#apparently it's almost over and I'm torn on whether or not to catch up

[dancingplague]

I do think there is almost nothing as disappointing in a piece of art as when a serial work starts out rough and unpolished and kind of slapdash, and you have to ignore the rough bits to enjoy it, and then it technically improves and it hits its stride and gets bad concomitantly

[moondirti]

← chapter 1

masterlist

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader Rated: Explicit Word Count: 3.5k Summary: Moving in with the Mandalorian involves way more sexual tension and boredom than you'd originally presumed. Warnings: Language, brief mentions of masturbation, just some more pining (I'm sorry) Notes: I got around to editing chapter two! My first version of this was a little rough and didn't align with the characterization I had planned. If you missed my last note, just know that this was originally posted on ao3 (you can see that here). There are a few more chapters out on there if you want to check it out. Additionally, thank you so much for all the love on chapter 1! Your likes, reblogs and comments mean so much to me

One thing about the Mandalorian is that he can not sit still.

It’s been a week since he bust your door down and tried to die tragically in your arms (though he’s insistent you’re dramatising it all, it truly did feel that way to you). Theoretically, he could have been fully healed by now - what, with all the bacta you’ve been slathering onto him - but his refusal to take it easy has had some adverse effects. For one, he almost immediately began sporting the beskar get-up again, despite your insistence on it not being a very good idea - you know fully well from your inept attempts at polishing it that it is heavy. It came as no surprise to you, then, when you found that his newly-formed scabs reopened under the strain the armour put on his back. Even he recognised his error upon witnessing the tempered rage you barely kept at bay while sanitising the area, his helmet premeditatively turned the other away to avoid your glare. 

You seriously wonder how he hasn’t torn a muscle yet; your shoulders ache after slouching for too long, to carry upwards of 50 kilograms in pure metal at all times should be considered an extreme sport. 

‘Probably why he’s so grouchy all the time,’ you grumble to yourself.

Because yes, Mando is grumpy and irritable and a pain in the ass. He boldly returns any painkiller he doesn’t deem necessary, can constantly be found doing manual labour around the house for all your instructions to rest, and sleeps on the other side of your very thin bedroom wall, meaning you can do little to relieve the ache between your legs that’s settled since his arrival. The thought of his toned back haunts you wherever you go; in the shower (apparently too small a space to get off), on your supply runs; hell, even when Mando is around do you catch yourself reflecting on the rest of his body, and whether it matches the portion you’re allowed to see. 

Your assessment so far is as follows: living with the man is torturous. That conclusion is suddenly brought to glaring importance when you’re reminded of your promise to move onto his ship. 

“Pack your things.” You’re plating freshly-grilled frog skewers for the kid when his father speaks from behind you.

“Huh?” The child grins in thanks; you pinch his cheek as you turn to Mando. 

“We should leave soon. Been here too long.” When he isn’t on the verge of death, Mando’s sentences are always clipped, as if he has a limited amount of words he’s allowed to use per day. Perhaps that’s the case in his creed - speaking too much might risk revealing more than one should. 

You don’t have time to shoot him the incredulous expression you’ve grown so accustomed to using in his presence before he’s walking away. “You’re not healed yet!” You vainly call after him. He resorts to his usual, handy response - nothing at all. Not like you expected him to actually acknowledge his weakness, though. He seems intent on getting off of Nevarro as soon as possible, in spite of both you and his wound. 

“Wanna know a secret, stink?” You brush your thumb over the kid’s fuzzy head. He babbles back at you. “You’re my favourite.” 

You discover rather quickly that you don’t have much to pack. The house you’ve decided to hold on to for practicality, meaning all of the furniture and knick-knacks you’ve collected over the years were to be kept as is. That left you with only your clothes, medical supplies and blaster to stuff into your duffel bag, alongside an old threadbare blanket you opt you can’t live without. You’re done that next morning, freshly showered and a surge of thrill circuiting through you. 

When Mando leads you out towards the Razor Crest, there’s a particular lack of sorrow in saying bye to your home. 

It may be that something deep within you that caused you to question if you are really cut out for a bounty hunter's life, bound to tuck your tail between your legs at the first sign of trouble and come skipping back to where it’s safe. Or maybe it’s the bitterness at those several, several, lonely nights you’ve spent here in silence, rotting on your couch while perusing through mindless holodramas, trying to get a taste of something more. There’s nothing for you here; your life has been a series of translucent meaning, stuck in a perpetual loop of charged static particles - buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. It’s misery fit only for the girl you were back on Corellia.

Nevarro’s rocky terrain and sinking black sands made it so that your group didn’t reach the Razor Crest until hours later. You briefly ponder on how Mando managed to get to you in his injured state when his ship is parked so far away, but you know better than to ask; tension radiates off him in waves today. You really don’t want to be on the receiving end of his killer cold shoulder. 

“I’m going into town to collect bounty pucks from Karga. I should be back by nightfall.” Mando declares before inputting something on his left vambrace that releases the ramp. You dodge the lowering gateway, grumbling when he steals your duffle bag to throw it onto the docking port of the Crest. 

“If I unpack to a broken jar and spilled salve, you’re paying to have my closet revamped.” You huff. 

“Can’t be of much help there.” He begins to usher the child’s floating pram onto the Crest. 

“Oh, being stingy with where you got that cuirass tailored?” You clamber up behind him. “What if I want the latest Mandalorian fashions?” There’s a second where he wavers, helmet turning to face you with a fixed look. 

Snorting, you pull away to look around. A narrow cage against the wall adjacent from you captures your attention, gas canisters and a system of wires adorning the inside. A carbonite freezer, you realise with a shiver; a model very similar to the one you used in the academy to transfer specimens through space. From your disjointed memories of your time there, you recall it has a sixty-percent survival rate for carbon-based beings. Truly, it’s a heartless piece of equipment, never the best choice unless one is going for convenience. 

But of course, Mando is a bounty hunter. You forget that fact far too often when it’s just the two of you. Convenience, ruthlessness, is key for him. 

Suddenly, you’re very aware of just how much he lets you get away with. You even have half a mind to apologise for your joke, especially while watching him take stock of his weapons closet. He handles the artillery with skilled precision, fingers locating each switch and clasp with little difficulty, like he has practised it in his sleep. 

He’s good with his hands. You jot that mental note for later.

Blinking, you shake away the tangent and carry on with your self-led tour. On your right is the docking port, an area of space crammed with crates, toolboxes and old machinery; on the left, two doorways. You assume one leads to a bunk and the other to a refresher when you notice a distinct lack of the two in your inspection of the second level. All you find up there is the cockpit and a storage room for his frozen quarries. Overall, it’s a regular ship, save for the cold store on the lower deck. 

You just had one question: “Mando? Where will I be sleeping?” 

Scaling down the ladder, you appraise his armed form. He was a step away from leaving the Crest. 

“On the bed.” His helmet nods towards one of the two doors to the front of the ship. 

“That’s yours.” You don’t mention that the thought of sleeping next to him every night makes you want to combust - partly because you know that isn’t what he meant, mostly because your tongue is stuck in your throat.  

“We’ll take turns.” That’s the end of the conversation for him. He turns to exit but falters when you stammer out:

“Erm… Is that alright with you? I don’t wanna intrude. I’m okay with sleeping on the floor, you know.” You sleep like a loth-cat in hibernation - hardly anything can get you out of it. And this is his home, you’d feel terrible if he couldn’t so much as nap because you were hogging his bed. 

“It’s fine. I hardly sleep anyway.” His tone softens, his helmet bowing down at you. Although it’s barely noticeable, his inflection isn’t that of a liar. Somehow, his telling the truth is worse, if not for anything but the dysfunction of what he just admits to. 

You frown. “That’s not good for you.” 

There’s a modulated hitch of breath, a shake of his shoulders. Was he laughing at you? For what? You aren’t the idiot, not when he is the one parading around guns slinging with few moments respite. You open your mouth to expand on your point, only for him to interrupt with a hand at your shoulder. 

It’s steady - comforting, and debilitating all at once. Then, Mando dryly remarks. “Yes, doctor.”

And he trots off, leaving you with only the sarcastic retort to turn over in your head until he comes back. 

No sooner than when the ramp closes shut, you practically melt, knees entirely too weak given the distance you just trekked. Stars, the way he said it - the way he tauntingly used your designation and sauntered off like it didn’t itch the unreachable part of you so desperate for validation. He can’t have known, he can’t have known of the way it renders you a pile of useless putty in his hands. Still, he was entirely too confident with the taunt, infuriatingly self-assured for someone with a deficit in social skills. It's ridiculous.

The pressure at your core returns, broiling. You need to get this situation of yours in check before he comes back, for everyone’s sake. 

You almost forget to tuck the napping child into the hammock you spot above the bed, too intent on finding release up in the cockpit. 

Hyperspace is a marvel to behold. It’s all the light in the galaxy passing by in blurs of blue and purple, surrounding - engulfing - you in its infinity. The cockpit of the Razor Crest is absolute metal and mismatched parts, ugly in every sense, but in hyperspace, it reflects every colour, every shape. And seated in the passenger's chair, you are smack dab in the centre of it all, fascinated - for the first hour of travel - by the kaleidoscope that overtakes you. 

Now, however, it’s been three. Three hours, and the beauty has begun losing its charm. 

Maybe you’re salty. Each time you readjust or shift in the slightest, you’re reminded that you never got to cum. There’s a pulse that twinges with the least bit of friction, tucked away in a spot you didn’t manage to hit, a spot that Mando can probably dig out with ease. Pathetic. It’s like all you can concentrate on is how hard he’d fuck - pressing you up against some unknown surface of the Crest - or how desperately he probably needs it. Shit, is this going to be the death of you? This sexual frustration, that multiplies and stretches and grows exponentially whenever you are in his presence? You scowl to yourself, just as well, it would be a suitable end for a woeful life.

The man in question sits diagonal to you; arms crossed and legs spread. You already mistook him for asleep, having idiotically waved your hands and pulled faces at his visor for five straight minutes before he decided enough was enough and pushed your head away. You don’t think you’ll ever live down the embarrassment of it, in all honesty; you make a point to pointedly avoid his amused glances when he turns to check if the kid is still satisfied with his metal ball. 

When his back is to you, however, you can’t help but be transfixed by his lap, captivated in his pose, his thighs, his-

You really need to cut it out before you start frothing at the mouth. 

“What do you usually do for fun around here?” Your voice is rough with misuse. You cough to get rid of the scratch in it. 

“Man the ship.” His helmet still faces the vast nothingness outside.  

“That’s not fun.” 

“You asked.” A smidgen of annoyance eclipses your incessant need for him. You gorge on it, chasing the irritation. You have more of a chance at satiating that, at least. 

Leaning forward, you flick his pauldron, accomplishing nothing but hurting yourself. “Forgive me for expecting you to actually entertain me for once. I thought it safe to assume, given you’re literally doing nothing, either.” The remark escapes harsher than you intend it to be. Deep in your gut, where only doughy, vexing empathy exists, there’s a twinge of guilt. All the same, you hold your ground, resting your chin on a propped arm as you lour at the back of his head.

He hums, flicking a switch on the overhead panel instead of gracing you with a response.

“Do you wanna play a game?” The suggestion is not at all light-hearted, and is solely made to introduce a scenario through which you can channel your displeasure. Mando must pick up on this, for he shuts down the possibility before you get too ahead of yourself. 

“I don’t like games.” 

You clench and unclench your teeth. 

“I can make it worth your while.” You grit out. “How about… one of us hides something and the other has to find it, hm?” You’re hinging on desperation here; you can’t help the optimistic lilt at the end of your question. 

“I’m a bounty hunter. Finding things is my specialty.”

“That’s the fun part. You can go first.” That will occupy you for sure. He’s familiar with his ship, is intimate with every crevice and cranny, and if he were to give his all into concealing an object, it’d take you years to uncover it. 

“You’re going to make a mess.” He waves. That’s off the table, then. 

“Okay, message received. No sabacc?” You are not good at sabacc. You briefly recall losing about 500 credits on it at the academy, actually. 

“No.” Probably for the best. You’re quickly running out of ideas, though, and you desperately need something to help you ignore the effects his drawl has on you.

“So does The Way say no to having fun?” 

He sighs. “I play with the kid, sometimes.” The concession throws you off guard, your face abruptly warming with a flush at the domesticity of the act. His care for the kid hasn’t escaped you - you’ve picked up on it in the way he keeps a hand on his pram at all times and washes his mouth after meal times - but playing is another thing altogether. It’s one more point towards the new portrait you’re conjuring of the man beneath the suit. A kind man, a loving one. 

“I’ve tried that. He’s too preoccupied with his… toy, to pay me any attention,” You side-eye the babbling green monster, who sits slobbering over the ball. If he wasn't so cute, you’d cringe at the mess he’s made of his romper. 

“Try painting yourself silver, maybe then he’d be interested in you.” 

You can’t help the giggle that erupts from you. It’s irrepressible, bubbling up from nowhere, stirring your chest with an unknown feeling. "Told you; I need me some Mandalorian armour. He exclusively likes metal things.” 

And then he’s chuckling along with you, and you’re able to pinpoint it as a school-girl type of giddiness. What’s best is that you’re hardly horrified at the prospect, either. You like it, this flutter that racks through you. It’s so different to the heat - of both ire and lust - you feel when you’re around him. It emboldens you to keep talking. 

“What do you say about answering a few questions of mine. I know your blood and bones better than I know you.” You simper, “You can ask me whatever too.”

“Alright.” He flicks on autopilot controls before kicking back to face you. You beam at the receptiveness. 

“Hmm…” Pointing to the blaster at his hip, you ask, “Your first weapon, what was it? And how old were you when you mastered it.” You’re familiar enough with Mandalorian culture to know that weapons were part of their religion; it was as good a place to start as any.

Cocking his head, he deliberates for a moment. “Must have been a spear.” If the vague gesture he makes is anything to go by, the artillery doesn’t hold much significance to him. You can’t say you know much about them either, compared to your ingrained index on blasters and rifles. “I was put in a spar with it at ten, but I haven’t really used any since.” 

