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bloodfromthethorn · 3 years ago

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Misunderstandings

Their partnership might have gotten off to a bad start, but Mac has a good feeling about Jack Dalton - right up until he messes it all up, that is.

Or, the time Jack learns about Mac's fear of heights and it's still not the most important realisation he has that day.

Also on AO3

Mac had never really been sure quite what he expected from Afghanistan and now, six months in, he still wasn’t particularly confident on exactly what it was he had found. It certainly hadn’t been easy, and he’d already managed to experience the most profound loss he’d felt since the death of his grandpa, but there was still something undeniably… compelling about it all. The way he could fall into an uncomfortable bed at the end of the day exhausted but with the bone-deep knowledge that the work he had done was important, had made a difference. That there were people walking around out there, living their lives, because of the things that he had done.

It wasn’t good, precisely, but it wasn’t all bad either.

Jack was a wrench in the works. They couldn’t have gotten off to a poorer start and for a hairy moment there, Mac had been convinced that the next two months of his life were really going to be hell on earth. Jack was loud-mouthed, crass, opinionated, and had some of the worst taste in both music and film known to man. He had little to no regard for anyone else’s opinion of him and he was more than ready to settle a fight with his fists if he thought the situation called for it.

He was also probably the best soldier Mac had ever met.

It might have taken them some time to get traction but after the first few rocky missions, they’d both managed to settle down just enough to actually get a good look at one another. What Mac had found was nothing like what he’d expected.

For one, Jack was very, very good at his job. A crack shot, backed up with a keenly tactical mind that went far beyond anything Mac had been taught at basic. He’d never asked to see Jack’s file – and given that he was almost certain the man had been an Alphabet at some point, he’d probably get denied even if he tried – but he had a feeling that the record would be long, expansive, and impressive. He knew far too much about soldiering to not have been doing it most of his life and he handled a vast range of weaponry with too much familiarity to have always been saddled with Overwatch duties.

No, somewhere in his past, Jack had been crafted into an immense force to be reckoned with. He might tell jokes, laugh loudly, and act the fool, but buried underneath it all was something dangerous just waiting to be unleashed. It should have been scary – and in a distant, sort-of-intrigued kind of way, it was – but mostly Mac was just impressed. Whatever else he might have done, Jack had decided to use his extensive training to serve the purpose of protecting EOD technicians in a place where there were enemies at every corner.

More than anything, Jack made him feel safe . Safe in a way he hadn’t truly felt since watching Peña die barely twenty feet from him. After so long in the Sandbox, constantly having to watch his back as his hands took apart contraptions designed to kill him, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be out from under that constant cloud of dread. Jack gave him that freedom and Mac couldn’t help but be hopelessly thankful for it.

Of course, increasing familiarity aside, it wasn’t perfect. Two men trapped in very close quarters in a high stress environment were occasionally going to butt heads no matter what, and Mac wasn’t naive enough to think they’d be an exception.

Jack had been waylaid by a messenger as soon as the pair of them arrived back on base, both already worn out from a long, overly hot day in the sun. In an act of mercy, he’d waved Mac off to go on ahead in an attempt to spare him whatever bureaucratic nonsense was likely about to come his way – an assumption that was almost immediately proved accurate when three minutes later Mac saw him stalking off in the direction of the command centre.

He didn’t think much of it; Jack was perpetually being pulled in by the brass for reasons he was never particularly keen to explain. When directly asked, he’d always brushed it off with some sarcastic comment about how people just couldn’t get enough of his charm, but the hardness in his eyes had stopped Mac from trying to press further. If anything, it only added to his growing surety that Jack was a far more important person than he wanted to appear. Nothing Mac was doing was of particular note to anyone beyond what command already learned through his reports, but if someone with extensive training in observation and tactics was given free rein to roam the area under the radar for the sole purpose of watching what was going on – like, say, an Explosive Ordnance Disposal Overwatch – then that opened up a whole new avenue of surveillance.

If he’d had to bet, Mac would have said that according to the letter of Jack’s job description, keeping him safe was a secondary consideration at best. Fortunate, then, that the man himself didn’t seem like the type of person to do anything halfway.

Today, though, something was different. On the way back to base, Jack had been relaxed and easy, content as always to fill in Mac’s silence with a running commentary of his own about what he was most looking forward to when he got back to Texas, but clearly whatever had happened in the command tent had thrown that off. When he finally stomped into the dorm over an hour later, his brow was shadowed and tense, and he didn’t even acknowledge Mac’s presence as he grabbed a clean set of fatigues and headed for the showers.

Sitting cross legged on his bunk with his gear spread out before him, Mac watched him go with troubled eyes. Jack, as anyone in their situation did, occasionally had off days when he was less talkative and clearly wanted to be left alone, but Mac had never seen him turn on a dime quite so quickly.

Truthfully, Mac hadn’t thought him the type. But, he reminded himself forcefully, he still barely knew the man and regardless, it almost certainly wasn’t any of his business. Far better to just keep going through his kit, cataloguing anything he needed to replace or repair, and let Jack work through whatever his problem was on his own; if he wanted to talk to Mac about it, he knew where to find him.

Despite his preoccupation, Mac did end up immersed in his task. Kit checks were dull but important, and he was fastidious enough to make sure he did the job right every single time. As an EOD tech, he was lucky – everyone else had to do mandatory checks before and after any excursions outside of the FOB, no matter how frequent they may be. Officially EOD specialists were supposed to do the same but in deference to their unpredictable schedule and unique loadouts, command typically waived the usual report requirements and let them do their own thing. He was still liable to be disciplined should he get spot checked and fail, but he had a lot more freedom than most people on the base.

He was about halfway through when Jack made his reappearance, freshly washed but looking no happier for it. He dropped his dirty laundry in a heap next to his trunk and flopped down onto his bunk without a word, reaching out a few moments later to fiddle with the ancient radio beside him. He’d told Mac some time ago that he’d inherited it from his dad and it was clear from the reverence with which he spoke about it that it was deeply important to him. Important enough, apparently, that no one else sharing their tent complained when he had it blasting out whatever station he could pick up, even with the god awful crackle that all but drowned out any actual words that might try to come through.

The crackle that was evidently getting worse, going off the horrendous screech the radio let out the moment it was turned on. Mac flinched sharply at the sudden noise, but didn’t protest. Jack, if anything, looked more pissed off at the continued buzzing no matter how he adjusted the dials, rasping and hissing in turns but never letting any clear audio through. After listening to Jack cursing under his breath for a minute or two, Mac figured it was about time he offered a hand.

“That’s not sounding too good,” he pointed out unnecessarily, keeping his voice light. “Want me to take a look?”

“It’s fine,” was the short response, bitten out and frustrated.

Mac rolled his eyes, not catching the warning edge of Jack’s tone. “Look, I know I promised I wouldn’t touch any of your stuff again, but if you let me have a look, I can probably fix it.”

It was an honest offer – the radio was hardly a complicated bit of kit and Mac was pretty sure he already knew exactly what the issue was. If he was right, he could have it fixed inside of five minutes and he wouldn’t even need to cannibalise parts from anything else to do it. Sure the rule might have been that Mac couldn’t touch Jack’s gear again, but they’d been forced to relax that within a week of working together and recently it had felt more like an in-joke than anything.

Apparently, Jack didn’t feel the same.

“Or you’d just break it down for parts like you do with everything else,” he shot back acidly and for the first time, Mac realised the heaviness in Jack’s gaze wasn’t simple fatigue or irritation; he looked pissed . “Yeah, thanks but no thanks. Keep away from my stuff.”

Mac blinked. The words themselves were surprising, but it was the tone that really cut at him; sarcastic and unfriendly and mean . Mocking in a way that Jack often pretended to be when he was trying to lighten the mood, only this time neither of them was laughing. He looked dead serious.

“I-uh,” Mac said haltingly, forcing himself to suddenly adjust his entire perspective on the conversation. He really had just been trying to help. “Right,” he said after an awkward pause. “Sorry.”

He ducked his head and turned back to the gear spread out across his bunk, wishing fiercely he hadn’t bothered to open his mouth in the first place. Cleaning and sorting his kit had suddenly become a much less enthralling task – and it hadn’t exactly been the highlight of his day to begin with – but he kept his eyes down and vehemently forbade his attention from wandering back to his partner.

Less than a minute later, Jack let out a sharp sigh that might have included a curse, and stomped out of the tent. Mac refused to look up.

They didn’t talk about it. The next morning the pair of them loaded into their transport for the day – for once they’d been gifted an MRAP that in any other situation Jack would probably be crowing about – in stony silence that persisted straight through until evening. The only time Jack deigned to talk to him was for mission-critical comms, almost all of which was delivered via radio in a blank monotone that made it abundantly clear how little he actually wanted to be speaking with him. Mac surprised himself by how fiercely he found he missed the usual inane commentary in his ear.

None of it made sense.

Evidently he’d messed up somehow, done something that crossed a line he hadn’t seen, although he had no idea what it could possibly have been. Okay, yes, the radio was obviously important to Jack on some personal level Mac wasn’t allowed access to and maybe he really didn’t want Mac touching it. That was completely fair – Mac wouldn’t have argued against him at all if the man had just said ‘no’ and left it there. Instead his response had been- Well. There were a lot of words Mac could use to describe it and he didn’t really want to confront any of them.

It wouldn’t change the result either way. Mac had a sneaking suspicion that whatever it was he had broken had been something irreparable, especially if Jack wasn’t even going to let him talk it out.

The closest they came to it that day was during their last call-out for the evening, a surprisingly tricky little device some asshole had planted outside of a shop known to serve US soldiers. A bit of petty revenge most likely, but packing enough explosives to level the building and take out anyone unlucky enough to be standing within a twenty metre radius.

“Everyone within half a block of you is gettin’ out of dodge,” Jack reported about half an hour after their arrival. “No sign of whoever put that thing there.”

Mac digested that, doing a quick mental calculation to decide if the evacuation zone was large enough and ultimately deciding that it was. “Good. You set up somewhere?”

“Behind you, thirty metres back.”

There was a tell-tale tickle on the back of his neck that Mac had come to associate with Jack’s scope passing over him. At the start of their partnership it had made him uncomfortable; now, it was distantly reassuring. A part of him wanted to turn around to make sure of Jack’s position himself, but he knew that was sure to piss Jack off even more – he always got jumpy about Mac indicating his position whenever they were out in the field.

“I’m going to be a while,” he said instead of cracking a joke. “This thing’s complicated.”

“Fast as you can.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

There was a telling silence where a sarcastic retort would normally sit, and Mac had to pause for a second to remind himself that the IED in front of him needed his attention far more than his own unimportant tribulations. It wasn’t until another ten minutes had passed that he spoke again. “Okay, I’ve figured out what I’ve got to do, but I’m going to need some of your gum.”

He said it mostly without thinking, too used to being able to just state what he needed and for Jack to freely offer up whatever it was, albeit with some bellyaching about having to give up his stuff. The words were already out of his mouth before he remembered how vehemently Jack had been against Mac being anywhere near his personal possessions just yesterday.

Fortunately, Jack seemed to understand the urgency of the situation, because he simply sighed before saying, “Copy that. On my way to you.”

He didn’t offer any further protest when he appeared at Mac’s back either, handing over the stick of gum without a word, then hunkering down in the alleyway to keep watch with his rifle balanced on his knee. It was strangely normal for all that had come before, except for the silence that still hung over them like a cloud.

Exhausted, and with bigger things to focus on, Mac just went about his job and didn’t say another word.

Jack’s mood continued over the next few days, with little sign of abating. It would have been much easier to bear if Mac had any clue what exactly had triggered it beyond the vague sense that this was all somehow his fault, but it wasn’t like he could just walk up to the man and ask. Any time he’d even thought about striking up conversation or doing anything to try to make peace, Jack’s responses had been sharp and to the point. He didn’t want to talk, that much was clear, and Mac was nothing if not a quick learner.

After the first day of strained silence, he figured it was better to just keep his mouth shut and stay out of Jack’s way.

One thing he hadn’t really counted on was how strange it would feel now to be wandering around base on his own. Since being paired up with Jack, he’d hardly had a minute to himself – the man took his Overwatch duties very seriously even in the relative safety of the FOB – but now he was apparently free to roam as he pleased. Almost as soon as they returned to base each day, Jack took himself off to places unknown with a determined sort of look on his face and usually didn’t reappear again until he fell into bed beside Mac’s at night. Mac very firmly did not think about what that said about Jack’s newly-discovered ambivalence towards his safety. Now, after only a month of that partnership, it felt almost unnatural to be alone again.

At the very least it meant that he was free to go and eat whenever he felt like it, rather than having to bend around Jack’s schedule. It was that line of reasoning that had him heading towards the mess that evening, late enough to miss the main crowd who piled in at 7 but too early to run into the late shift teams who had a second run at things once the night had drawn in. The approach meant that he could count on getting a good table with minimal interference, but it did mean sacrificing any chance of getting decently hot food. The ‘buffet’, such as it was, would be topped up with fresh food at about 10, but for now Mac was stuck with the dried out, cooling remains that no one else had wanted earlier.

He nodded at the woman KP duty, earning an apologetic smile at the state of the food in return, then glanced around the marquee to find somewhere to sit.

A group of camp runners were huddled together in the corner, loudly engaging in a round of ‘I have it worse than you’, but otherwise the place was pretty deserted. With his pick of the tables, Mac settled himself down as far from the runners as he could get, hoping for a little bit of peace, but with no other nearby noise to drown them out, their voices washed over him all the same. They’d taken no notice of his presence beyond a quick check to make sure he wasn’t wearing officer’s stripes and in the absence of any authority, they seemed quite content to air their grievances to anyone close enough to listen.

For the most part he studiously ignored them – he had exactly zero interest in the minutiae of memos being passed around the base – and went about the business of choking down the cold food in front of him quickly enough to avoid its bland flavour.

It wasn’t until he heard a familiar name that he automatically tuned back into the conversation across from him.

“ Please ,” One of the runners was scoffing with an imperial hand wave, “As if Carter is anything to worry about. I’m the one who had to tell Dalton his reassignment request was denied. Thought he was going to take my head off when I said I didn’t know why.”

Mac froze in place, the rest of the discussion fading completely into the background as all the pieces of the puzzle he had been building snapped into place with painful efficiency. So that was why Jack had been so grouchy over the last week, why he’d been so sharp whenever Mac had tried to make conversation: he’d put in a transfer request to get away from him and been shot down. Jack wanted to leave and couldn’t. Of course.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Mac knew how he could come across, had seen how people reacted to all the weird quirks of his personality, and Jack would hardly be the first person in the world to take one look at him and start heading for the hills – hell, he’d barely crack the top hundred. And yet, despite all of that, all of his previous experience warning him that anyone could leave at any time for any reason, Mac still found himself caught wholly off guard.

