#bart is VERY CONFUSED as to what he's supposed to do every day though

[nari-writes]

Additional concept:

Bart, sitting at his desk with his feet up every day: im literally being paid to do nothing????

Cassie/Tim/Kon: YOU'RE GETTING PAID?

Cassie: SHUT UP YOU TWO YOU'RE BOTH LITERALLY RICH.

Kon: I can pay you, Cassie????

Cassie: NO IT'S THE PRINCIPAL OF THE THING

Tim: is Bart being paid to be your friend? (<- was not present when Bart/Cassie kidnapped/rescued Kon)

Bart: NO I'm being paid to study mechanical engineering as a trade and you guys just didn't ask!!! When we blackmailed Lex into letting Kon work at the bugle!!!

Tim: YOU BLACKMAILED LEX?

Kon: it was really more of a threat

Cassie: it was NOT!!

Cassie: WE got blackmailed into signing NDA's!

Bart, getting an internship at the daily bugle even though he was SUPPOSED to be working in the Lexcorp mechanical engineering division for the summer:

[catxsnow]

LIFE SAVER B.A.

Request: Could I request Bart Allen x reader where she is the blood daughter of Bruce Wayne- maybe make her superhero alias phoenix or something and she falls hard for him. Bruce is a protective father and wants Bart to prove himself of being worthy for her hand. Fluff.

Warning: mentions of blood, violence, Bruce being a bad dad, fluff, angst, swearing

A/N: Y’all had me so distracted playing Among Us I nearly forgot to post 

Anyways, first Bart fic, hope you guys enjoy!! 

Word Count: 3.3k

"Bruce you're being fucking ridiculous."

Joining the Young Justice Team was your father's idea. Tim was there, Dick was still the leader, and you deserved your spot there as well. You despised the idea at first - it was easier working with Batman than it was a bunch of kids, even if two of your brothers were on the team. It didn't seem fair that he was making you go as well.

You never talked to very many people there - Tim, Dick, sometimes Conner. It was easier just to stick by yourself until the mission came. Maybe that was the Bruce in you - wanting to be alone and independent - maybe that was just you not wanting to make friends. Tim fit in well, Dick founded the team. They were meant for this, you weren't.

Maybe that was the reason you were excited to see a new face when Bart arrived. He was just as annoying and over energetic as everyone else you knew, but there was still something different about him. He wasn't like Wally or Conner or even your brothers. He carried a weight on his shoulders that he desperately tried to hide.

Not to mention that he seemed to know all the right things to make you smile. Bart became close to you, closer than you had been than anyone else. Dick was the first to notice. He watched you sneak into Bart's room at night to hang out and play video games or that the two of you would always make sure you were together on missions.

It was subtle at first, until Beast Boy noticed and started spreading around that you were dating - totally not true. However, in Bart's eyes it seemed to be enough to grow a pair and kiss you. His time was less than fortunate - maybe customs were different in the future but in that day and age you generally wouldn't have asked for your first kiss with him to be in front of your entire team.

Things with him were going great, at least until Tim snitched on the both of you to your father. Bruce was pissed that you were dating Bart. Not only did he not trust the speedster, he didn't want you dating anyone. You last boyfriend hadn't ended well and Bruce still had to be held back from breaking his bones.

"I've made my decision. That's final." Bruce was sitting in front of his computer. His cowl was down, but he refused to meet eyes with you. He could hear you pacing back and forth behind him. Anger rolled off you like waves - there was no way that he could do this to you. Not when he let you have so much responsibility as Batgirl.

"I'm sixteen! You can't just let me fight assholes every night but not let me have a boyfriend!" You yelled at him. It was beyond frustrating that he refused to look at you. It had only been a couple months that you were dating Bart but losing him hurt more than anything else. Bruce couldn't do this to you.

"I told you already. You're not dating that boy. He hasn't proved himself yet."  

"Bart has proved himself over and over again! You just couldn't give him the time of day to notice!" You exclaimed. Bruce couldn't even bother to turn back and look at you as you defended your boyfriend. He didn't care for Bart from the start, and now more than ever he wasn't willing to give him a chance.

"I said no."

"Fuck you, Bruce," You finally snapped. As much as he hated when you swore and yelled at him like this, it happened more often than either of you were willing to admit. It was rare for you to ever see eye to eye with your farther. Dick was the same, Tim was learning. Jason was the only person that you seemed to constantly get along with and now he's gone.

Bruce still didn't turn to you. Without another word, you left the cave and headed straight to the nearest Zeta Tube. He couldn't stop you. Unless he wanted to pull you from that team - which he didn't - you would still see Bart every day. There was no way that he could keep you from seeing him.

It broke you knowing that your father wanted to take away the one thing that made you happy on that team. Did Dick know? Tim? Unlikely. Your chest ached at the betrayal. Fists clenched at your sides as you entered the cave and tears threatening to burn your eyes. Why did he have to be so damn persistent?

Instead of heading to your room like you wanted to, you went directly to the training room. There was no point in sulking over your hurt feelings when you could direct them to training. Bruce instilled that into you too. It seemed that all of your bad traits stemmed from him.

A sword twirled in your hand as the simulation started up. Fake assassins came at you from every angle  but none of them stood a chance against your anger. You moved effortlessly around the room, taking down every faux enemy in your way.

Sweat dripped down your body and you had lost track of how long you had been going at it. The sword began to feel heavy in your hands from swinging it around. Your muscles started to scream at you to stop but every time you tried, you got filled with another wave of rage. Fuck Bruce.

You had been so caught up that you hadn't noticed someone walk into the room. If you hadn't noticed the bright red hair, you would have assumed it to be another simulation. The tip of your sword stopped centimeters away from his eye. You had stopped yourself just in time.  

Bart pushed your sword down and watched your chest heave up and down from the exertion that you had put yourself through. He raised his eyebrows as you said nothing to him, just turned away and put your weapon back in it's place. Sweat soaked your shirt and you realized how lightheaded you were.

Your hands gripped onto the table in front of you. Bart sped over and sat right by your hands. He watched your eyes squeeze shut before popping open at his appearance. Dating the kid of Batman meant he had to get used to the brooding - tonight it seemed different. He was worried.

"What's wrong?" Bart asked. For the first time, he sounded timid around you. He could see the look in your eyes, the way you pushed yourself that night, even how your muscles tense with frustration. Something had gone haywire when you were home in Gotham. "Hey," he placed his hand over yours to get your attention.

"Bruce," you scoffed. Bart knew you didn't always get along with your father. You'd come to him ranting and screaming about how neglected you felt you whole life. Whatever it was this time, it really must have gotten you riled. "Tim told him we're dating and now he's riding my ass about it. He doesn't want us together."

Confusion struck his face. He had never given Bruce, or your brothers, a reason to dislike him when it came to dating you. He was always kind and loving, never willing to let anyone hurt you. Sure, he might have been a bit odd compared to the others, but he was the only one to get you to truly open up on that team.

Bart clenched his jaw. What was he supposed to say? Batman scared him, a lot. He saw the tremble in your china and the way that you squeezed your eyes shut. Bart placed his palm on your cheek and kissed the corner of your lips. He didn't want to lose you.

He couldn't.

><

It seemed to be incredibly tense whenever you were around your family. You refused to talk to Bruce again and each time you were in the room with Tim everyone could feel how angry you were. He didn't mean to stir trouble when he told Bruce about your life with Bart, he didn't think he would react that badly.

Dick was trying his best to play mediator. He split you and Tim up whenever he got the chance and made sure to keep you and Bart together so he wouldn't get on your bad side as well. At the same time, Bruce continuously stopped in or asked Dick what was going on. Someone was always lurking over you when you were with Bart.

Whenever Batman was around, Bart became nervous - and distant. He didn't stand by you, sometimes he didn't even look at you. Though you knew that you couldn't blame him for being nervous around your father, it still made you angry. Not at him, never at him, but Bruce. He continuously fucked up your life.

The only way that Bart would ever get his approval was to defy death itself to be a hero. If Bruce was human and would put his life on the line, then he expected Bart to do so as well considering he had powers. His expectation was ridiculous, Bart risked his life every day right along side you on that team. Why did that not seem to be enough?

Bruce had another chat with you that evening. He stopped to the cave before you mission that evening. Unfortunately for you, it had been a bad time for him to come barging in without knocking. You and Bart had been tangled in your bed with needy kisses being shared.

You could still hear the coldness in his voice as he ordered Bart to leave. The tone he used when he yelled at you for still seeing him. The embarrassment you had when you left your room to join your team who had all heard you screaming match with your father. Bruce said nothing to your brothers, he only glared.

Dick assigned the teams for that night. You, Bart, and Gar were team beta. Bart looked hesitant to be near you again. To be honest, you couldn't blame him. Gar looked hesitant to be with you both, his eyes darted between you as if you had just broken up. That was far from the case - you weren't letting your father dictate you life like this.

As much as Bart knew this, it still made him weary. If there was one person that he never wanted to defy, it was the Bat. He still didn't know how you stood up to him so easily - swearing, calling him by his first name - he was your father. Then again, your relationship with him was far from perfect.

The mission itself seemed easy. A simple recon for your team - but just like nearly every recon mission that this team had - something went wrong. Things were going smoothly at first, at then gunshots started within the building and innocent screams being heard. You couldn't sit around while people were getting hurt.

So, breaking what you had promised Dick, you swooped in to save the people. Unfortunately for you, there were far more people than expected. Gar and Bart were out of sight and you couldn't rely on them in that moment. Your staff twirled around, taking down man after man. Bullets narrowly missed you, but at least the attention was off the civilians.

Bart had finally gotten back to you, he had been busy with his own men before he could join. "Impulse! Get the people out!" You shouted at him. Bart did as he was told, taking two at a time far away from the building and to safety while you held your own. Gar had finally caught up with you, too.

The two of you took out nearly every man in that building. All of them were unconscious or had surrendered. All except one. Gar could see the man behind you raise his gun, he yelled out trying to get your attention but it was too late. The trigger had been pulled and a bullet flew right towards you.

Bart felt like everything was happening in slow motion. He had just finished getting the last civilian to safety. When he ran back in he saw the bullet speeding at your chest. He pushed his legs faster than he had ever gone before to try and get you to safety as well. His hands out stretched to try and catch the bullet before it made contact.

Unfortunately for him, he had miscalculated the trajectory. Rather than catching the bullet in his palm, he had dove right in front of it. Bart stood there in shock as blood seeped from his chest. He looked over to you, fear in his eyes at the found. Had it not been for Beast Boy taking the shooter down, you would have been shot as well.

"Bart! No, no no," You panicked. He fell into your arms before hitting the ground. His blood soaked your hands as you put pressure on the wound to stop him from bleeding. Tears slipped down your face at the state of him. His face was contorted in pain and he was trying his best to be strong for you.

Gar dropped down to your side beside the both of you, worried as well. Bart placed his hand over yours and tried his best to smile up at you. "Speed healing, babe. You wouldn't have been so lucky." It was true, a bullet for him was an inconvenience for an hour, for you, it could have been a lifetime.

"I don't give a shit about your speed healing, Bart. I don't like seeing you hurt."

"Would have done it without it anyways. Anything to save you."

><

When you showed back up to the cave with blood on your hands and all of your suit, Bruce immediately went into protective mode. He assumed it to be yours and was ready to bite the head off of anyone involved. As expected, his blame was ready to go directly to Bart.

It wasn't until he saw the redness in your eyes and the way Gar held onto Bart like his life depended on it did he realize that you weren't hurt. You were fine, pissed and worried, but you would live. Bruce didn't say anything as you brought your boyfriend to the med bay to get stitched up.

Bart was going to just fine. Like he said, he had speed healing - you didn't. Had that bullet pierced your skin instead, you wouldn't have held on long enough to make it back to the cave like he did. You were grateful for him, as much as you thought him an idiot to do so.

Dick had convinced you to go wash up while he was in the med bay. His wound was nearly healed and he was on his way to be back to new within the hour. His healing abilities still went forgotten by you and getting it through your head that he was going to be okay was hard to accept.

However, Dick was right. You needed to get cleaned up sooner or later and seeing the blood on your hands was only a harsh reminder of what had happened. The sound of the gunshot echoed through your head, the look on his face as he realized he didn't catch the bullet but got hit by it, they were etched into your brain.

No matter how hard you scrubbed, you still couldn't rid the images out of your brain. Rashly, you jumped out of the shower and through on the closet pair of sweats and hoodie - both of which belonged to Bart. He was okay, but you needed to see him to make sure that he really was.

Water still dripped down you, leaving a trail of foot prints from your room all the way to the med bay. However, as you reached the room, you stopped in your tracks. Through the glass you could see your father standing over Bart. Your boyfriend was nodding along to whatever he was saying - a hint of fear in his face.

What could Bruce possible have to say to Bart? After what he had done for you, there was no way that he could rip a new one into him. Bart had saved your life, and if Bruce still couldn't see how good of a person that he was, you weren't sure what would.

Without another thought, you swung the door open. Both the men turned towards you, both happy to see you there.

"What the hell are you doing?" You snapped to Bruce. The conversation that he had with you before the mission bounced around in you mind. In what world was it good timing to try and break you up once more right after your boyfriend was shot trying to save your life. "How dare you come to Bart after he's saved my life and try to -"

"(Y/N)," Bart cut you off. "It's okay." Your eyebrows furrowed at his words. Okay? How was it okay that Batman was trying to split you apart? How was it okay that your own father couldn't accept that you loved Bart? Nothing about this was okay.

Bruce said nothing. He moved to stand directly in front of you. His hand squeezed your shoulder for a brief moment before leaving the two of you alone. Still unsure of what that meant, you turned your attention back to Bart who was now fully healed and ready to go.

Slowly, he sat up in the bed until his feet dangled off the edge. To your surprise, he didn't look stressed or worried from his previous conversation. Instead, there was a small smile spreading on his lips. It grew as you ran into his arms. All the fear you had washed away being held by him.

"I was so scared," You whispered. Bart pulled away from you to kiss you. His lips molded perfectly against your. This was long awaited, far too long. You needed his kiss, his touch, you missed it in the short time that he had been injured. "What did he say to you?"

"Thank you," he answered. Your eyes widened in shock - Bruce never said thanks to anyone, especially to someone he hated as much as Bart. "For keeping you safe. And happy. For loving you when he can't."

"Bruce? My father? Batman?" You questioned. There was no way that he said anything like that. Not when he was so adamant on getting you broken up this whole time. Bart nodded. "So he doesn't want us broken up anymore?"

"Babe, if all it took was getting shot I would have done that a long time ago," Bart laughed. You smacked his shoulder, wishing that he wouldn't joke about that. It petrified you to have him shot right in front of you. The fear you had nearly wasn't worth your father's approval. "I'm kidding. Sort of. Not at all, actually. I'd do it again for you."

"No the hell you wouldn't," you scolded. "I swear Bart Allen for someone who thinks as quickly as you do, you make some dumb decisions."

"Part of my charm," Bart chuckled. He kissed your lips one more time before standing up. A coy look flashed in his eyes - that was never good from him. "There are some ways that you could make it up to me, ya know? I mean a man takes a bullet for you.. that sounds worthy of something special."

"Are you thinking kisses or a ridiculous amount of Big Belly Burger because I could go for either right now."

"Babe, it's like you read my mind."

[miss-choco-chips]

Favorite color

Ever since he was born, his world was filled with colors, a beautiful rainbow at his fingers. He’d look down at them at night, or when his parent’s leaving made him want to cry, or when a horror story told by a classmate in the playground scared him half to death, and find comfort in their silky touch and bright hues.

He was seven when he learned the meaning behind them. And the blaring lack of red signaled the first, but not last, heartbreak of his life.

Blue, green, purple, black… and bright yellow. A teacher, a missed opportunity, a first love, life and death… and friendship. No eternal love for Tim, it seemed.

Well. He hadn’t really expected any different. Who would love him forever, when his own parents didn’t?

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He had forgotten it, and it escaped his notice for many years. Until one night, following Dick Grayson as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop, when he noticed his purple string moving in synch with him. Pointing towards his hero, the boy who had given him his very first hug that night at the circus. His First Love, his Not Meant to Be.

That night, Tim packed up early and went home. He just couldn’t stand the red uniform contrasting sharply with his purple thread.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

When Dick left, he thought maybe now he could go back to his old habits, to run the streets looking for flashes of the new robin without the baggage of avoiding to look at his own hand.

No such luck.

The green made a whole lot of sense when news of Jason’s death reached him, tough.

It wouldn't be the last night he’d cry himself to sleep, holding the frayed ends of his fated Almost.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Becoming Robin was both easy and painful. Comfortable, because the blue string pointing him towards Bruce meant this was always supposed to happen; heartbreaking, because it took a kid dying. Because Tim might not have a romantic soul mate, but his hands, that had made a green string break to grant him access to the blue path, were stained red nonetheless.

Wearing Robin’s red, with all the hurt and bad memories it carried, felt like a subpar punishment.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Meeting his Yellows almost passed his awareness. In the middle of a crisis, every adult missing, no mentor to guide him, he couldn’t exactly spare a thought for the kids looking shellshocked at him, each other and their hands.

After, when Young Justice was officially formed, he firmly avoided looking at Bart, Superboy and Wondergirl. Their eyes followed him, pleading, but he’d learned no good ever came from strings that weren’t red.

And the red in his soul wasn’t from love.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Despite himself and his best efforts, they grew closer. Life or death situations had that effect on people, after all.

His own reluctance, which had in turn provoqued Kon’s anger, Bart’s dejection and Cassie’s confusion, slowly began to crumble. He was helpless in the face of their unrelenting friendship.

The strings grew shinier, stronger, healthier, the yellow a stark contrast to frayed (dead) green, cold blue, distant purple. Scary black.

Tim still despised the rainbow in his fingers, but… he could maybe withstand the sparks of yellow he’d catch from the corner of his eye, knowing just who were at the other end.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It wasn’t exactly team training. Greta, Anita, Cissie, Slobo and the others didn’t join them, for whatever reason. It was always the four of them, leaning on and learning from each other.

When Kon’s strength frustrated him, when the world around him seemed to be made of bubbles and sea foam, Tim stayed late at night every weekend to help. Every spare moment directed towards coaching him, again and again, through exercises he had to come by himself (Clark was no big help, here), until exhaustion made his muscles tremble and Kon’s anger had burned out from frustration to soft acceptance that he just wasn’t like the rest. Until he could hold still and let Superboy trace the side of his jaw with a careful finger, and exchange proud little smiles when his face remained unbroken.

Bart being raised by video games had the expected outcome; he had little to no practical, day to day life knowledge. He was the closest living thing to a Looney Toon. Which was fun and good when crime fighting, his crazy ideas often saved their ass last minute, but unacceptable if integrating him into society was to be considered. So Tim would take him out, hand in hand so he didn’t forget himself and ran on his own, to leisurely stroll down busy streets, arcades, schools, libraries. Talk to people in parks and visit recreational centers, barter with street vendors and ask the little boy selling flowers on Jump Street how his mother is doing. Whatever Tim could think of that would soften Bart’s cultural shock.

In that regard, Cassie was a godsend. With her own attentive mentor, and raised like a normal girl until she obtained her powers, she was the most well balanced member on their team. Tim had started to feel a little restless (how can he help her, how can he convince her to stay…), when he noticed her frustrated, sad face whenever Donna was mentioned on Tv, when any reporter or older hero compared the two Wonder Girls. Familiar as he was with imposter syndrome, Tim would rest his arm around her shoulders and turn to the rest of the team, loudly reminding everyone to ‘speed up guys, Cassie here’s already done with her training routine’ or slump tiredly against her while complaining about ‘how immature they are, I can’t deal, thank God you’re here to remind me competent people do exist’.

It was familiar, to help them along. To nudge them forward and watch their backs as they went, firmly making their way towards being the awesome men and woman he knew they’d become. Lending a hand here and there, working on steading their foundations, so he’d be remembered fondly when they inevitably took off and went on with their lives.

He was used to that, to looking for ways his fated people would want him around. Being a good brother to Dick, an eager student to Bruce (a good mourner for Jason).

What he wasn’t used to was reciprocation, though.

Tim had learned how to fly from the best, from Dick Grayson himself.The boy with no powers that looked at gravity and laughed, sayed “thanks, but no”. But there were some things only a true meta could experience, ways to move his body just so, to take advantage of wind currents to either speed or slow his movements. Kon also visited him in Gotham, unknowing or uncaring about its meta restriction, risking pissing off Batman himself just to spend time with Tim.

There was Bart, kind, cute, friendly Bart, who would stop eating and playing around to drag Tim to the training grounds and run laps around him, as silently as he knew how. Making Tim used to fighting against someone quicker than him, lighter on their feet. To count incredibly soft steps even when they made no sound, and use other senses to pinpoint exactly where the next hit was going to come from. And after they were done, there was always a warm smile and some sweet treat (always different, as if Bart was determined to figure out Tim’s preferences by trial and mistake), the new knowledge and delicious prize worth the dirt in unmentionable places.

As stated before, Cassie was an absolute godsend. But it wasn’t just because she was easier to deal with than the rest. Or because she understood the pressure he had on his shoulders, being raised in the shadow of two incredibly renowned heroes. When Tim’s position as leader had been taken away (after Bruce’s plans for taking out the league became known, and ‘what if he has the same for us’), she took him aside. Hugging him, promising him the team’s anger was going to pass, that she could see why those contingencies might be necessary, that even if she was officially in charge, she’d always defer to him when it mattered. Her trust in him and his heart was unshakable, firm as the arm he’d put round her when self doubt arose its head.

(It wasn’t supposed to be this way; if they reciprocated, they didn’t owe him, and then how was he supposed to keep them close? To convince him to stay, to love the boy with loveless fate?)

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Jason was unexpected, but Tim couldn’t hold it against him. Even there, bleeding out in the Tower, he felt… at ease.

His predecessor was back. Bruce’s son was back. The prodigal Robin had returned, by some miracle. Tim’s shift had come to an end; even if he died here, he had succeeded in keeping Bruce sane, and now that the real deal was in town, Jason could take over and everything would go back as it should have been. Everyone (B, Dick, Babs, Alfred) would be happier. Maybe they’d mourn him, for a bit, but with such a joyous occasion as a beloved one returning home, it wasn’t like grief could stay for long.

Someone yelled, near. Warm hands shaking as they touched his face infinitely careful, small fingers intertwined with his in a very familiar hold, a strong and slender arm around his back as he’s being held in a half hug. Cries, pleas, demands.

And while nothingness claims Tim, drags him to a well of black, yellow still clings to his eyelids. A touch that keeps him warm even though unconsciousness is supposed to be so cold.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Death and life. Damian.

Tim can see the first one, what with all of the brat’s attempts to end him. It’s the second one that has him stumped.

He knows not all strings go both ways. His purple one, for example; even if Dick was Tim’s first love, everyone and their mother knew Babs’ was his. Dick had a string pointing towards Tim, but it was a mentor-student one. Same as the one he and Bruce shared. Jason, too; Tim’s side of the string was the green of Almost, while the former Robin’s color was black (Tim taking his place as Robin, and being the only one in the family offering his hand again and again despite his murderous actions, was in some poetic sense the death of an old role, and the birth of a new family dynamic).

Damian, though… Well. He was almost sure they had the same color for each other (how else to explain such dangerous rage), but really, unless the kid was willing to share, it was only suppositions for now.

His only comfort remained the three beams of light, of a yellow almost golden in its healthy shine.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

When Tim changed his suit following Conner’s death, everyone thought it was an homenage. A way to pay tribute to a hero that was his closest, dearest friend. A way to never forget (as if he could, ever, with the lifeless line of pale beige, once yellow, dangling from his twitching finger).

They weren’t wrong, but it wasn’t just that.

Red had always pained him, in a deep, almost forgotten place. A thorn on his side, scratching against his heart. For the longest part, yellow had filled him to the brim, until hurt and yearning had no place inside him. With Kon’s warmth missing, red bleed in the place between Cassie and Bart, despite their best efforts to close ranks and keep it out.

Their sad eyes followed him during the funeral, knowing what the color meant to him. Just how much he was hurting himself, right now. But, lost in their own grief, there was little to be done.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

By the time Tim got the call about Bart, he already knew.

He ignored the ringing phone, holding a sobbing Cassie in his arms, both desperately clutching at their only remaining yellow string.

Between the two of them, color like blood seeped.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Every so often, when Ra’s voice in his ear became too familiar for comfort, where lines draw in sand begane to erode and blur, he’d raise his hand, eyes locked on the three yellow strings, and watch as Cassie’s moved, disappearing end pointing always in her direction.

He was fairly sure that, wherever she was, she was doing the same. Reminding herself he was alive as well, hadn’t left her behind.

Her absence from his life was necessary, finding Bruce a priority, and the red of his new suit (his new name) was proof of just how deeply it all ran. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t yearning for her lighter color.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

They were back, and he was hiding.

He wanted to run to their arms, hug them and never let them out of his view, far from where he could protect them (keep them). He wanted Kon’s hand on his face, delicate despite his strength, un-trembling when Tim’s own would softly join it on his check and held it there; Bart’s fingers between his own, too steady and constant for the boy who didn’t know how to sit still; Cassie’s arm on his waist, his own on her back, as they shared the weight of the world in their shoulders.

And because he wanted so damn much, he couldn’t do it.

He was covered in red. His first love discarded him, his Almost died so Tim could have his Teacher, his Life and Death was so heavily focused on the last bit… his hands lacked red, but oh, how much he leaked of it in his soul.

He couldn’t let them die again, be stained by his twisted fate; even if it meant he could’t hold them close any longer.

Letting go was more painful than holding on, but he was used to it by now.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

They find him. Of course they do; even without Kon’s senses, they all have beams of gold pointing them towards him, like Dorothy’s yellow brick road.

Tim knew it, was ready for it. And as such, had prepared the words that would push them away, to where it was safer.

Or so he thought.

“We are not leaving you.”

“Who cares about fate? You are ours, Rob.”

“It’s been long enough, Tim. Time to come home, we are done waiting.”

He denies them, shakes despite his usual iron clad control over his body, heart wrenching painfully at their decided expressions.

“You don’t understand. I’m Red Robin now. I’m not… I’m no good for you.”

“I could literally snap your back with the flick of a finger, shut up with that ‘I’m dangerous’ bullshit.”

“Yeah, even Bart could be dangerous given the right circumstances, you aren’t the only one here to watch for. It doesn’t mean shit to us.”

‘

“That’s right, I- wait, what do you mean ‘even Bart?”

“Not the point, Imp.”

They don’t get it. He takes his mask off, wants to give them a good look at his eyes, to read his emotions there and finally realize what’s wrong about him.

“Almost all my strings have something to do with death, or were touched by it. Don’t you see it?” He raises his hand, despite knowing they can’t see his strings, only their own. “I have no red here, only blood. I can’t… I’m not safe to love. I’ll never be loved.”

Kon snaps, something he had rarely done since their Young Justice days, hands on Tim’s shoulders, seemingly torn between shaking him and pulling him close. The latter wins.

(As it always does)

“This is love, you idiot! WE love you!”

Tim chokes on something (saliva, his own breath, emotions). Gasps, tears coming to his eyes unbridled.

He feels two pairs of arms joining the first one, a cocoon of warmth and unconditional love forming around him.

Bart’s sad eyes watch Tim from under Kon’s hug. “I don’t have red either, Rob. Romantic, platonic, filial… who gives a fuck”, he shrugs, before hiding his face against the red of Tim’s uniform. Uncaring of all it represents for him or perhaps doing his best to defy it.

Cassie just holds them all in the circle of her own embrace, forehead to the back of Tim’s head. Her hold is the tightest, and he just realizes- she lost all of them, didn’t she? To death and grief, all too far to touch, and now that they’re back in her arms, there’s little chance of her ever letting go again.

“Love has more than one form, Tim.”

He shudders in the middle of this weirdly emotional dog pile, and thinks. About Bruce and Dick’s pride when they successfully taught him something new. Of Jason’s reluctant smile when Tim first tugged him along to some joined patrol, sneakily edging him closer to the family with every interaction. Of Damian, who would often look down at his own hands (and Tim would honestly kill someone to know just which color the young boy had for Tim) and then at him, with something like hope in his green eyes.

He thinks… yeah. And this one…

(He gives up, closing his eyes and snuggling deeper into Kon’s chest, knees buckling but staying up thanks to his three rays of sunlight holding him in place between them.)

This one’s shape might just be his favorite.

[killervibe]

5 + 1 fic where Frost keeps walking in on Caitlin and Cisco doing things? Bonus if you mention THE broom closet and if the +1 is them walking in on Frost instead :P

5 Times Frost Walks in on Cisco and Caitlin + 1 Time Cisco and Caitlin Walk in on Frost

Killervibe Fic - (NSFW)

Killervibe Month Gift for @ava-has-a-closet-murderboard (who had requested this) and @ilikethequiet who had requested sexual tension.

“You really mean that?”

Though he didn’t have to say it again. Caitlin grabbed the lapels of his suit, surging in to kiss the soft look from his face. It was inevitable, she realized. Belonging with Cisco. And he kissed her so perfectly, she was all at once overjoyed and overwhelmed. The steps of the West house patio creaked beneath the shifting of their feet. It was cold on the dark street, Iris and Barry still slow dancing together in the living room after their vows. But it wasn’t the all-consuming, world-saving romance between the West-Allens and their children that left Caitlin feeling so nostalgic for love. It was seeing Cisco again, even in the Star Labs stole. Then hearing him say he was single again, not being able to believe the calmness he had about it. Then touching him again, now, in a way in which she’d never had the chance.

Cisco cupped her cheek and brought her closer. She’d never been so lost in a kiss.

The front door opened, and Frost tugged at her peach dress. When she looked up and saw Cisco and Caitlin in front of her, she stood shocked. Though the shock passed quickly when she realized they had yet to even notice she’d caught them. “Um?” Frost waved Caitlin’s clutch in front of them in the air. “Hello??”

They stopped, blinking away the haze from their quiet intimacy. Cisco’s arm immediately went around her, his chin over her shoulder too. “Frost, couldn’t you have just walked away or something? You’re interrupting.”

“I thought priests were supposed to be abstinent!”

“He’s not a real priest!” Caitlin snapped irritatedly. “He’s my boyfriend!”

Cisco grinned. “Really? I mean, yes. Absolutely yes. But, really? I thought you’d need at least a day or two before needing to settle on labels, which you could still have, by the way.” Caitlin shushed him, planting another kiss against his lips. “I don’t think we need to be wasting anymore time, Cisco.”

Frost flipped her silver hair over her shoulder and called into the house, glaring at Nora and Bart West-Allen. “Now look at what you’ve done!”

Nora West-Allen peered out, sporting a confused frown. “What’s the problem? They’re supposed to be together.”

“Yes!” Cisco said. “Thank you.”

“The problem,” Frost ground out as she marched down the steps, “Is that I live with her and Cisco sold his place so now I’m gonna have to live with them.” A red car drove up to the driveway. Frost got into the Uber and slammed the door. Two seconds later, the window rolled down, Frost’s eyes glinted that icy blue from the old days as she shouted, “I. Hate. Weddings!”

2.

Caitlin unpeeled her medical gloves, rolling down Cisco’s pant leg. “It’s not broken or sprained.”

“Oh good.” Cisco’s arm went over his eyes. Caitlin stood up from the black stool to wash her hands at the sink. “I didn’t think it was.”

Caitlin didn’t think so either, but watching him fall from the Star Labs Van had still rattled her. She returned with two pain killers and a plastic cup. Cisco sat up and swished the water and pills down. Caitlin watched anxiously. She quirked an eyebrow when a funny look passed his face.

“Cisco?”

“You know what would make me feel even better, Dr. Snow?”

A startled laugh pushed out of her throat. Of course Cisco would want to play Doctor. She played along, fighting the flush that greeted her. “What?”

Cisco patted on the wax paper on her bed, letting her know there was a lot of room. She sat beside him to humour him, though their sides squished. There was no room at all. “We’re not having sex in my Med Bay,” she warned.

“No, no,” Cisco said, all wide-eyed and innocent. “Doctor, I’d never!”

“Have you ever thought of going for a pHD?” she asked, teasing him. “You’d get a title of your own…”

The question gave Cisco whiplash. He pouted at her. “Caitlin. C’mon.”

She smirked, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Okay fine, maybe one kiss.”

“Mmmm.”

Somehow, despite her firm insistence on no sex, Caitlin soon found herself lying down on the medical cot anyway, Cisco climbing over her, fiddling with the buttons of her white lab coat. Her hair spilled over the edge of the thin pillow, and she couldn’t seem to stop where this was ultimately going. Her hips raised when Cisco grinded against her a bit.

“How long have you wanted to do this?” she asked.

Cisco laughed. “Oh, you don’t want to know that answer.” He stopped though, pulling back a bit. “Okay, I know you don’t wanna fool around here. My place?”

“What! No!” Caitlin grabbed his wrist. “You’re teasing me, I’m changing my mind.”

“Babe, you said…” Cisco narrowed his eyes, watching the slow smile spread across her face.

The door slid open. Frost gawked. “Why are you just dangled over her like that?”

“Frost.” Caitlin let out a very deep sigh. “....I was checking to make sure he was okay.”

“Well clearly, he is!” Frost exclaimed. “I needed to get Cecile a band-aid.”

“Just use your powers,” Caitlin told her. “It’ll close the wound.”

“Yeah, no thanks.”

Cisco shooed her out.

Frost grabbed the box of band-aids and walked away.

Caitlin leaned up on her elbows. “Did that kill the mood for you too?”

“Yep.”

“YOU’RE WELCOME!” Frost called from down the hall.

3.

“Are we alone?”

“I locked the door.”

That was good enough.

Cisco’s hands went to her hips, then up and underneath the blouse Caitlin had tucked into her shirt. She’s laughing a little into his kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck and stumbling as she tries to kick off her heels at the same time. “This is getting ridiculous.” Not sneaking off with Cisco in the middle of the day at Star Labs -- Barry and Iris do that too often to not be embarrassed about that -- but the sheer insatiability that instilled in the both of them since they got together. It was all the time. Nearly, every day, and it got set off by the slightest, silliest thing. If Cisco’s eyes glimmered when they shared a look at lunch, Caitlin wanted him. If she hopped onto Cisco’s desk at the workshop while he was working and crossed her legs, Cisco wanted her.

“Forget the shoes. You’re going to twist your ankle.”

“They’re uncomfortable, I want them off.” She takes a step back and loses her balance. Cisco pulls her just before she falls, arm slipping against her arched back, bringing her against his chest. Her eyes were wide and she caught her breath. Then smiled in a way she seldom did in public. A come hither, sexy mouth move that Cisco will have seared into his brain and committed until death. Cisco groaned and slipped his hand into her skirt just as the door handle rattles then falls to the ground and shatters. “Why are we even locking anything in this damn place anymore other than the pipeline-”

They jumped as Frost entered the room, stopping mid-mutter to stare at them. “Oh for fucking out loud.” She looked as though she wanted to hurl. “Chester sent me in here to get his printer blueprint stuff!”

“For crying out loud,” Caitlin corrected with just barely a whisper, still straightening her skirt as she blushed. She couldn’t decide if she was embarrassed or mad.

“Who even uses the printer anymore?” Cisco grumbled. “Those displays are HD and on Gideon’s cloud. Tell him it should be on his tablet.”

Frost rolled her eyes. “I’m not telling him that.” She marched forward and grabbed the stacks of papers from the silent printer off the side desk neither Caitlin nor Cisco were paying attention to. She threw a hand up at them, gesturing with her face screwed up in disgust, as though she couldn’t even stand to look at them in their dishevelled state. “If you wanted to get all frisky you should’ve used the archives. Everyone knows that’s where you screw around here, not the damn copy room, god. You two are such nerds.”

“You’re paying for the doorknob!” Cisco called after her. He went over to the shattered mess that had started to melt on the floor. Caitlin bit her lip, getting back into her heels. Cisco turned around. “Help me pick this up?”

“Of course.” Caitlin twitched her nose at the mess. “You know the Starchives will never work.”

“Obviously not.”

“...Maybe we should look into abandoned broom closets.”

4.

“Cisco-”

“Caitlin, god-”

Caitlin’s apartment door opened.

“Really?” Frost deadpanned. “On the couch?”

Caitlin covered her chest with the throw blanket. Cisco tucked himself back into his pants.

"We're sorry, Frost--"

"Save it."

5.

“OW!?” Cisco howled at the cold snow ball that had hit his head. Caitlin covered her eyes. “We were just kissing!”

“It always starts like that.” Frost lowered her icy hand. “Get. A. Room.”

+ 1

Cisco spun Caitlin around one last time in front of the door to the apartment after their six month anniversary date. He kissed her, slowly, sweetly. Then not so sweet. Caitlin loved it all. He backed her up against the door and deepened the kiss, but eventually pulled away and murmured, “Caitlin, I think we need to get our own place.”

Considering the fact all Caitlin wanted to do was drag Cisco to her bedroom while she knew Frost was inside told her he was exactly right.

She let out a small breath and bit her lip. “I want to. I just worry about…”

Cisco pinched his nose and sighed. Caitlin glanced up and down as he pushed back his hair. “I know that Frost loves you and all, but…”

“I know. I know.” Caitlin twists her clutch in her hands. “I’ll talk to her.” She gave him a look. “We’ll both talk to her.”

She opened the clutch for her keys and opened the door.

“--WHAT?”

Frost wiped at her mouth, standing up from her kneeled position on the floor. Cisco closed his eyes with a horrified yelp. “My eyes!”

Caitlin averted her own gaze at the strange man and his junk hanging out like that in the middle of her living room. “Who the hell are you?”

“Chill out Cisco, like I haven’t seen worse.” Frost licked her lips and grinned at Caitlin’s appalled yet cohesive grilling of the naked man in her house. “Caity, you’ll never believe it. Mark has a brother, and he’s also into art!”

Caitlin turned to Cisco. “Honey, we’re moving out.”

“Oh yeah.”

[theonethatwatchesalotofshows]

Ranking every teen drama I've watched

I have gotten really into teen dramas lately, because it's quarantine I can't go out and have fun, but I can still watch other people my age going out and having fun and doing things I don't get to do. Anyway I haven't seen all teen dramas, I was never interested in supernatural ones, so you won't find Vampire Diaries and similar shows on this list.

From worst to best:

The Secret Life of the American Teenager

I will never understand how this show ran for five seasons. It will forever remain a mystery to me. This show is so bad it's good. The writing resembles a wattpad story, Amy's pregnancy is inconsistent (like how was she five months pregnant for like five or six episodes, aren't the episodes supposed to be set a week apart?), the acting is bad (that is not to say that Molly Ringwald or Shailene Woodley are bad actresses, obviously they're not, I'm talking about Amy's sister that has the same facial expression no matter what her mood is supposed to be), some of the views this show expresses are very old-fashioned and damaging (the madonna-whore binary, the fact that they can't even utter the word abortion) and every single male character on this show is a creep and a cheater. I can't believe I watched like thirteen episodes of this. I will never get that time back.

Weirdest moment: "I'm a whore!" "Well, you're my whore." (Was this supposed to be romantic??)

Best moment: none

Glee

This is going to be unpopular and don't get me wrong, I like Glee, but I feel like the writers put much more thought into the musical numbers than the storylines. Again, Quinn's pregnancy is inconsistent (but I'm starting to think TV shows are always inconsistent about pregnancies), the characters don't look like they're in high school at all, the cheerleaders wear their uniforms 24/7 for no reason (Quinn even wore it to her sonogram, like seriously?) the whole celibacy club thing is weird and Mr Schue is a terrible teacher. However, the visuals and the musical numbers are great, Sue Sylvester is iconic (albeit also a terrible teacher) and some of the scenes are really emotional (Kurt singing I Wanna Hold Your Hand made my sister cry) so overall, it's pretty good.

Weirdest moment: Finn praying to grilled cheese (what??)

Best moment: Quinn giving birth to Bohemian Rhapsody, Kurt singing I Wanna Hold Your Hand

Dawson's Creek

I LOVE their 90s' outfits and Joey and Pacey are really otp material, but I just can't stand Dawson! He got mad that Joey didn't tell him about his mother's affair, as if it was her place to get involved. She was 15! It's understandible she didn't want to get tangled into that mess. He also slut-shamed Jen in a really gross way. He literally stopped talking to her for a day when he found out she isn't a virgin. Why are both Joey and Jen into this guy?? This would've been a much better show if it was called Joey's Creek or Pacey's Creek.

Weirdest moment: the way Dawson's mom confessed her affair to her husband. I don't think any irl human would use this choice of words. Also that scene where Dawson's father was teaching him how to kiss while Joey was watching. Cringe.

Best moment: any time Joey and Pacey are bickering. My shipper heart!

Pretty Little Liars

I loved the book version of this, but the TV version seems way too dramatic. First of all, they romanticized Aria and Ezra's relationship (ewww) and made the whole thing seem much more overdramatic. I don't know how to explain it, I mean the books are also dramatic but the TV show somehow took it to a whole new level. None of the girls look like they're in high school, but I love the way they dress and do their makeup. It's almost as though the writers put more thought into their outfits than storylines. I still loved watching it until Netflix took it off, though.

