course, Dean. You didn’t expect me to throw you on the bed and just fuck you with my fingers, did you?"

"I-uh." Dean rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks feel on hot. Cas huffs out a laugh.

"Come here, you dumbass, let me kiss you."

Dean looks up and before he can realize that they are really about to do it, Cas is leaning in and pressing their lips together.

Technically it’s like any other first kiss. A little awkward and hesitant before they get in sync with each other.

But other than this, it’s totally different than any other kiss Dean’s ever had. Because it’s Cas. It’s Cas and his lips are very soft, his tongue pointy and downward sinful and his shoulders are firm under Dean’s hands and his hair is all fluffy and it’s Cas. Smart, kind, dorky Cas that Dean’s been fascinated by from the first moment he met him. And now they are kissing and it’s blowing Dean’s mind making him feel even drunker than he’s felt before.

"Still want it?" Cas asks, his lips bearly leaving Dean’s.

"More than ever," Dean answers truthfully.

Dean’s still nervous as they stumble onto the bed, but Cas’ kisses distract him enough that he doesn’t entirely freak out when he finds himself on his back, his pants and underwear being pulled off.

"Wow, nice," Cas breathes out when Dean’s cock bobs against his belly. Dean’s cheeks feel so like they might go up in flames any minute.

"Thanks, I guess," he mutters. Cas chuckles and leans down to mouth at the base of Dean’s cock.

"Oh fuck!" Dean cries out. His arms fly up to grab the headboard.

Cas lets out another deep chuckle and rescues Dean’s feet from his clothes. He runs his palms up Dean’s hairy thighs, his stare is so intense on Dean’s body it’s almost unbearable. Dean tries not to twitch as Cas’ touch gives him goosebumps.

Cas’ hands tighten on Dean’s hipbones and he actually licks his lips before diving down and swallowing Dean’s cock.

Dean gasps for breath. He’s had blowjobs before, quite a lot, but nobody has ever blown him like this, with such devotion, like Dean’s the best thing he’s ever had in his mouth. Dean makes a sound that’s halfway between a moan and a sob, desperately trying not to push deeper into Cas’ throat.

Cas pulls off with an obscene wet sound and looks at Dean. His lips are even pinker than normally and his blue irises are almost entirely swallowed up by black pupils. Dean clenches his teeth feeling like he might come from the sight alone.

"So," Cas says as he straightens and pushes lightly at Dean’s knees to make him bent them. "When you did it yourself, how many fingers did you take?"

Dean’s boiling blood all drained to his cock but now it’s in his cheeks again.

"Just one," he admits breathlessly. "And I’ve never been with a guy." He bites his lip the moments the words are out. He has no idea why he said it. Cas’ eyes widen in surprise and for a brief moment, Dean dreads that Cas might back off.

"Not at all?" Cas asks. Dean shakes his head.

"I... I know I’m into guys I just... never acted on it."

"Hmm," Cas’ deep voice rumbles as he looks down at Dean. "Then I’d better try really hard to not ruin it for you," he says and rubs his stubbled cheek against Dean’s knee.

Dean thinks he might be already ruined for anyone else, but he fortunately manages to keep these words for himself.

Cas pushes Dean’s knees further up. Dean has to steady his breathing when he basically feels Cas’ stare on his hole.

Cas runs the pad of his thumb over the puckered flesh making Dean shiver.

Cas hums again like he’s deep in thoughts. "You know what? I changed my mind."

Dean gapes at him, terrified. If Cas is going to leave now, he’ll die of embarrassment.

"I want to eat you out."

"What?"

Cas frowns. "Use my mouth, on your hole. I’m pretty sure you’ll like it."

"But... but what about you? Isn’t it like... disgusting?"

Cas huffs out a laugh. "Don’t worry about me. I’m gonna enjoy this just fine." With that, he puts his hands on Dean’s ass cheeks to pull them apart and leans down.

"Cas!" Dean cries when the hot wet tongue drags over his sensitive rim.

Cas hums-a sound that’s starting to drive Dean crazy and licks and sucks. Dean lets go of the headboard to grab onto Cas’ hair tugging slightly. He knows he’s moaning like his life depends on it but he’s unable to stop himself. The sensations are so new and intimate and exciting.

He’s actually a little relieved when Cas stops because he’s started to feel overwhelmed. He looks at Cas who’s looking just slightly less out of breath than Dean feels.

"Good?" Cas asks.

"I’m having a heart attack."

Cas grins at him. "Ready for more?"

Dean nods. It will be a great way to die.

"Lube?" Cas asks.

"The second drawer," Dean says gesturing towards the nightstand. He’s glad he doesn’t have to move.

Cas crawls over him to reach the drawer. When he’s about to pull away, Dean grabs his shoulder. It’s so thick it makes Dean angry.

Cas looks at Dean with surprise but he relaxes when Dean pulls him down for a kiss. The taste is strange, but it’s the idea of where that mouth has been that makes Dean shiver.

"Are you really okay?" Cas asks softly, his lips just a breath away from Deans. "We can stop here for now."

"Don’t you dare," Dean growls. Cas chuckles as he resumes his position between Dean’s legs.

He squeezes out some lube and rubs it between his palms to warm it.

"The angle is different so I’ll be able to push deeper than when you do it yourself."

Dean nods, his abandoned cock twitches at the idea.

"You need to let me know if something feels off. Okay?"

"I will. Just go on before I lose my nerve."

"Okay, try to relax," Cas suggests before brushing his wet fingertips over Dean’s hole. He pushes his index in, just to the first knuckle. Dean focuses on taking deep slow breaths. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets himself be overtaken by the sensation of Cas’ finger pushing deeper. It’s good, it’s familiar until it’s more than Dean’s used to. He moans and clenches his muscles which enhances the feeling of being filled and makes him moan even more.

"You okay?" Cas asks.

"I’m great."

Cas runs his free hand up Dean’s chest under his shirt and pinches his nipple making Dean hiss before he starts to move his finger inside Dean.

"Fuck yes," Dean sighs. He reaches for his cock, but Cas bats his hand away.

"No. Leave it up to me."

"Okay, okay, fine, oh god!" Dean cries out when Cas touches a spot inside him that makes his whole body clench with a shock of pleasure.

"Dean Winchester, let me introduce you to your prostate."

"Fuck!"

"Amazing, isn’t?"

Instead of a reply, Dean sobs into the back of his hand as Cas brushes over his prostate again and again.

"I’m going to add another finger," Cas informs and takes Dean’s incoherent sound as an affirmative.

Dean bites his lip and groans at the stretch and burn.

"Relax, babe, I’ve got you."

Dean opens his eyes. The utter focus with which Cas is looking at him is beautiful. His free hand is moving over Dean’s thigh in a soothing gesture. Dean wonders if anyone ever cared for his pleasure and comfort this much. He feels his body opening for Cas, letting him in and he’s rewarded by a feeling of fullness.

"God, Dean, you’re so beautiful," Cas says as he fucks Dean steadily. "I wish you could see yourself as I do right now. Loving my fingers up your ass. Your hole stretched around them, your cock leaking, your face... fuck Dean, it’s better than I imagined."

"You...you did?"

"Yeah. This and much more. You on your knees sucking my cock, you bend over the kitchen table, you in my lap."

Dean’s trembling, his body feels like a livewire, his climax is closing in.

"Cas, please," he moans.

Moving his hand faster, pushing it deeper and harder, Cas leans down and wraps his lips around Dean’s cock.

And Dean loses it. He thinks he might have shouted a somewhat coherent warning before his vision blacks out and he’s coming harder than ever. His body spasms so hard hi arches his back off the bad and kicks his legs out.

He opens his eyes, gasping for breath, his heart hammering against his breastbone.