He'd thought they’d been getting better. Sure, it wasn’t like they were close and half the time they could still barely stand each other, but more and more that had felt like an act they were putting on to avoid revealing they didn’t actually mind each other all that much after all. Clearly he’d been wildly wrong in that assumption. What he’d thought was increasing camaraderie was- what? Nothing but his imagination? Or maybe an attempt on Jack’s part to show the brass that he really had given their partnership an honest shot before trying to bail?

Worse than the simple rejection was how deeply unnecessary it felt. As Mac had so often been reminded, Jack only had twenty-eight days left of his tour before he was headed home for good and none of this would even matter anymore. Was he truly so unhappy with Mac’s partnership that he was going to go through the arduous process of reassignment for the sake of four weeks? He’d just had to stick it out for one more month and he would have been free and clear, and yet somehow that was still too much.

It might have been insulting if it hadn’t been so fucking painful.

But this wasn’t the place for that. None of these were revelations he should be having in the mess hall, in full view of anyone who cared to look in his direction. He shook himself forcefully, surprised to realise that his entire body had gone rigid while his mind raced in all directions, and made himself climb to his feet. There was still some food left on his plate but if it had been unappetising before, now it was positively nausea-inducing. Mac knew he wasn’t getting any of it down his throat without it making a reappearance sooner or later, so he quietly chucked the scraps in the bin, returned his tray, and retreated to the barracks as quickly as he possibly could without drawing attention.

Two of the guys were there, both camped out on their own bunks as they occupied themselves with whatever they got up to in their downtime, but neither did more than nod in acknowledgement as he made his way past them to his own bed. Truthfully, he was glad of the pseudo-privacy. He wasn’t entirely sure what he would have done if Jack had been there – most likely he would have said something regrettable – but in his absence, Mac was free to mull over this new information without interference.

A large, loud part of him demanded that he go and find Dalton right now so they could hash this out, get it all out in the open so that at the very least Mac wouldn’t have to feel so fucking stupid for ever thinking they might have been friends. He’d seen that Jack cultivated a very deliberate amiability with the other guys sharing their bunk, even if they weren’t all on the best terms, and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought for even a second that his Overwatch might be turning the same trick on him. He’d been so goddamn stupid .

Another, much quieter and injured part of him kept insisting that he must have gotten something twisted, connected the wrong wires to the wrong ports, and really this was all some big misunderstanding because he couldn’t bear the alternative.

He ignored them both. As much as he might want not want it to be true, he knew what he’d heard and all the pieces fit together too perfectly for him to have somehow misconstrued their meaning. His own feelings did not affect the facts, and he’d do well to remember that. And fighting with Jack wasn’t going to solve anything, it was just going to upset what little balance they managed to actually maintain. Despite his best efforts, Dalton’s transfer request had been denied so he wasn’t going anywhere for another month – Mac could grin and bear the discomfort until then, even if it meant having to sit next to a man he’d thought a friend for every single one of those twenty-eight days.

The humiliation of it all was almost unbearable, and he knew just how easy it would be to let it become rage instead – but he wouldn’t do that. If Jack wanted to leave then he wouldn’t be the first, which meant the fault almost certainly lay with Mac and there was no point trying to punish the wrong man for it. Sure, Jack pretending they were getting along was kind of a low blow, but it was understandable; they were stuck together in extremely close quarters, might as well act like they were comfortable there, right?

Maybe Jack had had the right idea all along. Mac was the one who hadn’t gotten with the programme already.

Besides, he reminded himself firmly as he bit down on the emotions threatening to get away from him, he hadn’t signed up to be sent into an active warzone to defuse explosives to feel safe . It didn’t matter one jot that Jack had managed to give him that for a time – that wasn’t his job and Mac didn’t have any right to mourn its loss. He needed to grow the fuck up and stop looking to others to protect him – he was a soldier in the US army and it was high fucking time he started acting like it.

With a tight sigh, Mac forced his stressed body to relax and flattened himself against his bunk, glaring a hole in the canvas above him.

Just twenty-eight days, and he could be done with this mess. Four weeks. He could do that.

Despite the bedlam going on inside his head, the heat and the shade must have got the best of him because he was jolted out of a doze an hour or so later by Jack Dalton himself smacking at his foot. He twitched the limb out of range with a muffled grunt of disapproval before his brain caught up with him and he remembered everything that had transpired before he fell asleep. The faux-irritated expression he’d pulled on crumbled instantly into blankness.

Jack blinked down at him, a bemused smirk on his face. Cuttingly, it was the friendliest he had looked in days. “What happened to you?”

Mac frowned, tried to do a quick mental assessment of what he probably looked like. “What?”

“You look like someone kicked your puppy. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Did you wake me up for a reason?”

His Overwatch’s smirk faded somewhat, his eyes taking on that calculating look he normally got a few seconds before he said something much smarter and more observant than Mac would ever have credited him with when they first met. It was almost a relief – focused was a much easier expression to react to than a smile. “Seriously. What’s happened?”

“ Nothing ,” Mac stressed, trying and failing to keep a thread of annoyance out of his tone. “Do you need me for something or can I go back to sleep?”

It wasn’t the right answer, evidently. Jack’s face darkened and he thinned his lips against what was very visibly going to be an annoyed outburst, but in the end all he said was, “On your feet. We’re heading out.”

That was- unusual. He cast a quick glance at the clock. “Now? It’s going to be dark in a few hours.”

“Yeah well, tell that to the T-men. C’mon, get up. I wanna roll out in five.” With that he retreated to his own bunk to retrieve his equipment and resolutely ignored Mac.

Still confused and really wishing that he could just roll over and go back to sleep if only to avoid what was obviously going to be another uncomfortable Humvee ride, Mac obligingly scrambled to his feet and started pulling out his own gear. For all the little bits and pieces of equipment they had to keep track of, both of them kept their packs ready to go at a moment’s notice, so it was really only a matter of slipping on his jacket and vest, then stopping by the mess to refill his water bottle and grab a few energy bars before Mac found himself sliding into the passenger seat of the Humvee. Apparently more prepared than he had been, Jack was already waiting for him.

“Got a bit of a situation a few klicks out,” He announced once Mac was settled. “Looks like someone’s trying to sabotage our communications – a scout team thinks they’ve found an IED on one of our radio towers. Shouldn’t be anything too complicated for you, but there’s a lot of visibility and no cover so we need to get this done ASAP, understand? The scouts are patrolling the area and I’ll have your back, but someone might try to get lucky with a sniper, so keep your head down .”

There was a lot there to work through – most importantly just what Jack meant by on the radio tower – but he didn’t bother voicing any of those questions. He’d see the situation soon enough and his priority needed to be elsewhere. “Did the scout team say what type of device we’re dealing with?”

“Negative. Couldn’t get a good look without approaching and they figured that probably wasn’t a good idea.”

They had likely been correct in that assumption, but it didn’t make Mac’s job any easier. Approaching an unidentified device was nothing new to him, but it wasn’t something that gelled well with the speed at which Jack was evidently hoping this was going to go. If he rushed anything for fear of being shot, he ran a much higher risk of blowing the pair of them up and doing the terrorists’ job for them.

As promised, it wasn’t a long trip and within ten minutes they came to a stop in the gathering gloom, about a hundred metres away from the tower in question. The 150-metre-tall tower. God, this was not going to go well.

“When you said the device was on the tower,” He started slowly, his eyes darting around the ground supports he could see and coming up blank, “You actually meant on , huh?”

Jack snickered, either not noticing or not caring about the thread of uncertainty Mac could feel in his voice. “Hope you’re ready for some climbing.” He paused, then relented slightly by adding, “We don’t have to go the whole way. Report said it was about half way up. There’s a platform for maintenance work.”

If he had noticed the apprehension, evidently he was assuming that Mac just didn’t feel like climbing up there with all his gear dragging him down. Technically he wasn’t wrong about that – he’d just missed the why. Mac wilfully held in a shudder.

“Now, normally I’d say you should wait down here while I go up and see what I can see, but given how open this is, neither of us can risk being up there that long,” Jack said, catching him with one of his no nonsense looks. Dalton might act the fool, but he was still a highly trained army sergeant and despite everything, when he gave orders, Mac would listen. “So we’re going to go up together, okay? You’re going to keep your head down and you’re going to get that device handled as quickly as you can. We’ve not got much daylight left to work with and torches are going to be a dead giveaway of our position, so unless you desperately need more light, you keep it off. Understand?”

“Got it.”

This would really be the time to tell Jack that the very thought of going up that tower was enough to make Mac feel physically nauseous – the man was his Overwatch, he needed to know when Mac couldn’t do his job – but he bit his tongue. There was a bomb somewhere up there and he was the only person in a ten klick radius who had any chance of defusing it. His personal discomfort was nothing against the lives that could be lost should their communications chain fail.

With that in mind, he slipped out of the Humvee and shadowed Jack as he strode towards the tower, not letting himself pause to think before putting his foot on the first rung of the ladder and hoisting himself up.

Here goes nothing .

Something was off with Mac. Jack couldn’t quite put his finger on it, exactly, but he was good at reading people and he’d been watching every single move his bomb nerd made for a solid month now so he had a pretty good idea when something wasn’t right. Right now, hunched over a bomb 250 feet in the air, something was very definitely not okay .

The kid had been quiet for days, wrapped up in his own head about something or other judging by the deeply thoughtful face he’d been wearing, but it had meshed well enough with Jack’s own pisspoor mood that he hadn’t bothered to question it. Mac hadn’t seemed anything more than a little subdued, something any soldier downwind was bound to encounter now and again. Their work was hard and the constant threat of danger could weigh anyone down given enough time. Now though? Now it seemed like more.

Admittedly, the whole bomb-250-feet-in-the-air situation might have been a contributing factor, but Mac had faced down hundreds of IEDs in their time together and he’d never once flinched. Whether he was the bravest man Jack had ever met or he just genuinely had no regard for his own wellbeing was something Jack was still trying to figure out, but the point was, he shouldn’t be acting like this. The situation was far from perfect and every second they spent on that tower had Jack’s anxiety levels ratcheting up, but Mac had always kept a level head.

“How’s it coming over there?”

Mac let out a low grumble of sound, his usual stand-in for when he had too many things going on in his head to worry about actual words.

“That well, huh? Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re running out of daylight so if you wanna-”

“Rushing me isn’t helping,” Mac interrupted before Jack had a chance to finish, carefully pulling a now-disconnected wire from the bundle he had been examining.

“Ain’t trying to rush you, just letting you know-”

“Yeah, well, it’s not helping.”

Jack had worked with plenty of EOD techs who would have given him that response and it would have been the most normal thing in the world. With Mac, it was a glaring red flag. Well, that, as well as the fact that Mac hadn’t even bothered to correct Jack’s repeated assertions that they were perched on a radio mast, when he knew good and well it was actually a telecommunications tower. Momentarily lifting his head away from his rifle scope, trusting that the scouts could hold the fort for the next minute or two, Jack turned to stare at his partner. “What’s going on man?”

“I’m concentrating .”

“I’ve seen you concentrating plenty. That’s not what this is. C’mon, you’ve been weird since this afternoon – is this about the other day? ‘Cause I didn’t mean to snap at you and I’m sorry about that, but right now I need to know that you’re good to do this job.”

Mac huffed a sharp breath out of his nose in frustration, his eyes not leaving the place where he was carefully prying apart the panels of the device’s container. It wasn’t until then that Jack finally noticed the way the kid’s shoulders were up around his ears, his whole body rigid where he was hunched over. His hands didn’t shake in the slightest – a necessity in his line of work – but the rest of him was shuddering with fine tremors.

“Mac-” Jack started, alarms blaring to life in his head. He’d known something was wrong , but clearly he had deeply misjudged just how wrong until he’d actually taken the time to look. Goddamn, he was supposed to the kid’s fucking Overwatch! “I need you to talk to me man.”

There was no response so Jack put his eye back to his scope for another quick scan of the surrounding landscape – still as barren and unoccupied as before – before sliding the rifle strap back over his shoulder and turning fully to face his partner. He was far too well versed in working with EOD to ever touch Mac when he had his hands on an IED, but he only had to wait a few seconds before Mac backed up to fiddle with the tools on his knife and he was free to snatch him by the shoulder and forcibly turn him around.

“Jack, what-”

“Something’s going on with you and we are in way too dangerous a position right now for me to not know what it is so start fucking talking to me Mac.” The shoulder under his hand was rock solid with stress and the kid’s face looked bone pale in the fading light. What really grabbed his attention though was the way Mac had shot out his free hand to snatch blindly at the handrail beside him, anchoring himself where Jack had pulled him off balance. Coupling that with the sudden dart of Mac’s eyes to the yawning chasm of the drop beside them, it wasn’t exactly complicated math. “You’re afraid of heights,” he murmured with sudden realisation, his grip on Mac faltering in the face of his own surprise.

Mac’s expression twisted with some combination of resignation and guilt. “I’m doing fine. Just let me get this thing defused and we can all go home, yeah?”

“You’re afraid of heights and you didn’t think this was important information for me to know before now?” If he hadn’t still been sitting half an inch from an active explosive device, Jack would have shaken him.

“ Jack ,” Mac said, apparently also running to the end of his patience, “I’m fine. I’ve almost got this done and I really, really want to get down from here, so can you please just let me do my job while you worry about yours?”

“Looking out for you is my job, dumbass,” Jack snapped back, but he did at least let go of him and return to his post. As much as he might hate everything about this, the fact was that Mac was already here and there was an IED in desperate need of attention right in front of him. Getting that fixed and getting Mac back on the ground pronto had just become priority uno. “Work fast.”

With the dusk drawing in, it made sense to switch out his scope for the thermal one he’d thoughtfully decided to bring with him, though it did mean he’d have to zero the thing before it would be of much use to him. Then again, any shots ran the risk of drawing attention and from so high up, the sound could travel for miles without hitting anything. He held up the loose thermal scope to his eye while he mulled over the problem, making note of the scouts’ positions and checking any obvious spots for potential shooters. Still nothing.

“I’m not rushing you,” he said lowly, “But do you know what kind of timeframe we’re looking at here?”

Mac hummed absently. “Couple more minutes I think. Starting to need light though.”

