#booked a doctors appointment for this afternoon because i have a WORRYING lump

[jiiinki]

.

[suituuup]

pieces - chapter twelve

Five years ago, Chloe dropped off the face of the Earth. Beca didn’t expect to see her again dancing in a strip club, out of all places.

rated: E (drug use and emotional abuse in early chapters)

ao3 link

*

Chloe was surprised to hear music drifting through the apartment when she got home from her late-afternoon NA meeting that Thursday evening. 

It had been four days since they had come back from Oregon, and Beca had spent most of her time at the label, often coming home after Chloe was down for the night and leaving before she was up. She always left a note and texted Chloe throughout the day to check on her, but Chloe could tell something was off. 

She rounded the corner to find Beca cooking at the stove, and smiled. “Hi.”

“Hey you,” Beca greeted with a matching smile. “You hungry? Making a stir-fry.” 

“Starving. This baby is making me eat for three,” Chloe mumbled as she walked past Beca to pluck a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge. She uncapped it and took a sip, leaning against the counter. “Are you alright? I couldn’t help but notice you’ve seemed off since we got back.” 

Beca nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. I uh,” she cleared her throat as she reached for two plates in the cupboard over her head. “I broke up with Sarah the other night.” 

Chloe’s eyes popped wider in shock. “Oh.”

Beca set both plates on the island, then opened the cutlery drawer. “Yeah… and I kinda threw myself into work, because that’s what I do to cope with my emotions.” She grimaced again, meeting Chloe’s eyes. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much.” 

Chloe shook her head. “No, no, it’s okay. I’m sorry, Bec.” She wondered what the reason for the break-up was, but she doubted Beca wanted to get into that. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“Thanks. Yeah. It’s, um, life, right?” She shrugged a little as she turned off the stove. “We just weren’t looking for the same thing.” 

Chloe nodded slowly, then pushed off the counter. “Okay. I’m here if you wanna talk, alright?” She hitched her thumb over her shoulder. “I’m just going to freshen up, I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.” 

Beca had scooped food into each plate and poured water into two glasses when she got back clad in comfier clothes, and Chloe perched herself on the stool across from Beca. 

“Thanks for making dinner,” she murmured as she dug in.

“No problem. Did your NA meeting go okay?” Beca asked as she stabbed a couple of vegetables with her fork. 

Chloe chewed and swallowed, then took a sip of her water. “Yeah, it went fine. My sponsor is amazing. We’re meeting for coffee tomorrow morning. Well, tea for me.” Decaf just wasn’t the same. 

“Cool.” Beca smiled. “I was thinking we could get a start on the nursery soon? Have you thought of a color for the walls?”

“You wanna paint the walls?” Chloe asked in surprise. “We don’t have to do that, you know. I don’t want you to be stuck with a nursery-looking room once Bean and I move out.” 

Beca shrugged. “I have another guest room, and I kinda want Bean to have their own room whenever you guys come to visit.” 

Chloe’s heart swelled against her ribs. She wasn’t sure what she had done to deserve someone like Beca back in her life, but she wasn’t going to screw it up this time around. And she had thought about what she wanted Bean’s nursery to look like, but didn’t allow herself to daydream about it until now. “I like those beige walls the way they are, but I was thinking of a woodland theme? Something gender-neutral, for sure. A few animal frames, maybe an animal mobile above the crib?” 

“That sounds nice,” Beca said, smiling. “Are you going to find out the sex at your next appointment?” 

“I think so, yeah.” 

“That’s the 26th at 3, right?” Beca asked, surprising Chloe once more. Upon catching her look, Beca added, “I wrote it down in my planner.” 

It was one thing to have written down, another to remember it off the bat like that, but Chloe didn’t even know why she was surprised. Beca had been nothing short of amazing since Chloe decided to keep the baby, between keeping track of the baby’s growth on her app or making sure to pick up ginger ale every time she went grocery shopping.

“Oh. Yeah, the 26th at 3.” 

As Chloe further settled into her second trimester, her constant exhaustion gradually faded away. She felt more energized from the start of her fifteenth week, which felt like a breath of fresh air. As her OBGYN saw nothing against it, she started each day with a morning fitness walk followed by a yoga session, then settled down to have some breakfast as she read her book. After lunch, she either had a therapy session or an NA meeting, except for Wednesdays and over the weekend. 

The cravings were still there, sitting somewhere at the back of her mind, but she continued pushing through, for the baby’s sake first and foremost, but also because she didn’t want to disappoint her support system and risk losing them forever if she did fall back into old habits. The taunting was strong, every time she walked in front of the liquor store or a familiar street corner where she would get the good stuff, but she resisted, and never hesitated to call Aubrey or her parents when her resolve wobbled a bit too much for her liking. 

“Shit,” Chloe muttered as she tried buttoning her pants up, her more than noticeable belly getting in the way. She had just reached 17 weeks, and her bump seemed to have popped a little more overnight. So had her boobs. She could also start to feel some movement going on in there, which was absolutely mind-blowing. 

Not ready to accept defeat yet, Chloe grunted at the effort of bringing these two stupid pieces of fabric closer together, exhaling with a sigh when they didn’t budge. 

“Chlo?” Beca called out, a knock on Chloe’s bedroom door following. “We should get going.” 

“I know, I just-- can’t get my pants to button,” Chloe muttered with a huff. 

A pause. “Can I come in?” 

“Yeah.” 

The door was pushed open, and Beca appeared, leaning against the frame. 

She Beca looked amused, causing Chloe to glare at her. “Maybe wear a dress?” 

Chloe’s nose wrinkled. “I only have stripper dresses.” That she should definitely donate, or get rid of. 

Beca hummed. “Mesh shorts?” 

“I guess, yeah.” 

“We can go buy some stuff after your appointment if you want?” Beca suggested as Chloe wrestled out of her jeans and slid on a pair of shorts Beca lent her. 

“Yeah, definitely.” She needed bras, too. “Okay, I’m ready.” 

As her last ultrasound at 13 weeks, Chloe didn’t have to change when they got there, and she laid down on the cot as they waited for the tech to come in. Beca stood by her side, scrolling through her phone. 

“So the Bellas’ results are in: 6 say boy, 4 say girl. I said girl.” 

Chloe had broken the news to the girls when they came back from Oregon and had once again received nothing but support. Bets started coming in over the gender, the due date, and whether Bean was going to come out with ginger hair. 

Chloe chuckled as she rubbed her bump with her palm. “You only said girl because I told you I felt like it was a girl.” 

Beca smirked. “They don’t have to know that.” Her expression softened as she pocketed her phone. “You excited to find out?” 

“Yeah,” Chloe breathed out. She was more anxious to hear about how Bean was doing and braced herself for bad news. 

“Hi there,” the tech greeted as she came in. “How are you doing, Chloe?” 

“Good. Hungry all the time.” 

The other woman laughed as she rolled the ultrasound machine closer. “Let’s take a look at that baby. Can you lift your top up for me and lower your shorts a little bit?” 

Chloe did so, reaching for Beca’s hand as the tech squirted some of that cold gel onto her tummy. 

“Alright, let’s see…” the woman drawled out as she moved the wand until she got the perspective she wanted. “Here we go.” 

“Oh, they got so big,” Chloe murmured in awe. 

“They’re moving around quite a bit,” the tech observed with a smile, pointing at the baby’s kicking legs. 

Beca gasped and tore her eyes away from the screen to glance at Chloe. “Can you feel that?” 

“Yeah,” Chloe confirmed, blinking back the tears pricking behind her eyes. “Feels like butterflies taking off in my belly.” 

“Strong heartbeat,” the tech continued. “Baby’s in the perfect position to tell their gender if you want to know?” 

“Yes, please,” Chloe said with a nod. 

“Looks like you’re having a baby girl, Chloe.” 

“A girl?” Chloe croaked out, a lump rising to her throat. The gender didn’t matter to her but knowing made it feel a thousand percent more real. She felt a squeeze to her hand and found Beca smiling down at her. “We’re in trouble. I was a handful as a kid.”

Beca chuckled. “If she has your eyes, I definitely am in trouble. Won’t be able to say no to anything she asks for, I’m warning you now.” 

The way they talked, it almost sounded like they were going to raise Bean together, and Chloe’s heart did another funny thing. Over the last couple of weeks, she had been experiencing weird feelings for Beca that went beyond the friendship line, but she was convinced it was just her hormones acting up like they did with her libido. Chloe felt aroused pretty much all the time, it was getting ridiculous. She also cried in front of a Budweiser commercial because the puppies were cute, so her body and emotions were definitely out of whack. 

The doctor came in shortly after, easing Chloe’s worries when she assured her the baby looked healthy, with normal measurements all around. They scheduled another ultrasound four weeks from now, and she and Beca were on their way with three copies of the ultrasound, one for Chloe, one to put on the fridge, and one Beca requested to store in her wallet. 

Beca drove them to Target next, and instead of heading to the maternity clothing section, Chloe went straight for the baby stuff, pulling a chuckle from Beca as she pushed the cart alongside. 

“Okay, I wanna buy everything,” Chloe mused aloud as she put a onesie back on the rack, even though she found it adorable.

“I know you’re still uncomfortable with it, but please don’t restrain yourself because it’s my money,” Beca said, as though reading Chloe’s thoughts. “I haven’t really had anyone to spend it on, so it’s my pleasure to get Bean whatever they need. Crib, car seat, changing table, stroller, clothes… you name it.” She smirked, nodding towards the rack. “So get that rainbow onesie, because it’s the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.” 

Chloe giggled and nodded, her eyes shining with unspoken gratitude before she reached for the onesie. It was scary to think of how small her baby girl was going to be as a newborn, and Chloe was so glad she wasn’t doing this on her own. 

She selected five more, all animal-themed ones, then moved onto shirts and pants, showing Beca what she thought was cute to get her avail. She kept in mind that the Bellas and her parents were probably going to go overboard with gifts and paced herself on the quantity of stuff she dropped into the cart. 

“I feel like we should get the crib, stroller, and car seat from like, a special store?” Beca chimed in as they strolled through the blankets/swaddles section. She scrunched up her nose. “I don’t think I trust Target brands when it comes to sturdiness. I actually strumbled across a car seat that looks amazing, it goes from that to a stroller in just a few folds and clicks.” 

Chloe cast her an amused look. “How did you stumble across that, exactly?” 

Beca’s cheeks reddened. “By looking up the best strollers on the market.” She cleared her throat when Chloe giggled. “I just have a lot of time to kill on the subway.” Another grimace. “Is that too invasive?” 

Chloe shook her head, reaching out to rest her hand on Beca’s forearm. The contact of her skin under her fingertips made Chloe swallow as her body immediately reacted. Freaking hormones. “Not at all. I promise.” 

Chloe managed to walk away from the baby part of the store before she bought the whole thing, and headed to the maternity wear, buying a couple of jeans with an elastic waistband, a belly band, a few bras, and a pregnancy pillow. 

“Your total is $843,50,” the cashier announced once he had rung everything up, and Chloe swallowed thickly, glancing at Beca with slightly wider eyes. 

“It’s fine, Chlo,” Beca insisted as she swiped her credit card through the device. She thanked the cashier and grabbed most of the bags, letting Chloe carry the two lighter ones. Everything easily fit into Beca’s large trunk, and Chloe slid in the passenger seat, buckling up. “Any particular craving for dinner? We can stop for take-out on the way home,” Beca said as she slid her sunglasses over her nose before pulling out of their parking spot.

“I could go for a burger and fries. And a milkshake.” 

Beca grinned. “Cool, I’ll stop at Shake Shack.” 

Once they got home, they hauled everything upstairs and stored it in the nursery for now, and Chloe changed into sweatpants and Beca’s Bellas hoodie which she had never given back, picking an episode of The Office for them to watch. 

“Oh, I forgot,” Beca said after they were done eating, pushing to her feet. “Stay put.” 

Chloe did as she was told, giving Beca a curious look when she walked back to the couch with a package. Setting her milkshake on the coffee table, Chloe plucked it from her hands. “What’s this?” 

“A little something for Bean,” Beca murmured as she sat back down beside her, folding one leg underneath and hugging the other to her chest. “I ordered it when we got back from Oregon and forgot to give it to you.” 

Chloe ripped the tape over the opening and peered inside, fishing the box out. “Belly headphones?” She asked even though that’s what it said on it, her voice wavering slightly as emotions once again rose to her throat. She could blame that on the hormones too, right? 

Beca nodded. “I read that babies can hear from 18 weeks on, and I thought it would be cool if Bean listened to music before she’s born. And you know nobody takes picking out a pair of headphones as seriously as I do, so I thought I was the right guy for the job.” 

A watery chuckle burst past Chloe’s lips. “This is amazing. Thank you.” She leaned forward to hug Beca, holding her tight. Her scent did another number on Chloe, and she inhaled sharply, willing her body to chill out as she backed away. “For this, and for today…” She couldn’t remember the last time she had smiled so much. “I really don’t know what to say besides thank you.” 

“You’re welcome, Chlo,” Beca said, a soft smile curving her lips. “I’m just happy you’re finding your way back step by step.” 

Chloe nodded, exhaling. The light at the end of the tunnel was just in sight, and while it was another long way to reach it, she felt like she could, and that on its own felt like a victory. 

[missraeyn]

This week has been eXxtra.

Sunday: Find boob lump. Annoyance.

Monday: First thing, grumble and go to find surgery (doctor’s office’s) phone number. Realise they do e-consults now, fill one out about aforementioned. Then go for Covid booster and flu shot. Can’t get flu shot, because I’m not eligible for a free one. Look around online, find a local grocery pharmacy with slots, book in for Wednesday. Still Monday: Youngest childling’s class is instructed to all, if possible, get a PCR Covid test, as four classmates + teacher are out sick. While spouse and childling out, doctor called and told me to come in Tuesday afternoon. ((Monday also brought McDinner, because god we were done)) Tuesday: Husband takes his mother to the hospital for an eye appointment. I go to the GP (general practitioner), he barely lays hand on my lump, because that’s all needed to confirm that heeeeyyy there is a large lump, let’s refer you asap. We also got the negative results from childling’s test -- which is what we expected, because all of us have tested negative on lateral flow tests in the past few days, and she had a negative PCR last week when we had our monthly ONS (Office of National Statistics) test that we get paid for. Boob lump is so enlarged that it actually changes the profile of the relevant breast.

((Tuesday also brought petting kittens, ‘cause I took my neighbour her birthday pressie and she invited me in to pet the little ones. Too good!))

Wednesday: Wake up to find lump smaller, all of which makes it pretty clear it’s almost assuredly a cyst over anything malignant. Drag tail around house, go get my flu vaccine. Do a bit of shopping, which was... okay. I guess. I’m avoiding the world until things are a much higher rate of safe; with chronic fatigue as my normal baseline, I emphatically cannot risk getting Long Covid in addition. Home, lunch, zoning out. Lump is feeling a bit bigger again, and a bit more tender, but I’ve also not taken any pain meds for it either yet. I should do that momentarily.

Thursday: Obviously, this is the future, but since there’s nothing on the books as such, my brain keeps getting lost, confused, and stressed because there *has* to be something with as stocked up as this week has been. Depending on how I’m feeling, I might well book in to visit another friend with a kitten tomorrow. I’d love to get over there to see the current flat before they move house next week, silly as that is.