Cas is grinning down at him. He has his boxers down to his knees and his hard cock in his hand.

It seems he didn’t pull back fast enough because there’s a speck of come on his chin.

Without thinking, Dean grabs the back of his head and pulls him down. Cas collapses on top of him with a huff and freezes a little when Dean licks his own jizz off his face.

Then they are kissing. Dirty and wet. Dean grabs Cas’ ass when he starts to rock his hips dragging his cock through the hot sticky mess on Dean’s stomach.

It feels so amazing Dean would come again if it was physically possible.

Cas moans Dean’s name when his orgasm hits and Dean holds him tight against his chest as Cas rides it.

They take a few long minutes to just bask in the afterglow. Then Cas pushes himself up and uses the kleenex on Dean’s nightstand to clean them up.

Cas suddenly seems very silent, the confidence with which he took Dean apart is gone. He pulls his boxers up and sits on the edge of the bed. Dean reaches for his arm.

"Are you gonna stay?"

Cas actually flinches at Dean’s words sending a pang of panic through Dean’s chest.

"I don’t think it’s a good idea," he says not looking Dean in the face.

It takes Dean a moment to find his breath. "Why?"

Cas finally turns to him. There’s a deep crease between his brows, his eyes sre sad. "Because there’s a good chance you’ll wake up in the morning and regret what we’ve done."

Dean mirrors his frown. "I don’t think so. And even if, we’re friends, we can figure it out."

Cas’ lips curl up but it lacks mirth. "Friends with benefits?"

"I don’t know. Maybe. If that’s what you want. Maybe something else."

Cas raises an eyebrow.

"Like boyfriends maybe?"

A sharp feeling like a bolt of lightning runs down Dean’s spine. He realizes it’s equal parts anxiety and excitement.

"You’d want that?" his voice sounds weak to his own ears.

"It’s what I dreamed of the most."

Dean huffs out the breath that he was holding. He tugs at Cas’ arm and Cas lies down next to him.

"Truth or dare?" Dean asks.

Cas’ eyes darken. "Dare."

"Be my boyfriend."

#destiel #destiel fanfic #destiel ficlet #college!au #friends to lovers #first time #mine

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timeoutforthee · 6 years ago

Text

Like it or Not-Chapter 23

Taglist: @itsausernamenotafobsong, @sea-blue-child, @iaminmultiplefandoms, @princeanxious, @uwillbeefoundtonight, @zaidiashipper, @arandompasserby, @levyredfox3, @falsett0, @error-i-dunno-what-went-wrong, @scrapbookofsketches, @podcastsandcoffee, @helloisthisusernametaken, @amuthefunperson, @michealawithana, @yamihatarou, @heck-im-lost, @unlikelynightmareconnoisseur, @idkaurl, @bubblycricket, @fnp-alizay, @neonbluetiefling, @comicsimpson, @a-little-bit-of-ace

Summary: Logan, Patton, Roman, and Virgil are all struggling in their recovery. Their doctors, Thomas Sanders and Emile Picani think they can help each other out.

Aka Group Therapy AU

Trigger Warnings: Remus, referenced fictional murder, referenced bingeing/purging, therapy session

Read it on AO3!

Roman had marched into class earlier, fully prepared to demand a new partner as soon as Remus started speaking. Now, he was staring at his rival with an open mouth. This is not how he was planning for this to go, at all.

“Run that by me,” Roman finally says, “One more time.”

��I want to write a play,” Remus says, drawing out his words obnoxiously slow, “About a man interviewing several monsters to find out which one killed him. Each monster will be a representation of a mental illness.”

“That…” Roman stares at him, still shocked, “....that’s okay?”

“Oh my God, has it happened?” Remus asks a fake audience, “Has Roman Prince gotten the stick out of his ass?”

“We’ll have to be careful,” Roman hurries to amend, “I mean, we’re dealing with representation and we don’t want to offend anyone, but it’s doable.”

“Nope!” Remus says, “It is still jammed up there.”

“Do you want us to do your idea or not?” Roman counters.

Remus laughs. “If I recall correctly, we don’t have a choice about that.”

“Anyway,” Roman says, glossing over that particular detail, “What are your ideas? Who is this man? Who are the monsters?”

“Oh!” Remus says, immediately lighting up, and pulling a sketchbook from his backpack, “I have sketches! Monsters with two faces for bipolar disorder, a monster covered in cuts-”

“See, that’s an example of what we’re not going to do,” Roman interrupts.

“Roman,” Remus says, huffing, “Don’t you want to explore something deeper than your usual fairytales?”

“Don’t you want to come up with something a bit more original?”

That catches Remus off guard, and his face falls, He looks down at his sketchbook.

“You’re the best costume designer the Theater department has,” Roman says. It kills him to admit, but even he knows it’s true, “I’m sure you can come up with something.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Remus says, sighing. “Now, this guy…” ^

“How’d your meeting go today, Roman?” Patton says, trying to sound like his normal, bubbly self. But there’s a rock in his stomach as the end of the school day is approaching, and group is quickly coming up.

“...well?” Roman says, unsure.

“It either went well or it didn’t, Roman, it isn’t a hard question,” Logan says.

“I know, I’m just...surprised,” Roman continues, “Remus actually had a good idea? And I’m...excited to elaborate on it?”

“What was it?” Virgil asks.

“A man is interviewing a group of monsters, all representative of mental illnesses, to see which one killed him.”

“That’s dark, I like it,” Virgil responds.

“Not surprised by that,” Roman says. “We’ll need to tread carefully, to make sure we don’t misrepresent anything or offend anyone, but it’s doable, right?”

“Right!” Patton says, even though he’s not exactly thrilled with the idea of monsters. Darkness wasn’t really his thing.

“Virgil and I need to start making some creative decisions as well,” Logan says, “We’ve started the creative writing chapter of the class.”

“Aren’t you guys excited?” Mrs. Spencer asks, “I always love hearing all the stories coming from my students every year!”

Virgil looks like he would have a lot to say if the teacher of the class wasn’t in the same room.

“Maybe Virgil will let us read some of his writing!” Patton says, still trying to keep his head up, “Since you want to be a novelist and everything?”

“Oh, Virgil, I didn’t know you were interested in writing!” Mrs. Spencer says.

“It’s not a big deal, really,” Virgil says, brushing it off, “I’m not very good.”

“I’m sure that’s not true, but if it is, we can always work on it,” she says before shifting focus on to her lunch.

“How’d you guys’ goals go?” Roman asks.

“Satisfactory,” Logan says, “Dr. Sanders said he wants me to start tackling the emotional side of disorder soon, but for now I accomplished my goal of eating different foods.”

“I’ve talked to my aunt more,” Virgil says, “I told her what Picani and I’ve been talking about, but not much else. I guess it’s something.” He takes a bite of his lunch. “What about-”

“Patton!” Roman says, a bit louder than necessary, “How’d yours go, Patton?”

“Oh-uh-well,” Patton thinks back to last session. With everything going on, he has completely forgotten about his original goal, “Dr. Sanders and I kinda...forgot about that part?”

“How?” Roman says.

“We were discussing...other...things,” Patton says. Oh God, everyone is starting to look at him. “I-I’ll-” he sighs. “I have something to tell you guys. Later. In group.”

They stare a little longer before Logan finally says, quietly, “Okay.”

Just then, the bell rings.

As everyone starts packing up, Patton feels a rock in his stomach. He looks around at everyone and gives them a smile. He’s going to miss them when they go.

“Welcome back, guys!” Dr. Sanders greets them, walking in. “How is everyone? I think Dr. Picani said something about you guys setting some goals last week, how’d those go?”

“Uh, great!” Roman says, “But Patton said he had something to tell us before we get started.”