Which really only meant they needed to get this over with as soon as possible, for Mac’s sake if nothing else. Jack slid the thermal scope back into its slot on his vest and tugged free the square of tarp attached to his pack. Its official use was to give him something to lie on should he need it when settling into a sniper nest, but right now it was of far more use to both of them as a light break.

“This thing isn’t going to go off if I tuck this around you both, is it?” He asked, holding the tarp where Mac could see it.

Even scared out of his mind and all but shaking with it, Mac caught onto the idea in a heartbeat. “No, we’re good. Just make sure you don’t jostle it.”

Jack did as he was bid, carefully constructing a makeshift tent around Mac and the device so he could use a torch without broadcasting his exact location to anyone in a five-mile radius. It wasn’t perfect, certainly, and from the way Mac’s breathing hitched ever so slightly the confinement was doing nothing for his nerves, but it would have to do for now. That taken care of and trusting that Mac could get on with things without further assistance, Jack returned to his rifle and performed another sweeping check of the area.

Still deserted. A quick check-in with the scouts reaffirmed his conclusion.

It was strange that someone had felt the need to climb up here to plant an IED and then hadn’t even bothered to hang around to see the fruit of their labours, but it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. It would hardly be the first time a would-be bomber had seen the US army rolling in and got the hell out of dodge. Regardless, Jack couldn’t help but count the seconds until he was free to get his infuriating EOD technician back into actual, honest-to-god cover.

“How’s that vertigo treating you?” He asked, more to distract his own mind from the sudden, crippling mental image of Mac being taken out by a sniper bullet Jack had no chance of stopping than out of any genuine curiosity. Mac wasn’t going to be happy until he had his feet back on terra firma, that much was clear.

“If you’re trying to help, stop. It’s not working,” was the irate reply.

Despite the gravity of their situation – literally – Jack snickered. “You’re mean as a snake when you’re uncomfortable, aren’t you?”

Mac didn’t bother responding to the dig at all. It could be down to his discomfort at their current predicament, but Jack’s instincts were warning him that there was something more going on here and he’d long since learned to trust his gut when it was trying to tell him something. Another anxious look over his shoulder revealed nothing more than that his tarp tent was mostly doing its job of stopping light spilling out into the growing darkness.

His normal go-to technique for prompting Mac to open up was teasing, but evidently that wasn’t going to get him anywhere this time. Certainly not when they were still so high in the air. Perhaps this was a conversation better saved for when the device was defused and they were back safe in the Humvee on the way back to base; at the very least, Mac couldn’t escape him that way.

Right on cue, the faint glow of Mac’s torch snapped off and his blonde head poked up out of his mini tent. “We’re good.”

“Defused?”

“Yeah. Explosives are still a risk though – we can’t leave them up here.”

Jack eyed the bulky shape still hiding beneath the tarp. “Getting that thing down isn’t going to be easy, kid.”

Mac might have scowled at that, but in the dwindling light it was hard to be sure. “I know that, but no clean-up crew is going to be getting out here until tomorrow morning and a well-placed incendiary round could still set this thing off. I can’t leave it.”

“Okay, okay, I getcha,” Jack soothed. “How’re we doing this then?”

“I can take it apart. Split the weight and the bulk between us. Nothing’s motion or impact sensitive any more so we don’t need to be that careful.”

Jack obligingly slipped off his pack and pushed it in Mac’s direction, trusting him to have a better idea of how they could get everything down safely and instead using the time to dismantle the makeshift rest he’d constructed. Attuned to each other as they were, it was the work of mere moments.

In the interests of getting Mac out of the line of fire – and back on the ground – as fast as possible, Jack ushered him down the ladder ahead of him while he radioed the scouts to fill them in. They returned a chorus of relieved gratitude and promised to maintain their position until Mac and Jack were well on their way out of there, making sure that whoever had set the device in the first place didn’t come back to try again. Already feeling exhausted and knowing he had a debrief waiting for him back on base, aside from whatever the hell was going on with his bomb tech, Jack wrestled down a sigh, and started making his way down the ladder.

He was pleasantly surprised to find Mac waiting for him at the bottom. Jack had long ago implemented a rule that Mac was to stick to his side like glue whenever they were moving in potentially hostile territory, but with whatever was going on with the kid, he hadn’t entirely expected it to hold. That it had was encouraging.

“Alright, let’s- get out of here,” Jack announced on reaching the ground, only just managing to cut himself off from saying ‘blow this joint’ . Mac might normally appreciate the gallows humour, but now was almost certainly not the time.

As if to demonstrate that point, Mac just nodded silently and fell into step just behind his Overwatch without a word.

One of the scouts had been keeping watch over their ride to make sure no one left them any nasty surprises while they were otherwise occupied, though he melted into the shadows of the night as soon as they reappeared. Comforted in the knowledge that he didn’t have to waste any more of his evening waiting for Mac to do a trap check, Jack gratefully folded himself back behind the driving seat and heaved a great sigh of relief. Mac twitched at the sound, but said nothing.

In deference to their shared fatigue, Jack let the silence reign for a solid minute before he broached the subject. “So,” he started slowly, “I get the feeling you and I need to talk.”

Mac’s eyes flicked to him too quickly to be casual, but still he stayed silent. Well, if that was the game he wanted to play, he was damn well going to have to listen, wasn’t he?

“Let’s start by saying that you not telling me about the heights thing was reckless as all hell man, and I mean really, really stupid.” He did what he could to keep the anger out of his voice, but did nothing to soften the seriousness of his tone. For their partnership to work then they needed to be able to trust each other with their flaws and weaknesses; without that, they wouldn’t stand a chance. “You gotta tell me when there’s something going on that’s going to affect your ability to do your thing, no matter what it is. It doesn’t matter if you think it’s something small or unimportant, you have to fill me in. I’m not going to judge you for it if that’s what you’re worried about, but the only way I can do my job is if you’re honest with me. You get what I’m saying to you?”

The blonde was back to his usual sullen trick of staring straight out of the windshield, seemingly seeing nothing, but he did at least incline his head. Even when they’d first been starting out, he hadn’t been this difficult.

“Right. Well. If that’s out of the way, you planning on telling me what’s going on in that head of yours? Something’s been bothering you since this afternoon and clearly it’s important. Fill me in?”

Mac’s forcefully blank expression momentarily fractured into a frown before he got it back under control. “I’m fine Jack. Just tired. I wasn’t expecting to get called out again tonight.”

That was a reasonable excuse, except for the fact he was clearly lying. “Yeah, I’m not buying that. Didn’t I just get done telling you that you needed to let me know when something was going on with you? Whatever this is, I’m pretty sure it qualifies.”

The frown reappeared and didn’t immediately melt away again. Annoyance wasn’t exactly what Jack was aiming for, but at least he was getting a response. “I think I just proved that I’m perfectly capable of doing my job.”

Jack couldn’t help the sharp sigh that escaped him as frustration started to seep into his bones. Clearly he’d miscalculated just how far from alright Mac really was in that moment. Maybe he should have been paying better attention over the last few days after all; well, lesson learned, at least. “I know you are man,” he tried as gently as he was able. “That’s not what I’m getting at. But something’s clearly thrown you off your game and I want to help if I can, okay? This job’s rough enough at the best of times; you don’t need t’be adding to the pile.”

If Mac recognised that for the olive branch it was, he made no sign of it. His only outward reaction was to return his eyes firmly to the windshield and clench his hands together to keep himself from fiddling with a piece of wire he’d been worrying at since they started driving. There was a long, strained pause; Jack desperately wanted to press the matter, but he knew Mac well enough to know that trying would only shut him down further. If Mac didn’t want to share whatever was going on in his head, then he wouldn’t – it was as simple as that.

Fortunately for Jack though, Mac had never seemed all that comfortable with expectant silences. “It’s nothing. I’m just working through something in my head. Don’t worry about it.”

“Mac… Is this about the other day? ‘Cause I meant what I said up there; I’m sorry I lost my temper. It wasn’t ‘cause of anything you did-”

“Look,” Mac said with sudden force, dispensing of his heretofore unconvincing meekness and turning to put Jack directly into his sightline. “I get it. It’s fine. I’m sorry your request got denied but it’s- We’re both stuck here, okay? We’ve got four weeks left and then you can get back home and put all of this behind you. We’ve just gotta get through one more month.”

For the first time in a very, very long time, Jack was stunned into utter silence. Mac apparently took his frozen expression for one of acceptance and turned back to stare straight ahead with a sharp nod, as though they’d come to some sort of arrangement. Jack, for his part, did his best not to crash the Humvee into a ditch as the bottom of his stomach dropped away.

Then he rethought quickly; to have this conversation he definitely needed to be able to keep his eyes on his partner and driving wasn’t exactly conducive to that. He hit the brakes and pulled over. Mac chirped in surprise.

“Okay, woah, hold on,” Jack started, turning bodily to face the man beside him. “Let’s slow it down real quick because I think I’ve missed something here. What are you talking about man?”

Mac blinked at him like he was the one acting weird. “What?”

“What what?”

The blonde scowled faintly, but it wasn’t entirely clear if it was actually directed at Jack. Regardless, he relented with a sigh. “I heard about your transfer request getting shot down. I’m guessing that’s why you were so pissed off? Well, I’m sorry about it. You shouldn’t be stuck with me if you don’t want to be.”

A lot of things suddenly made a lot of sense. Jack could have kicked himself – he would certainly have deserved it. “That’s not- You’ve not heard the whole truth there, man. Shit I’m sorry, it’s-” He bit down hard on his tongue and forced himself to get the words in order. Mac seemed willing to take his stumbling apology as an embarrassed confirmation of the story he’d so readily believed and to be honest, Jack could hardly blame him.

“It isn’t what it sounds like, I promise you,” he said carefully. “I didn’t tell you about the request and that was stupid, but I swear I wasn’t trying to get away from you.”

Mac snorted very softly, a grim smile playing at the corner of his mouth for a moment before he choked it down. In all their time together, Jack had never seen him look so bitter.

“I mean it. I don’t know what you heard, but the request was for both of us.” That got Mac’s head snapping up to stare at him in visible confusion. Jack’s chest clenched painfully with emotion he didn’t want to put a name to. “I heard a rumour we’re being shunted to Paktia to shore up the EOD team in Gardez. They’ve taken some heavy hits lately and want more hands on deck.”

Mac’s brow was furrowed, clearly not entirely trusting what he was hearing but at least willing to listen. Given the circumstances, Jack was surprised he was even allowing that much. “And you didn’t want to go?”

“Hell no,” Jack said instantly. “The Gardez boys might need help but I don’t want to put you within a hundred miles of that place. Ghazni ain’t been kind to you, but at least it hasn’t blown your fool head off; worst we’ve had to deal with here is individual cells trying to make things difficult. Paktia’s crawling with T-men.”

“All the more reason we should be there, helping.”

“Yeah, and what happens in a month when I ship out and you’re stuck there without me to watch your back, huh? I don’t know who your new Overwatch is gonna be and if I can’t be sure they’re gonna have your back, I want to at least try to keep you as safe as I can while I’m here. I put in the request to shift us to Wardak instead. It ain’t safe there either, but it would have given you a cleaner run at things.” He huffed, remembering the raging argument he’d had with the Captain when his request had been denied. Looking back, he’d been lucky to walk away without disciplinary action but he didn’t regret it for a second. “’Course, none of that matters now, since we’re heading to Gardez regardless.”

He forced himself to meet Mac’s eyes and tried not to flinch at the calculating look being shot back at him. Evidently his partner needed a moment to work out whether or not Jack was lying to him to try to save face and that-

-That hurt. It was fair, completely fair , given that Jack had given him exactly no heads up about what was happening before going behind his back to try to rearrange his life without permission, but it was still crushing to realise how badly he’d fucked up. Their start together had been rocky, to say the least, but Mac had a kind of honest goodness about him that made him impossible to dislike after about thirty minutes of knowing him. Put together with his dry humour, endless patience, and his literal, honest-to-god genius, and Jack hadn’t stood a chance of not befriending the kid. It was somewhat convenient that it was Jack’s job to watch Mac’s back, because he had the sense he’d want to spend every second he could trying to protect him.

Then again, that’s what the transfer request had been about and look how that had all turned out. God, he was such a fucking idiot.

“I should have told you all of this before I did anything, I know that. I’m really sorry for it, and I’m even more sorry that you ended up finding out the way you did. That was shitty and you didn’t deserve it for a second. But I promise you, none of it had anything to do with me not wanting to be here.”

There was a pause while Mac’s face did something complicated, then he asked quietly, “You weren’t trying to get away from me?”

“Not for a single second, kid. I would never.”

It was the honest truth and yet Jack knew instinctively that it wasn’t going to sink in in the way he wished it would. Mac hadn’t talked about home all that much in their time together, and what he had let slip had some gaping holes where family should have been; Jack was good enough at hearing what people weren’t saying to understand that at some point, someone had let the kid down badly. Now, apparently, he had to add his own name to that list.

This was all such a goddamn mess .

Whether or not he bought Jack’s attempt at reassurance, Mac did at least appear to accept the truth of his account with a small, thoughtful nod. To be honest, even if he hadn’t believed it, this was something Jack could easily prove once they were back at base by digging out the request file, but it was comforting to know that he hadn’t screwed up so badly Mac couldn’t take him at his word.

“Okay,” Mac said softly, still frowning thoughtfully but no longer twisted up with bitterness and hurt. “Okay. I understand. Sorry for leaping to conclusions, I guess.”

“You ain’t got nothing to be sorry for,” Jack replied instantly. This was not the kid’s burden to bear. “I should have told you. You have every right to be pissed as hell about it, even knowing the truth.”

“That’s not- It’s fine,” Mac said haltingly, not meeting Jack’s eyes. “I appreciate you looking out for me.”

Jack watched him for a long minute as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, taking in all the tiny little signs of distress he should have noticed days ago. It was only now that he was really looking that he could see how fucking exhausted he looked. Like the whole world had come crashing down on him and he was still trying to soldier on under its weight like nothing was wrong.

“Man, I really fucked up, huh?” He murmured quietly. Mac’s gaze twitched to him and away. Louder, he said, “I let you down and I’m sorry for that. I promise, no more secrets.”

There was a pause, then Mac seemed to decide something because he turned to look at him properly again. “That mean you’re going to tell me what you’ve been up to the last couple of days?” At Jack’s blink of surprise, he actually managed the shadow of a smile, despite everything that had happened. “What? You think just because I’m not Overwatch I’m not paying attention?”

Jack couldn’t help but grin at the spark of life returning to his partner’s tone. Of course he’d noticed when Jack had made himself scarce around the FOB. “I watch you and you watch me, huh? Should have known.” He shook his head ruefully. “Well, in that case, if you really want to know, I’ve been hitting up my contacts.”