And of course, because this week just has to keep being eXxtra...

Friday: We have our first session with a declutterer. It’s four hours. I’m super worried that after this week as it’s been, I won’t have the spoons to contribute and it’ll all get stuck on the husband-fellow. But I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.

For now... something something.

[huphilpuffs]

flares

chapter: 29/? summary: Dan’s body has been broken for as long as he can remember, and he’s long since learned to deal with it. Sort of. But when his symptoms force him to leave uni and move into a new flat with a stranger named Phil, he finds that ignoring the pain isn’t the way to make himself happy. word count: 3117 rating: mature warnings: chronic illness, chronic pain, medicine a/n: Trigger warning for mentions of death and cancer as Dan worries about worst case scenarios. Huge thanks to @obsessivelymoody for beta’ing!

Ao3 link || read from beginning

Phil’s at work when the call comes in. 

It’s an unfamiliar number, one that isn’t in Dan’s phone. He almost doesn’t pick it up, because his fingers feel stiff and it sounds like too much effort when he doesn’t much like talking to people anyway. But the phone is sitting right next to him and he remembers that the hospital’s number was unknown, too, so he ends up bringing it to his ear with a quiet hello.

The voice on the other end is too chirpy. It makes his heart sink.

“Hello?” she says. “May I speak with Daniel Howell?”

“Speaking,” he mumbles.

“Oh, hello,” says the woman. She sounds like a secretary.  “Dr. Kissel wanted me to inform you that she got your test results back. She’d like to book a follow up appointment with you, preferably in the next few days?”

Dan’s hand goes tight around his phone. It’s too much and his fingers go shaky and he almost drops it. He just about blurts that he’s busy, super busy, except all he’s going to do is sit on the sofa watching whatever the fuck is playing and being scared about whatever Dr. Kissel wants to say and–

Waiting for doctor’s appointments has never been fun.

“Uh, okay,” he says. “I should be good, like, any day she’s free but, uh, afternoons work better?”

“Okay,” says the secretary. “We have an opening on Thursday at 3:30. Would that work for you?”

Dan swallows. His throat has gone so tight it hurts. His ribs ache when he tries to take a breath. That’s only two days from now and Dan tries not to think too hard about what that means when he’s waited weeks for almost every other appointment in his life. 

None of those have had answers before. Maybe this one–

“That’s fine,” he says. It sounds shaky.

The lady on the other end doesn’t know him well enough to tell. She just says, “Okay, see you then,” and hangs up like she hasn’t left Dan’s head all fuzzy and his chest feeling like it’s full of cotton buds. 

He does drop the phone now. His head rolls back against the sofa. His eyes fall closed because they sting too much when he just stares at the ceiling.

When he opens them again, the show he was watching has ended.

---

Dan paces the lounge until his toes ache and there’s a pressure in his ankles that make it feel like they might collapse.

And he keeps pacing until the pain has spread up along his calves, tight in his muscle and stabbing at the middle of his shin, and settled in his knee so he can’t really pace anymore. He feels like an old man when he walks back over to the sofa, barely able to bend his legs.

He feels like he’s thirteen again.

His hands are shaking when he drops onto the sofa. Dan’s not sure if it’s from the pain or the nerves or from holding his phone too tightly. The bottoms of his feet ache from the pressure of the floor against them. The back of his head is all numb and tingly.

Dan grabs the blanket on the back of the sofa. Even the fleece feels scratchy against his skin.

He glances at the phone. It’s been sitting in the dip between the sofa cushions since he let it go. He almost picks it up again, almost calls Phil.

But his fingers are stiff and it takes too much energy and Dan can’t bring himself to make Phil worry.

---

Phil gets about three steps into the flat before he asks, “Are you okay?”

The bag he brings to work is sitting on the floor by the door and his voice is soft and tinged with worry, and Dan almost says I’m fine like he would have done forever ago. He’s sitting on Phil’s sofa. He has Phil’s blanket wrapped around his shoulders. There’s a bitter taste in his mouth and gross stickiness on his cheeks.

“I’m sore,” he mumbles. 

“Oh,” says Phil. “One sec.”

Dan listens to the soft sounds of his footsteps in the flat. He fidgets with the blanket until Phil shows up at the end of the sofa, a smile on his face despite the worried furrow of his brows, and an ice pack clutched between his hands. He sits down next to Dan, all gentle and hesitant.

Like he used to be. It makes Dan’s chest ache. 

“Where are you sore?” he asks.

“Everywhere?” says Dan. His smile falls before he’s sure he’s even managed it. “My legs. My ankles.”

Phil hums. He slips his hand between Dan’s knees, his touch stinging cold from the ice, and untangles them. Dan twists on the sofa so the arm rest is digging into the base of his spine and his feet are resting on Phil’s thigh. His head falls against the cushions, eyes falling shut.

The ice burns where Phil presses it against where his bone juts out from his ankle.

“I should get another ice pack,” he says, not to Dan. “You have two ankles.”

Dan manages half a laugh. “Thanks for the observation.”

He watches as Phil presses his foot against the back of the sofa, the ice pack balanced across the top of his foot. He takes the other one between his hands, holding it steady. The relief that causes is probably just a figment of Dan’s imagination, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Did something happen?” says Phil. 

Dan’s breath catches. “The doctor’s office called,” he says. “They have my test results.”

Phil goes tense. His thumb jabs into the gap between the bones of Dan’s ankle, making pain stab down along the arch of his foot.

“Did they say anything?”

His throat goes tight again, a lump forming there that feels too much like he’s about to start crying. “No,” says Dan. “I have an appointment Thursday at 3:30.”

“Okay,” says Phil. “I’ll talk to my boss.” 

He rubs at Dan’s ankle. It doesn’t really soothe the pain, but it makes something in Dan’s chest ease, and that’s enough to keep him from pulling away.

“Do you think they–”

“I don’t know,” says Dan. “It’s never been like this before.”

Phil’s face falls, his lips drawing into a frown. “Oh.”

Dan nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Oh.”

---

“You’re anxious,” says Phil.

They’re sitting on the sofa eating leftovers – or, well, picking at leftovers – when he speaks. The ice pack’s back in the freezer after Dan’s warmth melted it into a mushy bag of gel. The blanket is still bunched around Dan’s body, one corner hanging over his shoulder, precariously close to the sauce on his plate.

He wants to point out that Phil is, too. He’s been tense since Dan first mentioned the doctor. But he’s not wrong.

“This is scary,” says Dan. He doesn’t think he’s ever fully admitted that to anyone before. “I don’t– They’ve never done these tests before. What if they find something that’s been, like, lurking there since I was a kid and it’s, like, really bad?”

Phil drops his fork. His eyes are wide when he looks up, catching Dan’s gaze. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “A tumor? Lou Gheric’s disease? Some sort of rare condition no one’s ever heard of that’s, like, definitely fatal and has no hope of a cure?”

“Stop,” says Phil. His eyes look glossy. It makes Dan want to shove the words back down his throat, choking on his own fears before he makes Phil share them. “You’re not dying.”

You don’t know that , Dan wants to say. 

He doesn’t know that. It’s terrifying. There was a time when Dan would have taken any diagnosis, even if a deadly one, just for the sake of the answer.

Not now. His heart aches with how much he doesn’t want that now.

“Yeah, I guess,” he says.

Phil swallows. “You’re not.”

He doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

---

They try to watch TV.

Phil puts on Buffy first, because it’s his favourite show. And then Lost, because it’s one of Dan’s favourites. And then Speed, because it’s the kind of mindless entertainment that feels like it should fix this heavy feeling weighing down on the lounge.

It doesn’t.

Between shows, Phil shifts across the sofa. Dan’s legs have fallen from his lap, which means he can pull Dan closer with a hand wrapped around his waist and another resting on his thigh. His cheek rests against the top of Dan’s head, his breath warm and harsh and unsteady. 

Some days, Dan doesn’t have the energy to hold him back. 

Today, he drapes his arm across Phil’s stomach and grips so tight his fingers start to hurt.

They give up on Speed hardly half an hour in. Phil’s lips press against the top of Dan’s head, his hand drifting up to settle against his chest.

“We should go to bed,” he says. 

It’s not that late, but Dan nods anyway.

---

They share a pillow. 

It smells like Phil. He settles down against it first, flat on his back with his arms spread open and the duvet bunched up around his waist. They never do this. Dan can’t bring himself to point it out, not when all he wants is to curl up in Phil’s arms and pretend the next few days don’t exist.

And maybe every day before he moved in here, too. 

He brought the fleece blanket from the sofa with him, because he can’t let it go. It feels like comfort in a way the duvet never will. It feels like the early days of getting comfort from a flatmate he half expected to kick him out the moment he learned Dan couldn’t really help pay rent.

Duvets feel like coming home from appointments, pressing his face into the plush fabric, and sobbing till it had gotten soaked. 

Dan swallows. His chest hurts again. His lungs feel stretched to capacity and his brain feels numb with all the things he’s trying not to let himself think. He half expects his knees to hurt when he crawls into bed, but the mattress gives under his weight, letting him settle there without too much pain.

He presses his head against Phil’s chest, crushing his ear against where his heart beats, steady and fast.

He drapes his arm across Phil’s stomach, where his ribs jut out where they normally might not, had he eaten dinner, and every breath stutters on a rise and a fall.

He slips his one leg between both of Phil’s, just to hold on even tighter, to be even closer.

When Phil’s arm wraps around him, it makes his bones ache and his breath leave on a rushed exhale and Dan doesn’t care. He feels Phil’s hand splay across his side and his body shift, twisting so their chests are pressed closer together and Dan’s face is pressed to the crook of his neck.

“You can talk to me,” says Phil.

“Don’t want to scare you,” says Dan. It’s probably enough to scare him, anyway.

Phil just sucks in a breath, long and deep, and says, “Don’t care. I don’t want you to be scared alone.”

It’s too honest. His voice cracks and Dan slams his eyes shut against the sudden burn of tears welling there, but it just sends them rolling down his cheeks instead. He tries not to think about how his mum used to laugh when he got anxious about tests, tell him he was a young and healthy boy with nothing to worry about. 

And tries desperately not to wish that was the more logical answer all along.

He pulls away just enough to look up at Phil, to catch the dark feather of his fringe across his forehead and the shadows that frame his nose. The room is dark, just barely brightened by city lights still glowing past Phil’s curtains. Dan’s not sure he wishes it was brighter.

He doesn’t want Phil to see the gleam of tears drying on his cheeks.

“I don’t want them to tell me I’m dying,” he says. It should be obvious. Maybe it is to Phil, but it isn’t to Dan and that’s one of the scariest parts. 

“They won’t,” says Phil.

“You don’t know that,” says Dan.

He reaches across Phil, grasping blindly in the dark until he finds Phil’s other hand, curled into a fist at his side. Dan unravels his fingers like Phil does to the cocoons he curls himself up in when he’s in pain, slipping his own between them until their palms are flat against each other. 

“I’ve been, like, sick for a really long time, and no one’s ever taken it seriously enough to actually make sure I was okay,” he says. “I have no fucking clue what they’re gonna tell me. They could tell me all my tests came back perfectly fine and I should see a shrink again for all I know, but they might–”

“Tell you you’re dying,” says Phil.

“Yeah.”

Dan squeezes his hand, because he can, because he needs to. Phil squeezes back, but his grip doesn’t loosen, not entirely. 

“Do you think they’re going to tell you … that?”

“No,” says Dan. It’s the truth. How easy it comes out makes breathing a little easier. “Not, like, imminently at least. I feel like I’d be sicker after seven whole years of this if I was … you know.”

“Yeah,” says Phil. His hand drifts down Dan’s side, fingers catching at the edge waistline of his pants before drifting back up. “Yeah.”

Dan doesn’t have a response to that. He just lies there, awkwardly crushing his arm just so he can hear the echo of Phil’s heart, feel the grip of his hand around Dan’s. The blanket is all tangled around him, draped too low across his back, caught under the edge of the duvet. The pillow is shaped for only Phil’s head.

He thinks about his own room across the hall. His bed doesn’t have a proper pillow anymore, because he brought it here when they started sleeping together. His chest of drawers still has all his clothes folded neatly, except for all the stuff he actually wears and hasn’t bothered to fold back up. His own duvet’s hardly been used since he packed it up at uni. 

He thinks of Taylor, of long nights in uni halls spent wishing life wasn’t what it was, and long days spent not going to class, and of how much better she is now. Of how much Dan wishes that’ll be him in a little while.

And he thinks about how little time it’s been since he was back there, miserable and desperate and without Phil.

That’s the strangest part.

“I don’t want to die,” he blurts.

Phil squeezes his whole body, pulling him even closer. “I know.”

“But you don’t,” says Dan. “You– I didn’t used to care and now I do and it sucks because I’m terrified and I don’t know how to fix it except to wait.”

Under his arm, he feels Phil’s breath catch. He doesn’t exhale for a long, long time. 

And then he says, “So we’ll wait. Together. And it’ll be fine, okay?”

Dan swallows. It still doesn’t feel okay. His chest still feels full of something that shouldn’t be there, and the back of his head is still haunted with images he wishes would just go away, and his eyes are burning and tears are falling onto his cheeks and he presses his face against the round of Phil’s shoulder to make them stop.

“Okay,” he mumbles.

---

They don’t sleep.

The sky goes completely dark, taking the city with it, so slowly Dan’s eyes adjust to swirling shades of black that fill the room. Phil adjusts the duvet around them so it’s drawn up to their shoulders, wrapping them in a bubble too warm for early summer days but too cozy to break. Dan’s weight settles more comfortably against his side and Phil’s fingers comb through his hair.

His skin is sticky with Dan’s dried tears. His heart rate is still quicker than normal. Dan wishes he could make it all go away but all he has is this. 

It’s enough. 

Dan of six years ago never would have believed it.

He plays with Phil’s hand, plucking at his fingers and rubbing at the lines in his palm. He feels the few hairs dotting Phil’s chest under his cheek. Touch stings. Dan never would have thought he’d enjoy it so much, but he matches his breaths to the rhythm of Phil’s hand drifting up and down his side.

It’s probably late by now, at least the time that they would normally get off the couch to settle here instead. Time feels hazy, dreamy in a way Dan’s never really associated with night, not when he’s spent so many of them tossing and turning against the ache in his bones keeping him awake.

Phil’s breath is warm against the top of his head. His hand settles against the dip just above Dan’s hip.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

Dan nods, humming softly.

Phil squeezes his hand before letting it go. He reaches up, pressing his thumb to where his mouth just was, combing his hand back so he’s drawing Dan’s curls away from his forehead. He does it again, tucking one that’s grown particularly long behind his ear, and then a third time, swiping his thumb across the back of Dan’s neck.

“Can I kiss you?” 

Dan forgets how to breathe, just for a second. Then he nods again, mumbling a quiet, “Yeah.”

Phil’s hand settles more firmly against the back of his neck, his thumb sweeping across the base of Dan’s skull. A smile quirks at one corner of his mouth. Despite everything, Dan feels himself matching it.

No one’s ever kissed him before. Dan doesn’t know what to expect.

When Phil’s lips press against his, it’s warm and tingly, just edging on too much. It’s soft and gentle and hesitant and so very Phil and Dan thinks it might hurt, just a bit, but it’s also so, so great. He reaches up to rest his hand on Phil’s cheek, just as Phil starts to pull away.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he says. It’s a murmur, brushed right against Dan’s lips. 