“Oh, uh, I don’t want to derail the session,” Patton says, desperately clinging to the hope that he can get out of it.

“Don’t be silly!” Dr. Sanders said, “This is your session, you guys control what we talk about.”

“Oh...goooood…,” Patton says.

“So what is it, Pat?” Virgil asks after they’ve been sitting in silence for a while.

“You know, maybe this was silly, I didn’t mean to make a big deal out of this, it’s not really that important-”

“If it was unimportant, it’d be much easier to say,” Logan says.

“Heh, you got me there,” Patton says. He tries to bring it up in his brain, to bring the words to his mouth, but it’s getting stuck and the room is falling silent again and everyone is looking at him and thinking about how disgusting he looks and-

“Patton,” Thomas says. Patton tears his eyes away from the floor and looks up at his therapist. “Take a deep breath.” Patton does, although it’s shaky. “One more.” This one is much more steady. “Now, opposite action. Exposing the action in front of others who won’t reject you. This is a safe space.”

“Yeah, Patton, whatever it is, we won’t be, like, mad at you,” Virgil says.

“So you say,” Patton snorts, even though there’s no humor in it. He immediately regrets it when Virgil pulls back a bit, surprised and hurt. “I didn’t mean that,” he automatically says. “I just…” he takes a deep breath. “Guys, I haven’t been honest. I’ve been lying about getting better. I never stopped purging.”

The room falls silent, and a few tears escape from Patton’s eyes.

“What do you mean?” Virgil asks, quietly.

“I mean every night, I sneak down to my kitchen, I binge, then I purge. I can’t stop. I didn’t try to stop.”

“Did you think we would be mad at you for that?” Virgil asks.

“You should be mad at me for that, I’m a liar,” Patton says, “You’ve all worked so hard and come so far, and I was just...sitting here.”

“Yes,” Logan speaks up, “Sitting here in group therapy. Sitting there in individual therapy. You’re trying just as hard as we are, Patton.”

“But I can’t stop purging, that is the one thing I have to do!”

“That’s like saying the one thing I have to do is eat,” Virgil says.

“Or stop exercising,” Roman adds on.

“And we haven’t been able to do that, not quickly, not easily,” Logan says, “Of course we don’t expect you to stop just like that.”

“Generally speaking, you guys haven’t been working on this that long, and you’ve covered a lot of ground already,” Thomas says, “And your purging or bingeing is a maladaptive coping mechanism you use to deal with your emotions. You can’t just stop these behaviors, you must learn to better cope with the emotions, or else you’ll just replace them with other maladaptive coping mechanisms, such as self harm.”

Virgil’s face pales at that, but no one notices.

“You also have to stop looking at it like absolutes. ‘I haven’t stopped purging yet, so I never will.’ That’s not fair to you or the therapeutic process. You don’t have all the skills required to get to the point where you can cope.”

“I shouldn’t even need these skills,” Patton says, “I don’t…”

They all wait patiently for him to continue, and Dr. Sanders prompts him. “Patton?”

“I don’t have anything to be upset about,” Patton says. “So I don’t know why I have all these negative coping skills.”

“People don’t need a reason to be upset, necessarily,” Logan says.

“Well, yeah, if you have depression or something, but I don’t,” Patton doesn’t notice Thomas write something down in his notebook, “I just have a loving family and a good life and no reason to complain and I’m just being ungrateful.”

“What do you think qualifies a “good life,” Patton?”

“I don’t know, friends, family, love, something!”

“So you have a lot of friends?”

Patton’s stomach drops at the reminder of what school was like last year. “Well, I have friends now.”

“And didn’t you say one of your moms died?”

Patton feels like ice water has been poured over him. “I-I don’t want to talk about that.”

“That’s fine, we don’t have to,” Thomas rushes to say, “I’m just saying, if you look at things objectively, you have a few things to be upset about. That’s fair, and you don’t need to deny those feelings.”

“O-okay.”

“Plus, you seem to talk to yourself in a very negative way, but that’s something we need to explore next time,” Dr. Sanders says, looking at his watch. “Until next time, guys.”

The four boys stand up and make their way out of the room.

“Patton, I am...proud of you,” Logan tells him. Patton has been keeping his eyes on the ground, but now he looks up and over at his friend.

“What? Why?”

“For the same reason you were proud of me for eating a grape. Because you made a step in your recovery, and you should be proud.”

“Yeah, Patton, you should be proud,” Roman adds. Virgil nods.

They reach the front of the building and Roman and Logan break off, waving goodbye. Patton and Virgil wave back.

“Oh! I see my mom!” Patton says, spotting her car.

“Wait, Pat.”

“Yeah?”

Virgil hesitates only a second, before he grabs Patton and wraps his arms around him. Patton is caught off guard but quickly hugs him back. They stand there for a moment, before they both pull away.

“Thanks, Virge.”

“Anytime,” Virgil says, watching him walk away. When he sees all his friends get into their cars, he sighs and makes his way to his aunt’s car.

He sighs, thinking about how his friends are starting to open up to each other. How much it seems to help. Maybe...maybe it’s time he considered telling them why he moved to town.

#like it or not #sanders sides fic #patton sanders

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sad-trash-writing · 7 years ago

Text

You Want Me To Annoy Your Family Again?!

Part 2 of the Want to Annoy Your Family This Thanksgiving? Call Skye! AU

Part 1: Here

Back by popular demand (and only 2 years late) is this lovely Thanksgiving AU! So many people requested a Christmas follow-up that I had to do some kind of sequel to the first one, but I could not make a Christmas one work, so here this is! Hopefully, you all enjoy it as much as the original!

Jemma prodded the the chicken she was cooking up on the stove absentmindedly. She stared in the direction of the clock on the microwave without really seeing the numbers. She just knew it was about five minutes until Skye was supposed to be home from work. She hadn’t settled on how she was going to broach the subject to her.

Skye had been dodging family holidays with Jemma for a full year now. After that (intentionally) disastrous Thanksgiving, Jemma’s parents invited Skye and Jemma to nearly every event, mostly at the request of Jemma’s grandmother (who had also coerced Jemma into setting up an internet router at her house because she wanted to 'read up on the lesbians.' Jemma rolled her eyes at nearly everything Helen said, but at least she was trying to understand).

Despite her family’s effort at hospitality, Skye found a way to dodge every invite. She frequently used work as an excuse. Skye being a freelancer meant she did have an unpredictable schedule most days, so Jemma couldn’t call her out for it. If that didn’t work, she claimed she was deathly ill or found a dog on the way home from the grocery store and had to return it home, which would somehow take seven hours.

Inevitably, Jemma ended up going to family events alone, when she couldn't weasel out of them herself, and it always led to the same conversation.

“Where’s Skye today?” Evelyn would ask with forced politeness.

“She’s insert this week’s excuse here,” Jemma would mutter.

Henry would grunt something along the lines of 'good' or 'don’t need that rabble ruining X holiday.'

“Henry!” Evelyn would scold, sounding scandalized, but secretly agreeing.

Lance would mutter some agreement, since he was still bitter that Bobbi brought Skye up rather frequently.

“I just read a story from the internet on the Stonewall Riot. Have you heard of that, Jemma?” Helen would pipe up.

Shortly after everyone would roll their eyes, down their wine, and move into the living room to sit in front of the TV in silence while Helen tried to teach them about gay rights.

Jemma sighed and jabbed the chicken again. There was probably too many greens in this recipe for Skye’s liking, but she knew she would grin and bear it. Finally, the door swung open and Skye clattered her way inside. Jemma heard Skye sigh heavily, kick off her shoes, and toss her bag on the sofa. Normally, Jemma would remind her to put it away, but she figured she could let it slide this time.