Weirdest moment: Spencer somehow trying to block A's number from her laptop in the middle of a park and then being confused that it didn't work. Weren't you supposed to be the smart one, Spencer?

Best moment: Haleb in the shower, hiding from Hanna's mom.

Skins

This is a classic. Effy is iconic (I somehow heard about her even before watching Skins) and the musical number at the end of season 1 was out of nowhere but still somehow fit perfectly into the story. I also give this show point for being one of the few TV shows where teen characters are actually played by real life teens. They look their age, talk their age (no "I reject reality" or other cringy lines like that) and aren't unrealistically perfect like characters from American teen dramas tend to be. They look like people you might actually meet in high school. However the show loses points for all the continuity errors (are 8 episodes supposed to be the whole school year??) and the number of unneccessary death/tragic accidents. It seemed kind of over-the-top and unneccessarily dark and brutal at times.

Weirdest moment: Chris's graphic death

Best moment: Wild World

Euphoria

The Gen Z American version of Skins, but with better visuals. Much better. I loved the aesthetic, the colors, the lighting and glitter. Zendaya's a great actress and I give this show points for casting an actual trans actress in the role of Jules. However I find it weird that all guys on this show are complete irredeemable assholes (except of Jules's dad and Ethan that is). Are we supposed to just root for the girls and not the guys? Also I find it hard to believe that any of these characters are actually 16/17. They have sex all the time (yeah teenagers have sex sometimes but on this show they treated Kat as some kind of a chaste nun for being a virgin at 16) and have seemingly no rules and no curfew. It would've been much more believable if they were in college.

Weirdest moment: Nate breaking into Tyler's house, beating him up and then taking a shower. The audacity this guy has!

Best moment: "You did this to me!" and Rue having an anxiety attack on the stage in theater class

Gossip Girl

I know this is also an unpopular opinion, because many claim Gossip Girl is the best teen drama ever, but for me it just got way too soapy as the seasons went on. The first two seasons were believable, even though they didn't really look like they were in high school, but after that it was just more and more weird plot points. I will give this show points for the fashion (I mean Blair's headbands and school uniform inspired a fashion line), the acting ("I killed someone"- iconic) and the choice of background music (Nate and Serena kissing to Paparazzi, Thanksgiving with Watcha Say). Despite the wild twists and turns of events, I just had to keep watching because this show had me hooked.

Weirdest moment: Bart Bass somehow flying off the building for no reason (seriously, what he did there had no logical explanation and defied laws of physics), Dan being Gossip Girl, Bart faking his death and returning more evil than before, Serena becoming Gossip Girl, the affidavit, everyone randomly stopping going to college... there are so many but Bart takes the cake I guess

Best moment: the Thanksgiving flashbacks from season 1, Dan placing a plastic crown on Blair's head

Freaks and Geeks

This is one of the few shows where high school is depicted realistically. It's not all glitter and parties and not everyone has sex and does drugs. Okay, I admit, the bullying was over the top and it was weird how no adults cared but other than that, it was pretty spot-on. It was emotional without being too dramatic and far-fetched and also had funny moments. Yes some of the characters may have been stereotypes but at least the show seemed self-aware of that. It's truly a shame we only got 18 episodes of this show, while The Secret Life of the American Teenager somehow got five seasons??? I don't get it.

Weirdest moment: when Cindy suddenly got super mean once she started dating Sam

Best moment: Daniel showing up at Kim's doorstep, Sam breaking down in tears in the end of 'Garage Door'

Gilmore Girls

I'm not sure this one counts as a teen drama, maybe it's more of a dramedy but I'm still including it here. It's funny, the dialogue is witty and full of obscure pop-culture references and the relationships between generations complex. Same as with Freaks and Geeks, the portrayal of high school is pretty realistic. Characters are shown studying and taking tests and not just partying all the time. However the show loses points for getting weirdly soapy in the 7th season. The dialogue wasn't as good and the camera angles were soap opera like and the storylines weren't very good either. You could really tell the show changed show-runners. The earlier seasons are the best. It's hard to explain but something about them feels cozy like a warm blanket and a cup of hot chocolate on a rainy day.

Weirdest moment: Lorelai marrying Chris and then making the whole "you're the man I want to want" speech, Lorelai defending and loving Dean for no reason

Best moment: Rory's graduation speech, Rory yelling at Chris and calling him out for not having been there for her, Then She Appeared, "Yes Emily, you may go first"... there are so many!

[janeofcakes]

It Could Be Us

I'M BACK! Jane is back again!!

Christ, when I said I 'd have my one shot up in no time at all I had no fucking clue what I was talking about. Seriously, none whatsoever. I feel like this has taken longer than posting all of KYFC. Hopefully I got all the formatting right in the end and nothing is confusing.

In any case, here it is at last! It's my Christmas present to you. I hope you all like it. Without further ado or sass, let's get right into it.

-----

The dance floor was already packed as John walked into the club. He had expected nothing less for a Friday night, and a late one at that. It was just after eleven o’clock and the club was in full swing. The lights were low and the bass thumped a steady rhythm he could feel in the floor beneath his feet. It had been a long day at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, packed with patients and an emergency surgery right at the end that kept him late again. He had dashed out of the hospital as soon as he was finished and grabbed a cab to a chip shop around the corner from the club for a quick bite. He came straight to the club after that one detour. He had meant to arrive earlier, like nine o’clock earlier. He could only hope the man he was to meet was still here, or had been here at all. Now the pounding music and vibrating floor rippled electric sparks through his body, making him want nothing more than to join the pulsing throng of people on the floor. He had the burning desire to be free and forget everything, but he had to find someone first. The man of the hour.

John had come at his request because they had not had much time to themselves lately. Both of their jobs had ramped up and meeting together had become difficult. John bit the inside of his cheek in irritation as he scanned the floor. A night in the club, much as he enjoyed their usual haunt, did not mesh with his vision of ‘quality time’.

John puffed out a breath of annoyance as his eyes ran the length of the floor like laser beams tracking prey. Though his focus was razor sharp, it was still a challenge to find any one person amid the countless bodies crammed together in the space, but the man he was looking for was very hard to miss. He was very distinctive in his look and manner. He always put on a show for John’s benefit or was getting into a fight that he never started, as he often declared in a, frankly, obnoxious tone to everyone within five feet. John huffed again. The man he was looking for was decidedly not there and never had been, in spite of his promise.

John grumbled darkly to himself, heading for the bar and the club’s sole proprietor, Greg Lestrade. He and Greg had met some ten years ago and the club was a hotspot even then. Now it was one of the most well-known on this side of London, but still retained its own rustic-city style with brick walls and an antique, solid oak bar. So many others had strayed toward trendy and pretentious, which only made John love this place more.

“Evening,” John said as he approached the end of the bar.

“John,” Greg’s face brightened as he placed a glass in front of a woman who winked at him as she picked it up. He gave her a sort of lop-sided smile he had perfected over the years and then turned his attention to John. “Rather late for you, isn’t it? No work tomorrow?”

“My day off,” John replied with a slight laugh, leaning against the bar and resting his arm on its surface. “I need it. Ten days on and just as many late nights. I feel like the Duracell bunny, but on half full batteries from a Poundland Christmas sale.”

“And many more lives saved,” Greg reached over the bar to pat John’s shoulder. “You’re a credit to the profession.”

“Ta,” John mumbled, feeling his cheeks flush and ducking his head at the unexpected praise. He recovered quickly and gestured haphazardly behind his back. “You’re doing well yourself. Another busy night I see.”

“With me on the floor, no less,” Greg remarked looking out over the dance floor. “I forgot how hot it gets in here. Usual?”

“Ta,” John watched as Greg stepped away to grab a short glass and a bottle of Talisker.

“Sally called in sick,” Greg handed him the drink as John’s brows shot up and his jaw dropped. “Can you believe it?”

“No,” John shook his head, still holding the amber and ice-filled glass out over the bar where Greg had handed it to him. “Not Sally. No way. You’re having me on.”

“Apparently, even The Machine gets the flu,” Greg said by way of explanation. He continued with a shrug. “Who knew? To be honest, I hope it doesn’t spread around. She sounded terrible.”

Greg leaned in and rested his own elbow on the bar’s top as John took a quick sip from his drink. The burn as it slipped down his throat punctuated his mood. He had been in this situation many times before, waiting at the bar with Greg while his boyfriend remained absent, but John would damned if he let it ruin his evening this time. When Greg continued speaking, John made a concerted effort to improve his own disposition.

“Anyway, no one on the short list could make it, so here I am,” Greg grinned and gave a slight bow, “at your service, m’lud.”

“Good for you,” John laughed, placing his drink on the bar. “Keeps you humble.”

“It does at that,” Greg chortled. He watched as John’s eyes scanned the dance floor and the club’s entrance again. The smile slowly faded from Greg’s face as he headed down the bar to sort out some drinks for a few people before returning to his friend.

“You looking for him?” he finally asked, passing John a bowl of bite-sized pretzels. John nodded his thanks and tossed one back, grateful that Greg always remembered he was not a fan of crisps, at all. Greg still jibed John about it. How can you possibly like pretzels and not crisps, John? They are, more or less, the same. Just a munchie to take your mind off things. John’s rebuttal always outlined every last way in which they were, in fact, not at all the same.

“Yeah,” he replied in an even tone, not wanting to fully broadcast his irritation. Greg was perceptive though and John knew it. Damn that man learned too much about people’s tells in all his years of bar tending. “He called me at work and wanted to meet here. We’ve not seen much of each other lately.”

“Right,” Greg drew out the word just enough to convey his disbelief without being an ass about it.

“You seen him?” John asked, already knowing the answer.

“I have not,” Greg said flatly. John pursued his lips and looked away, giving a slight nod as his only confirmation.

“Have you seen…”

“No,” Greg cut him off. The two men looked at each other, brows furrowed in mutual understanding. The muscles in John’s jaw flexed as he gnashed his teeth. Greg sighed next to him and John broke eye contact only to look over the floor again in another unsuccessful attempt to find the man he sought while trying with all his might to ignore everything unsaid between them.

“Far be it for me to…” Greg began, but John raised a hand to stop him. There was no need for him to hear it all again. It made no difference. John would wait. Always.

“Then don’t,” he said sharply, meeting Greg’s eyes again. “All right. Just leave it.”

John knew it was defensive and unnecessary. Greg would never in a million years judge him, but to have this happen time and time again hurt. Greg’s words always stung, even though he meant them in the most supportive way possible. John knew he should take them to heart and he did, just not enough to do anything about it. It was true his relationship was far from perfect, but in all honesty, he really did not give a toss. It was what it was and it was easy to ignore what he did not like.

“Sure,” Greg answered after a pause with a look that told John he wanted to say more. He knew John and the whole situation far too well.

“Hey, Bossman,” a man named Roland called from down the bar. Greg and John looked his way immediately to see a bottle in each of his hands and people crowding the opposite side of the bar. “Give us a hand, mate.”

“‘Course, Rol, of course,” Greg straightened and gave John another look before walking away. You deserve better than that piece of shit. We both know and yet, look at yourself. “Be back in a few,” was what he said instead.

John waved him off and took another drink. He watched Greg and Roland mix drinks for a bit, chuckling whenever his friend fended off the flirtations of both men and women alike. The man was an enigma, never showing interest in any gender or persuasion, the ideal businessman. It was really no different from him at Bart’s, John supposed. Still, it suddenly seemed odd that in all the years he had known Greg he never mentioned a partner and John had never asked.

John frowned into his empty glass as if it held all the answers of the universe. Forty-two, as they say. He let out a short chuckle with a slight shake of his head and then a sigh as he turned his stool to look back out at the sea of dancers. Deep in thought, he was not really looking at anything at all until his eyes came into focus on a pair of ethereal blue ones staring back at him. John blinked in surprise and jerked his head back as if burnt. The stare belonged to a tall, impossibly sexy brunette who demanded space in the massive throng of heaving, shifting bodies. He danced like his body was possessed by the music itself. His limbs and movements appeared graceful, elegant and effortless in spite of the speed and vulgarity of the hip hop track that filled the air. His white shirt glowed in the blacklight above him, drawing more attention to the V of his neckline that was nothing less than a delicious, scandalous temptation where two buttons left undone exposed his pale throat. His black jeans hugged every sharp edge as well as the curve of an ass that had no right to be as plush as it was for a thin frame such as his.

John snapped his mouth closed quickly, unsure of how long his lips had been parted in wonder and awe. Too long judging by the smirk the man gave him with that sidelong glance as he continued to sway his hips. God, he did it with such skill it was obscene and John could not stop himself staring. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, and took a sip of scotch. John had seen this man here before quite a few times and he had seen him go into the back offices with Greg almost every time. He had even seen them leave together and yet, John had never asked Greg about it and Greg had not volunteered. John had simply not thought it any of his business. Now John wondered why he had never stopped to consider this one exception to Greg’s rule.

When John’s eyes came to rest on him again, he blinked and blinked again in shock. That man, that gorgeous man with legs a mile long and cheekbones sharp enough to cut yourself with was absolutely not dancing his way toward John. He was decidedly not staring at John with his mesmerizing and other worldly eyes. John’s mouth went dry again and he blinked once more for good measure, his brain seizing utterly. He watched, unable to look at anyone else as the man left the floor and swept up to the bar next to him. The man gave John a knowing smile and studied him with a sultry, but intensely intelligent gaze. Dumbfounded, John could only look back at him with wide eyes and will his own brain to work again before he truly proved himself a complete idiot.

“Hello, John,” a deep baritone, all dark chocolate and velvet rumbled from the man’s chest. John’s lips parted and he nearly gasped, but swallowed it down along with his surprise. How the hell did this man, with perfect cupid’s bow lips, know his name? “I’ve seen you here before. We have a friend in common.”

John stared at him, eyes shining with unanswered questions. The smirk he got and the tilt of the man’s head, curls bouncing in the direction down the bar. Greg. Of course, Greg. He must have told this mysterious man John’s name. The doctor tilted his head as well, unable to look away from that angular face now framed by soft, dark curls as their owner tilted his head upright again. Suddenly John’s heart skipped a beat as his mind caught up with the conversation. Did that mean this dazzling beauty had asked Greg about him?

“My name is Sherlock,” that voice continued and John fought with himself not to melt on the spot.

“Hi,” John forced his voice to croak out. “John.”

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock’s lips curled upward as his eyes studied, no read John’s face. John felt like this clever man could read his entire life with a simple glance, much less the current scrutiny. John stared like a moron as his mind caught up with the situation at hand and he closed his eyes in regret. He had just spluttered the most idiotic introduction to a man who already knew his name. God, he was so stupid.

“Sorry, sorry,” John blurted, opening his eyes to see that Sherlock had perched himself on the bar stool next to him. He seemed to have finished sizing John up and also appeared to have no intention of leaving. “I was… It’s nice to meet you.”

“You come here often,” Sherlock stated, his eyes sharp. Goddamn if he did not have the longest lashes John had ever seen.

“Greg’s a good friend,” John answered. Finally his brain seemed to be back online and able to communicate. “And I like the club.”

“And you like to dance,” the corners of Sherlock’s mouth crooked up slyly.

“You’ve seen me dance?” John asked, a little startled. This lithe specter of the dance floor had noticed him? Sherlock just replied with a satisfied and very amused expression.

“I’ve seen you too,” John continued, finding his usual confidence again. “You’re very good.”

“As are you,” Sherlock stated. He rested both elbows on the bar and laced his fingers in between, a calculating edge to his gaze. “You’re here alone.”

John’s body grew tense in an instant. His mouth pressed into a thin and serious line.

“You’re usually here with that detestable little man who drinks too much and yells at the other dancers,” Sherlock ignored the sudden change in John’s demeanor.

Instead of being angry at the slight, John eased up and huffed a laugh in spite of himself. He could feel the muscles in his body relaxing just as quickly as they had tightened and marveled for a moment at his reaction. He began to study Sherlock more intentionally.

“Yeah, that’s Jim all right,” John laughed again. “My other half.”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock nearly choked on his words. He clearly had not deduced the full extent of their relationship. Maybe Sherlock had not asked Greg about him after all. John’s heart sank a little. Then he saw Sherlock’s eyes fall to his left hand, looking for a ring then. John’s heartbeat sped up just a bit for that gesture alone.

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled awkwardly.

“Think nothing of it. Jim can be a real dick when he wants to be,” John reassured him with a friendly smile. “Takes a while to warm up to him.”

The skin beneath Sherlock’s eyes contracted slightly as he looked at John thoughtfully. The doctor could tell there were a myriad of questions turning circles in his mind and he was trying to pick one to start with. Rather than wait for it, John decided to counter with one of his own. One that was much on his mind at the moment.

“You usually leave with Greg,” it was not a question, but John’s voice rose with it as though it was. His Machiavellian expression made sure Sherlock understood his meaning, the underlying question in John’s uttered statement. The man was completely unphased by John’s directness, smiling and huffing a quiet laugh as he threw a handful of pretzels in his mouth.

“We’re flatmates,” he clarified with an easy shrug and then added after taking in the change in John’s features: “Yes, just flatmates. We keep each other honest.”

“Oh?” John tilted his head, interest peaked by that casual statement. “What does that mean?”

“I make sure he leaves this place once in a while and he makes sure I sleep on occasion,” Sherlock smirked, holding a pretzel between his index and middle fingers.

“Alone?” John asked mischievously and Sherlock snorted, obviously quite amused.

“Yes, alone,” he confirmed with a good-natured nod. “I don’t do romantic liaisons or spend meaningful moments with people.”

Sherlock’s face pulled itself together as if John had told him to bathe in the Thames for the foreseeable future. A smile instantly appeared on John’s face and he huffed a quick laugh as he watched the man before him.

“My time is far too valuable to spend it with such frivolities and imbeciles,” the brunette continued with his nose wrinkled as though the steak and kidney pie had gone decidedly off.

“And why is that?” John leaned further onto the bar, extremely interested now. He was not sure if it was because this man was a friend of Greg’s or just that he was so damn interesting, but John thoroughly enjoyed teasing him and was not about to stop. Maybe being in the club on his own tonight was not so bad after all. “What is it that keeps the great Sherlock…”

“Holmes,” the man supplied when John paused, the dramatic effect it created not lost on either of them.

“...Holmes so busy?” John extended his hand to wave with a flourish between the two of them. Sherlock watched him with smiling eyes and a dazzling grin on his face.

“I assist the police when they are out of their depth, which is always,” Sherlock answered, growing quite serious. “I am a Consulting Detective.”

John could see the cautious pride shining through the haughty answer.

“Yeah? And they pay you for sticking your nose in?” was the first thing that popped out of John’s mouth. God only knows why. He was not usually such a tease, nor such an idiot. He watched the flicker of hurt slither over the brunette’s expressive face and bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from repeatedly hitting his head against the bar counter. Nothing like opening his mouth and inserting his foot all the way down his own throat, he mused of his actions, especially considering he was in a somewhat relationship with Jim and all, but there was something about this man. It was something so powerful and too complicated for John to understand just yet.

“Yes, as well as private clients,” Sherlock remarked sharply. His brow wrinkled in confusion, creating a ridge across the bridge of his nose that had John holding back a smile. “Why wouldn’t they pay me?”

“Uh, no reason. I just.. I’ve never heard of it before,” John replied slowly, trying to gather his thoughts.

“I should think not. I invented it,” Sherlock said haughtily, the pleasure obvious in his whole body. A sudden laugh burst from John’s lips, taking both men by surprise. Sherlock’s features were just beginning to harden when John caught his breath to speak.

“That’s brilliant!” he exclaimed, clapping the taller man on the shoulder and beaming at him with bright eyes, their depths growing even more blue with his merriment. “It sounds amazing.”

He pulled a now stunned Sherlock in so their heads were close together. Their faces only inches apart, John eyed the man with an almost childlike excitement.

“How do you do it?” John asked in a tone that bubbled with enthusiasm. “Are you a psychologist or a profiler or some mad genius who uses his power for the greater good? You know, all tall, dark, handsome and broody, but really on the side of the angels?”

John chuckled at his own quirkiness and somehow knew Sherlock would understand his sense of humor perfectly. Sure enough, the man’s mouth curled into a knowing smile and he cocked a brow. The expression made John think of Loki, God of Mischief himself. His chest gave into a tingling squeeze and he delighted in the pleasurable shivers rushing over his head and back.

“All of the above,” Sherlock said simply and John laughed heartily, his head ducking in even closer to Sherlock’s.

“I don’t doubt it,” John chuckled. He met Sherlock’s eyes. “I’d love to hear about it. Somewhere else,” he took a steadying breath. What the hell was he doing? “Quieter so we don’t have to yell.”

John’s eyes bounced to Sherlock’s lips for a brief moment and his gut clenched. Before he could beat himself up for blatantly flirting, their eyes locked and he saw the answer in Sherlock’s before he heard the confirmation in his words.

“I know a restaurant not far from here,” Sherlock replied quickly and decisively. “It’s open late and I know the owner.”

“Did you help him with a case?” John blurted with ardor.

“I got him off a murder charge,” Sherlock answered in amusement, his rumbling baritone honeyed with satisfaction. John gulped, so caught up in the sheer brilliance of this man. There were a thousand questions in John’s mind and he wanted to ask every single one as soon as they could get out of the club with its loud beat, blaring music and tons of people.

“Absolutely! I’d love to...oh,” he stopped himself mid-sentence and his face fell, coming to his senses before getting far in his reply. Releasing Sherlock’s shoulder and straightening up, John remembered why he was here tonight. Jim was the whole reason for even being in the club. He could not just leave.

“I’m sorry. I can’t,” John muttered, barely loud enough to hear over the din. Disappointment shown thick on his face and in his tone. “I’m meeting someone.”

Sherlock made no reply and simply watched as John lowered his eyes to the floor. Damn it, John wanted to go with this man. He needs to go with this man, but it would not be right. Oh, fuck it all. Fuck Jim and whatever he may think. He was always sneaking around with Moran anyway. Let him think John was sneaking around for a change.

No. John dismissed that as soon as he thought it. That was not why he wanted to leave the club with Sherlock. John had no interest in making Jim jealous. He just wanted to spend more time with the fascinating consulting detective. My god, John wanted to learn all he could: his work, how he had conceived of it, how he met Greg, everything. John had never been so drawn to a person in his life and was more than a little pissed off to have met him tonight when he was here waiting for fucking Jim Moriarty to show up.

“Dance with me,” Sherlock said suddenly when the tempo of the music changed and echoed around them. John blinked at him, the words bringing him back from his thoughts. Sherlock was serious. He knew why John was at the club, who he was waiting for, and he was serious.

“I can’t,” John’s voice was dull, but his face was full of surprise. “I have a boyfriend.”

“I know,” Sherlock replied steadily, not backing down.

“But I’m waiting for him,” John told him dumbly with an exasperated sigh. Nothing like abandoning any attempt at being articulate.

“No one should ever keep you waiting, John,” Sherlock said with conviction. John tucked his chin, turning his head slightly, but kept his eyes on Sherlock. A crease formed on his forehead and his brow furrowed as he tried to wrap his head around this man. He clearly knew far more about John than John did of him, either from Greg or his own deductions. It was also clear that he was very keen on spending more time with John. The doctor was both dumbfounded and thrilled by this knowledge.

John opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. There were so many things John wanted to say and could give voice to none. The words just hung there in his mind and refused to become the sentences he needed.

“I could be your boyfriend,” Sherlock’s deep voice halted John’s mind completely.

“What?” John struggled to understand. “But I have…”

“He isn’t here,” Sherlock cut him off in a soft but firm tone. John looked at him with unabashed confusion and disbelief. Sherlock swallowed and placed a hand on John’s. The doctor stared at it with wide eyes that shifted back to Sherlock’s. “Just for this song… I could be your boyfriend.”

“I shouldn’t. I…” John looked into his eyes and everything stopped. John did not even hear the music anymore. Sherlock’s eyes were... mysterious. John had thought they were blue, but now they appeared silver, green, blue. They seemed to shift with every thought that passed through that brilliant mind. How had John never noticed before? Simple, really. He had never been this close to Sherlock before and certainly never thought he would be. John was always here with Jim, and Moran and the whole entourage. Naturally, he danced with Jim, but his eyes had always found Sherlock.

Sherlock on the dance floor with his long, elegant limbs and swaying hips. Such amazing hips. He could move like no one John had seen in real life and it was captivating. Lithe and smooth, every step and swoop and shift in perfect alignment with the music. Sherlock effortlessly danced to any song or genre and Greg’s DJs liked to mix it up too. From hip hop to techno via pop or the 80s. They were even known to throw in slow songs so patrons could relive their high school prom nights. Jim always wrapped his arms around John and snuffled into his neck during those songs. John had tried to do the same, but his heart was never in it, especially during the last few months.

John and Jim had started growing apart a long time ago. They were happy once and for quite a while, in fact. They met when John was still in med school during the A&E rotation. Jim was working in construction and had sliced a substantial gash in his forearm. They hit it off while John stitched him up and Jim asked him out before he left for home that night. The rest, as they say, was history.

A few months in, they began staying the night in one another’s flats, but did not even think about moving in together. John could not explain why, and Jim had asked regularly, but he was not ready for such a big step. It was something that would truly bind them together and John was not certain he wanted that. Two years later, John was out of school and already a skilled surgeon. Jim had climbed the ranks quickly and now owned his own construction company. Then Sebastian Moran came into the picture. Jim had hired him as an assistant. It was a typical occurrence for John to put in late nights or be called in for emergencies, but then Jim started working late too. John thought nothing of it at first, but it did not take long to figure it out. In spite of his somewhat jealous nature, John said nothing. It was easier to let it go and just make excuses to Jim about why he could not stay nights at John’s flat.

John first noticed Sherlock at Greg’s club a year ago. John was there with Jim and a slow song had just started as Jim began to pick a fight with a rather large and nasty-looking man. John pulled him onto the dance floor and tucked his chin to his own shoulder to calm him down. A few bars into the song and John’s eyes had found Sherlock. He was wrapped around another tall man, both equal in height, all the parts of their bodies lined up perfectly for the dirtiest dancing John had witnessed in a long time. He had tried not to watch them, but could not stop himself. Sherlock, still nameless to him at that time, was simply captivating.

John noticed him on the dance floor a few more times after that night and Sherlock was always dancing with a different man. This new knowledge had befuddled John. He had assumed Sherlock and the tall man were together, but that was clearly not the case. He started paying more attention and his hunch was confirmed every time he saw Sherlock at the club. That was when John started to keep track of who Sherlock left the club with and it was Greg. Only ever Greg. He had wanted to ask Greg about it so badly, but never did. He respected his friend’s privacy and part of him did not want to know whether or not Sherlock was attached to anyone in general, or to Greg in particular.

Whatever their relationship, John could not stop noticing Sherlock when he was on the dance floor and he carried the guilt of it wherever he went. He should not, should never lust after a friend’s boyfriend the way he did after Sherlock, but there were Sherlock’s arms lifting and swaying, lowering slowly and gracefully. Then his undulating hips and his ass, that gorgeous, plush ass in perfectly fitted jeans, swishing and thrusting to the beat. God, it was like watching pornography and now Sherlock was here, right in front of John and not at all with Greg and asking John to dance with him. It was unbelievable, and John was about to say no. Why the fuck would he say no? Why when part of him had secretly hoped for this exact scenario to occur one day?

“Okay,” John said suddenly in a voice that did not sound like his own.

Sherlock’s eyes lit up, making them sparkle a decidedly silver sheen and a brilliant smile spread across his full lips. He offered a hand and John took it, allowing himself to be led onto the floor. As they found a place within the other bodies around them, piano chords rang out through the club and a pure tone began to sing lyrics so ironic that John could not help but smile.

         In the faded light you touch my body

         I can feel your hands on my skin

         Think you got me right where you want me

         But you’re just in my way.

John and Sherlock both swayed skillfully, waiting for the tempo to pick up and for the playful chorus to kick in. Sherlock rolled his shoulders to the music, snapping his head back with the flare of a flamenco dancer at just the right moment. His curls floated through the air for just a moment as though defying gravity’s bonds and then fell artfully around his face as he gave John a cheeky smirk. John could not help and laughed as the song broke open and they both began moving to the faster beat. The music and lyrics wrapped around them as they pulsed their way through the two men’s bodies and minds.

         I came to party on my oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-wn

         Don’t need nobody in my so-oh-oh-oh-ng

         I get down to the beat, I lose contro-oh-oh-oh-l

         Hey, oh, I go so-oh-oh so-oh-oh-lo

Both men reached their stride as the chorus and the fun continued. John popped his chest to the beat, moving his bent arms in counterpoint and shifting his weight with what the rhythm provided. Sherlock’s hips swayed with his dancing feet and he lifted his hands above his head.

         Boy, you can cool it dow-ow-ow-ow-ow-own

         Not here to fool arou-ow-ow-ow-ound

         Just wanna dance, dance, dance

         Dance, dance, dance

They started the song a respectable, casual distance apart, as any two new acquaintances would. Clearly still dancing together and that space was maintained throughout the duration. Honestly, John could not care less because dancing like this, to have fun and be free was exactly what he needed. It felt so liberating to just move without feeling the urge to prove something to himself or to Jim, and dancing Sherlock just felt right. Really, really right. Even though they had only just met, John had already begun to feel as though their actual introduction had taken place a long time ago.

Another song began that was one of John’s favorites and he let out a hoot as the faster beat took hold of his body. He switched his weight from one foot to the other, turning his body to match, sometimes twice in the same direction before changing.

        Got a figure like a pin-up, got a figure like a doll

        Don’t care if you think I’m dumb, I don’t care at all

        Candy bear, sweetie pie, wanna be adored

         I’m the girl you’d die for

John’s moves intensified as the verse came to an end and he began to mouth the words in anticipation of the chorus, giving Sherlock a cheeky grin as he did it. The man matched his expression and movements beat for beat.

         I’m Miss Sugar Pink, liquor, liquor lips

         Hit me with your sweet love, steal me with a kiss

         I’m Miss Sugar Pink, liquor, liquor lips

         I’m gonna be your bubblegum bitch

         I’m gonna be your bubblegum bitch

John was enjoying himself so thoroughly, he almost did not notice Sherlock slowly closing the gap between them. It was not a huge shift of the space between them. Sherlock was not suddenly up in his business, grinding against his leg, but he was closer nonetheless. The tips of John’s ears prickled with heat and not just from the dancing. His whole body was hot with it. A burning deep inside of him, just like the feeling low in his stomach was not so much from nervousness as it was from anticipation of what was yet to come. Would Sherlock inch even closer? Did John want him to? Goddamn right he did.

There was no fade out. One song moved seamless and fluidly into the next. This one took them into a heavier beat and a more forceful step. The drums and velveteen rough voice brought the floor into a darker place and the lights went down to match it. As if reading John’s mind, Sherlock stepped closer to him almost as soon as the song began. He lip-synced the words and drifted around John where he danced. The mysterious and sultry look on Sherlock’s face pulled John’s eyes in as he moved. As the first verse neared its end, Sherlock’s fingers scraped across John’s chest and lingered as they slid around to his back. The doctor’s skin tingled along the trail of Sherlock’s hands, the touch powerful in spite of the fabric between them. John’s mind jumped in his skull to thoughts he never would have anticipated when he walked into the club: God, to feel Sherlock’s skin on his. Nothing between them, no clothes, no air, no space. It would be electric. John swallowed back a groan as he continued to watch those silver-green eyes take in his every movement. Shit, the man could probably read his mind.

          Since I thought you and me

          Well, I am imagining a dark lit place

          Or your place or my place

          Well, I’m not paralyzed, but I seem to be struck by you

          I wanna make you move because you’re standing still

When the chorus began, both John and Sherlock leaned forward toward each other. John’s lips parted and new droplets of sweat bloomed at his hairline. Not just from the dancing, but from the desire pooling in his belly and the thoughts taking root in his mind. John quickly lifted a hand and wiped his forehead in an almost unconscious gesture. He had never eye-fucked someone so hard in his life and every bit of the effort was reciprocated.

         If your body matches what your eyes can do

         You’ll probably move right through me on my way to you

Their faces were dangerously close again. John could feel Sherlock’s breath ghosting over his face and he found himself wishing, hoping for the other man to do something. They pulled away to stand side by side, staring into one another’s eyes before moving in different directions to curl their bodies in identical fluid motions. They met again a moment later, back to back and angled in the same direction, their cheeks pressed together. John pushed against the taller man and he leaned into John as they slowly dropped low and raised up again, snapped their heads back and broke apart to dance in their own idioms again.

Sherlock rolled his hips and head, fingers sinking in his hair. John was dancing just as enthusiastically, but also completely mesmerized. He had not felt anything like it in some time and he did not even try to stop it. It was the feeling of attraction and one so strong he gravitated toward it like a moth to a flame. His life was suddenly full of possibility and so intoxicating John could never turn away. He and Sherlock fit together like the pieces of a puzzle. There was no denying it, but did Sherlock feel it too or was John just another person on the dance floor?

Suddenly the lights went up and a new song filled the club. Sherlock turned his head toward John and he felt the puff of Sherlock’s hot breath on his neck. A shiver traveled down the length of his spine and he hoped Sherlock had not noticed, but was quite certain he had. To John’s great delight, Sherlock seemed genuinely pleased with what he saw.

“I believe I misjudged you, John,” Sherlock called over the noise around them, his face every bit the smug bureaucrat who is too posh for his own good. John raised his brows in response, an unspoken question on his lips. He wanted to take whatever Sherlock was about to say seriously, but how could he possibly do it when he had that look on his face? Sherlock continued in a very superior tone, barely keeping the corners of his mouth from quirking upwards. “You’re a much better dancer than I expected.”

A wide grin spread across John’s face as Sherlock began to chuckle. He shook his head a little and laughed with the snarky detective. Without a thought, he reached up and cupped the back of Sherlock’s neck, tugging his face down until it was close to his own. John looked into his eyes, wide with surprise, and moved in closer. Their cheeks brushed as John pressed his lips to the taller man’s ear and the sensation weakened his knees.

“You’re amazing,” John uttered with nothing less than awe. That was not quite what he had meant to say. Then again, what had he intended upon saying? John pulled back, biting his bottom lip in embarrassment, unsure of how to explain that one away. Sherlock’s cool eyes looked back at him without a hint of reproach as a deep, melodic voice boomed over the floor.

         Wise men say only fools rush in

         But I can’t help falling in love with you

Sherlock’s hands found John’s waist and they began to dance in a slow shift. They moved their bodies so one shoulder was forward and then the other. By the third line, they had separated so they could better move to the solid beat and bright trumpet sound, but remained connected by holding one hand or even both.

         Shall I stay?

         Would it be a sin?

         I can’t help falling in love with you

         As the river flows gently to the sea

         Darling, so it goes

Sherlock lifted John’s hand high to draw him in and used his other hand to guide John into a quick turn so his back ended up flush against the front of Sherlock’s body. John pulled Sherlock’s hand down and caught hold of the other one too. As the music swelled, John rested their hands on his hips and they ground together, bending their knees a bit and inching down lower. John tilted his head back to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder, closed his eyes and nearly moaned.

         Some things were meant to be

         Take my hand

         Take my whole life too

         ‘Cause I can’t help falling in love with you

As the song continued, the other dancers and the club with its lights and noise fell away. Suddenly, John and Sherlock were the only two people for miles around. It was just them and the music. They danced and danced and the song seemed to go on forever. John turned to face Sherlock, their bodies still close together and hips moving as one. John looked into those grey eyes, sparkling and bright, and completely lost himself in them. They were not the eyes of a stranger he had just met or someone he had seen from across the club, but those of a friend. A friend he had known for years and who knew John as well as he knew himself. Those eyes filled John with comfort and a longing to go to that restaurant Sherlock had suggested, leaving Jim behind for good. Of all the time John had spent with Jim, he could not think of a single one when he saw this much in his eyes.

John blinked when he felt Sherlock’s hands rest heavily on his shoulders. The man was still swaying in perfect time with John, who must have been on auto-pilot, but wore a look of mild concern on his face. Sherlock tilted his head as if to ask “You okay?”. John grinned sheepishly and nodded as the music swelled one last time. Both men, as well as everyone on the floor, threw their hands up and sang.

        I can’t help falling in love with you

        No, I can’t help falling in love with you

The close of the song bled right into the next one. Without missing a beat or pausing for awkwardness, Sherlock held one of John’s hands to his chest and slid the other around the shorter man’s waist, taking the lead. John put his hand on Sherlock’s hip, flashing a sly smile and effectively stealing the lead. Sherlock laughed and followed John as he set the pace for their steps. Around them, the whole dance floor began to relax after the long stint of nothing but fast and furious. Many headed for the bar to make Greg’s night incredibly harried once again.

John’s throat was dry and his body covered with a sheen of sweat, but he was not about to move an inch from where they stood together. He was truly glad and even excited for the time to touch and study this man. The music swells and ebbs away with them swaying to it. A soft fade set the stage for the signature voice of Spandau Ballet to begin.

        So true, funny how it seems always in time, but never in line for dreams

        Head over heels and toe to toe

John’s chest opened and it felt like all the force of Sherlock’s feelings rushed in, like when an anime character is enveloped with light and energy.

        This is the sound of my soul

        This is the sound

There was no question in John’s mind that what was happening to him was the same for Sherlock.

“So what do you do for the police?” John asked. It was a question of many, not all pertaining to what “consulting detective” meant, but it was as good a place as any to start. “What does a ‘consulting detective’ do?”

“I see the evidence no one else can,” Sherlock answered after a pause. “I make the connections immediately and tell the police what to do next, where to go. I read people.”

“Read people?” John’s brow rose to his hairline. “What? You mean you can tell what a person is thinking?”

“More like who they are,” Sherlock replied. “What they do and where they live. What their motivations are. That sort of thing.”

“You can tell all that by just looking at someone?” John’s lips parted in a smile of disbelief.

“Yes. Let me show you,” Sherlock turned his chin and looked out at the people around them. “Look at that woman at the bar.”

“Can you be more specific?” John laughed, but looked anyway in the direction Sherlock pointed with his head. “There are quite a few.”

“The one in pink with the dark hair and flashy belt,” Sherlock directed John’s eyes until his gaze settled on a middle-aged woman holding a martini. She was laughing at something the man with her, clad in a trendy-cut white suit, had said. He tapped his G & T against her glass in a toast.

“The one with the husband in the tacky suit?” John inquired and cringed. “He must glow in the dark when the blacklights are on.”

“Not her husband,” Sherlock corrected, his tone flat. John’s brows shot up again as he met the detective’s sharp eyes.

“I’m listening,” John said cooly, but with extreme interest.

“She lives outside of London and travels in more often than necessary for business, which she does actually do while here so she doesn’t feel as guilty, but she mostly comes to see him,” Sherlock explained in a confident tone. He sounded as if he was reading a book. It could not possibly be something he just made up on the fly and John was captivated. He watched Sherlock’s face as it flowed from one expression to another. “They favor this club because no one who knows them typically patronizes dance clubs. Not to mention the atmosphere lends itself well to a certain anonymity for all its patrons.”

Sherlock stopped a moment to insert a turn in their dance, in spite of the fact that he was not leading. John followed along with a quiet chuckle. Sherlock added a series of steps that ended with them closer to the edge of the dance floor, but still far enough away from the bar and the couple they were watching. Dozens of people talking and laughing at tables separated them. Even if the woman or her lover looked out to the dance floor and saw Sherlock and John, neither would think anything of it.

“Her daughter died recently,” Sherlock said. “In the last four years and she has taken up with this man to start a new life, but can’t let go of the old one. She doesn’t love her husband anymore, but feels she would lose what little of her daughter she has left. She clearly shared physical characteristics with her father, likely the eyes and nose. Seeing them in her husband’s face brings the woman comfort.”

John’s forehead crinkled with doubt, his lips curling into a skeptical smirk.

“How could you possibly know all that?” he cocked a brow and tucked his chin, pulling away from Sherlock slightly for a better look at him. “You’re having me on. You just made that up.”

“On the contrary, John,” Sherlock leaned his head in and gazed directly into John’s eyes with his pair of intense, calculating ones. “I not only see, but observe. I use this place not only for the pleasure of dancing and the delight of Greg’s company, but also to hone my skills. I observe the patterns, the evidence, and draw conclusions. I am never wrong.”

“Okay,” John stumbled over his own thoughts, trying to comprehend, “but how can you know all that from just…”

“Tonight?” Sherlock interrupted. A sly grin spread across his features and he shook his head slowly. “You forget that I’m here nearly every time you are and more. This place is a hotbed of experiments for me, an opportunity to sharpen my skills and occasionally solve a case.”

John’s eyes widened slightly, intrigued with both the mystery and the man himself. John’s tongue darted over his bottom lip and he noticed Sherlock’s eyes flick to them momentarily before explaining his deductions.