You process his words, searching for an acknowledgement that wouldn’t offend. “That’s… really young.” 

“Mandalorians by birth start younger.” And though he nods, there’s a subtle hesitation in his statement, like he's ashamed to admit it. You can't decipher why; he’s the best damn warrior you’ve ever come across, regardless of status. Curious, you attempt to prod further.

“You’re not a mandalorian by birth?” 

“I was rescued by one as a child.” You consider biting the dust and bringing up the elephant in the cockpit, but you are already breaking new ground with the guy. You don’t want to make him relive his trauma just yet. “I’m a foundling.” The kid coos. 

“Takes one to know one, huh, stink?” You toss at the baby, who now reaches for his father. Mando picks him up with one swooping movement. “Where are you from, then?” 

“Aq Vatina.” It’s said so quietly you almost feel bad for asking. He pauses. “Are you from Nevarro originally?” 

“No, and thank goodness for that." You break off for a moment. It isn’t like you are proud of your birth planet either. "Corellia.” 

The air shifts. The Mandalorian’s hand stills upon the child’s chest, his visor now solely trained on you. You can’t blame him, your home planet truly does have a reputation for being an awful place. Yet with the way your cheeks tingle, you think he might be reassessing the tell-tale arch of your nose, the dimensions of your face. More than anything, you feel the cogs in his brain turn as his perception of you settles. 

“Born and raised there, went to the medical academy when the Empire was still around. Jus’ moved later in life.” 

“Hm,” This hum is much more thoughtful than the dismissive ones he’s thrown your way before. You don’t like it, being perceived like this, with this past. Not to mention, the uncomfortable reminder of why you really left Corellia leaves an ache in your bones. An image of your father’s face flashes to the forefront of your mind. “Explains the mouth on you.”

Shaking it off, you mumble. “What’s the weirdest dream you’ve ever had?” 

“I’m not answering that.” 

You roll your eyes. “Fine. Longshot anyway.” You reconsider, landing on a generic question that’s been clawing at you for ages now. “How old are you?

You’ve tried to guess in the past, based on a multitude of factors you’ve observed. He has the exemplary stamina of someone still in their prime. Initially, that placed him in his twenties. That is, until more of his personality made itself known and you found he acts like a senior citizen greatly dissatisfied with the view in their nursing home window. That raised him to a solid forty in your head. 

“Lost track. Probably in my late thirties.” Close enough.

You chortle. “Old man.” 

He shakes his head. “I’m getting there.” Something in his timbre reminds you of his back, of the skin that warms up so easily under your hands. His muscles pulse with life whenever you touch him, flourishing under the small instances of physical touch. The life of a Mandalorian must be an impoverished one, to go without all the things people needed to live - that pure, skin-on-skin contact. For almost forty years, no less. 

You’re suddenly extremely honoured that he’s taken to you as his doctor. 

“I’m about a decade your junior.” You try to fill the silence; he didn’t ask, and you don’t manage to catch onto his reaction, mind too addled with a snowballing jumble of emotions that you race after, trying to untangle. Yes, there is the ever present desire that seems to be a condition of being his companion, but there’s also an effervescent centre to it all, sparkling in and out of existence all too rapidly for you to place. 

“Kriff…” You perk at the curse. “You’re just a kid.” His cadence has drawn to a gentle murmur, as if everything has just fallen into place for him. 

Your heart twinges, frightened that his opinion of you has degraded, somehow. He likely regrets inviting yet another responsibility, another addition to his burden in trying to survive the galaxy while remaining as morally sound as possible. You’re not just a kid, no, but you are all of those other things. Useless. A liability. More trouble than you’re worth. 

If Mando senses the change of tone in your next words, he doesn’t mention it. “Only in spirit.”

You need to mean more to him, you conceive. 

chapter three →

[emily-the-fae]

Sound of a Heartbeat

Part 5. Walking makes the road

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 6

Unbelievable, but I'm finally back with a new chapter. I've been going through a lot of stuff with my studies and personal life for the past month and here it comes. Finally done with the editing. Most definitely not the best chapter in the story, but it has to be here to keep the storyline together and moving. Anyways, enjoy. Like and comment if you do, I'm very happy to receive feedback.

PS Dracula back to the story soon:)

I still have no beta and English isn't my mothertongue.

Pairing: Dracula X OC

Warnings: probably none, skeletons on sticks...the usual stuff

Wandering into the lands ruled over by darkness itself has never been pleasant.

The next morning was freezing cold, just as the passing night - no warmth was brought by the little sunlight that came - and upon waking up Shari briefly wondered how she wasn't dead of the cold yet. Her mornings were something like crawling out of a tomb every time - the kind she imagined when she heard the stories of vampires awakening, though no doubt they must have still felt better than she did. Those bastards.

Morning light was dim and weak, there were torn scraps of greyish mist laying low above the ground and the forest was eerily quiet. Shari knew the sun had to be very low, but nevertheless up, which meant that she had to be on the move already, and yet she couldn’t force herself to move a single inch, as if the forces of the castle were sensing her approach and weakening her on purpose.

She hadn't entered any towns - in fact, hadn't seen any in the previous eight hours or so of her walking the day before - and though her food supplies weren't awfully low, her health seemed to be protesting and weakening at hourly rate, demanding normal human conditions and rest. She needed warmth and a bed, and she was sure as hell that where she was heading she would either get those only already in Dracula's den, or won't get it at all.

- So? Are you up? Heading? The faster you rise, the faster we'll be there, - Shari sat back against the tree trunk, taking a gulp of cold water from her flask - she wouldn't mind Trevor's whiskey right now, but the hunter took it all with him; Rodo was seemingly relieved that he was free of his duty of being her personal heater, he jumped up and ran around the forest opening, stretching his stiff muscles. At least someone had energy left.

- You know I'm really beginning to hate you now... - she yawned.

- I believe you have already mentioned that.

- Not enough, apparently.

- Oh, come on, you like my company. Besides I'm the only one helping you so hey...

- Ok, ok can I get my food at least?

- You can eat on the go! Come on! - she whistled for Rodo even though she knew he couldn't hear her. Shari stood up purposefully slowly and made the first hesitant steps to follow her guide. Oh where were those wonderful times when she could stay in bed almost all day if she was feeling under the weather? She could kill for such a possibility at the given moment. There was a screech of another winged demon somewhere in the distance, Shari shuddered, brought out of her thoughts and Rodo turned his head briefly, seemingly considering whether he should bolt to search for the other creature, but quickly averted his muzzle from the direction and followed Shari, jumping from tree to ground and back up.

It was going to be a long day.

- Did you walk the same way? First time you found his castle? - the scenery about them was dreadful to say the very least. The forest was greyer now, less green, less alive than on the route before. The few small villages they passed were seemingly abandoned completely for decades if not centuries and Shari felt rather than acknowledged that the farther she went, the worse it would become.

- Not quite, - Lisa replied, her voice all too lively for a ghost. - The direction I came from was a bit more disturbing than here, - Shari briefly wondered how that should have looked, if this desolation seemed lively in comparison. - And I also went alone you know, so...

- Oh, yes, thank you, my wise guide for leading my way... Probably to the dinner table of a very aggressive vampire, - Shari bowed mockingly, then coughed again, swallowing the blood the pooled to her mouth.

- Calm down. There won't be anyone there, I'm quite sure.

- A-ha! So now you are "quite" sure!?

- Don't be mean, I'm trying to save your life here.

- Exactly me for some reason, - Shari snorted sarcastically.

- For the same reasons you helped Adrian. Because I can't just walk past... and because I feel rather than know that helping you is more than just helping one particular person. Just like you felt about him - didn't you?

That shut the girl up for considerable time.

They walked all day long only making one small stop to rest during - at least what was supposed to be - midday (it was very hard to understand where the sun was behind the treetops, clouds and fog). Shari coughed up blood and swore like a sailor, but Lisa only let her sit down long enough to gulp down some food. If she wasn’t killed by some night creature, she would sure as hell be tired to death with such a guide pushing her to the limit. It was visible how the closeness of their destination made the ghost more and more agitated.

The dawn was already close and Shari was ready to give up the hopes of getting to her goal on that day - ever, to be honest, judging by the condition of her lungs – her body desperately wanted her to drop down and call it a night. The forest around them was dreary and dense, the mist had never lessened since morning; Shari was cold, slightly wet and unbearably tired and even Rodo seemed to lose some of his enthusiasm, even though the darkness should have empowered him. Maybe being around humans rubbed off on the creature a little.

- Shush, - Lisa turned to Shari as they walked on, gesturing for her to cut her whining and keep quiet. Shari stopped abruptly looking around in alert, trying to see through at least some reasonable distance between the tree trunks. Finally she understood what picked her companion’s attention: clearing began to be noticeable before them - it seemed that the woods were all of a sudden coming to their edge.

They carried on walking in silence for a few more minutes until they finally reached the end of the trees – the edge of the forest. The final border between the darkness of Dracula’s lands and the normal world. Shari gasped in surprise and horror: in front of her was a few feet sandy drop covered here and there in greyish grass that led to a whole field, dry and dead in dim yellow lights with no snow upon it, weak bushes appearing here and there. It seemed that the mere presence of the undead somewhere nearby sucked the life out of the lands. Peculiar graveyard formation occupied a part of the land - human skeletons hanging on tall sticks, all in varying poses, as if frozen in their deadly agony, dried with ages and falling apart. Whatever happened there, it was nothing good. If this was what the owner of the lands decided to expose to lone travelers, it was quite obvious there would be no “welcome” shield ahead.

There was no visible end to the field, at least the reddish mist coloured by the light of the setting sun made it impossible to see far in the distance. Shari coughed, dusty air tickling her throat, and looked back to the ghost in confusion. Was this what they had searched for?

- Are you sure this is…?

- My reaction precisely when I first saw this place, - Lisa was amused, watching the healer's fearful face. - Come on, we're almost there now.

- Wait! What, there? To those? - she gestured actively to the mass of aged corpses, but Lisa payed no attention to her reaction. - Lord, why do I always get myself into the deepest trouble I can find? Could've stayed somewhere safe and warm, healed a bit, but no-o I had to be right here, torn apart by bats and hell-knows-what-else-inhabits-this-place, - Shari mumbled to herself as they descended into the valley, her feet slipping upon rocks and sliding on the unsolid sandy ground.

- Oh, come on, it's not as scary here. You’ve surely seen worse - Lisa replied, - they were walking deeper into the field, navigating their way between the mutilated skeletons, as the reddish-grey twilight around them was darkening minute by minute.

- Maybe. Doesn’t mean I want to see more.

Just as the words left her mouth, there was a blood-chilling howl somewhere in the distance and a horde of great black bats, apparently awoken by the sound, appeared out of nowhere, flapping their wings above their heads rapidly; Shari yelled and dipped down in fear. Rodo on the contrary jumped up from behind her back, trying to reach the annoying loud things and succeeding in catching one of the creatures between his sharp fangs. Shari only crouched down lower, as she heard the struggles of the defeated being next to her ear. Then a snap - the animal stopped moving, as Rodo tightened his jaws, probably breaking the thing's stamina. Just as abrupt as it began, the flapping of the bats above her stopped too.

- Lisa? Are-are they gone? - her voice was slightly shaking, she awaited the dreadful howl to repeat even closer.

- Shari, stand up! Shari! - she heard Lisa's voice coming from behind her back and turned around, her eyes searching for the ghost, as she realized that Lisa has moved much further away than she expected. Shari was on her feet in an instant, finally noticing what stood behind the ghost's transparent form, her mouth fell agape at what she could see before her now.

A wide set of steps that led to doors so tall that she felt her head spin even looking up at it - the dark stone walls went up and disappeared in the low greyish mist. Her ghost companion was at the top of the steps already and Rodo was gladly running up to the doors, apparently recognizing the smell of his own home of some time ago. Shari followed behind him hesitantly, looking around for any sign of movement.

- Come on, don't be shy, - Lisa cooed, as if luring in a small child. Her greyish form paused on one spot, waiting for Shari by the door. The girl looked around one more time as she joined the ghost on the final steps,

- Are you... Sure? This doesn't look completely abandoned. I mean, can you be sure he isn't home? That he won't be back soon? Clearly you can’t, why am I even asking… This was a terrible idea straight from the beginning, - she was visibly shacking, clenching and unclenching her fists, stepping from one foot to the other. The whole journey suddenly felt like a big mistake that could still be possibly abandoned if she did not take the final leap. Shari put her hand on the door handle then pulled away in fear. She took a deep breath, putting her palm back more steadily on the door, but was still hesitant to push it open. She paused. There was once again the dreadful howl from before, now closer to them, the creature producing it still not visible. They were standing in almost complete darkness.

- Go! - Lisa pressed.

Rodo leaped on spot beside them.

Shari held her breath – and finally pushed the handle and jumped inside, scared to even look in forward and terrified of what was awaiting behind, diving head-first into unknown - if he is there, let it be, she'd rather be torn apart by him than by whatever thing outside that let out those blood-freezing sounds; Rodo slid in too, in a ghastly manner, his massive form unnaturally smoothly squeezing through the small gap in the doorway and the next moment the door was shut behind her with a loud blow. She was finally inside Dracula's castle.

[wendystales]

Memories - lrh (Chapter Seventeen)

Memories (also on Wattpad)

Chapter Sixteen ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ Chapter Eighteen

Marnie pov.

I don't know if it was hangover or guilt, but my head was weighing a ton the morning after the party. Unlike everyone, I didn't wake up in a good mood, in fact I was pretty quiet at breakfast. Lucky for me, no one suspected anything, as the hangover gripped everyone there.

As yesterday was still Saturday and most had to work, I didn't have to run away from anyone. Since my plan had been in action since Monday, I took the day off to start packing up some things, trying to get everything as ready as possible.

For today, I had left only the final adjustments, like packing my suitcase and getting ready for my conversation with Luke.

The pain in my throat becomes more and more unbearable every time I hold back the cry. I fold up one of the band sweatshirts I have, watching the boys' faces, wanting to reinforce why I'm doing this.