“Jemma?”

“In the kitchen,” she replied.

The shuffle of Skye’s feet on the tile floor of their apartment announced Skye’s presence before the lips on Jemma’s cheek did.

“I thought it was my night to cook dinner,” Skye muttered as she wrapped her arms around Jemma’s waist.

Jemma smiled. “It was, but I got off early and thought I’d make something a bit special.”

Skye’s attention turned to the simmering pan in front of Jemma. “Looks…great.”

“You won’t even be able to taste the brussel sprouts,” Jemma responded with an eye roll.

Skye groaned and buried her face in the back of Jemma’s shoulder. “You’re killing me, woman.”

Jemma sighed and bit back the 'I’m actually extending your life' argument that usually followed and just enjoyed Skye’s closeness for a moment. She knew Skye would not be very happy after this conversation.

Jemma clicked off the heat and moved the pan to one of the cool burners to set for a few minutes and spun in Skye’s arms to face her.

“You know what I was thinking?” Jemma began.

“Hm?”

“Are you busy this Thursday night?”

Skye scrunched up her face and thought for a second. “No, I think the office is actually closed that day, for some reason.”

Jemma mentally breathed out a sigh of relief. It was a pretty safe gamble that Skye wouldn’t keep track of the date, but it was still a gamble.

“Great,” Jemma replied with a wide, forced smile. “I was thinking we should have a nice, big, fancy dinner that night.”

“Oh?”

Jemma nodded and snaked her arms around Skye’s neck to gently pull her closer. “Yes, we can cook up a big main course, lots of sides and desserts. Then, once we’ve stuffed ourselves, we can just sit and drink a bunch of wine and relax.”

Skye was close enough that their lips were nearly brushing and Jemma had lowered her voice to barely above a whisper. Skye at least had the forethought to shift Jemma a few inches to the right of the hot burner before pressing her up against the counter.

“Sounds fantastic,” Skye muttered. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Great, because my family’s coming over for Thanksgiving,” Jemma blurted.

“What?!”

Skye’s hands on her waist stiffened and the heated look in her eyes was instantly replaced by abject horror.

“It’s been a full year since you’ve seen my family and they’ve been asking about you at every event,” Jemma said.

“Yeah, because they want to know if you’ve broken up with me yet,” Skye retorted. She disentangled herself from Jemma and leaned on the opposite counter, taking deep calming breaths.

“That’s…probably true, but the longer you keep skipping out on holidays, the weirder it’s going to look,” Jemma said.

“Yeah, but I…I can’t—I don’t wa—I mean, the last holiday that I went to wasn’t exactly a Hallmark movie waiting to happen.”

“Yes, well I didn’t originally bring you to make it a Hallmark movie,” Jemma replied. She crossed the kitchen and took Skye’s face in her hands.

“Why did I originally call you?” Jemma prompted.

“To annoy your family,” Skye replied sullenly.

“Yes, which you excelled at and—”

“But, I don’t want to always annoy your family,” Skye cut in.

Jemma paused and waited for Skye to elaborate. Skye took Jemma’s hands off her face and held them in her own.

“I was fine being obnoxious to your family, because I wasn’t planning on sticking around. I didn’t know you and I didn’t know them and the odds that I was ever going to see any of you again after that night were slim,” Skye explained. “But then, I actually met you. And you were really cute and for some reason actually liked me, even when I was purposely destroying a family dinner and, now…”

Skye trailed off and took a deep breath. Jemma noticed there were the beginnings of tears in Skye’s eyes.

“I just want to show them that I’m a person who deserves you and isn’t just a screw up.”

Jemma pulled her in for a tight hug. “You’ve never been a screw up, Skye. You’ve always been a survivor. I have some bad news for you, though: You’re never not going to annoy my family.”

“Thanks for the pep talk. I feel much better now,” Skye grumbled into Jemma’s shoulder.

Jemma chuckled. “No one is ever going to be good enough in my parent’s eyes.”

“What about Bobbi? They love her,” Skye countered.

“Bobbi’s a master manipulator. She can make anyone like her,” Jemma replied. “She also with Lance and is better than anything they could have hoped for with him. For me, they won’t be happy unless I bring home a neurosurgeon who graduated from Harvard and comes from old money. And even, then, only if they’re a man.”

“Which I’m sure you could find,” Skye retorted.

“Possibly. But I don’t want that and I didn’t call one of them last year to impress my family. I called you.”

“Weirdo,” Skye teased.

Jemma shrugged. “You never had to impress my family. You impressed me. And I wouldn’t want anyone else by my side to annoy my family. But I do want you by my side.”

Skye pulled back to look at her, as if trying to find some way to get out of it. When she found only resolve in Jemma’s face, she sighed heavily.

“Fine. I’ll go to Thanksgiving.”

Jemma smiled and kissed her firmly on the lips. “Thank you. Now, let’s eat.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” Skye muttered so quietly Jemma barely heard. They had been together for a full year and Jemma had never once heard Skye say those words out loud. She turned to respond, but Skye had already shuffled off to the bedroom.

Jemma let it slide and distributed dinner onto two plates while finishing up her mental preparations for later this week.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Skye, are you sure you don’t—”

“I said I got this!” Skye shouted irritably up the stairs. Of all days for the elevator to break in their apartment building.

Jemma trudged up the last few stairs with her bags and down the hall to unlock the door.

Skye stomped slowly up the stairs a few paces behind, arms laden with groceries. Each arm had several bulging bags filled with their Thanksgiving fixings slung over them and balanced between them was a massive turkey. Skye was wheezing as she mounted the last steps, but Jemma wasn’t going to make the mistake of offering to help again.

Skye waddled through the door that Jemma held open for her and unceremoniously dumped everything on the counter. Jemma shuffled around her and started lining things up on the counter.

“So did you volunteer to host Thanksgiving?” Skye asked grumpily, half-laying on the pile of groceries. “Because this seems like an insane amount of work to do voluntarily.”

“I volunteered. It was supposed to be Bobbi and Hunter’s year but they asked if I could take over since they just eloped to Las Vegas and didn't think they would have time to prepare,” Jemma replied.

“Huh.” Skye looked impressed. “I can see Hunter doing that, but Bobbi doesn't seem the type to elope.”

“You'd be surprised,” Jemma muttered. “Anyway, ready to start cooking?” Skye looked at her like she had grown a second head. “I’m ready to go back to sleep, if that’s what you meant. It’s barely seven in the morning.”

“Not an option! We need to get the turkey cleaned, seasoned, and in the oven within the next—” Jemma checked the clock, “—twenty-three minutes if it’s going to be anywhere near done when everyone arrives. Not to mention we have to squeeze in the sweet potatoes, the stuffing, the pecan pie—”

Skye’s loud groan cut her off. “Fine, let’s get to it. I’ll start mashing the potatoes.”

The three days between Jemma breaking the news to Skye and the morning of Thanksgiving passed way too quickly. Skye was a constant ball of nerves, pacing and fretting over every detail out loud.

Jemma was more quietly panicking. This was the first year she had hosted Thanksgiving and she had no idea what she was doing. She read thousands of cooking tips online, organized their apartment and rearranged the dining area at least a dozen times, and spent that last 48 hours assuring her mother that yes, everything was going to be fine and no, she didn’t need any help.

Skye quietly mashed the potatoes in the corner of the kitchen with a bit more force than Jemma thought was strictly necessary, while Jemma got to work on the turkey and gradually crossed off each task according to Jemma’s strict schedule that she had mapped out.

Eventually, they fell into a rhythm like they always did when they cooked together. They moved around the small kitchen with ease, deftly sliding past each other with mixing bowls or trays held over their heads to not jostle the other’s work. Full sentences didn’t needed to be spoken to pass knives and spices back and forth.