“Yeah,” says Dan. mostly so Phil will kiss him again.

He does, all tangled in the blankets, just a little clumsy from the newness, over and over again until Dan’s jaw hurts and his lips sting and touch makes his skin prickle. 

And Dan just kisses him again.

[beckzorz]

World on Fire (4/12)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader; background skinny!Steve Rogers x Peggy Carter Warnings: Canon-typical violence; language; sexual content. Summary: Brooklyn, 1948. Bucky Barnes, war hero, lives three floors down, and the evenings he comes to watch the sunset with you on the fire escape are the best times in your shabby life. But reality is far uglier than it seems when swinging your legs six floors up with Bucky at your side. On top of a good-for-nothing brother and a poor family upstate, there’s a new mob hitman in town: the Winter Soldier. A/N: Written for @cametobuyplums Fizz’s 2000 Plums Writing Challenge—thanks Fizz! Sorry to have skipped a day last week, hope y'all don’t mind!

4. Monday, June 2

“Alice, don’t even say it, I’m so sorry!” You bolt down into Dr. Simon’s kitchen ten minutes late, the frantic hum of anxiety thrumming through you. 

Alice tuts and throws down her ball of dough with a muffled thump. “Well, I hope so,” she says. “Never seen you so late before.”

“My brother was visiting,” you tell her, grabbing the biscuit tray. “He’s a menace.”

“Must be.”

Alice waves floury fingers as you pass by. Up the stairs—you don’t dare go two at a time, not with a china tray, but you still manage to nearly lose a biscuit—and rush through the dining room, eyes on the wobbling biscuits.

One step into the waiting room, a shadow on the couch catches your eye. You look up and nearly drop the whole tray.

“What are you doing here?” you blurt.

Bucky Barnes’ head snaps up from the magazine open on the coffee table, his eyes widening. He surges to his feet as you gape at him.

“I brought Steve over,” he says. His eyes are glued to you as you dart forward and set the biscuits down before stepping back, hands clenched in front of you.

You’ve never seen Bucky here. He’s got his own doctor, one who knows more about amputees and prosthetics. It’s odd to see him here among the floral upholstery and gauzy curtains. He looks… Well, with his fancy suit and his slicked-back hair, he looks almost at home. He’s even wearing his prosthetic. You almost never see him wearing it these days—but then, you don’t see him during the day, when he’s his proper self. He doesn’t look like the Bucky you know.

You glance down at your faded dress, a lump forming in your throat. All well and good on the fire escape, but—you hadn’t even had time to properly do your hair. You look… like you live on the fifth floor with Alice and Don. And Bucky looks like he belongs with china teacups and slick upholstery. You swallow back the bile in your throat.

“Is Steve alright?” you finally ask.

“Dunno,” Bucky says with a shrug. “Doc seemed to think it was nothin’, but you never know with Steve.”

You nod uncertainly. You’re just the secretary; you don’t know how good or bad Steve Rogers’ prognosis really is. Well, prognoses. He’s got a lot wrong, Steve does.

Another step back. “Well, nice to see you.”

Bucky opens his mouth to respond, but you turn and flee, face burning, chest painfully tight. You rush upstairs to the other office, the one where you keep all the files organized and answer the phone and jot down appointments in the big spiral-bound book open to this week. You fling yourself into the leather chair at the desk and bury your face in your hands, heaving great big breaths that just barely keep you grounded.

Why did Bucky have to bring Steve? Couldn’t Steve have come on his own? You can handle Steve just fine, but you didn't expect to see Bucky again so soon. And so… well, so formally. You’d never seen him in a place like this. Just on fire escapes and the occasional soda shop, and that one time you’d gone dancing back in ‘42.

In those places, you feel on equal footing. There’s no hierarchy on the fire escape outside your window, and the only distinctions that matter on a dance floor are lead and follow.

Here?

It’s not the same, and you hate it. You know your fantasies of him are ridiculous, impossible—but the stark reality of the differences between you is flinging all that dirty, ugly truth in your face.

The war had been no picnic for him, but he’d come out a hero with a swanky new job to boot. And you were exactly where you’d started: poor, full of longing, and, most of all, alone. Alone except for your good-for-nothing brother and your all-too-perceptive friends who have surpassed you in every way.

You drag your hands down your face and shake yourself out of your misery. There’s a list of calls to make, a stack of notes to type up. Files to pull out and appointments to schedule.

Enough moping. You have work to do.

—

You listen close for Steve and Bucky’s departure, and only then do you run today’s files downstairs for Dr. Simon. He peers at you through his thick glasses.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m peachy,” you tell him firmly, and from there it’s business as usual.

—

Five flights to the sixth floor of your apartment building. Your calves ache with their customary burn, and you collapse facedown on your bed with a groan.

Well, aside from Bucky’s surprise appearance, it hadn’t been much worse than usual. You don’t mind your job, not really. If half your salary didn’t get sent home to help your struggling family upstate, you might even love it.

But no, you look like a factory girl even though you work in the nicest house in the neighborhood. You’re grateful Dr. Simon doesn’t seem to care. All your friends—Mary, Goldie—think you’re lucky, or would be, if only you didn’t have your damn family to help take care of.

If only your brother did his part. And not like he did the other day, but actually, properly did his part.

“Ugh,” you mutter.

Your brother. Your baby brother, with his tendency to disappear for weeks at a time and reappear with his gap-tooth grin, a fresh scrape, and just enough cash for home to make you forget to be mad at him.

You don’t want to know how he gets the money. It’s bad enough that he does. You’re happy in the dark, really. But sometimes you wonder. You worry. Can’t help it—he’s your baby brother. You worried all through his deployment, all through the months after the war’s end when you’d heard not a word until he showed up one day at your door, that gap-tooth grin enough to dissolve you into tears.

But today…

Today you’re past tears. Today you’re angry. Whatever had happened to him yesterday was far worse than a scrape. He’d been pummeled near within an inch of his life! When he’d been in front of you, bleeding and limping, your heart had stopped, but now that he’s gone? Fled into the night like some common criminal, leaving just a bloodstain behind?

You can’t help but be angry. If he had a job, a proper job—even if it was just staying on the farm—he could take care of the rest of the family like he should. He’s the man. How did you end up the breadwinner?

Oh, that’s right. Because you have a sense of decency.

You roll over on your bed with a sigh. The sky is still bright, the air still hot and sticky with late afternoon heat. With your window cracked open now you’re home, you can hear people talking and laughing below, the distant clatter of pots and pans, the rumble of the metro, the honking traffic.

Your stomach rumbles. Someone downstairs is making chicken. You force yourself from your bed.

If you make your dinner now, maybe you can pretend you’re eating chicken too.

—

Sunset finds you scrubbing at the bloodstains on your pillowcase and handkerchiefs. Leave it to David to make a mess you can’t even ask him to clean up.

It takes time, but you manage to get most of the blood away. If anyone asks, you can always say it was your own bloody nose. Not that you’ve had one in years, but who’s to know?

You take the damp laundry to the fire escape, pinning it up on the clothesline overhead. The twilight is beautiful, all purples and blues, streaks of pink. Not a cloud in sight. Just some birds wheeling overhead. You lean on the railing and watch them, your heart full. God, if only you could fly away too.

The girls downstairs are out on their landing with their cigarettes, the smell a comfort even if you’re not in the mood for one yourself. They’re chatting about nothing in particular, and you easily tune them out as you watch the sky slowly turn dark.

The heavy patter of climbing feet catches your attention before the girls notice anyone coming.

“Ladies.”

A chill runs down your spine. Blood rushes in your ears. You scramble to your feet.

“Oh, hi James!”

The girls, adorable flirts, wheedle Bucky as you slip back in your window and draw the curtain tight.

A hand to your chest does nothing to calm your pounding heart. Please let him not come up, please…

“Excuse me,” Bucky says, “just going up.”

Your heart sinks. You forgot to close the window. He’ll know you’re home—hell, he probably knew all along. You sigh and sink onto your mattress, twisting your fingers in your lap as you wait for Bucky—beautiful, terrifying, untouchable Bucky—to arrive. You can hear the girls in 5B going inside.

“Hey.”

Bucky’s voice is low. You twist, and you can just make out his crouched silhouette against your flimsy curtain.

You swallow, steel yourself for the suit, the slicked-back hair, the look of wealth so alien and out of reach. A flick of your hand, and you can see him.

Words don’t come. Just a rush of shock, of awe, of wanting.

Bucky isn’t wearing a suit. His hair isn’t slicked back. The strange man of this morning is gone.

All Bucky is wearing is trousers and an undershirt. Not even his prosthetic arm. Just Bucky, his hair falling loose across his forehead, as unassuming—as gorgeous as he’s ever been. His blue eyes soft, his soft mouth quirked up and so damn pretty, his strong hand dangling between his knees as he crouches at your window.

You swallow.

“Will you come out?” Bucky asks.

You obey without thinking. Bucky moves aside, offers you his one hand to help you climb out. You hesitate before taking it, all too aware how that simple touch sends sparks all along your skin. Even when you drop his hand, your skin tingles. You smooth down your skirt and bury every feeling in the empty air below.

Bucky stands and plucks at the pillowcase hanging between you. “What happened?” he asks.

“I—I had a nosebleed.” Your voice is small, nearly hoarse.

“Is that why you were so flustered this morning?”

Shame burns your face, your chest. You step back, hands twitching at your sides, face flaming, and Bucky winces.

“F—I’m sorry,” he says. “I just…”He trails off and runs his hand through his hair. “You didn’t seem like yourself.”

You let out a slow breath between your teeth and flatten your hands against your back. “Neither did you.”

He blinks. A sigh, and he lowers himself down in his customary spot and pats the place beside him. You slide in, feet dangling like his, heart pounding. You don’t know what to say.

“I wish I hadn’t gone,” Bucky mutters.

You stare. “With Steve?”

“I never went there before,” he continues. “Wasn’t planning on it, but when he gets all breathless…”

“Well, of course you went with him,” you say. “He’s your friend.” Your eyes dart to your pillowcase. “We take care of people we care about. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

Bucky shakes his head. His hand curls around the railing, the knuckles white. His brow is drawn tight, his eyes lowered.

What's he trying to say? What��s he thinking? You don’t understand him, not one jot.

It’s a long moment before he speaks again.

“It didn’t feel right,” he says. The words are slow, careful. “Seeing you there.” His eyes flit in your direction. “It wasn’t like this.”

You swallow again, throat suddenly tight. If it didn’t feel right at Dr. Simon’s, does that mean that this does? This—these moments on the fire escape, the best moments of your life—feels right?

At work, you felt like he was worlds above you, leagues away. Here, on the fire escape of your tenement building, together?

Bucky feels within reach. Or he could be, if.

“No,” you agree, voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t like this.”

Bucky props his cheek against his hand and gazes at you. You’re so caught by those blue eyes that it takes a moment to realize how sad he looks. Your heart breaks, but for the life of you you can’t bring yourself to push. You can’t prod where he’s never given an inch—it wouldn’t be kind. Or right.

But you can’t just stare at him forever, no matter how much you wish you could. You clear your throat. “It’s alright now though, isn’t it?”

He nods, his cheek moving against his hand, his hair shifting across his forehead. You grip the bars of the fire escape to keep from brushing it back.

“Right now? Yeah.” He sighs, and you can’t help yourself anymore. You put a hand on his shoulder.

“What’s wrong, Bucky?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothin’ you can fix. I’ll live.”

“Well, maybe I can’t fix it, but can’t I at least help?” you plead.

“You are helping,” he says.

He grabs your hand; your breath catches as his bright eyes fix on yours. Bucky brushes his lips against your knuckles. Your heart’s in your throat, your eyes wide as dinner plates, your lips parted, ready, waiting—but he drops your hand, looks away, and the little spark flaring in your chest fizzles out.

“You are helping,” he repeats, but it falls flat. He hoists himself to his feet, brushes off his trousers, and looks down at you with an unreadable expression. “I—I’ll see ya around.”

You watch him go. Your heart goes with him, his every step down tearing you open that little bit more.

—

The moon shines unpleasantly bright through your window. You squeeze your eyes shut as you bury your face in your pillow for the hundredth time.

If you were a few stories down, you wouldn’t even be able to see the moon. But no, you’re on the top floor, the hot roof right above and moonlight streaming into your tiny bedroom, across your tiny bed. It’s a good thing you’ve never had a sweetheart. Where would they fit?

Bucky would never fit here, you think.

Your eyes pop open as heat flares in your face, your belly.

Why is it that every time you see him he invades your thoughts? Why can’t you banish him from your mind as easily as he surely banishes you from his? He’s Bucky Barnes, for goodness sake. A war hero, as gorgeous as he unattainable. He may have kissed your hand, may have said you were helping, but there’s no call to think he has any thoughts of you when he climbs back down to his floor, to his bed…

You toss your sheet aside, every inch of your body burning as you press your hands to your eyes, willing your mind to behave. Your nightgown shifts across your breasts. With an angry whimper, you start to tug it off.

Then you stop.

Your window is open, the shades flung wide. It’s not quiet outside—Brooklyn’s never quiet—but the distant sounds of the city are mere hums. Your ears strain for the creak of the fire escape, but there’s none.

If there was…

Your eyes flutter closed, and your hands stray from your eyes to trail down your face, your neck. You can imagine footsteps, a shadow over your window, a gasp at the sight you make spread on your bed, fingers tracing the neckline of your nightgown and legs bared nearly all the way. Would he gasp? Turn away, spare your modesty? Or would he suck in a breath and watch?

Deft circles of your thumbs harden your nipples. Your eyes stay shut as you lose yourself in your fantasy, of blue eyes darkening as you slip one hand lower and tug your nightgown up over your hips, legs rubbing together in an attempt to ease the burning tension.

A creak on the fire escape.

Your eyes fly open, terror ratcheting through you as you shove your nightgown back into place. The landing at your window is empty, but chatter echoes from downstairs. The girls in 5B. You press your hand to your heart and try to steady your breathing. The click of a lighter, hushed giggles, and your fantasy is shattered.

You prop yourself on unsteady knees and stick your head outside. “Be quiet, will ya?” you hiss.

Martha and Helen call up quiet apologies, and to your relief they disappear back inside. You yank the curtain shut, fling yourself back onto your bed, and try to sleep.

[victorineb]

A (horribly belated) birthday fic for the incomparable @devereauxsdisease in tribute to her adorable but troublesome muse. Featuring a cannibal with a crush, an elusive profiler, and a tracksuit-wearing hamster named Mads.

Also on AO3.

“Hello, Han… uh, Dr Lecter?”

“I believe first names are acceptable post-midnight, Will. Especially when I am the one rudely encroaching on you in the small hours.”

“Wee hours.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s… doesn’t matter, not important.”

“Forgive me, Will, my grasp of the English idiom slips under stress. It is ‘wee hours’ rather than ‘small hours,’ yes?”

“Uh, yes. Sorry.”

“Nonsense, I prefer to know when a mistake occurs; means I’m unlikely to make it a second time.”

“O… kay. Good. Why are you stressed?”

“Ah, of course, the reason for my call. It’s… in fact it would be easier to show you than to tell you. Could I invite you for breakfast tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I can do that. It’s not… you don’t need me now, do you? I mean, uh, it’s not urgent? I can leave the dogs for a couple of hours if you want, drive over to you.”