Mac’s eyebrows rose. Jack rubbed at the back of his neck self-consciously.

“Yeah, yeah, I know I’m just a grunt but I know some people okay? I figured that if I couldn’t get us reassigned from Gardez, at least I could rope in someone I trust to replace me when I’m gone. No one’s as good as me, o’course, but it would be something at least.”

It took Mac a moment to digest that, as if trying to work out what he should react to first. In the end, he settled on, “I don’t think you’re a grunt.”

That was news to him. “No?”

Mac’s smile was a careful thing, like he wasn’t sure this was something he was allowed. “You play a good game, but you know way too much about- well, everything to not have been through something more than bootcamp.”

Jack should have known that he couldn’t get anything by a kid as smart as Mac obviously was, but he was still struck with a quiet swell of pride at how easily his EOD had figured him out.

“Plus, you know you’re by far the highest ranked Overwatch sniper on base? There can’t be many sergeants electing to watch bomb nerds day in and day out.”

There was an obvious question in there, but Mac was still too unsure of the situation to ask him straight up who he’d managed to piss off to get lumped with babysitting duty. And, honestly, that was a whole can of worms that Jack really didn’t want to dig into right now – or ever, really. Instead, he deflected. “Oh? That almost sounded like a compliment. You been checking out my record?”

“No. But if I did, I’d be surprised if most of it wasn’t redacted. Am I wrong?”

He definitely wasn’t. Jack’s smile was sharp as he started up the Humvee again. “You sound like you have some idea already.”

It was a clear invitation and, with only a slight hesitation, Mac took it. “You’re observant in a way that has to be taught. You seem too well travelled for it to not have been international, so I’m guessing CIA. Then there’s the tactical stuff – command wouldn’t ask for your opinion unless you’d been involved in something important. Putting that with that team of yours you sometimes mention without meaning to, I’m guessing you were special forces of some description. That’d explain the rank too.” He hummed thoughtfully. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re stuck watching me though.”

Jack whistled in surprise. Evidently Mac had been paying much more attention than he’d given him credit for. “I’m not stuck doing anything,” he protested lightly. “I like working Overwatch; it’s more relaxing than most gigs.”

Mac shot him a wry smile. “So I’m right then?”

He chuckled easily, letting the strain of their earlier conversation start to bleed out of his shoulders as they settled back into their usual patter. He hadn’t realised until right then just how much he’d missed it and from the way Mac was leaning back in his seat, he was thinking much the same. “About pretty much everything,” he confirmed. “You’re far too smart for your own good, you know that right?”

There was a pause. “You aren’t going to tell me what branch of the special forces you were in, are you?”

“You’re a smart kid,” he said with a broad smile. “You’ll work it out.”

The scene I didn't write is in a few weeks, after Mac's done some thinking and some very careful asking around and he sidles up to Jack one afternoon and very quietly says 'Delta'. Jack smiles, says 'Hooah', and neither of them mention it again.

#MacGyver #angus macgyver #jack dalton #sandbox fic #sandbox #army days #fanfiction #my fanfic #Everyone's OOO but it's for the angst #let me have my angst #Mac and Jack

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lailyn · 3 years ago

Text

This Magical Journey Called Multiple (Chapter 1)

Pairing: Loki/Tony Stark/Stephen Strange

Tags: Angst, Fluff, Drama, Idiots In Love, Mpreg

Summary: Loki thought he had struck gold this lifetime around, having found not one, but two loves at once. This new life he is carrying could only be a blessing, so why isn't everybody happy?

“I am not injured,” Loki insisted. “It was the heat, it must have gotten to me.”

“It’s still a good idea to take it easy, Bambi. Heat stroke is one of those things that can hit you from out of nowhere,” Tony said.

At Stephen’s mildly-impressed look, Tony gave a modest shrug. “We’ve been together how long? Of course I’ve picked up a few things.”

Stephen rolled his eyes. “At least something good has come out of it.”

Ignoring Tony’s indignant ‘Hey!’, Stephen conjured a tall, cool glass of water and offered it to Loki, who looked all manner of singed save for his armour. “But Tony’s right. There may not be external burn injuries, but we humans are about seventy percent water, and I’m guessing you’re not that far off either.”

“I’m not a child,” Loki grumbled. Nevertheless, he dutifully accepted the drink and took a few long gulps, stopping abruptly when a sudden nauseous feeling assaulted his senses the moment the water hit his stomach. “Tony, please don’t make that face. It’s making me want to do things.”

“I can’t help it. It’s my fault. I should have - ”

“No should haves, could haves,” Loki interrupted. “Stop it. Shit happens.”

“Language,” Tony admonished lightly but his body language was still steeped in guilt.

“Guess I’ve picked up a few things too,” Loki murmured, nodding gratefully at Stephen as his husband stepped in to wrap an arm around Tony’s shoulders. Not only was the Sorcerer Supreme a good lay in bed, he was a mind-reader too. Loki sure got lucky this time around.

Tony straightened up a little in Stephen’s one-armed embrace. “Glad you guys had my back or I would have been smoked brisket.”

At the mention of brisket, the nausea reared its monstrous head again and Loki gagged.

“Let’s get you out of the sun.” Stephen was beginning to sound worried now. “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine,” Loki said, swallowing compulsively. Before either of his overbearing husbands could argue, (they were always so noisy when they fussed) he corrected himself, “I will be fine.”

“Right,” Tony snorted. “Nice try. Come on, up. Next time, don’t skip breakfast.”

Stephen snorted even louder. “And the frying-pan said to the kettle, 'Avant, black-browes'.”

“I don’t know what you just said, but it can’t be good,” Tony grunted, nearly toppling under Loki’s weight, who really was more unsteady than he was letting on. “Will you boom-boom-whoosh us a portal already?”

Stephen shook his head and wrapped his arm around Loki’s waist, taking on some of the burden.

“I can walk,” Loki whined.

“Sure you can,” Stephen said kindly. “We just happen to do it better.”

__________________________________________________________

Tony didn’t know how anybody could sleep with the AC blowing full-blast in their face but Loki did just that, and for twelve hours straight too. Their not-strictly-human husband had never slept for such a long stretch of time and it could only be a testament to his exhaustion.

As he closed the bedroom door behind him to give Loki some privacy while he freshened up in the bathroom, his worried eyes met Stephen’s equally troubled gaze.

“Think he’s coming down with something?” Tony asked quietly.

“He seemed fine yesterday when the call came, and he was fighting fit," Stephen mulled as they walked back toward the kitchen together. “Wasn’t he?”

“Yeah, he took down those Doombots like they were nothing. He did that flashy move of his, you know the one where he’s like ribbon-dancing in the sky, except his ribbons turned into deadly blades the minute they came into contact with a Bot.”

“I have to take your word for it, I guess. I was kinda busy keeping a few buildings standing,” Stephen said enviously, as it was a sight he wouldn’t have minded seeing himself. Watching Loki in battle was always a spectacle, even back when they were still rivals.

Tony must have misconstrued the envy in his voice and decided that a little teasing was in order. “Aw, I’m sure you were great, honey.” He reached out to squeeze Stephen’s bicep. “Feeling a little sore there?”

“I held them up by magic but thank you for asking,” Stephen said dryly. “I wouldn’t mind a massage though, if you’re offering me one.”

“I’ll see if I can fit you in my tight schedule.” Kisses stolen in passing whilst walking down hallways were often sweet, made sweeter still by the relief Tony could feel bleeding through their locked lips. It had not been too long ago that they had almost lost Loki to that terrible illness, and it was that same shared fear that had plagued both Stephen and him since yesterday.

As they sat back down to their now-cold breakfast, he could see just how much Stephen’s face had brightened. The appetite that was almost killed by JARVIS’ mid-meal interruption to inform them that Loki was finally awake came back with a vengeance, and Tony shoveled his eggs into his mouth like a man starving.

It was after a few bites that he deemed his hunger momentarily sated enough to broach another issue that had been weighing on him.

"How was Loki...the night before last?" Tony asked tentatively.

It was an arrangement only recently agreed upon that they made use of the ten bedrooms in the penthouse, with each claiming a bedroom of his own and still having the freedom to choose where and with whom to spend the night. It came about after Stephen's odd hours and Tony's unpredictable work frenzies clashed with Loki's need for absolute silence when sleeping.

Tony had never met a lighter sleeper in his life. So when Stephen got called out on Sorcerer Supreme business for three nights in a row, it did not surprise either of them when Loki, tired of the interruptions to his beauty sleep, set fire to the bed.

Tony wished the mercurial God of Chaos could spare the custom-made, eiderdown-covered Alaskan king bed...alas, new beds he could always buy, but there was only one of Loki.

"Sleep in separate bedrooms! It's the secret to a happy marriage, don't you ever watch The Crown?" Pepper had said, rubbing salt into the wound the next day when he called her up the next day to moan. "God knows you have enough rooms to sleep in a different one for every night of the month."

Which was an exaggeration of course, for only the top floor of the penthouse had four bedrooms on the same floor, one for each of them, and the biggest, most lavish one reserved for when they needed to spend time together as a proper throuple.

Clearly perturbed by Tony's question, Stephen carefully set his fork back on his plate. "Could you be more specific?"

"Did he seem a little...impatient to you?"

"Impatient?" Stephen frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You know…" Tony drawled, "More...urgent. Demanding."

"You mean horny," Stephen deadpanned.

"Shhh. You know he doesn't like that word!" Tony whispered loudly. "It depreciates his aesthetic."

Stephen chuckled. "You can say horny, Tony. Loki's not here."

"And now he is," a sultry voice suddenly spoke from behind, and Stephen nearly yelped.

"Loki!" He gasped. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," Loki said coolly, sliding into the empty chair beside Tony, to whom he directed his next question. "So what else does he say about me when I'm not here?"

"Only the most flattering things, sweetness." Tony rubbed his hand up and down Loki's back. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I'm drunk on sleep." Loki's nostrils flared as he tried to kill the oncoming yawn but failed. "But not bad. You?"

"Nothing an Advil or two can't fix." Tony reached out a hand to stop Loki from stealing a piece of toast off his plate. "I think Stephen's wanting to take your spinal fluid or brain tissue or something first."

Stephen rolled his eyes. "Just your blood will do."

"Why?" Loki whined. "I hate those adamantium needles, they itch like a bitch."

Tony let out a scandalous whisper. "Language!"

"I want to make sure there's no electrolyte imbalance and that your sugar level's okay. You were vomiting quite profusely yesterday," Stephen said,

"I'm not anymore," Loki pointed out. "I feel absolutely fine."

"It's just a precaution, Loki," Stephen tried again but before he could say anything further, Loki held up a regal hand.

"And I can tell you with absolute certainty that my blood sugar level is very low because I am very, very hungry and if you do not feed me within the next thirty seconds I will eat your face," he growled. "Literally."

Stephen slowly, wordlessly, slid his plate across the table.

"Thank you, Stephen," Loki said sweetly before attacking the egg-white and quinoa omelette with gusto. He swallowed the first bite and made a face. "This is nasty."

A heated debate and a number of mortal threats later, Loki was well on his way out the door. “Anytime today, Stark. Get a move on.”

“Can’t you go?” Tony pleaded. “I’ve never done my own grocery shopping before.”

Stephen looked at him incredulously. “You don’t have to do anything. You just have to prepare the money when he asks and make sure he doesn’t buy out every stall he happens to like.”

Loki tapped his foot impatiently. “Shall I go by myself then?”

“No!” Both Stephen and Tony said in unison.

“Nice try, Bambi,” Tony added. To Stephen, “You owe me.”

“This and more.” Stephen kissed Tony quickly. “Bring him back in one piece if you can. Oh, and I’m speed-dial number one, two and three on both your phones.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

Stephen's eyes disappeared behind his smile. “Loki, babe? Can you come here for a sec?”

Loki marched back to where Stephen and Tony were still huddled by the kitchen counter. “What is it now?”

Stephen dropped an effervescent electrolyte tablet into a glass of water. “Drink this before you go. You need to replenish your electrolytes.”

Loki groaned. “Stephen, I am electrolyted up to my eyeballs. Enough, please.”

“Today’s going to be a hot day, according to the weather forecast,” Stephen warned. “Can’t risk you getting dehydrated again.”

“It can’t possibly be hotter than yesterday," Loki said. He turned to Tony. "You need to figure out how to increase your heat resistance to Doom's fire-breathing Bots, I can't be covering you all the time. What if I'm not there?"

Stephen’s gaze vacillated between his two lovers in alarm. “Are we expecting any trouble today?”

“No, it was simply a theoretical question,” Loki said patiently. “Tony needs to build better suits.”

“And you need to see a sleep hygienist,” Tony said, just as sweetly. “Can’t have you burning any more beds. We are living in a high-rise, you know.”

Loki shrugged. “It’s not like both of you can’t fly.”

Stephen chuckled, “He’s got a point.”

“Whose side are you on?” Tony grumbled to himself. “Are we going or what?”

Stephen sighed. If he had not made prior arrangements to visit Kamar-Taj that day, he would have been more than happy to take Tony’s place.

He kissed Loki, a tad harder than usual. "Be careful, you two."

Loki laughed. "We're going to the market, Stephen, not off-world to another planet."

“Thank you for the reassurance, Loki.”

Loki’s kiss took Stephen by surprise, not so much the hard pinch Loki gave his cheek. “You fret too much.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s sweet.” Loki’s green eyes glinted. “Makes me want to eat your face every time.”

__________________________________________________________

Strolling the gorgeous Botanical Garden in the Bronx at this time of year was...interesting. Being public figures, it was a given that they would be recognised, but most everybody gave them a wide berth, wholly content with admiring from afar.

If Tony had reservations before, they disappeared quickly enough. Loki’s excitement and appreciation for the diverse arrays of artisan foods was contagious, and as they went from stall to stall perusing the seasonal produce on offer, Tony found himself in danger of doing the very thing he had promised Stephen he would keep Loki from doing.

“That was the best goat cheese I’ve ever tasted,” Tony gushed, arms laden with carrier bags full of cheeses, preserves and a variety of herb-infused olive oils. “You sure this is enough?”

“Nope,” Loki said. “But next week we can get Stephen to come with us and buy some more.”

“Sounds like a plan. Your ice cream’s melting.”

Loki held it out and Tony took a lick. “That’s yum.”

“You can have it if you want,” Loki said, sounding suddenly faint.

Tony frowned. “What’s the matter?”

Loki took in a few deep breaths, his face suddenly the colour of parchment. “I don’t know.”