“They never arrive together and one waits for the other in a different, inconspicuous place each time,” Sherlock continued. “She gives him a hotel key card each time so she doesn’t have to bring a handbag. They leave together and always in the same direction, presumably to said hotel. There is a pale ring around the third finger of her left hand where the rest of her skin is tanned. She never takes off the bracelet she wears and it has a single charm that is actually the heart-shaped pendant from a child’s necklace.”

John glanced at the woman laughing again with her partner as he considered Sherlock’s words.

“Their pattern of frequency and the days on which their meetings occur suggest visits to the city for business and he is clearly not a colleague,” Sherlock added.

They watched as the man leaned in for a gentle kiss that she reciprocated. The couple appeared to be very taken with one another, very much in love, not desperate to get out of the club and into bed like new lovers. As if reading his mind, Sherlock leaned in to whisper in John’s ear.

“They have been involved for quite some time. You can see it,” he muttered. The soft wisp of his breath made John shiver and he turned to face him, their faces dangerously close.

“I could explain further, but do you really need me to?” Sherlock asked, his eyes flicking to John’s lips again.

“No,” John breathed. He shook his head slightly, staring at Sherlock agog. His mouth hung open a moment longer before stretching into a smile. “That was...amazing.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched and he pulled back to steady his gaze on John. The doctor’s grip tightened slightly in response as if determined to keep the man right where he stood.

        This much is true.

        This much is true-oo-oo

“You really think so?” Sherlock’s brow creased with confusion as John studied his reaction. It was positively endearing, perhaps because it was so unexpected. Sherlock had obviously made his deductions to impress, but still seemed genuinely surprised by John’s response. He was not used to being praised for his abilities, which told John all he needed to know about some of the assholes at New Scotland Yard.

“Yes,” John grinned up at him, pulling back a bit as the song came to an end, “of course. That was extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people usually say,” Sherlock mumbled after watching John for a moment. The next song increased in volume as the last one faded away. The prom-themed dance continued as John’s cheeks tinted at the thought that he and Sherlock were a couple. He hoped the detective had not noticed as he asked the next question curiously.

“What do people usually say?” John wondered, trying to divert attention from his pink cheeks. Too quickly, but Sherlock made no sign that he had noticed.

“Piss off,” he replied and John could not help but burst into laughter. Fortunately, a smile bloomed on Sherlock’s face as well, a glint of mischief and genuine amusement flickering through his eyes.

“Well, believe me, it isn’t. It’s bloody brilliant, that’s what it is,” John remarked as he changed their step slightly to fit with the new song. John took both of Sherlock’s hands in his and stepped back, putting more space between the two of them. Their arms outstretched, fingers laced together, they mirrored one another’s movements and smiles as a cheerful voice filled the club.

         When people keep repeating that you’ll never fall in love

         When everybody keeps retreating, but you can’t seem to get enough

         Let my love open the door

         Let my love open the door

         Let my love open the door to your heart

“Do someone else,” John urged, his voice full of excitement. He looked around quickly to find someone with a tale to tell. His eyes fell on a tall, thin man with disheveled brown hair that fell to his shoulders in layers. His chin and cheeks were covered by a full beard and mustache that betrayed his age with shades of grey, as did the lines around his eyes. He was dancing in a group with four other people, but more or less on his own. There was something about his appearance, his jumper and corduroy pants that made him look like someone who wore an aluminum foil hat at home.

“Do him!” John exclaimed, jerking his head to his left. Sherlock’s amused gaze followed and picked out the man instantly. He looked back at John with narrowed eyes and a knowing smirk.

“Accountant. Recently subscribed to a conspiracy theory that the company he works for is secretly financing an investigation into the death of John Lennon, who he believes is still alive and hiding somewhere in Yorkshire,” Sherlock stated as his feet took a step forward and back to the rhythm. He pulled John in a bit so they were closer when John gave him a stunned look. “There is no investigation, of course, and Lennon is most certainly dead. Not so in the mind of our friend with the beard, which he grew for his lover.”

John’s eyes widened.

“Affair with a colleague,” Sherlock said by way of explanation. “Her husband won’t grow facial hair and she likes the way it feels on her nether regions.”

A burst of laughter popped from John’s mouth before he could stop himself. It was so loud that he quickly pressed his lips together again and glanced toward the man for fear of drawing too much attention and giving them away. He need not have worried. The club was far too noisy for anyone to notice. Sherlock smirked, his eyes bright with amusement.

“He is concerned she will discover his suspicions about the company and Lennon and dump him,” he finished triumphantly. “There’s more, of course, but those are the highlights.”

“That’s…” John began as every part of his face brightened with delight, “unbelievable.”

He jerked their hands down to their sides, pulling Sherlock into his personal space and fixed him with a smoldering gaze.

“You have to explain how you know all that,” John nearly growled, “but later. Do someone else now.”

Sherlock’s criminally full lips quirked and his eyes warmed at the challenge, revealing shining flecks of green. For the next few minutes, Sherlock selected the most interesting subjects from the people around them and revealed the various secrets of their lives. Most were fairly normal with a few stranger outliers. It was all fantastic as far as John was concerned. From the boring Tesco clerk who snuck crisps and biscuits while stocking the shelves to the florist who taught her parrot to say ‘fuck you’ to troublesome costumers, John soaked in every word like a sponge.

By the time Sherlock finished, they were well into another song. It was the third in a string of songs that couples could use to their advantage, which meant there would be one more and then faster songs would rule again. John and Sherlock would have to part and dance further apart again. It was the last thing John wanted.

They had moved in closer again, seemingly unable to be apart for any length of time. They were not pressed together like the other people around them, but John’s hands rested comfortably around Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock’s fingers were wrapped around John’s biceps in a tender embrace. Their steps had turned into something more like a mere shuffling of feet as the great detective spoke quietly and John laughed or did double-takes. Everything about it was delicious and there was not a thought in John’s head that was not about this man.

John leaned forward to rest his forehead against Sherlock’s chest. He felt Sherlock’s breath falter and straightened again in a shot. He stared at Sherlock while internally berating himself for spoiling the moment. He swallowed hard, his mind searching for words and coming up empty. To his relief, their stilted movements grew more easy and relaxed as they listened to the lyrics drifting around them.

I never thought I’d lay me heart on the line, but everything about you is tellin’ me this time

It’s forever, this time I know and there’s no doubt in my mind

Forever, until my life is through

“You really are brilliant,” John said sincerely. He bit his lip as he watched Sherlock’s face slip from one expression to another. It was not the best thing to say and John had meant to say Sherlock’s deductions were brilliant, but he could not take it back and part of him did not want to.

A very big part.

“Do someone else,” John suggested lightly. Sherlock looked relieved and he let his eyes wander all around, looking for the next subject. John pressed his lips together and licked them with trepidation, never taking his own eyes off the taller man. “Do me?”

Sherlock’s expression changed in a heartbeat and his relaxed posture tightened into stiff muscles. His smile vanished, becoming a clenched jaw with muscles working beneath the skin. John felt the open door between them slam shut. Sherlock released his hold on John’s arms and began to step away. Shit, John was not entirely sure what he did wrong, but he had to make it right.

“John…”

“Hey, no, no,” John grabbed Sherlock’s wrists so he could not disappear in the mass of people on the floor. John knew that Sherlock would make sure John never saw him again unless he wanted him to. Panic creeped into his voice as he continued. “It’s okay. I didn’t mean to… I just… Don’t go. Please.”

He studied John with more than a little hesitation, but did not try to pull away again.

“I can’t,” Sherlock said in a shaky voice. He pressed his lips together, curling them in on one another. “People don’t like hearing my deductions. They don’t like that I know their secrets.”

“But they’re blindsided, Sherlock,” John ventured. “I’m asking and I think it’s fantastic. I do. It’s amazing.”

“John, I…” Sherlock ducked his head and then met John’s eyes. “I don’t want to drive you away.”

“You won’t,” John answered, face open but decisive. He gave Sherlock’s wrists a squeeze. “Please.”

They looked at one another in silence for a long moment, both gauging the other. Standing still in a sea of moving bodies.

           I see my future when I look in your eyes

           It took your love to make my heart come alive

           ‘Cause I lived my life believin’ all love is blind

           But everything about you is tellin’ me this time

           It’s forever

“You’re a doctor,” Sherlock began to say. His words were slow and careful. John gave him a warm smile and started swaying again. He let go of Sherlock’s wrist to slide a light hand to his waist and Sherlock obliged by moving closer and resting his own hand on John’s shoulder. John nodded in encouragement for him to continue. Sherlock eyed him with apprehension as he opened his mouth to speak.

“A surgeon, in fact and a skilled one at that. You consult with patients, who appreciate your bedside manner, but are also the first they call for emergencies,” Sherlock paused, looking more comfortable and resolute. He pressed on. “As a result, you spend a great deal of time at the hospital. St. Bart’s.”

John’s eyes widened and he wondered how Sherlock could know which hospital. He did not ask, unwilling to interrupt the brilliant man before him.

“You keep a rather modest flat, despite being able to afford more because you don’t see the point in having something extravagant. You spend little wakeful time at home,” Sherlock was on a roll now. The impressive line of his shoulders was relaxed and his jaw loosened. “You could change your hours, of course. You haven’t been at Bart’s long, but have the clout to do it already.”

Sherlock hesitated, studying John carefully. John knew immediately that Sherlock was not looking for more information. He had all of that already. Sherlock was assessing the damage his words might do to their budding friendship, or romance?

“Go on,” John prompted casually, trying only a little to hide his excitement at what Sherlock might say next. His words seemed to settle something inside of Sherlock and he continued.

“You don’t want to change anything about it though,” he stopped and studied John with great interest, the skin beneath his eyes contracting in thought and recognition. “You have a boyfriend and for some time, in fact, but you don’t live together by design. You were close once. Now you can count the number of times he’s been to your flat in the last six months on both hands. You have been to his more, though still not often and you never to stay the night. You have not been intimate for at least a year, but still enjoy spending time together as friends and you’ve wondered if that might not be the better route,” Sherlock sounded as though he could not stop himself if he tried now and John felt a little hot under the collar. The mad genius was definitely going to explain how he knew all of this.

“You even suspect he is seeing someone else. He has increased the time he spends with a certain friend, especially in the last four months, but you have done nothing to alter your relationship,” Sherlock gazed at John for a long moment, obviously seeing his growing irritation. His lips parted in what might have been an apology, but instead Sherlock spoke firmly. “He is not cheating.”

John’s body jerked back a touch at that, his eyes wide with surprise.

“Not physically anyway,” Sherlock clarified and actually looked a bit sad, “but an emotional connection really is more of a betrayal.”

With that, both men were silent. John’s eyes were still wide with shock, his lips parted. He searched for something to say, but did not think he could speak if he tried. There was no way Sherlock could know all that, especially about Jim. He could not possibly...and yet, John believed him. He let it wash over him as he and Sherlock continued to shuffle their feet. They moved slowly, nothing like their energetic dancing earlier in the night. John considered Jim, thinking about things he had avoided for months. Staying in the relationship, such as it was, made no sense and was not fair to either of them. It was not what John wanted and yet, whenever John thought about the time Jim spent with Moran it angered him, but why? Jim deserved to be happy as much as John did and if that was with Moran, then so be it.

“But now…” Sherlock’s voice pulled John back to himself and the dance floor where he had been moving by rote. His eyes focused back into the here and now, and he blinked at Sherlock’s thoughtful gaze. “You may have found someone else who’s worthwhile. A reason to change.”

Sherlock’s words stopped abruptly, as did their movements. Couples holding each other close swayed around them, but did not bump into them somehow. Sherlock’s body was rigid to match John’s, his face startled and filled with dread. He knew he had said too much. All of it was true, of course, right down to the notion that John was toying with the idea of asking Sherlock out on a proper date, but to say it aloud with so much presumption, because there could be no doubt as to who “someone else” referred to. Sherlock had inserted himself right into John’s life with the ease of that one comment and was clearly petrified John would be angry, insulted even. They had only just met, after all.

“It could be us,” Sherlock blurted suddenly. John half wondered if the man knew he had said it out loud, but his wide eyes and scarlet cheeks told John he did. “I could be yours, if you would be mine.”

Sherlock fell silent again, his lips clamping shut as though they had acted of their own accord and he had finally managed to regain control of them. John stared into his horrified face and blinked. The initial surge of anger John had felt began to drain from his body, not even replaced with shock like Sherlock. To his surprise, John felt completely at ease and something he had not experienced in months sparked at the back of his mind: the warm glow of happiness. It bloomed through his mind and filled his body with light energy that John readily embraced.

He looked at the man in front of him with wonder. He felt as though he had known Sherlock all his life, despite knowing virtually nothing about him. It was a feeling, a touch. John’s hand found Sherlock’s where it hung at his side and opened his mouth to speak.

            Yeah!

The voice rang out sharply over the mass of people eliciting a loud cheer from the crowd. Prom time was over and everyone sprang into action, including Sherlock. Wanting to erase his words and the awkwardness from John’s mind, he raised his arms straight up and moved his lithe body in an obscene wave timed perfectly with the rhythm. He threw his head back at the next “Yeah” and when his gaze fell on John again, it was searing. John stood watching in shock. He could not comprehend the sudden change in Sherlock’s demeanor. As John struggled through the confusion and lingering awkwardness, he opened his mouth to speak, but was rendered speechless when Sherlock took a step closer. He lowered his arms, fingers skimming along his body as they went and resting on his own undulating hips. He turned his back to John, looking over his shoulder with those smoldering eyes, swinging and rocking his lush ass. He was just close enough to barely bump into John’s groin, filling him with a teasing pleasure.

His mouth watering and cock twitching with interest, John leapt into the perfect accompaniment to Sherlock’s sultry moves as another voice began to sound.

           Up in the club with my homies, trying to get a lil’ V-I

           Keep it down on the low key

           You should know how it feels

Sherlock popped his body to the beat, looking every bit the king of the dance floor. He was like a six foot tall snake slithering both elegantly and suggestively into John’s space and out again. It was the hottest goddamn thing John had seen in all his life.

            She’s saying, come get me

            So I got up and followed her to the floor

            She said, baby let’s go

            When I told her (let’s go) I said

            Yeah!

The cry set John’s body alight with an unexpected energy. He stepped right into Sherlock’s personal space and they popped together, their bodies skirting the line of what was appropriate in public. They turned and leaned and undulated in unison, turning up the heat as they did so. Sherlock dropped in front of John with his back to the doctor and rose again thrusting his perfect ass against John’s groin. John moaned out loud. The sound disappeared into the noise of the club and the music, but Sherlock heard. His head was cocked to the side so he could watch John with a saucy smirk as he continued to grind against him. John placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips and pulled him tight. They swayed in tandem as they worked their way across the floor. Sherlock’s back was hot against John’s chest, his hands aflame where they rested on John’s.

God, it was amazing. Caught up in the excitement, John’s mind flew forward to more nights with this man dancing and talking about his cases. So distracted by his own thoughts and simultaneously focused on their movements was John that he did not notice how close they had come to the edge of the dance floor until the crowd surged and pushed them against the wall.

Sherlock had just turned to face John when two rather rambunctious couples collided with the doctor’s back, shoving him into Sherlock. The detective hit the brick wall with a thud and it knocked the breath from his lungs. John was pressed tightly against him, the other couples still right behind his back. Sherlock gasped when John’s hand cupped his face.

“God, that was hard,” John said breathlessly. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he blew out a quiet breath that drifted over John’s lips. He was so close. His face was almost touching Sherlock’s. His lips were so close. John could tip his head forward mere millimeters and his mouth would be on Sherlock’s soft cupid’s bow. God, it would be life-altering. Lips so soft, so perfect, and they would move with John’s. He knew they would.

John swallowed hard and bit his bottom lip. He slowly moved his hand from Sherlock’s cheek to his shoulder to ease the clenching of his own heart. As if on cue, the couple behind him pushed at his back once again and John lurched into Sherlock. His lips brushed over the detective’s and his eyes fluttered closed, seeing stars. He felt Sherlock’s fingers tighten around his biceps and  a soft answering pressure on his lips. A surge of lust and joy rolled over him for just a moment before reality set in again. John’s eyes snapped open in an instant as a touch of panic filled his body from head to toe. Sensing his distress, Sherlock leaned back and allowed John to pull away as far as the space would allow. They locked eyes and stopped. Just stopped.

John felt Sherlock’s hands slide off his arms to his waist and then fall away. He stared in shocked disbelief into Sherlock’s face. He may have shared John’s surprise, but the heat in his eyes had sparked to life again. He panted onto John’s lips. John ventured a quick glance at them and a surge of adrenaline shot through his chest to his stomach and limbs. It was a combination of lust and honest affection. John was almost lightheaded with it. He looked back at Sherlock and his brow furrowed at what he saw. Disappointment shadowed Sherlock’s eyes and creased his forehead. The corners of his mouth angled downward.

“Your boyfriend,” Sherlock rasped, nodding his head toward the bar. His mouth was still so close to John that the sigh he let out drifted over John’s lips and the doctor was loath to look away. What he saw drained that wonderful, tingling, incredible adrenaline rush from his body.

Jim Moriarty was standing at the bar with Moran and talking to Greg. John stepped away from Sherlock as though he had been caught at something and turned to face the bar fully. He watched for a moment as Jim laughed at something Greg said and then once more when Moran added a word or two. It clicked in John’s mind: a decision. His life would be forever changed.

With his focus on what he needed to do, John made his way across the dance floor. His stride was steady and determined as he went and people seemed to just move out of his way like he was parting the Red Sea. John was at Jim’s side in seconds. Moran noticed him first and stepped closer in challenge, but backed up again in a swift movement. There was a look of being caught out passing over Moran’s features for just a second before his expression turned cool and indifferent, but John saw and it heated his temper. John also saw Greg’s smile fading and his eyes flicking out to the dance floor.

“John, you’re here,” Jim said in a pleased tone that would have fooled anyone else, but not John. Jim leaned in for a kiss, but John turned his head and angled away. Jim frowned and then shook it off, resuming his typical swagger. “Greg wasn’t sure he’d seen you.”

John glanced at Greg, who gave him a pointed look. The corner of John’s mouth turned up. He would never reveal his friend’s lie. His eyes slid smoothly back to Jim and his smile tightened.

“Got here when you said we’d meet,” John said sharply. His tone was more harsh than he had planned, but he had truly grown tired of repeating the same scenario over and over.

“Yeah,” Jim put on an apologetic face, “I’m sorry I was late.”

“Are you?” John replied with barely concealed annoyance.

“Steady,” Moran warned, taking a step closer and puffing up his chest.

“Piss off, Moran,” John barked, standing to his full height and entering the man’s personal space. Moran had a good six inches on him, but John did not give a shit. He never liked Moran. Part of John had always wanted to punch the sneer of a smile off his face, but he had avoided the temptation. John might just make an exception tonight.

“John, no,” Jim’s hand was on John’s chest and he pressed in as close to in between them as he could. “It’s fine.”

“It really isn’t,” John scowled, directing his glare to his boyfriend. No, not boyfriend. That was not what he wanted.

John moved away from them and turned to look across the dance floor. Sherlock was gone. John turned his body to face the mass of people fully, a pang of alarm shuddering through his body. His eyes darted around the club, but found nothing. Finally, his focus settled on the door just in time to see a long, swooshing coat topped with a head of gorgeous curls swoop out into the night air. Sherlock must have stashed the coat somewhere before introducing himself to John. John’s heart clenched painful in his chest like a piece of it had been wrenched out. Sherlock had left and John would never see him again if he did not hunt the man down right now.

“You’re right,” John said suddenly, his mouth curving up. He looked back at Jim and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “It is fine.”

Jim stared at him inquisitively. He tilted his head curiously and cocked a brow, seemingly about to speak. John cracked a mirthless smile and squeezed Jim’s shoulder.

“It’s been over a long time, yeah,” John said definitively. Jim’s expression changed instantly. He pressed his thin lips together and inhaled deeply, a long centering breath. He glanced down for a moment and gave a slight nod of resignation.

“Yes,” Jim met John’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” John answered, removing his hand from the man’s shoulder. “We’ve already moved on and it’s better this way.”

Jim glanced at Moran as he nodded in agreement. John stared straight ahead, not even seeing them anymore. His own words ringing in his ears. ‘Already moved on’. John had to keep a certain consulting detective from moving on and that meant he needed to get the fuck out of here now.

“Great. See you around,” John muttered, turning his back on them. He set off in an instant, a spring in his step and a grin on his face.

                Well, I will call you darlin' and everything will be okay

                'Cause I know that I am yours and you are mine

                Doesn't matter anyway

                In the night, we'll take a walk, it's nothing funny

                Just to talk

The words rang out in the air around John and he increased his pace until he was running for the door. He burst through it and stopped in the middle of the pavement, looking right and left almost frantically. He was not there. Sherlock was nowhere to be found. It was dark even with the streetlamps, but the tall man should have been visible. John looked both ways again. There was not a single figure on the abandoned streets. There were plenty of cars passing by though. John’s shoulders began to sag as it became clear that Sherlock must have caught a cab. John chewed on his lip in disappointment and stared out into the street. It was too late. He had missed his chance.

John did not have much time to feel sorry for himself. As he stood there staring at a sizable puddle at the edge of the street, a fast-moving cab splashed through it and sent a wave of dirty water over the front of his body. His eyes flew shut in the onslaught and he gasped out an “Oi” that the buildings around him swallowed whole.

“Fucking hell!” John shouted, looking after the cab. He lifted his arms and shook them slowly as he looked down his own body. He was soaked and filthy. A cab would never take him in this condition. He sighed and muttered angry curses as he touched his dripping shirt. His trousers were just as wet, and cold. Jesus, it was cold. It was going to be a long walk home.

“John?” a silky baritone called from somewhere close.

John’s head snapped up, his wide eyes immediately finding a lone figure standing across the street. The corners of John’s mouth quirked up, his foul mood instantly lifted. The tall man in the swooshy coat was unmistakable. John felt light and his heart soared, even as his throat closed. He could not seem to get a word out, so he just stood there grinning like an idiot. He watched as Sherlock made a few quick deductions and scowled.

“Don’t be an idiot, John,” he shouted, feet set and shoulders squared. “Get over here.”

John glanced up and down the street, letting a car pass and then jogging across the traffic lanes. He splashed through a puddle or two on the way. Droplets sprayed through the air and caught the light of the streetlamps like sparkling diamonds in the night sky. In mere seconds, he stood in front of Sherlock with a grin still on his face as the detective scanned his soaked form with an air of disapproval. John knew he would not ask how it happened, knowing he had deduced it all already.

“You left,” John remarked pleasantly, the joke plain in his voice. Sherlock had none of it, remaining stone faced and cocking a brow.

“You left to be with your boyfriend,” he said petulantly. Sherlock managed to mostly conceal his sneer as he said the last word. John could not stop his quiet chuckle at the man’s jealousy.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” John shrugged as he casually took a step closer. Sherlock’s eyes widened and his brows furrowed in confusion.

“But you…” Sherlock stopped himself, rapid deductions visible on his face. His whole expression changed: eyebrows shooting up with hope, silver eyes gleaming, and his lips beginning to curve upward. “Oh.”

“Oh,” John repeated playfully with a quick raise of his brows. “Is that restaurant still open? I’d love to hear about your cases.”

“Not a chance,” Sherlock gave a single shake of his head and huffed a laugh. “Angelo’s well on his way home by now.”

“Oh,” John’s shoulders sank and his face fell as disappointment filled him. He scolded himself silently for just abandoning Sherlock on the dance floor without a word. My god, he was so stupid. John was certain by now that it looked like he was stalking off in a jealous rage. No doubt watching from afar only confirmed it when John got angry and snapped at Jim. Honestly, what the fuck had John been thinking? He had every intention of kicking Jim to the curb when he started across the dance floor and then with Moran there being all possessive and Jim doing his typical song and dance, John’s anger had gotten the better of him until he finally snapped out of it. ‘Be right back’. That was all he would have needed to clue in Sherlock, but John had just stomped off. Jesus Christ, he was an idiot.

“Angelo would have been hesitant to let you in in that condition anyway,” Sherlock’s words pulled John back from his own thoughts. The detective still had a hint of a smile on his face as his beautiful eyes ran the length of John’s body. “You’ll never get a cab and will catch your death walking for an hour.”

“How do you know it’d take me an hour?” John asked, feeling his mood lighten.

Sherlock just cocked a brow, his expression screaming ‘Come now, John, don’t be dull’. A smile broke over John’s lips and he tucked his chin down with a quiet self-deprecating laugh. When he looked up again, Sherlock’s amusement was easily apparent and he had taken a step closer.

“We’ll go to my flat,” the detective announced with equal measure authority and cheek. “We can wash your things over tea. My clothes won’t fit you, but I have something that will work. Provided I can sneak you past Mrs. Hudson, which I can.”

“What is she? Your school marm?” John snorted.

“My landlady,” Sherlock corrected. “She fancies herself an adoptive mother, but not my housekeeper.”

John laughed again at that and rested his hands on his hips. He looked at Sherlock with fond eyes, dancing inside that he had not bollocksed up the whole thing, and trying not to let his imagination run wild at where this might go.

“And what about Greg?” John teased. “Think he’ll mind having a guest in the flat?”

“Not if it’s you,” Sherlock replied with a glance towards the club. “He might not even know without me to pull him away from this place.”

John laughed and gave a nod at that.

“So,” John began slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face as if he was giving Sherlock’s proposal serious consideration and not bouncing off the walls with excitement, “tea and cases at yours then?”

“That is what I’m suggesting, yes,” Sherlock confirmed, all seriousness and formality as though it was a business transaction. John felt a sudden tingling wave of anticipation envelope his body and he nearly shivered from the unexpected pleasure of it. He tried to keep the smile from being so wide as to give away his every thought, but knew he failed completely. To his delight, Sherlock mirrored his emotions as soon as he saw them on John’s face.

“Oh god, yes. I’d love to,” John blurted, lifting his hands from his hips and holding them out slightly, not sure how to contain the ecstatic energy within his body. John watched as Sherlock did the impossible: His smile grew and warmed into true fondness. John’s heart gave a squeeze as they began to walk down the pavement together, the sound of music fading away as they went.

           Put your hand in mine

           You know that I want to be with you all the time

           You know that I won't stop until I make you mine

“So, what was your latest case?” John asked eagerly, ignoring the chill creeping under his skin.

“I hope you know, John, that this is not going to be one-sided,” Sherlock told him sternly, ignoring the question. “I want to know everything about your cases as well.”

“My cases?” John questioned. He had not expected that. His profession did not seem nearly as interesting as the detective’s.

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock confirmed quickly. “Naturally nothing that would compromise patient confidentiality, but the work and advice of a skilled surgeon would come in very handy. Maybe even at crime scenes, if you’re willing.”

“You can do that?” John stopped walking in shock. Sherlock stopped a pace ahead and turned to look at the doctor.

“Whatever I need to solve a case,” he answered simply.

“They really give you a wide berth, don’t they?” John’s smile snuck back over his lips.

“They do, yes,” the corners of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up.

“So, like a consultant,” John stated experimentally.

“A partner,” Sherlock replied just as tentatively and brushed his fingers delicately over John’s in an unmistakable gesture.

“Yeah,” the word was out of John’s mouth before he could even think. “Yes, please. I’d love it.”

John nearly face palmed. So much for not slamming all of his cards down on the table without even bluffing. Fortunately, Sherlock was not bothered by his enthusiasm in the slightest. He flashed a brilliant smile and gestured ahead. The two men began walking and talking, occasionally brushing hands as they went. By the time Sherlock opened the door to 221B on Baker Street, John knew this would be the relationship to end them all and he would forever be at the side of Sherlock Holmes.

-----

And there you have it. MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

I want to thank my wonderful beta, MyBreadAndButter, and wish her well. Hang in there. The year's almost over and I can only believe 2021 will be a damn site better. I also want to thank my fabulous friend, superwholocklmt, for stepping in when I needed to pick yet another brain on this one. You are the Sherlock to my John, without a doubt. Last but not least, I want to thank my my ever so knowledgeable friend, underestimatemethatwillbefun, for two of The Best song ideas. I'd never heard either of them before, but knew they HAD to be in this story once I listened to them. You are awesome.

Dang, I'm not sure what to say because there can't be any questions for the next chapter. Ha! I'm totally out of my element. I'll just throw a little update your way then, shall I? I'm just starting work on another story that I'm hoping to post early next year. It is another 'What comes after season 4' piece. Like in 'Finding John Watson', I'll be changing some of what happened in S4. Just a little something to whet your appetite: Mary is still alive. She and John moved away, possibly to Sussex, before she gave birth to Rosie. They cut off all contact with Sherlock and haven't bee in touch with anyone else either, but now John is moving back to London. Will he run into Sherlock or seek him out? What's that meeting going to be like? Rushing into each other's arms or a fistfight similar to when Sherlock returned from the dead? We shall see....

I hope you all enjoyed your present and can enjoy zooming with relatives for the holidays. I know it's not the same, but it's still one of the most joyous times of the year. I'll be thinking of all of you and sending all the love I can. Thank you for being such great readers and fans. It's always so heartwarming and humbling to read your comments and share your joys. I don't know what I'd do without sometimes.

Happy Holidays from Cakey Jane and, as I sit looking at where Deadpool hangs next to my daughter's unicorn on the Christmas tree, let me say again: Keep your pants dry and your dreams wet, and remember, hugs not drugs.

Love, Jane

[snakebites-22]

Set Me Free (Pt 1)

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A/N: This is a request for @lazydogscatsperson and it will be made into two parts because I got carried away and it’s very long. I hope you enjoy it even though I said it was just going to be one part. Oops. 

Warnings: lots of kidnapping, there’s a mention of rats, drinking, angst, fluff, confusion, Felix is gay, swearing, if there’s anything else I should add let me know

Word Count: 5574

Pairing: Peter Pan x Hook!Reader

Summary: Y/n Hook is the rebellious thief who can always hold her own and get herself out of trouble. So what happens when what was supposed to be an easy theft gets her taken to Neverland to meet the villain of her father’s stories? 

Sidenote: It was requested that it be a female reader so that’s why it’s gender specific. Some details from the original request were changed or taken out depending on if they made sense or helped move the story forward. I hope you still enjoy it regardless. Part 2 will be out hopefully within a day or two. 

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

Part 2

Yelling. Jewels. Talismans. Booze. Brawls. Food. These were the sights, smells, sounds that created the atmosphere of the marketplace. To many people it was untidy and awful and a place to only go with extreme caution and a guarded coin pouch, but to you it was a sight for sore eyes. It had been months since you had last been to the marketplace since you had been out at sea with your father, Captain Hook, for so long. So, being able to see people who weren’t members of the crew and to smell things that weren't salt water was a bit refreshing. 

You strolled down past the tents and tables with ease, smirking a bit when merchants and buyers did double takes to look back at you. As the daughter of Captain Hook, you had quite a bit of a reputation. A fierce fighter, a rebellious punk, a bit of a thief, these were the titles that you had been granted over the years. It wasn’t unlike you to be the cause of some of the brawls seen here in the marketplace. After all, you loved being able to make grown men weep at your feet. 

However, that wasn’t the reason you were here. No, your stroll had purpose to it. You weren’t here to sight see or fight. You were here for a certain somebody, and that somebody was sitting at a table underneath a faded blue tent, polishing a blood red gem on an ornate necklace. 

The woman looked up as you walked over, slowly setting the necklace down with a sly grin. You knew every item on that table was stolen, from the large silver mirrors to the smallest spoon.The woman was tall, skinny, and rather beautiful with long hair. She, of course, knew of her attractiveness and used it to her advantage. Fools were made of men when they saw her smile. This was something you both had in common. Another thing was the shining e/c color in your eyes.

“Hello mother,” you spoke with slight boredom in your tone. 

“Hello daughter,” she said as she straightened out her collection of rings. “What have you brought?”

This was how it always was. A curt greeting before she went back to business. You sighed as you dropped a bag of various trinkets you had picked up from your months long voyage. She dived into the bag, picking at the items like a vulture. There were several things such as combs, bracelets, even a gold tooth that you had taken after you punched it out of a man dumb enough to whistle at you. 

You roll your eyes as she mutters to herself, criticizing most things and being silent when she actually likes something. She’ll try and sell all of it regardless, but this was still the reason why you tended to avoid your mother for long periods of time instead of being with her like a normal daughter. You were the product of an unfortunate one night stand between your mother and father many years ago. Your mother regretted it, and your father regretted your mother. Not you, though. You, he wouldn’t trade for all of the riches of the world. 

“You know, I heard there was a ship out not far from here rumored to be stocked with valuables,” your mother stated with an evil look in her eyes. “Might be worth looking into.”

“Yeah,” you said with a sneer. “Do more work for you when you don’t even appreciate what I bring you.” 

She stared back at you blankly, boredom replacing the mischief in her e/c orbs. You sighed and shook your head before turning on the heel of your buckled boots, walking away from her. She knew she probably wouldn’t see you for another few months, hell she might never see you again, but she said no words. After all, you were nothing more than a reminder of a night she desperately wanted to forget. Of a man she desperately wanted to forget. 

You stalked back down the aisles you had walked over just mere minutes before. You ignored the faces of the onlookers as you walked, one step, then another, your mind anywhere but the marketplace now. Your mother always had that effect on you. You hated it. 

Before you knew it you had walked yourself back down to the docks. You gazed around you lazily. You could see your father and his crew as they restocked the Jolly Roger with supplies for the next voyage. Near them was another ship. A very expensive looking ship. Your mother’s words rang in your ears and an idea sang with them. A very bad idea, but also a fun one. So of course you acted on it. You began to walk towards the ship, hands in the pockets of your coat as you walked with confidence. Nobody questioned you as you strutted right up to the ship and onto the deck. Nobody ever did. You always managed to make it look like you belonged in places you had every reason not to. 

The deck didn’t have a speck of dirt on it. You saw why when you noticed the man mopping a few feet away. You chuckled softly as you moved swiftly towards the hatch that led to the hold under the deck. Even the wood of the hatch was smooth as you lifted it up to step down the stairs. 

It was darker down in the hold. The smell of the sea and of rum filtered through the air as you crept down the hallways. You figured you wouldn’t find much of interest down here and you were right as you walked past boring supplies and sleeping areas for the crew. No. The real score would be in the Captain’s Cabin. You were sure of it. 

You turned back the way you came and walked back up to the deck. Gaining back your confident-walk-of-purpose, you moved towards the Captain’s Cabin. Hardly anyone was around to see you as you picked the lock on the intricately carved door with a couple of hairpins. It swung open easily and you walked in quickly, closing the heavy door behind you. 

When you turned back around to look at the room, your eyes were blown wide. It was packed with things like maps and swords and chests that you were sure were filled with gems and fine clothes and who knew what else. A hammock hung in the corner and a large dark desk sat in the middle of the room, a map laid out with a knife in it. You knew you had to be quick. The Captain could be back any moment and you were sure you had been gone far longer than your father would have allowed. 

You crept along the wood floor adorned with colorful rugs with the grace of a master thief, which you were. You began to pocket things. A scroll, a fountain pen, a gold chain. They all went into your knapsack. As you reached the desk, you looked at the knife stabbed into the map. It was a gorgeous little thing, silver blade with a black hilt adorned with gems of various colors and sizes and a handle grip of black leather. Naturally, you pulled it out of the wood and slipped it into the sheath you had strapped to your thigh. It was only then that you looked at the map. Neverland. You had heard of that place. Your father told you stories of the dark forests, dreaded mermaids, cruel boys, and the evil boy king. Why would these pirates be heading there?

Before you could fathom an answer, you felt a lurch that made you stumble slightly. Your eyes widened as you ran towards the porthole window that occupied a great portion of the wall. Your fears were confirmed when you saw the dock getting farther and farther away by the second, the Jolly Roger fading in the distance. 

Maybe you could still make it. You could probably swim that far, right? You carefully exited the Captain’s Cabin unnoticed by the crew now swarming the deck, and walked briskly to the edge of the main deck. As you were bracing yourself to jump, a shout rang out drawing your attention. 

“Ready yourselves!” came the gruff voice of a man standing near the wheel. He was holding something small between his fingers. “Today, we conquer Neverland!” 

At this, the crew cheered and hollered while beating their fists and swords in the air. It was that moment that you noticed what it was the man was holding. Fear and astonishment gripped you as you ran as fast as you could to the side of the ship, but it was too late. By the time you reached the edge, he had dropped the magic bean into the water, and you were gone. 

————————

So, you weren’t in the best situation. The ship had landed a bit away from the shore of Neverland and you discovered that the man who had dropped the bean was the Captain. Captain Bart, to be precise. And you, well, after crying out “No!” in a fit of frustration it didn’t take long for you to be discovered. You were now sitting in a cell deep within the hold after trying to fight off a majority of the crew, and it was awful. 

The cell was small, damp, and smelled. The occasional rat would run by, but you didn’t mind that much. It was better than being lonely. They had taken back all of the items you had stolen except for the knife. The idiots were too busy admiring the strings of your corset to notice the gemmed hilt. So, here you were, using said knife to carve obscene and profane phrases into the rotted wood. 

You had been sailing around in circles for hours now. It was boring and you desperately wanted to get out and see the island despite all of the warnings your father had given you. There were guards stationed outside your cell, two of them. From the stench coming through the cell door, you could tell they were drinking. By nightfall you’d make your escape. It was only a matter of time. You leaned back into your corner more, watching the world outside of your small window. 

————————

Drunk pirate song and the twinkling light of stars. That was your signal as you stood and stretched, getting out your hairpins as you sauntered over to the door. You stood and waited for a second to listen to the slurred lyrics and snoring coming from the pirates outside. A smirk crawled its way onto your face as you picked the lock. 

The door slowly creaked open, the pirate who was awake looked at you in confusion. Before he could open his booze stained mouth, you had elbowed him in the jaw, knocking him out. You dusted off your hands and, after making sure the pirates had nothing of value on them, went on your way to the top deck. 

Most of the crew had disappeared down into the hold to sleep. The ones that were left on the deck were all busy with some job or with drinking. What was with pirates and drinking? You wrinkled your nose at them as you moved towards the edge of the ship. You weren’t going to fail this time. 

The water was dark and ominous below you. The wind pulled at your puffed sleeves and skirt. It felt like danger, and you were living for it. With one last look behind you, you jumped into the water. 

The first thing that shocked you was the cold. It was the kind of cold to go straight through your skin to your bones and hold on until you couldn’t move. The next thing was the visibility. There wasn’t any. The last thing was the sound. It wasn’t the muted sound of the waves as they pulled at you. It was laughter. Cruel, sharp, femine laughter. It wasn’t until a hand with claws grabbed onto your ankle that you remembered about the mermaids. 

You were being dragged down. The cold left you powerless. Another clawed hand on your calf. Another on your arm. Another. Another. You couldn’t move. You needed air. The only thing you could feel through the cold was the claws and your lungs. As you fought for your life a thought graced your mind: Would your father find out what happened to you? Would your mother? Would she care?

You barely realized that you had been thrashing against them until you felt the scaly hand around your wrist let go. You grabbed for the knife at your thigh, fumbling with frozen fingers. The handle was heavy in your hand as you swung it, the shrieks from the mermaids assaulting your ears. You kept swinging and swinging, trying not to black out as you stabbed at them. You kicked with your now free feet, rising. Rising towards air, to safety. 

When your head broke the surface and you drank in the salty sea air, you laughed in triumph. It was a breathy, weak, barely there laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. You turned around and looked towards shore. It wasn’t too far away, but you needed to get out of the water quickly before another mermaid came by or you froze to death. You started swimming towards shore. 

By the time you got there, you couldn’t feel your legs or your arms, or any part of you for that matter. You dragged yourself across the wet, gritty sand, your body feeling a million times heavier than normal. The sand clung to your skin as you collapsed from exhaustion. You were battered, bruised, tired, but you had made it. You had gotten free. 

A sigh of relief left your frozen lips, but the snap of a twig took it right back. You shakily lifted your head and felt your heart sink. Through your half-closed eyes you could see twenty, no, forty figures shrouded in cloaks and villainy. The last thing you saw before you passed out was the figures moving towards you like the shadows from the depths of your darkest thoughts.

————————

It was quiet when you woke up. The kind of quiet that was dangerous, unnatural. You opened your eyes slowly and a low groan of pain escaped your throat. Your muscles ached all over and now that you were warm you could feel the stinging from the mermaid scratches. 

As you slowly sat up, you took in your surroundings. It looked as though you were in a cabin of sorts. There wasn’t anything in the small room except for the bed that you lay upon. You gingerly pulled back the fur blankets covering you and stood up, swaying a little. 

After gaining your balance, you moved to the door. Locked. You scowled and moved towards the one window on the opposite wall. Shut tight. Great. You were a prisoner yet again. You reached for your hairpins, but they weren’t there. Neither was your bejeweled knife. Or any of your other knives. Those bastards had taken your stuff! You growled out in frustration and tried to open the door again with no success. So, you tried again. And again. Then back to the window. Then the door again. 