I run my finger over Luke's face, as if I'm touching him. Friday's flashes flood my mind and I scold myself for nearly screwing it up out of sheer desire. Of course I wanted it as much as he did. Feel his touch, the desire and love he manages to emanate so naturally. I don't think I've ever felt so alive and so amazing in anyone's arms as in his, but it couldn't happen.

The doorbell snaps me out of my thoughts. I hurry downstairs, thinking it's Martin with the paperwork.

“Noah?" I give my friend room to enter. "Aren't you supposed to be at that lunch?" I check my watch and check the time, 1:37 PM. “Noah?” I call him, wondering at his frown.

"I wanted to come talk to you directly so we don't have any misunderstandings and to see if that way I can understand what this should mean." he hands me a folder. I open it quickly feeling my blood pressure drop. It was the paperwork I was waiting for. "What's this about moving to New York?"

"How did this get to you?" I try to control my breathing and head into the living room, feeling the urge to sit down. I start to think of a million excuses and ways not to have this conversation since it wasn't part of my plan.

“In case you also forgot, I work at the company. I am the owner's son and above that I am your advisor, everything that happens to you must pass through me at some point. Now tell me what this story is." I don't think I've ever seen Noah this angry.

“I received a job offer and decided to accept.” I know my voice has cracked, but I pray he doesn't notice. Noah stares at me for a few seconds with a more confused and displeased expression.

“I've known you for two years. You're going to have to try harder if you want to deceive me. Marnie, you just signed a rehearsal contract here in LA. If you got a proposal, you would know from me. Does this have to do with the fact that you're weird these days? What? Did you go without saying anything to anyone? That's it?” I remain silent, feeling everything go downhill from there. Slowly, a fury starts to build inside me. “Marnie, what's going on?”

It's not just the countless times I've heard this question throughout the week. I believe it's because I'm not in control of anything right now. About me being forced to do all this, not being able to tell my friend what's going on. All of this makes the question so much bigger and deeper than it really is. And it makes the fury that's brewing inside me grow.

“My God! Nothing! It's not happening anything. What a bag!” the scream breaks my mouth, coming out louder and angrier than I expected. “I am fine! When are you going to understand this?” he doesn't seem to be frightened by my scream, just standing there with his arms crossed and expressionless.

"Maybe when you stop lying and tell me what's going on?" he makes fun of me. A cynical laugh comes out of me as I go to open the door and ask him to leave my apartment. “You weren't like that, Marnie." I get irritated again. I can't explain where so much anger comes from, let alone contain it.

“Surprise, Noah, I'm like that. This is Marnie and always has been. Now if you don't like her, I can't do anything. Your ‘Marnie’ is gone and it's just me. And I'm going to New York whether you like it or not.” along with the anger, I feel like crying, but once again, I hold back with all my strength.

Noah nodded thoughtfully. I know it's a scene, that he's going to attack me again, he's just choosing his words.

“Then that's it? You mess it up, make everyone believe that everything is fine, and leave without warning. Is that what you're going to do?” the judgmental look bothers me.

"I didn't mess anything up."

“No?” he laughs falsely. "I don't say for myself or for the girls, but haven't you been giving a certain someone hope, making him believe you could get back together? And now you're going to go away and let him suffer without caring?” he raises his eyebrows.

I suck in the air harder, making it burn. The fire burns stronger inside me. The desire at the moment is to break everything.

“Do not do it.” my voice breaks. I close my eyes, pulling myself together. “Do not do it! Don't think I'm not suffering from having to make this decision either.” I can't hold back the tears, not caring about them anymore either.

“You're? Cuz it doesn't look like.” I close my hands, squeezing them tightly. I try to control the urge to scream, scream in hate, in anger, in pain and most of all, scream that he is being unfair to me.

“Of course I'm suffering.” once again I scream. "Do you think not?! Look at me! Do you think it doesn't hurt me to have to do all this?! Leave him here like this and not be able to do anything?! Of course it hurts. Why do you think I'm doing all this?! Because I love him! I love more than one day I thought it was possible to love someone. I'm doing it for him. But there's no easy way to do this, I don't have a choice.”

“Everyone has a choice, Marnie, you're just choosing the one you find easiest.”

"Does this sound easy to you?" I interrupt him, opening my arms, showing me. I dry my tears exhausted. “I made my choice and I appreciate if you respect. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to finish packing my bags.” I open the door for him.

My friend doesn't say anything else, just heads towards the door.

“Feel free to share my plan with the others.” I say tough.

“No! I will not do that. You made your decision, you did the shit and now deal with it.” Noah doesn't even wait for the elevator, taking the stairs.

I slam the door, feeling that anger still burn inside me. I rest my eyes on the wall where my photo is. I go to it, pulling out the wallpaper, tearing off part of the image. I'm not mad at Noah, I'm mad at myself, at the way it all went and where I went.

If I weren't a model, I could be living my life without any problems. Luke would still be the guy in the band I only knew one song about. I would be happy and free from all that pressure.

Still needing to release that anger, I grabbed the flower pots near the door, throwing what was left of my image against. My throat hurts from sobs and my heart clenches when that feeling arises.

““Wait, there's an eyelash.” I say to Luke, trying to catch it. “OK! Make a wish.” I lift my little finger at him.

He was about to take the stage at the Capital Summertime Ball. Luke stares at my finger thoughtfully and smiles, apparently determined.

“Be my girlfriend?” he sounds curious. I stare at his amused face, making sure he's kidding me.

“I'm serious.” I push his shoulder with another hand. I gasp when I see Luke kneel down with the guitar.

“Me too.” he shrugs. I start to laugh nervously, covering my face but careful not to lose my eyelash. I can hear the muffled laughter of the boys beside us, just wanting to hit each one of them.

“You need to blow to see if your wish comes true.” I say, already knowing my answer and I suspect he does too. Luke stands up blowing his flying eyelash.

"Boys, it's you, come in." a production guy yells, already pushing Ashton onto the stage, who is followed by Calum.

Quickly, I grab Luke's face, like I always did before he took the stage.

“Yes!” I give him a peck, watching him smile. Luke hugs me, stealing another kiss, running up onto the stage happily.

“This was definitely the cutest, most improvised request I've ever seen.” I open an even bigger smile, hearing Ryan beside me. I lay my head on his shoulder, swallowing the happy cry I wanted to let out.””

I don't know how long I sat staring at my torn photo, with a horrible pain in my chest. I hug my knees like the coward I am, not wanting to accept that the time has come.

Luke pov.

I jot down one more note in the melody I'm creating. The idea came up in the morning and if I didn't work on it now, I would forget. I go back to playing the piano following the sequence, when the bell interrupts me.

Petunia doesn't even make an effort to get up, remaining on the couch, snoring.

I open the door feeling my heart race. Marnie was standing there with a serious expression. I conclude that she came to tell me what was going on and I am relieved that I will finally understand what is happening.

“Can we talk?" I'm surprised by the hard look.

I make room for her, who goes straight to the living room, standing in the middle. I let a weak smile emerge, remembering all the times she's done this. I stop a little away, giving space, because I know how important this is to her at these times.

"I believe you came to tell me what's going on." I keep my hands in my pants pockets. M&Ms nodded.

"I came to break whatever we have." I don't know how to react. In fact, I'm not sure I got it right. “Look I tried, I really tried, but…”

“I'm sorry, what?”

For a second, I wonder how I got back to two years ago, where we had these fights almost daily. Where we were too dumb to want to accept. If it weren't for the pink hair, I would be convinced that it would be 2018 again.

“I tried to feel something for you, but I couldn't. And there's nothing I can do.”

I stare at Marnie, confused. I replay the past few weeks in my mind, all our moments together, and I can't believe a single word she says. I know everything was real. Every smile and laugh, every flushed cheek, every look and especially every kiss. Come back to Friday. How can she say there was nothing there?

“You gotta be kidding me. After all we've been through this month, do you have the courage to try to say you didn't feel anything?” my tone rises.

It doesn't make any sense. Her speech, her request not to forget that she likes me and today this? The pieces don't come together.

“Sorry. But I can't go on with this anymore.” I can see your gaze looking around the room. She's lying, why is she lying? For me on top.

“Why are you doing this?” Marnie looks at me confused.

"Because I'm tired of carrying this…”

“No! Why are you lying to me?” her eyes roll. I get close enough to be able to hear and notice her breathing.

"I have no reason to lie to you. If you can't accept that a girl doesn't like you, that's your business.” she passes me at the mention of leaving. But I hold your arm.

"So Friday was my hallucination? The two of us in the bedroom. You on my lap. All that desire and lust, was it a dream of mine?” your pupils dilate.

I can see she's thinking right now, can feel her pulse increase. She felt something, all this time, she felt something. I don't know if it's that insecurity from the beginning, the fear of getting involved, of getting hurt that always kept her away from me. The fear that I would be like him.

“I drank a lot.” her voice breaks the silence. I let go, covering my face, laughing indignantly.

“Oh my God, Marnie, why are you doing this? It's clear you're lying to me. Tell me what's going on. Is someone blackmailing you? Threatening you? Is it Stephen? Did he mess with you again?”

“There's nothing going on, Luke. I just don't love you.” she says with her head down.

The sentence cuts through me, causing agonizing pain. I feel my body retract. Your voice comes back in my mind in different tones and shapes, telling me every time you loved me. Whispering, screaming, in normal tones, even the day she swallowed helium gas.

My eyes burn. I don't want to cry in front of her, not out of shame, because I've cried a million times, but out of pride in not accepting that I'm hurt.

“I didn't want to go that far.” her restrained voice hovers over me.

I look at Marnie, not recognizing her. This is not the girl I fell in love with. The girl I spent nights awake just imagining what it would be like to go out with her, what it would be like to hold her hand and see her smile at me. The girl I spent mornings admiring sleeping. That I wrote love letters. That several times made me forget even my name just for saying the same thing. It's not her.

But it's amazing how I still know she's in there, somehow. Maybe Marnie was right that day, she didn't want to feel like an intruder in her own life, but she was.

She herself undid everything we built. Everything we've fought so hard has fallen like a house of cards. The promises made at dawn about our future together, vanish with the wind. I know they weren't empty, but the girl who made them with me isn't here.

“I'm so sorry. I-”

“Say it looking at me.” I stare at her resolutely.

“Don't do that.” she begs in a whisper.

Her eyes flood with despair and I delude myself, even with pain. Her mouth opens several times, but her voice doesn't come out. Her eyes blink several times, trying to ward off the tears that are forming there. I watch her body hold the air.

“What? Weren't you so determined?! So convinced?! Didn't you come here for this?! So say it looking at me, not the walls, like you're doing.” her jaw locks. “Two years ago you came here to look me in the eye and say you wanted to try, you came to ask me for a chance for both of us. So now look into them and say you don't want it anymore.”

Marnie stares at me lost. I pray, I beg her not to make it, for her to give up on this stupid idea. That deep down she says she's afraid to surrender. I wouldn't mind ignoring this fight and pretending nothing happened. Then I would hold her and make her feel like I would protect her from everything, make her feel loved. But my thoughts change and I lose hope when I watch her take off the necklace I gave her.

“I'm sorry.” she puts it in my hand. Right now I don't mind letting the tears fall. I stare at my hands feeling destroyed. Her lips touch my cheek lightly and so she leaves my house and my life.

““What is this?” I open a smile watching her approach, openmouthed. “Luke, what is this all about?” her eyes run over all the details with curiosity.

For a few seconds, I don't know what to say. I lose my breath watching how stunning she looks in this flowery dress with wavy hair. Holy crap.

“Our first date.” I shrug. Marnie breaks into a beautiful smile, making her cheeks blush. The sparkle in your eyes enchants me.

“Luke, when you said a date I swore we were going to a restaurant, I didn't think…” her voice trails off, giving way to a delighted laugh.

"Have I exaggerated?" I approach her, looking at the small tree with scattered lights and the table for two with two candles. "If you say yes, I'll be upset." I make fun of her.

“No! It's perfect, is that… I didn't expect this. Not all of that.” she whispers. "Did you do all this?" she looks at me in surprise.

“Good part. Except the food, the intention is to impress you, not make you run away from me.” I look at her teary eyes and feel amazing for getting it right. She liked.

I take a deep breath, trying to control my breathing and my nervousness. I wanted to leave Marnie speechless, wanted her to make sure I was worth it. And even with all the effort, she managed to leave me speechless yet. My God, how could someone be so beautiful like that? Am I really that lucky to have gotten her attention? I mean, do I deserve her?

“I do not know what to say. Thank you.” I get lost in her eyes, feeling the butterflies in my stomach grow. It couldn't be possible for me to be in love with her that fast already, could it?””

Marnie pov.

Air doesn't reach my lungs, no matter how windy it is. My chest and throat hurt so much my body recoils with every sob. It was like sand in my hand, running through my fingers, I couldn't hold it back.

As torture, I replay the scene in my head again, watching his blue eyes lose their luster and let those tears fall. I wanted to hug him and tell him I was crazy, drunk. That deep down I was completely in love with him, and I didn't even need my memories for that. Luke is so amazing that he managed to win me over again and I believe he could a million times over. I wanted to say that I want him, I want him more than anything, but I can't.

The doorbell pulls me out of my private cell, my mind, prompting me to question whether the bomb had ever gone off. It would probably be Leah or even Ashton, but I don't want to deal with anyone right now. I don't want lectures, I don't want judgments, I just want to stay on the couch until tomorrow when it's my time to go to New York.

I crawl to the door finding the last person I want to see right now. John Letterman has a huge, excited smile, in contrast, my face is red and swollen from crying for the past few hours.

“Hi, Marnie, how are you?” Cursed the day I ran into him at the studio.

“What are you doing here?” John plays offended.

“I just came to ensure that everything is going with our agreement.”

"What does it look like?" I point to my face. “It's all just the way you made me do it.” I turn around, entering the still-destroyed apartment.

"But what happened here?" he looks at the destroyed hall in disgust.

“You, John. Just you and your disgusting manipulation.” John shakes his head laughing.

"I didn't put any gun to your head to accept this. I just showed you the truth, you are destroying the career of 5 seconds of summer. Your person's association is putting their contract and their tour at risk. You're the one who decided to walk away.” he smiles satisfied.