Once everything was in the oven that needed to be, Jemma grabbed dirty dishes to throw in the sink. She turned back toward the sink with a pile of dishes in her arms to find Skye planted in front of her holding two pies.

“Pies are done,” she announced proudly. One was pecan and the other pumpkin and, though they wouldn’t be winning any beauty contests anytime soon, they looked edible and that’s what mattered. “Why do we need two pies, though? Aren’t there like six of us?”

“Eleven, actually. The kids can't eat pecan and the adult can’t stand pumpkin.” Jemma sidled around Skye and dumped everything in the sink and started running the water.

“That’s fa—wait, kids?” Skye squeaked.

“Yes, my cousin is bringing her triplets. I told you this.”

“Triplets?!”

“Yes, they just turned five.”

“Five?!”

Jemma turned toward Skye. “Why are you panicking? You’re great with kids.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Skye, it will be fine. They’re only children,” Jemma consoled. “And they’re going to be here in an hour, so you may want to start getting ready.”

“Shit,” Skye hissed. She set the pies down and darted into the bedroom.

Jemma finished drying the dishes and tidied up the dining room again. Everything was set out already, from the wine glasses and utensils to the few matching plates that they had. A smaller table was set up just beside the main dining table that the triplets would sit at, since there was barely enough room at the table for all the adults. Jemma smoothed out the tablecloth one last time and she decided to go get changed as well.

Skye was in the bathroom, very gingerly putting on makeup and cursing to herself. Jemma let her be and rummaged through her closet to find the outfit she had picked out.

“Damnit. Jemma, is my eyeliner too thick?” Skye asked.

“Given that the last time you saw them, you had used up an entire eyeliner pencil, I wouldn’t….what on earth are you wearing?”

Skye stood in front of her wearing a button up shirt and a cardigan that she had definitely stolen from Jemma’s closet and her hair was done up in a loose bun. Her makeup was extremely conservative, but she had just enough on to look like she made an effort.

Skye looked herself up and down. “Does it look bad?”

“No! No, it just doesn't look…like you.”

“Well, 'me' is black leather jackets and torn jeans, and we already tried that one,” Skye replied with a shrug.

“Yes, but there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Skye fidgeted with the end of her cardigan while Jemma located the shirt she was going to wear. Jemma tugged off her gravy stained T-shirt and tossed it into hamper across the room. Then she noticed Skye’s eyes fixed on her.

“What?”

Skye sidled up to her. “You know, we have some time to kill. Maybe we could do something to take the edge off a bit.”

“Anything to make you unwind,” Jemma responded. She slipped an arm around Skye’s neck and pulled her in for a kiss.

In the millisecond before their lips met, the doorbell rang and they both froze.

“Shit.”

“I’m not ready,” Jemma said

“But—”

“You have to go let them in. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“But—”

“Go!”

Jemma shoved Skye towards the door and scrambled to pull on her clothes. Skye shot her one last look that read more like 'I’m marching to the guillotine' than 'I’m answering the door.'

Jemma tugged off her dirty jeans and fished around for her nice dress pants while listening to who was at the door. Once she was dressed, she ran a brush through her hair and then hovered at the closed bedroom door a minute.

It was her cousin, Stacy, at the door with her kids. Jemma could hear Skye introducing herself with a tone that sounded, to Jemma, very forced. It seemed to mirror Stacy’s tone perfectly though, so Skye was doing well so far. Stacy introduced herself in return and the triplets, Sara, Terra, and Bradley, and they mumbled their quiet hello’s.

“Would you like some wine?” Skye asked Stacy.

“Yes, please. Do you have any Chardonnay?”

“Of course. How about you guys, do you want some wine?”

“…They’re children,” Stacy deadpanned.

“R-Right, duh. Of course. Would you kids like some….uh….non-alcoholic wine?” Skye stammered.

Well, that didn’t last long. Time to go save her.

Jemma bolted out of the bedroom into the kitchen. “The word you’re looking for is 'grape juice,' Skye.”

Jemma shifted some things around in the fridge and dug out a large bottle of grape juice, which she passed to Stacy who was digging plastic cups with lids out of her bag.

“So good to see you, Stacy. I see you’ve met my girlfriend, Skye,” Jemma greeted.

“I’ve heard so much about her. It’s nice to put a face with the stories,” Stacy replied.

“Great,” Skye muttered, once Stacy turned her attention to her kids.

The ding of the oven timer saved them from any more awkward small talk.

“Oh! Turkey’s done. Go ahead and make yourselves comfortable while we finish up dinner,” Jemma said.

As soon as Stacy left the kitchen, Skye groaned and flopped against the counter.

“You’re doing fine, Skye. Relax,” Jemma soothed.

“I offered her children wine,” Skye hissed.

“Honest mistake. But I believe you also offered Stacy wine and never opened the bottle.” Jemma handed Skye the bottle of Chardonnay.

Skye's eyes went wide. “Don’t make me go out there alone again.”

“Would you rather baste the turkey?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means deliver a glass of wine and come right back,” Jemma whispered.

Skye grumbled the whole time she was uncorking the wine and took out two wine glasses. One she filled up to the brim and took a long drink of before she filled the other a normal amount and took it into the living room.

While she was gone, the doorbell rang.

“Shit,” Jemma muttered. Daisy was going to have a heart attack. Jemma made sure nothing was going to overcook and called, “I’ve got it” into the living room.

She swung open the front door to find Lance and Bobbi and ushered them inside.

She led them into the living room where Stacy seemed to be regaling Skye with a graphic account of the triplets’ birth and Skye was looking rather pale.

“Stacy just got here and you both remember Skye,” Jemma said loudly.

Bobbi smiled brightly. “Skye, good to see you again.”

“What a pleasant surprise,” Lance grumbled stepping a bit closer to Bobbi.

“Skye, can you help me with the—”

A knock at the door interrupted Jemma’s attempt to extract Skye. Jemma stared at her, trying to gage whether Skye would prefer to stay hear the rest of the birthing story or answer the door. Skye looked too shell-shocked to decide, so Jemma just headed for the door.

Her parents gave her a quick hug each when Jemma opened the door. Jemma noticed a bulging bag on her mother’s shoulder.

“What is all that?”Jemma asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Evelyn waved her off. “Just a few little things in case you needed some back ups—”

“Your mother cooked a whole Thanksgiving dinner in case you messed something up,” Henry deadpanned.

“Mother!”

“Henry!”

Henry just shrugged.

“Mother, I have two doctorate degrees. I think I’m capable of not messing up a turkey,” Jemma snapped.

At that exact moment, the smoke detector in the kitchen went off. Jemma darted into the kitchen and pulled the turkey out of the oven. It only got a little bit extra browned on the top, no major harm done. Jemma would have never heard the end of it. She already needed a drink.

Jemma pulled everything else that was out of the oven and set it on the stove. She poured herself a glass of wine and brought the rest of Skye’s out to her in the living room. Thankfully, the conversation had switched to something less gruesome, but Skye still looked extremely relieved when Jemma sidled up next to her with a glass of wine.

The conversation stayed miraculously away from Jemma or Skye for a while as everyone got reacquainted. Jemma tried to hold Skye’s hand at one point to give it a reassuring squeeze, but Skye slyly shifted her grip on her wine glass. Jemma frowned a bit, before she noticed that Skye was standing quite a bit further away than she usually did. And that she was strategically avoiding any kind of display of affection, when usually she was extremely handsy.

Jemma was only vaguely paying attention to Stacy telling everyone about the triplets’ expensive school, when she heard Skye’s name.

“Skye, where did you go to pre-kindergarten?” Evelyn asked.