“That is extremely kind of you, Will, but entirely unnecessary. Tomorrow will be more than sufficient.”

“Oh. Well, ok, tomorrow then. What time?”

“Shall we say around eight? My appointments don’t start until ten. Are you engaged in teaching tomorrow?”

“Not until the afternoon.”

“Good. I shall see you in the morning then, Will.”

“Yeah. Bright and early.”

“Goodnight, Will.”

“Night, Hannibal.”

“Well…” Will stared into the box, equal parts fascinated and taken aback. “I’ve never seen anything like that. You were right about showing rather than telling.”

Hannibal’s mouth ticked with amusement before settling back into an expression of mild alarm. “Indeed. I really have no idea what to do with it.”

“It?”

Hannibal sighed. “Him, I suppose.”

“So you called me?”

“You are the expert in such things.”

“Dr Lecter, owning dogs does not qualify me to deal with all furry little creatures.” Will tapped on the glass to get the attention of its tiny inhabitant. “And definitely not hamsters dressed in miniature tracksuits.”

Together, Will and Hannibal peered at the furry little newcomer, united in bemusement. In fact, it was less a tracksuit the hamster was wearing, and more a miniature onesie in fire engine red. The three tiny, hand-stitched stripes on each arm marked it out fairly obviously as sportswear, though, and as Will squinted, he was pretty sure he could see a teeny but perfectly-formed Adidas logo. Whoever had supplied the little guy with his wardrobe had clearly been a) a talented tailor, and b) completely insane.

“Well, I suppose it was a long shot,” Hannibal sighed, straightening up. “I can’t help but wonder what I will do now, though. You were my only hope, Will.”

Will scrubbed at the back of his neck and gave a huff of laughter, hoping that the heat he could feel rising beneath his hand wouldn’t make it all the way to his cheeks. “I- uh, I was?”

“My social circle is rather lacking in ‘animal people.’” Will could hear the quotation marks around the last two words and wondered if the dig was at Hannibal’s friends, or just the concept of people who liked animals.

“Alana likes animals, she’s good with my dogs,” he pointed out.

“True, but I happen to know Alana has a phobia of small, furry creatures. Something about ‘dead shark eyes and creepy pink feet,’ if I recall correctly.” Hannibal’s smile was fond and amused, and Will felt a sharp little tug inside himself. He forgot sometimes that Hannibal and Alana were so close, that they had a relationship that preceded his own with either of them. 

“And my own experience with pets was decades ago, in my childhood,” Hannibal added, as though it was an afterthought.

For the first time since he set eyes on the Doctor’s new housemate, Will’s full attention was on Hannibal. In fact, he was pretty much failing not to stare, his jaw dropping a little, to Hannibal’s clear amusement.

“You’re surprised I could care for another living being?”

“No, that’s – Hannibal, no, of course not. I just never took you for a… what did you call it? An ‘animal person.’” Will grinned. “Can’t quite imagine you allowing hair all over your suits, or muddy footprints on your floors.”

Hannibal gave a little huff of amusement. “I suppose that is well-deserved, not to mention true. But there were others to worry about such things when I was young.”

Will was faintly aware that there were shadows lurking in Hannibal’s childhood that he didn’t necessarily want to raise during a friendly breakfast. But the image of little lord – little Count – Hannibal surrounded by a menagerie of exotic animals was irresistible; he had to hear more.

“What did you have? Peacocks? Horses? A herd of elephants?”

“I believe you have me confused with another Hannibal.”

Will grinned, always pleased when Hannibal got his jokes.

“In fact, we had several dogs,” Hannibal continued. “I couldn’t tell you the breed, now, but I recall them being enormous things. Officially meant to be guard dogs but really no more than very spoiled floor pillows that occasionally needed to be walked. They were very well-behaved and affectionate with my sister; I would remember them fondly for that alone.”

Will nodded, wondering dimly if he could bring Abigail to meet his dogs. Perhaps Hannibal could be there too, just the three of them tucked away in Wolf Trap, maybe for a whole weekend if the care home would allow it.

“I have a confession, though,” Hannibal said, his tone lightening into something playful.

“Oh?” Will followed his lead, allowing an insouciant raise of an eyebrow, and dispelling his thoughts about where everyone would sleep in his little house.

“Yes. I’m afraid that, fond of the dogs as I was…” Hannibal tailed off, theatrically drawing out the tension, “…I am more of a cat person.”

“No!” Will exclaimed, mock-wounded, clutching at his chest in a pretence of shock.

“I had hoped to spare you this blow, but I cannot betray the memory of the barn cat who was my best friend as a boy.”

Will could just imagine it, a young, fair Hannibal lying on his back in the warmth of the sun, a book propped against his raised legs and the cat sleeping curled up on his chest. Will felt that same warmth in his chest and he wished a little that he could meet that version of Hannibal, before tragedy had entered his life. He wished he could have known that boy when he was a boy himself.

“And did it have a name, this cat?” he asked, wanting to draw out the story a moment longer.

Hannibal blinked. “Of course. It was called Cat.”

Will couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter. “I should have expected that.”

Hannibal gave him one of those little knowing smiles that alternately endeared and terrified Will, depending on the subject matter. This, fortunately, was one of the not-terrifying versions and Will responded with a smile of his own, before looking back at the hamster, who was currently exploring one of the farther corners of his cage. Farther being the operative word – the thing was, frankly, enormous, split over several levels and fitted with what Will rather suspected was more furniture than he owned himself. There was even, he realised, looking through a luridly pink plastic tube, a hamster-sized hammock suspended from the bars.

It didn’t exactly fit in with Hannibal’s aesthetic. It did look pretty comfy though.

“Ok, look,” Will said, “I really don’t know anything more about hamsters than you, but I’ve probably got more experience in finding pet advice, given that Google hadn’t been invented when you and Cat were hanging out. So why don’t I do some research today, and I’ll come back over tonight and help get the little guy settled?”

“I would appreciate that very much, Will, thank you. Not least because of the chance to see you twice in one day.” He gave Will a look of such open pleasure at the prospect that he had to drop his eyes away to cope with it. He never knew what to do with Hannibal’s displays of friendship – which was bad enough when he was in one of his fancy suits, but now he was standing in his living room, all soft hair and immaculate robe and it was… causing a confusing reaction Will didn’t want to examine too closely. He diverted.

“By the way, what’s his name? Please don’t tell me he’s called Hamster.”

Hannibal smiled. He was doing a lot of that this morning. “Mads,” he said.

“Mass? As in weight? He’s called Fat the Hamster?”

The hamster in question glared at Will as if insulted.

“I don’t believe he appreciated that, Will,” Hannibal scolded, much to Will’s amusement. Defending his pack of one already, it seemed; Will would make an ‘animal person’ out of Dr Lecter yet. “In fact his former owner was of Danish extraction and Mads – spelled M-A-D-S – is a popular name there.”

“A psychiatrist with a hamster named Mads.” Will took care to pronounce it as it was spelled. “How appropriate.”

It was just after six when Hannibal put the phone down, murder – not, to be fair, unusually – on his mind. He did not have any current plans to transform Jack Crawford from dinner guest to entrée, but if the man continued to monopolise Will’s time with cases he should have been perfectly able to solve himself, well… he was sure he could find room in his freezer should the need arise.

“It should only be an overnighter, I’m hoping,” Will had said, apology coating every syllable. “Sounds pretty straightforward, I think Jack just likes using me to freak out the locals. Will you and Mads be ok for the night?”

Hannibal had assured him that they would be perfectly fine, that he had been left several days’ worth of supplies and basic instructions on food and hygiene when the little interloper had been dropped off. That had been over an hour ago, though, and he was now wondering if perhaps this entire scheme was a sign that he had taken leave of his senses. He was quite used, of course, to receiving bequests from patients, but they generally took the form of a generous lump sum, or perhaps a tasteful antique or piece of art. Why on earth Mrs Mikkelsen had chosen him, of all people, to become guardian of her beloved hamster, he could not fathom. Indeed, his first thought had been to quietly dispatch the little pest and claim the stress of changing homes had destroyed its fragile body. It had quickly occurred to him, however, that this might be a useful in with the still-elusive Will.

And it had worked so beautifully, up until Jack’s untimely interference. Hannibal hadn’t failed to notice the flush of Will’s cheeks with every compliment bestowed, nor the softening of Will’s eyes during his tale of a childhood surrounded by animals. He hadn’t thought of that cat in decades but he sent its memory silent thanks now, before locking the past securely back in his mind where it belonged. As for Will, his absence was frustrating but hardly a killer blow. He would surely return full of apologies and eagerness to help Hannibal with his predicament, which could easily be parlayed into more time spent in Hannibal’s presence, into visits that would extend into dinner, perhaps into nights spent in a guest room. And then, inevitably – Hannibal would make sure of its inevitability – nights spent in his own bed as he introduced his lovely Will to pleasures he had never before experienced.

In which case, Hannibal considered, it would behove him to make an effort with the rodent, that he might further Will’s growing image of him as a fellow animal-lover. He had placed its cage in his private sitting room, thinking that Will would object if he housed the rodent in his laundry and enjoying the idea of Will in one of the parts of the house where visitors were not normally allowed. He went there now, following a quick diversion to his study to collect paper and pencils with which to occupy himself while observing the creature’s behaviour. Later, of course, he would have to resign himself to clearing out its waste and providing it with sustenance, but he had dealt with far fouler things for far less noble causes.

Truly, if Will Graham ever realised the things Hannibal would do for him, one of them would be in very grave danger indeed. What worried Hannibal was, he wasn’t entirely sure which of them it would be…

Stepping into the sitting room, he set his drawing equipment on an armchair and crossed to the far side of the room, where he had placed the hamster cage on an occasional table.

“I suspect this will not be a long-term arrangement for either of us,” he said, leaning down slightly to address his companion, “but if you remain quiet and unobtrusive, I will ensure your stay is  a pleasant one.” The hamster, who had turned at the sound of Hannibal’s voice, regarded him from behind its twitching nose and then promptly dove into its large pile of bedding, disappearing from view. “Very good instincts,” he murmured approvingly, before returning to his armchair and propping his sketchbook up against his crossed leg. He had plans for an attempt at capturing the expression on Will’s face during his earlier tale of feline friendship and wanted to get the preliminary sketches down while the image was still fresh in his mind.

Half an hour later, Hannibal sighed and placed the drawing to one side. Will was certainly a beautiful subject but also a remarkably challenging one, defying all standard knowledge about symmetrical faces being the most pleasing. His face was a jumble of mismatched features, a crooked nose and ears that were… generous, to put it mildly, all of which somehow came together to form a visage that would have made the old masters weep for joy and was currently causing Hannibal to come very close to snapping all his pencils in frustration. Perhaps a rear view would prove more productive.

Taking up a fresh sheet of paper, he attempted to conjure an image of Will’s derriere from the prodigious selection stored in his memory. His efforts were interrupted, though, by an odd chugging, clacking sound that put Hannibal strangely in mind of the kind of miniature train sets that children no longer had any appreciation for. It was, of course, coming from the hamster cage.

Hannibal rose from his seat, primarily in order to investigate the source of the noise, though possibly also in order to smother the little beast in its own bedding, he hadn’t quite decided yet. Subjecting the cage to the kind of stare that would make a rodent like Franklyn Froideveaux quiver in fear, Hannibal found that the noise was being created by the hamster’s furious running pace in its little plastic wheel.

“Is that entirely necessary?” he asked the creature, and then was forced into a moment of self-reflection as he realised he’d unthinkingly addressed it as if expecting an answer. That was behaviour verging on eccentric, which would have been quite fine had anyone been around to witness such a display. However, since it was only Hannibal and the rodent, he briefly considered whether he was becoming addled by his pursuit of a pretty boy, as though he were a teenager with a crush. Then again, no doubt Will spoke to his pack as he went about his day, informing them of the latest murder he was wrapping his delicious brain around or perhaps recounting his sessions with his dear new friend Dr Lecter. Perhaps this was an impulse he should indulge, so that he might convincingly repeat the act in Will’s presence…

He glanced back at the enthusiastically spinning hamster. The speed the thing had built up was, he had to admit, impressive, and Hannibal could appreciate the evolutionary efficiency of disguising raw physical power beneath a deceptively soft exterior. “Perhaps I will not kill you today, little Mads, not after such an impressive display of athleticism.” The hamster seemed to take his reprieve in stride, continuing to plough his infinite furrow with determination.

Feeling unaccountably buoyed by this little encounter, Hannibal returned to his chair, deciding  to have one more stab at pinning his elusive muse down on the page before giving it up and starting in on dinner preparations. In the background, Mads continued to clack away in his wheel and Hannibal found himself tuning into the sound, letting it bleed into his mind like white noise as he sketched out a few foundational lines of Will’s fundament.

The next time Hannibal looked up, it was with a start that he realised the room had gone dark around him, the only light coming from the lamp angled over his work. He had experienced no sense of time passing, all his focus on keeping up with the suddenly steady stream of ideas fighting their way to the front of his mind. Piles of sketches surrounded him, so many that a good number had cascaded onto the floor, fanning themselves out like a halo around Hannibal’s chair. And from every one, Will’s wide eyes stared up at him, caught in every variety of emotion, from innocent suffering to wicked lust.

What, Hannibal wondered distantly, could have caused such a rush of inspiration in him? He looked up, a suspicion suddenly forming in his mind, to see that he was being watched from across the room. The hamster was standing quietly behind the glass of its cage, up on its hind legs, front paws folded neatly against its chest, black eyes glinting in the darkness. Hannibal rose from his chair as if pulled by a string, eyes never leaving the cage until he was standing directly in front of it.

“Hello, Mads.”

The hamster made a chirruping noise that, were Hannibal more given to flights of fancy, might have sounded a little like, “Hello, Dr Lecter.”

They gazed at each other for a few moments, Hannibal ignoring the creeping sensation that he looked rather foolish, apparently communing with a sportswear-clad rodent.

“I believe an experiment is in order,” he said, eventually, exiting the room with a thoughtful expression on his face. A moment later he returned, wheeling a drinks trolley in front of him, onto which he carefully placed the hamster house.

“Come, young Mads, we shall see if your helpful influence extends to musical composition.”

Hannibal didn’t startle awake, his reflexes were far too well trained to allow for that. He did, however, need a moment to take stock of his situation after raising his head from his desk. He had never, not even during the frenetic days of medical school, fallen asleep unintentionally and yet now he found himself roused from a sound slumber on top of another pile of drawings. Roused by…

Belatedly realising that it had been a knock at his door that brought him back to consciousness, Hannibal rose from his seat, peeled off the sketch that had attached itself to his cheek, and hurried to the front door, throwing it open with uncharacteristic haste. As he had suspected, the figure of the only person who would knock on his door unannounced at five thirty in the morning – possibly other than Jack Crawford and he would simply have continued knocking until the door was answered or pounded into sawdust – was halfway down his drive.

“Will!”

Startling slightly, Will turned back to Hannibal with a sheepish smile on his face. Which quickly twisted into an expression of apology as his eyes raked over Hannibal’s dishevelled state.