I break eye contact, too exhausted to debate.

“I'm glad you lived up to your part of the deal and I hope this is the last time we've crossed paths.”

"Then we are two."

“But if I hear you're trying to get close to Luke again…” the tone of voice pisses me off.

“I've already done my part, but if you keep pissing me off, I'll go to Luke right now and tell him the whole truth.” I threat, nervous. I try not to show that his laugh makes me confused.

“You know, I missed you, Marnie. That innocence is really funny.” John stops laughing and approaches. "Do you think Luke wants to see you now?! Why do you think I'm here knowing everything?! He already called me, asking me to schedule the trip. He hates you now, Marnie. You broke his heart. I don't care what useless word you say to him, because he won't believe it. Here.” he takes his cell phone out of his jacket. "Want to call him and tell him?! I will help you.” he returns a venomous smile.

“Get out of my house.” I say through teeth.

"What's up, Marnie? Don't be so passionate. After all we are friends.” he makes fun of me.

"I said 'get out of my house.'” I scream, picking up a decorative vase beside me and threatening to throw it at it.

John doesn't look scared, but heads for the door.

“One day you'll thank me, Marnie.” he says before closing the door. I throw the vase, screaming, seeing it crash against the door.

The urge to go to Luke and tell the whole truth becomes much stronger, however, even if I don't want to admit it, John was right, Luke must hate me by now, making everything I say empty. On the other hand, I remember that I'm doing this for him.

I know at any other time, if I knew the band was going through something like that, I would do anything to help. Now, making sure I'm the problem, I want to become the solution and if that meant having to walk away from it then I would, after all their success and happiness could be mine.

I want to have faith that a few years from now, when everything is better, maybe I can get Luke and the others to understand why I'm doing this. Maybe we can even be friends if he doesn't hate me.

I give up, going up to my room for a shower and straight to bed. It's horrible knowing I need sleep to be acceptable for tomorrow, but I can't turn my head off. Even exhausted, I go over every fight I had today. Noah, Luke, and John's voices mingled in my mind, draining me more and more of my energy, but not to the point of putting me to sleep.

The night slowly drags on and the approach of dawn makes an anxiety rise within me. Yesterday they could have held back so they wouldn't come to debate anything, but I doubt that someone won't show up today and, given my state and mood, I'm sure I won't have the strength to fight.

For the few seconds and times I dozed off, I dreamed of the doorbell ringing, of Leah screaming for me to open the door. Finally, when the clock struck a little after five, I decided to get out of bed. Wrapped in the duvet, I walk to the kitchen, making tea. With my drink ready, I walk over to the couch on the balcony, watching the sky clear up for my last day in LA.

Passed morning, I go for a shower with the intention of getting rid of this weight. I lock everything in my room, not knowing when I'll be back. In the closet, I grab Luke's box and pull out my diary and some of our Polaroids. I also take the little white box, carefully storing it in my suitcase.

I walk around the house, closing windows, turning off power and stuff. I don't worry and much less care about the mess I made yesterday, if I ever come back to this apartment, I'll ask for a huge renovation, not wanting to remember anything from that time.

Around 8:00 am, I tell Martin that I want to go to the airport early, wanting to avoid any of my friends or family. I had already talked and said goodbye to my parents before the party. I'm relieved when he says he's on his way.

I take one last look at my apartment, accepting my defeat. I pick up my bags, already going downstairs and moving forward as much as possible to just leave, I just didn't count on Ashton at the front desk of the building

"Ash?" I call him on impulse. My friend turns to me, apparently not at all surprised to see me with my bags.

“Can we talk?” he questions calmly.

“I need to go to the air-” I try to dodge him, but Ash steps in front of me.

“Five minutes. I do not want to fight. I just want to understand you.” he interrupts me.

“You don't understand, Ash.” whisper. “I need to go.”

There's one thing I've always admired about Ashton, that peace he has and emanates. He in no second judges me with his gaze, in fact, this calm almost makes me tell everything, trusting that he would listen to me and believe me. But in seconds this idea loses strength, after all, Luke would not believe me and John could still harm the band.

“You know, I remember the day we met very well. You were the new student in yoga class and I was happy to have someone my age there. We weren't the best students and we talked too much, which caused us to be thrown out of class.” he laughs a little. “But even without that, we became good friends. It is not?”

“Yes,” I whisper, trying to understand where he is going.

“Marnie, I can't explain what was different with you, but I really didn't want to lose touch. I wanted you to be my friend. The problem is, in the end, I took care of you like my little sister. I think I projected that onto you. I've always taken care of Lauren and Harry a lot and I miss them sometimes. I always wanted to and will always protect you, but I need to know exactly what.”

“Ash…” I try to interrupt him but can't.

“I lost you once, in that fucking accident. I lost you to amnesia. I don't want to lose you for a silly thing. Marnie, please just tell me.” he pleads, holding my hands.

It pains me to see him like this. I can see the desperation in his eyes, just as I saw it in Luke's eyes. I know it hurts, but it has to. Ashton was definitely the best friend I've ever had in all my 23 years, I don't need my memory to prove it. Just a conversation with him and I realized our connection. Really, Ashton is the big brother I never had and I'm grateful for that.

Without the strength to want to convince him of the story I had already created, I pull his body to me, hugging my best friend for the last time. He doesn't deny the hug, squeezing me tightly, as if to stop me from going.

“Thanks for everything, Ash. Please don't forget my speech.” I give him a kiss on the cheek, ready to get into the car that has just arrived.

'It wasn't by chance that you and Luke met.” I stop at the door, turning confusing to him. “Ever since I've known you, I've known you'd be perfect for Luke, you're almost the female version of him. I just gave you guys a little push to see each other, because I knew the moment he saw you, he was going to fall in love with you.”

I stare at Ashton for a few more seconds before turning towards the car, feeling the tears wet my cheek once more. I didn't need to be an expert to know that yes, Luke and I were made for each other, but unfortunately, not all soulmates end up together.

I'm so sorry, I know I'm late. I have a undergraduate thesis at the end of the year and I am too busy with it. But I promise not to delay this amazing fic for you anymore. Thank you so much for all the support and affection, you're amazing. Until the next chapter!

P.s. which I will post in a few hours, after all, it's the least I can do after a month of delays. See ya! xoxo

[magniloquent-raven]

Number 73 "take mine" I'm thinking jacket sharing with Harringrove (either offering the jacket) if you have time!! 💖 💖

so. it’s not jacket sharing, i hope that’s okay!! and it’s actually a sequel to your first prompt? @bambixxblue and i were talking about a fix-it sequel where billy comes back and im weak for fix-its so i ended up with this. it’s. angsty. but also. soft? idk, i hope u like it anyway!!

basically the premise is billy and hopper were both in russia and had to break out together. posted on ao3

—-

Max turned seventeen three weeks ago. It’s hard to keep track of the days sometimes but Billy’s pretty sure he’s right. It’s hard to wrap his brain around Max being seventeen. When he pictures her in his head she’s still a bratty twelve-year-old with skinned knees who doesn’t know when to shut her mouth.

He tells Hop. Tells him about the birthdays he was there for, wonders about the ones he wasn’t. Cries a little too. Funny how easy it is to do that now. It used to be an ordeal, would burn and claw at him until he broke. He’s too exhausted for that nowadays, lets his tears fall unfettered and ignores the shame that still sneaks up on him when he does.

They have to be quiet, always afraid of being caught again. Billy’s constantly looking over his shoulder, jumping at shadows. It’s stupid to risk it, for something so trivial, but he can’t stop the words from spilling out.

“You miss her.” It’s not a question. Hop doesn’t ask that kind of shit, he just knows. Which is why Billy doesn’t respond. Doesn’t have to.

He pats Billy’s shoulder awkwardly. It’s the clumsy kind of affection a father is supposed to offer and it sets Billy off again, tears dripping down his nose and cutting streaks through the dirt smeared on his cheeks.

They’re holed up in an abandoned warehouse this time. Waiting. Always waiting. The plan is to stow away in the next cargo hold with enough space but in the meantime they’re fugitives, laying low wherever they can find empty, forgotten places.

Hop tells him about El while they wait. Billy’s heard most of his stories by now, but he listens anyway. Listens to the wobble in his voice as he talks about teaching El to read, hears the question under it all, about whether he’ll ever see her again.

Billy wishes he had an answer.

~~

The first time Billy set foot in Hawkins, Indiana, he was seventeen, angry and wanting nothing more than to be anywhere else.

It’s three days after his twenty-second birthday the second time. An icy December evening, dark and windy. He’s exhausted. He hasn’t eaten in two days. He’s a patchwork tapestry of scars that weren’t there before, a battered effigy of the person he used to be, cobbled together with scraps of what he could salvage.

Hawkins is the same unremarkable, rinky-dink town it always was. Seeing it again is a relief and a punch in the gut all at once. It’s all he’s wanted for three years, but it’s terrifying.

They end up in Loch Nora, of all places. The Byers’ old house was empty, and going too far into town is risky. 

It doesn’t feel real. Standing on Steve Harrington’s front porch, suddenly all too aware of the layer of sweat and grime on his skin. This place is too clean, too quiet. Peaceful, in a way that can’t be true.

Billy chews on his thumbnail, stands behind Hopper while he bangs on the door. There are no cars in the driveway, which means at the very least Steve’s parents won’t answer the door. But there’s no guarantee that Steve even lives here anymore.

He’s getting antsy, glancing around, heart pounding.

Then the door swings open.

Billy is seventeen, half-drunk and stinking like beer, colder than he’ll let on because fucking Indiana and its shitty weather, wiping the drool from his chin when he spots him across a room, already half in love by the time he’s clambered over a couch to get a closer look.

He blinks. He’s twenty-two, pale and shivering, thumbnail still between his teeth, and Steve Harrington’s doe eyes still make him weak in the knees.

Steve’s hair is longer, brushing his shoulders, but other than that he doesn’t look any different. Except that he isn’t looking at Billy with thinly veiled contempt or anger.

“Hey, kid.” Hopper says. “Gonna let us inside, or what?”

Steve is silent. Staring, lips parted. One hand still on the doorknob, the other slack at his side. He sways dangerously, and Billy tenses, prepared to catch him if he falls over. He doesn’t, but Billy’s still itching to touch him.

“Am I dreaming?” Steve blurts, looking dazed, unable to decide who to look at and ending up unfocused and hazy.

Yeah, it’s me, don’t cream your pants. The memory feels like someone else’s. A lifetime ago.

Billy bites down on his lip, battling an inexplicable, and slightly hysterical, urge to laugh.

“Dream about me often, Harrington?” Billy says, because apparently it takes more than nearly dying and spending three years as a fugitive to get over his inability to keep his mouth shut around pretty boys (or one in particular). Though now his voice comes out soft, quiet, betraying genuine sentiment. He’s not sure if that’s better or worse than the armor of taunts he used to cover that shit up with.

Probably worse.

Steve’s looking at him. Only him. Billy had almost forgotten how addictive that is. He watches Steve’s mouth open and close, tracks the way one corner curls up a little when he lets out a little disbelieving huff that isn’t quite a laugh. “More than you’d think,” he murmurs.

And Billy’s brain shuts off. There are a thousand questions stuck up there, but he can’t get a single one of them out because he’s too busy trying to get past, more than you’d think, echoing through his head in surround sound.

He’s startled out of his Steve-induced haze by Hopper’s pointed cough.

It seems like he’s not the only one, because Steve visibly flinches, “Right, shit,” he stammers, “Get—uh, get inside.” He ushers them in, glancing around, checking the street behind them.

The Harrington residence is one of those big fancy houses with more rooms than anyone could possibly need, but that means multiple bathrooms so Steve (as politely as possible) tells them they can both shower whenever they feel like it. And he fusses. A lot. All nervous hands clutching his elbows and teeth worrying at the inside of his cheek, eyes darting between Billy and Hopper like he’s sure they’ll vanish any second and never have been there at all.

Billy isn’t sure how to deal with it, so he avoids his eyes. Then misses looking at him.

An hour later they’re all in the kitchen. Billy keeps plucking at the sleeve of his borrowed sweatshirt, trying to keep calm. It’s too much, all at once. His skin feels raw, weird and tight. The overhead light is too bright, and the smell of Steve on everything is making him lightheaded. The soft detergent scent from his clothes, the shampoo Billy used when he showered (his hair is a lot longer than it used to be, it took forever to detangle it all).

Steve makes some calls. It’s late, too late to be calling people’s houses but he does it anyway.

Not long after, the front door bursts open.

Max is taller than he remembers. Rougher around the edges. Her hair is a choppy mess, auburn waves sticking out in every direction, curling around her ears, and there’s the sharp glimmer of silver in one lobe. She’s wearing a jean jacket with a torn elbow.

And she’s crying, messy and red-eyed, not bothering to wipe the snot from her nose.

“Where. The fuck. Have you been?” she sobs, shoulders shaking, and she practically trips forward in her hurry to throw her arms around Billy’s neck.

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Feels unsteady, like he’ll fall to pieces if he moves wrong.

“I’m here now,” is all he can manage. She doesn’t need to hear about military hospitals and Russian prisons, about being kept in a cell, wondering if he’d ever see sunlight again… She doesn’t need that right now. Hell, he’s not ready to talk about it. Might never be.

He hugs her back, torn between wanting to squeeze as hard as he can, make sure she’s real, and being terrified of breaking her.

She still uses that shitty coconut-scented soap, and that’s what shatters him. He’s crying into her shoulder, clutching the back of her jacket. He used to dwarf her, remembers her being tiny and fragile, despite her fierceness, yet now she’s supporting his weight while he buckles.

They’ve never actually hugged before, he realizes, and that realization opens a door he wishes he could’ve left closed a little longer.

Guilt. Like undertow, pulling him back to harsh reality, cold steel gripping his heart, weighing it down. He should’ve been better. Treated her better. And now she’s here, crying like she actually missed him, and he doesn’t deserve it.

He pulls away, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes.

She’s still looking at him, hands on his shoulders, a wobbly smile on her face.

Billy is overwhelmed again. It must show, because suddenly Steve is at Max’s side, eyes gentle and his soft mouth pinched in a frown, “Max. Maybe give him some space.”