The ice cream cone slipped out of his hand onto the ground when he abruptly bent at the waist, propping himself on his knees. “Just...give me a moment.”

Tony fumbled with the bags, managing to shift them all onto one hand, freeing the other so he could take Loki’s arm. He led his husband to a bench and sat him down.

“Do you feel sick again?” Tony asked, palming Loki’s forehead. His hand came away clammy. “ Do you need some water?”

Loki nodded his head to the first question, and shook his head to the second. His throat bobbed up and down erratically as though he was trying very hard not to lose the content of his stomach in front of all these people.

“I’m calling Stephen.”

“No!” Loki lunged to try to snatch the phone out of Tony’s hand, but the sudden movement sent a jolt of pain like a knife to his stomach. He doubled over and moaned in pain.

“Loki.” Tony dropped onto the bench and placed a hand on the small of Loki’s back. “Shit, shit, shit.” He stabbed the speed dial on his phone and began to pace. “Come on, come on, pick up.”

By a stroke of fortune, Stephen answered before the first dial tone ended, his “Yeah?” a cross between irritable and amused.

“We have a situation,” Tony said tensely.

“That bad, huh?”

Stephen’s indifference was expected given Tony’s propensity for drama, but today was not the day. "Strange, I’m not kidding. I think you need to come get us.“

"Loki may not have the patience for fresh produce and mingling but I’m sure I can trust you to keep him from terrorising the poor farmers for a few hours,” Stephen said, letting out a small chuckle at the imagery. “Or has he stabbed someone already?”

Tony remained uncharacteristically silent.

“Tony?” Stephen began to feel uneasy. “Please tell me Loki did not actually stab someone?”

“Loki’s not feeling well."

There was a sudden pause. When next Stephen spoke, his voice sounded strange. "Well, come on home.”

Loki lifted his head, as though he was listening in on the conversation all along.

“Can you walk?” Tony asked quietly. He helped Loki to his feet, only to regret it a second later. He did not think it was possible for Loki’s face to go that many shades paler, but it did.

Tony cradled the phone to his ear and quickly pushed his swaying husband back onto the bench. “Yeah…that’s a negative.”

Another pause ensued; thankfully it was a shorter one this time.

“Stay where you are.”

TBC

#ironstrangefrost #frostiron #strangefrost #ironstrage #pregnant loki #mpreg #mpreg loki #fic

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hopecountyisforlovers · 3 years ago

Text

movie night;

rating: general

pairing: martin blackwood x xandyr jameson

words: 2273

summary: i sat down and said "i'm gonna write martin and xandyrs first kiss" and what i actually wrote is 2200 words of pining with one paragraph about kissing. #oops

----------x----------

It's hard to pinpoint exactly when Xan fell in love with Martin, in the same way it's hard to pinpoint the exact moment the sun rises in the morning. The more he thinks about it, all the most natural things in the universe seem to happen that way- in the spaces between blinks, when you aren't exactly paying attention.

Martin's makeshift bedroom smells like old papers and discarded academia, just like the rest of the Institute- and yet it's weaker here. Overshadowed by lemons and tea and raw sunshine. Xan fidgets, nervous- sometimes he cannot help but think that he is polluting this space just by being here. That it's an act of pure selfishness that he's here almost every night anyway. Stacks of unfiled something-or-other forms litter the floor of the dimly lit room, some with old rings from discarded cups of tea where he's clearly been using them as makeshift desks.

Xan swallows hard- his mouth is dry, his heart racing. He's considering leaving- considering telling Martin he's had an emergency and that he has to leave him alone in this dark, depressing place for the night. It'd hurt him in the moment, sure, and he'd hate himself for the look of shattering that would pass over his soft, round features- but it wouldn't hurt him as much in the long run, as much as if he found out the truth about him.

At least- that's what he tells himself. But like everything else about him, it's a lie. If he left.... leaving would be even more selfish than staying. Martin needs someone, now- and in his more extreme flights of fancy, he can sometimes delude himself into thinking that someone might be him.

Light floods into the room from outside as the door opens- Martin smiles at him, all freckles and white teeth and fluorescents reflecting joyfully off his round glasses, and Xan would swear on all the things that were holy the light was coming directly from him. Had he really been thinking about leaving just a second ago? He's pushing a small cart with an ancient TV atop it, sitting squatly on the haunches of an equally-as-ancient VHS player. And of course- two cups of tea, adorning either side of the cart like decorations. Underneath is a tray of cupcakes, on top of a stack of assorted tapes- had he made them or bought them? Xan doesn't think he would care if he was trying to poison him with them.

"S-sorry I'm so late! I thought, well- it's a bit boring in here, with nothing to really uh, do-" He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish, "So I thought we could, er- put on a movie or two! I mean, if you want. If not, well, I could take it back, or-"

Xan shakes his head rapidly in denial- not because he cares particularly whether or not they put on a movie, but because he doesn't want him to leave. "A few movies sounds....nice. As long as they aren't, uh...cursed videotapes, o-or something. Knowing this place...." His attempt at humor falls only a bit flat as blue eyes go wide behind thick frames- as if Martin himself was just now considering that the Institute might house cursed videotapes. Xan can't help but laugh a little at the owlish expression. Martin's eyes narrow playfully.

"Havin' a laugh at me, are you? Cheeky bugger," a laugh shakes his broad shoulders, "Keep it up and I won't share any of these cupcakes!"

Xan knows hes bluffing in the same instant he knows he won't call him on it- sharing is to Martin what breathing is to most other people. It might actually kill him to eat a full tray of cupcakes while someone watched. He messily pantomimes zipping his lips closed in a way he hopes looks natural, although he can feel he's still smiling. The door closes behind Martin as he hands him his cup of tea, still steaming hot, and turns to the old television, flipping it on and lighting up the room in a bright blue. Xan sips his tea as he watches him fiddle with the dials and controls. Luckily for them both, it seems like the VHS player is already pre-hooked up to the television.

"What kind of movies do you like?" The question catches him off guard, makes his heart beat faster out of anxiety as opposed to anything pleasant. It occurs to him that he has no answer for this question- he can't even remember if he's ever seen a film before.

"Ah- All kinds! I-it is your room! We should watch, uh..whatever... whatever you want!" It's said too quickly, with a layer of fear that's hard to shake, but Martin doesn't seem to notice. Instead he's looking at him like he's given him a gift- his heart stops all together, twists like it's being wrung out.

"Whatever I want? Really?"

This man is going to be the death of him.

Xan nods as he sips his tea, even though it burns his mouth a bit. It's something to do with his mouth besides further dig himself into a hole, in any case. "Whatever you want!"

"O-okay! But don't... laugh, alright?" He pulls a VHS out of the stack underneath the cupcakes, and displays it for him to see- on the front cover of the box, an attractive women is in a loving embrace with an attractive man. The blurbs on the box promote it as being "heartwarming" and "the love story of our generation". He doesn't laugh, but he does smile- has he stopped smiling since Martin came in the room? He thinks it should start to hurt at some point, being this happy, but it never does- not his face, anyway, and not while it's happening. It's so typically the kind of thing Martin might watch that he feels like he could have guessed, when presented with the stack.

"I know, I know, it's a...well. A bit of a ladies picture, but..." His face flushes a high enough pink to be visible even through the cerulean light of the television that slants over his features. Xandyr's tea shakes in his hands and he has to drink another long sip to make sure it doesn't spill. It tastes sweet on his tongue, like syrup and honey, so cloying it threatens to choke him- just the way he likes it. "It's one of my favorites! I- I promise it's quite good!"

He trusts him implicitly, with a lot more than their choice of movies to watch- a knife through his chest, reminding him what he's doing is wrong. Martin cannot trust him implicitly in turn- there is nothing within him to be trusted in.

Martin pops the movie into the VHS player, which makes a whirring sound as if it is oh-so-put-upon by the task of having to do its job. For all Xan knows, it might be. It looks older than both of them put together. But it accepts the movie, beginning to play previews and coming soon featurettes that look much crisper than he expected they would. A warmth against his thigh snaps him out of staring at the TV screen- Martin has sat down next to him on his bed, a cup of tea in hand and the tray of cupcakes placed across both of their laps, and in the space underneath it their legs are touching.

Xandyr reaches for a cupcake. They're frosted through a spectrum of greens- dark and light and pale pastel. It reminds him of his other life, of light through the trees and moss on the trunks. Of being hunted and hunting in turn. Of falling asleep in bars of sunlight. He shoves it into his mouth, again too fast, and after he has made far too much of an embarrassing show of chewing and swallowing the whole thing at the same time he realizes that Martin is staring at him expectantly, a nervous and excited air about him that shimmers in bright blue eyes, so so close to his face now- too close.

Not close enough.

"What- What do you think?"

"I think I love y-" Xandyr bites his tongue, hard enough that he can taste blood even through thick frosting. What had he almost said? Holy shit. "I, ahaha, think I love them! I mean, I know! I do! Love them! Great cupcakes, Martin, really!"

"If you don't like them, that's-"

"No, I really do! I swear!" He makes a show out of taking another one, taking a bite this time instead of shoving it into his face like the wild animal he only barely feels like he still isn't. Martin's expression becomes unguarded all at once, that smile settling in place over his features again. Up this close, Xandyr can see every individual freckle that dots his cheeks, the stubble that lines his jawline where he hasn't shaved lately. He has to stop looking at him- has to- he feels like he's bound to be blinded any second now, like staring at something so perfect has to have far-reaching cosmic consequences- but all at once he understands why so many societies worshiped the sun and burned out their eyes in devotion to it.

In the end, Martin turns away from him, facing the TV screen that's now 5 or so minutes into the movie he had put in. He unwraps a cupcake, taking a bite, and makes a sound analogous to a hum, and Xandyr finishes off his own and follows him in repeating the process.

30 or so minutes in, teacups are pushed aside, emptied of their contents. Martin's leg is still touching his own under the tray. The cupcakes serve as a pleasant distraction- if he doesn't distract himself, he's sure he'll lose his mind. He nibbles at them, making them last. The man and the woman onscreen have clear chemistry- at least, he thinks they do. What would he know about it, other than that he wants to see them together?

About an hour. The couple is on a date. Love shines in their eyes. He couldn't tell anyone how they got there if his life depended on it- Martin's shoulder is pressed against his own now, sucking the breaths from his lungs. With the exception of laying down to sleep at night, they've never been this close. It feels.. different. More... intentional. More significant. Like a declaration of something it couldn't be.

Xan reaches for another cupcake, another distraction, but is intercepted by warmth under his fingertips instead, by an electric shock that jerks his head towards Martin like it was on a swivel. He's looking at him again, and he can tell by the look on his face that he felt that too. Xandyr feels heat rush to his face and dread stir in his stomach. It felt so good- better than anything he had ever felt. He couldn't have any more of it. He so desperately wanted more of it. Martin is looking at him like...

Like he wants more, too.

It's impossible, isn't it? And even if it wasn't impossible... even if the feeling that pours from blue eyes and washes over him like warm rain is genuine- he shouldn't, can't encourage it. It'd be unforgivable, to encourage him to fall into a void.

And yet.....

"Martin..." He whispers, and it is as much a plea as it is a warning and a confession. Don't come any closer. Please come closer. I'm going to hurt you. I would never hurt you. I love you. Run away.

Their fingers are locked together- when did that happen? Why does it feel like they were made to? His head swims with dizzy sensation.

He leans in, artless, uncoordinated- he's never kissed anyone before but all he can think about is Martin's lips, parted as they are with the weight of longing. He can feel his breath, can taste it in the air, sweet like frosting and then some, and he is so, so close-

"Wait, wait wait wait!" Martin pulls away with a panicky tint to his voice, and Xan is sure for a heart shattering, relief filled moment that he's done something wrong. That Martin will never speak to him again. It's what's best for him. He can't stand the thought of it.

But he simply slips his round glasses down off the edge of his nose, folding them and placing them safely by his empty teacup, and smiles that beatific smile, leaning back in close.

"Didn't want them to- ah- to get in the way..." For the second time tonight, his tone and mannerisms are sheepish.

Xan can't help himself- the distance between them disappears in a flash, mouths melding together in a mingling of sugar so sweet it makes his teeth ache and his chest ache and his stomach hurt. This is the pain he was waiting for; It's the best pain he's ever felt. His traitor hand combs through fluffy, soft blonde hair, catching on the hair pretty holding his ponytail in and combing it out effortlessly- and to his own surprise, a hand winds into his own hair, pulling at him feverishly. Kissing Martin is all he imagined it would be- soft and gentle curves melding to him in all the right ways, with an edge of what he didn't expect- a desperation to him that mirrors his own.

What he's done, what he's doing, is unforgivable- it flutters through his bloodstream, alternating lighter than air butterflies and the crushing weight of a hundred lead balloons.

He'd do it again in a heartbeat.

#my writing #f/o: martin #it occurs to me ive never made a lore post abt xan and that maybe i have to do that for most of this to make any sense #maybe ill make one and then rb it #but also this is the longest thing ive written in such a LONG ASS TIME #im so proud of it #id really appreciate if you read it and gave a little feedback !!!!!#no pressure though i know this is insanely long

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waywardodysseys · 4 years ago

Text

Help Me - Oneshot

Pairing: Javier Peña x 18 yr old informant

Warnings: cussing, anxiety, slight panic attack, mention of murder, mention of bruises

Requested?: Yes - part two of the oneshot Find Us (I believe it centered around the reader being at her older sister’s apartment and she has hallucinations about the men being there for her and Javier comes and stays with her until her sister returns)

Author’s note: PLEASE read warnings before proceeding

Find Us - Part One

~ ~ ~

Time seemed to pass by slowly over the following days, but you managed to survive. Even though it meant spending the majority of each passing day hunkered under the covers in your bed inside of your sister’s apartment. The nights have been rough since you returned because your mind rages with nightmares the bad men are still hurting you. You always wake not knowing the time of day with your body feverish and the sheets wet from the sweat.

Now today you sigh heavily, push the bedding aside then get out of the bed. You stretch before making your way through the apartment. You stop suddenly as you notice your older sister rushing between the kitchen and living room.

“What’s going on?” you ask her groggily. You had been sleeping most of the time for the past few days, letting your body heal from the trauma.

Camelia stops and looks at you. She frowns before walking over to you and rubs your arms. “I have to go out of town for a couple of days. Work,” she pauses, her eyes sliding over your soft and worrisome features, “I know you are strong hermana, but I really need to go.” She doesn’t want to tell you why. It’s best to give you the news when she returns.