Skye tensed. “I…um. I didn't?”

Evelyn looked only mildly surprised. “Oh.”

“I had an...unconventional childhood,” Skye admitted.

“Oh,” Evelyn said again. “I understand. Jemma took two years off in middle school to work on her first biology degree at Oxford.”

“Yeah, mine wasn't quite like that. I just went to the public school near St. Agnes’ from first grade to high school,” Skye responded.

“Oh, my hairdresser’s daughter went there and I think she's about your age. What year did you graduate?” Evelyn asked.

Great, Jemma thought. Leave it to her mother to bring up all the sensitive subjects off the bat.

Skye fidgeted under everyone's intense gaze. “I...I didn't.”

Evelyn, Stacy, and Henry looked visibly affronted.

“Well, when you're about to age out of the foster system and your only possession is an broken-down van, you have slightly different priorities,” Skye said bitterly. She instantly seemed to regret her tone. “Does anybody else need more wine? I need more wine.”

Everyone was silent as Skye stalked out of the living room. Luckily, they only had to sit in awkward silence for a few seconds until the doorbell rang.

“I got it!” Daisy called, grumpily, from the kitchen.

“Must be your grandmother,” Evelyn muttered.

Sure enough, Helen’s voice filtered through the apartment following the creak of the front door.

“There she is! My second favorite lesbian!”

Oh my god. Jemma fought the urge to bury her face in her hands and had another sip of wine instead.

“Um. Hi, Helen,” Skye muttered sheepishly. Skye and Helen appeared in the living room moments later and two of the triplets ran up and gave her a hug. Terra held back and tugged on her mother’s shirt. “Mama, what’s a lesbian?” she asked loudly.

Every adult in the room froze.

“Um...it’s where...I’ll tell you when you’re older,” Stacy replied.

“Why can’t she know now? It’s not inappropriate,” Helen defended. “It’s when girls like other girls, honey. Like your cousin Jemma and her girlfriend.”

“Cool! Can I be a lesbian?” Sara asked.

“No,” Stacy deadpanned.

“I wanna be a lesbian, too!” Bradley announced.

“That’s not how—”

“Now that everyone’s here, shall we start dinner?” Jemma asked loudly.

Everyone quickly agreed and shuffled into the kitchen. Jemma grabbed Skye and started handing her serving dishes to put out on the table. Once everything was set up, she quickly lit the candles in the centerpiece and directed everyone to sit and start serving themselves. Helen and Bobbi both wanted to sit by Skye and Hunter insisted on sitting on the Bobbi’s other side, so Jemma ended up squished in between her father and Stacy on the opposite side of the round table as Skye, who just stared at her with a panicked look.

The family spent some time complimenting all the food and then conversed about their various jobs. When Stacy started describing the most gory infections she had seen working as a nurse, Evelyn hurriedly shifted the conversation onto Skye, who had been trying to make herself as small as possible.

“Skye, what do you do for a living?”

“I, um. I’m a freelancer for an IT and cyber-security company,” she replied.

“That’s really interesting,” Bobbi piped up. “How did you get into that?”

Jemma noticed Lance’s face shift into a glare when Bobbi’s attention turned towards Skye.

“I’ve just always been interested in computer languages and how security programs work,” Skye said. “Then, earlier this year, I got into tro-- got into contact with some of the higher-ups at SHIELD and they offered me a job.”

Henry made a noise of recognition. “We’ve had some people from SHIELD come work on our systems at the office. Good thing, too, because this past year has not been a great time to be in politics. We’ve had Anonymous and The Rising Tide and all those other rabble knocking around our servers all year, trying to find dirt on everyone in the building. Oh, but I forgot. You’re an anarchist, they’re probably some of your friends,” Henry finished, gruffly.

Skye gulped. Jemma knew for a fact that Skye did know people in the Rising Tide.

“I’m, uh. Well, I do think that there’s a lot that could be changed about our political system,” Skye said, delicately. Jemma tried to stifle a laugh. If she didn’t think about how hard Skye was trying to not make any waves, this was almost as amusing as last year.

Henry huffed. “Kids your age just don’t understand how hard the government works--”

“Henry, no one’s saying you don’t work hard,” Evelyn countered, in attempt to keep the peace.

“No! No, I definitely wasn’t saying that,” Skye agreed.

Henry grumbled something under his breath, but let the subject drop. Luckily, Lance and Bobbi picked up the slack in the conversation.

Jemma didn’t hear what they were talking about. She was just trying to get Skye’s attention. When Skye finally looked up from poking the remaining food on her plate, her eyes were wide. Jemma mimed taking deep breaths to her, hoping she would mirror, and gave her a reassuring thumbs-up.

Skye took a deep breath and smiled in return, looking slightly more calm. A tiny, blonde head popped up between Jemma and Stacy.

“Mama, can we have dessert now?” Sara asked.

“Did you all eat your green beans?”

“Yes,” three voices chanted in unison.

“Okay then, ask Jemma and Skye,” Stacy replied.

A different tiny head popped up next to Skye and she jumped so violently she nearly knocked over her wine glass.

“Miss Skye, can we have dessert please?” Terra asked.

Skye caught her breath before responding. “Yeah, of course. Let me go grab it. Is everybody done?”

The adults assured her that they were and Skye started gathering up plates and utensils. Jemma was impressed. Most of the time when they had guests (usually just their friends), Skye was more the ‘you have legs, don’t you?’ style of hostess.

Jemma stood and helped clear the rest of the plates and followed Skye to the kitchen.

“It’s going well, I promise,” she whispered into Skye’s ear when they were away from the family.

“Why do I still feel like I’m screwing up then?”

Jemma shrugged. “My parents have that effect on people.”

They dumped the dishes in the sink for now and each got to work cutting up a pie. Skye distributed the pumpkin onto three small, plastic plates and then delivered them to the kids, and then circled back to help Jemma bring out the pecan to everyone else.

“This pie tastes funny,” Bradley commented.

Stacy looked aghast. “Don’t be rude.”

Skye just chuckled. “Sorry, kids. It was my first time making a pumpkin pie.”

“That’s okay. I can’t make pie either,” Bradley said.

“That’s...reassuring,” Skye muttered.

The conversation was muted while everyone enjoyed their dessert. Until one of the triplets started wheezing.

“Skye, is there anything with peanuts in the pie?” Jemma asked, slight panic rising in her voice.

“A little bit of peanut butter, why?” Skye replied.

Stacy darted from the table and grabbed her purse. Jemma’s eyes went wide.

“Sara’s allergic to nuts!” Jemma hissed.

Skye’s eyes went wide. “You didn’t tell me that!”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you didn’t. You just said that they wouldn’t eat pecan pie.”

“I said they couldn’t eat pecan pie.”

“That doesn’t translate to ‘deathly allergic to it!’”

“Why did you put peanut butter in a pumpkin pie anyway?”

“We didn’t have enough pumpkin! I thought it was fine to fill it out!” Skye shouted.

Stacy finally returned with an Epipen and jabbed it into Sara’s thigh. In a few moments, her wheezing slowed and her breath returned to normal while Stacy rubbed her back reassuringly.

“Alright, she’s in the clear for now. I’m going to take her to the hospital to be safe,” Stacy announced, scooping Sara up into her arms. “Can you all keep an eye on Terra and Brad until we get back?”

“Of course,” Evelyn replied.

“I. Am so. Sorry,” Skye said to Stacy.

“It’s okay,” Sara chirped brightly, her voice a little raspy.

“It’s fine. Honest mistake,” Stacy replied distantly, grabbing her coat. “We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

And then she was gone and the apartment was silent. Jemma darted into the kitchen to open another bottle of wine. Skye was definitely going to need it.