She clenches her jaw, probably physically holding back an argument, and nods, stepping back despite the reluctance written all over her face.

“I’m sorry,” Billy says, barely louder than a whisper. Then he can’t stop himself from saying it, again and again, gaze fixed on the floor, tears still dripping down his chin. He has to bite his lip hard enough to draw blood to finally stem the tide of apologies. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to will the world away.

“Billy.” Steve’s voice is soft. He has a nice voice, so Billy focuses on it, through all the angry buzzing in his ears. “Billy, I need you to nod if you’re listening.” He doesn’t want to, he wants to curl up and fucking die, anything but be a person right now because everything hurts and there isn’t enough air in this room and— “Billy?”

He bows his head, twitches, it’s barely a nod but it’s all he’s got.

“Okay, good. Can I touch your hand?”

Billy’s heart stutters, aches. He’s having a hard time concentrating through the burn in the back of his throat, the static drowning out his thoughts. He nods again.

Steve’s fingers are gentle, pulling Billy’s hand from where it had tangled in his hair. He hadn’t noticed the fingernails digging into his scalp until Steve took one of his hands away. It ends up pressed against something warm, soft material under his fingers, moving slow—oh. His hand is on Steve’s chest.

“Can you breathe with me? Concentrate on me, okay?”

He does.

Steve’s cradling his hand. He’s got callouses along the top of his palm, barely there but present. He’s breathing deep, calm and steady. But despite his outward demeanour his heart is racing, Billy can feel it through his shirt. He curls his fingers into the sensation, fingertips digging in as far as he can push them.

Billy almost forgets to breathe he’s so fixated on Steve’s heartbeat.

It does its job either way though, because exhaustion is starting to hit him as the static recedes. He sags, relaxes. Every muscle in his body feels leaden.

He opens his eyes, squints against the sudden light.

He’s almost afraid to look up. Afraid of being judged, of triggering another episode, so fucking terrified, all the time—

“Billy?”

His fingers twitch reflexively, tightening his grip on Steve’s polo.

“You good?” His voice is still so soft, and so close it hurts.

It takes several long moments for Billy to collect himself. Then he looks up.

Max is hovering, standing behind Steve with wide eyes, her worry palpable. Hopper looks grim, but then again, he kind of always does. He’s a respectable distance away, watching. And Steve… Steve is right there still, holding Billy’s hand and looking at him like he cares, doe eyes shining, fixed on Billy’s face.

“I’m okay,” Billy says, voice rough. He sounds like hell, but they all visibly relax anyway.

The room is silent for too long after that. It feels tense in a distant way, like it would be awkward if Billy had the energy to care, was awake enough to feel anything but vaguely fuzzy. He’s still got a handful of shirt and doesn’t plan on letting go any time soon. Steve’s the only thing keeping him upright, and he hasn’t let go either.

“Did… did I do something wrong?” Max asks, her voice is small and tremulous and cuts right through Billy.

“No!” he’s quick to cut in, “No. Max. It’s…” Billy trembles, stutters to a stop. He has no idea how to explain, even to himself, let alone Max. Steve squeezes his hand. His stomach flips. “It’s not your fault.”

She doesn’t look like she believes him, but she doesn’t argue. He wishes he could make it better, but he’s got no idea how.

“We should all get some sleep,” Steve says.

And that’s that. His tone brooks no argument, even in a room full of stubborn assholes. Apparently, the past few years have given Steve time to hone his babysitting skills. Or maybe they’re all just as exhausted as Billy is.

There’s some squabbling about sleeping arrangements though.

Everyone insists Hopper take the master bedroom, Steve says his parents won’t know or care, his old friends did worse than sleep in that bed. They all poke at him until he relents and trudges off, bidding them a quiet goodnight.

Then Billy says he’ll take the couch and both Steve and Max yell at him.

Billy rolls his eyes. “It’s fine, guys,” he mutters. He’s not about to make Max sleep on the weird little couch (he’s done enough to her already) and putting Steve out in his own house would be shitty. “It’s not like I haven’t slept on worse.” He winces as he says it, realizing as the words come out of his mouth that it’s probably the wrong thing to say. It was meant as a reassurance, that he would in fact be fine with the couch, because at least it’s clean and warm, but all it does is make Max look sad and put a little wrinkle between Steve’s eyebrows.

“I’ve slept on this couch before,” Max says, a stubborn tilt to her jaw, “I’ll take it.”

Steve scoffs at that, “You complain every time you have to sleep on that couch, Max. Take the guest bed. Billy can take mine.” His fingers tense when he says it, and Billy realizes they’re still holding hands. His hand slipped from Steve’s shirt while they were bullying Hopper into taking the master suite, but Steve has yet to let go.

And… suddenly he wants nothing more than to sleep in Steve’s bed. But. “Only if you come with me,” he blurts.

Which is really not how he should have said that, but it’s out there now.

“Oh my god,” he hears Max mutter.

His whole head feels like it’s on fire. “Shit. I—I mean—”

“Okay,” Steve says hurriedly, then clears his throat, “Yeah. That. That works. Uh. Okay.” He’s glancing at Max awkwardly, nervous, but she just rolls her eyes. Billy barely notices her do it, too busy looking at Steve, his heart hammering.

“Steve, it’s okay. I’m—” It’s her turn to look uncertain, but it’s only for a second. “Me and El are dating. We’ve been trying to figure out how to tell everyone, and—yeah. Anyway. I’m not going to judge you, or whatever.”

Well, that was not at all what Billy was expecting. He takes a moment to worry about both of them, be terrified of what would happen to them if someone found out. Then he remembers that El can kill people with her brain and Max once threatened to castrate him with a spiked bat. The knot of anxiety doesn’t dissipate but he’s freaking out less.

“How long has that been going on?” Steve asks, sounding more bemused than anything.

Max turns pink, and it’s kind of fascinating to watch. She’s flustered. That’s adorable. “Since, um. Since April.”

“Happy for you, kid,” Billy says. And he means it. He barely knows El, in theory, but really. The kid’s been in his head. He could recite every story Hopper’s told him about her from memory. He died protecting her.

He knows her well enough to know she’s good for Max, and he loves Max enough to want her to have good things.

She grins, bright and real. Billy’s fairly certain he’s never seen her that happy before, and his heart clenches.

“I’m not sure who I’m supposed to give the shovel talk to here,” Steve says, more to himself than anything.

Billy snickers, and tugs on Steve’s hand, “Like you could take either of them.”

Steve steps closer, looking faux-offended, “I’ll have you know I won a fight once.”

“Yeah, three years ago. You’re a has-been, Harrington,” Max chimes in.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“I’m seventeen, dingus.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Robin.”

He missed them so much. Missed something he, if he’s being honest with himself, never really had in the first place. They both hated his guts before, and he… he was a mess. Still is. Just a different kind now. But being here, being part of this, is something he always on some level wanted and…

“Oh my god, Billy, are you okay?” Max asks, concern bleeding into her voice.

He’s crying again, smiles through the tears. “Yeah. Yeah I am.”

[justlookfrightened]

I'm torn between 26 and 31 with zimbits. So idk, pick one?

I already posted a response for 31, so this is 26: “It was you the whole time.” Call it angst with an optimistic ending.

Jack knew better than to rub his sweaty palms on his trousers, but it was all he could do to stop himself. Something about being back here made him feel like a kid again. 

Funny how he hadn’t felt young while he was here. Then he felt so much older than his teammates, almost more like one of the coaches. But he’d had so much growing up left to do.

Now, a career and two Stanley Cups later, he could look back at the young man he had been and be grateful for everything Coach Hall had done for him. Grateful enough to come back for Hall’s retirement tribute.

Jack took a breath, opened the door to the alumni center, and stepped into the air-conditioned interior. He was here to express his appreciation to Coach Hall. Sure, some of his former teammates were probably inside, but so were five years of hockey players from before his time and those from eleven years after he graduated.

In the end, Hall was one of the few people from SMH he’d stayed in contact with, emailing once or twice a month, usually inviting Jack to come back at least once each season to meet the new players. 

When he graduated, Jack thought he’d be close to some of his college team his whole life. Shitty, definitely. And Lardo. And Bitty. Of course Bitty.

It was funny; at Jack’s graduation Bitty had said something about not seeing him except on TV. Jack had assured Bitty it wouldn’t be like that. Less than an hour later, Jack had run all the way across campus to find Bitty crying in Jack’s old room, and Jack had kissed him, and it felt so right.

Until Jack’s phone buzzed and he had to leave Bitty right where he found him. Kind of like their whole relationship.

And for the last 10 years, he hadn’t seen Bitty at all — except for once, on television, when Bitty was promoting one of his cookbooks on a daytime talk show, and a few times when Jack looked him up on YouTube. Jack wondered whether Bitty had watched any of his games. Maybe the cup finals?

Jack stopped at the sign-in counter, but before he even found his table assignment, he was corralled by a young man with a Wellie-red tie and a name tag identifying him as Luke, the team manager for the recent season.

“Mr. Zimmermann? If you could step over here, I can go over the program with you,” Luke said, plucking Jack’s name tag from the table and steering him down the corridor. “You won’t need a name tag here, of course, and you’re at the first table with Coach Hall. Coach Murray is going to speak first, and then you’ll present the plaque and say a few words.”

Luke paused and looked at Jack. “Do you have something prepared?” he asked. “About how Coach Hall helped you become the great hockey player you turned out to be?”

Crap. He must really look nervous if Luke — all of 21 or 22 years old — thought he needed coaching on what to say at a retirement party.

Jack forced a smile, patted the breast pocket of his jacket, and said, “I brought some notes. But they’re really more about how Hall helped all the players he worked with grow into the people they were meant to be.”

Because the banquet room was full of men (and women who had worked with the program — he mustn’t forget them) who had graduated and gone on to careers as artists and lawyers, doctors and writers and programmers and cookbook authors, people who made the world a better place. Whisk was the only other Wellie who’d played in the NHL.

“Yeah, that sounds great,” Luke said, already reaching for the plaque that would announce a scholarship in Hall’s name. All the alumni had contributed, and many had been very generous, but Jack was pretty sure he gave the most. It was only fair; Hall took a chance on him and gave him his life back.

Jack peeked through the doors and saw Hall standing near a front table, shaking hands and exchanging greetings. He saw two pairs of large, well-tailored shoulders at the next table, and yes, there was Shitty across from Ransom and Holster. He still had a magnificent ’stache, accentuating the lines that were etching themselves into his face. Lardo, still petite, still looking like she take over the room with one look, was at his side.

The last time Jack had seen the four of them all together had been the morning of Lardo’s graduation. Ransom and Holster’s too, but he got permission to miss morning skate that day to see Lardo and congratulate her before the ceremony, which he had to miss because the Falconers were in the playoffs.

When Jack had arrived at the Haus that morning, he was surprised to have missed Bitty, who apparently left only an hour earlier to catch a flight home to Madison for the summer.

Before Bitty left, he’d made pancakes (warming in the oven), fruit salad and muffins, and chopped vegetables to go into scrambled eggs.

“Well, he actually said to put them in an omelet,” Holster said. “But scrambled eggs are easier.”

“I can make omelets,” Jack had said.

Holster thrust the carton of eggs at him and said, “Sweet!”

“You talked to Bitty lately?” Shitty asked. “Random and Holster say he spent the last semester carving a swath through the eligible dudes of this fine institution.”

Jack was glad his head was buried in the cabinet, looking for the skillet Bitty used to make omelets. The skillet Bitty used when he taught Jack to make omelets. But that was before graduation, even.

“No, I haven’t,” Jack said. “I’m sorry I missed him. I thought he’d be here.”

And that was true. The thought of seeing Bitty with his friends, in his kitchen, was uncomfortable, but Jack figured it was something they’d just have to learn to get past. They’d managed being with their friends when no one knew they were dating; Jack didn’t see why they couldn’t do it now they’d broken up.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Shitty went on. “I guess I always thought he had eyes for you. Probably better that he got over that, though, since you don’t date guys. At least to the best of my knowledge.”

Jack busied himself cracking eggs so he wouldn’t have to look Shitty in the face when he said, “I doubt Bitty sees me like that, Shits.”

“Not really cool to talk about him when he’s not here anyway,” Lardo said.

“True that,” Shitty said. “I was just trying to decide if I should be worried about the little dude, given the marked change in behavior noted by his most recent captains.”

“The little dude is a 21-year-old grown-ass adult,” Lardo said. “Who doesn’t need you slut-shaming him.”

Shitty sputtered and Jack beat the eggs and the next time anyone talked, it was Ransom announcing that he had taken a job at the same consulting firm that hired Holster. 

Jack had comforted himself then with the idea that at least he hadn’t broken Bitty’s heart, and he went out and scored two goals that night on the Falconers’ way to their first Stanley Cup.

Jack craned his head further around the banquet room door, trying to see if Bitty was at the table with Shitty and Lardo. He knew they kept in touch. The last time Jack had been at Shitty and Lardo’s for dinner, what, almost two years ago now, he’d remarked on Bitty’s third cookbook on the kitchen shelf, and Lardo said, “He couldn’t wait to come over and sign it for us — he was just as excited as when the first one came out. I bet you have the full set too.”

Jack did, because he bought them off Amazon. Not because Bitty was bringing them over and signing them.

“We’re almost ready to start.” Luke was next to Jack, nudging him into the room.

Jack took a breath and stepped in, went to greet Coach Hall, hugged Lardo and then Shitty.

“Retirement looks good on you, old man,” Shitty said. “Way to go out in style with the second cup win, too.”

“Thanks, Shits,” Jack said, hoping Shitty couldn’t see him peering over his shoulder, looking to see who else was there. Looking to see if Bitty was there. “You look good. Lardo too. All of you.”

There was food on a buffet table in the back, next to the bar, and it looked like most people had already eaten. Jack excused himself to get a drink, walked to the bar and looked around the room. Dex and Nursey and Chowder were all there — Bitty’s frogs — and Ford, the manager after Lardo.