Cam had been by your side since you were found. She didn’t leave your side except to cook meals and get you something to drink. She even helped you to the bathroom and helped you shower. She’d run her eyes up and down your body but never spoke of the bruises she saw though you had seen the worry in her eyes when she first saw them, but she helped with medication and making sure you were comfortable. She has been your rock; she is your rock.

“If you,” you stammer and clear your throat, “if you need to go Cam, I understand.”

Cam smiles weakly yet the worry is still there, “You have Agent Peña’s number, don’t you? Along with the therapist the doctor recommended?”

You nod your head. The female emergency room doctor had handed you a card with a trauma therapist’s name and number, referring you to speak with them about the trauma you had gone through. You also had Peña’s number, yet you hadn’t spoken to him since he and Murphy had been here to question you days after being found and brought to Cam’s apartment.

“Y/N,” Cam gathers you in her arms, hugs you tightly, “te quiero hermana. Te quiero.” Knowing what she’s about to go do will be beneficial for her baby sister.

“Te quiero Cam,” you murmur, as you embrace her in return.

You and your sister only had each other. Your parents were long gone. The two of you raised together in group homes until Cam turned 18. She found a good paying job, saved her money, acquired an apartment, and got you out of the group home only about a year and a half ago. But you had returned to the group once you turned 18 and got a job helping the girls there because you knew what they were going through because you had lived in a group home alone without Cam for a couple of years.

Half an hour later, you watch Cam climb into a taxi which would take her to the airport. You turn and face the empty apartment. You feel alone, cold. You grab a glass of water and head back to the bedroom, burrowing back into the bedding and letting sleep consume you again.

-------

The following day Javier takes a long drag on his cigarette as he takes a break outside in the fresh air. The office had been feeling claustrophobic lately because it’s only been a few days since he found Y/N and the group of girls in the warehouse. Him and Murphy were able to arrest a handful of men who were there that night, but most of them didn't speak. They didn't want to be a snitch for Escobar. Because they knew if they snitched, some way or another they wouldn't be around to see another day once the drug kingpin got wind they ran their mouth to federal agents, especially the DEA. Yet they had been released.

“Not enough evidence,” Messina had informed him and Murphy. “No ties to Escobar.”

Javier had mumbled curses under his breath and ran a hand over his face through his hair. He had been ready to punch a wall and go to a local cantina so he could get drunk and forget everything.

Without Murphy’s knowledge though, Carrillo and Peña were discreet about paying a few men a visit a couple days later. His blood was boiling, his temper running wild because they had hurt Y/N and some of the other girls. He had seen Y/N as a sister and when someone comes after family, the caged beast is set free.

“Are you sure about this?” Carrillo had asked him as they both sat in Carrillo’s office smoking and drinking. The leader of Search Bloc could smell the alcohol on Javier’s breath when he knocked on his home’s front door. He let it slide, like he let so much lately, and offered Javier more liquor. He knew the DEA agent was frustrated and angry since the men from the warehouse had been released to go back out on the streets.

“Positive.” was the one worded response Peña uttered. He wanted to get the sons of bitches. They deserved what was coming to them.

Carrillo had frowned and looked over at his coworker, and friend. “Alright brother. If it’s what you want. I’m in.”

They had then sought out in the dark of the night all the men and brought forth their own justice. Javier was pleased with himself even though he was still rattled by the fact he still couldn't get Escobar arrested and sent to prison for the rest of his life.

“What’s going on, Javi?” Murphy now questions as he lights his own cigarette, standing several feet away from his partner.

Javier sighs, “Still can’t believe we haven't gotten Escobar. Fucking cabrón!”

“Yet there’ve been plenty of dead men, his associates, piling up the last 72 hours.” Murphy drags on the cigarette then takes it from his mouth and flicks the end. Murphy hums lightly, “Strange, don't you think?”

Javier glances at Murphy, cocks a brow. “Why is that strange?” he inquires back as his mind races with thoughts of how he and Carrillo made sure nothing led their semi-good deeds back to a federal agent and the leader of the Search Bloc.

“Because they’re the men we found at the warehouse,” Murphy retorts before dropping his cigarette to the concrete below their feet and grinding it out. “You think I wouldn't notice, Javi? You think I wouldn't know who those men were?” Murphy’s voice was gradually rising octaves as he spoke. “I was there too, you know!”

Javier grinds out his own cigarette and faces Murphy. “I know. Okay? But they hurt those girls! They hurt Y/N! They had to pay for what they did!”

Murphy swallows. “There are plenty more monsters in the world Peña,” he enunciates his partner’s name with disdain. “You going to go after them too?”

Javier frustratedly sighs, “Just fuck off Murphy. Vete a la chingada!” He makes his way back inside and towards his desk which is piled high with mountains of paperwork.

Murphy shakes his head as he watches Javier retreat into the office building and out of the warm Colombian sun beating down.

-------

Later that night, thunder rumbles in the skies and lightning pierces through the darkness before the clouds open and let the torrential downpour begin. The sudden outburst of noises makes you sit up in your bed. Your breathing is rapid, and your heart is racing. Part of you is saddened to be awoken because it pulled you away from the first normal dream you’ve had since coming to your sister’s apartment after the event in the warehouse.

You push the bedding aside as you fumble getting out of bed. With Cam gone, the apartment is quieter than usual and less homely. It left you feeling more alone than ever before. Your dry throat made you reach for the glass on your nightstand but it’s empty. Your feet touch the floor, and you make your way towards the kitchen.

Windows had been left open, causing the curtains to dance in the darkness because of the winds blowing into the apartment from the storm raging outside. The slight chill from the wind flows into the apartment, causing you to shiver and close your eyes for a brief minute. When you open them again, your mind plays tricks on you and instead of seeing the curtains dance in the wind you see shadows of men making their way towards you.

Fear consumes you as tears sting your eyes. You must get away. You must run. You spin on your heels which causes you drop the glass, your feet pound against the floor as you run towards the bedroom. “Leave me alone! Stay away!” you cry out as tears uncontrollably flow down your cheeks. You dive into your bed and cover yourself with the blankets. Thunder rages outside as your heart beats wildly. You press your eyes close, trying to shut everything out. You begin to rock as rain pours from the skies above. But the noises aren’t helping, you still think they’re here – that men are outside in your living room waiting to grab you once more.

Your sister’s out of town, and the therapist you were told to call doesn’t even know who you are, so who’s to stay they would help you. There’s no one to call yet there’s a deep feeling ping inside of you. There is someone to call, someone who will help calm you. You slowly push down the covers and see the phone on your nightstand. You know the number by heart. You quickly pick up the handset and dial his number. After two rings, you softly rasp, “Peña. They’re here! And, and, and,” you stutter trying to get the right words out, “Cam isn’t here! No one is here! She’s not home, she left for work!” Words tumble out of your mouth quickly, you’re unsure if Javier can understand you. “Please, Peña. Hurry! They are here! Please get over here and stop them! Help me!”

Javier slams the handset of his phone down and scrambles out of bed. He hurriedly puts on his clothes and shoes. He marches out of his bedroom through his apartment, grabbing his car keys before leaving his home. He jogs down the stairs in the rain then over to his car. He climbs in and begins the drive over to Y/N’s sister’s apartment.

Ten minutes later, after speeding and catching a few potholes, Javier parks his car outside of the apartment building where Y/N is currently residing. He moves up the small flight of stairs, then further up into the building. He pounds on the door, tries the doorknob. It’s locked. “Y/N!” Javier shouts over the thunder. “It’s Peña! Let me in!”

For minutes there is no answer. Javier needs to get in and there’s no way he’s busting the door down. He doesn’t want to scare Y/N any further and doesn’t need the neighbors getting into his business and hers. He runs a hand over his face and runs back down the stairs. He walks back out into the rain; his eyes travel up and he finds the balcony to the apartment. He breathes a sigh of relief, thanking whatever God there is the balcony door is open. But now he has to climb to get into the apartment. Just fucking great…

Finally, after a long five minutes, Javier places his feet on the balcony of the apartment. He pulls out his gun and slowly walks in. The curtains dance as the wind gently blows, the rain is quietly dying down. His heart beats quickly as he wipes a mixture of sweat and rain from his brow. His brown hair is now damp, but he doesn’t mind. He’s here to rescue her and make sure she’s safe.

“Y/N!” Javier drawls. His eyes sweeping from one end of the room to the other. He notices there is broken glass on the floor and no one else in the apartment. “It’s Agent Peña.” His breath is heavy, making his voice tremble. He clears his throat to steady his voice. “There’s no one else here. Just me.” His mind concludes the noise from the storm and the movement from the curtains blowing in the wind made you hallucinate the men were there. Yet the trauma still being fresh in your mind, it had concluded the men had come back to get you. “Y/N?” he questions softly.

Silence is the response. The storm has receded, moved on. The apartment is dark, feels empty. Yet there is a small sound seeping through the living space, making its way to Javier’s ears.

Javier hears the near hushed sobs and begins making his way through the apartment. He slows to inspect the bathroom and a bedroom, the bed empty and tidy. Probably the sister’s room. He then moves on and finds a door to a bedroom completely closed. He opens it slowly, sees the bed devoid of blankets and sheets. He then crouches down and peers under the bed. He’s sees a form wrapped up in blankets and sheets trembling under the bed. “Y/N,” Javier whispers, “No one else here. There are no other men in the apartment.”

Javier watches as you roll over in the bulky bedding and slowly reveal your face. He sees your redden eyes, disheveled hair, and weary look. Javier tries to smile politely and motions for you to come out from where you’re hiding, “Come on. I’ll call your sister. Stay till she gets here.”

You gradually remove yourself from under the bed. You look at Javier, who looks tired himself. “I woke you, didn’t I? I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have called you!” You become panicked now, resting against the bed while still in the floor. Your hands clutch the bedding. “But you were the only person! And, and…”

Javier reaches out and touches your arms reassuringly, “Hey, it’s okay. Don’t apologize.” He pauses. “I know…I know what happened is still fresh on your mind. Let me call Camelia. Okay?”

You shrink into yourself, bringing your knees up against your chest. “Okay.” You rest your forehead on your knees, close your eyes then open them. “It was probably the storm, wasn’t it? Playing tricks on my mind.”

Javier tries to find some words to soothe you. “Traumatic events can be recalled by simple triggers. Just get in bed. I’ll stay out on the couch until Camelia arrives. I’ll keep you safe.” He gingerly touches your cheek. “Come on Y/N. Lets stand up, and know we are strong and will always be brave no matter what.”

You look at Javier, touched by his words and gesture. “I am stronger and braver. I survived.”

Javier nods, “Yes. And don’t ever worry about those men ever again.” Both of you stand up together. He helps ease you back onto the bed. “Trust me Y/N. Those men will never hurt you again. I promise.”

You nod your head as a few escaping tears roll down your cheeks. You hear Javier’s footsteps recede down the hallway then over so gently you crawl back up into your bed, hoping soon enough everything will fade away and your experience of being kidnapped will be but a blimp in your memory. Yet knowing you are stronger and braver than ever because you survived their terrors.

-------

Mid-morning the following day, Cam returns home. She thanks Javier abundantly before going into your room and taking you into her arms, reassuring you everything will be okay.

“Nothing will be okay. There’s too much! I can’t stand it anymore!”

Cam pets your hair, “Don’t talk like that hermana. Don’t say that ever again.” She pauses. “We can move away from here. Move away from all this.” She takes a deep breath. “It’s why I went away. To find a job elsewhere, somewhere safer. Somewhere where no one will ever hurt you again.”

“You…promise?” you question, sounding hopeful.

Cam smiles and presses a kiss to your temple. “I promise Y/N. I promise, you will be safe from here on out.”

Translations:

Te quiero - I love you

Hermana - sister

Cabrón - asshole

Vete a la chingada - fuck off

#help me oneshot #javier peña #javier peña fanfiction #javier pena #javier pena x reader #narcos fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #find us part two #requested #anon requested #narcos fanfic #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena x y/n #pedro pascal

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fromiftowhen · 4 years ago

Text

fic: my offering is true (an Upstead one-shot)

For the fifth day of the @upsteadofficial Christmas prompt challenge -- HOLIDAY TRADITIONS.

Rated T | 2860 words | Title from Offering by The Avett Brothers.

“So what's the plan for next week?”

She pauses, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Um. Work? I don't know?”

He shakes his head. “I mean for Christmas, Hailey. I know it'll look different this year, but what do you normally do?”

She shrugs and sets down her fork. “Pre-pandemic? I dunno. Work, usually? Some years I’d get Chinese food on Christmas Eve, hang out with friends who weren't spending the year with their family.”

“Okay,” he says. “Chinese food is good.”

“We don't have to-- we can do something else.”

It's their first Christmas together, and he knows it's a weird year to start spending holidays together. Huge parties are a no-go, and besides their coworkers, they haven't spent much time outside the house as a couple.

(Being cooped up inside the majority of the time has its benefits, and he's not ever gonna complain about it, but.)

But he'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about Christmas with Hailey, waking up in the morning with her, snow covering the windows, exchanging gifts over Christmas breakfast in bed.

“I love Chinese food,” he tells her, grinning. “I've just gotta FaceTime Will after we eat, and I'll be good.”

“Now?” She asks, and he laughs.

“No, on Christmas Eve. It's a thing. No matter where we both were or how much we might have not liked each other all the time, we've always found a way to talk. It's a tradition, or whatever.”

She glances down at her plate for a moment, and when she looks back up, he catches just a hint of sadness she couldn’t quite cover in time. “That’s nice,” is all she says, but the look sticks with him.

——————————

He doesn’t bring it up again until later in the week, when her legs are still tangled with his and their breathing is coming back to normal, early in the morning.

He runs a hand up and down her arm gently. “You really don’t go home for Christmas?”

“I am home,” she says quietly.

“No, I know.” He presses a kiss to the top of her head. “I mean, you don’t go see your parents, your brothers?”

Her hair tickles his chest as she shakes her head. “No. By the time I was old enough to realize Santa was just my mom, up late at night alone, wrapping gifts after my dad passed out, I had a hard time getting in the family spirit. And my brothers have their own things going on now,” she says. “Normally I’d see them later in the week. I guess I’ll just call them this year.”

He nods.

“What about you?”

He laughs softly. The holidays were never the same after his mom passed away, after he and Will got busy with their own lives. “Will and I would go see my dad every year we could, he’d give us a six-pack of beer to split, we’d eat some steak, call it a day. We didn’t do gifts after my mom.”

Her arm wraps around his chest and her lips press against his skin, but she doesn’t say anything.