You didn’t know how long you were in that stupid cabin, but it was definetly long enough for you to start to lose your mind. You had momentarily given up on the window and door as you laid out in the center of the floor, staring up at the wood ceiling like you could summon an exit just by staring. 

“Having fun there, love?”

You didn’t want to say that you screamed, but there was definitely an exclamation of surprise as you scrambled to your feet, fists raising into a fighting stance. The speaker was sitting on the bed, a smirk dominating his face. 

You know the first thought that should have crossed your mind was How did you get in here? or maybe even Ah! Neverland person! Danger! but no, your first thought just had to be Oh damn because the boy, who was staring up at you with the most amused facial expression ever, was really, really attractive. He wore dark green clothes with knee high boots and his brown hair was a little messy, but you knew from the wickedness of his smile and the devilish look in his eyes who this was. 

“Peter Pan,” you hissed. 

His eyebrow lifted as he grinned. “So you know who I am.” 

“I know of you,” you stated, raising your fists more as he stood. “I’ve heard...stories.” 

“Stories from whom? Hopefully friends,” he said with a light chuckle. 

You decided it probably wasn’t a good idea to mention your father. You knew they were definitely not friends. “Just talk from people who speak about an arrogant boy who plays king.” 

He had started walking towards you, but you kept your footing. He stopped when he was about a foot away from you. You watched as his green eyes looked over your face, and for a horrible second you thought he had recognized you, but instead he just said, “I play a lot of things, love. But on Neverland I really am the king, and you will play by my rules.” 

It was your turn to smirk as you took a step closer to him, your chests nearly touching. You knew you should be afraid, be angry, be something, but at that moment all you felt was that you had a new game to play. 

“I play by my own rules, Pan,” you whispered. “And you, nor no one else, will ever change that.” 

He looked taken aback slightly, but laughed a bit. “Was that a threat, lass?” 

“A promise,” you retorted. 

He nodded slowly and looked over you with a newfound curiosity. “What’s your name?” he asked after a moment. 

You bit your lip slightly before answering slowly. “Y/n. I’m Y/n. Where are my things?” 

Pan shrugged, a sly smile gracing his lips. “All in due time, love.” 

You glared a bit as he disappeared, vanishing before you could blink. 

————————

It had been a few days. Pan would visit you in the cabin, always just randomly appearing inside and then disappearing without ever touching the door. He would bring you your meals during these times, and at one point he even offered to heal your wounds. You had refused, of course. He was the dangerous demon king your father told you stories about. You may flirt with him and engage in playful, witty banter, but you didn’t trust him. Not by a long shot. He did keep you in this stupid cabin all day every day, after all. 

That’s what you both were doing right now, actually. Playful insults, batting eyelashes, trying desperately not to look weird as you tore into your lunch. 

Pan was laughing lightly at something you had said when he trailed off strangely. You looked up at him with a questioning gaze. 

“Something wrong?”

He looked back at you quickly and shook his head slightly. “No. I just decided that I would like to take you into camp today,” he stated with a shrug. 

Your eyes widened a little. “You mean I get to leave?” 

He rolled his eyes and nodded. “Yes you get to leave. You’ll also meet my boys.” He stood up calmly and brushed off his pants like he hadn’t just given you your freedom. 

“Yes!” you cheered as you stood up. “Do I get my stuff back?” 

“Maybe.” You hadn’t realized he’d moved behind you until his breath fanned over the back of your neck. “If you behave.”

Naturally, you elbowed him in the gut. Hard. When you turned around, he was doubled over slightly and holding his stomach. 

“What the hell, Y/n?” he asked angrily, his eyes flashing darkly. You just shrugged and smiled, knowing he wasn’t going to do anything. If he was, he would’ve done it the first time. Or the fourth. 

He sighed deeply and straightened up.  He shook his head at you before turning and walking to the door. Your heart raced a little as you walked closer to him. Finally, this is what you had been waiting for. He grabbed the handle, and it turned without a fight. The door was open. 

You rushed out past him, eyes widening in disbelief. There was so much green everywhere. Used to the blue of the sea and tan of the sand, you didn’t think you had ever seen so much green anywhere. Trees and vines covered nearly every inch of the ground. What wasn’t covered was littered with fallen leaves and grass. Birds sang overhead and for a moment you forgot that this was the hellscape of your father’s stories. For a moment, it was an oasis. A place of your dreams, so new yet, strangely familiar. 

You hadn’t realized that Pan was already walking ahead of you until you heard him clear his throat. The leaves rustled under your boots as you ran after him, ready for a new adventure.

The cabin wasn’t as far from the camp as you had thought. It only took a few minutes of walking before you reached the area of trampled ground that the Lost Boys called home. There was a fire pit in the center and tents around the perimeter, but most importantly, there were the Lost Boys. The figures who had taken you. You felt a slight twinge of anger towards them, but Pan had already apologized for that earlier when he explained how you had intruded on the island. It didn’t mean you forgave them or that it was okay, but at least he apologized. You also punched him for it, so you were even. 

The boys stopped what they were doing when they realized their leader was back. Pan motioned for you to wait where you stood while he kept walking. You, however, didn’t wait and instead walked right behind him much to the astonishment of the Lost Boys who watched you closely. 

Pan opened his mouth to speak, but when he noticed he wasn’t the center of attention, he turned and looked at you. You smiled innocently at him as he scowled back. He sighed deeply before turning back to the anxiously waiting crowd. 

“Well, boys,” he started with a sharp tone of voice you weren’t used to. “A few days ago you brought me someone who had washed up on our shores. A girl. She has been kept up in the hut for a bit, but now I have decided that it’s time for you guys to meet her. So, everyone, this is Y/n.”

You smiled at the boys as they gawked at you. The younger ones looked up at you in that hopeful innocence that youth holds, while the older ones looked at you in the way that made you wonder exactly how long it had been since they had last seen a girl. Oh boy. 

————————

It had been several weeks since Pan had introduced you to the boys, and honestly it was going pretty well. The younger boys adored you, especially Cassie, Parker, and Thomas. Those three were constantly following you around and they always hid with you whenever Pan and the boys played manhunt. They always got you caught, too. 

The older boys weren’t bad. Either they respected you or you broke their nose. You were pretty close with Felix, but you were still closest with Pan. 

The more time you spent with them, the less and less they seemed like the supernatural demons from the stories of your childhood. Sure, Pan had a temper and oftentimes you would step between him and a Lost Boy before a fight could go too far, but still these boys were children. The monsters that used to haunt your nightmares were just humans. 

You liked it on Neverland. Pan had given up on trying to tell you what to do, and instead you did whatever you pleased. You could wander the island as you pleased. You were careful of dreamshade and mermaids, of course, and you didn’t go into the dark forest because you were rebellious, not stupid. 

You were planning on going on another escapade today when Pan walked over to you. He sat beside you on the log you had been resting on. 

“Can I help you?” you asked as you laced up your boots. 

“Yeah. You can take these back. I’m tired of having them clutter my shelves.” 

You looked up at him as he handed you a cloth sack. Hope surging through your veins, you tore open the bag. There it all was. Your hairpins, tools, the knife. He had given you your stuff back! About time, too. If he didn't have his cabin so heavily protected with magic, you would have gotten it all back a lot sooner. 

You looked back up at him about to say something, but he was already walking away. You frowned a bit as you watched him. He had been uncharacteristically distant lately, hardly talking to you or even looking at you. It saddened you a bit. As hard as you tried not to, you had befriended him. And you tried even harder to stop it, but you also were falling for him. 

You sighed as you stood, slipping the knife into your sheath and putting your things back where they belonged. Grabbing some food and shoving it all into your new bag, you headed out of the camp. 

You had learned where all the best paths were, the places where the ground was smoothed by years of walking. The path you were on led you through the jungle and down towards the beach. You knew Pan didn’t mind it when you went down to the beach. After all, you never really tried to escape,but you did miss your father and the Jolly Roger. 

Loneliness and old memories drifted through your mind as you walked along the dirt trail. Eventually, you reached the beach that you had nearly died to get to so many weeks ago. It didn’t really feel like weeks, though. In a place where time stood still, there was hardly any concept of time at all. 

The sand moved under your feet as you walked making it hard to stay upright. You sat down near the edge of the water, just close enough to where the waves could occasionally reach your feet. You sat while hugging your knees close to your chest, thinking.

You thought about your father, how worried he probably was. You thought about the pirates who brought you here, who Pan and the Lost Boys had driven away. You thought about Pan, too. He was acting so strange and you didn’t know why. Lately, you had seen him talking with Felix more so than usual. He often looked angry, or sometimes even confused. You had tried asking him about it once and he snapped at you for eavesdropping. He didn’t mean to, though, and he apologized to you afterward, but it still hurt a bit and was super confusing. Especially since he hardly ever apologized. 

Everything about Pan was super confusing. You knew he was capable of evil, hell you’d seen it in the way he yelled at the boys and how they always seemed so hesitant around him, but it never seemed to be to the standard that your father held him to. Was your dad wrong? Or had Pan just changed? What was even more confusing was how you felt about him. You knew you were attracted to him and you hated it. Mostly because you knew he wouldn’t like you back. Felix had told you that Pan wasn’t big on relationships. They made him look soft, and he didn’t want to give his enemies that advantage. At least, that’s what he had told Felix when the second-in-command tried to make a move. Well, at least the blond boy got over him and was now getting it with Pan’s champion hunter, Lucas. 

You huffed in frustration as you fell back against the sand. Why did you have to feel so trapped all the time? Every single time you thought you had gained freedom something ruined it. Freedom from your mom? Guilt and feeling obligated to help her. Freedom from your dad? He was protective and you missed him. Freedom from those pirates? Mermaids. Freedom on Neverland? Couldn’t leave. Freedom from the crushing weight of your feelings? Pan. Fucking damn it all to Hell. 

“You okay there, love?” Speak of the devil. 

You scowled a bit as a shadow blocked out the sun. Pan stood over you and looked down with what seemed like genuine concern. You resisted the urge to punch him. 

“Yes, I’m fine,” you answered bitterly. “What do you want? Aren’t you busy discussing whatever with Felix?” 

His eyebrows furrowed as he sat down beside you. “What are you talking about?”

“You, Pan. I’m talking about you.” You sat up and glared at him a little. “You with your sneaking off and leaving every time I try to talk to you. You and your conversing with Felix and then yelling at me when I ask about it. You and your stupid eyebrows and being so confusing all the time. Just you!” You shouted and jabbed a finger at his chest. 

Now it was his turn to be confused. “Y/n, you know I didn’t mean to yell at you like that. I was just frustrated. And what about my eyebrows?” 

You made a noise of frustration and threw your hands in the air. The waves lapped at your feet, their murmurs calming you a little. 

You sighed quietly after a moment and turned back to him. “Why have you been avoiding me? And don’t say you haven’t been because yes you have.” 

Pan bit his lip slightly and glanced down. You would have said he looked embarrassed if you hadn’t known any better, but then again maybe you didn’t know better. You had fallen for the devil, hadn’t you? 

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said slowly. “I was just...I was trying something.” From the look on your face he realized this wasn’t the best answer to give and he quickly back peddled. “I mean I was seeing if I was right about something, uh, was figuring something out.” 

You rolled your eyes and scoffed at his lousy reply. Of course it was strange to see him stumbling over his words and getting all flustered over whatever it was, but he was still being annoying. Damn him for being cute while doing it, though. 

“And what, exactly, were you trying to figure out, Pan?” you asked in a harsh and bored tone. 

He waited a moment, perhaps hoping the waves or the wind would answer for him instead. However, nothing came to his aid. Peter Pan was on his own as he faced your stone-cold e/c eyes. 

You shook your head and started to get up and walk away when he blurted out the one thing you had expected the least. 

“I was trying to figure out if I loved you or not!” 

You stopped where you stood, just a few feet away from him but it felt like it was a lot further for some reason. When you turned back around, slowly, Pan was sitting exactly where you left him, but he looked different. You knew he hadn’t changed at all, but now he looked smaller. Vulnerable. Even, if you looked close enough, scared. And he was staring at you with those wide green eyes, waiting. 

“What did you just say?”

He swallowed thickly and held your gaze. “I said I was trying to figure out if I loved you or not. And...Y/n I think I do.” 

Your breath caught in your throat a bit. He loved you back? What the fuck? You slowly walked back over and sat in front of him. You searched his face, looking for any sign of a trick, a game, but he looked so genuine that you wanted to believe him. 

“Do you really mean that?” you asked softly, and he nodded a little bit. 

“I think...I might love you, too. Is that weird?”

He smiled and relaxed a bit. “I don’t think so.” 

“But what about your reputation? And all that stuff about your enemies?”

He laughed a little and took your hand, and you would be lying if you tried to say there weren’t any butterflies. You weren’t going to say anything about it, but still. 

“I think having someone as badass as you by my side makes up for it.” 

“So...just to make things official. Are you going to be my boyfriend, Pan?”

“Call me Peter, and only if you’d like me to.” 

You smiled softly and gently pulled him over so that you could nestle into his side, and that was an answer enough to him. It felt so right, being there with him. So right, in fact, that you both fell asleep right there on the beach, snuggled into one another’s arms. Who knew Peter Pan was so comfy? Being with him now felt so liberating, and you never wanted it to change. However, neither of you were up to notice when a certain ship sailed out of the fog and towards the shore.

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

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[purplehairedwonder]

Hearts With(out) Chains Chapter 2

Fandom: One Piece Rating: PG-13 Pairings: Gen (eventual Lawlu) Words: 3297 Characters: Trafalgar Law, Penguin, Shachi, Bepo, Jean Bart, Boa Hancock, Emporio Ivankov, Jimbei, Silvers Rayleigh, Donquixote Doflamingo Note: I’m taking my turn at the Corazon!Law AU because my brain won’t leave me alone until this is written down. Tags will be updated as the chapters come out.

The story title is based on the Ellie Goulding song “Hearts Without Chains.”

Summary: Law is reclaimed by the Family when he’s 17 and, with Doflamingo holding the lives of his crew as collateral for his good behavior, eventually becomes the third Corazon. Years later, trapped by his impossible situation, Law can’t help but resent Monkey D. Luffy for offering a glimpse of something he’s repeatedly had ripped away from him: hope.

Previous chapters: Prologue | 1

Read also at AO3 / FF.N

Law stared out over the Calm Belt, the forbidden land of Amazon Lily at his back. His crew puttered about around him, regularly complaining about not being able to go further onto the Isle of Women. Law, for his part, had bigger concerns; despite being on the Calm Belt and in the territory of another Warlord, he still half-expected the familiar sails of one of Doflamingo’s ships to appear on the horizon.

The aged straw hat in his grip felt fragile somehow—like its owner currently was—as Law absently turned it over, the crackling of the woven straw grounding him in a way he couldn’t explain. He wasn’t sure why, but he hadn’t let it out of his sight since it had been thrown his way as the Polar Tang prepared to dive in its escape.

It had been two weeks since Law had rescued Straw Hat Luffy from the battlefield of Marineford; the boy was still unconscious, though Law suspected that was more to do with his spirit than his body at this point. Though Straw Hat’s recovery still had a long way to go, Law felt confident he would survive—physically, anyway. Immediately after the surgery, Law would have given his chances at, optimistically, fifty-fifty, but each day his heart continued to beat in his repaired chest improved his odds.

As for when he’d wake up, well… the teen had suffered an immense trauma, his body falling into unconsciousness as a defense mechanism before Law had even arrived. The emotional pain of losing his brother wasn’t something Law could do anything for. (He was hardly the poster boy for healthy coping mechanisms anyway.)

And so, an entire island waited with bated breath.

The more stable Straw Hat’s condition became, the less Law needed to monitor him, which gave him more time to think; according to his crew, that was never a good thing. They were probably right. Law still had no idea how to explain his actions to Doflamingo. He knew neither he nor his crew would escape this unscathed, but Law found himself contemplating how to minimize the inevitable punishment.

On the day of the execution, Law and his crew had waited aboard the Tang at Sabaody in case Doflamingo called for them, watching the broadcast in the meantime. The moment Straw Hat Luffy had burst onto the battlefield, something had startled in Law’s chest. The revelation that he was not only Fire Fist’s brother but also the son of Dragon had sent shockwaves through the entire archipelago, but as Straw Hat fought for his brother’s life, all Law could think of was that middle initial he’d taken note of at the auction house.

Monkey D. Luffy.

“There have often been people who have the name D. who gained public notoriety, and old people would frown and mutter, ‘D. will surely bring us another storm,’” Cora-san had told him. “And in some places, there are people who call the Family of D. sworn enemy of the gods.”

There was one specific “god” that Law very much wanted to take down, though he was in no position to do so himself.

But maybe…

Well, a storm sure seemed to describe a boy who would punch a Celestial Dragon in the face for harming one of his friends, damn the consequences, and would fight every single Marine, if necessary, to rescue his adopted brother from execution.

And when the broadcast of the battle was cut, the feeling in Law’s chest turned into a tug so insistent that he’d ordered his crew to set sail for Marineford.

“Did Doflamingo call for us, Captain?” Penguin asked once they had submerged.

“No.”

Penguin shot him a confused look. “Then why…?”

But Law hadn’t been able to explain the feeling in his chest, the absolute certainty that he was needed there, until the broadcast returned, and the Hearts watched Fire Fist fall and Straw Hat mortally wounded.

Law knew he’d drawn attention once the Polar Tang surfaced, undoubtedly looking like reinforcements for the Marines as the second-in-command of the Donquixote Pirates, but then he’d called for that idiot clown to give Straw Hat to him—and it had taken less convincing than it probably should have for him to throw Jimbei and Straw Hat down to the Tang. (Coward.) Law had no idea how anyone else, particularly Doflamingo, had reacted, as he’d been hyper-focused on getting his patients below deck with that tug in his chest demanding he act. The arrival of Red Hair had given them room to escape.

Other than removing Amber Lead from his body as a dying teenager who’d only had his Devil Fruit for a few days, the surgery to save Straw Hat was the most difficult of Law’s life. Operating for sixteen hours with Room activated nearly the entire time had completely drained Law—two weeks later, and he was still feeling the effects, his Rooms flickering out quickly when he summoned them—but he knew somehow that nothing less would satisfy the pull in his chest, whatever it was.

Though he would have liked nothing more than to sleep for days afterward, the presence of a Marine ship when the Polar Tang surfaced had forced him to stumble onto the deck and meet the wary eye of Boa Hancock. As he approached the door, he could hear her asking his crew about Straw Hat’s condition.

“I’ve done all I can,” Law said, wiping his hands on a towel as he came out on deck, willing himself upright in the face of another Warlord. “He was in bad shape. It’s up to him and his will to survive now.” He suppressed a grimace as he considered the damage he’d repaired in the boy’s chest. It was a miracle he was still alive by the time Law had gotten to him.

Hancock eyed him, her expression suspicious. It probably should have concerned him, having her full attention like that, but he was too tired to care.

“And why did you help him?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is this another one of Doflamingo’s plots? What does he want with Luffy?”

“I acted on my own.”

“Why?” That was Emporio Ivankov, who’d jumped down from the Marine vessel. Law, long past the point of wondering where these people were coming from, idly marveled at Straw Hat Luffy having friends like a current and former Warlord and a high-ranking Revolutionary (in addition to a father leading the Revolutionaries) that they would track Law to check on his condition but pushed it aside for another time. “Are you a friend of Straw Hat Boy?”

“No.” Law frowned. He might not be a believer anymore, but he’d been raised with religion and those teachings had never fully left him. The pull in his chest had felt like a sign—something the sisters at school would have said was important to follow. But these people didn’t need to know that. “It was a whim, nothing more.”

“A whim,” Hancock echoed flatly.

But Ivankov chuckled knowingly in a way that made Law feel transparent somehow. “Sometimes instinct drives us to do unexpected things.”

Despite her—entirely appropriate, Law knew—misgivings at working alongside the second-in-command of another Warlord, Hancock had brought the Hearts to Amazon Lily, leaving Straw Hat’s treatment in Law’s hands. It was likely Jimbei’s presence that gave Hancock any peace of mind at Law’s presence.

Law looked up when he heard a light cough. He shook himself as Jimbei came up next to him; he’d been so caught up in his reverie, he hadn’t noticed the former Warlord’s approach.

“May I sit?”

Law grunted, which Jimbei took as acquiescence. He sat down and allowed silence settle between them before breaking it.

“Will you be in trouble with your boss for helping Luffy?” he asked.

Law’s eye twitched. “I fail to see how that’s any of your concern.”

“I was thrown in Impel Down for refusing to fight alongside the other Warlords at Marineford,” Jimbei said. “The World Government won’t appreciate another Warlord’s second-in-command rescuing two enemies out from under their nose.”

Law found his grip tightening around the straw hat in his hand and loosened his fingers. Jimbei hadn’t said anything Law didn’t already know. “What is your point, Jimbei-ya?”

“Doflamingo won’t be pleased.”

“Unlikely,” Law agreed.

“But you will return to him.” It wasn’t a question.

Law looked out toward the Tang, where the boy still slept. “When Straw Hat-ya is well enough, yes.”

“Is that a good idea?”

Law huffed a humorless laugh, returning his gaze to Jimbei. “Whether it’s a good idea or not is irrelevant. When Straw Hat-ya no longer requires my care, I will return to Dressrosa and my captain.” He knew better than anyone that there would be consequences for his actions—and that he had no choice but to face them.

Though he knew there would be consequences for what he’d done, it was Doffy’s silence over the last two weeks that left Law the most off-balance. He’d expected the man to bombard Law with calls, if not follow Law himself; the Calm Belt would be little more than an inconvenience in the face of what he wanted.

But there had been nothing.

He supposed this was one of Doflamingo’s mind games. He would force Law to reach out to him first, to crawl back to him, draped in repentance. Doflamingo undoubtedly felt secure in Law’s eventual return because he forced Law to leave at least three members of his crew behind whenever he went out on a mission. Currently, Ikkaku, Clione, and Uni were back in Dressrosa. Law had felt comfortable leaving them since he’d expected the trip to Sabaody to be quick, an errand he could handle with minimal backup. That had been nearly a month ago. And Doflamingo was right; Law wouldn’t abandon his nakama, so even if he went dark for weeks, the Warlord could be confident his second would return.

Law just hoped those three hadn’t already been punished for his actions.

Jimbei frowned and opened his mouth to say more, but he was interrupted by a banshee scream coming from the Polar Tang.

“Ace!”

In mere moments, Straw Hat had somehow escaped the infirmary on the Tang (Law tried not to think about what he would find when he boarded his ship again) and made his way to land. As Straw Hat rampaged through the camp, Law caught a look at his face and flinched. The wide-eyed, glassy expression of grief over a pain too great to process was one Law was intimately familiar with; he’d worn it himself, first after Flevance and again after Cora-san.

“Where’s Ace?”

Law’s crew chased after the raging teen, trying to calm him down. Law exchanged looks with Jimbei.

“What’ll happen if we just leave him like that?” Jimbei asked as Straw Hat threw off Law’s crewmates and stormed further inland.

Law sighed, weariness hitting him square in the chest. “It’s simple. If he reopens his wounds, he could die.”

Jimbei grimaced and pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll go.”

“Your wounds could also reopen,” Law pointed out. Not that anyone seemed to care about his professional opinion.

“Better me than him.”

Law blinked at Jimbei’s back as the former Warlord followed Straw Hat’s path. He shook his head, once more wondering at the allies Straw Hat found himself with, and turned away. He continued looking out over the water, clenching his jaw at the sounds of Straw Hat’s rampage in the forest. He suppressed the urge to cover his ears, the pained sounds echoing through him and digging at Law’s own shallowly buried grief.

Eventually, the cacophony faded out, leaving the cliffside eerily quiet. His crew started moving around once more, though they were subdued in the wake of what they’d just witnessed.

“What the hell is that?” Shachi said suddenly, pointing out over the water.

Law frowned. There was some kind of commotion in the bay. What the hell?

“Is that a Sea King?” Penguin asked, joining Shachi.

“Is something fighting it?” Shachi yelped as Bepo and Jean Bart came up behind him.

The commotion came to an end almost as quickly as it started. One moment, the beast was thrashing violently, the next it was still.

“It’s dead,” Jean Bart murmured. “What could do that in the Calm Belt?”

There was a splash just below the cliff. Looked like they were going to find out. Law readied himself to make a Room—it wouldn’t be as big as usual and wouldn’t last long, but it would be something—but dropped his hand as Silvers Rayleigh climbed over the ledge, dripping water. Law watched the man warily as he explained that he’d swum through the Calm Belt. Monster.

Eventually, Rayleigh’s gaze turned back to Law. “You’ve created quite the stir, saving Luffy like that.” He smiled, though there was something in his eyes that made Law straighten. “Luffy is here, right?”

“I doubt you would have come all this way unless you knew the answer to that question already, Rayleigh-ya,” Law replied.

Rayleigh chuckled. “Fair enough. How is he?”

Law studied the older pirate for a moment then made a decision. “He just woke up. He’s still in rough shape; he’ll need to rest for at least two more weeks so his wounds close properly.” The grief, on the other hand, would take much longer to heal, but Law left that unsaid. Someone like Rayleigh would know that well.

Rayleigh nodded thoughtfully. “But his life is out of danger?”

“As long as he lets his wounds close, yes.”

“Good.”

Law’s lips twitched. “I take it we’re being dismissed, Rayleigh-ya?”

Rayleigh outright laughed at that. “Well, that’s not how I would have put it.”

“But you’re here to take over,” Law surmised.

“I’m here to offer Luffy a proposal.”

“And you expect him to accept. I get it.” Law pushed himself to his feet and closed the gap with Rayleigh. He held out the straw hat.

Rayleigh’s expression turned distant for a moment before he came back to himself and took the proffered object with understanding.

“Two weeks,” Law reiterated. “If he pushes it, he could die.” And Law didn’t want the danger he’d selfishly put his crew into to be for nothing.

-----

Once the Polar Tang had set sail, Bepo setting their course based on their eternal pose to Dressrosa, Law grabbed the long-range Den Den Mushi and retreated to his cabin. He placed it on his desk and stared at it as he debated how to approach the call. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but he started when there was a knock at his door.

“Captain?”

Law’s shoulder’s slumped at Bepo’s voice. “Come in,” he replied.

The door opened, revealing Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin. The trio filed into Law’s room, shutting the door behind them. Law swiveled in his desk chair to face them.

“Calling him?” Shachi asked, gesturing at the snail.

Law nodded. “Can’t put it off any longer.”

“What will you say?” Bepo asked.

Law’s mouth moved but nothing came out. He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “I caused him a lot of trouble, and he’s going to be furious. But he won’t take it out on me.” Not all of it, anyway.

“We’re with you, Law.”

Law blinked at the use of his given name; he was so used to hearing his title, even from his crew, that his name sounded odd even to his own ears. It made the already-tight ball of guilt in his chest clench.

“I made a selfish choice, and now you guys are going to pay for it. I���m sorry.”

“Why did you save him?” Bepo asked. There was no judgment in his oldest friend’s eyes, just curiosity and trust.

“It was…” Law cast about the best way to describe the tug in his chest because if anyone deserved the truth, it was these three. “It was just a feeling,” he finally settled on. It sounded lame to his own ears as he said it. “I don’t know how to explain it. Like something was telling me it was important.”

The other three exchanged looks, and Law felt his stomach drop. It wasn’t good enough, not for the danger he’d put them in…

“Okay,” Bepo said after a moment.

“Okay?” Law echoed, taken aback.

“Okay,” Penguin confirmed.

“If you thought it was important, then we trust you,” Shachi added. “You’re our captain, Doflamingo be damned.”

“The others feel the same,” Penguin added. “We’ll be okay, Captain. Whatever happens.”

Fuck. What had Law done to deserve them?

Once the trio left his cabin, Law turned back to the Den Den Mushi on his desk. He took a breath and dialed the familiar number. It rang longer than Law expected, but he knew this was another of Doffy’s games, making sure Law would stay on the line—as though he didn’t have the ultimate bargaining chip for Law’s loyalty already. Finally, the other man picked up.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the prodigal son. I was starting to worry, Corazon.”

“My apologies, Young Master,” Law replied, deciding deferential was his best tone at the moment. “I called as soon as I was able.”

Doflamingo snorted. “I’m sure you did.” In other words, he knew Law was lying, but he didn’t care enough to challenge the lie. “Where are you?” he asked instead.

“En route to Dressrosa,” Law said, debating how much to reveal of his whereabouts for the last two weeks. Would Hancock reveal Law had been there? Doflamingo would be furious if he heard it from her first. On the other hand… Law decided to err on the side of sharing as little as possible; it made the most sense for Hancock to keep Straw Hat’s presence a secret, as allying—or even appearing to ally—with a rival pirate crew was enough to cost a Warlord their status. “We should be there within the week.”

“And Dragon’s son?”

“Alive. As is Jimbei.” No point in lying about that.

Doflamingo made an impressed sound. “Straw Hat took direct hits from Kizaru and Sakazuki, and you were able to save him? I should really stop being surprised by your abilities after all these years, Corazon.”

Law hummed in response, recognizing the trap in Doflamingo’s words. Nothing he could say here would turn out well for him, whether he accepted the praise or demurred; no response was his best option.

“As impressive as your skills as a doctor are,” Doflamingo went on when he realized Law wasn’t rising to the bait, “they’ve caused me some serious problems.”

And there it was. Law needed to tread very carefully here.

“I had to convince the World Government that my subordinate acted on his own and that I was still a good little Warlord.” His voice had turned into a sneer, and Law could picture the bulging vein in his forehead. “And promise my subordinate would be appropriately disciplined for his indiscretion.”

“Of course,” Law said. “I’m sorry for causing you difficulties, Young Master. I will, of course, accept my punishment.”

Doflamingo chuckled, though there was no warmth to it. “I’m sure you will. You’re ever the loyal one, aren’t you, Law?”

Law’s breath caught in his throat, his body going cold.

“See you in a week.” With that Doflamingo hung up.

Doflamingo had stopped using Law’s name when he became an executive four years ago, even in private, so hearing it now… His tone was such a contrast to the way his friends had used his name less than an hour earlier, theirs so full of warmth and trust while Doflamingo’s was full of implication and threat…

Law ran a tired hand over his face. “Fuck.”

Next chapter

[sweet-sammy-kisses]

Fallen Bird

Make the World Bleed Chapter 1: Fallen Bird Fandom: DC Comics/Red Robin/Batman/Young Justice Pairings/Characters: Conner/Tim/Jason, Bruce/Clark/Diana, Core Four, Cassandra & Tim, Dick & Tim, Dick & Damian, Bruce & Tim, Tim & his Assassin Trio Summary: The Core Four have a bond that will never break, will never fade. When one of their own is hurt by someone who should be family to them the other three respond in force. When Tim's line is cut and he is seriously injured Conner, Bart and Cassie are ready to declare war against anyone who stands in their way of helping Tim, even if that means making a devil with the Devil himself, Ra's Al Ghul.  Author Notes: Written for the @badthingshappenbingo my prompt: falling from great heights. I love stories that deal with Damian cutting Tim’s grappling line and the fallout and aftermath that and my love of the Core Four turning into their dark selves this because one of their own is injured by someone is supposed to be family.  You can also read it on AO3

There were few things Tim Drake loved more than flying through the Gotham night sky as Robin and even though he was no longer Robin, something that still left a deep ache he refused to let the loss of Robin take away his wings and he was finally finding his place soaring as Red Robin.

Gotham was once a place that Tim called home. Once he thought he had found a family but the feeling of home and family were nothing but seemed in the distant past.

No longer could he call Wayne Manor or the Penthouse home. Nor could he call the other Bat's family.

He had realized that the hard way that he no longer belonged or he had never really been a part of the Wayne family.

Tim could feel himself on the edge there was only so much more he could take from Damian, only his team, Cassandra and surprisingly Helena saw how much the abuse was getting to him and the fact that he was just to turn the other cheek was slowly breaking him.

None of them could understand why the adults in Damian's life never once thought to take him aside and explain why he can't treat Tim the way he does. Not one of them set bounders for him. They reprimanded Tim because as the older of the two he should know better. And it was getting to the point that even Raven and Gar, who Tim didn't want them to get involved due to their strong bond with Dick, were reaching their breaking point. Several times they had to stop Raven from tossing the Bat-family into a hell dimension in their underwear.

Helena, Conner and Bart had been all for that idea and it was only because Tim begged her not to did Raven back down.

"If they keep placing the blame on you for Damian's actions I will do it," Raven warned, her normally warm eyes blazing with rage. Raven's vow whispered through Tim's mind.

No, shoving those thoughts to the back of his head Tim lost himself in something he loved.

Tim loved flying between the buildings it was one of his favourite things as a hero. His grapple line gave him a sense of freedom.

Freedom from the tension in the cave.

Freedom from the feeling that he didn't belong in the cave.

Freedom that he had lost a second family.

Then he heard it, something that shouldn't be happening not with a Bat-approved grapple the snapping of his line.  

Tim only had seconds to hear the snap before he was falling. "Conner!" He knew that he could count on him, his best friend who kept his promise that he would always be listening to his heartbeat.

But deep in his heart, he knew that it was going to be too late. 'Please Conner don't blame yourself.' Tim pleaded before darkness claimed him.

The pure terror in Tim's voice will haunt Conner 'Kon' Kent for the rest of his days as will his guilt for being a second too late in catching Tim. Looking at the broken boy of his best friend Conner felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest.

Pressing his comm to the rest of the Titans, "Guys you need to get to Gotham." Conner didn't care that his voice wobbled there was no way that he could stay strong or even pretend that everything was alright, nothing would be alright after this.

"Dude, what is wrong Conner? You are scaring me here." Bart's worried voice came over the line. It wasn't often that Conner would suggest that they break Batman's no meta in Gotham's rule. There was only one reason he would do so.

Bart's worse fears were confirmed when Conner whispered, "It's Tim, he's hurt badly."

Only the movement of his hair alerted Conner to Bart's arrival.

"Oh god." Bart felt like he was going to be sick at the sight he arrived at, he and the others had always been protective over Tim as he was the only human on their team but the one time he truly needed them and they failed him.

"I'm going to kill whoever did this." Bart snarled out, Tim was family and he would do everything in his power to keep those he loves safe.

"First we need to get Tim's help." Whoever did this will pay but getting Tim's aid comes first.

+******+

It was no secret among the Bat-family that there was a rivalry between the two youngest sons Timothy Drake-Wayne and Damian Wayne.

Richard "Dick" Grayson had hoped that they would grow out of it, he couldn't understand why Tim couldn't see that as being Damian's older brother he was to not let Damian's words get to him. Damian had come from the League of Assassins and his abusive upbringing was all he knew. Of course, he was going to lash out and Tim to Damian was an easy target.

Tonight Tim had let Damian get to him once again and stormed out of the cave, Dick only hoped that when he returned he was willing to apologize to Damian.

Jason Todd was fighting the urge to slam some heads together and at the top of his list is Dickie and the smug brat Damian. He had heard from Cass and Helena that things were pretty bad when it came to Tim and Damian and how Damian was allowed to get away with everything while Tim took the blame.

Yeah, he had tried to kill the kid, something that Jason hasn't forgiven himself for. He had allowed Talia to twist him up and he took it out on the one person who didn't deserve his rage. Tim might have forgiven him but he did and Dick sure as hell didn't. So he couldn't understand why Dick was allowing the demon brat to emotionally, verbally and physically abuse Tim and stay silent when he saw it first hand or got angry when Tim defended himself.

'For someone who claims to love family, he sure has proven that he can only love one brother at a time.' Jason felt for Tim. He was trying to be there for Tim but it was a work in progress.

It just baffled him and pissed him off that Bruce, Dick, Alfred, Stephanie and Barbara never once questioned why they allowed Damian to get away with treating Tim like he was trash. Why they never spoke up when Damian time after time told Tim that he wasn't wanted, that he wasn't part of the family. Why Damian sought to kill Tim and only Tim. Jason just hoped that they would wake up before it was too late.

It turned out it was too late.

For all of his skills, Damian found he couldn't move as the speedster kept him pinned to the wall, one hand wrapped around his throat the other vibrating right above his heart, "One wrong move and I vibrate my hand through your chest and into your heart." Bart Allen hissed, his happy-go-lucky personality replaced by a hardened man with no mercy left.

Damian refused to show any fear for that was a sign of weakness and he was anything but weak.

No help was coming as Cassie Sandsmark had Stephanie wrapped up in her lasso, she looked every inch of the Amazonian warrior she is.

Richard had his hands full with an enraged Superboy who was out for pure blood and Raven along with Huntress were keeping his father and Todd busy.

'I always knew that she was not to be trusted.' Damian thought bitterly at the betrayal from someone that was supposed to be one of their own. "I have no idea what you want but I suggest that you let me go and vacate the cave as well as Gotham and I might not seek revenge."

Bart's eyes burned with untamed rage, "Of course you would threaten violence for all the claims that you have changed you still fall back on old habits and isn't hurting Tim tonight enough for you? Or do you wish to stain your hands with blood some more?" Bart hissed at him.

Dick who was close enough to hear was confused, "What happened to Timmy?"

"Don't act like you don't know! You let this happen!" Conner snarled as he felt his eyes heating up and oh how he wanted nothing more than to unleash his heat beam on those who had harmed his Tim.

"Conner, I need you to calm down. I'm sure that Damian didn't mean for this to happen." Dick pleaded he needed to make Conner as well as himself believe that was true that Damian hadn't meant to hurt Tim. "I'm sure if we could talk to Tim we can clear this all up."

"Lies!" Conner hissed out, "This isn't the first time that little demon has tried to kill Tim and because he was never told by you Bruce or Alfred that killing Tim was wrong he found it acceptable and kept trying and now he has succeeded in seriously harming Tim. You are to blame as much as he is because you never took the time to explain that Tim is very much as a family as he is and Tim has the right to feel safe in his own home! Tim is fighting for his life right now because none of you had the balls to tell that demon spawn that killing is wrong!"

Damian froze a flicker of fear as Conner's words vibrated around the cave and all moment stopped.

Dick was sure that for a second his heart had stopped beating, "What do you mean?"

"I mean that Tim screamed my name as he fell knowing that I would always be listening for him if he needed me. I found my best friend's broken body laying on the ground. Bart found the cut zip line and Helena got Vic to look at the footage and what he found proved all of our fears Damian cut Tim's line, he fell because of him!"

Cassandra Cain was torn, she loved her family but Tim, Tim was special he was her little brother, her little bird, the one who never gave up on her and the first one to trust her.

"Hurt brother. Cannot forgive. Cannot trust. " It hurt Cass to say those words but she knew deep in her heart it was true.

Nodding his head Jason crossed his arms over his chest, "I agree with princess here. I knew this family was messed up but hell letting me then the demon spawn tries and kill replacement without consciences is a new low. At least I did my best to make amends with Timmy, and for some reason, he found it in his heart to forgive me."

"You were his big brother, the first one to believe in him and you turned your back on him." It was Helena's words that cut Dick to the core.

"Don't bother looking for Tim, he is somewhere safe and you will never see him again," Conner growled. Bart and Cassie stood united with him. They had once seen a future where they turned dark, where they crossed lines and for Tim, they were willing to do that now.

If it meant taking on Batman, his family and the whole Justice League they would do so in a heartbeat to keep Tim safe.

[matildashoney]

Loving You’s the Antidote: Chapter Ten

MASTERLIST // MOODBOARD // TAG LIST // TAGS // PLAYLIST

TAG LIST: @ihearthemcallingforyou​, @goldenfeelin​, @detroitkiwis​, @wherearethewatermelons​, @cock-a-doodely-doo

talk to me about it! feedback is greatly appreciated!

this chapter contains themes of anxiety. please read with caution.

good luck with this one, angels. x

Harry hasn’t spoken much the entire flight, only with exceptions of thanking the flight attendants for their courtesy and asking if Amelie wanted water or something to eat. His lips were tucked in a straight line, pursed tightly, the worry line in his forehead etched into his brows. His green eyes were a muted colour, one earphone dangling from the mess of curls on his head. He kept looking over to Amelie, waiting for her to say something, to yell at him, to scold him, to even whisper. He missed her voice when she was talking to him. She always has a different voice with him – no matter which emotion she was feeling more – and it is his favourite sound in the whole world. Her voice is sweet and smooth like honey, twinges of her mother’s accent when a word would nearly slip into another language and the twang that her father gave to his children. Amelie’s voice is melodic, hanging on every syllable and enunciating in a way that Harry could listen to her speak forever.

Harry just wants to hear Amelie speak to him.

Amelie is hidden behind sweatpants and a sweatshirt, neither matching in their colour scheme, Harry’s old Greenbay Packers hoodie clinging to her torso, the sleeves still slightly loose after nearly a year of washing and drying. Her hair is tied into a bun, stray baby hairs falling to the nape of her neck and her forehead, the saltwater clinging to the peach tone that is slowly fading into a deeper brunette with her roots. Amelie and Gemma were meant to dye their hair together when she went to London after St. Bart’s, but that’s not in the itinerary anymore.