“I, um, I just got in – that is, the plane just got in and I didn’t want to leave you in the lurch with Mads, so I came here first and then I realised when I knocked what time it was and I figured you would still be asleep…” He trailed off from this rambling explanation and looked Hannibal up and down again before continuing, “…which, I guess you were from…” He raised a hand to his hair and made a series of swooping motions which Hannibal guessed were intended to convey that his own hair was not in its usual state of slicked-back neatness. He reached up to it and attempted to pat it back into something less eccentric, which caused Will to groan miserably.

“I didn’t mean it looked bad, it looks… I mean, I like it when it’s soft like that but-” He cut himself off abruptly, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I’m gonna go before I humiliate myself any further. I’ll just call the cab company,” he said, fumbling in his pockets for his phone.

Hannibal, only barely resisting the urge to grab Will and kiss the awkwardness out of him, instead reached out and put a gentle hand on his arm. “Will,” he said, firmly, “I am very happy to see you.”

Will’s frantic motions stilled and he turned a shy but radiant smile on Hannibal. “You are?”

“I am,” Hannibal told him, attempting to convey utter joy in a way that would not scare Will off with its intensity. “And I am certain Mads will be too. Why don’t you come in and say hello?”

Will’s smile grew at the invitation and though he hesitated a moment when Hannibal offered his arm, he took it without comment and allowed himself to be led into the house, where Hannibal steered him towards the study he had been sleeping in when Will knocked. He pointed out the hamster house, situated in front of the desk on its new rolling transport, and excused himself to make some clearly much-needed coffee for both of them.

When he returned, it was to find Will crouched in front of the little house, speaking in a low tone to Mads, who had taken up his apparently preferred position for conversation, nose practically pressed up to the glass, regarding his visitor with charged intensity. Stopping in the doorway, Hannibal tuned into Will’s soft speech, picking up what he was confiding in his new friend.

“You’ve landed on your paws here, really. He can seem pretty scary, Dr Lecter, but so long as you behave yourself, he probably won’t eat you.”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. That was verging on suspicious.

“And if you manage to convince him to like you, well,” Will continued, his tone conspiratorial, “it’s amazing just what you can get away with.” Still crouching, Will turned his head and positively grinned at Hannibal. “Isn’t that right, Doctor?”

Hannibal regarded Will thoughtfully, his face placid as his mind briskly sorted through possible courses of action. Presently, having discarded the more fatal options, he set down both cups of coffee and came to stand by Will, who rose to meet him.

“Indeed,” he said, curling his hand into Will’s and finding no resistance, “once a person has won my affection, I’m afraid I’ll let them away with murder.”

Will looked, for just a moment, as if he were reconsidering all his life choices and Hannibal wondered if perhaps he’d misjudged the situation. He was quickly reassured, though, by the way Will squeezed his hand and stepped in close to him, a tilt to his chin that seemed to call out for Hannibal to kiss him…

…Which he absolutely would have done had Mads not chosen that precise moment to fall while trying to get into his hammock and make an almighty racket while righting himself.

Hannibal glared at him. “Your buffoonery is ill-timed, young man.”

Will sucked in a mock-dismayed breath. “Damn, maybe I overestimated that whole affection thing.”

Hannibal turned back to him with an indulgent smile. “In fact, no. Mads and I have formed an unexpected bond in your absence.”

“You… really?”

“Yes. Strange as it may sound, his presence appears to have had rather a positive effect on my creative output. Something about the rhythmic sound of his wheel, I suspect…”

“Oh, so that explains this sorta scary pile of drawings, then?” Will asked, drifting over to the desk to take a look at Hannibal’s work.

All of which, somewhat unfortunately, featured Will himself as the subject.

“Will, it might be better if you didn’t…” Hannibal said, attempting to put himself between the real Will and his charcoal avatars.

Too late.

“Oh… these are… these are all…” Will trailed off as his cheeks flushed bright red and he very deliberately didn’t look at Hannibal.

“I must apologise, Will, I realise this is a gross infringement of your privacy-” Hannibal stopped as Will held up a hand to cut him off. He could do nothing but watch as Will continued to leaf through the drawings, his eyes growing large and round as he took in each new image. At one point he seemed to choke a little; Hannibal imagined this was because he’d got to the sequence in which Will had a faceless (though, if Hannibal were honest, still fairly recognisable) male partner tied to a chair and was alternately riding his cock and wielding a rather extravagantly braided crop.

“Is this…” Will had to clear his throat before continuing, such was the roughness of his voice. “Is this really how you see me?”

Hannibal decided there really was no point in holding back. “It is an image I have entertained with some pleasure, yes. But were I to spend the rest of my life doing nothing but drawing you, Will, I could not hope to capture all that I see in you, nor a fraction of your beauty even in the most mundane of circumstances.”

This was met with a slight bulging of Will’s eyes as his brows attempted to rocket off his face, but no words. Instead, Hannibal watched, transfixed, as Will shuffled the offending drawings to the back of the pile and then riffled amongst the pages as if looking for something. Finally, he pulled out a single drawing, strode over to Hannibal and thrust the page against his chest.

“Let’s start with this. I think I’ll need to work on my horsemanship before attempting the more advanced stuff.”

Hannibal, too full with a sudden rush of hope to look away from Will in case he vanished, let the drawing flutter to the floor without even glancing at it. “In this, I shall be led by you, dearest Will. That you would allow my touch at all-”

“Oh, good grief, you really are way too fancy for me,” Will interrupted, though he immediately contradicted this statement by pulling Hannibal in by his lapels and kissing any further declarations of devotion out of him.

Some time later, having moved to Hannibal’s sofa and figuring out that it could hold two fully-grown men surprisingly easily and without creaking even slightly, Will propped himself up on his elbow and gazed down at Hannibal thoughtfully.

“About this burst of productivity your furry little muse inspired in you…” he said.

“Yes, darling?” Hannibal responded distractedly, somewhat preoccupied with deciding which side of Will’s neck he’d like to bestow a mark on first.

“Was it just the drawings?”

Hannibal raised his head but failed to quite look directly at Will’s amused expression.

“Hannibal?”

“There may have been a sonnet. Or two. And the opening bars of a composition.”

“Only the opening bars, huh?”

“Well, he had a nap at one point.”

“He looks a little out of sorts, don’t you think?”

“I believe he may be lonely. I have been rather… distracted, of late.”

“Are you claiming that I’ve usurped his place in your attentions with my hot body?”

“Yes.”

“Fair enough.” Will pressed said body back against Hannibal, who had just wrapped his arms around Will from behind. They both peered at Mads the hamster, who was curled up dejectedly in the corner of his house, his back – somewhat pointedly, it seemed – turned away from his audience. He was clad today in a tracksuit the colour of a pumpkin, the luridly cheerful shade in complete opposition to his demeanour. (Hannibal had made an attempt to introduce Mads to the joys of tailoring, having enlisted his somewhat bemused tailor to create a selection of miniature suits, but thus far the hamster’s response to each sartorial experiment had been to tear the offending article off and proceed to shred it and add it to his bedding.)

“Maybe he needs some companionship of the furry kind,” Will suggested.

“You are suggesting a second pet?”

“You want Mads to be happy, don’t you?”

Hannibal considered this. He owed the little creature a debt, it was true, not only for bringing him and Will together, but also because he had finally finished that composition that had been bothering him for years the other day. And two hamsters could hardly be much more of a nuisance than one, after all.

“All right, I agree to your proposal. On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, with a second housemate to take care of, I believe I will be in need of your excellent advice on a more regular basis. I will find a new companion for Mads, if you agree to spend the night here at least three times a week.”

“Damn, Hannibal, you might as well ask me to move in.”

“Well, as you have mentioned it, I would be delighted to share my home with you.”

“I… Hannibal, I…” Will stopped and took a long, assessing look at Hannibal, followed by an almost comedically deep breath. “…would have to bring the dogs.”

And that was how Hannibal came to share his home with one empath, seven dogs, and two hamsters. And also how Hannibal quickly decided they all needed to move to a rather bigger house in the country. 

Epilogue:

“Would you like the honour of naming him, my love?”

“Really? Ok, um… how about… Hugh?”

They both looked down at the newly arrived hamster, still in his travel box, waiting to be introduced to his new housemate. It looked back at them, blinked and gave a small squeak, then went back to grooming its paws.

“I think he approves,” Will said.

“Winston, Buster, Hugh. You seem to have a predilection for giving your animals names that might better be suited to upper-class English gentlemen,” Hannibal mused.

“What can I say, I like posh foreign men,” Will grinned, groping Hannibal’s ass to underline the point.

“Hmm, I’m not sure I appreciate the implication that I am one of your pets,” Hannibal said, leaning into Will’s touch regardless.

Will leaned in and bit at the lobe of Hannibal’s ear, before breathing, “You sure about that?”

Hannibal shuddered despite himself and made a note to explore this avenue more thoroughly later. “If you continue to behave in this fashion, poor Hugh will be trapped in that inadequately sized box until tomorrow.”

Will relented, as Hannibal knew he would – Will might be many things, but a man who would put his own pleasure before the wellbeing of an animal was certainly not one of them. He detached himself from Hannibal’s back and retrieved the newly-christened Hugh from his box while Hannibal opened up the hamster house so Will could gently place Hugh inside.

They watched, tense with the knowledge that hamsters often did not get on well with each other, and that this could all go disastrously wrong. For a moment or two, Mads and Hugh did nothing but stare at one another, the strangely bright blue rings in Hugh’s eyes seeming to flash as they did so. And then, with a tiny chirrup from both animals, they scurried towards each other and began scenting intently.

Both Will and Hannibal held their breath. This was the moment of truth.

The hamsters scented each other for rather longer than seemed entirely necessary, and then suddenly Mads scurried off, followed closely by Hugh, towards his bedding. The two of them plunged into the depths of wood pulp and soon the sound of happy scrabbling could be heard as Hugh and Mads burrowed through their bedroom together.

Will and Hannibal let out relieved sighs.

“That seems to have gone well,” Hannibal remarked.

“Yeah, it did. In fact, I thought Mads looked like a hamster in love.”

“Given the way Hugh followed him into bed, I think it might be mutual.”

“Can’t blame them, really.”

“Terribly handsome fellows, both of them.”

Will shot Hannibal a conspiratorial glance. “Maybe we should give them some privacy?”

Hannibal tilted his head, considering. “I do have some laundry that requires folding.”

Will hummed in agreement. “Sounds good. Unless, of course, you can think of something else that would be fun to fold…”

The two hamsters re-emerged just in time to see Hannibal giving chase after a giggling Will.

Are they always like that? Hugh squeaked.

Ja, they’re horny bastards, responded Mads, wrinkling his nose. Sometimes they don’t even make it out from the kitchen. Humans, he added, with something that might have been a shrug in hamster.

Strange creatures, Hugh agreed. Mind if I have a go in your wheel?

Our wheel, wee man.

Hugh regarded Mads from beneath surprisingly long eyelashes. Our wheel, right.

Mads sidled a little closer to his new housemate. Could always give it a spin together, if you fancied it.

One wheel, two riders? Hugh’s head twitched to the side. That’s a pretty unorthodox suggestion.

I’m a pretty unorthodox hamster, kaere.

Oh yeah? Hugh considered his companion. Prove it.

A moment later, Hugh took off towards the wheel, squeaking happily, as Mads scampered after him in delighted pursuit. And soon, the only sounds that could be heard were that of bouncing bedsprings and a frantically spinning hamster wheel, all of the house’s inhabitants enthusiastically exploring the joys of cohabitation.

[pongpalace]

it’s a word, not a sentence (chapter 1/2)

jack zimmermann x eric “bitty” bittle, alternative meeting, photographer jack, single parent bitty, terminally ill child character

inspired by that one tumblr comic  

Jack’s had a long day.

Most of his morning was spent arguing with a client who didn’t like the way her daughter’s birth pictures turned out because Jack didn’t photoshop out the redness in the newborn’s cheeks to make her look as doll-like as possible. Then he had what had to be the longest photoshoot he’s ever had because the dad thought that one photography class at Micheal’s made him an expert on how to light Jack’s set and would make changes as he saw fit. Bouncing between trying to keep the eight-year-old’s attention so he wouldn’t strip naked—again—and fixing what the dad did without outright calling the man an idiot was exhausting and because of it, Jack worked through his lunch to edit the pictures he needed for the magazine shoot he’d done weeks before. He wasn’t happy with the results so in between his afternoon sessions, he’d open up his laptop and poke at it right up until he needed to send them off to the editor.

Squinting at his computer screen, adjusting colour balances and saturations made Jack more tired than being behind the camera so he’s feeling the long day now that he’s sat down at the front desk, without anyone else to worry about in the studio. He should be answering emails and double checking he has all the backgrounds and costumes he’ll need for his big pregnancy shoot tomorrow morning but Jack can’t bring himself to do more than stare at the clock as it counts down the fifteen minutes until he locks the door and gets to go home.

It’s a testament to how tired Jack is because he watches the clock for five whole minutes before he remembers that he’s his own boss and he technically can close his own photography studio any time he wants and no one will yell at him.

He’s just pushed himself out of his chair when the bell above the door rings, signalling someone coming in. Jack bites back a curse, but he can feel the glare on his face when he looks at the blond man and his son who just came in, bundled in their winter jackets and stomping off snow that must’ve come down sometime in the last hour.

The man approaches the front desk. “Hello, um, I know it’s almost closing time, but I have a really big favour to ask,” he says.

Jack stares for a beat, vaguely wondering what someone with a southern accent is doing this far north, in the middle of a Boston winter no less. The man colours under Jack’s stare, wrinkling his nose and in any other setting, Jack might’ve found him more than a little attractive considering his messy blond hair, freckles, and big, dark brown eyes check off everything on Jack’s list. As it is, it’s been a long day and Jack wants to go home.

“Any inquiries about bookings or appointments are usually better done over the phone, during the day,” Jack says, giving the standard response to walk-in clients and letting his voice fall flat. He doesn’t mention that the current waiting list for a shoot is at least six months.

The man winces. “Yeah, I um, I know that. I saw your website.” He pauses and looks around the studio, taking in the wall that showcases the portraits Jack’s most proud of, the series of geese postcards that Jack worked on with Lardo, and the vintage camera equipment that he has on display because it makes him happy to look at.

The man bites at his lip while he looks at the wall, and Jack is about to remind him of the studio’s hours, but then the kid peaks out from behind their dad’s legs and Jack’s heart goes into his throat.

He’s going to be staying a little bit longer.

The kid is small. His puffy jacket hangs off a thin frame, hands lost in the too-long sleeves, though he keeps pushing one up so he can hold onto his dad’s hand. He wears a bright red toque, pulled all the way down his forehead. No hair peaks out from underneath, but Jack doesn’t think it’s because they’ve tucked it up into the knit fabric. The boy and man have the same big brown eyes, matching all the way down the deep bruises underneath, though the boy’s might be a shade darker. There’s a tube taped to the boy’s cheek, feeding into his nose, the other end tucked around up into his hat before it disappears into his collar. It’s clear that the boy is very sick.

The man clears his throat, and Jack guiltily looks up from where he knows he’s been caught staring.

“Gavin saw your postcards in the hospital gift shop,” the man says. “He loves geese.” Gavin looks up and smiles big at his name, nodding as much as he can without dislodging the tube. He unzips his jacket and Jack’s heart clenches to see that he was wearing a big hoodie underneath the jacket and still looks so tiny. Gavin shoves his hands into the hoodie pocket and pulls out a folded piece of cardstock. He unfolds it carefully before standing on his tiptoes to reach the counter and push it towards Jack.