When she returned, everyone was muttering vaguely about how they hoped Sara was going to be okay and Skye’s eyes were fixed firmly on her untouched pie. Jemma slid a generous glass of wine in front of Skye before taking her seat again.

“That was nothing,” Bradley announced. “One time, Sara had peanut M&M’s at school and said she saw Jesus.”

“Bradley! Don’t be dramatic,” Evelyn scolded lightly.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Skye,” Bobbi consoled. “Even after I was with Lance for a year, I forgot he was allergic to shellfish and made him take me out to a seafood restaurant for our anniversary.” Bobbi chuckled.

“Hey, that was not funny,” Lance replied, but with a good-natured smile. “My face swelled up so badly I couldn’t drive us home and I had to let you drive my bike.”

“Hm, that was a sweet motorcycle,” Bobbi replied. “I should have poisoned you with crab legs earlier and stolen it.”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Evelyn said after the laughter at Lance’s expense died down. “We never did hear how you and Jemma met, Skye.”

Skye blanched and Jemma could feel the color drain from her face as well. They still never worked out their story. At least not one that Jemma’s parents would approve of.

“Oh, well. It’s, um, it’s really not an interesting story,” Skye muttered. Before anyone could press, she turned to Bobbi and Lance. “How was your Vegas trip?”

Uh oh. Now it was Bobbi and Lance’s turn to go white.

Evelyn’s eyes narrowed. “Vegas?” she asked. Her voice didn’t change tone much, but it suddenly had a dangerous edge to it. “I thought you went to Denver last weekend.”

Lance and Bobbi both sputtered and looked at each other as they tried desperately to get their stories straight. Skye panickedly looked Jemma. She didn’t realize she should have told Skye that the elopement wasn’t common knowledge yet.

“Did you go get married by one of those tacky Elvis impersonators?” Evelyn accused.

It was dead silent for a moment. No one dared to breath. Terra whispered to Bradley, “What’s Elvis?”

“....it was actually Darth Vader,” Bobbi whispered.

It was like that sentence set off an explosion. Evelyn was yelling about how her only child that’s going to be able to get married eloped to Las Vegas, despite all her Pinterest planning. Helen was yelling that, actually Jemma and Skye can get married now; the Supreme Court said so. Lance was yelling that he was a goddamn adult and could decide how and when he was going to get married. Henry was yelling that Lance shouldn’t speak to his mother that way.

And Jemma and Skye just sat there. Jemma slumped down in her chair and sighed. Skye’s eyes darted between everyone screaming over each other, like she was trying to figure out how to make this better.

Skye eventually jolted to her feet to try to restore some order, but ended up bumping the edge of the centerpiece and knocking over one of the candles. The thin, stick candle bounced once on the table, before igniting the linen tablecloth like it was a dead leaf.

On the upside, it definitely worked as a distraction. All the yelling turned from anger at Bobbi and Lance to oh my god, the table’s on fire.

“Shit!” Skye cursed loudly, forgetting about the small children in the room. She grabbed the nearest glass of wine and dumped it onto the fire.

Luckily, it put out the small blaze. Unluckily, it doused both Jemma and Evelyn in red wine.

Skye gingerly set the empty glass back on the table. “I’ll go get some towels.”

Jemma dabbed her shirt off with her napkin and followed Skye into the kitchen.

Skye was pacing when Jemma found her, mumbling ‘oh my god’ to herself over and over.

“Skye, you need to relax. It’s not that bad,” Jemma tried.

“I nearly killed your cousin’s kid and set everyone on fire. I’d say that’s pretty bad,” Skye countered.

“Well...on the upside it can’t get any worse.”

Skye shot her a glare. “Really reassuring. I feel much better now.”

“I don’t know how to make you feel better. I mean, last year, you threatened to fight my grandmother in the front yard. At least this is all just accidents and accidents happen,” Jemma said.

Skye groaned and leaned up against the counter. She opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off by a quiet buzzing.

That’s when Jemma noticed Skye had her phone in her hand.

Jemma narrowed her eyes. “Who’s texting you on Thanksgiving?”

Skye flushed. “It’s, uh…it’s work. Coulson needs me for some emergency—”

“No.”

Skye quirked an eyebrow. “'Scuse me?”

“I said no,” Jemma repeated. She leaned in close so she could whisper, “You are not leaving me alone here.”

“But—”

Before Skye could form a full protest, Jemma snatched Skye’s phone out of her hands and stuffed it down her shirt.

Skye gaped. “You think I’m not going to go for it now?”

“You better not,” Jemma replied.

Despite the threat in Jemma’s voice, Skye dove her hands under Jemma’s shirt. Jemma yelped slightly at the coldness of Skye’s fingers on her bare skin. She clamped her arms down to try to stop Skye from finding the phone.

“Stop it,” Jemma snapped.

“Just give it to me.”

“No!”

“Come on, I’m gonna get it anyway. Just make it easier.”

“I said no. Get off.”

“What the hell is going on here?”

Skye and Jemma both froze. Lance stood in the doorway with a murderous glare on his face as he took in the situation.

Which was Skye, pressing his baby sister against a counter with her hands up her shirt, apparently against her will.

“This is not—”

Lance crossed the room faster than either of them would have expected, grabbed Skye by the front of her shirt, and pushed her up against the opposite wall.

Before Lance could hiss out any number of the threats that Jemma could see brewing in his head, Skye knocked his hands away and punched him in the face.

“Shit!”

“Motherf—”

“What the hell?”

Now, Jemma’s entire family congregated in the doorway of the kitchen wearing matching expressions of concern. Blood was pouring out of Lance’s nose and he was cursing up a streak. Evelyn frantically tried to cover two pairs of impressionable ears at once.

Jemma’s gaze went to Skye. She looked stunned. Her hands were still halfway raised in a defensive posture, but her eyes were darting between Jemma, her family, and a bloodied Lance.

“I—I’m…I’m sorry,” Skye stammered out. She bolted into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

Jemma wanted to run after her immediately, but she had to do some damage control here. Mostly because Lance was bleeding all over her kitchen floor (and blood was impossible to get out of grout).

Jemma grabbed a handful of towels and thrust them into Bobbi’s hands, who was trying to get a better look at Lance’s face. Next, she grabbed a plastic bag and stuffed it with ice from the freezer to pass over to him as well.

“Will someone tell me what the hel-heck just happened?” Evelyn demanded.

“Jemma’s crazy girlfriend punched me in the face,” Lance groaned.

“Why would she do that?” Bobbi asked.

“I was trying to defend my little sister.”

“From Skye?”

“Yes!” Lance shouted and then groaned in pain. “I saw her...assaulting Jemma.”

“You saw nothing of the sort,” Jemma snapped and jammed the bag of ice onto his face, not caring when he whimpered in pain. “What you saw was me trying to keep Skye from leaving because you all were scaring her off!”

No one had anything to say to that. They just shuffled their feet awkwardly.

“Honestly, she’s trying her best to impress you and you all keep acting like absolute assholes!” Jemma continued.

Evelyn gasped and covered the nearest triplet’s ears.

“She wasn’t all that concerned with impressing us a year ago. What changed?” Henry asked.

“I—I…”

Every eye in the room was on her. She couldn't lie her way out of this one. “I found her online,” Jemma mumbled. “We had only met for the second time last Thanksgiving because… I hired her specifically to annoy you all.”

An audible gasp circled the room. Skye would probably be pissed at Jemma for telling her whole family this, but Jemma couldn’t lie about it anymore.

“So has all this been a lie?” Evelyn asked.

Jemma shook her head. “That only part that was a lie was everything that happened last Thanksgiving. After that, well, Skye took me by surprise.”