Harry reaches for her hand, his heart breaking when Amelie unclips her seatbelt and shakes him away, standing to her feet and staring at him with the hardest glare that she could muster without tears.

“Can you just,” she mutters, her voice trailing at the end of the sentence, taking a deep breath and hiding her face away from his as she angrily wipes a tear from her cheek.

“Can you talk to me? Baby, I don’t understand,” Harry whispers, dropping his hand disappointingly to his thigh and extending his legs slightly to try and prolong his time with her.

“Don’t,” Amelie sterns, stepping over his legs and pausing when his hand grasps her waist lightly, steadying her to avoid falling as a flight attendant walks behind her swiftly and without caution, nearly causing her to trip into her. Her eyes soften when he releases her, suddenly wishing that he would demand her to speak to him. Her mind and heart were conflicted, because as much as she wanted to be angry and yell and express all of the negative emotions swimming in her chest, Harry is the love of her life and the idea of him hurting makes her stomach turn.

“Ames,” he whispers, squeezing her hand, his heart breaking at the feeling of the sweat in her palms and the shakiness in her fingertips. He wants to comfort her, to soothe her. “Amelie, please.”

“I,” she breathes shakily, taking her hand and turning on her heel, her words barely above a whisper. “I need a minute.”

Harry stares sadly as Amelie walks swiftly down the walkway, locking herself in the toilet faster than he could turn around and say a word. His thoughts go over every single event that occurred since Christmas, since the day before when he flew home without her. He thinks about the kiss they shared in the car when she arrived a few days later. He thinks about all of the words they shared and the wishes they whispered between kisses beneath a mistletoe Harry sneakily hid above his bed, the way they made love, and everything felt alright.

His hands rub his cheeks harshly, his eyes stinging with tears as he thinks about their holiday and what could’ve gone wrong, what he could’ve done better. All Harry wants is Amelie.

And feeling her slipping is surely destroying him.

~

Harry could feel that something was different.

Amelie hadn’t mentioned anything, neither had Phoebe when Harry texted her asking if Amelie was alright and if something happened at Christmas that he didn’t know about. Her attitude around him was a bit different, more reserved, and it reminded him of how she was at the beginning of their relationship a year ago before she opened up and got comfortable. Boxing Day was wonderful, celebrating the day with her, making lazy love in his bed, sharing presents and having a stuffing meal with his parents and their family and friends.

And then Harry told her who would be on the yacht. Only two days before they were set to go on it and celebrate New Year’s Eve. Her reaction was less than ideal, a forced smile and a peck to the cheek and an excuse to go and reach for her phone and go to her bath early. Harry could tell that Amelie was on the phone with Phoebe, giving short responses and only asking vague questions to spare his own interest.

He wasn’t too sure what she was telling Amelie, but he didn’t think much of it. Phoebe and Harry were friends, weren’t they? There wouldn’t be, shouldn’t be, anything to worry about. He brushed off his own anxiety about their conversation and mulled about his business to ready himself for bed, but as soon as she stepped outside the ensuite in a towel and walked into the wardrobe to get dressed, Harry knew something was wrong.

Amelie was more comfortable around Harry than ever before, walking out of the bathroom naked and opting to either steal a shirt from his laundry or sleep naked on the warmer days, showering with him, talking with him about the ideas in her head for a new exhibit and the possibility of taking a few naked portraits to paint for something for herself.

But, in that very moment, as Amelie turned her face away from his and dressed in the most loose-fitting pyjamas that she could find in her half of the closet, Harry knew something was wrong.

And the days following weren’t any better, even when Harry tried to ask. He wasn’t asking in the right ways, of course, but what was the right way? How was he supposed to know? He would ask if everything was alright at dinner, or if she wanted to talk about anything before bed. She always gave the same half-hearted smile, a kiss to his cheek, and reassurance that she was alright. And Harry believed her.

Until the yacht, that is.

Harry never really understood what Amelie meant by the way people would never assume they were together, they were dating, especially based on their looks alone. He never thought much of it because everyone close and important to them knew and respected their relationship. He never had to defend himself to anyone.

Until the third day.

All day, Kendall was hanging on him, clinging to his arms, taking pictures with him. Kris snapped a few of them, encouraging the poses and the flirting and the way Harry naturally listened to the requests. Until there was one that made even him uncomfortable. Her lips much too close to his even though it was an ‘innocent kiss on the cheek’ and immediately his hands were up, and he was excusing himself.

Amelie walked away as soon as Kendall started clinging to Harry, and there was this sick feeling in her stomach – the anxiety – that was making her think about all the times she saw Jack in a similar situation, from afar acting a similar way. Logically, Amelie knew that Harry would never behave in the same way Jack did, treat her as poorly, cheat on her, tell her that she’s replaceable, that she isn’t worthy. He wouldn’t ever do that, because he loves her.

Harry loves Amelie. Right?

He found her staring at the stars, sketching mindlessly on a blanket in the quietest part of the boat. He laid down next to her, kissing her shoulder, staring at the perfect replica of how the stars and the moon look above them. He complimented her work, a heavy feeling on his chest when she simply nods and hums in appreciation. That’s the first night she doesn’t let him touch her, shying against from his wandering hands with an excuse of exhaustion and a chaste kiss to his lips.

Only coming out for breakfast, she says that she got an offer to do a few pieces for an Up and Coming Artists exhibition in Beverly Hills and is going to be staying on the boat, taking in the sun and sketching for when they go back. Harry looks at her quizzically, confused as to why she hadn’t told him when they woke up, when they shared an innocent shower together, on their way to breakfast. He murmurs his congratulations with a forced smile and a kiss on her temple, but there is something in his chest that is telling him something is wrong.

Harry peeks into their room around two, walking in with a drink and a glass of water for Amelie to have. “Come get some sunshine with us, baby,” he says, sitting beside her on the inserted loveseat in the bay window and kissing her temple, trying to ignore how her body tenses with his touch.

“Think I’m just going to take a nap,” she reasons, hiding a fake yawn behind her palm and setting her pencil and her sketchbook on the bedside table.

“Can stay if you want me to,” Harry offers, his hand on her knee and his eyes soft under the dim light of the suite. “Can do something other than a nap if you want.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Amelie sighs, forcing a smile and pulling her body away from his reach.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Ames?”

“I’m fine, baby.”

Harry’s heart twinges at the name, the sound so familiar and so comforting yet feeling so off coming from her lips in that very moment. “Alright,” he sighs, leaning forward and kissing her lips lightly. “Love you.”

Amelie mumbles something under her breath, almost mistakable for simply a sigh. Harry leaves shortly after she settles under the covers, bringing the curtains down and making the room as dark as possible for the midday sun. Harry excuses Amelie for being tired with his parents, assuring them that everything was alright despite their questioning stare.

Everyone else seemed to forget she wasn’t around.

That’s when Harry noticed even more so what Amelie was talking about, and there was a pang in his chest filled with guilt. He mentioned Amelie in every other sentence, and yet, only his mother was the one that seemed to engage in the conversation. Did people think they wouldn’t last? How could anyone not realise her bright hair and shining smile and the sweetest laugh was missing from the conversation? He felt a bit angry at that and walked to another part of the boat to lay on a chair, needing to be alone with his thoughts and his emotions and settle down. He would talk to Amelie about it, later, apologise for not noticing sooner and promise to be better about it.

His thoughts were interrupted when Kendall asked to see the exhibition pictures, coming up seemingly out of nowhere and laying on the chair connected to his. Complaining about not being able to see, she tossed the towel over them, her fingertips scrolling through the pictures, asking ignorant questions that Harry wants to ignore. Had he been this dense about art before, too?

His thoughts must have been so deep in his head when he pulled the towel away from them that he didn’t notice his girlfriend standing dumbfounded at the walkway, her lips pursed together in a tight line and a numbness washing over her emotions. His jaw dropped, knowing how badly that must’ve looked to her, how this is not the first time she’s been through something similar and all the anxiety and the thoughts must be rippling through, the depression slowly resurfacing.

Amelie walked away much more calmly than she anticipated. Maybe it’s because she’s older, she doesn’t feel the need to make a scene as much. Maybe it’s because she’s embarrassed, embarrassed to think that she ever believed all that Harry told her in a year as opposed to what Jack told her for three.

Harry could replace her. Jack was right. There was no one more easily replaceable that Amelie, herself.

He nearly runs over a staff member on the way off the boat and to the hotel, sputtering apologies and shoving his sunglasses on his nose to hide himself away, his heart sinking when he sees her staring out the window with her legs to her chest, her chin resting on her knees. He spilt apologies and attempts to justify what happened and what she saw, how it was completely misconstrued. Amelie stayed quiet, nodding and humming when necessary, her thoughts circling around his explanation and to the anxiety beginning to overwhelm every emotion and every breath that sits inside her. He brushes his fingers through her hair as she stares out the window, not breathing a word.

Harry could see it happening, the impending spiral, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He wakes up from his mid-afternoon nap the next day to their suitcases clattering against the makeshift wardrobe, a string of profanities leaving her lips in a yelp of pain. His body shoots out of bed, his knuckles rubbing at his eyes, his lips parting in a yawn as he tries to speak. “Ames, what are you doing?”

“Going home,” she spits, not daring to turn around and face the half-asleep man beneath the sheets, the one that she loves more than anything and can’t picture her life without. Her voice is bitter and cold to hear, but it’s the only way she can speak without breaking into sobs. “Can come if you want, I really don’t give a shit anymore.”

“Hey,” Harry sighs, swinging his legs around the bed and padding over to her, gently prying her hands away from suitcase. His heart drops when she shakes him away and starts tossing her clothes messily into her open case. “Tell me what’s gotten into you.”

“I really don’t fucking want to, Harry.”

“Mon ange–”

“Don’t whip out the French and think I’m going to want to talk to you,” Amelie says harshly, tears spilling over her eyes and onto her cheeks and a frustrated grunt leaving her lips as she falls to her knees on the carpet. Her whole chest is caved in with her shaky breaths, her arms tucked tightly against her ribs to control her shaking.

“Amelie Fay,” Harry breathes, his hand taking her wrist, lightly tugging, “look at me.” He doesn’t let go of her hand as she stands, her broken posture making their height difference more apparent than ever as Harry looks down at her. “Why are you crying? What’s wrong?”

“Do you really not fucking get it?”

“Get what?” he sighs exasperatedly, his shoulder slumping in defeat as she shakes away his touch and attempts to brush a stray hair away from her forehead. “Not really sure I get anything. Know you’re anxious, right now, and you won’t tell me why. Know that you saw what you saw yesterday, and you didn’t tell me how you felt about it. Know that you get anxiety about meeting new people but what happened in August? Talked about it and then we were good. I apologised for what you saw yesterday, but it wasn’t what you think. That’s all I can say is sorry.” He isn’t really sure what else to say. He is confused as to why Amelie won’t talk to him, why she won’t open up. “Don’t really get the difference between talking then and now.”

“You’re an asshole,” she mutters, brushing her fingers through her hair and tugging at the root, stepping over the suitcase and walking away to gain some distance. Harry can see how much she’s shaking by the way her knees are tied together.

“Maybe,” Harry admits, nodding and tucking a hair tie between his teeth while he gathers the hair at the nape of his neck, tying it in a bun on his head. “Maybe I just don’t fucking get it. Explain it to me. Make me understand.”

“Do you not see that people don’t see us together? Because you only act that way around your family, and your close friends, Harry. Never the people that are going to talk about it.” Harry can see how hurt Amelie is by the words she’s saying, by the truth held behind every syllable and the way she has to stare at his chest or his knees, avoiding his eyes altogether. Confrontation was never Amelie’s forte, and having to do it in an unfamiliar environment made her want to be sick. “Can’t even look at you, right now.”

“Well, I’m not walking away, so look at me.” Harry’s words are stern in comparison to how unsteady and shaky he feels inside. He feels as though all of his bones are limp, all of his muscles disintegrated and all the emotions that made him feel strong and capable have fallen to his feet and out of reach. He can feel this beginning to end, and not in a way that he wants. “I don’t get why you’re being like this. Ames, we’ve been together for nearly a year,” he confesses, his words not thought out before tumbling from his lips. He should know why Amelie is feeling this way, he does know. He isn’t thinking. That’s the problem. “Tell me why I would want anyone fucking else. Make it make sense to me.”

“Get your head out of your ass, Harry,” Amelie groans, shaking her head and rolling her eyes at the way his arms are crossed in front of his chest. Harry either stood in that pose or with his hands on his hips when he’s angry. Her nostrils flare as she scoffs at the idea. “This isn’t about you.”

“Then, what is it about?”

Amelie waits a moment, thinking carefully of her words and taking a deep breath. All of the thoughts in her head are suddenly clear as she steps towards him, her arms folded in front of her chest like his and mocking his stance. “You don’t think about me,” she says firmly, confident in the words that she’s speaking into the air, as much as they break her heart into pieces, “when it comes to people that are in a different world from me. Get it, you know, I don’t fit in with your friends, I’m not the stereotypical person that you hang out with based on my looks. I’m not good enough to be with you. Knew that from the get-go.” Amelie blinks rapidly, forcing herself to stay hard on the exterior and not shed a tear. “Didn’t think it’d wind up with someone throwing themselves at you in front of me, though.” Harry’s eyes well up, closing his parted lips and tucking his chin to his chest. “Thought it was different with us, you know? Thought that all those times you said it was me that is good enough for you and that everything he said was wrong, that you meant it. Thought that you really wanted me.”

Neither Harry nor Amelie dares to utter Jack’s name, anymore.

“I did mean it,” Harry whispers, tears welling in his eyes and his heart shattering into a million pieces in his chest. He can feel the splinters of the arteries and ventricles against his ribs, ripping at his muscles as the pieces of his heart fall to the pit of his stomach. “I do mean it.”

“Harry, I saw the way you were interacting and talking to everyone.” Her eyes fall to her feet, her cheeks tinged a shade of red that splotches whenever she begins to cry. Harry knows that his heart is over when a tear falls down her cheek. “Have to be so much more careful and on guard with me. Don’t even look happy when you talk to me anymore. Comfortable, that’s all we are. That’s not fair,” she hiccups, sniffling and wiping the tear away with her sweatshirt sleeve. “Not fair to either of us, really.”

“Doll.”

“Don’t, Harry. I just want to go home. Don’t feel like you have to come. Don’t want to ruin your holiday.”

“Only a holiday because you’re here,” Harry says softly, his hands wiping away the tears on his cheeks as Amelie turns away, her eyes staring down at the intimidatingly empty suitcase. They always helped each other pack and unpack, and now she would have to do so alone. “Can you wait like, fifteen minutes? Don’t go anywhere without me.” Amelie nods silently, not wanting to see the ounce of hope glimmer in the emerald eyes that draw her in. “I’ll figure out how to get us home, today.”

Angrily wiping the tears from her eyes and leaning down to start putting her clothing away, she nods, not daring to meet Harry’s intense stare. Amelie thought about making a scene, screaming at the top of her lungs that Harry is an asshole and she hates him and never wants to see him, again. Maybe, she’ll even say she doesn’t love him, just to twist the knife.

That wasn’t something Amelie could do though, because while, yes, Harry can be an asshole sometimes, she doesn’t hate him and, more than anything, she wants to see him every single second of every day for the rest of her life. And, fuck, would she be lying if she said she doesn’t love him with her whole heart.

Harry bypasses anyone that gets in his way, walking straight to his mother and stepfather’s room with tears in his eyes, silently praying that they would have the answer to his question. He knocks three times, Robin’s voice ushering Harry to enter and their eyes wide with concern as his hair is tied into a messy knot on his head and his eyes are red with tears.

“Don’t know what I did wrong and now she wants to go home and she’s acting really weird and I’m worried. Amelie is worrying me. Think she’s going to leave me,” Harry speeds, all of his words jumbled together and his thoughts overwhelming and bringing him to tears. “Don’t think she’s going to talk to me ever again when we go home.”

“Harry,” Anne says softly, standing from her chair in the corner of the room and leaving her teacup on the plate, walking over to her son standing distressed in the middle of their room, “what are you talking about? You live together. This is just an argument. It happens.”

“No, Mum,” Harry sniffles, knuckling his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall. “Didn’t,” he hiccups, tears streaming down his cheeks, “Didn’t defend our relationship to people, let other people take pictures all over me, barely showed her any love like she should have felt. And I made her feel like Jack did.”

That sentence breaks Harry apart.

“Honey, I’m sure that’s not true,” Anne sighs, wrapping him in a hug and embracing the boy that is much too tall to be cradled into his mother, like this. Harry needs the hug, though, and she would never deny him, nor his sister, that.

“But it is, Mum, because she said that she thought she was wanted by me and that there isn’t any happiness when we speak to each other. That’s exactly how she used to feel with Jack.”

“Harry,” she soothes, rubbing his back calmingly and gently prying him away from her embrace, her hands holding his shoulders to properly look into his eyes and speak, “it’s some communication issues. That’s fixable.”

“Not with her anxiety, Mum,” Harry argues, knowing his girlfriend, the love of his life, better than he’s ever known, anyone. He takes a deep breath, all of his thoughts ready to be rushed into one sentence. “She’s going to cut me out. Promised herself she’d never go through this, again. Said she’d cut ties with anyone that made her feel that way.” He takes a moment to breathe, tears falling down his cheeks, “I made Amelie feel that way.”

“Have to talk to her, Harry,” Robin says, scratching his fingertips over his beard lightly. “Don’t think you apply to that rule, you know? Different when you love someone. Jack didn’t love her; he did things maliciously. You love Amelie and didn’t try to hurt her.”

“But whatever I did,” Harry hiccups, stepping away from his mother and leaning against the dresser in the corner, his arms folded in front of his chest, “I hurt her. I said things that weren’t thoughtful.” His hands rub his face in frustration. “Made her feel like I don’t want her. How can I ever come back from that?”

“Have to talk and assure her that you do,” Robin tells him, sighing and heaving a breath as he stands from the bed and walks over to him. “Harry, you know Amelie better than anyone – you know what’s best.” His hand holds Harry’s shoulder, forcing him to meet his stare. “If she’s really not feeling well, then you two can fly home tomorrow when we dock for the rest of the trip. Have to have a serious conversation, though.”

Amelie is asleep and curled into one of Harry’s sweaters by the time he stalks back to the room.

“Can I lay with you?”

Amelie nods silently, graciously accepting his arms around her and allowing her eyes to flutter shut with the feeling of his lips on the back of her neck sweetly.

“Know that you want to go back to California, and we need to talk,” Harry whispers, his lips touching her skin and savouring the way her curls fall in his face. “Booked a flight for tomorrow for us to get the hell out of here and go home.” Her hands hold his tighter around her waist, making sure that he won’t let go. “Let me hold you, tonight, please.”

Amelie sucks in a deep breath and brushes a stray tear away from her cheeks, rolling around and tucking further into Harry’s chest, his hands holding her tightly and breathing in the saltwater clinging to her hair.

Harry’s eyes are shut, and he is nearly asleep when Amelie’s fingertips trail up his chest, her thumbs tracing along his jaw and her lips sponging light kisses on his cheek. His hand squeezes her hips, encouraging her to continue, his head rolling against the pillow to give her more room. He can feel the tension in the air, the way all of their thoughts and words are being held in the base of the throat to avoid ruining this moment.

“Love me,” Amelie whispers, moulding her lips with his and coaxing his body to lay above hers. Her movements are slow and steady, almost as if she was memorising how each kiss, each touch, each breath feels against her for the last time. “Don’t think about it, just love me.”

But how can Harry not think about it? His chest is tight because he knows that something is coming, something he is going to hate. He can feel the unspoken words on his tongue, the anger in his chest, the hurt in his emotions.

“I do, I do love you.” He interlocks their fingers and quietly, passionately makes love to her beneath the covers, professing his love to her in kisses and touches and moans. He can taste the vulnerability, the things left unsaid. He feels as though this is the only way he can know what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling. Harry hates that.

Harry squeezes her hands, kissing her deeply and professing his love in the only way he knows. He takes her in his arms, holding her, feeling the tacky skin against his and the panted breaths on his cheeks, not mentioning the tears in his neck. Amelie shuts her eyes, pretending that if she falls asleep all of the negative thoughts and emotions in her head will disappear.

All they want is to pretend like they’re okay, even if it’s just while they sleep.

And in the morning, Harry woke up without her. Her suitcase was in the corner of the room, a note saying that she’s gone to have breakfast with his parents to say goodbye. Goodbye sounds so final in her note, it makes his stomach turn. Harry puts on his bravest face, his fakest smile, and walks out, joining the group for breakfast and playing into Amelie’s lie that she wasn’t feeling too well and had some work to get done, and they would be going home to help her feel better. Anne didn’t mention that Harry went to them in a panic, and by Harry’s stern stares, she doesn’t dare to think he mentioned it either.

Harry insists on carrying her luggage and being the proper gentleman, he should have been from the day they walked onto the boat, but he couldn’t take back what he didn’t do. He knows that Amelie is anxious, and there is a slight relief of pressure when she lets him hold her hand through security and the escort to their plane, her head on his chest, her hood pulled above her wet hair.

That was it. Five days of bliss turned into two days of disaster. Harry’s world turned upside down.

And he wasn’t too sure how to fix it.

~

Harry’s heart sinks when Amelie walks quietly to their seats, her hand touching his shoulder to tell him that his legs need to move to accompany her and his hands settle in his lap. Her eyes are red-rimmed and there are tears lingering on her eyelashes, her lips plump and reddened with biting into the flesh to mask her crying.

“Got you some water.”

“Thanks,” she whispers, forcing a smile as she takes the water from his hands and twists the cap open, taking a long sip and setting the bottle in her bag before leaning against the seat, her eyes squeezing shut. “Need to sleep for the rest of the flight before m’brain implodes.”

“Migraine?”

Amelie nods, tears welling in her eyes as the pain echoes through her. Harry opens his arms, grateful that she nods and lifts the armrest, tucking her arms around his waist and cuddling into his chest. His kiss lingers on her forehead, his fingers gently scratching the nape of her neck and cuddling her closely into his warmth, into his embrace around her. Her breathing is slower, her lips parted with pants as she falls asleep easily in his arms.

Harry can feel the tension disappearing as Amelie drifts asleep, yet he knows that whatever’s to come at home is only going to be worse.

/ / /

Comfortable silence is fucking overrated. That’s how Harry feels, right now.

Harry feels that there is no such thing, especially when it can be felt in his bones as his heart is ripping through his chest, leaving scars and tears along the way, that his girlfriend is going to tell him that she’s leaving and doesn’t want to be with him anymore. His love, the love of his life is silent, disappearing before his eyes, and there is nothing, no way to prevent it.

Comfortable silence is meant for the moments in the early morning as the sun is rising and birds are chirping and he’s made love to his girl and they’re falling asleep together, once more. Comfortable silence is meant for the moments where she’s sketching the beach as they lay in his boot at their favourite lookout point, Malibu’s prettiest beaches laid out before them. Comfortable silence is meant for the moments where she’s cuddled into his chest, watching their favourite programmes or reading her favourite books, only speaking to read a quote or a specific line that strikes her.

Comfortable silence is not meant for the quiet moments before your heart is broken.

“Think,” Amelie stutters, running her fingers through her hair and pushing her fringe out of her eyes, the curls that Harry loves tied into a messy knot at the base of her neck and a light sheen of sweat clinging to her forehead from anxiety. “Think we need to take a break. Have a bit of space for a while.”

“No,” Harry says, frustratedly setting his head in his hands, his elbows digging into his thighs. He won’t look Amelie in the face. Her eyes are glossy and dim of their colour and staring into her eyes will make him break down into tears. Her features are cold and seemingly heartless as if all the love she’s ever had for him has disappeared. Maybe that’s what makes this hurt more.

Harry will never not love her.

“Harry,” she sighs, biting at the inside of her cheek and taking a hesitant step towards him. His hand immediately moves away from his face to stop her, shaking his head and returning his stare to his feet.

“Amelie, don’t. I’m well aware that I fucked up and I hurt you, but please don’t fucking say that to me,” he spits, his voice cut with a rasp and the thickness in his accent, the swears burning the tension in the air with a wave of vulnerable anger.

“Harry,” Amelie breathes, her nails digging into her palms, leaving crescent-shaped indents in her skin. Her chest is rising and falling rapidly, her skin tinging pink with her rising blood pressure. Her mind is overwhelmed with thoughts and reactions and dizziness that makes her believe she might pass out, “listen to me.”

“I really don’t fucking want to when you’re breaking up with me,” Harry says, pinching his bottom lip between his fingertips and taking a deep breath with his next thought. “Do you want to date other people? Is that it? God, please don’t fucking tell me that either.”

“Quit swearing at me and listen to me.”

Harry’s eyes meet her stare, the intensity in her voice, the anger, the volume a height he’s never heard her speak before. Her arms are crossed in front of her chest, her fingertip digging into her temple and trying to relieve the headache. Harry wanted to kiss the pout off her lips. “Don’t want to hear it.” He shakes the thoughts out of his head, away from his mind. “You promised me you wouldn’t leave me.”

“Can you stop being so fucking thick-headed?” she groans, throwing her arms in the air in frustration and rolling her head against her neck, her nostrils flaring as she inhales a deep breath. “God, Harry, you don’t get it.”

“No, Amelie, I really don’t.”

“Can’t handle everything that’s going on in my head with you breathing down my neck,” Amelie says, controlling her temperament and her anxiety, the queasiness sitting in the base of her throat, her head swirling.

“Oh, so sorry ‘m caring about you, then,” Harry sneered, the sarcasm dripping in each syllable and the anger visible in the striking vein in his forehead. Amelie could have sworn that he was beginning to hate her. “How insensitive of me.”

How could you think Harry wouldn’t hate you after this?

“For fuck’s sake, Harry,” she shouts, her body slinking against the dresser and hitting her head against the wooden frame, her knees tucked to her chest. “Get over yourself for a minute.”

Harry shuts his mouth, not daring to say another word. Harry has never seen Amelie this angry, especially not with him.

“’m trying to understand something,” she mumbles, her glossy eyes cast to the ceiling, a betraying tear slipping down her cheek. “Why the hell is it okay for you to get jealous when someone flirts with me, but as soon as I’m upset over someone literally throwing themselves on you, I’m the fucking problem? Like, make that make sense to me, Harry.”

“Don’t care when people flirt with you as much as you think.” Harry is lying through his teeth. His greatest flaw is his jealousy. Maybe not the greatest considering admitting that he’s wrong is his least favourite thing to do, but it certainly is a weakness.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Fine, I get fucking jealous. Tell me something I don’t already know,” Harry retorts, sighing heavily and knocking his head against his neck, his ability to control his anger wearing all too thin.

“Harry, you don’t think about anyone but you, sometimes, and I’m fucking tired of it,” she snaps, the sentence cutting through him like the sharpest knife, tearing at his stomach and his heart and the emotional control that was rooted in his chest. Her heart was begging her to not hurt him, but her brain was screaming to make him feel the way she does. “Did you think about how I would feel if I saw you – which fucking happened – laying like that? Did you think about how I would feel listening to everyone talk about your relationship with her when I was sitting right beside you? Did you ever even fucking think of me?”

“God, I think about you all the time! You take up all the space in my head. There isn’t one thought that isn’t wrapped around you,” he yells, his voice overpowering hers and making her sink deeper into her knees. Harry’s heart falls into his stomach seeing her shy away from him. “Can’t understand how you’re so insecure about it all the damn time,” he says, shaking his head and standing, holding his hand out to her and frowning when she refuses to touch him. He drops his hand, walking away and spitting out before he could properly think, “Could go out any fucking time of day and girls would throw themselves at me to fuck me.” His mouth snaps shut at the comment, turning on his heel and walking to her, the anger still digging in his veins and making his apology come out in the worst way possible. “Doesn’t mean I fucking do it.”

“Get the fuck away from me.” Her voice is broken and distraught as she stands on her feet, her height not nearly reaching Harry’s but her hands angrily pushing him away from her. “Girls throw themselves at you?” she snickers, carding her fingers through her hair and pushing it away from her eyes. Her blood is boiling so much that the tears in her eyes have evaporated. “Good, you arrogant son of a bitch, I’m glad that they do. Go get one.”

“Fine,” Harry spits, his jaw tense and his eyes widening at Amelie walks to the bedroom door that was shut and locked when they walked in with their suitcases earlier that morning. “Maybe I fucking will.”

“Don’t let the door fucking hit you on the way out.” Her hand yanks the knob, nearly turning it loose. Her eyes portray the hurt, the betrayal, the pain. Harry swears that wouldn’t recognise her, wouldn’t recognise the anger and the hate in her eyes. “Don’t come back either.”

You hate me. I’ve made you hate me.

Harry masks his upset in the harshest tone he can muster, blinking away tears in his eyes. “Don’t think I will.”

He grits his teeth, clenching his jaw and staring at the bedroom door. His stomps are heavy into the corridor, his feet moving against the stairwell fast and his hand swinging the front door open and slamming it behind him. He wouldn’t look back. Harry was more than able to get into his car, drive to the nearest bar, and meeting a girl to simply fuck wherever they wanted, wherever they could. Quick and fast. Means nothing. Forget about Amelie. Forget it.

That’s what he needed to do, isn’t it?

Harry gets into his car, turning on the engine and speeding out of the drive, his vision blurring and eyes welling with tears as swerves into a parking space and turn the engine, his hand slamming against the steering wheel as sobs wrack through his body. His thoughts running over every horrible thing he said, his heart broken and tearing through his ribs, scratching and making his entire chest burn with guilt and shame. Thinking about forgetting Amelie would include forgetting everything.

Harry would be forced to forget the kisses, the touches, the love. He would be forced to forget the conversations in a language he learnt for her, the secrets they shared together that belonged to them and only them. Forgetting the lovemaking and the way his hands and his lips knew Amelie’s body like a map, like their intimacy, their connected moments were a treasure.

Cheating on Amelie would ruin everything. Harry couldn’t do that.

Harry turns the engine, cranking his steering wheel and driving home, the highway made through rush hour and taking much longer than he wanted to get there, to get to her. He is expecting Amelie to be gone, to have packed her bags in the thirty minutes he’s been out, to pretend that Harry never existed in her life and move on. His chest heaves in the slightest relief when her car is unmoved in the drive, yet he knows that Jenny or Fay could have gathered her. He stalks to the front door, his knuckles turning white around the doorknob, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose to force the oncoming tears at bay, his thoughts scattered and unable to fully make sense.

His shoes stay at the platform of the stairwell, his hand holding onto the bannister and his feet trudging up the stairs as he makes his way to the bedroom. He can see that the light is on, but there he has very little faith that she will be inside. His hand pushes the door open, his eyes welling with tears when he notices the suitcases on the carpet and clothes being tossed inside messily. Harry swears that he’s never seen Amelie so angry, and it breaks him to know that he’s the reason why.

You can’t fix this. You can’t make this better. You’ve ruined this. You’ve ruined the best thing to ever happen to you.

Amelie’s voice is dripping in sarcasm and bitterness, her voice travelling around the bedroom as she forces her favourite sweatshirts – not his, his is in the laundry bin near what is her side of the bed, she must not want it anymore – into the deepest part of the suitcase. “Oh, what’s wrong? No one wanted to be part responsible for you cheating on your girlfriend?”

Harry closes the door, taking a step towards her and making the conscious decision to sit on the chest behind her. Amelie ordered it online a few months ago, saying that they would keep all their memory albums in there and one day it would be filled to the brim. He doesn’t anticipate that being the case, anymore. “Amelie, I was just showing her pictures of the exhibit. Had my towel over our faces because the sun was too bright, and we couldn’t see.”

“Don’t want to hear you say things that you don’t mean, Harry.”

“Fucking swear on m’life, Ames. I’d never cheat on you.”

Amelie tears too hard at her lip, swearing and angrily standing on her feet, tears staining her cheeks as she stares at Harry, disappointment in her eyes. “And what if I don’t believe you? Felt pretty confident in your ability to tell me that you could walk outside and have someone to go fuck in your car or wherever you decide to fucking do it.” Harry stands up, meeting her halfway and standing directly in front of her. “Go,” she shouts, pushing angrily at his chest and staring at the way he refuses to move, a tear falling down his cheek. “Go fuck someone, Harry. See if I fucking care.” Amelie gulps, heaving a shaky breath as her index finger pushes into his chest, “You won’t be the first person to hurt me and I bet you won’t be the fucking last.”

“Amelie,” Harry whispers, his hands lightly holding onto her shoulders, his mouth curving into a pout and his eyes squeezing shut, tears falling down his cheeks. “Amelie Fay.”

“Don’t use my whole fucking name,” she says, her hands shaking so roughly that her sweatshirt sleeve – one that’s marked with the pipe drawing – isn’t able to wipe away her tears. “You know what? Maybe I’ll go fuck someone else. How’s that sound? I’ll go fuck someone else and forget all about you.” Hiccups sound through the air as Amelie struggles to breathe. “Maybe that’s what I’ll fucking do.”

“Hey, Ames,” Harry sighs, taking her hands in his, holding her wrists tightly and bringing her hands to his chest, “look at me.”

“Fuck you, Harry.”

“Amelie, I made you that promise a year ago that I would never cheat on you, and I intend on keeping it.” Harry brings Amelie’s hands closer to his mouth, wanting to kiss her fingertips, her knuckles, her wrists, her arms, every inch that makes her. “Didn’t and wouldn’t cheat on you.”

“And what if I don’t believe you, Harry?”

“Deserve it, I do. I deserve that,” Harry breathes, nodding and kissing each fingertip. “Can’t change what I did,” he whispers, kissing the back of her hands and her wrists. “Have to do all that I can to make you trust me, again.”

“Tell me what you would’ve done if that was me,” she hiccups, tears stinging her eyes, her chest too tight to gain a breath. “Tell me what you would do if I fucked someone else.”

This can’t be happening. Harry is going to leave. Harry isn’t going to be your boyfriend anymore. You’re going to be alone. This is what Jack wanted. This is what he is waiting for. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You can’t go back to Jack. You can’t. Harry can’t leave. This can’t be happening.

“But I didn’t–”

“Tell me.”

“Feel sick to m’stomach,” he confesses, his eyes squeezing shut to try and erase the image of anyone touching her. “Find whoever it was and break their hand for touching you.” His words are barely above a whisper. “Get m’self in a lot of trouble, I reckon.”

“Can you imagine having a fucking horrible day and then walking outside, needing the comfort of your girlfriend, to see her wrapped up in someone’s arms, a towel was thrown over them, not able to see what the fuck they’re doing? How would that make you feel?” Amelie mutters, unable to muster a voice loud enough, strong enough to yell. Her energy is gone. All of her will to make this better is gone. Harry’s lost from her.

“Not very fucking good,” Harry murmurs, gently raising her sleeve, goosebumps prickling her skin, his lips sponging wet kisses along her arms, salty tears on his cheeks. His heart craves her touch. He needs to be kissing her. His mind is a mess, too many thoughts and feelings in his head, all unfiltered and tearing him apart.

Tell me how to make this better. I want to make it better. Please don’t leave me. Don’t leave.

“What would you do in that situation? Tell me.”

“Be angry,” he whispers, planting his lips on her neck and delicately kissing her skin, soaking in the way that – even in her anger – her head tilts and makes space for him to leave his mark. “Take that fucking towel off of you and demand an explanation.”

“Tell me what I did,” she breathes, her fingertips curling around the collar of his sweatshirt. As much as Harry has hurt and angered her, her heart is longing for his lips on her.

Make it better. Fix this. Do something to make me want to stay. Do something to show me that we’ll be okay.

“Nothing.”

Harry gently grabs Amelie’s cheeks, kissing her deeply and squeezing his eyes shut, savouring in the way her tongue so effortlessly moves with his and their lips are perfectly aligned, her taste tingling his senses and sparking emotions that made his skin itch to be one with hers. All Harry wants is to love her. “Don’t kiss me.”

Amelie’s words are a betrayal on everything she really wants. His fingers tangle in her hair, pulling the curls out and having her scent wash over him. His breaths are hot against her lips, barely pulling away from her kiss to speak, “Baby, kiss me and make it better. Can make it better, I know it. I’ll fix this. Please.”

“Can’t. No,” Amelie hiccups, a fresh set of tears falling down her cheeks as her hands push Harry away, shaking away the grasp on her wrists. “Promised myself I wouldn’t do this.”

Harry’s voice is unsteady, shaking with every syllable. He is losing the love of his life. Amelie is already gone. “Didn’t cheat on you, I swear on my life. This is all a big misunderstanding. Please don’t leave me.”

“Maybe it is a misunderstanding,” she sighs, rubbing her hands over her face and trying to ignore the burning sensation in her lips, the one that makes her want to kiss him. Harry takes a step towards her, his shoulders slumping as she takes a step away. “But you can’t take back what you said, Harry. Told me that it wasn’t that big of a deal that they were talking about your past relationships, that you were taking pictures the way you were. Hate to break it to you, but just because Jack isn’t around physically doesn’t mean that all the things that were said to me aren’t in my head all the damn time.” Harry notices Amelie’s bottom lip quivering, and every single part of him wants to take her in his arms and comfort her, soothe the ache in her chest that he is the reason for. “Think about it all the time how I’m not good enough for you, how it’s so clear that I don’t deserve a love like the one you’ve shown me.” Her breathing is shaky and passing through parted lips in pants, and Harry is sure that she’s going to give herself an asthma attack at any moment. “But this, Harry, this broke me. Can’t you see that?”

Harry is silent for a minute, trying to gather all of his thoughts and have something to say, something that is worthy of forgiveness. “Can see it, I can. I fucked up. I’m so sorry,” he musters, his teeth biting into his cheek nervously, his eyes blinking away tears as Amelie turns on her heel and makes her way to the bedroom door. Harry quickly follows behind her, their feet light against the wooden stairs, his hand reaching out and grabbing her wrist as they reach the platform and lightly tugging her to look at him. “I love you, I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

“Need to get out for a little while.”

“Are you,” Harry whispers, releasing her wrist and scratching the nape of his neck. “Are you coming back?”

“Don’t really have anywhere else to go.”

“Don’t do anything stupid. Please. Don’t be reckless.” Harry’s thoughts are everywhere and anywhere and the thought of losing her because she was crying or upset and driving recklessly makes him want to be sick. “Call me if you need me. I love you.”

Amelie nods, pursing her lips together in a tight line and rubbing the tears on her cheeks with her sweatshirt sleeve. Harry is behind her on the stairs, his eyes welling with tears as she grabs her keys and rushes out the door. Her teeth chatter as soon as the wind hits her cheeks, the January air crisp and much colder than anticipated for California. Her engine turns over, her hands tossing her phone and her wallet onto the passenger seat, her mind taking her to the place where she promised she would never go to again.

Jack doesn’t recognise her new car. His fingers nurse a cigarette, the smoke blowing from between his lips. His oblivion is only slightly comforting, as it doesn’t take away from the way his eyes refuse to tear away from the tinted windows and the navy colour of her car. He was always intrigued to understand what he shouldn’t have, and that interested Amelie at first until it was her that he couldn’t have.

Christ, Amelie, what the fuck are you doing here? Do you want something to happen? Are you fucking insane?

Amelie’s body shakes with sobs, nails digging into her thighs and her forehead leaning against the steering wheel, her head pounding with a migraine and her vision blurring with tears. Her life is falling apart at the seams, all of her emotions shattered and destroyed in a matter of days. All that she had, all that she knew is gone. Her love, the love of her life, the one that she wants to spend forever with, disappearing before her very eyes. Harry wouldn’t want her after this, as much as it was said so.

I’m not strong enough for this. I can’t do this. I don’t want this.

Her cheeks bleed with the tiny rips her teeth gnash into her skin, her fingertips digging into her eyes, her nose running, her blood pressure is high – too high – and her consciousness is drifting.  Amelie’s mind sets into a panic, her fingertips rushing to lock her doors and moving to recline her seat all the way back, her eyes squeezing shut as her fingertips rollover pressure points, trying to draw the queasiness away and her thoughts to sort enough to drive home.

Harry would help you if you were home. Harry wouldn’t let you get like this. That’s what he was trying to avoid. He just wants to talk.

And for the thirty minutes that Amelie is laying down, strictly focusing on her breathing, trying to regain the strength to drive home, willing her migraine to dissipate and the fog in her brain to clear, her mind is replaying Harry saying “I love you” as she walked out the door.

Harry is calling, Amelie can hear her phone vibrating on the ground. Her migraine is slowly fading, the darkness surrounding her making it much easier to calm down. Her eyes stare up at the moon, wondering why at this time all of the stars are failing to align. Her hands grapple for her phone and her wallet, tucking the wallet in the centre console and opening her screen, there are four missed calls and seven text messages. Clicking on the voicemail, Harry’s voice rings through the radio, the engine turned over and ready to be driven home.