“The babies are the best,” Gavin says. His voice is rougher than any child’s voice should be, sounding like it hurts him to talk, but he’s smiling the whole time Jack looks at one of his postcards. It was one of the last shots he got that day, after having crouched in goose shit for hours to get pictures of the adults interacting, he managed get a shot of a gosling using the toe of his dirty yellow runner as a pillow.

“Yeah,” Jack says softly, looking at where he has it posted on the wall across from him. Gavin follows his gaze, grin widening when he sees it, tugging at his dad’s jacket to point it out.  

“The woman who works there says you had other things up in the hospital so on one of our good days, we went on a search and found some of your other pictures.” The man swings back around once he looks where Gavin wants.

“I like the unicorn,” Gavin says, again standing on his toes to see over the desk. He stretches to take his postcard back, almost losing his balance, but the man steadies him with a hand on his back easily.

Jack can’t think of a picture session he’s done with a unicorn, or even with the unicorn background he has, but most of what he’s given to hospitals are the landscape photography that he was really focused on while working towards opening his own studio.

“There’s a picture of a horse near the cancer ward and the shadow makes it look like a unicorn,” the man explains, smiling down at Gavin. He puts a hand on Gavin’s head and gently tugs at the toque, huffing a laugh when Gavin bats him away. He steps a little closer to Jack’s, voice lowering as he continues. “Look, I did go on your website and check for appointments and I know that y’all are booked solid for the next six months or so but-” His voice breaks. Jack’s stomach drops; six months might be too long for Gavin to wait for an appointment.

Jack looks around his desk, searching for the box of tissues he knows he keeps now that everyone has the sniffles in the cold weather. He finds them and passes the box over to the man, who takes a couple to press roughly to his eyes. Gavin reaches up and pulls on the man’s elbow until he drops his hand so Gavin can reach it. Gavin takes it and the man lets out a water breath.

Jack clears his throat, once, twice, to get past the lump he’s suddenly developed. He probably needs a tissue of his own but he blinks rapidly instead.

“Well, luckily, there’s a special promotion going on for people with these postcards,” Jack says, talking through the hoarseness in his voice that always comes when he’s feeling emotional. He leans forward over the desk to pass the postcard back to Gavin. Gavin takes it, looking up at his dad with big eyes. “I’ve been waiting all day to take pictures of someone who has one.”

“You have?” Gavin asks. He bites at very chapped lips, brow furrowed like he’s trying to figure Jack out. The directness of his stare is startling, his eyes the brightest point amongst the purples and blues of deep bruises and sharp cheekbones that don’t belong on a child’s face.

“I have.” Jack nods. “Now why don’t you take your dad back there,” Jack points over his shoulder, towards the studio he uses for kids’ portraits. “and I’ll meet you there to pick out what you want to wear in a second.”

There’s an entire wardrobe of different sized costumes, ranging from princesses to hockey players to doctors and everything in between that goes along with his extensive collection of backgrounds. It’s not as organized as it usually is when he has a session with a kid, but Jack’s more than happy to let Gavin go and chose what he wants. He might not get many more chances.

Jack locks the door while Gavin takes the man’s arm and leads him to the doorway. He’s chatting a mile a minute to his dad, but the dull roaring in Jack’s ears means he doesn’t catch any of it as he flips the lock so they’re not interrupted. He rests his forehead on the cool glass of the door, breathing in and out and in and out, while he takes a minute to compose himself. He’s not sure his bursting into tears would be productive for anyone tonight.

“Thanks for doing this.”

Jack jumps, knocking his head against the glass at the voice. He turns, feeling guilty for some reason, to see just the man leaning out of the studio doorway, eyes big with a concern Jack doesn’t feel like he deserves. He steps into the hallway.

“I’ll be right there, sorry,” Jack says, rubbing his forehead. The skin is warm to the touch, even after being pressed against the cool glass and Jack hopes he didn’t lose track of time.

“You’re apologizing for me scaring you on top of making you stay late?” The man raises a blond eyebrow.

“Er, yeah?” Jack says. He drops his hand from his forehead, and hopes he doesn’t look as stupid as he feels. The man came in here with his obviously very sick child and Jack is the one who can’t keep it together.

The man shakes his head, looking more bemused than annoyed. “Well, thank you. Seriously. This is gonna be the highlight of Gavin’s year.” He’s still smiling when he finishes, but it looks a little pinched around the edges.

“Uh,” Jack clears his throat. “Of course.” He stares at the man and the man stares back.

“I’m Eric, by the way,” the man says, suddenly. “If you wanna know who’s extended your work day.” Eric chuckles slightly, a little self-deprecating.

“Jack,” Jack replies, taking the hand Eric offers. His palm is dry but warm and a little rough. He squeezes Jack’s hands for a beat before letting go.

“Yeah,” Eric says and Jack flushes, realizing Eric must’ve known his name right from the start if he’d been able to google his website.

“Right.” Jack nods. “Er, should we?” He gestures back over Eric’s shoulder, following when Eric steps back inside the studio.

In the studio, Gavin’s found the building blocks on the low table in the corner. He’s still wearing his jacket, but he’s pushed the sleeves up to his elbows. Despite all the time Jack spends around children, he’s not great with telling kids’ ages, though it’s pretty obvious even to him that Gavin’s wrists and arms are too small for his age. He struggles for a moment to move most of a completed rocket ship that Jack’s earlier appointment left behind.

“Now I know Mr. Jack didn’t say come back here to play with the blocks.”

Eric’s voice makes Gavin jump and look guilty at his dad.

“Sorry,” he says, eyes wide. He puts the rocket down, though not before tweaking the nose slightly so it sits straighter. Jack bites back a smile.

“C’mere,” he says, gesturing over at one of the overflowing wardrobes along the back wall. The doors aren’t completely closed, different colours of tulle make it over stuffed and the bane of Jack’s existence to keep clean, and Gavin lights up when he catches sight of it fully open. “Let’s pick some things out to start with.”

With practiced hands, Eric helps Gavin tries on every single one of Jack’s costumes, guiding limbs through arm and leg holes, careful not only of the tube on the side of Gavin’s face, but also of the toque on Gavin’s head. Gavin grins at his reflection each time, twirling and running his hands over any silky fabric, before standing in front of Jack’s camera and posing like a superhero or a ballerina or whatever strikes his fancy. Jack makes sure to capture each pose. It’s the easiest photoshoot of a kid that Jack has ever done; Gavin must be the politest, most well behaved kid he’s ever met. When he says as much to Eric between costume changes, Eric snorts.

“He’s just trying to impress you so you’ll let him take some photos,” Eric says lowly. Jack twists from where he was watching Gavin pick out a princess dress by touching all the tulle to look at Eric.

“Geese are his favourite animal,” Eric repeats, shrugging. “And because photography let you get close to them, he thinks he should be a photographer to get close to them. I can’t wait till he learns about zoo-keeping.” Eric grins wryly.

It’s a challenge for Jack to tear his gaze away from Eric’s smile, somehow still the brightest thing in the room despite everything Jack knows it’s been through, but he turns away to adjust the tripod.

“What’re you doing Mr. Jack?” Gavin’s come over dressed in kid’s sized Providence Falcons jersey that still falls to his knees. He’s strapped elbow pads on over top, and is dragging the smallest hockey shorts behind him. They look giant beside Gavin.

“Making this the right size,” Jack answers, pointing at the tripod. Gavin’s brow furrows and he looks between Jack and his dad. Jack’s not sure what Eric’s doing behind him, but Gavin still looks suspicious as he takes another step towards Jack.

“Why?”

Jack crouches down to check that the tripod is level and won’t fall on Gavin.

“Can I tell you a secret?” He drops his voice into a whisper. Gavin’s still looks confused but he comes to stand right beside Jack so he can hear, still dragging the hockey pants.

“Your dad just told me that he wants his picture taken,” Jack says, whispering loud enough for Eric to hear as well. “But I’m afraid I won’t be able to do a good enough job… Do you wanna try?”

Gavin’s eyes are as big and as wide as Jack’s seen them all evening, and for a moment he just looks like an excited kid, bouncing on his toes, tubes and tiredness completely forgotten.

“Can I?”

Jack nods and turns to make sure the the tripod is properly locked in place. Satisfied nothing is going to fall, Jack beckons Gavin over and when he’s in place behind the camera, Jack points out where to look and what buttons to click.

Gavin listens and nods seriously at Jack’s easy explanation, beaming at the viewfinder screen after he takes a couple of practice shots of the empty background, a dark sparkly blue that Gavin had picked out to go with his firefighter costume.

“Look dad!” Gavin says, pulling back from the camera and almost knocking Jack in the nose in his excitement. Jack sits back on his heels to dodge anymore stray limbs, knee walking even further back when Eric comes to crouch beside Gavin too. Gavin explains everything that Jack just told him, and even though Jack is sure that Eric was listening the first time around, he nods and makes understanding sounds every time Gavin pauses for breath.

“We’ll frame some of these for Great Moomaw, what d’you say Gav?” Eric asks. Gavin blinks and thinks about the question.

“Can we print some for my room too?” he asks. “I want to see you for always.”

Jack’s lost count of the amount of times his heart has clenched painfully this evening, hating the fact that now he’s picturing Gavin’s small body in a hospital bed, but Eric hardly blinks before he answers.

“‘Course sweetpea.”

Gavin nods, satisfied.

“Let’s take some with someone in them too though, eh Gavin?”  Jack says, as he finally stands up from his crouching position, brushing dust off his knees.

“Do you want to pick out a costume for me?” Eric asks. He gently pushes Gavin back up onto his feet from where he’d been leaning back against Eric and stands, making small steps towards the row of costumes. There’s probably not much there that’ll fit him, but there’s something to be said for dads who’ll stretch a child’s costume across their shoulders to see their kid happy.

“No, I wanna remember you like this,” Gavin says, matter-of-fact like. Eric freezes, holding a pair of rainbow wings. Jack bites his tongue to keep from audibly reacting, and finally Eric’s smile breaks.

“Well, alright then,” he says softly, turning his face away from Gavin and into the closet. “Lemme just hang these back up.” He clears his throat, once, twice, and Jack has no camera to fiddle with when Gavin’s still happily taking pictures of the background, and a clear view of the first tear that falls onto Eric’s cheek. He feels absolutely helpless as Eric closes his eyes and rubs a hand roughly across his face.

Even with his eyes closed, Eric looks tired, like he’s been carrying the weight of the world for far too long on his shoulders. And he probably has, Jack realizes. He doesn’t have kids sure, but he’s still haunted by the broken expressions on his parents’ faces when he woke up in the hospital, like their whole world was on the verge of collapsing before he opened his eyes. And just from watching Eric and Gavin interact, it’s not much of a stretch to assume that Gavin is Eric’s whole world.

Jack’s heart breaks for them both.

“Daddy?”

Eric’s eyes snap open and if he catches Jack staring at him, he doesn’t say anything, twisting towards Gavin, who’s looking over a little impatiently.

“I’m coming Gav, sorry!” Eric hangs up the wings and sets himself up in front of the camera. “How d’you want me?” He poses dramatically, jutting a hip out and pouting his lips. Gavin giggles.

“No, dad,” he says. “Just smile!”

Eric straightens out of the pose. “Alright sugar,” he says, and he smiles wide, any and all traces of his earlier tiredness gone. Gavin nods and presses the shutter down. He doesn’t pause to look at the viewfinder before he takes another one and then another one. Eric’s smile doesn’t waver, in fact growing softer and more natural the longer he watches his son. Jack finds himself mirroring the expression.

Jack has no idea how many pictures Gavin takes, but when Gavin starts to flag a little—the pauses to yawn between squeezing one eye shut and pressing the other to the view finder dragging on a little longer each time—Jack pushes up his sleeve to check his watch. His eyebrows go up when he sees it’s already almost 7:30, two and a half hours after Eric and Gavin first came into his studio. Eric must be paying more attention to Jack than he thought, because he’s got his phone out and looks just as surprised as Jack feels at the time.

“You just about done Gav?” Eric asks, sticking his phone back in his pocket. He takes a step towards Gavin.

“No,” Gavin says around another yawn. He snaps a picture of Eric mid-snort but lets himself be corralled over to the costumes.

“We’ve taken up enough of Mr. Jack’s time, hey sweetpea?” Eric says. Jack wants to say that he doesn’t mind, that he’d be happy having them around for as long as they’re willing to stay, but now that Eric’s said something about the time, Jack can see how hard Gavin was fighting his sleepiness, rubbing his eyes now. He yawns so widely that Jack sees his tonsils. Eric guides Gavin’s arms out of the Falconers jersey he’s been wearing, movements still practiced and careful not to dislodge the tube under Gavin’s nose as he pulls it over his head. Gavin droops forward, resting his head on Eric’s shoulder once he’s free.

“Long day?” Eric asks, expertly balancing keeping Gavin upright and stretching to get Gavin’s sweater and jacket. He mouths “thank you,” when Jack hands them over. Jack feels warm.

“You were there, daddy,” Gavin replies, managing to sound admonishing despite speaking mostly into Eric’s shirt.

“Oh that’s right.” Eric gets both their jackets on and stands, scooping Gavin up with one arm and holding the Falconers jersey in the other. He looks between the jersey and the hanger still on the ground, brow creased, and makes to bend over again.

“I’ve got it,” Jack says quickly before Eric can move. Gavin’s little fingers grip onto the back of Eric’s collar and he’s pressed his face to Eric’s throat as best he can, blinking slowly. Jack knows what an exhausted child looks like, and that’s without factoring in how sick Gavin might be so Jack takes the jersey and throws it over his shoulder, kicking the hanger out of Eric’s path.

“Are you sure?” Eric looks around reproachfully at the tutus that are still sticking out of the closet, the props that make the prop box hard to close, and the backgrounds still leaning against the wall, ready for whatever Gavin’s next chose was going to be. Eric winces when he sees the elbow pads around the tripod that Gavin stripped off and dropped on the floor at one point.

Jack nods and tries not to blush under Eric’s scrutiny. Gavin yawns loudly in his ear.

“Alright,” Eric sighs, running his free hand over Gavin’s back. It makes a swishing sound against the puffy fabric.“Gav, what do you say to Mr. Jack?”

Gavin picks up his head. “Thank you for taking my picture, Mr. Jack,” he says, managing to hold off yawning until the end. He blinks tiredly at Jack.

“And?” Eric prompts after a beat.

Gavin turns suddenly to look at his dad, almost hitting Eric in the face in the process. He squints at Eric until Eric whispers, “taking pictures,” in his ear.

“Oh! Thank you for letting me take pictures too. It was—” he yawns. “—was really cool.”

Jack smiles. “Anytime, Gavin,” he says, holding out a fist. Gavin’s whole face brightens as Eric’s falls, but Jack doesn’t think Gavin sees the expression when he touches his little fist to Jack’s.

Jack follows Eric out of the studio, closing the door behind him and deciding to deal with the little mess tomorrow. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t have an immediate need for a clean kid’s studio, but he’ll double check later. He goes behind the desk to grab a pen and paper.