A small smile pulled at Jemma’s lips as she thought back on all the memories she and Skye had made over the last year. From their casual Christmas (since they had a snowstorm last year, so Jemma got out of her family holiday) where they spent three days in their pajamas watching Christmas-themed slasher movies, to Skye’s manic joy when she got her job and everything in between. Jemma couldn’t believe it had only been a year and Skye was already in integral part of her life. She couldn’t imagine Skye not being with her anymore.

Jemma’s cheeks flushed slightly when she realized her family was still staring at her, waiting for more of an explanation. Well, except for Lance, who was trying to peer around his rapidly swelling face and an ice pack.

Jemma grabbed another bottle of wine from the fridge and smacked it on the counter in front of her family.

“I’m going to go talk to Skye now. The rest of you, have another glass of wine, relax, and maybe try to be a little less overbearing when we come back,” Jemma snapped. It was strange to have all the appalled looks directed at her this time instead of Skye, but she was willing to take it.

Without another word, Jemma turned on her heel and marched towards the bedroom.

The lights were still off when Jemma entered and it took her a few seconds for her eyes to adjust once she closed the door. She couldn’t find Skye at first, but once she fully got used to the darkness, she spotted the top of Skye’s head peeking up from the side of the bed.

“Skye?” Jemma tried softly.

No response.

Jemma rounded the corner of the bed to where Skye was sitting on the floor. Even in the low light, Jemma could tell Skye had tears streaming down her face. Skye kept her eyes fixed to the ground until Jemma sat beside her with her back against the bed.

“I’m sorry,” Skye whispered. “I tried to just not ruin something for one night and I ruined it anyway.”

Jemma sighed. “You didn’t ruin anything, Skye.”

“Your entire family hates me, Jemma. Except maybe your grandmother, for some strange reason.”

“Nobody hates you.”

“What about Lance?” Skye countered.

Jemma sighed. “Well, he’ll probably be unhappy with you for awhile, but this isn’t the first time he’s been punched in the face. Though, you know he’s all talk and wouldn’t have done anything to you so you didn’t have to punch him.”

Skye sighed and squeezed her eyes shut. “I know, it was just...instinct, I guess. You forget that I was legally homeless for quite a few years. I got into some hairy situations and had to learn how to get out of them. One of which is to hit before the other guy can.”

Jemma didn’t know what to say to that. She just slipped her hand into Skye’s and squeezed firmly.

“I’m sorry, too,” Jemma muttered, after a few minutes of silence.

Skye scoffed. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“Yes I do. I forced you into this family dinner thing, even though it made you uncomfortable and everything that’s happened tonight has just been because it stressed you out so much,” Jemma said. “I shouldn’t have pushed it and just accepted that you and my family weren’t going to mix.”

Skye huffed a laugh. “Well, I’m going to apologize again for being such a baby about all of this. Last Thanksgiving really was fun. I don’t know why this was had to be so stressful.”

“Last Thanksgiving, there were no expectations. You knew you were walking into a disaster from the start.” Jemma laughed.

“That’s true. I should have gone in with that mindset again.”

Jemma chuckled to herself and laid her head on Skye’s shoulder.

“You know, we’ll have to go back out there at some point,” Jemma reminded Skye. As much as she didn’t want to move from this position, her family was still waiting in the living room.

Skye groaned and buried her face in Jemma’s shoulder. “I know.”

Jemma handed Skye’s phone back to her. She had seen the message from Coulson that said, “Nothing that we need you for tonight. Happy Thanksgiving!” but she figured she would give Skye an out anyway.

“You can go into work if you need to. I can just tell everyone it’s urgent,” Jemma said.

Skye hesitantly took the phone from her and stared at it, trying to decide what to do next. She tossed the phone up onto the nightstand and shoved herself to her feet. “Let’s go face your family. Maybe you should change clothes first.”

Only then did Jemma remember that she was still covered in wine.

Skye tugged off her cardigan, handed it over to Jemma, and headed to her closet.

“What are you doing?” Jemma asked.

“I’m going to put on something a little more comfortable.”

Jemma changed out of her wine-stained shirt and into the cardigan (that was definitely hers in the first place, but now had the benefit of smelling like Skye) and waited for Skye to be ready.

Skye resurfaced looking much more like herself. She had opted for a simple flannel shirt that was casual, but still looked great on her. She took her hair down and let if fall over her shoulders in loose waves, rather than being tied up so tightly.

Jemma couldn’t help, but smile. She held out a hand and walked with Skye (her Skye) back into the apartment.

The family had adjourned to the living room with the remaining bottle of wine, as Jemma had hoped. She could hear the muted conversations filtering through the kitchen.

Before they headed in, Skye detoured to the fridge, dug into the back, and pulled out one of the nice beers from the package they only broke open on special occasions. Skye grabbed Jemma’s hand and then marched into the belly of the beast.

The already hushed conversation died the minute the pair stepped into the room. Skye took a deep breath and beelined over to the couch that Lance was draped across, moaning about his nose while Bobbi looked on without pity. Skye held the beer in front of his face so he could see it beyond his swollen eyes. Lance eyed the beer, and then Skye, suspiciously, but eventually took it from her hands and sat up.

“I’m—I’m sorry I punched you,” Skye said to Lance. “You startled me and I just kind of reacted, but that’s no excuse. And I want you to know, I would never do anything to hurt Jemma, ‘cause I—I love her and never want anything bad to happen to her, especially not because of me.”

Lance silently stared at her for a few long moments. He seemed to be sizing her up, looking for any trace of dishonesty in her statement. He finally just shrugged and cracked open the beer. “You’ve got a mean right hook, I’ll give you that.”

The entire room, Jemma included, seemed to let out a breath.

“Is it true you met online?” Sara asked.

“My mom says you’re not supposed to talk to people on the internet, ‘cause they’re all crazy,” Bradley followed up.

Evelyn made a quiet noise of agreement with that statement.

Skye spun towards Jemma and shot her an exasperated look. Jemma just shrugged sheepishly.

Skye sighed and turned back to the rest of the family.

“Okay, well. Cat’s out of the bag, then. No need to pretend otherwise,” Skye announced. “Before anyone asks, I’m going to put all my cards on the table. Yes, I put an ad out last year to go annoy someone’s family at Thanksgiving. You guys are the lucky ones who got me. Yes, I was aiming to be as obnoxious as possible in order to piss everyone off.”

Evelyn and Henry huffed and shared a look. Helen looked almost disappointed. “Also, I’m not really an anarchist, but I will fight you politically on everything you believe, Henry. Just be ready for it. No, Jemma and I don’t use gross pet-names. And I’ve never slapped her ass, except that one time to elicit a reaction from you all. Well, actually—”

Skye glanced towards Jemma, whose eyes went and she made a ‘cut it out’ gesture.

“Nope, that was the only time. Any questions?”

The door swung open and Sara trotted in, followed closely by a frazzled-looking Stacy.

“Hello again, everyone. What did we miss?”

No one had the heart to retell every mishap that had happened while they had been gone. Instead, Jemma made some hot cider for everyone and they took turns asking Skye questions, which she answered frankly, even when she knew it wouldn’t go over well.

Jemma had to give her parents credit, because they were trying very hard to police their reactions to not offend and even occasionally asking for details (even when Jemma could tell her mother was horrified by the tales of Skye’s previous living situation.

Still, the rest of the evening went by amicably and without incident. Skye even relaxed enough to pull Jemma in for a chaste kiss when the conversation turned to someone else.

(Eventually, someone told Stacy what all had transpired while she was in the emergency room with Sara. Never had Stacy been more thankful for a peanut-laced pie than she was at that moment.)

#skimmons #bioquake #thanksgiving au #aosficnet2 #want to annoy your family this thanksgiving? craigslist ad #family holiday au

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