“Hey, uh, it’s me. Know that you needed to get out, and ’m sorry for bothering you,” Harry begins, his voice shaky and nervous. “Come home, Ames. I, um, I want to talk this out.” His anxiety is heard in the rasp clutching every syllable. “Think that we can get over this, you know? ‘s hard, we say things we don’t mean, but that doesn’t mean to have to say goodbye.” Harry is sniffling, now. “Please don’t go to Jack. Don’t do that.” He coughs to mask a choked out sob. “Come home. Fuck, I meant to say please. Je t’aime. I love you, I’m sorry. Please come back.”

Amelie clicks on the second message.

Harry’s voice is a bit softer, more tender. “Ames, I’m worried. Call me back. At least tell me if you’re alright.”

Third message.

His voice is harsh and etched in the thickest accent Amelie has ever heard. “Amelie, I’m going to come and find you if you don’t call me back soon.”

Fourth message.

“Amelie, please, baby.” Harry is crying. His voice is barely above a whisper and his nose is slightly stuffed as he takes a deep breath in. “Please be okay. I need you. Please.”

All the way home, Amelie is thinking about Harry saying that she’s needed, that he needs her. Her heart is entirely his. All of her, every thought, every breath, every painting, every idea, includes him, his love, the way his support has changed how Amelie thinks. Her mind can’t tear away from the insecurities, though, the way all of what Jack has once said to her clings to her thoughts and her doubts when Harry even slightly behaves in a way that she isn’t used to. Amelie is more than aware that therapy takes time and having to admit to Harry that she needs time to find a way to love herself before they can be together makes her want to break, once more.

Fuck, I love him. I love him so much. I can’t go through this. I can’t have him hate me.

Harry is sitting at the dining table, staring at his phone when Amelie walks inside, throwing everything onto the table beside the door and tossing her trainers messily in the closet. He immediately stands, rushing over and wrapping his arms around her shoulders, bringing her into a hug and tucking his face in her hair, breathing her in, tears wetting her scalp as he squeezes her.

“Hi,” Amelie whispers against his chest.

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, kissing her temple and laying his forehead against her head, his fingers carding through her hair. “Fuck, you’re okay. Thank God you’re okay.”

“Almost passed out in the car, and I had to lie down.”

Harry pulls away, staring at her intently, taking in the flushed cheeks and sweat beading at her forehead, her lips slightly parted and chapped from heavy breaths. He doesn’t know what he would’ve done if something worse happened. “Amelie, you should’ve called me.”

Amelie gulps, licking her lips and blinking slowly, “My phone fell on the ground and I couldn’t reach it.”

“Gon’a get you a warm flannel and some water,” Harry says, kissing her temple once more and walking into the kitchen to fill her water bottle from the cabinet, handing her the light pink flask and nodding towards the stairs. “Do you need help getting up the stairs?”

“Can walk, it’s fine.”

Harry nods respectively, walking carefully behind her with a hand on her back to steady her, her legs slightly wobbly as she holds on to the bannister. He quietly shuts the bedroom door behind them, walking straight into the bathroom and running the warm water over a washcloth, wringing out the excess and taking a breath. His eyes blink away the tears forming in the corners of his eyes, walking into the bedroom and sighing at the sight of his girlfriend – if he could still call her that – sitting with her legs hanging over the side of the bed.

“Think we should talk,” she whispers, exhaustion in her eyes, her fingertips tracing over the tattoos on her thighs.

“Can talk in the morning, you need to rest,” Harry says, shutting the light and setting the cloth in her hands, his fingertips brushing her fringe away from her forehead. His thumb presses into the button of the lamp on her bedside table, drawing the curtains closed and readying the bedroom for the night. Harry is silently hoping that he’ll be able to fall asleep with Amelie once more before she leaves him.

Amelie grabs his hand, standing on her feet and setting the towel on the wooden table. “Harry.”

“Amelie, I–”

“Know that you love me,” Amelie says, her heart breaking as Harry’s eyes begin to well with tears, his hand held over hers on his chest. “Know that, I do. Have to give me time, though. Can’t love you the way you deserve if ‘m not okay, if ‘m not loving myself.” Her thumb brushes the tears from his cheek. “Unintentionally, we’re hurting each other by not talking, especially me, and we’re just using words to hurt each other. That’s not something I want for you, Harry. That’s not something I want for either of us.”

“Need you to tell me what you want, what you need from me,” Harry sighs, tears staining his cheeks and his tongue trying to wet his chapped lips. “Tell me how to fix this.”

“Have to forgive each other, Harry. Our words, our argument was cruel. That wasn’t fair to either of us,” she whispers, her thumbs soft against his dry skin. “Think we need a few weeks apart, that’s all. Like you’re on tour or I’m doing a mural. That’s all you have to think of it as.”

“But it’s not,” he breathes, his hand gently moving her wrist away from his face, “we’re in the same city, the same house, Ames.”

“I’m going to stay with Mama and Papa and Phoebe for a week or two,” Amelie reasons, shying away from Harry as he denies her touch. Her fear of being rejected by him is overwhelming her senses. “This way we have that space.”

“Don’t have a studio at your parent’s house, and that’ll drive you insane.” Harry knows Amelie better than he knows himself. His heart couldn’t stand to see her break without having her art and her space to breathe. “Can you just stay here? Have me bring some things into the guest room and leave in the morning and come back late at night, I don’t care.”

“But, where will you go?”

His nails scratch at his head, his chin tucked against his chest and his knuckles rubbing at his eyes to rid the tears. “Don’t know, I’ll make myself busy during the day.”

“Don’t want you to think ‘m a horrible person for this, Harry,” she whispers, her fingertips beginning to pull at her lips, the slightly metallic taste of blood on her lips causing her to swear.

“Hey, hey,” Harry sighs, gently prying her hands away from her face and bringing her into his chest. His arms wrap around her shoulders, tucking her arms around his waist and preventing her from subconsciously hurting herself more. “Don’t do that, you’re okay.”

“’m sorry.”

Harry gently rubs her back, his nose tucked into her hair as she cries into his chest, her breathing shaky and panted against his chest. His heart breaks for his love, wishing desperately he could take her pain away, take away all that was done to her, all that he did to her. “’s okay, angel. ‘ve got you.”

“’s all m’fault.”

“’m guilty, too,” Harry sighs, fingertips brushing through her curls and holding her tighter in his warmth. “Don’t blame yourself for everything. This isn’t all your fault. Not like we’re breaking up, yeah? Couple weeks to take some time to breathe and get ourselves together, and then we’ll come back and talk.”

Harry’s hand releases her hair, laying in the centre of her back and soothingly rubbing her spine, Amelie’s eyes meeting his. “Can you stay with me, tonight?”

“Don’t know how good of an idea that is, Ames,” he breathes, tucking a strand of hair away from her forehead and behind her ear, “for either of us.” His chest heaves with a breath, his mind and heart conflicted with what he wants. “Like you said, we were just so cruel to each other.”

“Harry,” she whispers, tears spilling over and her fingertips clutching his hips.

“Don’t cry, please. I’m here,” Harry sighs, his thumbs wiping the tears from her cheeks, his lips touching her forehead and her cheeks. “I’ll stay. Don’t cry. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Don’t go out and fall in love with someone else, okay? Need you to come back to me.”

“Couldn’t and wouldn’t dream of it, mon ange.” Harry gently brings her chin up, his eyes meeting hers, his lips hesitantly pressing to hers to emphasise his statement. “’s you and me, that’s it.”

“Don’t hate me, please.”

“Could never hate you,” Harry assures, brushing the hair away from her neck and lightly kissing her jaw.

“Kiss me,” Amelie whispers, squeezing his hips and mending their lips together. Her eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, her lips slightly rough and dry compared to the gentle feeling of his. His hands grip under her thighs, delicately laying her on the bed and slanting his lips on hers, peeling their clothing slowly and tossing it onto the carpet.

“Never wanted to make you sad,” Harry whispers against her lips. “I’m so sorry.”

“Know that,” she sighs, grabbing his cheeks and kissing him, silencing his words to hide away the tears that were waiting to fall down her cheeks. “Don’t talk. Make love to me, that’s all.”

“Have to know that I love you.”

“I do, I know.”

Harry and Amelie make love under the tangled sheets of their once shared bed, tears shed, and arms held tightly around each other, quiet whimpers and moans sharing the love and sadness and emotions pouring through them.

Harry clutches Amelie’s naked body against his chest, his fingertips carding through her knotted curls and his lips touching her hairline. “Are we going to talk?”

“Mean, we’re still living together,” she breathes, her fingertips tracing over the birdcage on his ribs. Her throat is dry, the feeling of every emotion rushing through her brain and her migraine beginning to resurface. “Expect us to.”

“And I’ll be there for the exhibition,” Harry says reassuringly, the darkness lingering over their bedroom intimidating to the heartache that is panging their chests.

“Know you will.”

His words are pleading, his fingertips tucking under her chin and bringing her to meet his stare. His heart is so broken. “Can I do anything to change your mind? Anything.”

“Harry,” Amelie sighs, shaking her head and delicately kissing his jaw. Her body sinks further into his embrace, her eyes closing and her hand splaying over the expanse of his back.

“Je t’aime.”

“Je t’aime davantage.”

Harry stares at the ceiling, his arm wound tightly around his love. His mind is racing, too many thoughts overwhelming him and too many emotions circulating through, taking his breath away and making his heart feel small in the pit of his stomach, his ribs caved in and puncturing holes in his lungs. His cheeks wet with tears, his hand wiping at the betrayal and falling to where her arm is draped over his waist. Harry’s never noticed before, but Amelie always seems smaller when they’re tucked in bed together when there is the rare opportunity to cuddle her when her hair is falling over her face and her lips are parted between breaths. He soaks it in, all of the upset, all of the tears. His heart clings to the hope that they’ll find their way back, they’ll forgive each other, and they’ll love each other unconditionally forever. That’s all Harry wants: forever.

Harry stares at the beautiful, broken-hearted woman in his arms, the one that he’s fallen so madly in love with, and silently prays to whoever is listening that they’ll make their way back to each other soon.

/ / /

Harry marks another day on his calendar in the guest room and his heart sinks at the sight – two weeks taking ‘time’ from Amelie. He took nearly everything from his office and set it on the desk in the makeshift bedroom for himself. He couldn’t bear being next door to the studio and not going in to steal kisses or have lunch with her or teasingly swipe paint on her nose or her arms.

Her conversations with him are barely anything to remember. Quick check-ins and asking about dinner plans in the mornings as she makes her tea and he grabs his coffee. Maybe the occasional question about who would go to the shops and buy their groceries – usually her for the sake of not being noticed – and making a list of whatever they’ve run out of. Harry wants to ask when she thinks they can speak again, having an adult conversation about what to do with their relationship. His heart is heavy, knowing that his best friend barely speaks to him, and doesn’t really want to. He knows that Amelie has been having nightmares, again, and there have been a few nights where they’ve had a quiet conversation as he soothes her. She never brings it up in the morning, though. Harry wants Amelie to talk to him, even if it’s to say that she’s thinking because that would mean that there’s an opportunity to make it better.

More than anything, it’s painfully obvious that Harry and Amelie really do miss each other, even if they won’t admit it.

Jenny gave Harry an earful at her kitchen counter, his head in his hands, despair etched into his features. There wasn’t anyone to turn to that knew Amelie quite like Jenny did, and Harry knew that she would be honest with him, even though it would surely hurt.

Opening her front door, Jenny rolled her eyes and nudged Harry inside, waddling into her kitchen and taking a seat on the dining chair, her ankles swollen, and her lips wrapped around the straw of her water. You know, if I wasn’t pregnant, I would beat your ass for the pictures I saw.

I know, Harry said, tying his hair into a knot and frowning. It’s really not what it looked like, but I don’t blame you for being mad.

Amelie hasn’t told me anything, she sighed, running her fingers over her bump and leaning her cheek in the palm of her hand. Need you to tell me what happened, and we can try to see the best way to get her to open up, again. Obviously, it’s a good sign if she didn’t call me and ask her to help her leave.

Thinking about Amelie leaving makes Harry shudder. Okay. And Harry tells her everything. All of the harsh words that were said to each other, the leaving, the kisses. He leaves out that they had sex – she can piece that together on her own. He talks about how they’ve barely spoken. I miss her so much. I didn’t think I could ever feel this way. It’s the fucking worst. His eyes refuse to meet Jenny’s because of the disappointment that she feels is lingering over his head, the tension in the air.

This happened to Dan and me, she says, and you’re lucky that Amelie is nicer than I am because I kicked him out of the house for a week. One of his exes started coming around and he’s a boy and didn’t see that she was trying to get in the way. Told him that he needed to decide what he wanted.

Obviously, it worked out for you, though, Harry sighs, I don’t think Amelie wants me anymore, even though she’s all I want.

Maybe you should try to prove that to her, then. Living in the same house and avoiding each other clearly doesn’t do the trick.

And Harry takes Jenny’s advice to heart.

Calling the only person that he knows will have the advice to give him about Amelie, the drive to Pasadena takes much longer than the typical thirty minutes. Harry’s thoughts are racing, and his heartbeat is erratic as the freshly painted house and the flowers and the brick walkway comes into sight. Fay’s car is outside, Harry’s pulling up beside it. His phone vibrates in his pocket, Amelie’s contact showing on his screen, a message saying that she’s going to buy more canvasses and spray paint and to not wait on her for dinner. His heart sinks at that, knowing he wouldn’t see her at all that night.

His thumb pressed into the doorbell, his heart sinking when her younger sister answers the door, the twisted expression on her face and the way her head shakes at the sight of him making him want to shrivel into the floor and melt away. Her eyes could pass for daggers, and Harry swears she’s twisting the knife to make the nerves in his stomach worse.

Her and Amelie surely know how to kill with their stares.

“Hey, Pheebs,” Harry breathes, his hands shoved in his pockets nervously, “is your mum home yet?”

“Yeah,” Phoebe says hastily, the hostile tone a vast change in comparison to how they normally interact. “Why are you here?”

“Pheebs–”

“Don’t call me that anymore,” she interrupts, tears welling in her eyes at the thought. Harry was her friend, yes. But Amelie was her sister, her blood, her best friend.

“Phoebe,” Harry begins, his voice trailing as she turns away, Fay swiftly shuffling into view. “Hi, Fay.”

“Hi, Harry,” Fay welcomes, greeting him with a motherly hug and rushing him inside, the January air crisp and chilling his cheeks a bright red. “Calm the cold shoulder, Phoebe. There’s much more to the story than what a magazine decides to tell you. Clearly, Harry’s here for a reason. Don’t make him feel worse.”

Phoebe nods complacently, turning on her heel and stalking up to her bedroom, giving Harry one last look at the top of the staircase before slamming her door shut. Her feelings were conflicted. All Phoebe wanted was to see Amelie happy, and she is happy with Harry, evidently unhappy without, and there was no way to have a happy medium.

“Come inside the kitchen. Get you some tea and warm you up.” Harry follows Fay into the kitchen, standing quietly in the corner and rocking on his heels as she readies a kettle and paces about the island. “Oh, don’t be shy, now. Come sit.”

Harry fiddles his thumbs, smiling shyly at Fay across the counter and staring at the barstool that his girlfriend - he wouldn’t stop calling her that - painted. He never felt uncomfortable coming to their house, rather slightly uneasy with the thought that they could very well be mad at him for all that he’s done. He takes a deep breath, gathering his thoughts before saying a word.

He isn’t entirely sure on how he should ask his girlfriend’s mother for advice on how to bring her back to him. Because, at the end of the day, Fay was Amelie’s mother, Fay would support Amelie. They didn’t owe him anything.

“How are you doing?” Fay asks sweetly, leaning over the counter and casting her eyes over the solemn boy sitting at her kitchen counter. Phoebe answered the door with a disgusted look on her face, and she knew that couldn’t have been easy to take. “Are you eating? Sleeping well? Had your mum text me the other day to check-in.”

“I’m alright, I suppose,” Harry answers honestly, not daring to stare into the eyes that are scarily matching to Amelie’s. “It’s weird. We’re living in the same house, eating meals together, bringing each other coffee from our favourite place, but we’re not together – still in the break, or whatever it is. It’s like we avoid the topic altogether. Ames brushes me off every time I try to bring it up.”

“Know this can’t be easy on you, Harry. It’s clear how much you love her. But this can’t be easy on Amelie, either. She loves you. More than she’s ever loved, anyone. And that includes us,” Fay giggles, patting her hands on the counter and moving towards the whistling kettle. “Harry, what happened on the holiday was an honest mistake. It’s hard, learning all the signs of when someone’s mental health is staggering and trying to remember all the triggers, I’ll say that. But, if you’re going to be in a relationship with someone that does suffer from a mental disorder, you have to be willing to try a bit more. Know that you are, and it’s not just you – Luca and I had to learn, too – that’s just a blanket thought.”

Harry nods understandingly, pursing his lips and encouraging her to continue.

“Know that you both said things you don’t mean. Not sure what you said to her on the boat to make her want to come home, and that’s none of my business, nor is it anyone else’s, but you need to understand that someone with anxiety will cling to those words, especially when there are experiences in their past that give them insecurity about relationships.” Fay sets a cup of tea in front of Harry, milk and sugar accompanied shortly after. He doesn’t like tea, but the kindness that he is being shown in this moment is more than he deserves, and he’ll drink whatever is put in front of him. “Amelie needs breaks sometimes. Allows her to clear her mind and remember what’s important. It’s been that way since she was thirteen. But, Harry, you need to know that you are important to her, likely the most important.”

Harry’s eyes sting with tears at the statement. “I want to be enough for her. I want her to forgive me.”

“Forgiveness isn’t about you. Forgiveness is about the person acknowledging that they were hurt and are ready to move on, to accept that the person may or may not love who they are,” Fay says, the way in which her words pour out in wisdom and clarity only emphasising her ability as an author. “Knowing if that person is wanted in their life is the way they know.” Her lips purse together for a moment. “You and Amelie have to forgive each other. Quite easy to tell that you love each other for who you are, but sometimes you have to wait it out.”

“How do I know if Amelie isn’t going to want me anymore? Don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“Don’t think you’d be living together, spending time together, sleeping together,” Fay says knowingly, “if she didn’t want to forgive you.”

Harry scratches his neck, rolling his head around his shoulders and sucking in a breath. “I’ve been taking pictures of the moon every night since we got home. Maybe I can do something with that. Kind of showing that ‘m thinking about her, all the time, and thinking about us since it’s our thing.”

“That sounds like a lovely idea. And that’ll spark some inspiration for her to paint, too.”

“Thank you,” he nods, pinching his bottom lip together and sighing. Harry stands from the barstool that once belonged to Amelie, grateful as Fay walks around the island and wraps him in a motherly hug.

“You’re going to be okay. Things just take time.”

Harry smiles, sighing and beginning to walk towards the front door. His heeled boots click against the wooden floorboards, her younger sister waiting at the edge of the stairs, her arms folded in front of her chest and her lips tucked inside her mouth. Harry could see the resemblance between Phoebe and Amelie, especially in their faces when they’re angry. He smiles at her, opening the front door and thanking her mother once again for speaking to him. Her father is walking up the drive, smiling sadly and patting his shoulder as they greet each other quietly. Harry is disappointed in himself, in the way that the relationship he made with her family is slowly disappearing before his eyes. He felt welcomed, he felt like Harry. He isn’t sure he would ever find that with anyone else.

His head turns over his shoulder as a hand plants on the hood of his car, prompting him to shut the door and turn to face whoever is preventing him from leaving. Phoebe is standing against the car, a stern glance telling Harry that what she has to say is going to be serious and should not be taken lightly.

“I’m pissed at you.”

“I know, I’m pissed at me, too.”

“Can tell when things are bad, you know? Cherry called me when you told her who was going on the boat with you, and I’m sure I didn’t make the situation any better by giving my opinions, but what else was I supposed to do?” she exasperates, her arms folding in front of her chest angrily as he tucks his hands in his pockets. “Don’t even bring up how shit the photos make you look, Harry.”

“Know they do,” Harry sighs, his hand brushing his hair away from his face and returning it to the open pocket. “Talked to your sister about it, but you know. Everything is kinda a mess, right now.”

“Do you love my sister? Like, actually love her,” Phoebe wonders, the harsh stare in her eyes softening as Harry’s eyes gloss over.

“More than anything. More than anything ever in m’whole life.”

“Don’t let her think you don’t, then.”

Harry nods, swallowing the sob sitting in his throat, getting into his car and turning on the engine. He drives away slowly, taking in the words that were said to him, scratching at his forehead and tugging on his curls, anger boiling his blood as he passes the café and stares. His drive home is longer than necessary, but Harry needed the time to think. He needed space to breathe. He grabs dinner from a café near their house that she loves, sulking when Amelie’s car is yet to be seen in the garage. Her text said that she wouldn’t be back until late, but that didn’t stop Harry from hoping he would see her.

He writes a quick note on the countertop where she leaves her wallet – so she never misplaces it and can’t leave without panicking – telling her that he bought dinner and it’s in the microwave. He sighs, the emptiness of their house intimidating to his emotions. His makeshift bedroom is cramped with anything he might need, trying his hardest to avoid being around her when she wouldn’t speak. His collection of polaroids are in a box on the bedside table, his hands grappling for the photographs and the camera and bringing them upstairs.

His side is unmade, the duvet tossed and the sheets messy, and his heart sinks. He lays the pictures out on the dresser near the bed, a sticky note set on the side, the white camera held in his hands as he made his way onto the balcony to scope out the stars. He lights his phone’s flashlight for a better image, taking the picture of the moon and waiting for it to develop to add to the pile.

He waits a moment to write anything, trying to think through the quotes sorted through his brain and find one that would be something special, that would mean something to her. He’s read nearly thirty books in the year he’s known her, all taking the time on the road when he wasn’t recording or writing or sleeping. He felt smarter, more impressive.

Harry’s memory of Virginia Woolf’s, The Waves, comes to mind, the quote about the stars seeming perfect to accompany the images. His handwriting is neat on the yellow note, scripting the quote and thinking about the signing, almost scared to say that he loves her.

His chest heaves as he leaves the bedroom. closing the curtains and the lights for her, his footsteps light on the stairs as he makes his way to the guest room, the creaking of the garage alerting him that she was home. He doesn’t want to bother her, knowing that her day must’ve been tiring, and he takes himself into the room, making his night routine action and stepping into the bathroom.

Amelie walks into the kitchen, her lips curving into an involuntary smile as she sets her wallet down and takes in the note that was left for her.

Dinner in the microwave, it’s from Café Habana. Hope you had a good day. I’ll be in my room if you need me. Harry x

Harry could be heard singing in the shower, making Amelie smile wider. Her hands pull the sandwich out of the microwave, her mouth watering at the sight. Her stomach growls, reminding her that she hasn’t eaten anything all day. She tends to forget to eat on the worst days, her mind going through a million thoughts and never calming to ease into the daily necessities. Amelie eats the sandwich all too fast for her liking, savouring the taste and filling her water to bring with her upstairs.

Her heart is heavy hearing the shower cut and Harry’s voice quiet, his singing always comforting on the nights she couldn’t sleep. Her nightmares are back, and they’re happening every other day. She wants to ask Harry to sleep with her, to protect her from bad dreams. Her hands gently close the door, never locking it in case he decided to take matters into his own hands and come to their bed.

Her hands peel the uncomfortable clothing off her skin, inhaling the scent of Harry’s sweatshirt she tugged from his side of the wardrobe and slipping it over her torso, naked from the waist down. Her fingertips take off her rings, her lips parting and her eyes glossing over as she sees the seventeen polaroid photographs of the moon on the counter, all dated and lights perfect for her to replicate in a painting.

Her hands clasps over her heart, the genuine thought behind such a simple gesture meaning so much to her, to them. Harry was her moon, and always would be.

“There was a star riding through clouds one night, & I said to the star, 'Consume me'.”

Hope this is some inspiration. Harry x

All Amelie can think about it how much she wants to run down the stairs and kiss him. Harry is her inspiration.

/ / /

Harry’s ear twitches at the knocking on the bedroom door. His guitar is in his lap, strumming a melody that’s been sitting in his head, one about his girlfriend and their time apart and the sadness that’s been coursing through him over the near three weeks that it’s been like this. It’s Amelie knocking, Harry knows this. Her hesitancy gave her away; she always gets nervous to go to him when he seems slightly preoccupied. He doesn’t want to know how many times someone told her that she was bothering them. He would always drop everything to be there for her. Call it a weakness or being smitten, Harry could never find it in him to act any other way.

“Hey,” Amelie says, hands tucked in the pocket on her sweatshirt – the one she got at the concert a few months back – and her eyes staring at her feet anxiously.

“Come closer to me; it’s not like I’ll bite you.” Her mouth twitches into a smirk as they share a knowing smile, her knee settling on the mattress as her foot stays planted on the ground, her body much closer to his than she might have anticipated. “Hi,” Harry smiles, setting his guitar on the platform and turning to face her. “You okay?”

“Need some help with the exhibition pieces, if you don’t mind.” Her hair is a fresh shade of peach, her fringe a bit shorter in the front, her hazel eyes bright in the corners with a highlight he’s never seen before. Her hair is curled at the ends, still long and flowing down her back, and Harry wants to twirl it around his ring covered fingers. “Could you help me load ‘em in my car?”

“Course.” His feet slip into the trainers next to his bed, standing up and ushering his hand towards the door, waiting for her to walk out first.

All of her pieces for the exhibition are against the foyer wall, and Harry wants to sit with her and talk about them all before they have to leave. His eyes take in the bags under her eyes and the slight flush to her cheeks and decide against it. He hands her the tinier canvas, a greyscale sketch of a hand holding onto someone’s shoulder, and there is a slight hiccup in his heartbeat at the sight. His hands clutch onto two much larger pieces – one, a coloured version of the sketch from the second night on the holiday; two, the lookout point in Malibu that they always go to on their picnics.

Harry waits beside the car as Amelie unlocks the doors, opening the boot and the backseat to set everything separately and ensure that they wouldn’t be damaged along the way. “Doin’ alright?”

“I’m alright.”

Harry knows Amelie is lying. “Have you been sleeping?” His questions come out more as a statement, a way to talk about what’s going on. Knowing that she wasn’t talking to Jenny or Phoebe, and she certainly wasn’t speaking to him, who was she speaking to? Amelie needed someone to talk to, to share what was overwhelming her and work through the emotions. Harry wishes she would talk to him. “At all?”

“By the way you’re asking I’m assuming you know the answer,” she sighs, scratching her head as her eyes flutter for a moment, the tiredness overwhelming her today more than usual. All of this would pass eventually. Flowers. Blooming. All that she told herself to try and feel better. “It’s fine, Harry. I’m okay.” Today it feels like shit, though.

Haven’t slept for more than three hours a night for almost three weeks. Sure, you’re okay.

“Can talk to me, you know,” Harry softens, leaning against the doorframe at the guest bedroom and squeezing her hand. He could laugh at how ridiculous this entire scene appeared to anyone without any idea of their situation, appearing as a movie, the scene where they were saying goodbye at the end of a date and she was anxious about kissing him. If only.  “’m your best friend.”

Disregarding all her anxiety and hesitation, Amelie walks towards Harry, snaking her arms around his waist and sinking into his warmth, into the embrace that comforted her on the worst days. “Know that.” Her voice is muffled by his arms wrapped around her shoulders, his chin on the crown of her head. “Thank you.”

Harry squeezes Amelie tightly, his lips in her hair and his fingertips lightly curling around her hair. He can’t help it, it’s his favourite thing to do. “Come on, I’ll get dressed and then I can help bring this to the venue.”

Her face continues to stay tucked into his chest, her arms holding his waist tighter to not let go. Maybe she needed this hug more than she thought. “Don’t want to interrupt you if you’re busy.”

It doesn’t take much effort to read between the lines – at least he’s gained that from this ‘time’. Had this been a few weeks ago, he likely would have ignored the comment altogether and brushed it away as her not needing him. “Never too busy for you.” Kissing her forehead, Amelie reluctantly releases him from her grasp, taking a step back and folding her arms in front of her chest, closing off from him. Harry grabbed her hand, squeezing it and making her loosen, “Come on, I know you’re going to change to go to this venue. I’ll change, and we’ll be on our merry way.”

Amelie hides the smile tugging at her lips behind her hand, rolling her eyes and walking out of the bedroom and making her way into the washroom, her two pressed shirts for the introductions – today – and the event – in two days – pressed and ready to go. Her pantsuit is hanging with the blouse, and there is a swirl of butterflies in her stomach as she thinks about the day she bought it – the way Harry wouldn’t stop making obnoxious jokes outside the fitting room, the way the old woman stared at his crude remark about how fit her ass looked in the trousers, how he dramatically drew the strap of her lacy bra against her shoulders and earned a smack upside the head when it hit her skin. Harry gripped her waist and pulled her into a kiss, telling her to hurry so they could leave. Her heart was a swirl of emotions, filled to the brim with love and she was sure that it could never get better than that.

And it would be an outright lie if Amelie tried to say that that’s not what she wants and needs, right now.

Harry calls her name in the foyer to tell her that he’s ready, his eyebrows quirking upward as she walks out of the washroom and pulls her favourite boots on her feet. He holds his hand out for her to take, guiding her onto her feet and nudging her out the door. He turns on their playlist quietly, noticing her shaking hands and grabbing it, interlocking their fingers and squeezing her hand to soothe her. His directions are counting on the drive only being ten minutes, but with traffic, he’s sure they’re going to be sitting there much longer.  

“Harry?”

His eyes light up at the sound of his name. “Hm.”

Amelie gulps, her teeth gnawing at her bottom lip anxiously, the words clawing at her throat. “Do you hate me?”

If you do, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I won’t be able to handle it.

Harry turns to her, astounded by the question. “For what, Ames?”

“Our ‘time’,” she sighs, slightly frustrated that she even has to elaborate. Having to say it felt so foreign on her tongue, so uncomfortable.

“Could never hate you, Amelie,” Harry says soundly, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles and his hand cranking the wheel to turn onto the highway. “Know we’ll be together.” He shrugs his shoulders, taking a moment before continuing. “If I have to wait for it, that’s fine. I’ll wait.”

“Going to therapy, again,” Amelie mumbles, wiping away the blood on her bottom lip with her thumb. “Went back a little before Christmas.”

“Oh my god,” Harry excited, kissing her hand and turning to face her at a stoplight, “that’s incredible.” His smile is so wide that his dimple is nearly making a permanent crease in his cheek. “You never told me you were doing that.”

“Didn’t tell anyone except Mama,” she explains, heaving a deep breath and releasing the tightness in her chest. “Needed to get everything in my head together.” Her voice goes quiet, softer than the sound of the music. “It was getting to be too much.”

Harry pulls into the closest parking space, backing in to give space to haul in the paintings. He shifts the gear, turning to face her before saying anything. “Know that it’s hard for you,” he acknowledges, squeezing her hand and pressing his lips to her knuckles. “Couldn’t be prouder of you, though. You’re the strongest person I know.”

Amelie frowns when he releases her hand, unbuckling his seatbelt and turning the engine. Her hand grips his forearm before getting out of the car, her voice shy and timid. “Harry.”

“Yeah?” Harry stares at her so intensely, there is a feeling in her chest making her want to hide. He squeezes her thigh encouragingly, smiling when her tongue licks over her lips and chest moves with a breath to gain strength.

“Would you wait for me?”

He doesn’t entirely understand what she means. “’m going to help you bring these in.”

“No, no,” Amelie sighs, “I mean.” Her voice trails into the silence, all of the anxiety-ridden words caught in her throat, stuck on her tongue. “Would you wait for me? To get better, I mean.”

“Amelie, I’d wait a lifetime for you,” Harry says assuredly, shaking his head at the thought of ever leaving. He could never love anyone that way he loves her. “You’re worth every second of waiting.”

And Amelie can feel it, the butterflies in her tummy and the way her heart is beating so heavily against her chest, the emotions all swirling through her mind. Her eyes prickle with tears and there is an urge to break into a smile and kiss Harry so deeply that they lose their breath.

Harry doesn’t wait for her to say anything, kissing her temple and opening the boot, giving her a minute to calm down. He knows Amelie better than anyone ever has.

“Alright, let’s bring these in,” Harry says as soon as Amelie walks around the car, handing her the smallest canvas and tucking the larger ones under his arms, smiling brightly as the curator claps at her arrival.

“Amelie! How nice to see you,” the young woman chirps, she is trying to assess the situation, a printed smile on her lips. “Is this your assistant?”

“Ha,” Amelie snorts, the brightest smile Harry has seen on her lips set into her features, her cheeks flushed with the comment. “This is my boyfriend, Harry.”

“Think that title makes me an assistant by nature, angel,” Harry says, earning a laugh from the young woman. He smirks as Amelie rolls her eyes dramatically when the woman walks ahead, kissing her hairline and squeezing her tightly, his heart warm in his chest as she grips his hand and interlocks their fingers, following the gallery direction through the venue and showing where her paintings would be displayed in the upcoming days.

Harry is listening to all the instructions and the greetings that the gallery is offering to the artists when his phone vibrates in his pocket, a confused look on his face when it vibrates, again. His lips press to her ear, quietly whispering that he’d be right back, not ignoring the way her skin prickles with goosebumps at the contact.

His mouth curves into a grin at the messages, knowing full well the intent behind them. They would spend hours together, working and likely arguing – because the likelihood of them agreeing on everything was slim to none – and bantering back and forth as they used to. Harry needed that, needed to feel that comfort. He needed to know that there was still something between them, that they hadn’t lost it along the way. Because he loved Amelie, and he needed her to love him, too.

Need help with the nursery while Dan is at the station.

You up to be bossed around by a pregnant lady, tomorrow?

His heart warms as she turns and smiles at him, her hand set over her stomach to tell him that they needed to get lunch before going home. Amelie absolutely hated eating at art events. Always complaining that they only have foods that are too fancy and never filling. He would always agree, and they would find a niche spot near the venue to indulge in before going home. And that’s what they would do, today. He would spend as much time with her as she wanted. Everything was falling into place. Everything was going to be okay.

Harry needed to believe so.

/ / /

Harry carries a bouquet of chrysanthemums to the front door, Amelie following closely behind him and smacking his shoulder playfully as she teases him for having a brown nose. He ruffles her curls, earning a warning look and poke to the chest. All morning they were teasing each other how they used to, how they loved to.

Jenny swung the door open, her eight-month belly very much in the way of nearly everything. Harry was going to be needed more than anything, Dan involved in production week and the crib coming unassembled – although she insisted that they ordered it already assembled – they needed their assistance. Harry kisses her cheek, walking deeper inside their house and setting the flowers on the table, leaving Amelie and Jenny to have their moment – as they always do – and make himself useful in walking to the nursery.

“How are you? You look good,” Jenny says, shutting the door and walking into the kitchen to grab her water. “Things going okay?”

“Think so,” Amelie says, shrugging her shoulders and picking at the stems on the bouquet. “Have the exhibition tomorrow and he’s coming.”

“Have you told him about, you know.”

“Um, not yet,” Amelie whispers. “Think I’m going to when we go to lunch, later. Things are going well, and I don’t want to lie.”

“Don’t stress too much, I know that’s not going to pass through that head of yours, but I really do think that you’ll be okay. Tell me if Harry’s being an asshole, though, and I will show up, eight months pregnant, and have some words. Can’t really beat his ass like this,” she giggles, squeezing her hand and nodding her head towards the nursery. “Let’s get in there before he starts making executive decisions.”

Amelie laughs, shaking her head and walking into the nursery, Harry already piecing together the crib and twisting the screwdriver, slowly bringing the two wooden structures to their intended form. Her eyes lay over the expanse of his back, his hair tied into a knot and away from his neck. Her thoughts are too much to hear what Jenny says to him, Harry having to elbow her thigh to grab her attention.

“Gon’a stare at me the whole time we’re doing this? Kinda need your help. Can stare at me all you want at home.”

Amelie’s cheeks turn bright red with the comment, “Va te faire foutre.” Her knee nudges his back, a yelp leaving her lips as his arm wraps around her thigh and pulls her into him, her hands planted on his shoulders for support.

“Don’t need to swear just because I’m right,” Harry smirks, kissing the inside of her thigh and carrying about setting the crib.

“Could cut the sexual tension in here with a knife,” Jenny snorts, turning around and grabbing the tiny paint cans that they bought to paint the walls. “Do me a favour and don’t do anything in my children’s room.”

“Can’t make any promises with this one,” Harry smirks, grabbing the paintbrush being held near his face. “Try me, doll.”

“Alright,” Jenny giggles, clicking her tongue and shaking her head at their banter. “Harry, let me know when you’re done with the cribs and I’ll come and tell you where to put them. Have to get the twins’ clothes out of the laundry.”

Harry nods understandingly, a smirk toying at his lips as Amelie is pries open the paint containers and begins sketching out the meadow for the wall. His hands work at the same pace as her, their best friend settled in the corner folding laundry and leaning against the wall. He enjoyed the occasional teasing, Amelie taking her thumb and sticking it in the paint to wipe across his cheek when he teases her for the way her tongue pokes between her lips when she’s focused. Jenny grumbles at their flirting, only spurring Harry to want to do so more. He loved the moment, only belonging to them.

“Think the crib should go along this wall, J,” Amelie says, wiping her hands on the smock she brought with her in the car and wiping tugging on her hair to tighten the tie, ignoring the way acrylic paint is suddenly on her skin.

Harry turns to her, reaching out his hands and helping Jenny stand. “Don’t we want the pregnant woman to tell us that?”

“Harry, you’re about to get a foot up your ass, at any minute.”

“Know I wouldn’t mind that from you, love.”

“You two are so annoying.” Jenny hides her smile behind her phone, taking a picture of the wall to send to Dan and imagining where to set the cribs. “Think Amelie is right.”

“Ha,” Amelie smirks, squeaking as Harry’s arms wrap around her waist and set her in the hallway outside the nursery. “Put me down, Harry!”

“Not until you apologise for being mean,” Harry says, trying desperately to hide the smile on his face.

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll be finishing the job without you, then.” Harry moves to walk away, his head turned over his shoulder when Amelie grabs his wrist. “Have something to say?”

“Can we still get lunch after we’re done?” Amelie smiles, knowing well enough by now that Harry never means what he says when it has something to do with leaving without her.

“You’re so annoying,” Harry grumbles, taking her hand and tugging her behind him into the nursery to finish their job. “Thanks for asking me on a date, by the way.”

Amelie stands silently at the door, taking a deep breath and wiping her palms against her jeans. Asking Harry to go to lunch never really registered as a date in her mind; their dates were always private and, in their house, their garden, their bedroom. “Never said it was a date.”

Oh, what I would give to go on a date with you, right now, Harry Styles.

There is a tension in the air that they haven’t felt in a while, a spark lingering between them that is longing to be tested.

Harry smirks, shrugging his shoulders and leaning down to close the paint covers. “You didn’t have to.”

~

The Beachwood Café is relatively empty in the area that they’re settled in. Harry has a coffee and a muffin, Amelie nursing a tea and a chocolate croissant. They’re sitting opposite each other, Harry’s eyes set on her as they talk mindlessly about dinner and their families and their ideas for the weekend. Harry mentioned Malibu and a picnic.

Amelie’s conversation with Jenny is lingering in her mind, and there is a dryness in her throat that is begging to be relieved by simply telling him. Harry might be angry – he should be angry with her – and that would be the consequence that she has to suffer through. Harry can tell that she needs to say something, but he doesn’t want to push her, because there is something in his stomach telling him that he doesn’t really want to know.

Her fingertips trace around the rim of the mug, the tea burning her throat and lingering in her chest. That’s the clear feeling of her anxiety, in this moment. “Can I tell you something?”

Here we go.

“Hm.”

It’s probably about Jack. She probably went to him. She’s probably going back to him. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This can’t be how we end. Things were going so well. They were going well, right?

“Drove to the café the night we fought,” she whispers, cheeks flushed with shame and guilt and fear. “Didn’t even really know I was doing it. Got there and parked and realised Jack was outside and started panicking and locked my doors and that’s why I almost passed out.” Harry shifts uncomfortably in his seat, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Did you talk to him?” Harry asks, his fingertips ripping the wrapping around the muffin. He knew this was coming, yet there was still an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

Please tell me you didn’t talk to him. Don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me for him.

“Couldn’t even get out of the car,” she says, “I had a panic attack.”

“Did you want to?”

Say no. Say no. Say no.

“Don’t think so,” Amelie sighs, scratching at her head and trying to explain her emotions in the most logical way. Anxiety wasn’t necessarily rational. Her actions were surely a portrayal of that. “Got angry with you and just wanted to leave. That’s where I wound up.”

Harry’s voice gets quiet, his eyes stinging with tears at the thought of what he has to say. “Is this what it’ll be like every time we argue? Going back to him?”

Her heart falls to pit of her stomach, nausea and uneasiness sitting in her chest, the oxygen barely reaching her lungs. “No, I swear.” Her swear is the only words that have come out of her mouth steadily. “I didn’t know how to get to the beach lookout in Malibu that we go to and my mind immediately went there.” Her voice gets quiet, again. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

“Did Jack see you?”