——————————

“Do you have any good memories from when you were little, things you did on Christmas that you loved?”

They’re in his truck, surveilling a suspect a couple of days before Christmas Eve. The sun is setting, and when she glances over at him, there’s a halo of light framing her face.

“What’s with you and Christmas this year? We’ve never talked about it this much.”

He shrugs.

She side-eyes him for a moment, but relents. “On Christmas Eve, my mom would bake cookies. You know, like for Santa. She and my dad would drink eggnog and we’d all eat cookies and read ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas in front of the fire. I think I fell asleep in front of the fire most years. I guess that’s the best memory.”

“That’s nice,” he whispers.

She nods, smiling. “It was. What about you?”

He thinks back to being little, trying to quietly creep down the stairs after his mom had put him and Will to bed, anticipation aching in his chest for the next morning.

“Will and I used to try to see who could stay up the latest and wait for Santa,” he laughs. “Will always swore he heard sleigh bells or whatever, and we could never agree on who fell asleep first, but it was totally always him.”

“Little Halstead brothers competing against each other, I’m shocked,” she says, her smile bright.

He leans over and presses a kiss to her cheek quickly, something they don’t usually let themselves do in public while working.

“What was that for?” She asks, but her fingers drag over his knee slowly, and she smiles.

“Just ‘cause,” he says. “I’m just excited for Christmas for the first time in a long time.”

Her smile this time is slow, and it really feels like he earned it. “Yeah, me too.”

——————————

She wasn’t lying. She’s excited for Christmas in a way she hasn’t been since maybe those nights around the fire with her family as a young kid, and Jay is the biggest part of that. She wants to eat Chinese food in front of a cheesy Christmas movie with him and fall asleep only after they’re both exhausted.

Except, of course, because it’s 2020, things don’t go as planned at all.

The suspect they were surveilling ends up being a bigger piece of the puzzle than anyone thought, and by the time Christmas Eve rolls around, their investigation has turned into a Title 3 wire that has to start immediately.

Kevin and Adam spend the morning getting everything in place, setting surveillance, and she, Jay, and Kim get everything in place in the tech room.

By late afternoon, Voight tells them he’ll need two of them to stay overnight and cover the wire, he doesn’t care which two, but it’s Christmas, don’t fight.

When Voight leaves, she looks over at Jay and nods toward the break room. When he meets her in front of the sink, she sighs.

“I know,” is all he says.

“It’s just… Kevin’s sister quarantined for two weeks so she could come to spend Christmas with him, and Kim is going to her sister’s, and Adam dresses up as Santa for his nephew every year,” she says.

His fingers find hers at the edge of the counter. “Hailey, it’s fine. I just wanted to spend Christmas with you. If it’s gotta be like this, we’ll make do.”

“Yeah?”

He nods. “Yeah, come on.”

Kim hugs her, quick and tight when they tell them all to leave, and Jay grins before calling goodbye to “Santa” as Adam gathers his stuff.

“Dude, Hailey,” Adam groans. “Just because you saw the Santa suit in my closet one time doesn’t mean you can tell everyone that story.”

“Bro, you own the suit? That’s so much better, thanks for that detail,” Jay calls, and laughter follows Adam, Kim, and Kevin down the stairs.

Voight leaves a while later, with a promise to be back in the morning to check-in. By the time they’re settling into the tech room, it’s almost 7, and her stomach is rumbling.

“Hey,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “I know this isn’t the Christmas we planned on, but can we still get Chinese? My treat. I’m hungry.”

“Read my mind,” he says, handing over his phone for her to order, the website of their favorite place already open.

——————————

By the time the food gets there and they eat, they’re a couple of hours into the wire. His phone beeps as they’re cleaning up their food, and he glances down to see a text from Will.

“Hey, are you good here for a few minutes? Will’s got a couple of free minutes now.”

She nods, and he leans over to press a kiss to her temple. “Back soon.”

“Tell Best Halstead hi,” she calls over her shoulder to him, grinning.

He settles down onto the couch in the breakroom and dials Will’s number, his brother’s stupid red hair the first thing he sees in the low light of the doctor’s lounge.

“Hey,” Will says. “Where is your significantly better better-half?”

He rolls his eyes. “If you couldn’t tell by the breakroom, we’re still at work. We caught a pretty big case, so she and I are working the night shift. She says hey.”

“Dude, that sucks.”

He shrugs. “At least we’re together,” he says. “Plans changed, but… 2020, right?”

Will nods. “What were your plans?”

He glares at the screen, raising an eyebrow. “Bro.”

Will laughs. “Ugh, never mind.”

Jay shrugs. “Hey, you asked. But we had some Chinese food, and we’ll just postpone the other plans.”

“That beats my granola bar and Red Eye.”

“Glad to see some things never change, even this year. Hey, I should get back. You okay over there?”

He watches Will’s face crease with stress. “No, but. You know. We’re all trying.”

“I know, man. I’m sorry. Merry Christmas, almost.”

“Merry Christmas, bro. Tell Hailey your face is no match for hers. Thanks for keeping the tradition alive this year.”

“Same, bro.” He waves and reaches out to end the call, grateful for a tiny piece of normalcy, a little tradition in a weird, scary year, and on a holiday that isn’t going how he planned. He glances around the room, to the sink where he’d told Hailey he just wanted to spend Christmas with her, where he’d almost told her everything a couple of years prior. He thinks about her face in the truck the other day, her smile as she’d told him about her favorite childhood Christmas tradition.

His eyes fall on a box in the corner of the room, supplies from when the city went through a run of rolling blackouts in the heat of summer. He knows there are candles in there still, and his mind sets to work.

——————————

“How’s Will?” She asks, stretching her arms up over her head as he comes back in the room a while later.

“He’s going through it still, but he’s good. Apparently, he thinks you’re prettier than I am,” he tells her, and she laughs.

“Told you he was the best Halstead.”

“I’ll admit he’s not wrong about that, but I dunno about best Halstead,” he says, coming to stand behind her. His fingers dig into tense muscle in her shoulders, and she sighs, taking her hand off the mouse and relaxing under his touch. His left thumb digs into a knot at the base of her neck, and she closes her eyes.

“Did I miss anything?” He asks quietly.

“No,” she whispers. “This guy is boring. Maybe it’s the holiday, I don’t know. But it’s gonna be a long night, I think.”

His breath on her neck makes her open her eyes. His lips press just below her ear, and more tension eases out of her from beneath his fingers.

“Wanna go knockout for a couple of hours? Relax?”

She shakes her head. “No, you go first. I’m still wired. I just need to stretch a little. You know I wouldn’t sleep anyway.”

“Okay,” he says. “Come get me if you want me.”

She grins, and he rolls his eyes. “Fine. Come get me if you need me.”

She winks, and he presses his lips to her neck slowly for a moment before backing away and heading out the door.

She stands and stretches slowly, breathing in and counting out breaths slowly as her muscles start to relax. She settles back in front of the computer and loses herself in watching the wire, copying video files, and organizing files. She’s not sure how much time has passed before Jay peeks his head back in the room, but she knows it hasn't been any more than an hour at most.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“Nah,” he says. “Hey, come take a quick break with me.”

She glances at the screens in front of her, at the clock above her.

“C’mon,” he says, gesturing out the door. “You said yourself he’s boring. Set all the videos to autosave. Just 15 minutes. We’ll go back through it later.”

She considers for a moment and nods, clicking a few buttons and following him out the door.

——————————

“You were supposed to be sleeping,” she says, walking into the breakroom and turning quickly to face him.

He shrugs. “Figured maybe we’d try to have some new kind of Christmas tradition tonight.”

“Jay…” He waits for her to say more, but she trails off, and he nudges her hip toward the couch.

The candles had been easy to pull out of the box and set up on the table, and he’d stolen matches from the box, lighting them before he’d left the room.

The cookies had proven more difficult, but he figures Oreos from the vending machine in the lobby are better than none.

They obviously didn’t have a copy of ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas hanging around, but he’d Googled and printed off the poem, and that would have to do.

She just watches him as she sits, and he lifts the corner of his mouth in a smile. “I know holiday traditions can be hard as you get older, and some have to change, but some are worth bringing back.”

She just nods as he comes to sit next to her, and he watches her take in the flicker of the flames from the candles.

“It’s not a fireplace, and if anyone ever asks, I definitely did not burn the emergency preparedness candles. And there’s no eggnog, but Kim does have a half-empty bottle of eggnog flavored coffee creamer in the fridge if you’re feeling brave.” He hands her the Oreos, and she laughs. “They’re not homemade, but they’re better than I could make. And, here,” he says, pulling the poem out of his back pocket and handing it to her.

She bites her lip as she unfolds it, reading the first few lines aloud.

“‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro’ the house, Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;”

“I love you for doing this,” she says quietly, her lips finding his in the dark of the room.

He presses his thumb against her jaw and kisses her back slowly.

She pulls back and smiles, leaning into him. “Thank you.”

“We need our own traditions,” he says. “Hopefully, they won’t always include Christmas in this breakroom, but I think I’d be okay if they did.”

She nods. “Me too.”

He wants to spend the rest of the night like this, but he knows they have to get back to work eventually.

“Come on,” he says, pulling her against his chest. “Finish the poem.”

The candlelight bounces off the page as her quiet voice fills the room again and his lips find her neck.

(Her voice is fading in and out as she reaches the final lines, and he presses his lips to her temple as he eases her down onto the couch, blowing out the candles and pulling the door shut quietly behind him.

She’ll wake up soon, and come find her spot next to him, working beside him easily, and that’ll always be his favorite tradition of theirs.)

#my fic #upsteadofficial #upsteadxmaspc2020 #upstead #jay halstead #hailey upton #chicago pd #chicago pd fanfiction

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suituuup · 4 years ago

Note

Could you do a follow up to the amputee Beca story where she and Chloe talk about Beca’s time in the military and Beca opens up about how she really feels about being a double amputee? And how Chloe felt seeing Beca’s residual limbs for the first time. Love what you did with the prompt.

Thank you! Here you go :)

home is wherever I’m with you

rating: T

word count: 2k

ao3 link

The knock on the door jolts Beca out of her thoughts, her heart doing a happy flutter.

Chloe’s here.

After graduation, Chloe moved to California to attend Davis’ vet school, and Beca’s dad finally agreed with Beca’s plan to go to LA and to support her financially until she found herself a job in the music industry.

Fast forward to after the summer, Beca’s now an intern in one of the country’s most praised labels. Sure, she’s not making any money yet, but at least she’s got a foot in the door.

(well, figuratively speaking.)

She and Chloe have been doing long distance for four months now, and they were able to see each other twice, Chloe flying down to LA every eight weeks or so. Past the fact that it’s easier for Chloe to travel, she lives in a dorm while Beca has her own studio, which grants them more privacy.

Rolling away from her desk, Beca heads to the door, unlatching it and pulling it open. Chloe is straddling her a second later, Beca’s squeak swallowed by the searing kiss she’s pulled in.

“Jesus,” she croaks out when they part, her hands drifting down to Chloe’s ass as she rests her forehead against hers. “Miss me?”

Chloe answers by kissing her again, and Beca can only respond in kind, her own body throbbing with want. She’s thankful Chloe chose to wear sweatpants as she slides her hand down them minutes later to give Chloe what she needs.

“Wanna order a pizza?” Beca asks as they lie in bed an hour later, spent and hungry from their earlier activity.

“You mean you didn’t whip up a romantic dinner for your girlfriend?” Chloe teases, knowing damn well Beca can’t cook to save her life. She pushes a kiss to Beca’s lips. “Pizza sounds great, babe.”

Beca reaches for her phone off the bedside table, wincing as another pang of pain shoots through her leg. A leg that’s no longer there. She’s been experiencing those a lot lately, and upon visiting a physical therapist, was told they’re called phantom pains.

“What’s wrong?” Chloe asks as Beca dials the number of the pizza place on her phone.

“Nothing.” She hasn’t told Chloe about it, finding it difficult still to address anything related to her amputation. But the look Chloe gives her tells Beca she won’t let it rest, and Beca heaves a sigh. “I-I sometimes have pain like-- it feels as though my legs are still there and they’re burning.”

“Phantom pains?”

Beca blinks, putting her phone aside. “You’ve heard of it?”

Chloe nods. “When we started dating, I… did some research about all of it.”

Beca’s heart does a funny thing at that. “Oh, right.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“He suggested the mirror therapy where I should stand in front of one so my brain can integrate the fact that I no longer have legs, and also massaging my residual limbs.”

“I can do that,” Chloe murmurs. “Give you massages, if-- if you’re comfortable with that.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t.” Chloe’s hand drifts to cover hers. “I want to help, if I can.”

Beca purses her lips, hesitantly glancing at her girlfriend. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Let’s have dinner and then do that?”

“Yeah, okay.”

After dinner, Beca tells Chloe where she keeps her oil and settles back on the bed, over a towel to protect the sheets. “You’ll tell me if you feel uncomfortable, right?” She asks just to make sure as Chloe settles down beside her.

“Yes,” Chloe says with a smile, brushing a kiss to Beca’s lips. “And likewise for you.”

“Yeah.”

Chloe rubs some oil between her palms and starts kneading Beca’s left thigh, a groan flitting past Beca’s lips as the relief is near instant. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back against the headboard, exhaling deeply.

“That helps a lot,” she murmurs, brushing her fingers over Chloe’s upper arm in an affectionate gesture as she looks at her. “Thank you. I’ve always… been self conscious about how I look, ever since the procedure, and I was convinced you’d find it gross or something.”

“Seeing it for the first time at your PT appointment was a bit unsettling, yeah, because I couldn’t help but think about the trauma that triggered it. But did I think it was gross?” Chloe shakes her head. “Never. I promise. I know it’s easier said than done and your feelings are entirely valid, but your body is beautiful the way it is, baby. I hope you learn to accept it someday.”

Beca is silent for a little while, letting Chloe’s words wash over her and settle the anxiety swirling in her guts. “We drove over a landmine in Afghanistan,” she croaks out after a minute or two, the memory still fresh in her brain even though it’s been two years. She feels Chloe’s movements pause but doesn’t look up. She can still smell it. The tires burning, the oil leaking, the blood. “The back of the truck blew up. It’s still blurry and I’m not sure what happened next but I got stuck under the side of it and my legs got crushed,” she takes a pause, emotions rising as she’s never told the story aloud except to her therapist. “Help arrived pretty quickly and they managed to free me. I was choppered to the nearest trauma center.” Beca inhales sharply as tears burn behind her eyes. She can still hear the whines and cries of her comrades before they drew their last breath. “My two best friends… they didn’t make it.”