Jack got soda water with a lime because alcohol would not improve this situation at all and headed back towards the front table. Chowder waylaid him with a wide smile and a handshake, saying, “We all watched, Jack. I bet they retire your number next year. You were awesome. I was telling everyone at work that I used to play for you, but I think half of them didn’t believe me.”

Chowder hadn’t changed much, Jack decided. He always had a tendency to chatter through any tension caused by Dex and Nursey, who worked together on the ice like one of Dex’s programs (or one of Nursey’s poems), but clashed once they hit dry ground.

They didn’t seem tense tonight, though, leaning back in their chairs and talking idly. Both got up to greet Jack, but less effusively than Chowder.

It was the same as when the three of them came to a Falconer’s game during Bitty’s senior year. They’d bought tickets themselves, which was silly when Jack could get them comped, and then Chowder wrote a painfully polite email asking Jack if he’d want to say hello afterwards. Jack hadn’t paid enough attention to the email, or maybe Chow hadn’t been clear. After the game, Jack had been surprised Bitty wasn’t with the frogs. Wasn’t he always shepherding them around, mother-henning them like they couldn’t find their way home without them?

“No Bitty tonight?” he asked after their initial greetings.

“No, I think he had plans with Drew,” Chowder said.

“Drew?”

“His boyfriend?” Dex said. “The guy from the Daily.”

Like that would help Jack know who it was.

“I didn’t know he had a boyfriend now,” Jack said. “Good for him.”

“It’s kind of sweet,” Chowder said, “if I can say that about Bitty. I think it’s his first real boyfriend.”

“And a little sickening,” Dex said. “But if they keep up with the fines, we might get that new dryer this year after all.”

“You need a new dryer?” Jack said, the same time Nursey sighed, “Young love,” and pretended to wipe a tear from his eye.

“We’ve needed a new dryer,” Dex said. “Like, since before you graduated.”

“I can do that,” Jack said.

“You don’t have to,” Chowder chimed in. “It’s a Haus responsibility.”

“Chowder, I think I’m good for it,” Jack said gently. To Dex, he said, “Let me know what you need and I’ll get the money to you.”

That started Dex off on a tangent about what kind of dryer would be best, and the moment passed.

Jack knew Bitty hadn’t told anyone about their relationship — that was their agreement, and that was one of the things that led to their breakup. Trying to see Jack and do everything else without letting on to their friends was too much for Bitty, too much sneaking around, too much lying, too much not being present with his team.

It had been easier for Jack, living on his own in Providence, with hours and occasionally days at a time when no one had to know where he was or what he was doing.

It still stung to hear the frogs mention Drew as Bitty’s first boyfriend. Bitty had told Jack that Jack was his first everything. Having the frogs not know that didn’t make it less true, but Jack found himself wishing they did know.

Now, ten years later, he grinned at the thought of saying, “Bitty and I dated for six months while he was still in school,” to see the look on their faces. But it wasn’t his secret to tell, or at least not his alone.

People were shuffling into their seats and Murray was standing up, so Jack went to sit next to Hall’s wife and listen.

Once Murray was done with his list of the years Hall had worked, the accomplishments of his teams, the accomplishments of his players, he introduced Jack, who walked to the lectern and spread his notes out.

“Hi, I’m Jack Zimmermann and I graduated in 2015,” he said, adjusting the Stanley Cup ring (from the 2016 win) on his finger to catch the light.

That drew a chuckle from the room, so he continued.

“Most of you know my story — I played in juniors, then overdosed on prescription medication during a mental health crisis. I had to step away from the game for a while, and when I decided I wanted to go to college, and to play hockey again, I had to petition the NCAA to allow it.”

He also had agreed to not take a scholarship, but that hadn’t been an issue for his family.

“Not many coaches wanted a 21-year-old freshman with a demonstrated history of screwing up that badly,” Jack said. “And some of the ones who did just wanted me to play hockey, not worry about classes. But Coach Hall wanted me to come to Samwell and play hockey and get an education and figure out what I wanted. He saw the potential for me to have a hockey career —” 

That drew cheers, especially from those who played with Jack “— and also for me to get a degree and open up other paths. The opportunities he gave me showed me worlds I didn’t know existed, so much that I’m going to start working on a doctorate in history this fall.”

Jack took a sip of water and continued.

“At the same time, he was an excellent hockey coach. I know; I’ve had a lot of them. He demanded hard work and perseverance, not by yelling, but by setting high expectations and then by setting an example of how to meet them. He showed me — us — how to have pride in ourselves and in our team, but also have humility at the same time. He showed me not just how to be a better player — a better person — but also that I could be so much better if I didn’t try to do it on my own.”

Jack looked up, and was about to continue, but there in the back was Bitty. It looked like he was setting out dessert — mostly pie — on the now-cleared food tables, but he had stopped what he was doing to watch Jack. When he saw Jack looking, he gave a small smile.

“I haven’t always been perfect,” Jack said, now looking directly at Bitty. “I haven’t always gotten it right. But skating for Coach Hall did so much to set me on a positive path, a path where I can make a difference by setting an example and extending a hand to people who need it. And I know he did that for all of you, too.”

Bitty was still looking at him. Jack took another sip of water, and continued.

“That’s why we all wanted to show our appreciation to you, Coach, by setting up this scholarship in your name. It’s to help players who can’t get a full athletic scholarship, or managers or any other students who are involved with the hockey program, so you can keep helping young people find their way.”

Coach Hall got up and Jack handed him the plaque. As Hall took the microphone, Jack headed straight for the back of the room.

“Can we talk?” he asked Bitty.

“Shh. After Coach Hall is done.”

Jack didn’t know how long Coach Hall spoke, just knew that he spent that time looking at Bitty. He was here as a guest, mostly, Jack supposed, in a suit and all, but just as clearly he wasn’t going to leave the dessert table to the university food service company.

Bitty looked good. Jack tried to see him as objectively as he could; Bitty was still trim and fit, maybe even a little broader across the shoulders and chest. His hair was the bright gold it turned in the summer, and his eyes were still clear, warm brown. His face was more angular, and Jack could see a dusting of pale stubble along his jaw. The beginnings of laugh lines were just visible around his eyes, and there were some scars exposed on his forearms where he’d turned his sleeves back. Jack recognized them as burn marks.

Jack knew Bitty had published his cookbooks, of course, and that he still had his YouTube channel. He knew Bitty had guested on several food network shows — it came up whenever he saw anyone else from SMH — but he wasn’t sure what else Bitty was doing. He kind of thought if Bitty had gotten married, he would have heard, but maybe he was dating someone? Bitty had moved back to Georgia after he graduated, and while he kept in touch with Shitty and Lardo and some of the others, Jack didn’t think it was as frequent as any of them would have liked. 

Bitty didn’t owe anyone information, especially Jack, not after the way they’d broken it off. Jack was glad Bitty had dated after the breakup — the last thing he wanted was for Bitty to be miserable — but he had always wanted a second chance. He just wasn’t sure he deserved it.

After Bitty avoided him for the rest of Bitty’s college career, Jack thought Bitty probably didn’t want to risk it.

Hall was finishing up his remarks, talking about how proud he was of the people who had moved through the program. Jack turned to Bitty, who said, “Go talk to everybody. People will hang around for dessert. I’ll be here after.”

Then Bitty handed him a slice of apple pie on a plate. “So it’s not all gone when you come back.”

Jack wandered back toward the front, where he was being beckoned for photos. Once he stood with Hall, and with Hall and Murray, Shitty came to demand a photo with Jack and the rest of the 2014-2015 team.

“Lardo’s getting Bitty,” Shitty said, pushing Jack into a spot next to Ransom and taking up a position on Jack’s other side. “And don’t think I didn’t see you snagging the first piece of pie.”

Jack shrugged. “It’s been a long time since I had Bitty’s pie.”

“Too fucking right,” Shitty said. “Bitty hasn’t made a pie for us in like, three years. How long has it been for you?”

“Longer than that,” Jack said.

Lardo returned with Bitty, who was pulled into place in front of and between Jack and Ransom. Lardo was next to Bitty, in front of Jack and Shitty. Bitty stood a careful six inches in front of Jack, glancing back and mouthing a “sorry,” although Jack couldn’t figure out why.

Jack made small talk for a long while after that, let some of the SMH alumni try on his cup ring, even signed some autographs for the younger guys.

He embraced Hall before his old coach left, and promised to spend more time with Shitty and Lardo now that he was retired. All the time, he had one eye on Bitty, who by the end was collecting platters and serving utensils from the buffet table.

Jack swallowed the rest of his pie (which was, if anything, better than he remembered) and went back to where Bitty was boxing up his things.

“Can I help you with that?” Jack said.

“I got it,” Bitty said. “I got the primo parking because I was bringing this stuff.”

“I did want to talk with you,” Jack said. “I think Annie’s is still open.”

“Okay,” Bitty said. “Let me move the car to a legal spot and we can walk over.”

The walk was quiet, Bitty apparently as lost in his thoughts as Jack was. When they approached, Bitty slowed and said, “The last time I was here with you, you broke up with me.”

“I know,” Jack said. 

It was the last time Jack had been at Annie’s at all. 

Bitty had called him the night before, leaving a long tearful message on his voice mail about how their relationship was too hard, how keeping it secret was too hard, how Bitty was suffering from lying to their friends and from lack of sleep and time and … and then he had called Jack and asked him not to listen to the message, but it was too late. 

It was too late for Jack to head to Samwell right away; it wouldn’t have been safe for him to drive before he got some sleep. When Jack met Bitty at Annie’s the next morning and took in his red, tired eyes and slumped shoulders, he knew what he had to do.

“You can’t keep doing this, bud,” Jack said. “I’m sorry. I had no idea how rough it would be on you.”

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” Bitty said. “I just have to be stronger.”

“That’s not fair,” Jack said. 

“But you can’t come out,” Bitty said. “Not now, in your first season.”

“No, I can’t,” Jack agreed. “I don’t think we can keep doing this, bud. I’m sorry. I can’t see you this way and know it’s my fault. I’m sorry, bud.”

“Wait, are you breaking up with me?”

“I’m sorry,” Jack said again.

“But I love you,” Bitty said. “We can — I can try harder.”

“I love you, too,” Jack said. “But you should be with someone who can actually be with you, in front of everybody. You deserve to be happy.”

Then he had pushed his chair back, stood up and walked away.

This time, he gestured for Bitty to take a seat and said, “What can I get you?”

“Coffee,” Bitty said. “Black.”

“Not decaf?” 

“Nah, I got a long drive ahead of me.”

Jack put two black coffees — one decaf, one regular — on the table.

“I never figured you’d come around to plain coffee,” Jack said.

“It turns out that unlimited sugar isn’t good for any of us as we get older,” Bitty said. “I prefer to save mine for pastry.”

Jack nodded.

“You’re not driving back to Georgia tonight, are you?”

“I don’t live there anymore,” Bitty said. “I moved to New York last winter.”

“You moved to New York? In the winter?”

“Hush,” Bitty said. “I have a show in development for the Food Network.”

“Good for you,” Jack said. “You deserve it.”

“Thanks,” Bitty said. “I’m a little worried, because I had to close my business in Atlanta, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?”

“You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take?” Jack said.

“Something like that,” Bitty said. “So what did you want to talk about?”

“I wanted to say I was sorry for the way I ended things,” Jack said.

“You said so at the time,” Bitty said. “I believed you then. Lord, Jack, I didn’t want to break up, but maybe you were right. If things went they way were, I would have had a breakdown of my own.”

“Maybe,” Jack said. “Or maybe we could have figured out how to make it easier for you. Maybe we could have told the people who lived in the Haus at least. Or some of the Falconers. They would have been fine with it.”

“You know that now,” Bitty said. “Twenty-twenty hindsight’s a wonderful thing.”

“I still think I should have tried something else,” Jack said. “You didn’t want to break up. I was afraid, of coming out, of things going as badly for you as they went for me in juniors … but I gave up too easily. It’s one of my biggest regrets.”

“Aw, sweet pea, don’t beat yourself up,” Bitty said. “I loved you. I really did. And that day, it hurt like hell. Hurt for a long time after, too.”

“Is that why you didn’t stay for Lardo’s graduation?”

“My flight was at 8 p.m.,” Bitty said. “Thank God Logan has charger ports in its waiting areas.”

“Fuck, Bits, you should have stayed,” Jack said. “I wouldn’t have come if you didn’t want me to.”

“It was fine,” Bitty said. “Lardo and Ransom and Holster — they were all your friends first.”

“Then the frogs came to a Falcs game without you,” Jack said.

“Yeah,” Bitty said. “I did already have a date before they asked if I wanted to go. But I probably could have gotten out of it if I tried. I didn’t want you to think I was pining after you, though.”

“What if I was pining after you?”

“Come on, Jack, you’ve dated some people since me,” Bitty said. “I read about a few, all better looking, more successful and female.”

“None of them went anywhere,” Jack said. 

“Yeah,” Bitty said softly. “I know how that goes.”

“Yeah? You had a boyfriend the next fall,” Jack said. 

“For like two months,” Bitty said. “I’ve dated some, too, of course, but no one ever measured up. It was you the whole time.”

“Really?” Jack said. “You mean that?”

“I do,” Bitty said. “But you know I can’t go back in the closet.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Jack said. “Maybe it’s time for me to come out.”

“You are retired,” Bitty said.

“I almost wish I wasn’t so that I could prove how serious I am about this.”

“By coming out while you were playing?” Bitty said. “It would have made a statement. But I think you’ll still get plenty of attention. More than you want, maybe.”

“It will be worth it,” Jack said. “If you really want to do this?”

“I think I do,” Bitty said. “I really do.”

“So how important is it that you make it back to New York tonight?” Jack said.

“Not at all,” Bitty. “Not at all.”

[xtrash-writing-trashx420]

Toxicity At It's Finest, Reader x Draco Malfoy

"I've been holdin' my breath, I've been countin' to ten, over somethin' you said..."

The weather is a mirror to the emotions swirling through the air.

Thunder shatters the silence, roaring just above the manor. Lightning splits the skies, the blue light flashing across both of your faces, seemingly accentuating the flaming anger of his clenched jaw and fiercely glaring ice blue eyes. Rain drops, big and heavy as hail, pounds the windows in earnest.