“Don’t think so,” she breathes, wiping away her tears that are freely falling down her cheeks and leaning her cheek into her hand. “My windows are tinted. No one can see inside.”

Harry’s head lifts from his food. “Is that why you’re having nightmares?”

“How’d you know?” she whispers, pursing her lips together, her thoughts racing with fear as her eyes meet his. His eyes are glossy, a sign that he’s about to cry, too.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

“Can hear you,” Harry sniffles, his fingers pushing his hair away from his face. “I’ve come in a few times to calm you down.”

“Understand if you hate me, now.”

“Come here,” Harry sighs, opening his arms and pressing a kiss to her cheek as she settles hesitantly on his thigh, his hands wrapped around her waist. “I don’t hate you, Amelie. I don’t think I ever could.” His tone is a tone Amelie has never heard before, and the silkiness of his voice could surely put her to sleep. “’m just upset that you went there, and it made you sick. Don’t know what I would’ve done if something happened and there wasn’t a way to find you or get to you. Not to mention that Jack could’ve seen you or something.” Harry shudders at the thought. “He’s not going to like it very much if I ever see him, again.”

“Harry, I swear to you I won’t go there, again.”

“Alright,” Harry smiles, kissing her jaw and patting the empty spot next to him, sliding the tea and croissant to her. “Come on, we’re going to exactly who we tease at restaurants and sit in the same booth.”

For a few minutes, Harry and Amelie sit there, basking in the sunlight in their private corner near the window, and eat their food, occasionally stealing a bite from one another. They’re silent, but comfortable, trying to soak in all that was said in their conversation and the heavy promise that was made. Harry believes Amelie, that’s certain, but there is brewing anger in his veins that makes him want to punch Jack straight in the jaw.

“Heard you on the phone with Jeff the other day,” Amelie says, breaking their silence and turning to stare. “Have anything new with a contract or something?”

“Columbia wants to sign me,” Harry nods, a smile tugging at his lips as Amelie instinctively grabs his cheeks and chastely kisses him.

Let me kiss your lips, Ames.

“Oh my god, Harry,” she grins, squeezing his arm and mindlessly kissing his shoulder. “That’s insane.”

“’m supposed to have dinner and talk about it tomorrow night. Can we have a celebratory lunch? Can reschedule if not.”

“No, that’s fine. I think I’m supposed to see Mylie and Talia soon. I’ll text them and see what they’re up to.”

“Okay.”

Once it’s gone quiet, Harry takes the opportunity to drink his coffee, settling in their seats, taking the moment to absorb everything that’s happening. And the way his cheek is tingling from her kiss.

“Um,” Amelie hums, smiling as Harry wipes the crumbs away from her mouth. “I was thinking.”

“You tend to do that a lot.”

Amelie giggles, nudging her shoulder against his and moving the plate to the opposite side of the table, not daring to meet his stare. “Think we should talk about you moving back into our room, soon.”

“Want that?”

“Mhm,” she hums nervously, wiping her hands on the napkin. “Maybe it can be done in the next few days. All the transitioning and that, as soon as the madness is over.”

“I’d like that,” Harry grins, gently taking her chin in his hand and making her eyes meet his. “A whole fucking lot, actually.”

“Me too.”

And, at that moment, there was no one else in the world. Just Harry and Amelie, and the tiny speckle of hope that sat between them.

/ / /

Harry can feel himself drifting asleep every few minutes.

Amelie grabbed takeout on their way home, neither really caring to cook or clean any dishes with the work they put in decorating the nursery with her best friend. Taking their dinner to the living room, Harry nudged her closer as they talked about the exhibition and who would be there, the signing with the label and what that would mean with touring – she never minded him being away, she understood more than anyone he’s ever met – and about his plan to go to England towards the end of February. Harry asked Amelie to go, and with her cheek resting on his shoulder, her hands tucked around his forearm as his hand splays across her thighs, she nodded silently and hummed in agreement.

Harry blinks a few times, his hands gently rubbing Amelie’s knee and kissing her hairline, contemplating how likely it would be for her to wake if he lifted her into his arms and carried her upstairs. He was well aware that she wasn’t sleeping properly and knowing that being with him comforted her that much made him want to stay cuddled on the couch for as long as they possibly could.

His thumb gently rubs her cheek, frowning when her lips jut into a pout and she curls in tighter against him. “Helping Jenny really tired us out, huh?” Harry whispers, his lips touching her temple sweetly. “Viens, mon ange, on va te mettre au lit.”

“Mais, bébé,” Amelie mumbles into his shoulder, hiding her face in his neck and willing herself to fall back asleep. She felt safest in his arms, slept best beside him, “je ne suis pas fatiguée.”

“Have a long day tomorrow, Ames,” he sighs, squeezing her thigh and brushing her hair away from her face. “Have to be up and out of here at nine.” His hand gently takes the blanket away, tossing it messily to the opposite end of the couch. “Want me to carry you?”

“No, it’s alright,” she yawns, rubbing her hands over her eyes and dozily standing up, grateful to his arms wrapping around her waist to hold her upright. “Are you coming with me in the morning?”

“Mhm,” Harry smiles, walking around her and beginning to turn all the lights and bolt the doors. She waits for him at the stairs, nodding towards the bedroom and waiting to have him walk behind her. He nods, acknowledging her silent request and laying his hand on her back, supporting her as they trudge up their stairs to their once shared bedroom. “Told you I’d never miss an exhibition.”

Amelie waits at their bedroom door, turning around and facing Harry, her tired eyes tracing over the features that she loves. He was exhausted, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep, and there was an incessant nagging in her mind telling her to bring him to sleep with her. “Thought that was only when we were, like,” she trails, her heart going elsewhere as his hand leaves her back and settles at his side.

Come back. Come back.

Harry stares at her, tucking his lips into his mouth and thinking carefully about her reaction to his response. “Amelie, you’re my best friend,” he says earnestly, his tongue poking out to wet his lips as he continues, “I wouldn’t miss it. No matter what.”

“Figured you’d say that. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.” Amelie kisses his cheek, taking him slightly by surprise. “That’s for, well, everything. Especially for the polaroids. Makes me happy you still think of me when you see the moon. I’ll always see us in the stars, you know?”

Harry doesn’t realise that he’s doing it, turning his head and grabbing Amelie’s lips, their mouths moulding onto each other in a blink. Her lips are soft and delicate, the tinge of strawberry that Harry is so used to making his heart warm. Her body is leaning on her toes for height, her hands around his neck not nearly enough to make their heights the same. Amelie wanted to have her nose bumping against his, her teeth pulling at his bottom lip and her tongue tasting his cupid’s bow, the fever of their kiss more than anything they’ve ever felt before.

Harry slowly coasts his hand along Amelie’s figure, squeezing the curves that he adores and making home at the back of her thighs, silently praying that she’s not given up her comfortability with him. Her hands hold his shoulders, a sigh of relief leaving his lips as he hoists her around his waist, holding her back and her bum, squeezing her to him. His lips are plump with colour and hot to the touch, their passion unspoken in the way that their oxygen is dismissed and the only thing they can seemingly do is have their lips on each other, making up for the weeks that have passed without a single touch.

Harry was more than used to going weeks without a touch, without a kiss, but there was something about living with the person that you want to be touching and kissing and not being able to that makes it seem all the more torturous. Making themselves comfortable on the duvet they’ve made love on more times than they could count, their privacy enforced with the closed door and silences phones, their hands skirt along each other’s bodies as if they’ve never explored the territory. Amelie yanks Harry’s shirt above his head, throwing the material somewhere below them. His skin is hot with her hands running over it, a whimper leaving his lips as her fingertips toy with the waistband of his shorts. His hands grab hers hurriedly, interlocking their fingers and holding their arms above her head, his lips slanting over hers and bringing her into a kiss that makes her break away to take a breath.

“Don’t leave me, tonight.” Amelie’s eyes are wide and bright under the moonlight, the stars casting a fluorescent glow over her skin, her freckles are beginning to lighten on her cheeks and her baby pink hair is splayed over their pillows.

Harry swears he’s never seen Amelie look so beautiful.

“Not like ‘m going too far, angel,” Harry breathes, his thumb tucking a hair behind her ear and breathing in the scent that lingers from her, his knees straddling her hips. All at once, he is much too aware of this position that they’ve been in far too many times before. “Going into m’room and I’ll see you in the morning.”

Her thighs wrap around his waist, holding him to her and making sure that he wouldn’t leave. Harry leaving would break her heart. “Harry, that’s not your room. This is.”

“Not right now, it isn’t.”

“Baby,” she whispers, her thumb drawing a line from his jaw to his lips, her mouth peppering light kisses on his cheek, “don’t go.”

“Alright,” he sighs, sinking further into her touch, his hand gently holding her wrist and kissing her palm sweetly. He subtly wishes that he had more self-control, more willpower with her, but he simply didn’t. He loves her too much. “Go on, budge over.”

Harry reluctantly moves from his stance over her, walking around the frame and plugging their phones in to make sure that their alarms are set, and they would be up and out of the house in time to make it to the exhibition early like Amelie preferred. His heart clenched knowing that, at this time tomorrow, he would be in the guest room on the opposite end of the house, sleeping alone. His eyes met hers with a shy smile, his fingers tucking into his shorts and staring at her for permission, a simple nod and a smile telling him that he would be okay to sleep in his briefs. He turns the light off, huffing as he sinks into the warmth of their bed, her arms immediately wrapping around his waist.

Harry enjoyed being the little spoon as much as Amelie loved being the big spoon, their best compromise, and there was a comfort knowing that they would fall asleep that way for the first time in weeks. Amelie felt safe around him, in his arms, her cheek pressed to his back and breathing him in, his hand holding hers as sleep overwhelms her.

Until the clock strikes 04:37, Harry is sleeping soundly with Amelie presumably behind him. He wakes up to whimpers and heavy breathing, hands scratching at the duvet and her legs tense. His eyes widen and take in the sight, his hand running over her cheek as her body shakes and he knows she’s having a nightmare. His heart shatters in her chest, his fists rubbing at his eyes and his fingertips gently trailing over her cheeks, quiet hushes trying to wake her.

“Ames,” Harry whispers, kissing her temple and gently squeezing her shoulders to wake her, “wake up, baby.” His biggest fear is scaring her when she wakes up, startling her and making her shove him out of the room. His thumb flicks on the light, his eyes never leaving her. “Amelie.” His eyes are soft as Amelie blinks rapidly, trying to accommodate to the light and her heavy breathing and the thoughts swirling in her head. Her hands reach out for him, her arms circling around his shoulders and bringing him to her chest, needing his weight on her to ground her. “I’ve got you. It’s just us. You’re okay.”

“Nightmare,” Amelie says, her fingers tucked into fists as she holds onto him tightly. Harry steadies his body weight on his knees, his arm holding her waist and his fingertips combing through her hair soothingly. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Harry reaches towards the duvet and yanks it over their bodies, readjusting his figure and laying completely flat on Amelie’s chest. He knows that the feeling is safe, the feeling over his body entirely over hers, weighted and secure. Her fingers brush through the curls clinging to his forehead, tiny baby hairs falling out of the bun tied messily on his head. “Feeling better? Need to talk about it?”

“Felt you beside me and then my brain went everywhere,” she whispers, her eyes squeezing shut as his lips touch her jaw comfortingly, her eyes scared to meet his. “Hate having them.”

“Can always ask me to come back earlier than a few days, Ames. Doesn’t have to be that long.”

Amelie meets Harry’s intense stare, his lips pressed together in a straight line. Her heart lurches in her throat, tears welling in her eyes. “Come back.”

Harry nods, smiling shyly, pressing his lips to her cheek. His throat releases a grunt as he lays on his back, pulling her into his arms and squeezing his embrace around her, securing her in his hold and touching his mouth to her hairline, kissing her sweetly. “I’m here. You’ve got me.”

“Haven’t talked in weeks,” she murmurs, her arms holding his hips and slotting her thighs between his. “Miss you.”

“Can talk more, tomorrow, okay? Have a big day, and you need to rest.” His fingers brush through her hair the way she loves, his hand holding hers around his waist securely. “Miss you, too. More than you know.” Harry wants more than anything to talk to Amelie, right now, but that would be unfair to her.

“Didn’t think it would go this far.”

“Think what would go this far, Ames,” Harry repeats, his voice barely above a whisper as Amelie’s breaths pant against his chest, her cheek against his heart, listening to the soothing beat. “’s okay to talk to me, baby.”

“Didn’t think it’d take me more than two weeks to,” Amelie whispers, her words barely registering in Harry’s brain, “to figure out what ‘m ready for.”

Before Harry could even ask what exactly she meant, Amelie’s breathing was steady, her hands lightly splayed over his chest, and her mind had drifted to sleep, leaving Harry to sit with his thoughts until the morning.

~

Amelie and Harry collectively agree to ignore the first three alarms.

Amelie’s fingers are holding his arm over her waist, hand clasped around his wrist, her nose nudged into his neck, his face pressed into her hair. Harry’s body heat paired with the heavier comforter for the winter is causing them to sweat, yet neither really mind. His words are garbled into her hair, his hand tightening around her waist as she reaches for her phone and turns off the alarm, groaning at the time. Harry always sets the alarms three hours early, giving them enough time to love on each other and kiss and quietly talk under the covers before they’re getting on their way, yet today, neither one says a word. It’s like that for nearly an hour, until Amelie can’t take the silence and they decide it’s time to move.

And everything is strangely quiet as Amelie readies herself for the exhibition.

Her body is clad in a navy pantsuit, a white blouse clinging to her chest, her favourite platform boots on her feet. Everything felt very her. Harry took a shower and got ready in minutes, leaving her to have time to soother her anxiety as she always does. He hasn’t spoken to her though. Giving the tea he makes her every morning to her in the bathroom, he simply nodded and kissed her hair, and the silence was making her uneasy.

Harry is sitting at the edge of their bed, his fingertips drumming against his thighs nervously and she curls her hair. “Ames,” Harry says, trying to capture her attention. Amelie turns around, muttering a swear in French as she nearly burns her hand. “I think,” he breathes, “I want to talk about what you said, last night.”

Amelie’s eyebrows furrow together in confusion and Harry knows that she doesn’t remember.

“Guess it was as you were falling asleep again, but you said something about not knowing it’d take you more than two weeks to know what you’re ready for. Are you not ready to be with me? Get back to how we were, I guess is what I’m saying.” All of Harry’s words are said in a rush, and Amelie is barely able to comprehend what he’s saying.

“That’s not–”

“Feel like ‘m running into a wall, here, Ames,” he breathes, his hands splayed over his knees. “Gave you space for three weeks. Only talked to you when you talked to me. Came with you to set the exhibit and all, we talked like normal adults. Called me your boyfriend to everyone. Did the nursery for Jenny together. Gon’a wind up being a Godmother and Godfather, for Christ’s sake, and we don’t even speak about us.” His voice is shaky, and his eyes are welling with tears, and Amelie wants to walk over and kiss him before a tear can fall down his cheek. “Moving back into our room and almost having sex together, last night. Got through a nightmare. Kissing you, like that, I.” One tear falls before Harry can catch it. “Need to know if you want me, Ames. Can’t keep doing this.” Another tear. “Because I want you. I want you so badly,” Harry whispers, his voice choking on his words as a cry wracks through him. “And I’m so sorry what all that I said, for what I did. I wish I could take it back. This is killing me.”

And then he feels it, the feeling that makes his heart race and his lungs tighten and his stomach twist with butterflies.

Amelie’s mouth on Harry’s, kissing him passionately and deeply and heavily, her lips silky and sweet against his, her fingers carding through his curls and holding his face to her, Harry’s hands immediately finding home on her waist. His breath is lost amongst her touches, his lips parted and his tongue tasting the mint that lingers in every hasty kiss. All of his thoughts are encompassed by her – who she is, why she would ever want to be his, her support and her encouragement for him, how much he wants her. Harry’s thoughts circle around how much he wants Amelie forever. Her teeth gently nip at his bottom lip as his mouth pulls away, a whimper etched into his soul as his hand holds her neck and brings her even closer to him, his lips fully immersed in her.

Harry’s jaw is loose under her touch, her thumbs rubbing his skin. His hands gently coax her to straddle his waist, his back lying flat against their mattress, his hair splayed messily beneath him. Her lips are intoxicating, the way they fit so perfectly on his, feel so heavenly, taste so sweet. He never wants to part from her. He wants her tongue to run across his lip and their kisses to be messy and their moans to be a bit too loud and heavy for an early morning. He wants to feel all the love Amelie has for him in her kiss. Harry wants to share all of his love for her in his. He wants to stay in the moment, to never leave, to have his mouth on her and silent professions of their love in the air. He wants to live in this, the moments that are only them, and be where no one could ever come between them again. Harry just wants her.

And they kiss for what feels like an eternity.

“Didn’t know it’d take longer than two weeks for me to know that this isn’t what I want. Don’t want to be apart from you,” Amelie whispers against his cheek, kissing him lightly. “All that we have to face, whatever it is.” A kiss to his jaw. “Think we can talk about this. Have to forgive each other. Know we can do this.”

“Do you mean that? Don’t lie to me, Ames,” Harry whispers, his adam’s apple bobbing in this throat as she kisses his chin. “That would be cruel.”

“Harry,” she says, “tomorrow, when the exhibition is over, and we have time, we’ll talk.”

“I love you.”

Amelie can feel the words stuck in the back of her throat, itching to come out and mend the brokenness etched between her and Harry. Her hands cup his cheeks, gently bringing his face to her and making her lips meet his, kissing him sweetly and squeezing her eyes as his fingertips trace over her cheeks, savouring the moment that is solely theirs. “To Jupiter and Pluto and the moon, around the stars, and all the way back to wherever you are.”

Harry knows Amelie hasn’t said the words but repeating that back to him is more than enough, for now.

/ / /

Harry runs his fingers through his hair, adjusting the shirt clinging to his torso, his boots on his feet and squeaking noisily against the hardwood floor as he walks through the corridors, his heart sinking as he notices a singular dinner prepared on the counter. He doesn’t see Amelie in the kitchen, his lips pulled between his teeth as he steps further into the room. His breath hitches in his throat as Amelie walks into the kitchen unaware of his presence, her chest bare to her favourite – and Harry’s – lace bra and a pair of cuffed denim jeans. One of her favourite blouses, the ones that twist in the middle and fall a bit deeper in the cleavage is in her hands, likely because it had to be ironed from the laundry. Harry smiles shyly, happy that Amelie isn’t rushing to hide her body away, to run away from him.

Maybe, that’s a good sign. Harry needs to believe it is.

“Jeff picking you up for your meeting?” Amelie wonders, her eyes set on the knot that she is trying to tie in the front of her shirt. Harry nods, admiring her as her lips purse together in thought as she stands in front of the mirror, unsure on her decision. “Is this too much? Too, you know,” she says, gesturing towards her breasts and the way her chest is nearly spilling out of the material.

Harry wiggles uncomfortably in his seat; his jeans much too tight against his groin. Had things been different, Harry would be dragging Amelie up the stairs and insisting that their plans for the night be cancelled. His heart sinks at the thought. “Going out, hm? Going to a club or summat?”

“Guess so,” she shrugs, taking a gulp and wiping her hands on her ripped jeans. “Talia and Mylie want me to go out with them. Think their boyfriends are coming, but I’m not sure.”

“Can come with you, if you want me to. Get you out of going out if you’re feeling anxious.” Harry’s suggestion is rushed from his tongue, his palms rubbing against his face in annoyance at how desperate he has become for Amelie’s attention. “’s not a set meeting, you know. ‘s a meal more than anything. Only an overview of what we’re going to talk about in two weeks.”

“Go and have that meeting, it’s okay. That’s important and I’ll be okay. Besides, Harry, it’s about Columbia.” Amelie turns towards Harry, her favourite platformed boots clinging to her feet. Harry smiles knowingly because even with the platforms Amelie is still significantly shorter than him. “Does this look okay? Doesn’t look like I’m trying to put myself in a position where people will talk to me?”

“Hate to break it to you, angel,” he smirks, his fingertip dragging along the rim of a water glass sitting on the marble countertop, “but men are going to talk to you either way because you’re beautiful.”

Her tongue clicks as she rolls her eyes, shaking her head and walking further into the kitchen to grab her water and take a sip from her straw, leaning over the counter and holding her arms together, Harry’s eyes fell from her loose curls to her chest nearly falling out of her top.

Harry could almost see himself leaving kissed purple bruises along the valley between her breasts, stopping right at the moon and working his way back to Amelie’s neck, suckling more of her skin and proclaiming how much he loves her.

“Earth to Harry.”

Harry’s eyes meet hers and his heart drops, taking in the concern etched in her features. His heart was screaming for him to ask her to come, to be his date and say that he would cut the meeting short, that they could celebrate her exhibition pieces together as they always do and they could finally talk, yet the words were lodged in his throat. “Hm.”

“Is it okay, you know, if I call you?” Amelie sounds nervous, her fingertips toying with her metal straw and a heavy breath making her chest shake. “Not unless absolutely necessary, but you know, in case of anything.”

Harry is well aware of what she means. Anything always has something to do with the person they hate most in the world, and his ability to seemingly show at the worst times. Amelie knows that she can always call, but there is something sweet in the validation that makes her feel warm inside. “Always, angel.”

Amelie nervously approaches Harry, her eyes trained on his movements as he swivels in the barstool and opens his thighs to accommodate her, her fingertips running over the collar of his patterned shirt and adjusting it. “Don’t let anything Jeff says, scare you away from thinking you don’t deserve to be at Sony, okay? No one deserves this deal more than you.”

“I adore you, Ames,” Harry says, the words spilling from his lips without thinking, his heart pounding outrageously fast in his chest as he nervously awaits her reaction.

Harry swears that he’s dreaming when Amelie grabs his cheeks, kissing him deeply, his hands making a home at her waist and her fingertips holding his collar. His hands slowly inch lower, coasting under her bum, seeing how open she is with him – fully prepared to rip his hands away if she even makes a sound of discontent – and when she moans into him, his heart swells against his chest and he is putty in her hands. Amelie leans further into his touch, nearly sitting on his thighs with how close her body is to his, her fingers moving from his shirt to his hair and tugging as he loves. Harry squeezes her hips, moaning into her mouth and smirking as she whispers, “I adore you, too.” Her confession is besotted with his kiss and his touch, her mind nearly unaware of the words tumbling from her lips without remorse.

His throat utters a groan as his phone vibrates behind her, his eyes squeezing shut as her lips pull away, her thumb brushing over his flesh to wipe the chapstick. He hasn’t kissed her like that – a proper kiss, as he would say – in so long, he almost asks her to leave the tint as a reminder. He grabs his phone, answering Jeffrey’s call and holding the speaker out for them to hear.

“On my way, H,” he says brokenly through the speaker. “Don’t be moping around when I get there.”

“Hi, Jeff,” Amelie smiles, folding her arms in front of her chest and turning around in Harry’s grasp, his arm around her waist and her head leaning on his shoulder. “He’ll be out. Don’t worry.” Amelie ends the call before Jeff could respond with another joking dig at his demeanour of the last two weeks and Harry grins. “Don’t smirk at me like that. ‘m just doing ‘im a favour, you’ve been walking around with a frown for weeks.”

Harry blushes, his dimple aching his cheeks and his hands slowly making a home on Amelie’s waist, turning her around in his arms and tightening his thighs around her to hold her in place. His chest tightens at the thought of her leaving him, especially when they’ve made such progress in the last few days. “Bisous, s’il vous plait.”

Amelie kisses his cheek sweetly, rubbing the chapstick into his skin. His arm is tight around her waist, holding her to him and being reluctant to have her leave. Amelie knew that Harry would be clingy the days after they have a talk about where to go with their relationship, especially when she told him that she needs him – not that she really minds the clinginess. Harry needs to go with Jeff, tonight, though. “Don’t be an asshole and ditch that important meeting when Jeff is already on his way.”

“Can come when I’m finished,” Harry offers, his fingertips inching beneath the silk material of her top and rubbing the skin chaffed by the wiring on her ribs. “Can get smashed on tequila and dance and take you home with me.”

“Considering that we live together, it’d make sense that you take me home,” she giggles, carding her fingers through his hair and brushing the curls away from his face. His eyes are bright under the fading sunlight, and there is a swell against her chest as he leans into her touch.

“’m serious,” he says, squeezing her hips and pecking a kiss to her bare shoulder. Harry reluctantly releases Amelie from his grasp, the breath knocking out of his lungs as she tucks into his chest and wraps her arms around his torso, hugging him tightly, his arms slinging over her shoulders and embracing her, his nose nudged into her hair as he kisses her head. “Text me when you want me to come. I’ll be right there.”

“Alright,” Amelie breathes, sucking in a deep breath, overwhelmed by his scent and his embrace and the kiss that is lingering on her head. “Harry?”

“Hm,” Harry hums, grumbling as she squeezes his hips to have his attention, to have his eyes meet hers.

“Don’t let anyone tell you that you shouldn’t have this, okay?” she whispers, her thumb and forefinger holding his chin, his face hovering over hers, their mouths too close to touching, the swell of his lips too enticing for her eyes not to flicker to.

“I won’t,” Harry affirms, muttering a profanity under his breath and pushing his mouth to hers. His lips are gentle, kissing her sweetly and thinking about saying the words that are lingering in the air. “I adore you.”

Until they aren’t lingering anymore.

Harry said it, and Amelie is staring at him as though it was said for the very first time without any cause, and Harry is fully thinking she isn’t going to say it back.

“I adore you, too.”

Until she does.

His hands grab her cheeks and give her the happiest kiss that he’s felt in more than a long time, his smile breaking apart their lips as he presses his pink flesh to hers over and over again until she’s giggling and pushing at his chest. His hand grabs her wrist and playfully drags her to the door with him, his hand holding the back of her head and kissing a hard peck to her cheek and her lips before walking outside. He turns over his shoulder to wave, his fingers making the peace sign as they always do and a smirk on his lips as she makes one back, shaking her head and turning on her heel and making her way deeper into their home as he gets into his friend’s car for the evening.

“Look who decided to leave the house,” Jeff teases, smacking his hand on the centre console and taking a swift look at his bright appearance, “and with a smile on your face.”

“Fuck off,” Harry says, hiding his smirk in the palm of his hand. His eyes travel to his phone in between his thighs, the vibrations of a text message coming through on his skin. His smile is bright, his dimple indenting his cheek and his fingertip sliding across the screen to stare at the message from ‘Mon Ange’.

Make a killer fucking deal, baby. x

Harry’s heart warms, the overwhelming emotions sitting in his throat. His thumbs type a reply faster than he likely should have, locking his phone before Jeffrey could peer over and take a look.

Always for you. x

Only the quiet hum of the radio is playing, Harry’s attention focused outside the window and disappearing away from his friend and his phone. “You okay? Look better than you did the last time I saw you,” Jeff says lightly, doing his best to gauge Harry’s mood.

“Going through some shit,” Harry confesses, shrugging as he cards his fingers through his hair. “’m good, now, though; that’s what counts. Today was a good day.”

“Are you really?” Jeff stares at Harry as the car pulls into a space and into park, the door unlocking and their hands reaching for the handles to get outside and into the restaurant. “How’s everything with Ames? You two alright?”

“Think so,” Harry says confidently, nodding as his lips purse together in a tight line. “Think we will be.”

“Don’t know what happened between you,” Jeff whispers, stepping away and to the podium at the front of the restaurant and checking into the reservation to be hidden away, his eyes meeting Harry’s as they begin walking towards the back, “but whatever it is, you’ll be okay.”

“Hope you’re right about that,” Harry hums, quietly thanking the hostess and taking a seat opposite Jeff. “Okay,” he breathes, setting his hands on the table and leaning forward with a smile on his face, his mind replaying the words his love said before he left. “Let’s talk Columbia.”

Columbia is sharing an interest in a five-year contract – albums, tours, music videos. Harry would have reign over the sounds and the artistry, working with his favourite producers and writers and all that encompasses creating an album he loves. His mind is overwhelmed with the idea, with the offer, because more than anything, Harry wants to make music. Music is his life, his love. His relationship has inspired so many lyrics and melodies already, and he wants nothing more than to share the love he has for her in the best way he knows how. Harry says that he’s going to take a day or two to think about, although he already has his answer.

Afterwards, Harry and Amelie share a few messages back and forth talking about the night and her dinner with Mylie and Talia and their boyfriends and where they’re headed for the evening – Amelie doesn’t know the bar – and that they’ll call when they’re nearly there for him to meet.

One hour. Two hours. Three hours.

That’s how long Harry waits at home without a text message. That’s how long Harry waits for Amelie to text him and tell him to come to meet with her and her friends for the night. He was dressed and ready to go, waiting at the kitchen counter, paying too much attention to the vibrations coming from his phone and the light that would appear with every notification. He wants to text her and ask, to make a friendly reminder of his offer.

That’s too pushy, Harry. Let her warm up to you, again. Calm down.

His eyes meet the bright clock on their microwave and Harry scolds himself for thinking that Amelie would text him on only the third day they’ve started talking and really easing into each other, again. He sighs, standing from his barstool and sticking his phone in his pocket, turning the lights in the kitchen and hallway off and making his way through the foyer to get to their bedroom.

Maybe things weren’t going as well as Harry thought they were.

~

Harry sucked in a breath, his hand tucked into his briefs and making his heartbeat race. He was tired of this routine. He missed the closeness of being with her, the feeling of her skin on his, the slow kisses and the thick burn that coursed through his veins. He desperately tries to not think of her, to not think of the way she used to clutch his shoulders and squeeze her legs tighter around his hips, bringing him as physically close as she possibly could.

His mind is running rampant, overwhelming and drawing his attention away from the slickness of his hand and the slow tugging that is encouraging him to a release. His lungs can’t catch his breath, a heaviness on his chest that is making him anxious, that is making him near tears.

He laid there, spent, in a panic. His chest was tight, and something felt wrong. He only felt this way once before, the time when Amelie missed her flight, and the thought of why he is feeling so sick makes him want to vomit. He rubs his face in his palms, his fingertips digging into his eyes as he stares at the alarm clock sitting next to the bed. Harry knew that they were going out, likely making her come home late and slightly tipsy, Amelie told him earlier in the evening before Jeff picked him up for dinner. He didn’t want to call and irritate her, mistaking her agreement to call if she was in trouble with an agreement to call and have him be her date for the evening. He was finally getting somewhere, and he didn’t want her to be upset with him. He heaves a breath, leaning against his headboard and flicking on his light.

He shouldn’t be worried. He shouldn’t. Amelie promised him. Amelie promised she would come back to him. They promised each other they wouldn’t do anything. Amelie wouldn’t break a promise. Not a promise to him, at least. Right?

He takes a book from his nightstand. He picked it up a week ago at a bookstore that she would have loved. He bought the French version. He thought that reading a translated text might help him learn more, especially considering Amelie wasn’t making herself around to teach him. His eyes scan the page, unable to settle the feeling in his stomach.

He reaches for his phone, his eyes widening as her picture brightens his screen and the vibrations echo on his palm. He answers faster than he can bring the phone to ear, his heart falling to the pit of his stomach when he hears her crying.

“Harry?” Amelie hiccups, her throat tight and tears falling down her cheeks. His voice is rasped and worried as if the air was knocked out of his lungs the moment she called.

“Doll, what’s wrong?” Harry never stopped using the name. He couldn’t – it was her. His stomach twists with the sound of her wheezed breaths. “Baby, talk to me.”

“’m havin’ an anxiety attack and ‘m scared,” she mutters, her breathing shaky as she walks outside and beneath a light, her phone tight against her cheek. “Need to come home, Harry. I need you.”

[mooshs-crack-headcanons]

Hello! 😍 I'm glad you started your writing journey, wishing you all the luck! May I request Law and Zoro with a girlfriend who adopted a pet parrot? The bird is a loud little hyperactive shit and needs to be under control 24/7 unless you want a disaster. And one day she has to leave the ship till evening so the boys are left with the feather problem for a whole day 😉 Thank you so much! 🥰

REQUEST FROM BAS LET'S GO!!!!

Zoro

Luffy was the reason the bird first got on ship in the first place. 

The crew had made a stop on a summer island so various supplies could be restocked.

Sanji went to go get food supplies, Nami went with Robin shopping, Usopp went to go help Chopper get medical supplies, Brook and Franky went to go see a street performance, you went with Zoro to a bar to make sure he didn't get lost, Jimbe stayed behind to meditate and watch the Sunny, and Luffy went off on his own to see what adventure (trouble) he could get himself into.

In the while you and the other Strawhats were having your respective fun, Luffy wandered into the island's jungle. With his old strawhat tied around his neck and slumped on his back he scanned the jungle around him. 

Searching for any signs of adventure (or meat) he eventually came upon a giant nest on a rock. 

Scratching his head, he sprung onto it and peeked at what was inside.

A small parrot.

Tilting his head, Luffy then scanned the area for any signs of the bird's family. Not a single feather. 

He eventually came to the conclusion that the poor thing had been abandoned, so he hoped inside the nest and crouched down over the bird.

"Hey there little-" 

The bird screeched at him.

"-little feathery."

This time it screeched louder.

Luffy's face scrunched up as he took notice of the bird's injured wing, the blue feathered limb frantically flapped around aimlessly. Luffy frowned.

"Your family left because you're injured."

Somehow the bird seemed to understand, letting out an affirmative squawk. 

In a matter of seconds, a toothy grin emerged of Luffy's face.

"Don't worry! We have a doctor on our ship!" 

The bird tilted it's head with a confused squawk.

And that's how it ended up in Chopper's care.

The parrot, Chopper confirming him male and Luffy being correct about his family abandoning him due to his now permanent ability to fly, his bone structure had become so fractured in a fight he was in trying to defend his family's nest took that away from him, he would never fly again.

So with the bird's incapacity to survive on his own in the wild, Luffy declared him a part of the crew.

Everyone groaned, but didn't object to the captain's orders.

So Squawky, (as Luffy named him) became the most entitled member of the crew. 

His loud screeches kept the crew awake for hours at night, his demands for food drove Sanji to fantasize about making a chicken out of him, he found a way to get into Nami's treasure room and make off with her berries (which he then made nest out of), he would crawl up Brook's skeleton body and eventually made settle in his afro squawking along with the musician's music, and most notably: his love for you, and absolute hatred for Zoro. 

Some crew members like Luffy, Robin, Chopper, Jimbe and Franky got along with Squawky very well, chilling with him time to time. 

Usopp was scared of the damn thing. 

But you and Squawky had the most bounding relationship.

You'd set on deck reading a book while Squawky circled up on your lap while you petted him with one hand. (He was like a cat)

Every morning he'd bring you gifts (stolen items of Nami's treasure) 

When he starts to screech late in the night the only way he will shut up is for you to come over and pet him, it's the only way they'd get sleep period.

He was your baby. 

But Zoro however…

Squawky hated your boyfriend. 

The bird would turn into the likes of a guard dog every time the swordsmans tried to come near you. 

Every time Zoro would come into a room he'd poof up and the swordsman sworn he would start hissing.

"That's no damn bird! It's a fucking cat!"

It'd take some time and encouragement from you for Squawky to start tolerating your boyfriend's presence. (It didn't stop the chilling death glares though)

You love Squawky, and you also love Zoro. And you'd do anything for them to get along.

One day, about two months after Squawky's recruitment into the Strawhats, the crew stopped onto a spring island.

With Jimbe on Sunny duty last time, it was Zoro's turn this trip. 

You slung your bag over your shoulders giving Squawky a scratch under his beak, earning you a soft coo from him.

Zoro frowned with his arms crossed as you watched you two from the doorway. You turned and gave him a loving smile before walking up to him and giving him a peck on the lips.

"It'll only be until sun fall," You looked back to Squawky before alternating looks between the two of them as you spoke. "You two can put up with each other until then." 

The moment the crew left the ship Zoro slumped down against the post of the mast. 

He wasn't dealing with that damn hyperactive little shit parrot, he'd rather nap it off.

It wasn't long before his nap was interrupted by a strange noise.

Zoro opened his one good eye and looked around for the source of the dragging noise.

His hands immediately went for his swords as he hopped up to his feet, scanning the deck for signs of the intruder.

No. Not an intruder.

A nuisance. 

Squawky was currently limping with a sack of coins in his beak, he immediately stopped once he found he was spotted by the green threat.

Then this began the great coin chase.

Zoro chased Squawky all over the Sunny. Squawky frantically limping and being weighed down by the bag of coins. 

It lasted for hours somehow.

No matter how fast Zoro ran, the parrot somehow was limping faster.

It finally ended when Squawky collapsed and Zoro halted where he stood. He watches as the bird's small body heaved with every breath he took.

The swordsman felt a pang of guilt.

This was his girlfriend's bird afterall… 

Zoro then sighed as he marched over and stood over the blue bird. Squawky stared up at him with a glare, which Zoro returned, only to fall back in exhaustion. Zoro then picked up the bird and walked back over to the mast, setting down his swords before sitting down himself, gentilly placing the bird in his lap. 

Squawky squawked in weak retaliation.

"Shut up, (Name) wouldn't want to see you like this."

It didn't take them both long to relax then eventually fall asleep together.

When the crew came back everyone had to stifle their laughter.

But you were just happy that both of your boy's managed to bond together.

Law

Law's eye twitched the first moment you and Bepo brought the thing in.

"Where'd you even find it?"

"Bepo did! He found her at the market when we went on a supply run!" 

"You were supposed to go after canned goods and pain killers."

"But captain! Isn't she cute?!"

He never understood how you and Bepo found such things, last time the two of you found those ungodly onesies and he mentally swore to himself NEVER AGAIN. 

The thing in question was a parrot, a small breed called a cockatiel. He recognized seeing it in one of the books he read when he was younger.

The thing nipped behind it's wing as she parched herself in your hand. 

Law will admit...he likes cute things...just not really birds.

The thing cooed out to him. 

"Please captain! Me and (Name) will promise to take care of her!"

"Please, Law!"

Oh no, his weakness to your begging.

No. He was going to stand his ground.

"Seventy three percent of the time we're in a submerged submarine. A bird can't live on board."

In an instant you and Bepo looked at each knowingly. With a nod you to both look at him with the best puppy dog eyes the two of you could muster.

"Please, Law?"

"Please, captain?"

God dammit.

And that's how Cari was brought onto the Heart pirates. 

At first things started out alright, Law made it clear as long as the bird didn't get in the way of his work everything would be fine.

The rest of the crew were absolutely in love with Cari. 

Penguin and Shachi sat around her perch, trying to make her repeat curse words and naughty phrases after them, Ikkaku would stand in the doorway and shake her head before muttering about the immaturity before walking away.

Jean Bart liked the bird, but he was afraid of hurting her due to his large size so he would always watch her from a distance.

When the sub would emerge above water, Cari would also join Bepo's nap time. Every time the sight would make a wide grin spread wide on your face. 

But there were the problems.

Huge problems.

Cari loves to eat. The glutton of a bird will loudly rattle her cage as her chirps would demand for food. And this would always occur in the middle of the night, the walls of the submarine carrying her outbursts all over the ship. When Cari was hungry in the middle of the night and her container was empty, every member of the crew would know.

Law, groaning trying to focus on his work (insomnia edition™) would mentally curse to himself that that bird is like a certain Strawhat. 

Then came another one of her problems: Shachi and Penguin's teaching phrases worked.

You'd come into Law's office late at night to come beg him to come to bed. After a couple exchanges of your begging pleas and arms wrapped around his neck while he sat, he finally agreed. 

The two of you were cuddled up while Cari's cage sat on your nightstand. 

Kisses were pressed to your forehead as you closed your eyes with a smile. Eventually the two of you were relaxed enough to sleep. 

"Oh yeah! Fuck me like that!"

Both you and Law's eyes instantly sprang open.

"Son of a bitch! Fuck! Shitting ducks! Pussy!" 

Law's body sprang up and with one shambles, Cari and the cage were roomed off to the 'teacher's' cabins. 

Law groaned as he laid back down.

That bird was such a nuisance. 

It was a hot day in the part of the New World they were in, a summer island had to be somewhere nearby. You and the rest of the crew decided to to chill out on deck and enjoy the sun. 

Before leaving to go outside you swung by Law's office to see if he wanted to join. He of course turned the offer saying he had to much work to do and that he would pass.

That made you disappointed, you wanted to lay out on deck together. 

You were just about to go get Cari out of her cage for her to get some sunshine when the idea popped into your mind. A wicked smile crossed your face. You walked over to pretend to get something out of your dresser. 

"Hey Law?" He grunted in response, eyes still on his paperwork. 

"Can you watch Cari for me?"

"Wouldn't she want to be outside?"

"Yeah but Ikkaku says it might she might be comfortable in here-" You tried to think up a lie on the spot. "Too bright out there, you know Grandline usual."

He didn't seem to second guess it, too focused on his work. "Yeah sure."

You smiled before giving him a: "Thanks! Love you!" before dashing out of the room. 

"Yeah...love you too."