“So, if you wanna leave your email address here, and I’ll send you a link when I’ve done the edits and have uploaded them,” Jack explains, putting the paper on the counter. Eric shifts Gavin over to his left hip so he can write with his right hand. He pauses before picking up the pen, making sure Gavin’s toque is on. Gavin makes a noise in his throat, but his eyes stay closed.

“Um, do you have to edit anything?” Eric asks quietly. He sounds tired.

Jack clears his throat. “No. I can leave everything untouched.”

“Thank you.” Eric writes down his email address and then shifts Gavin again. It takes Jack a second to realise he’s reaching for his wallet.

“What are you doing?” Jack asks.

“Um, paying,” Eric says. He gives a Jack a funny look and tries to hand over his card.

“No,” Jack says. “Absolutely not.”

“What? No, you stayed late, you did so much,” Eric protests. “I know how much your shots are listed for, please charge me for that.”

“I’m not taking your money,” Jack says again, stepping back from the counter. It’s not like he’s lost any business letting Gavin take the pictures, so he can’t bring himself to put a price on the time he just spent with Gavin and Eric.

“This is a terrible way to run a business,” Eric huffs. “What’ll your boss say?”

Jack shrugs. “He’s a pushover.”

“Jack,” Eric says. He bites at his bottom lip.

“Eric, don’t worry about it. Honestly.”

Eric frowns at Jack but puts his card back in his wallet. “What’s your favourite dessert?”

That’s not what Jack excepts. “What?”

“When I have a minute, I’ll make you something.”

“Uh.” Jack looks at Eric, who’s looking back, expectant and completely serious.

“Do you like pie?” Eric asks.

“Yes?” Jack answers.

Eric nods, satisfied. “Good. I make really good pie.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jack says. “Honestly, it’s fine.”

“When I have a minute,” Eric repeats. “I will make you the best pie you’ve ever tasted.” He bounces a little, getting a better grip on Gavin. Jack doesn’t think about why or when that minute will come.

“Okay,” Jack says slowly. “I’ll uh, get those pictures up and send you the link as soon as possible.”

“Thank you Jack,” Eric says. He looks down at Gavin’s sleeping face. “Seriously. Thank you so much,” he says softly.

Jack just nods and unlocks the door so they can leave, a lump in his throat as he returns Eric’s wave after he puts Gavin into his carseat. He watches Eric walk around the car, wave one more time before getting and driving and Jack hopes with his whole heart that he sees them both again.

He locks the door and turns away from the window, hoping that he does get to see both of them again, and feeling sick at the thought of why he might now. Jack doesn’t blink away the tears this time.

[avaalons]

Chris Evans Fic: Epilogue (Young & in Love Part 8) NSFW

Young & in Love Series

Part 1: Beard & Glasses & Pushed Back Hair (NSFW)

Part 2: At Some Point

Part 3: The Dogs Aren’t Allowed Upstairs

Part 4: His Girls Episode 1

Part 5: His Girls Episode 2

Part 6: His Girls Episode 3

Part 7: His Girls Episode 4

***

So, this marks the end of the road for these two love birds! It’s been a rollercoaster!

Thanks for sticking with me and being a fabulous, supportive, encouraging audience :)

Here we go, let’s blow this popsicle stand!

Warning: NSFW

***

‘So, how do you think the last six months have been for you?’

This office, with its homely furnishings and soft lighting, had become familiar to you over the last few years. You began with a visit every week, therapy being only one of the courses of action you had decided to take in the weeks after, what you now to referred as, your ‘baby breakdown’. You had been visiting every week for the first year, sometimes with Chris, sometimes alone, but like clockwork, every Thursday you arrived at this office and talked with Jane about anything and everything.

Eventually, you began attending less and less, with Jane’s encouragement, until you reached a point where you just wanted to keep a bi-annual ‘check in’ appointment, to be on the safe side. But today, you were here with a particular thought in mind.

‘I’m good. I feel… stable, on an even keel. I’ve felt like that for a while now, like things aren’t precarious anymore. Like everything has been okay for such a long time that I can just accept this is the way things are without worrying they’ll go bad again. I think might be at a place where… I can start seriously considering expanding our family,’ you refrained from phrasing it as a question, knowing full well that Jane wouldn’t entertain you looking for answers: Jane asked the questions, you had to come up with the answers by yourself.

You could predict, almost to the letter, what Jane was going to ask next.

'And how does Chris feel about this?’

Chris wanted whatever would make you happy, that much you knew. After your first therapy session, he suggested you cut back on work but still do part time. He understood that your job and keeping that control, that schedule would help your recovery. He helped you set up a work out schedule in your home gym (that was his really, if truth be told) to keep your mind and body healthy. He started running with you, despite his reservations about being photographed, as long as he could pick the time and the route. He cut back on the projects he had lined up for the year, turned down a role that he really wanted but would have taken him away from home for months. Slowly but surely, he helped you be alone with Annie, never drawing attention to the fact he was leaving the room for two minutes, or outside playing frisbee with Dodger for twenty minutes, until one day he announced he was going to the store as you were feeding Annie and you didn’t bat an eyelid. Chris did everything he could to aid you in your recovery, and never expected anything in return. But this - Chris would want this because it would make the both of you happy. Ecstatically so.

'Well, I’ve not actually told him yet. I wanted to talk it through first. He’s always wanted a big family but he’s never brought up the subject since Annie was born. I don’t think for one moment he’s stopped wanting that though. So I can only assume he thinks I don’t want any more children. But I do.’

'You’ll only know the answer to that when you talk to Chris. It’s important to have a real, open conversation with him where you both share your wants and your concerns before embarking on adding to the family.’

'I know, we’re very good at sharing now. I know I can’t bottle up my feelings from him and especially if there’s a possibility I���m going be pregnant again.’

'Have you given some thought about the likelihood of the post-partum depression returning?’

You took a deep breath. Only every day. 'Yes. I know I can’t let my fear of it run my life. Annie’s going to be four in a few weeks. I think it’s time. But I’d like to step up our sessions, should I fall pregnant again. I don’t want to be knocked sideways by it like I was last time. If it’s going to happen, I want to be prepared.’

'That seems sensible, we can certainly arrange that when the time comes. Share all this with Chris and let me know if you need a session together before you come to a decision,’ Jane, straight-faced as ever, didn’t let on whether she thought you should have an appointment or not. So you had to break the rules and ask.

'Should we come and see you together?’

'It’s entirely up to you, based on what comes out of your conversation. Chris may have some things he would like to share, but if you’re both on the same page, you don’t need to see me,’ she gave you a small smile then, which she didn’t bestow lightly, 'You’ve come a long way in the last four years. You certainly understand yourself better than you did when you arrived here for the first time. Prepare yourself, rely on your support network and you’ll be just fine.’

'Thank you,’ you were a touch bashful, not used to Jane handing out words of wisdom and encouragement like that. You collected your purse from where it was propped against your chair and stood up to leave, feeling positive about your decision and your future.

Jane nodded and stood up to walk you to the door, 'All being well, I’ll be seeing you very soon.’

'I hope so.’

***

Arriving home, the house was quiet but the afternoon was warm and you knew where you would find your family. You headed straight through to the garden and saw Chris attempting to play a game of piggy-in-the-middle with Dodger and Annie, Dodger having been lumped with the poor piggy role. You smiled at their fairly unsuccessful game but started with a sharp intake of breath and a step forwards when you saw Dodger jump to catch the ball and land with his front paws on Annie’s shoulders, the weight and the momentum of him forcing her to the ground on her back. But Chris was right there, of course, hauling her up, his two hands tucked under her arms. When she was upright, you could see she was fine, laughing even, as Dodger licked her face in apology.

As you stepped out on to the patio, you could hear Annie’s peals of laughter, Chris scooping her up and whirling her around and around.

'Hey mommy’s home!’ She shouted, having caught sight of you out of the corner of her eye even as she was flying through the air.

You started to walk towards them and Chris set Annie down on the grass. She ran over to you on her toddling legs and you caught her just as she tripped over her own foot and fell into your arms.

'Oh my baby Annabelle!! How has your day with Daddy been?’ Chris was jogging over to you as you cuddled Annie and smothered her face in tickling kisses.

'Moooommmmm, I’m not a baby anymore! I’m nearly four!’

'Oh, I’m so sorry, of course! You’re a big grown up girl!’

'Yeah, a big grown up girl who threw a tantrum this morning because we ran out of Lucky Charms,’ Chris said wryly, ruffling Annie’s hair and looping an arm around your lower back, pulling you to his side and leaning down to kiss you in greeting, 'Hi baby, how was your day?’

'Good thanks. Very… productive. How was yours?’

'Well, I got to spend it with my little girl so, honestly, pretty perfect.’

You both watched as your aforementioned little girl went running around the garden with Dodger, kicking his ball out from under him each time he almost got it. You could have sworn Dodger was letting her win on purpose, clever dog.

'Chris?’ Now was as good a time as any, you thought.

'Hmm?’

'I need to take a visit to the doctor next week, get my birth control prescription renewed and have my blood pressure checked and stuff.’

'Okay, what day will it be? I’ll make sure my schedule’s clear for the princess,’ he threw his thumb in the direction of where Annie was currently picking her way through a flower bed to retrieve Dodger’s ball.

'It will be Tuesday. It’s okay, Helen will be here. But I was thinking…’

'About what?’

'About maybe not getting my prescription renewed. At all.’

He was completely still at the side of you for a moment and when you looked at him, he had something like wonder across his face, before his brow furrowed slightly.

'Just to be clear, you're suggesting we try for another baby, and not that I should get a vasectomy, right?’

You couldn’t help but laugh at him, 'Definitely the first option.’

He wrapped his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin and he squeezed you hard, 'I’m… baby, you don’t know how much… this is the best news. I mean… are you sure? I haven’t wanted to pressure you or anything by mentioning it.’

'I know you haven’t, and I appreciate it, I really do, but I also know that before Annie, the dream was a big family, right? I talked it over with Jane today,’ and you told him about the strategies you’d come up with.

'But Jane also told me to rely on my support networks - so no pushing you or your mom away this time. Accepting help when it is offered. Being up front about how I’m feeling.’

You feel Chris nodding against you, 'We’ll be ready this time.’

***

'She finally settled?’ You asked, resting your book against your chest as Chris walked into the bedroom, pulling his shirt off over his head as he went. It was late and Annie had been asleep for hours but had woken up after a nightmare. Not wanting to disrupt her, so far, good habit of sleeping in her own room all night by letting her in your bed, Chris had offered to take one for the team and go sit with her until she fell asleep.

'Yeah, it only took three stories and a song,’ he joked wryly.

'I know, I heard your excellent performance of I See the Light. You’d make such a good Flynn Rider,’ you nodded towards the monitor in explanation as he disappeared into the bathroom. When he stood in the doorway to perform a tongue-in-cheek bow at your compliment, he had a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth.

You shook your head, a smile on your face, 'Dork.’

You went back to reading until he came out, having finished his night time routine. You could see Chris in your peripheral vision, strolling his way over to you on the bed. He vaulted on to the mattress with one hand bearing his weight, jostling you where you were sat up on top of the sheets, and landed on his side, propping his head up on one arm. When you finally looked at him with one eyebrow raised, he had the biggest shit-eating grin on his face.

Looking him up and down, you realised what he was after, 'Best boxer briefs, tensed abs, and is that…’ you leaned forward, pretending to smell the air theatrically, ’…cologne? You hoping to get lucky tonight, Mr Evans?’

'I was hoping it wouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibility,’ he ran a fingertip up your thigh towards the lacy hem of your silk pyjama shorts. When his hand reached your hip, he rolled you towards him so that you were face to face. Plucking the book from your hands, he aimed it so that it landed smoothly on the nightstand.

'Hmm, I’ll think it over,’ you toyed with him, placing a hand on the defined muscles of his chest, nudging one of your knees between his.

'I just want to show my fiancée a good time.’

That made you start and when you spoke, your words were breathy, dripping with shock, 'What did you just say?’

There was that shit-eating grin again, 'You heard.’

He reached under his pillow and pulled out a small, square box covered in black velvet and when he popped it open, the tell-tale 'Tiffany & Co.’ shining out of the black silk inside the lid, the ring took your breath away.

'Christopher…’ you gasped. He’d chosen well, simple and understated, elegant and classy: just what you would have chosen for yourself.

The 'yes!’ exploded from you without you even realising it, tears welling in your eyes.

'I haven’t even asked you yet!’ Chris laughed around his words.

'I’m sorry! Go on. Ask me, ask me,’ a hand flew to your mouth to keep any more rebellious words from sneaking out.

'I want you to know straight up that this is not the be all and end all for me. This is the icing on top of an already beautiful and delicious cake. As far as I’m concerned, in my head, we’re already together forever. Our promises are the things we do for each other every single day, the things we’ve weathered together and grown stronger from and our plans for our future. Our vows are in the life we’ve built for ourselves: our most important vow, well, she’s asleep in the room just next door. We may not have declared it in front of God, we may not have the piece of paper, but I don’t need it to know that I love you, with everything I am and everything I have.’

Your tears were flowing freely now as you placed the hand that had been clamped over your mouth tenderly against his cheek, never tearing your gaze away from those blue, blue eyes.

'Having said all that, I really fucking want to marry you,’ he turned his head to kiss your palm, 'I want to have wedding bands on our hands that tell everyone we belong to each other. I want to be able to call you Mrs Evans when you’re being cute or a little bit naughty. I want to go to bed with and wake up next to my wife. I want to you to introduce me to people like 'hey, this is my husband, Chris.’

You laughed through your sobs at that: like you’ve ever needed to introduce him to anyone.

'I want Annie to be our flower girl on our wedding day. I want to stand in front of everyone we know and say 'in case you couldn’t already tell, we are one hundred per cent devoted to each other.’ So I don’t need marriage, I don’t need that piece of paper to make me happy, but I absolutely want it. And I hope, more than I’ve ever hoped for anything, that you want it too.’

You nodded ferociously, your joyous, choking sobs preventing you from speaking. You leant forward and crushed your lips to his, giving you time to find your words.

'Yes. Yes. Over and over again,’ you whispered against his mouth.

He pulled back to gently free the ring from its silk cushion and slide it on to your ring finger, both of you gazing at it standing proud against your skin.

'Look at that,’ Chris’ voice was filled with awe, holding your fingers gently in his.

'It’s beautiful, Chris,’ you agreed.

'Because you’re the one wearing it,’ he glanced back up to you and dipped his head to press his mouth to yours again, softly, tenderly this time, in no rush and with no haste, knowing that this was just another perfect moment in what would be a long life together.

You tucked yourself closer to his body, trying to eradicate any space between you. He wrapped his arms tightly around your body, helping your efforts, neither of you able to get close enough.

The kiss quickly flared with heat and you ground your hips into his, almost on instinct. His hands wandered under the pretty silk cami you wore, matching the shorts he’d glided his fingertip over earlier, and he skimmed the skin of your back, heating your flesh with his hands, sending glorious shivers down your spine.

You hooked a leg over his hip and pushed down, trying to find some friction and pressure where you needed it the most.

'Shh, patience, sweetheart,’ he gently warned you when you whimpered.

He rolled on to his back, taking you with him. You were lay the full length of his body, still attached at the lips, but, in your opinion, with much too little skin to skin contact. You sat up and went to pull off your cami but Chris held your wrists before you could get there.