You can't believe what had spewed from his mouth, and the sting is worse than as if you've been slapped in the face. You take a deep, shuddering breath, and choose your next words carefully, as your voice breaks and you choke back a sob.

"... Alright,"

Now it's his turn to look as if he's been slapped. You don't miss the shock on his face, but you continue anyways, feeling as if it's for the best.

"I'll go."

You turn on your heels and run for the stairs, scared to stay a moment longer, lest he talk you out of it.

Though blinded by tears, you don't miss a single step, and you reach your shared bedroom without making any more of a fool out of yourself. The door slams shut behind you, and the sound echoes through the mansion, as if trying to voice your determination for you. Still, you finally let the tears flow freely and you scream out in devastation as you back against the door and slide down to the marble floors.

You had finally had enough. After twelve long years of staying by Draco's side through his ridiculous bi-polar emotional episodes and abuse, through his breakdowns from the abuse of his father, through his cheating on you with that disgusting pug Pansy Parkinson, through his suicidal pact with the Dark Lord, and almost dying for him in the Battle of Hogwarts, you had finally had enough.

"I've been holdin' back tears, while you're throwin' back beers and I'm alone in bed..."

These kind of fights were not uncommon while Draco drank back his pain and sorrow, but it used to end in the two of you coming together in the heat of the argument to say your apologies through some sort of carnal physical activity, since neither you nor Draco were ever ones to voice your feelings in the lovey-dovey chit-chat sort of ways. But for the past eighteen months, there had been no apologies at all, carnal or otherwise. Things had steadily been getting more and more aggressive and tense between the two of you, spiralling out of control as Draco drank more and more often. He often would try to find any reason to start and argument, almost as if trying to distance himself from you. You, on the other hand, had simply taken everything in stride for the first few months, knowing that one of the consequences of being committed to the Malfpy Heir was his rollercoaster of emotions and admittedly vindictive and toxic nature whenever he was caught in a downward slope.

But things were different this time. Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months and no matter how often you tried to break through his wall and try to get him to open up to you again; to become the soft, sweet yet damaged boy that you knew was behind the façade, he wouldn't crack.

You had even tried to break through with seduction, as it was a last-resort that you had used more than once before. You had even donned his favorite lingerie; an emerald green and black sheer lace set with a black sheer lace kimono. You had cornered him while he was in his father's old study, hunched over some sort of paperwork with his hands stuffed into his silky, platinum hair. You had approached quietly, draping yourself over his shoulders and kissing his ear while you whispered a breathy,

"Draco, come play..."

into his ear.

And the bastard had the audacity to take one sideways glance at you and scoff, looking back to the papers and muttering something snide under his breath about having no time for games.

More and more layers of wall went up with every brick you had managed to scrape off in the past, and it had finally come to a peak.

"You know I, I'm afraid of change... Guess that's why, we stayed the same..."

Even the beginning of the fight had been strange. Usually the arguments you two had were over something real, something serious. Whether it be you, trying to help him break away from his carefully sculpted mask of anger and spite that had been constructed over the years and getting blind-sided with some vindictive comment by the character he had forged; or by said character being a few too many butterbeers in and trying to deconstruct you for something extremely irrelevant and simple, like doing the dishes by hand instead of instructing the house elves to do them, there was a predictable pattern to his emotional explosions.

This time had been different.

You were simply lounging by the fire, delving deep into your favorite muggle-writen novel, when he had appeared before you. You couldn't exactly remember what had happened at first, only that he had torn the book from your hands and thrown it into the roaring fireplace. The next thing you can recall, he's pushing you back against the black leather couch, forcing his mouth and body upon you as if he hadn't been completely depriving you for over a year, as if he hadn't brushed off your advances and let you cry yourself to sleep alone in the bed you had once shared for over a year.

So you did what any sane woman would do: You slapped him and shoved him off of you, hollering over your lost novel and his shitty advance.

"You must be joking?!" You had screamed, standing over him as he clutched his face in pain and looked up at you with liquor-glazed eyes wide in apparent shock.

The shock didn't last long, though.

You don't know if he actually hit you, because everything happened so quickly, but your recollection counts you on the floor, and him above you, screaming profanities in your face as spit flies from his mouth while he roars at you through clenched teeth. You've never been one to back down though, and you remember quickly finding your feet and shoving him backwards into the coffee table, almost tripping him as you scream back profanities that would make an Irish sailor blush.

Things escalated so quickly, you can't remember exactly what each of you said, you just remember how bad each word hurt. Whether you were receiving or dishing them out, each word split your heart into tinier pieces, syllable by syllable. The last thing you remember was what ended the argument and sent you flying up the stairs.

"So tell me to leave. I'll pack my bags, get on the road..."

"So why don't you just tell me to fucking leave?! Why the fuck are we still doing this?! Why waste either of our time anymore?! I don't fucking deserve this!! You've been playing fucking games with me since the first day we fucking met, you don't fucking love me, you barely love yourself!!"

"Find someone that loves you better than I do, darling, I know. 'Cause you remind me every day, I'm not enough, but I still stay..."

You had regretted the words instantly, for they had sobered you of the outright rage that had blinded you for however long the fight had been going for. Draco, however, had no sobering experience. No, your analysis of his drinking and abuse had simply proved to anger him further, and he screamed the six words that shattered your world to the core.

"THEN GET THE BLOODY HELL OUT, YOU HALF-BREED WHORE!! YOU'RE BARELY WORTH MY TIME, I COULD FIND TEN WOMEN WHO WOULD LOVE ME BETTER!! AND THEY'LL ALL KNOW THEIR BLOODY PLACE, TOO!!"

"Feels like a lifetime, just tryna get by, while we're dying inside. I've done a lot of things wrong, loving you being one, but I can't move on..."

Silence ensued between the two of you, even though it was swallowed by the crack of the thunder above your heads and the deafening pounding of the large raindrops on the roof.

And this is what brought you here, locked away in your once shared bedroom, crying your soul out in rivers as you packed what mattered as quickly as possible, not that you were getting very far with your task. You could barely see, after all. In fact, you were sobbing so openly and loudly; you didn't hear the quiet flapping of clothing and clap of footfalls on marble that come with someone apparating into appearance.

"You know I, I'm afraid of change. Guess that's why we stay the same..."

You growled in sorrow and frustration at your clumsily packed trunk, slamming down the lid to try and close it; to no avail. You could barely see through your tears, so you could scarcely be expected to notice the small corner of a shirt that was tucked just slightly into the slot where the latch was supposed to slide in. You simply growled and cried in aggravation, slamming it over and over, faster and harder, trying to get the latch to catch in the slot. After a few tries, you gave up. Sliding to floor in anguish and defeat, you brought your legs up and crossed your arms over your knees, tucking your face into your jeans to hide your tear and snot-streaked features. You still can't hear anything over the deafening storm and your own cries, but you know it's Draco when you feel his touch. It's soft, as if he's trying not to frighten you away like you would a feral cat.

Just a gentle stroke of his palm on your hair, and you dare take a glance at his shoes through your arms, before looking up at him through your tears. You can see his expression change when he takes a good look at your face, and you can see the pain in his now sobered eyes. You can tell he's sorry, but that's not enough this time, and you turn your face back into your legs and take a deep, shuddering breath.

"So tell me to leave, I'll pack my bags, get on the road. Find someone that loves you better than I do, darling, I know. 'Cause you remind me every day, I'm not enough, but I still stay..."

"(Y/N), please..." You can hear his voice cracking, and you want so badly to turn to him and push away his fears. You want to tell him that you won't go anywhere, that you'll always be here, that you'll never let him push you away... But you can't. You don't have it in you right now, and you're not sure if you will again, not this time. For the first time, you find yourself imagining a life without Draco in it. Would you be happier? Would the pain end? You don't think you even remember what it was like before being with Draco, before being a slave to your blind love for him and that scares you half to death.

So you don't say a thing, you simply begin to cry even harder, and that prompts Draco to drop to his knees beside you, enveloping you in his arms and whispering desperate 'I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry's. His chin comes to rest on top of your head, and for a split moment you think the roof has sprung a leak, before you realize it's his tears hitting the top of your head as he cries in earnest.

"I don't know what to do, (Y/N)... I don't know how to fix this... I love you so much..." He chokes back a sob, and you sniffle as you begin to cry even harder.

"Please, please don't leave... I'm so so sorry..."

You stay like that for a few hours, wrapped in his arms while he cries out his apologies into your hair, before you finally cave into him, shushing his sobs and kissing away his tears.

"If you want me to leave, then tell me to leave, and baby, I'll go. You remind me every day, I'm not enough, but I still stay..."

[cottontail20]

A Legend All Their Own, Chapter 6: ‘Show Me Who You Are’

Summary:  Still angry with him, Princess Wanda must decide whether or not to protect the injured Vision from King Ultron’s soldiers.

"What the hell are you doing?" Wanda snapped, after Vision had tackled her to the ground. "Get off me! Get.." She rolled over, shoving Vision away, then froze, her eyes wide.

Most of the arrows missed, but two were now buried in Vision's shoulder. Blood bloomed through the thin material of his shirt. He tried to stand, but fell onto his knees, his face twisted in pain. Vision looked at Wanda, the patterns within his strange eyes spinning.

"Run" He told her, but it was too late. The soldiers were upon them, notching new arrows.

"This doesn't have to end badly for you, Princess" One of them said. "You can come quietly, and we won't say another word about it."

"We only have to kill the boy" added another, taking aim. "And look, he's given us a perfect shot.."

Wanda's eyes flickered from the Soldiers to the injured Vision. Injured because he had pushed her out of the way. Her coat was made of thick, expensive leather. Those arrows likely would have done much less damage to her than they had to him, but he had still..

The soldier fired.

Wanda, without really knowing what she was doing, how or why she was doing it, leapt to her feet, red energy surrounding her hands, her eyes glowing the same fiery red.

"No!" The arrow stopped short, clattering to the ground. With a wave of Wanda's arm, the Soldiers were knocked from their feet, and a second wave surrounded most of them in red energy, sending them flying far off into the distance.

One soldier missed by Wanda's assault charged at the Princess, sword raised.

Vision, acting on pure instinct, grabbed the burning stone from his pocket with his free hand, thrusting it in the enemy's direction. The Stone emitted a beam of golden energy, burning right through the Soldier's chest. He fell to the ground, motionless.

Wanda looked down at Vision, wide eyed and slightly pale.

"How did you.."

"I don't know" Vision replied, panting. "How did you.."

"I don't know.." Wanda glanced down at her hands, then back at Vision. "Why did they want to kill you?"

"I have no idea.. You should go.. We don't know how far you threw them, or if they'll come back. I'd slow you down."

"You would" the Princess agreed, but didn't move. She just watched him for a moment, considering, her eyes green once more. She tilted her head slightly when she spoke again. "Why did you push me out of the way?"

"I didn't want you to get hurt. You're far more important than me."

That seemed to make up her mind. Wanda shook her head, pulling Vision to his feet and draping his good arm around her shoulders, supporting him as they moved forwards.

"I'm not more important than anyone.. I'm not anything."

--

Darkness fell as they trudged onward, with no clear destination in mind. They had moved off of the main path, hoping to make things more difficult for anyone looking for them.

Vision occasionally stumbled, almost pulling Wanda down with him, but she always managed to catch him. The Princess was clearly stronger than she looked. After another stumble, she brought them to a stop.

"We can't keep going like this. You're jostling the arrows and bleeding too much. We need to get them out and bandage your wounds, I don't want you dropping dead on me."

"You don't?" Vision may have sounded a little too hopeful, and Wanda frowned.

"I was angry. I'm still angry. But there's a pretty big leap between anger and wanting someone dead, Vision."

"That is true.."

"Now" The Princess found a clear spot, pushing him down gently, "Sit, and try not to move for a few minutes."

--

Before long, Wanda had managed to start a small fire, and had pulled a few pieces of cloth and a small bottle of something from her rucksack, ready to clean Vision's wounds. Vision was slightly surprised.

"You are quite capable, for a Princess.."

Wanda shrugged.

"I made sure to learn some things, once I'd decided I was running away. I'm going to need your shirt off.. try not to disturb the arrows."

"Alright." Vision did as he was told, carefully removing his shirt, tugging it gently off over the arrows embedded in his shoulder. While he had been scrawny as a boy, years of lugging around sacks of rice and potatoes, and crates of fruit or vegetables for his fellow disadvantaged citizens had left him with a rather impressive physique.

Princess Wanda blushed, then shook her head, moving to kneel behind Vision and examine his injuries.

"Hmm.. The barbed part hasn't gone too deep. That's good, it means I should be able to just pull them out. Try not to yell."

"Why would I..Ouch!"

Without further warning, Wanda yanked the two arrows from Vision's shoulder.

"Done." She pressed one of her cloths to his skin to stem the flow of blood from the now open wounds.

"You did that on purpose" Vision frowned.

"Still angry, remember? Now, tell me about yourself."

"Myself?"

"Yes" The Princess replied. "Tell me all the need-to-know facts about you. Show me who you are, Vision, and I'll decide whether I want to forgive you or not."

"Well.." Vision paused. "Where do I start?"

"Where most people do. Your Family, where you were born.."

"I.. I don't know."

"Oh, that's helpful" Wanda rolled her eyes, slightly annoyed. "Why does my evil relative want to kill you? 'I don't know..'"

"Princess.."

"What's with that weird stone you have? 'I don't know..'"

"Wanda, I.."

"So what do you know?"

"I was abandoned at birth, because of my eyes, I think.. I was raised in an orphanage. I assume I was born in Sokovia, but as far as any Family, I really don't know."

"Oh.." Wanda's face grew pale, suddenly guilty. She was quiet for a while. "I'm sorry.. You really think you were abandoned because of your eyes?"

"I have heard myself referred to as a demon because of them, so most likely, yes. The Orphanage was closed when I was fourteen, not long after your parents died. I'd been on the streets for a few weeks when I found the stone. It let me walk through walls.. what it did Today was new to me. I've been a Thief since I found it."

"A Thief?"