He didn't think nothing of the bird being in there with him, she wasn't actually bothering him before now. He needed to focus on his plan of infiltrating Punk Hazard.

Cari did seem too quiet though.

Whatever. 

After a couple of hours, Law set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. He looked to the doorway. 

Maybe a few minutes outside wouldn't hurt. 

Then the moment he got up out of his chair:

"Son of a fuck!" 

Law groaned, stupid bird. 

"Asswipes!"

Law felt at the bridge of his nose. 

"Degenerate bird."

"Degenerate bitch!"

Law's eyes snapped to the cage.

How the hell did she get that from that?!

Curiously, Law made his way over to the cage.

Cari perched on her little swing, her wings flapping about. She instantly took notice of Law.

"Depressed bitch!"

It took Law back. Well, she wasn't wrong. 

"Fucking! Boobs! Ass! (Name)! Titties!"

Law looked back at his chair and decided to see what the fuck else with bird knew how to say.

After retrieving his chair, he sat it in front of the nightstand and stared glarely at the parrot. Cari tilted her head, looking back him before shoving her face in her food container. In a matter of seconds her neck snapped back as she began to do her food loud empty screech and leaping for one of the bars of the cage, rattling the metal. 

Law bent down to open up the sack of bird seed on the floor slumped against the nightstand. He scooped some out with the measuring cup inside the bag and leaned up to hold it in front of the cage. 

Cari popped her head through the bars and screeched for it.

"What other words have those idiots taught you?" Cari blinked twice. 

"Slut." Law deadpanned.

This fucking bird. 

When you finally came back inside, you smiled to yourself hoping the two would've spent some quality time together. 

You stood in the door in awe at the sight you saw.

Law asleep slumped over while the door to Cari's cage was wide open and the bird was perched on your boyfriend's shoulder.

"Did they have a goo-" you shushed Bepo and motioned for him to come look, he quietly gasped in both shock and awe, sparkles in the polar bear's eyes. 

You looked back at the scene with a loving smile.

You knew Law would come around to her eventually.

Now where's that camera?

(Bas, your welcome in my ask box anytime!)

(👁👄👁)

[writingwife-83]

Accidental Research, ch 1- A Study in Sleep

(Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2020, Day 1- There’s only one bed?!)

At @thisisartbylexie’s suggestion, I decided to take on this entire week of trope prompts as a 7 chapter fic set in TAB universe. Excited to kick off this fun week and share a new chapter every day! ❤️ 

Molly sighed to herself for about the tenth time, eyes wide open as she lay in the darkened little hotel room in Paris.

This had quickly become nothing short of preposterous.

Five days ago, Sherlock Holmes had barged into Bart’s hospital, rambling on about the exciting but rather inconvenient news. Namely, that the Watsons were newly expecting their first child, but that it put the detective in a rather difficult position, having recently accepted a case abroad which would require an assistant. Apparently the new baby was not yet agreeing with Mrs Watson’s stomach, and the good doctor felt she needed him to be a more constant presence.

Sherlock had then informed Hooper that his expertise would fill the void nicely.

Molly, possibly against her better judgement, accepted his request. She’d convinced herself that they were both adults, well aware of the truth of the matter, and seeing as nobody else was there was little chance at causing offense.

While her time with the brides was over, she managed to come out unscathed, thanks in no small part to Mycroft Holmes. Molly recognized how lucky she had been and the need to be gracious, even if that meant indulging the whims of the more volatile of the Holmes brothers from time to time.

And now, here they both were, spending their third night in this hotel which apparently couldn’t give them two rooms or, indeed, two beds. She’d seem Holmes bristle slightly when the clerk at the front desk informed him that there was no added vacancy and that they could only provide his initial reservation of a standard, one bed, room.

No matter, he’d assured her as they climbed the steps with their bags in hand, explaining that he rarely slept anyway.

His pacing was becoming truly maddening.

Molly turned over, trying to eliminate the view of his back and forth from her peripheral, but she could still hear his soft steps and the words he spoke under his breath.

The first two nights had been tolerable. He’d insisted she take the bed and she’d managed to sleep for some hours uninterrupted. But something changed on the third day and Molly was becoming more keenly aware of the true state of things.

She heard the grandfather clock in the hallway outside their room strike the hour, making it two in the morning now. That did it.

Molly threw the covers off her, sitting up to lock eyes with him as he spun at seeing her sudden movement.

“When was the last time you slept?” she questioned sternly.

She couldn’t see his confused frown in the dark, but she could practically feel it.

“Miss Hooper, do not concern yourself with how much-“

“Would you please do me the courtesy of simply answering the question?”

He paused.

“I...dozed off a bit in the chair last night. A couple of times I believe.”

Molly nodded to herself. “Yes, just as I suspected. Well then...get in.”

This prompted a lengthier pause.

“As I believe I already stated, insomnia does not hold the negative effects for me that it does for most people, particularly when I’m on a case, therefore I am far more capable of-“

“You were not so capable today, Mr. Holmes.”

His indignance shone through, even in the dark.

“I beg your pardon!”

“Oh, you heard me,” Molly sighed. “Mr. Holmes, three times today you were incapable of conjuring the correct word when speaking to the client, which I had to fill in for you. Twice you began to fall asleep during a carriage ride, and then when pouring your tea you nearly dropped the pot, a lack in dexterity which is wholly uncharacteristic for you.”

Sherlock cleared his throat after hearing her list of evidence and replied, his tone notably sheepish.

“Even in the event of a need for rest, I imagine that you see the predicament we find ourselves in to be...less than ideal.”

“Oh for pity sake,” Molly groaned. “I said get in! As a doctor, I cannot allow this foolishness to continue. Furthermore, while I can appreciate your frankly overdeveloped sense of chivalry, I consider my virtue to be in no immediate danger and will feel quite free to inform you if that circumstance should change, though I imagine it unlikely as you will be asleep before your head meets the pillow!”

“Miss Hooper, honestly-“

“Holmes!”

Her louder, slightly lower, and more authoritative use of his name seemed to do the trick.

Molly watched as Sherlock made somewhat irritated movements, shrugging off his jacket and waistcoat and then kicking off his shoes before finally crashing into the bed next to her.

Right next to her, considering the size of the bed.

“There,” she said, lying back against her pillow and exhaling contentedly. “Now go to sleep and I feel sure you’ll thank me in the morning.”

Sherlock let out a slow sigh, his reply a bit petulant. “You’re terribly sure of yourself.”

“Yes, occasionally someone other than yourself is,” she said softly, closing her eyes as she noted the smell of his particular brand of soap. “Goodnight, Mr. Holmes.”

She felt him shift slightly, getting comfortable, and could hear the lull in his voice when he finally answered.

“Goodnight, Miss Hooper.”

~~~~~~~~

Sherlock sat in the little armchair at the opposite side of the room, legs crossed neatly and fingers steepled against his lips...his eyes fixed, unmovable, on the bed across from him.

Her arm was still draped across the vacant side of the bed, which was where he had been lying less than an hour earlier. It was the first thing he saw upon opening his eyes. That pale, delicate little arm across his chest, the nightdress sleeve having bunched up above her elbow.

Sherlock hadn’t wanted to touch it, for fear of waking her. And so the painstaking process of extricating himself from that bed turned into quite a project over the next five minutes. Moving himself without disturbing another person was quite a new way to wake in the morning.

Feeling her hand slide across his chest over his shirt as he moved was also rather new.

The fan of dark hair that surrounded her now, her arm still stretched out somehow gracefully while still being haphazard, and the partially visible white cotton of her nightdress around her shoulders brought him to a somewhat shocking conclusion.

She was a woman.

No, he was not still in the dark about the very basic truth of her sex. But the evident reality of it hadn’t truly hit him until then. Up to last night, he’d been opting not to share a bed with her on general principle alone. Rules of proprietary that existed on paper, but certainly not for his own personal boundaries.

In the light of day, literally and figuratively, he felt somewhat differently.

Not thirty seconds later, Sherlock’s eyes went wide and he jumped excitedly from his chair, which prompted Molly to wake suddenly from her peaceful slumber.

“Ah good, you‘re awake!”

Sherlock began hurrying about the room, gathering things and stuffing them into his leather satchel while Molly rubbed her eyes and muttered some sort of question of what he was doing.

“Pack your things, Hooper,” he explained excitedly. “We shall be traveling back to London today, for this case is solved!”

“What...just now?”

“Just now, precisely.”

“Right,” she said softly. “Well then, I suppose I should begin dressing.”

Sherlock paused for a breath, noting her exit from the bed and the way she quickly straightened the nightdress to cover her legs. He frowned to himself, then continued in his chosen area of focus- packing! Though he did pause for one more moment.

“Oh and Hooper?”

She turned, smoothing some tousled locks aside to look at him as she gathered her clothing and wig to prepare for the exit of their room.

“It pains me a great deal to admit when I am wrong,” he said with a little smirk. “But I find myself compelled to give you exactly what you predicted I would last night.”

Molly’s lips lifted proudly even before the gift he verbally bestowed.

“Thank you.”

[thepartyresponsible]

a while ago, i signed up for a stony bingo challenge. and i failed spectacularly. but one of the squares was “backrubs/massages.”

so here’s a short fic about steve giving tony a post-mission backrub while they wait for clint to be cleared from medical.

everybody behaves with dignity and decorum. especially clint.

Steve ignores it for as long as he reasonably can. Tony has the money to fix his problems, and it’s not any of Steve’s business if he chooses not to. Tony’s been very clear about the line between his professional life and his private life, and he’s been even clearer about which side of that line Steve is on. Steve ignores it until the problem crosses that line.

They’re at SHIELD, waiting for Barton to be released from Medical. Tony didn’t go to Medical, because he has his own doctors and his own labs. Because he doesn’t like to be touched or prodded or forced to acknowledge his limitations. Because he has a whole set of hang-ups about being any kind of vulnerable in public.  

Steve wonders, as he watches Tony holding his coffee cup with his left hand, how well Tony thinks he hides that.

“Come here,” Steve says, because they’re still fresh enough from the field that Tony might actually listen. It’s not that he ever follows orders well. It’s just that, in the middle of a mission, his instinctive contrariness sometimes gets buried a little deeper.

Tony’s tired, but it’s probably the pain that makes him comply without thinking. He swings Steve’s way, still swigging coffee, humming a question he doesn’t think to ask until he’s halfway across the waiting room.

“What?” he asks, eyes sharpening a little. He comes to a stop, but he’s close enough. Within reaching distance. His gaze is muddled, distracted.

“Your shoulder,” Steve says.

Tony blinks. His eyes dodge tellingly to the right and then settle back on Steve’s face. “Still attached, Cap,” he says. “Present and accounted for.”

Steve used to wonder if it was in Tony’s nature to make everything more difficult than it needed to be. He’s learned, though, to look at it from a different angle. An engineer’s angle. Tony runs stress tests on the world around him, constantly pushing against the people in his orbit. Tony can’t trust anyone until he knows their fail points.

Steve took that personally until he understood that Tony never makes value judgements about other people’s flaws. The only person he ever seems to blame for having weaknesses is himself.

“You took a bad hit four days ago,” Steve says, keeping his tone bland and even, the way he’d talk about a weapon that malfunctioned. “Got jostled a bit again today. Noticed you’re favoring it.”

Tony tenses up, but he doesn’t shy away. Steve’s ready to call that a victory. Victories in this century aren’t ever as clear as they used to be, but he’s learning to make his peace with that.

“The suit took a bad hit,” Tony hedges. “I’m fine.”

“You were in the suit,” Steve says, because he can’t help it, and then he changes tracks before he lets his mouth get him into an argument he’s trying to avoid. “Let me see it.”

Tony’s eyes narrow for a half-second and then he leers at him. “Trying to get me topless, Captain?”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “You know, Stark,” he says, as mildly as he can, “this might sound hypocritical coming from me, but sometimes the answer to every problem isn’t to start a fight about it.”

Tony blinks and then smirks, mouth curling up before he bullies it back into a flat line. “Well,” he says, mumbling it into the dregs of his coffee, “at least you’re self-aware.”

Steve shrugs, because it’s difficult to be ignorant of your shortcomings when the entire world is playing them back to you on a 24/7 news feed. He doesn’t miss the war or the ration cards, but he misses the privacy of failing a mission and knowing that at least the talking heads on the evening news wouldn’t be outlining every one of his missteps that same damn night.

It’s just news for them. It’s a job. It’s entertainment. It’s how they build and reinforce the idea in the heads that they’re safe. Steve understands.

But the mistakes he makes in New York or Kiev or Chicago that result in a dozen extra civilian deaths, they’re mistakes he has to live with. And it doesn’t matter that more people would be dead if the team hadn’t interfered. It’s never enough. If one person dies, it’s because he failed them.

The feedback loop of misery gets to be a bit much, sometimes. That’s all. Steve can spend hours reading about each of the people he didn’t save.

But one redemptive aspect of camera phones and news footage, though, is that it’s really difficult for his team to hide injuries from him.

When he stands up, Tony doesn’t flinch back. He shifts his posture, rooting into the ground like he thinks Steve’s about to knock into him, and Steve doesn’t take that personally, either. Tries not to, anyway.

“Here,” Steve says. He’s slow when he moves his hands, lets Tony see what he’s about to do. And Tony seems so mystified, so baffled by this turn of events, that he doesn’t quite get his thoughts together fast enough to pull away or push Steve back or tell him to go to hell.

When Steve gets his hands on Tony’s shoulder, he finds the knotted muscle in seconds. He’s been thinking about it for hours. Calculating his approach, mapping the trajectory. Like it’s any other target, any other threat to his team.

It’s just a patch of muscle that went tight and never relaxed. It’s nothing, really, except that Steve knows it hurts. He’s spent days watching Tony’s face go blank and pleasant in that horrible way it does whenever he thinks he’s hiding pain.

Steve doesn’t know why the hell Tony didn’t just pay someone to fix this for him.

When he digs his thumb in, puts just enough strength behind it, rubs into the muscle and releases, Tony makes a noise in the back of his throat that Steve’s not used to hearing outside of bedrooms and closed blinds.

“Jesus,” Tony says, when Steve works at it, reminds Tony’s body how it’s supposed to fall together. “Jesus Christ, Cap, you’re wasted on the superhero business.”

“It’s just a muscle,” Steve tells him, a little inanely. He’s never heard Tony make a noise like that before, all low and guttural and pleased.

He expected Tony to be irritable. He expected a scowl, maybe an indulgent, thin-lipped smile if he were feeling generous. He didn’t expect Tony to go practically limp under his hands, shoulders falling, head tipping forward.

It’s just one bad muscle, but there are other knots, too, and Steve works at them, because he’s already here. And he’s not sure he’ll get the chance again. And, honestly, with the noises Tony’s making, Steve’s not sure he can find the will to stop.

“God,” Tony groans, “your hands.”

“They’re just hands, Tony,” Steve says. He’s embarrassed. He’s standing under the unforgivingly clinical brightness of a waiting room in SHIELD Medical, and Tony’s going loose and boneless and obviously, audibly pleased under his touch.

“Let me take you away from all this,” Tony says. “Forget saving the world. Who needs it? I’ll pay twice whatever SHIELD’s giving you.”

“For shoulder rubs?” Steve asks. He’s on the other shoulder now. Well, Tony never told him to stop. And all that compensating, that extra work his left side did while his right was weak, overworked the muscles here, too.

It just makes sense. Steve isn’t prolonging this. It’s a problem, and he’s fixing it.

“For whatever those hands’ll do,” Tony tells him. He probably doesn’t mean it to sound so suggestive. Tony flirts the way other people breathe. “Do you do backs? Necks? You know, I do a lot of acrobatic soldering, and I’m not that young anymore.”

Steve ducks his head. He’s blushing. Thank God Tony’s facing the other way, or this would get awkward fast, and then Tony would never let him do this again. And then Steve would just be stuck, watching Tony fail to deal with the problem, watching him in pain.

“There are professionals,” Steve points out, because he learned everything he knows from art books on human anatomy and field work with the bruised, banged-up Howling Commandos.

“There are no professionals,” Tony says, fervently, “with your hands, Steve.”

Steve stills, caught off-guard. Tony almost never says his name. He’s Cap, or Spangles, or sometimes just Rogers. And even when Tony does use his name, he sure as hell never says it like that.

“C’mon, Steve,” Tony says. He glances back over his shoulder, and the grin on his face is bright and amused and friendly, a little teasing. “We’ll spring Barton before he springs himself, and then we’ll go back to the Tower and do buddy massages. You’re the buddy, and I’m the one getting massaged.”

Steve can feel his blush getting worse. He clears his throat. It doesn’t help. Tony’s expression is shifting from smug amusement to something alarmingly shrewd, like he’s starting to work out that this whole situation is less of a joke than it should be.

“Sounds like a bad deal for me, Tony,” Steve says. The second after it leaves his mouth, he realizes he should’ve said Stark, should’ve planted some distance between them.

Tony raises his eyebrows. There’s a flash of that quick-calculating look that Steve loves to see in the field and hates to see anywhere else. And then Tony swings around, puts them almost chest to chest. “Now, Cap,” he says, with another one of those dangerous smirks, “don’t start casting baseless aspersions on my character. I’ll be glad to put my hands anywhere you want them.”

Steve blinks and blinks again. This is what happens, he thinks, when you get distracted by Stark’s shoulders and let him outmaneuver you.

He opens his mouth, unclear on his objective, thinking maybe he can buy himself some time by playing the well-worn I’m not from this century, and, gee, modern slang is confusing card.

And then Barton – like a merciful angel, like exactly the kind of hospital gown-wearing distraction Steve needs – comes jogging through the doors with a wide-eyed, hunted look on his face.

“Avengers assemble,” Barton says, kinda high-pitched, crashing right into them. “I used to date two of the three the nurse on duty. We gotta get out of here.”

Steve breathes out. “Barton,” he says, “you need to--”

“You need to come to the Tower,” Tony says. “Where you haven’t dated a single one of the nurses. And you’re in luck. Steve and I were just headed that way.”

“You’re heroes,” Barton says, side-stepping behind Steve. “I mean that. I know you guys have saved the world a couple times or whatever, but this is absolutely your finest hour.”

Tony laughs, low in his throat, and then looks up at Steve. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he says, as they start toward the door. “I have serious ambitions for the next couple hours.”

[honeypiehotchner]

Trust -- part twenty-six

Uh oh...here it is. Warning for pissed-the-fuck-off (protective) Sherlock here. This is where you’re all really going to start to hate me. Happy reading! xx.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock, you can’t just break into my flat!”

           “You weren’t answering,” he replies simply, shrugging his shoulders. He pockets the tool he used to pick your lock, offering a sheepish smile.

           The honest truth is, he’s been terrified. Ever since Mycroft’s phone call three days ago, Sherlock Holmes has been absolutely terrified out of his mind and he has had no idea what to do about it.

           “So, what, you think you can just break in now?” You scoff, tightening the towel around your body. “Well, I’m alive, can you leave now?” This is not exactly how you wanted him to see you in the shower the first time, but here you are.

           “Oh right,” he nods, looking a little guilty as he exits your flat, closing the door behind him.

           You wait by the door, looking up at the ceiling. You sigh loudly.

           “Go away, Sherlock. Don’t make me shoot you.”

           “Okay,” he says quickly, and then you hear him bouncing up the stairs, throwing open the door to his own flat.

           You flick the lock on your door, this time adding the deadbolt with a roll of your eyes. For fuck’s sake.

           You’ve never been more confused by one human being in your entire life. First, Sherlock is fine with getting close to you. You kiss, you sleep next to each other. Then, suddenly he won’t speak to you, look at you, or touch you. And now, for the past few days, he’s been so damn clingy, you think you might pull your hair out.

           After throwing on some clothes, you throw yourself down on your bed, dialing John’s number. And when he doesn’t pick up – you forgot he’s working today – you try Molly.

           “Hey Y/N!”

           “Hi, Molly,” you smile. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

           “Nothing actually…Tom is working all day and I’ve got the day off. What are you up to?”

           A lunch date with Molly is exactly what you need, really. You manage to sneak out of the building without Sherlock knowing – though it does pain you to leave when he’s playing his violin. You love to listen to him play, but you know if you’re going to make this daring escape, you’re going to have to leave when he’s occupied.

           “Taxi!” You hold up your hand, somehow miraculously getting the first one that drives by. That almost never happens to you.

           You slide into backseat, not noticing the guy sitting on the other side until it’s too late. Until the door is locked. Until the realization dawns on you. Until you feel a sharp pain in your neck. Until your vision goes black. Until the cab drives away.

~~~

Sherlock’s phone rings. And if it hadn’t been Molly, he wouldn’t have picked up.

           “Hello?”

           “Sherlock, is Y/N still with you? We were supposed to meet for lunch an hour ago, but she isn’t answering her phone.”

           Sherlock’s eyes widen as he practically skips all of the stairs, landing downstairs rather harshly. He skips picking the lock on your door and instead results in kicking it in – he’ll deal with Ms. Hudson’s threats to make him pay for it later.

           The door falls in to reveal and empty flat. You left a while ago.

           “Molly, don’t worry,” Sherlock tries, but how can he tell her not to worry when he’s even worrying? If Sherlock Holmes, the man who never busies himself with worry, is worrying, then isn’t it something to worry about?

           “Sherlock… What’s going on?”

           “I don’t know,” he answers truthfully. “Go back home, Molly.”

           “I’m at Barts, she was supposed to meet me here—”

           “Good, stay there. Don’t leave.”

           “Sherlock—”

           She doesn’t get another word out before he’s ended the call, flying back up the stairs to grab his coat and his gun. This isn’t a conversation to have over the phone. He needs to speak with his brother in person. But he needs to pick up John first.

~~~

“Uh, John,” Mary pokes her head into the room as usual, only this time something is different. He sees it on her face.

           “What’s wrong?”

           She pushes the door open, Sherlock stepping in.

           John groans loudly. “We have an agreement, Sherlock, don’t come to my work to recruit me for cases—”

           “Y/N is missing,” Sherlock interrupts, affectively shutting him up. “I don’t know how, but I know when. We need to speak to my brother.”

           John doesn’t argue, just grabs his coat and nods to Sherlock. “Let’s go then.”

           Sherlock nods, turning and leaving. John pauses to give Mary a kiss.

           “Are you sure you want to stay here?”

           “One of us has to work,” she reminds him. “But call me the second you know something, alright?”

           “Of course,” he nods, pressing another kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be back.”

           “Be careful!” She calls after him, even though he never is.

~~~

The men at Mycroft’s office always know when his brother is coming to visit because Sherlock always, always causes a commotion.

           He ignores the security guards at the front, telling them they should recognize his face by now and not waste their time in trying to card him – and that they should do better at hiding their obvious affair with one another if they want to stay in their current (separate) marriages. John tries not to laugh at their looks of surprise, even though Sherlock does have a valid point: they should be used to this by now.

           And Mycroft knows when Sherlock is coming to visit because the door to his office opens without a single knock or warning. You do the same, but Sherlock is more aggressive, nearly yanking the door off its hinges every time.

           “Y/N is missing,” Sherlock blurts, trying to gain his brother’s attention.

           But Mycroft barely looks up from his desk. “She took a cab from Baker Street an hour ago. She’s having lunch with Molly Hooper. You must have been a nuance to her again, seeing as she didn’t inform you.”

           “Y/N hasn’t answered her phone in an hour, and she was supposed to meet Molly at Barts, which is barely a five-minute cab ride. If you’d like to enlighten me on her whereabouts, I suggest you do so quickly.”

           Mycroft stops writing then, his eyes lifting to meet his brother’s. There’s a different anger swimming there, an emotion he hasn’t seen in Sherlock in a very long time.

           Mycroft notices John’s equally as hard expression, so he caves. He opens his laptop, moving to find your whereabouts to calm both of the men standing in his office. Mycroft doesn’t want to think the worse – can’t bring himself to because he’s kept a close eye on you. But apparently not close enough.

           “Mycroft,” Sherlock barks. “Where is she?”

           Mycroft doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know. The last record he has of you is getting into the cab. The cab that doesn’t have a tag anywhere on the vehicle. It drives away undetected. It will take hours to search through security footage to find it, if Gidon hasn’t wiped the video, or gone outside of the city – which he most likely has.

           “Oh my God,” John rubs his hands over his face. “Oh my God.”

           “This is your fault,” Sherlock nearly screams, pointing an accusing finger at his brother. “Never let her leave your sight, you told me. You should’ve let me take care of this the moment she was getting curious, but you couldn’t handle it, could you? What does he have on you, big brother? I know it’s not about protecting her because you’ve done an awful job at that, leading her to that drug den and nearly getting her killed—”

           “You knew she was going there?” John yells. “You knew, and you didn’t think I should know?”

           “I kept a close watch on her—”

           “Yeah, well, apparently not close enough,” John snaps. “I’m calling Lestrade.”

           “I’m going to handle it, John—”

           John cuts him off again. “I don’t want you to handle it, alright? You’ve done enough handling it, Mycroft, and it’s gone too far now. You can’t fix it this time, and frankly, I don’t want you to try.”

           John steps out to make the call, giving Sherlock a moment alone with his big brother.

           “Where has he been hiding?” Sherlock demands. “I want everything you’ve been holding back from me.”

           “Sherlock—”

           “Now.”

           Mycroft sighs, turning to walk over to his filing cabinet. Sherlock watches as his brother opens the locked drawer, pulling out three files, all filled to their maximum capacity.

           He pushes the drawer closed with his arm, holding the folders out to Sherlock. “This is everything.”

           Sherlock grabs the files, ready to rip them out of his hands, but Mycroft keeps his firm grip on them. The younger looks at the older with a glare that is lethal.

           “You’ve gotten attached, Sherlock,” Mycroft’s tone is warning. “You’re too involved.”

           “Shut up.”

           “You know what I have always told you,” Mycroft gives his brother an even look. “Caring is not an advantage. Don’t let it disadvantage you.”

           “Because that worked for you,” Sherlock mutters, ripping the files from his brother’s grip.

           Mycroft watches his brother leave, sighing loudly as the door slams on its way out. And even though Sherlock doesn’t want his help, he still opens his laptop, beginning the search for you.

[melodyofgraves]

Road Trip (Chambers  x Konevi modern AU) - part one

A/N: I know it took me a long time to finish this (for a few reasons) but it’s here. This was really fun to write but I don’t know if it will be as fun to read. So please let me know if I should post future parts of this mess when I’m done with them.

The whole idea is just a bunch of little stories with an introduction (this part) and an end. And a lot of tropes and cliches. Hope you'll still enjoy!

Words: 1776

Tagging: @hellospunkiebrewster @queerchoicesblog @brightpinkpeppercorn @pixieferry @akrenich @itsbrindleybinch @thehonorarybeaumont @robbiessutcliffe @the-writerly-night-owl @inkandfables @choicesbyvera

“Please tell me you have ice cream.” weren’t exactly the words Annabelle was expecting to hear when she opened her door on a Friday night.

So after almost thirty minutes of watching her friend trying to pretend he “just wanted to hang out” while emptying her freezer of anything that contained enough sugar, she began to lose patience.

“What’s going on, Bart?” she asked, loudly enough to get his attention over the tv.

“I already told you…”

“Bullshit.” she cut him off before taking a deep breath and smiling gently. “You know I don’t have anything against you hanging out at my place. But I know that’s not the reason you’re here. So talk.”

He bit his lip and looked into the ice cream bucket in his hand as if it was the perfect place to find his answer. Then he just sighed, muting the show they were just watching.

“I saw Yusuf today.”

“Oh.” Parsons tilted her head. “How is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? You didn’t talk?”

“No.” Chambers pointed towards rack in the hallway he could barely see from his spot. “I also kinda stole his jacket.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The green one. Well, technically I didn’t steal it. He gave it to me so I could chase my bus and yelled that I can give it back later.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I think he changed his number last year and probably forgot I don’t have a new one. So if I don’t find him myself, this stolen jacket is staying with me.”

“It’s not stolen.”

“Yeah. And it’s a nice jacket.”

“It is. So why do you have it again?” Annabelle would be lying if she said she wasn’t a little confused.

“Long story. In short, it was pouring rain earlier today and I was hiding under this tunnel with a bunch of people when I saw my bus. And I had two options – I wait however long it takes for the weather to calm down or I run for it to the nearest bus stop. Which would be far enough if there wasn’t a flood coming from the sky.”

“Why do I feel like you're being a little dramatic?"

“Hey, I didn’t have an umbrella. Or even a coat. Only this t-shirt.”

“Coward.”

“Shush. So I’m trying to make the decision when I feel someone tap me on the shoulder.”

“And by someone you mean Yusuf?”

“Yes, I mean Yusuf. I’m trying to add a little suspense to the story but since you don’t appreciate it then I give up.” he glared at his friend getting a chuckle in return. “He gave me his jacket and told me to run because he can wait. And then I caught the bus and came here. The end.”

“What do you mean the end? Why didn’t you stay there and talk to him? Ask when did he come back?”

“Yeah, I thought about it myself. Already sitting in the bus.” he sighed. ”Everything was happening so fast.”

“Kinda sounds like a plot of a bad fanfiction.” she joked, earning another glare.

“Glad you find my life funny.”

“Wait. I mean, you know he’s in town. So finding him shouldn't be that much of a problem.”

“I don’t know if he’s back for good. And we’re leaving tomorrow so he might be gone before we go back.”

“And if he isn’t, I’ll help you find him. Come on, you can’t be moping around at Lucy’s wedding.”

“I have a whole week before the actual ceremony.” he smiled slightly, feeling a little better. The groom was grumpy enough for the whole group so maybe he should focus on balancing it out. “Luke’s driving, right?”

Annabelle furrowed her brows at him.

“Wait, you mean they didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Briar asked if we could add Edmund to our car and he was supposed to call you and ask if you two could switch…”

“Oh.”

“Shit. We can kick him out tomorrow, Briar can live without…”

“No, no, it’s fine. I don’t mind,” he assured. No need to make a fuss about something so petty. “So who’s in the other car?”

-

Sitting in the backseat and being squeezed in between Theresa and Felicity wasn’t his best Saturday morning but it certainly wasn’t the worst one either. After all, he could’ve ended up like Arthur, gripping the steering wheel while trying to answer to Mr Westonly’s attempted conversations as politely and loudly as possible.

“Why are we even going all the way to Grovershire for this? Like the couldn't have chosen anything closer to home.” the blonde muttered, tapping her nails against her purse.

“But Lucy always wanted to get married in the same church as her parents did,” the grin appeared on Theresa's face as she was almost jumping in her seat. “It’s just so romantic when you think about it.”

“And cliche. I’m surprised Ernest even agreed to that nonsense.” a hint of a smile tugged on the corners of Holloway's lips, indicating she was starting an argument more out of boredom than anything else.

“I’m sure he thought it was a great idea…”

The ladies continued their banter so Bart just sighed and focused on the road. They left early enough to avoid too much traffic and he was thankful for that. Everything seemed so calm outside. On the inside, however…

“Young man, would you stop at the gas station? I need to stretch out these old legs.” Mr Westonly asked suddenly. Bart was initially pretty surprised that the old man was going with them but he was one of the very few family members Ernest had left so he decided to not even question it. Whatever made his friend happy.

“I was hoping we could go a little more without stopping so we could…” Arthur began to explain but was cut off by Felicity.

“Oh, come on, they can wait. I will not spend another hour in this car.”

"But..."

"Now."

So they stopped. A ten-minute break on the gas station before hitting the road again. That’s what they agreed on.

So imagine Bartholomew’s surprise when after returning from the bathroom, the car was gone. Nowhere in sight. Its previous spot completely empty.

They left him.

But that’s okay. He can just call them and ask what the hell happened, right?

He grabbed his phone from his pocket so quickly it almost dropped. Good thing he at least kept it in his jacket because his backpack and all of his other things were still in Wood’s car. But that’s okay, he was just going to call them and…

… and his phone was dead. Fantastic.

He kicked a nearby pebble in frustration. How the hell did they not notice he was gone? And should he just stand there in the hope they’d come back or find another transport?

He decided to wait for a few moments. It’s not like he had anything better to do.

-

Chambers sat on the sidewalk, watching the passing cars and getting more annoyed with each second. That was getting ridiculous. He always wanted to believe in people’s best intentions but how do you just forget about a person like that?

The gas station was pretty much in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the woods. Aside from the store and small parking with barely any cars, there wasn’t really much for him to do or go to.

Going for a walk, while tempting, was out of the question. Even if his friends didn’t come back for him, he would probably get lost in the unknown forest and that was the last thing he wanted that day.

He finally stood up. Moping around won’t get him anywhere. Asking around for directions to the nearest form of transportation was probably a better option.

Turning around towards the store, he suddenly heard his name.

“Bart?” a black car stopped right next to him and a familiar face peeked through the window. “What are you doing here?”

“Hi!” he waved, trying to look as casual as possible. Almost three years without him and now they’re running into each other every day. “I’m just looking around. How about you?”

“Just getting gas.” Yusuf smiled at him and his heart fluttered just like years ago when they first met. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. Not really.”

“Do you want to talk about this?”

“No, it’s fine. You’re driving somewhere and I don’t want to stop you.”

“I’ve got time. Just give me a minute to park.”

-

“How the hell could they forget about you?”

“I have no idea.” Chambers mumbled, sitting next to him on the sidewalk and munching on one of the ice cream sandwiches they've just bought. “And right now I’m left with nothing because all of my things are in the car."

“You don’t have anything?”

“I have some cash in my pocket but it’s not much. And my phone but it’s useless because the charger is in my backpack. Next to your jacket, actually.” he sighed. “Thank you for that, by the way. And sorry I can’t give it back to you yet.”

"Don't mention it. It's not your fault that you were abandoned." Yusuf nudged him lightly. "Why did you even brought it with you?"

Because it's yours and I wasn't going to just leave it at home for so long.

"I was thinking maybe you were going to the wedding too."

"Oh, I just found out about it from you." Konevi laughed and Bart could feel his cheeks get a little bit warmer. "I haven't really had a chance to talk to anyone yet so they probably don't even know I'm back."

"I'm sure they'd be happy to see you."

"I wouldn't want to show up uninvited." he stood up, dusting off his jeans and throwing the wrapper into the bin. "I could make sure you get there though."

“Really?”

“Of course. I wouldn't be able to sleep at night if I just left you here alone. And I'm going in the same direction anyway.” he grinned and extended his hand, helping Chambers stand up as well. "If you don't mind spending so much time with me, that is."

"That sounds... perfect."

Yusuf grinned again and got into the car, quickly joined by the other man.

"Are you sure you don't mind? The ride to the Grovershire is pretty long." Chambers asked, just to be sure, though he couldn't stop the hopeful smile from appearing on his face.

"I have time and good company. Everything I need." he chuckled, starting the car. “Besides, I really want that jacket back.”

[sinesalvatorem]

My First Day (Back) In College

Today I went back to school! I am now officially a student of the City College of San Francisco. I was last in uni when I was 17 - hence the “17 year old grad school drop out” bullet in my description. This year I decided to bite that bullet and drop back into school, where I will presumably learn such academic writing techniques as “not mixing that many metaphors”.

The only class I had today that I was already registered for was Philosophy of Knowledge, which I eagerly attended once I found the building. I made sure to sit at the front of the class - ostensibly to signal attentiveness, but to be honest it was 60% to have an excuse to not react to most of the students in the class. I intend to get to know all of them over time, but G-d are classrooms overwhelming the first time.

As this was day one, it was a class about the class. In it, we learned that professor Johnson is going to be spending most of his time each day in that classroom, whether or not he has a class, which is something I expect to take advantage of. He also directly encouraged us to (*gasp*) speak in class - by which I mean he addressed me specifically while saying this, and I did in fact gasp.

We also learned that the class is structured in such a way that it should be near impossible to fail as long as you consistently apply effort. Which is good, because while I have no doubt I’ll do excellently in philosophy per se, I can tell that my presence in the class (and the college in general) isn’t about that - it’s about the much more difficult problem of learning how to meaningfully engage with the world. And good G-d am I a dumbass there - but I can definitely put in the effort and keep trying as many times as it takes.

Halfway through the lecture, the power went out, so Dr Johnson wrapped up early. I stuck around to ask him questions about his class, the college, and I’d intended to ask about joining the philosophy club but forgot in the moment. However, the question I opened with was the one I cared most about, and which I least expected to get an answer on:

“I have the feeling that everyone at City College already knows who I am. Do you know what’s going on there?” His eyes went wide at this one, then after a moment he said there was not aware of anything like this and had never met me before. The way he said it felt rather unconvincing, and throughout the rest of the day people (especially professors) continued to act like they already knew me, but I didn’t expect to get the Big Reveal at this point anyway.

(While I’m gradually piecing together more parts of the ‘Panopticon Puzzle’ - just the other day, I realised that people have been sharing videos of me dancing on BART, for example - I still know very little about the motives or mechanisms. Plus, I’m concerned that it gets more overt as I look more closely at the lens looking at me. These days riding the train is damn stressful because now there are people waiting for me to dance.)

After Phil 4, I got some academic counseling, which helped me determine potentially interesting future classes. However, as there’s limited counselor availability at the start of the semester, I was not yet able to do in-depth plotting-my-course stuff. So after my counseling session, I was kind of listless, but wanted to stay on campus because it seemed like the best questing location.

Eventually I figured out that there was a Music Fundamentals class happening at the time, and I went to the classroom and asked the professor if I could drop in. He said “For you, definitely”, which I just accepted with only a hint of internal “What do you mean for me?”

Dr Blea’s class was very much worth dropping into. Early in the class he said that he makes sure every student in his class ends up telling their story, even if they claim not to, before turning to me and saying “I know you have a story”. To which I replied “Don’t worry, I fully admit to having a story”. He then went around the class asking what instruments we played, with the first person saying they don’t play an instrument but just move their fingers - while looking at me, prompting me to say “Called out”.

Through this intro exercise, I learned I was surrounded by pianists, bassists, violinists, vocalists, and a percussionist. During the intro, Dr Blea asked the percussionist to clap a 6/8 beat, and I matched the beat with my fingers. The professor was very pleased by this exercise, and his enthusiasm was high going forward. He soon pulled out his violin and said he was going to play Bohemian Rhapsody, to which I said that I could sing that. This was sort of true - I can sing the sections of it out of order - but he was quite ready to make me put my music where my mouth is.

So I belted sections of Bohemian Rhapsody to Dr Blea’s violin in the Music Fundamentals class I was not registered for. At several points, my classmate Ryan accompanied me, which helped me have the confidence to do this damn fool thing. At the end, the professor told me to take a bow, so in a state of surprised confusion I got up and bowed toward him, before being told I was supposed to bow for the class, as they’re who I’d performed for. I did so, and said that Ryan should also take a bow, as he had sung with me, but he didn’t take the stand. #relatable

We then got on to discussing more theoretical aspects of music, such as intervals and harmony. One of the students asked Dr Blea if he had perfect pitch, because everyone always wants to know if musicians have perfect pitch. He said no, but he courageously took the empirical approach by playing notes on a piano without looking at the keys and guessing, in order to show us he was fallible.

However, he then said that he thinks some people have perfect pitch without even realising it, and said he thought I did. To which I said I highly doubted it, but would be interested in finding out. However, as this class had stoked my hubris, I admitted that I suspect I have ‘perfect rhythm’, if there’s such a thing. This, of course, was not going to just pass, and the professor immediately had the percussionist clapping a beat for me to match. He then split the whole class into sections and had us clap different rhythms, while he played his violin over our beats.

However, I nearly lost my beat from how distracted I was by his violin. The playing was beautiful, but I couldn’t move my hand to (ie, integrate) it while clapping the beat. So after he signaled the end, I rapidly repeated my memory of his piece by hand-motion, while focusing intently on the violin in his hand. However, I could still see from my peripheral vision that he was watching what I was doing and was quite pleased/intrigued. I have no idea where the Music Fundamentals course is going to go, but I definitely expect it to be a radical journey of discovery.

After class, I walked with Ryan and a dancer named Louise. I commented to Louise when she offered to walk with me to the registration office that I was not accustomed to having people to walk with. We discussed the experience of music, the human facility for rhythm, and what goes into dance education. Tomorrow I’m planning to drop in on a class on dance and find out for myself.

But the important thing is that, on day one, I’ve already made some progress on my top college priority: Making friends. (Well, my top priority in returning to college is something like “Not reflexively shrinking back from the world for fear of damaging it”, but I believe making friends is the most important part of operationalising that.)

Those are the two classes I had today. Outside of classes, there was a lot of navigating the college, and navigating my own difficulties knowing how to approach the world. I continue to have no idea where to point my eyes as I walk. Worse, I continue to feel bad about that. I long to just look around how I like purely based on interest and without calculation. Alas, I don’t seem to be there yet, so I tried various crappy heuristics instead.

Out of class was far more stressful than in class, though of course every bit of that stress was in my head. Doesn’t mean I know how to make it go away, though. For now. My first day at my first college was similarly disorienting. However, within two weeks I was happily settled and had my clique, and by the end of the semester I was on top of the world. I’m hoping for that arc here too. Growth mindset!