'Let me,’ his request was earnest and, you knew, came from his memory of you recoiling from his touch when he’d tried to undress you for a bath on Baby Breakdown day. The first time you’d let him see you completely naked in the light was after weeks and weeks of therapy and you’d both sobbed, devastated that this chasm had appeared for two people who had always been so comfortable, so uninhibited with each other.

Now, you could see your scars for what they were: a badge of honour, a medal for being strong enough, courageous enough to come through the other side. They had faded over time but Chris still liked to lavish attention on your stomach, wanting you to know that he didn’t see them as ugly or imperfect, so you didn’t need to either.

So you dropped your arms and he sat up, you in his lap, and he savoured the removal of your cami, running his hands across your shoulders and stroking his thumbs along the sensitive skin under your breasts. He leant forwards to trail kisses along the route his hands had taken, but this time paused to swirl his tongue around each nipple, your back arching into him at the sensation.

He wound his arms around and up your back, placing his hands near your shoulder blades, supporting you and tilting you backwards, your head lolling back, so he could have more access to your upper body. You could do nothing but grip his biceps tightly as each flick of his tongue over your nipples fanned the fire beginning to take hold low in your belly.

He pulled you forwards and caught your mouth with his again, cupping your face on either side, kissing you like you were a lifeline.

You ran your hands down his ribs to the waistband of his boxer briefs, hooking your thumbs just inside, hoping Chris would take the hint.

'Babe, you’re going to have to get off me if you want them gone,’ he smiled against your lips.

Huffing like it was the hardest thing in the world, you dismounted next to him on the bed and he propelled his hips upwards to pull his boxers down over his ass. You were there to help instantly, dragging them down at the front and freeing his dick. You kept going until they were off his feet and crawled back up his body, pressing light butterfly kisses to his thighs, hips and lower abdomen as you wrapped a delicate hand around his cock, stroking lightly, spreading his pre come with your thumb.

'Hey, hey. Shorts, now,’ he demanded, pointing at your ass, propping himself up on his elbows.

You knelt up, then pulled yourself up to standing on the bed, a foot on either side of his thighs and ever so slowly slid your shorts down your legs, keeping eye contact with him throughout. His were positively gleaming, the blue dark and bottomless. Lips slightly parted and glistening, the only movement was the rise and fall of his chest as his breaths quickened at your little strip show.

He sat up to hold the material still while you stepped out on the unstable surface and then he threw them with abandon across the room before reclining back against the pillows, hands tucked behind his head, eyes travelling the length of your body.

'Fuckin’ work of art, babe,’ he sighed contentedly. A real, girlish giggle escaped you, which embarrassed you even more, but you were so euphoric after the events of the day, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

So, when Chris held up a finger and twirled it around in a circle while wiggling his eyebrows up and down, you obliged with a good natured roll of your eyes and a smile on your face. And because you felt amazing, you even gave your backside a little wiggle.

'Oh, that’s what I’m talking about.’

'All right big boy, put your dollar bills away,’ you told him as you turned around again, amused. You dropped and straddled him, staying up on your knees as you leaned over him and kissed him again, reaching down between you with one hand to stroke his cock once more, applying a little more pressure this time, drawing a low moan from his throat.

You lowered your hips slowly, connecting with him, surrounding him with heat. You pushed his cock against your clit, sliding his head up and down, coating him with your wetness, spreading it over your swollen flesh.

He sat up then, pushing you so your back was straight, ass pressed into his thighs, your calves tucked under you. You rose up onto to your knees and he gripped his dick, holding your hand in place around him, as you lined yourself up, his free hand cupping your butt.

Your faces were only an inch apart as you sank down on to him, letting him fill you completely in one smooth movement, both of you taking your hands away. He went to cup your other butt cheek, ready to help with leverage when you inevitably began to bounce on him. You placed your hands either side of his jaw, ring glinting in the lamp light, fingertips brushing the short hair at the nap of his neck, foreheads together, panting in unison, savouring the connection.

'I love the way you feel inside me,’ you whispered.

Chris’ only response was a grunt as you pulled up slowly, dropping your gaze down to watch him disappear into you again when you sat back. Then you set your pace, resting your forearms on his shoulders for leverage.

Your bodies were pressed together as you bounced, chest to chest, hips to hips, thighs to thighs. You couldn’t get close enough as a delicate sheen of sweat formed on your skin and Chris pulled out of your grip to draw his lips across your collar bones. You ground into him, trying to get him deeper and deeper, feeling the delicious push and pull of his dick against your walls.

Sensing you’d got your rhythm sorted, Chris’ hands went on a wander, palming your hips, ghosting each ridge of your ribs, skimming up your back to thread his fingers into your hair and hold you to him like you were precious, worshipping you, surrounding you completely with his arms.

You bounced faster as he sucked lightly on your neck and down the smooth plain of your breast plate, feeling your orgasm just beginning to unfurl.

'Chris…’ you practically sobbed, hands wrapped around his biceps, willing yourself to hang on and not shatter just yet.

'I know sweetheart, I know,’ he placated you as one hand travelled down, over your clavicle, dragging slowly through the valley between your breasts, applying enough pressure that you could still feel his touch even after he’d moved on.

He glided down over your stomach and, eventually, finally, his thumb connected with your clit: the lightest of touches but one that made you buck against him. You were so sensitive.

'Is that what you want baby?’

You swallowed thickly and nodded, hoping he would be merciful. You were grinding and bouncing faster and faster, pushing yourself to the edge as Chris’ thumb swirled your clit, setting up a maddening rhythm of light then hard touches. He added a finger and rolled the swollen nub between them.

You were almost there, you could feel it, just out of reach but you clamoured for it, digging your nails into Chris’ taut muscle, losing control of your rhythm and hoping that that would help you lose control everywhere. You were burning from the inside out.

He sped up his manipulations, gliding over you with ease. Two more, three more bounces and your climax finally hit you like a freight train, shattering you as you fell against his chest, Chris’ long groan telling you that he’d come as well with your walls clamping around him relentlessly.

You sat there for a moment or two, catching your breath and coming down from your high until you found the strength to pull your head up and capture his mouth with yours, smiling against him.

'Well, fiancée, that was fucking awesome,’ Chris peppered his words with pecks to your lips.

'Good job at rocking my world, fiancé,’ you quipped back.

He snaked his hands up your back and lay you down, face up on the bed. He pulled out of you slowly, kissing you leisurely all the while, and lay at your side, propped on an elbow and gazing down into your face, one of his legs tucked over yours.

'Shouldn’t you have your legs up or something now?’ He asked, gesturing down your body.

Your brow furrowed, confused for a moment until the penny dropped and a chuckle escaped you.

'Babe, I won’t have even skipped a pill until tomorrow morning, I think it’s going to take some time before everything resets and it works. You’re going to have to be patient.’

'I know that really,’ he placed a hand gently over your stomach and his fingertips began to trace swirly patterns over the skin, 'But you know what they say, practise makes perfect.’

'And we’re going to have a lot of fun practising.’

'That we are.’

But then something occurred to you, 'How are we going to schedule getting married and having a baby. Which one should we do first? Should I keep taking the pill until the wedding?’

'No way! Can’t we just do both at the same time?’

’… you want me to give birth at our wedding?’ You deadpanned, 'I mean, I know the estimations are more accurate these days but I don’t think the best doctor in the world could predict it that closely.’

'I mean, oh Sarcasm Queen of mine, that what does it matter if you’re pregnant at the wedding? I quite like the idea of you waddling down the aisle to me barefoot with flowers in your hair. Like some kind of fertility goddess.’

You gave him a little smack on the arm, 'Christopher, I have never waddled, ever. Even walking into hospital in labour, I didn’t waddle.’

He laughed at your defensiveness and kissed your forehead in apology, 'I take it all back. I say, let’s just not plan to try and work the two things around each other. Let’s just go with the flow, see what happens. It’s going to be perfect no matter what, right?’

'As long as the four of us are there, nothing can possibly go wrong.’

'Four?’ Chris quizzed.

'Well, I imagine Dodger will have an invitation, won’t he?’

The furrows in his brow smoothed out in amused understanding, 'Are you kidding? He’ll be my best man!’

'Can’t wait to hear his speech.’

***

When Chris’ eyes fluttered open the next morning, it was still early. The room had an orange glow where the sun was beginning to come up and his immediate world seemed very still and very quiet.

He remembered the night before and checked under the sheets that you were both wearing clothing. Thankfully, you had remembered to put your pyjamas back on and Chris was wearing his usual soft cotton mid thigh shorts: an addition he’d had to make to his sleeping attire since Annie got old enough to walk into your room unannounced in the mornings, rendering naked sleeping a thing of the past.

He had been facing you in his sleep and he allowed himself now, before he closed his eyes for a few more hours, a moment to admire you. Your hair was swept back on the pillow behind you, your mouth in a perfect Cupid’s Bow (the exact same one Annie had inherited), long eyelashes fanned your cheeks (Annie was also blessed in the eyelash department, thanks to both her parents) and a dusting of delicate freckles danced across your nose.

In the warm glow of the sunrise, you looked positively angelic, and he studied the ring sparkling against your hand splayed on the pillow in front of your face. He thought about how lucky he was to have you, and Annie, how much he loved you both and the life you had made and how now, unbelievably, it was only going to get even better.

There were things on the horizon that were a concern - he’d secretly looked up the chances of post-partum depression recurring after a second birth and the percentages were depressingly high - but you were the strongest person he knew and your relationship could withstand anything now, he was certain.

Although he knew that neither of you were as young as you had been when you first met, he did know for sure that you were both very much in love, and as long as you had that, everything else would work out just fine.

[recoverydailyblog-blog]

Recovery Daily - Day 1

Hi! If you’re new, go read the Introduction Post!

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I slept last night! What a happy thought to wake up to. I didn’t think I would, or rather, I was afraid I wouldn’t. I was so anxious going to bed last night, I’d spent nearly every minute since the moment of breakdown (MoB) with another human being in sight and now it was going to be just me. 

- I was going to comment on how strange that sounded coming from a twenty-something, but then I thought of how often I’d end up doing that over the course of this blog, so I just won’t comment from now on. Roll with me, kay? -

Anyway, I lay there in the dark last night, acutely aware of the edges of my body, where I ended and the rest of the world began. I haven’t been as aware of that in as long as I can remember. It’s a scary place sometimes. But lay there I did, my protection from the world being my blankets (I have many) and my big comfy headphones that saved me from being alone with my thoughts. Music is weird at the moment, it has to be just. right. Luckily I found something:

“Bibo No Aozora” - Ryuichi Sakamoto

And eventually, mercifully, I drifted off to sleep. I did wake up a few times during the night, but fell quickly back to sleep each time. I woke up early enough and lay awake for a while, still heavy with the exhaustion I’ve dragged with me since the MoB - such a extreme weariness, I can’t remember ever feeling similar - but before long my Mother got me up; we had a doctor’s appointment to keep... 

I don’t know what I was expecting from the doctor’s appointment. He’s our GP, he’s very nice and he’s known us for years, but really there was little he could offer me. He listened to what I’d been through, made sure I wasn’t in any immediate danger, prescribed me some anti-depressents (I don’t think I’ll use them, nothing against them, just don’t think I need them at this stage) and an open referral to this psychiatry practice in town. The way he spoke of them didn’t inspire confidence, to say the least, so I think I’ll look elsewhere for help. This was my first contact with the outside world since the MoB, and I got through it pretty well, but getting in the car to drive home I was tearful, panicky and reeling ever so slightly with tiredness. Still, the first time is done! 

It’s an interesting thing, trying to get through a day, when so little feels right. Sitting doing nothing doesn’t work, you fall prey to the thoughts and the emotions. I’m a musician but unfortunately I’m at the stage where I understand music too well to not think while I play, but not well enough to not think when I play. Yes I know how that sounds, roll with it please (thanks x). Basically, playing music isn’t an option, yet. Netflix does it’s thing of presenting tons of amazing looking things that don’t quite fit the mood right now (apart from this quiet little gem of a show, but I’m trying to ration myself). Listening to music helps if it’s the right thing, but I find I need something visual to accompany it. Gaming helps, I’m not a gamer but I play Assassin’s Creed. Playing with headphones on is wonderfully immersive, but the nature of the game means it makes me very tense very quickly, which I can feel turning to mild panic, and so switch it off. Books work, but only for very brief periods. RubyEtc’s book is terrific, and oh-so-relevant right now. But even this, I need to close after a brief handful of minutes. So I’ve been jumping from one thing to another, grinding out the hours. It's getting me by so far!

I tried napping in the afternoon, because I Need To Take Naps, but also because I needed to take a nap. Failed unfortunately, tired as I was it was also time for the angry sea of insecurities to start rolling and roiling. These are too many and too varied to even begin to list now. I’m sure they’ll pop up along this journey when a specific one becomes particularly relevant! So after an hour or two of lying there, trying to nap, half browsing Netflix on my phone, somehow watching an entire episode of Prof. Brian Cox’s ‘Wonders Of Life’, I gave up.

I called my girlfriend instead. I messaged her last night after it all Went Down, but we hadn’t spoken since then. She had a busy college day, and I can not do small talk right now. Anyway, we talked, for a while, but it wasn’t a good idea. She’s a deeply wonderful and good person, and has been unbelievably supportive of me over the last few months in particular (this whole thing didn’t come from nowhere, believe me!), but today just happened to be a day college work was getting to her, and she was miles away on the phone. It helped to hear her voice, but that was about it. Absolutely 100% not her fault, she happens to be a human person, just shit coincidence. 

This evening I sent her a message, more of an outpouring really, a good lump of emotional nonsense with a tiny little pathetic request for her to reach out a little more and a lot of apologies for not being a Proper And Stable And Not Fucked-Up boyfriend. She took a little while, then sent back a really awesome message, that put everything to rights (until the next time my insecurities act up, but shhh for now). Ah, she’s magnificent really, and I do love her. I’ll see her in a couple of days. That’ll be nice.

Yesterday after the blinding panic and immediate emotional upheaval had subsided, I called my brother. I needed to see him, I needed him to come home. Try as I might I couldn’t hold it together on the phone, and I think I freaked him out a little, but he was an absolute trooper and moved heaven and earth to get his work shift off today and tomorrow so he could be here with me. He brought me three donuts from this amazing place near his college too, what a legend of a brother! It’s been great having him around, just his presence. I think we’ve always drawn strength from each other, whether we realised it or not. The day definitely improved when he came home anyway.

With the whole family together the energy in the house came right up, and I think I rode that wave for the rest of the evening. I had a couple of slumps, when the feelings of failure and panic threatened to overwhelm, but each time I grabbed my Mother, who’s been a quasi therapist to me since day 1, and just splurged whatever thoughts and feelings I had at her. That decision to talk whenever things started to become too much is definitely a sign of strength I didn’t think I still had. Things like that give me hope I’ll get through this.

- I apologise for the long, rambling style of this first post. If you got this far, thank you for staying with me! I don’t know how I’m going to end up formatting this blog, right now I guess it’s more important that I simply write, rather than worrying about the ‘how’s of it and risk missing days. Bear with me, I implore you, I’ll get the hang of it eventually! - 

So, Day 1 over. Hopefully I’ll never have to go through that again. Day 2, here I come.

Take care of yourselves,

RD

Day 2