"Stealing food for my fellow homeless. I don't like having to do it, but so many would starve otherwise.."

"I see.. So when did your friends come in?" Satisfied that the bleeding had slowed enough, Princess Wanda poured some of the contents of the small bottle on the second cloth and began gently cleaning Vision's wounds. He winced. "Sorry.. this will sting a bit."

"It's alright" Vision took her 'Sorry' as a sign that she may have been softening towards him again. "I met the Avengers just a few days ago, when they needed my abilities to help with their plans regarding you. They swore to me you weren't going to be hurt at all. That was important to me."

"It was?" Wanda frowned. "Why?"

"It.. It just was" Vision felt himself blushing. "And as soon as You told me about what Ultron did to Pietro.. I swear, my own plans changed. I just wanted to get you somewhere safe."

"Hmm.." Wanda stood and returned to her rucksack, searching for something. When she apparently couldn't find it, she pulled out the dress that she had been wearing when she and Vision met, and tore a large section off the bottom before he could stop her.

"Why did you do that?"

"To bandage your wound" She replied. "I didn't have anything else big enough, and I won't be needing a dress anytime soon.. Arm up."

Vision lifted his arm, and Wanda wrapped the torn material just tightly enough over his injured shoulder, tying it securely.

"Thank you" Vision managed a small smile. "So.. am I forgiven?"

"Well.." The Princess looked at him for a moment. Her green eyes had definitely softened. "I do want to believe you. Let's see if we can get somewhere safe, and then I'll think about it."

"That's fair" Vision nodded.

"For now, though" She threw an old blanket at him, "You should get some sleep."

"I couldn't possibly sleep.. What if.."

"Try. You have healing to do. You're not much good to me injured. I'll keep an eye out for trouble."

Vision opened his mouth to try and argue, but Wanda glared at him.

"Alright.. But you'll wake me if you get tired yourself, won't you?" He settled easily on the ground and pulled the blanket over him, used to sleeping rough.

"I will.. and Vision?"

"Yes, Princess?"

"I'm sorry, for what I said about your eyes.. I don't really think they're freaky."

"Back to amazing then?" He murmured. Half asleep, Wanda had been right, the day had taken a toll on him.

"Maybe.."

From the corner of his half closed eye, Vision thought he saw her smile.

Ao3 link : https://archiveofourown.org/works/16736589/chapters/39960435

[tsaritsa]

for the serpent has died and i'm leaning by your side (1/6)

this fic can also be found on ff.net and ao3.

NEXT CHAPTER

written for the 2017 fma bigbang! i was lucky to work with @rebbi-sonnenhell on here! it was a pleasure to work with her, and i hope u enjoy what we have produced.

He hates being reduced to the role of civilian – a convalescing civilian, even more. He hates the red tape that surrounds his recovery; hates that Riza still hasn't come out of her coma like the doctors said she would. 

The aftermath of the Promised Day isn't pleasant for anybody involved. 

There’s a lot of noise in the time immediately after Edward deals the killing blow to the homunculus that nearly became a god.

The eerie silence which he expects from all the old stories of good versus evil is instead enveloped very quickly by cheering and yelling and shrieks of jubilation which clatter around in his head like a rouge bouncy ball. He feels the ground trembling beneath him, and he tenses – before realising it is simply the footfalls of soldiers around him and Hawkeye. He estimates that entire battalions pass the two of them and it makes him laugh a little at how easy it is for him to tell which soldiers come from Fort Briggs, and which come from Central. The Briggs men are softer, quicker in their pacing and barely bely the exertion they must feel – the Central soldiers, on the other hand, are heavy and clumsy in their gait, and have no idea of what fitness is apparently.

He feels Hawkeye shift next to him, resting her weight on her other foot, gripping his side a little tighter than he expects as she does so. Her breathing is laboured, and for the first time since the battle has finished Roy really thinks about how much he has put her through today.

It is too much. He should never have had to ask this much of her – and yet she would broker no deal where her role was less. It was difficult to try and ignore the dark circles under her eyes as they woke early this morning, nor the slight gauntness to her frame as they dressed for the battle that would come. The months she spent under the watchful eye of not just one homunculi, but two – took a toll on her physically in ways he didn’t want to think about.

Mentally was another problem altogether.

“Hawkeye…” he begins, his mouth dry and cracking over her name. He feels her breath hitch, followed by a tensing of her muscles.

“Sir?” she responds quietly. Her voice is jagged and rough and he wonders just how much of a patchwork job the young girl from Xing had done. Her cut had been clean, and he would vehemently argue it was the only blessing to come out of that awful situation – at the time all he could think of was her blood spilling out of her like a grotesque necklace, dripping down the hollow of her throat, but in actuality he should – she should – count themselves lucky that a clean cut was all she got. He’s well-aware of how cruel the homunculi could be.

He would never admit this to her, but he had woken up more times than he could count in a cold sweat, images of her impaled on Bradley’s swords like an animal left to be bled (he had read the reports of what had gone down in Dublith the last time the Elric’s had visited, and his informants based there had not spared him any detail). He imagined her being left on his doorstep, gutted and bloodless like a carcass ready to be cut for consumption, ribs brutally smashed open: there would only be hollow where her heart ought to be and damn him for not doing enough to protect her.

He doesn’t know too much about the physiology of homunculi, only that they fought well and burned better, but it doesn’t take much to assume that all of them were capable of eating humans. He wonders if it would have come to that, and whether Wrath was possible of the empathy to make her death a quick and clean one.

He doesn’t want to think about the kind of pain that she’s in – what she is doing just to remain upright for his sake – he feels like he has been hit by a truck and ran over at least half a dozen times. Both of his hands are aching and cramping and stinging in a way that is far worse than when he had to burn himself; he feels the blood still dripping down his gloved fingers slowly – the warmth of which makes him feel ill. There’s a pain behind his eyes that reminds him of the migraines he used to get when he was a teenager, and he idly wonders why he didn’t suffer a worse fate with Truth. The Elric’s had lost their bodies in extremely violent and distressing ways; it didn’t make sense that he wouldn’t also suffers something similar. He doubts Truth cares how people come to the Gate – like his refusal to perform human transmutation himself meant anything to the weird not-entity that he can still recall (and he’ll be damned if the last thing he remembers seeing is something like that, he would much prefer a view a little closer to home).

“Sir?” Hawkeye asks him again, her voice barely a whisper this time.

“Am I bleeding out of my eye sockets?” The question is so inane and he has to try his best not to crack a smile – he feels the adrenaline lessening now; his heart no longer feels like it is lodged in his throat, and he feels his pulse strongly in his fingers, a steady but painful tha-thump, tha-thump. Tha-thump. The pain is sharpening now in his hands, and he grimaces as he tries to adjust his right hand that is loosely curled into her side. The stiffening in his tendons is a bad sign – he knows enough about first aid to realise that he needs to be seen by at least a nurse soon, but his men are his first priority. His bleeding, while continuous, has slowed – he feels the gummy texture of the haemoglobin stick around the entry and exit wound on his hand as he shifts it from Hawkeye’s waist to her shoulder, his gloves fraying seams catching on her loose hair. It’s a familiar sensation under his fingertips, even through the fabric of his gloves – she was blessed with thin hair, but plenty of it.

He puts the slightest amount of tension on her hair - not a tug, his head is throbbing and he doesn't imagine how badly she must be feeling, what she isn't letting on to him. The Lieutenant inclines her head ever so slightly – it's an old code of theirs – older than their names; than the well-placed taps of pens on wood; than a lifted eyebrow across an office.

"You shouldn't be speaking," he murmurs, twisting her hair in between his fingers more until he thinks he will not be separated from her. The noises around them are becoming more frequent and loud as every second passes; as every breath passes through his lungs. The air is tinged with gunpowder and smoke. It comes in waves as the wind shifts and Roy is suddenly reminded an awful lot of Ishval. It is the same sounds as after a heavy attack gone successfully; the same atmosphere when the commanders officially declared the end of the war – there is chaos here, but it is tinged with relief, with joy that is barely restrained. He knows there are dead bodies littering the parade grounds here, as there were amongst the sand dunes and rubble.

These soldiers, at least, will be noticed and taken care of with the respect they should not even have to deserve. The Promised Day – whatever the military decides is a fitting name – will immortalise these men and their ranks in stone. There will be parades and minutes of silence as people pay faux penance for sins that they let grow instead of addressing.

A band of Northern soldiers suddenly sprints by, yelling loudly and frantically – their accents a stark contrast to the reserved tones of Central. There is more movement their way now, and eventually Riza stands a little straighter, taking slightly deeper breaths that he can almost feel rattle around in her lungs. “We should move, sir,” she tells him firmly, her voice only wavering a little. “Triage tents are being set up to the north.”

Roy hesitates before he nods, and lets himself be guided by her hands. The cacophony grows louder with every steady, laboured step they make – the familiar screams of makeshift surgery; the frustrated yells for help; the hoarse sobs that are a constant beat in this human symphony. It is too reminiscent of Ishval, and Roy feels ill at the implications of what that means.

He doesn’t need to tell Riza what he is feeling. He knows that she understands, that she too, remembers. Her fingers grip into his coat even tighter as they pass what sounds like a rudimentary operating theatre. They might be walking on polished stone instead of stone carved by sand, but the horrors remain the same and the cruelty of humanity is still laid bare for anybody to see.

He has no idea where they are anymore on the parade grounds. His mind’s eye is hopelessly lost – though he supposes even with eyesight it would still be difficult to recognise the parade grounds now. Riza explains that the middle is torn beyond repair, alchemic or otherwise, and so what’s left of the Central troops and the Briggs battalions find themselves on the perimeters of the land, skirting structural faults that look ready to collapse at a moment’s notice.

They walk in silence for a bit, both intently focused on staying upright amongst the chaos around them. The tang of iron is palpable in the air, and he feels it coat his tongue in a greasy film.

“Hawkeye-” he starts, but she roughly yanks him down suddenly onto what feels like a cot, and he’s still as she lets out a pained sigh, her hand that was so tightly gripping his side loosening. She breathes deeply for a minute, and he can hear how exerted she is. His hand finds her wrist and he strokes over her pulse point, marvelling at how frantically it beats and flutters under his touch. Eventually he feels the tempo lessen and her body begin to relax next to him, leaning into him a little more than what would be considered strictly appropriate. He doesn’t care. She’s warm next to him, and smells faintly of his soap and sweat.

He wonders what will become of the Briggs soldiers, the ones he saw that were soaked with Amestrian blood. General Armstrong would be wise to make a hasty exit from Central if she wanted to keep her men relatively intact. Central soldiers may have been taken by surprise in this attack, hopelessly under-skilled and out-manoeuvred: but vengeance was something that was bred into their bones, into their very beings.

It is cooler here, and all he can hear is the familiar cadences of Amestrian, with the heavy Northern accent thundering out every so often. Northerners were such loud people.

Riza huffs a little and he doesn't stop the smile growing on his face. Against each and every insurmountable obstacle that they faced today, they still made it through – every single one of them, and every single one of his men. Anticipating causalities was a necessary evil of their plan - and it wasn't entirely unlikely that at least one person in his team would get severely injured or worse.

He hadn't been anticipating Riza, however. The entire day had been a flurry of emotional highs and lows and he could still hear her choked-out pleas ringing in his ears to just stop, please don't make me do this, this is not you, this is not who you are this is not –

She truly was his weakness – only she could render him immobile, it was only her now that he could not raise a hand to.

"Thank you for following my orders, Lieutenant," he begins lowly. She shifts a little next to him and it must be killing her that she can't respond but it is killing him more knowing that he is the reason she cannot in the first place. "Without you today..." he sighs and trails off, his gloved thumb rubbing against the bare skin of her neck carefully.

"I fear today might have turned out very differently if not for you. Thank you." His tone is soft, barely carrying over the cacophony surrounding them - soldiers are passing the two of them more frequently where they sit, near what he can only assume is the main triage camp being frantically set up. He knows it is not coincidence that she has moved them both to be near it – not for her sake, of course, but for his. Her ridiculous and at times maddening ability to put him above everything else (including herself) never fails to amuse him as much as it annoys him.

She shifts against him again and the hand resting on his back curls into his side, and he feels the indent of her fingernails, even through the heavy cloth of his coat. He doesn’t stop the small smile he can feel growing on his face, but instead lifts his head up. He can feel the sun on his skin, despite the cool spring breeze that moves through the parade grounds every so often. In spite of the pain that is slowly ebbing from his hands and eyes to the rest of his body, he feels lighter than he has in months.

It wasn’t like his plans (which were always very well-laid, thank you very much) normally went awry, but it was honestly refreshing to realise he wouldn’t need to worry about almost anything for a while now. He wouldn’t need to worry for his life – for her life. He could spend just a little bit of time remembering that he had helped defeat the greatest evil to befall his country in living memory and almost everyone had come out the other side relatively intact.

“Thank you for not dying,” she responds after a while, her voice barely above a whisper now. She shifts a little closer to him, her leg warm against his own. They’re quiet for a while, Riza rubbing his back in a soothing motion, sometimes stopping to trace messages instead. Roy doesn’t care what people must be thinking, at this blatant expression of familiarity that most certainly goes beyond the safe boundaries of a superior officer and his subordinate. He realises that she’s rested her head on his shoulder, and her breathing has slowed, no longer stiff and rattle-like. Her hand still traces letters lightly on the small of his back but they are lazy now, no longer urgent.

Home, he realises after another while, focusing on the languid strokes and the barest pressure of her nails as she begins the word again. Her m’s are beyond recognition, but the kiss she presses into the shoulder her head rests on speaks far more than her bruised and bloody fingers.

His hand shifts from where it had been resting on the edge of her shoulder back to the fragile and mottled skin of her neck, careful not to agitate her wound with the roughness of his ignition gloves as he splays them against the space where her shoulder meets her neck. His thumb slips under the thin fabric of her turtleneck, rubbing firmly against the bone at the top of her spine. It juts out a little more than what he was expecting – and though she’s allowed to relax her posture now, for crying out loud, it certainly points to an underlying concern that she’s not in the healthiest of conditions.

She needs the rest. They all do.