Chloe shuffles up to sit by Beca’s side, draping an arm around her waist as she rests her forehead against the side of Beca’s head. Beca leans against her, her hand resting on Chloe’s forearm. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

Beca swallows, licking her lips. “I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you what happened. It’s still… hard to talk about.”

“Thank you for trusting me,” Chloe murmurs and presses a kiss to Beca’s jaw.

“Thank you for being you,” Beca replies, twisting her head to look at Chloe. Her hand drifts up to cradle her cheek. She’s still in awe of how lucky she is to have found such a beautiful person who loves her as much as Chloe does despite everything; being a double amputee, the nightmares, the PTSD episodes. “I love you so much.”

Chloe nuzzles Beca’s nose, then brushes a kiss to her lips. “I love you, too.”

They experience some ups and downs over the next two years as sometimes long distance is hard to handle, but their relationship only comes out of it stronger. Beca lands a job as assistant producer in the same label. Chloe finds a job in LA after graduating, and they move in together in a cute one bedroom apartment in Pasadena.

“What do you mean that last scene was ridiculous?” Chloe asks, seemingly affronted. They’ve just come out of the theater after watching a romcom Chloe dragged Beca to. “I thought it was cute.”

Beca rolls her eyes as she walks beside her girlfriend. “It was cheesy as f—”

A loud BANG! cuts Beca off and she visibly shrinks, her mind and body going into shock so quickly she can’t stop it. She leans against the nearby street post, her legs feeling like jelly.

“Babe?” Chloe’s hand comes to rest on her shoulder but Beca recoils from it as her breathing turns labored. “It was a car backfiring, Becs. We’re safe.”

Beca shakes her head, panic having already gripped her insides and shut out any kind of rationality. Flashbacks jump her mind and sounds that still haunt her in her dreams weave themselves in a continuous loop.

“You’re okay baby,” Chloe soothes. “You’re okay. You’re in LA, with me, not at war. You’re safe. ”

Beca hears Chloe’s words without really registering them; they get lost in the cloud surrounding her brain and keeping her from going back to reality.

She doesn’t know how long it takes, but she eventually snaps back into the present. Street chatter replaces the cries of her friends, cars passing by are quieter than the crawlers of tanks crunching the dry ground, and Chloe is here.

Beca leans against her, clutching on for dear life as she tries to bring her heart rate back to normal.

“It’s okay,” she soothes, brushing a kiss to Beca’s temple. “You’re home.”

A year later, Beca proposes. There’s no big speech or romantic meal planned; she asks Chloe as they lie in bed one lazy Sunday morning after making love. The sun is shining over them through the window, and Chloe is pressed snugly against her, laughing at one of her lame jokes, and it’s just… perfect.

They get married six months later at a resort in Northern California, surrounded by their close friends and families. The next few years are a blur of domestic bliss, before their lives get a whole new meaning with the arrival of their baby.

Beca’s not quite used to being woken up in the middle of the night, and she jolts at the shrill cry coming through the baby monitor.

“I’ve got her,” she rasps when she feels Chloe shift next to her, and uses her arms’ strength to transfer herself in the wheelchair set next to her side of the bed.

They moved into a larger place when Chloe found out she was pregnant, a house with a garden on the outskirts of LA. It has no stairs and large rooms, ideal for Beca to manœuvre her chair around as she tends not to wear her prosthetics at home. They got a custom made crib which slides open on the side so Beca can easily pick their baby up from her chair, and their changing table can also be lowered to her height.

“What’s up, sweet pea?” She coos as she undoes the latch and slides the side of the crib open, leaning forward to lift the three month old. She knows it’s her hungry cry, and with Emma on her lap, rolls towards the kitchen to heat up a pouch of breast milk. Much like the stroller, the wheelchair movements momentarily sooth Emma.

“Here we are,” Beca murmurs minutes later, cradling Emma in the crook of her elbow and presenting her with the bottle. She’s still completely in awe of this tiny human being who’s captured her heart the moment Beca held her in her arms for the first time. It’s like she felt her heart double in size to be able to accomodate all the love she held for her wife and daughter. Yeah. Motherhood has turned her into a real softie. She smiles as Emma’s big blue eyes lock on her while she feeds. “You had to have your mommy’s eyes, huh? How am I going to be able to ever say no to you?”

Once Emma finishes, Beca heads back to the nursery to change her and sings her back to sleep, carefully setting her in her crib.

“Mama loves you, my sweet girl.”

She rolls back to the master and parks her wheelchair next to her side of the bed, locking the brakes before transferring herself back into bed. After years of practice, it doesn’t take Beca as long as it used to.

Chloe snuggles into her side as soon as Beca’s settled down. “All good?”

“Mhm,” Beca hums, brushing a kiss to her wife’s hair. “Everything’s perfect.”

#bechloe #bechloe fanfic #beca mitchell #chloe beale

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1dffchallenges · 4 years ago

Photo

Boundless As the Sea

Written By: @wokeuptired

Characters: Niall/Bea

Summary: There's nothing Beatrix Madison finds as silly as Romeo and Juliet, but Niall Horan's a sucker for a love story—even though his own has gone off the rails. When he finds a letter from Bea's grandmother dated half a century ago in the wall below Juliet's balcony, he has to write back. He doesn't expect anything to come of it, and he certainly doesn't expect to find himself going head to head with Bea.

Author's note: The title is from Act 2, scene 2, when Juliet, on her balcony, says to Romeo, "My bounty is as boundless as the sea, / My love as deep. The more I give to thee, / The more I have, for both are infinite."

Warnings: enough f words to earn an R rating

One - Bea

For as long as she could remember, Beatrix Madison’s grandmother had never taken lunch without a glass of wine. White, red, sparkling, it didn’t matter, so long as it was alcoholic and complimented the dish. So when Bea arrives for lunch today and sits down at a table devoid of wine glasses, she knows instantly that something is up.

There’s water waiting for her, and a cup of tea that Gran always orders for Bea even though Bea never drinks it. That’s their weekly ritual: lunch every Thursday at Gran’s favorite restaurant, the same meals every time, same table, same waitstaff, and same cup of tea that Bea will never, ever, drink.

The only thing out of place today is the missing wineglass that always sits beside Gran’s plate. Nothing seems amiss about Gran herself: her gray hair is piled primly on top of her head, her lips are touched with a pale mauve, and her cardigan is neatly buttoned all the way up. She’s Gran as always. Except for the wine.

“Is everything all right?” Bea asks, sliding her phone underneath her thigh so that she can give her grandmother her full attention. That’s another one of Gran’s things: she hates cell phones at the table as much as she loves wine. She hates them so much that she didn’t even have one, instead relying on a landline that she often fails to answer.

“Of course, dear,” her grandmother answers. Though she’s coming up on her 75th birthday, Gran certainly doesn’t look it. Nothing has slowed her down, not even taking on the responsibility of raising Bea from the time she was 9, after her parents’ death in a car accident. Gran was in her mid-fifties at the time, looking forward to retiring and traveling and a life free of responsibility, and then life saddled her with Bea.

Now, coming up on 80, she seems to be thriving, which is something that Bea does her best not to be too upset about. It wasn’t her fault her parents died, leaving her grandmother to raise her, but Bea feels guilty about it nonetheless, even now that she’s 25 and hasn’t been a burden to Gran for several years.

“Eat your salad,” Gran says just as a waiter appears and sets it down in front of her.

Bea picks up her fork and stabs at a tomato, misses, and spends another ten seconds chasing it around her plate before she catches it. When she puts it in her mouth and looks up, her grandmother is watching her.

“Are you sure everything’s alright, Gran?” Bea asks again. Her heart clenches, thinking of the worst. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

“Of course not,” her grandmother says, smiling. Bea can’t remember the last time she saw her grandmother smile this much. Something is definitely going on. Maybe Gran has mastered a new banana bread recipe or purchased a new piece of art for the hallway and she’s eager to show it off. Yes, that’s probably it. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong. Tell me about your date on Friday. Did it go as expected?”

Bea grimaces. It was much, much worse than expected. “Not at all. He was twenty minutes late and then spent another twenty minutes talking about his ex. And he was wearing far too much cologne.”

Gran laughs. “You’re far too picky, Bea Bug. Maybe that’s your problem.”

“No, I don’t think that’s it,” Bea says. “He really was awful, Gran. You’re lucky you’ll never have to meet him.”

“Mmm.” Gran’s eyes twitch to the side, where Bea notices an envelope sitting on the table. She also notices that her grandmother has barely touched her own salad, dressing on the side, just how she always orders it. “Speaking of love…”

“Speaking of love?”

Gran touches the envelope and slides it across the table towards Bea. “Fancy a trip to Italy?”

“Italy?” Bea turns the envelope over. It’s addressed to Gran at her estate just outside London, which, if you’re old and snooty, is what’s known as “the family seat.” It’s the house that Bea will begrudgingly inherit someday (hopefully not someday soon), along with all the accrued debt that will come with it. She slips her finger under the flap, which has already been unsealed, and finds a folded letter and another, smaller envelope inside.

“Juliet” is written on the outside of the envelope. Bea opens it and takes out the letter it contains.

Verona, 1965

Juliet, I don’t know what to do. I’m meant to leave tomorrow to return to London, where Robert is waiting for me. We’ve been betrothed since we were teenagers, and he is my destiny, the one I’ve always known about.

But now there is Alessandro, whose dark hair shines under the moonlight when I sneak out after dark to meet him. I feel like a teenager again, not like a university student months away from graduation and marriage. Alessandro makes me feel invincible. He makes me feel like I am worth the world.

Oh, Juliet, what would you do? I know what you’d do. You’d pack up your suitcase and run away with Alessandro tonight. You’d leave behind your destined life in England and choose a new destiny for yourself.

But what if, Juliet, what if I’m not brave enough?

Yours,

Carolyn

Bea reads the letter through a second time, her mind spinning. Finally, she raises her eyes from the wrinkled piece of paper and meets her Gran’s gaze. “Gran, did you write this?”

Her Gran smiles, nods. “Years ago, yes. Now you must read the other letter.”

Oh, God. What could it possibly be? Is it from Alessandro, writing to Gran after all these years, asking her to return to Verona and marry him? Did he find out that Gramps passed away ages ago and is regretting all the years he spent away from Gran?

And then another thought pops up, this one worse than all the rest. Gramps died just before Bea’s parents, which meant Gran was a free agent… until she had to take over caring for Bea.

Oh, God, Bea thinks.

Did I keep Gran away from her true love for 25 years?

Bea shakes off the question, for the moment, at least, and unfolds the remaining letter, keenly aware that it is about to turn her life upside down.

Two - Niall

It’s a strange thing, how you can go from being engaged one moment to being completely unengaged the next. Engaged, and then you’re not. Your whole life planned out, and then—nothing. Blissful, empty, beautiful nothing.

Rhiannon had gone from Niall’s favorite person on earth to his least favorite overnight. Or maybe it wasn’t overnight: he didn’t wake up, feel the sun breaking through the blinds, and realize that he needed to break off his engagement. But it only took a second for Rhiannon to react to the suggestion that maybe getting married wasn’t the best idea, and Niall knew he’d made the right choice.

“Oh, thank God,” she’d said. They were having dinner at their favorite restaurant in Seven Dials, which was to say, Rhiannon’s favorite restaurant and a place that Niall had neither particularly negative or positive feelings about. She’d started telling people it was their favorite restaurant, and then it became too late to correct her, and now they’d been going there at least once a month since the early days of their relationship.

Niall didn’t intend to initiate the breakup there, at their so-called favorite restaurant, but he was watching Rhiannon peruse the menu just as he had the month before, and he knew she was only moments away from ordering for him, and in his mind he imagined doing this for the rest of his life, and he knew he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

And Rhiannon had reacted better than expected. She’d always been a bit of a dramatic person, so he’d been prepared for her to throw down her fork and storm out, or at least raise her voice a bit. But instead she thanked him.

“I’ve been meaning to say something for ages!” she’d said. “But you know how my mum is. Which is why we can’t tell anyone.”

“I—what?” Niall had been reasonably confused. The whole point of ending their engagement was so they didn’t have to still be engaged. He did not want to pretend.

“Our Italy trip. My mum’s already paid for it, and if we tell her we broke up, she’ll cancel the whole thing, and you know how much I’ve been looking forward to it.”

Right. Niall knew. She talked about it constantly, was constantly texting him pictures of places she wanted to see and restaurants she wanted to try. He was not looking forward to three weeks of following her around a country where he didn’t speak the language, eating too many carbs.

But as he’d looked in her eyes that night, the night that should’ve been their last together, he figured he could do her this one last favor. He could stick it out for another month, spend three weeks with her in Italy and then be done with it.

So that’s how he’d ended up here, sitting on a bench in a square in Verona, staring up at a balcony purported to be the one from Shakespeare’s famous Romeo and Juliet, even though Shakespeare never even traveled to Italy. Rhiannon ditched him this morning, boarding a bus for a wine tour in the countryside that he had absolutely no interest in. Instead, he caught a walking tour and ended up here.

This bench is apparently his new home, as he’s been here for three hours and, try as he might, he just can’t get himself to move. He’s fascinated by what he is seeing: girl after girl, and even the occasional guy, shoving letters into the loose bricks under the balcony, tears running down their faces. The tour guide had said that people came here from all over the world to leave letters to Juliet, begging her to fix their love woes.

A while ago, someone had left a notepad on Niall’s bench after finishing their own letter, and someone else had discarded a pen on the ground. Niall had spent half an hour staring at it, feeling as if it was beckoning him. No one needs love advice more than him right now. He’s probably the only one in this country on vacation with their ex-fiancée and zero desire to win her back.

Now, finally, he stills the pen after spending twenty minutes spinning it between his fingers, and he begins to write.

Dear Juliet,

No offense, but I think your story is a load of bull. Love isn’t real, and it certainly wasn’t real for you and Romeo. You were only 14 years old, and neither of you made it out alive. That certainly isn’t the kind of love I want.

So what do I want? I’m not sure, but I know it isn’t Rhiannon. I thought I loved her once, but I know better now. I know that I just wanted to be in love. I just wanted someone to spend evenings on the couch with, to go to the cinema with, to introduce to my mates. Rhiannon was all of those things, but she was also annoying and difficult and after a while, not very much fun to be around. She made me forget what I once liked about myself.

Is that what love is, then? Someone who makes the things you like about yourself shine like neon? Someone who brings out the best in you, like they say in all the films?

Does such a thing exist? I guess I’ll just have to keep looking.

-- Niall Horan

London, England

When he finishes, he folds it up before he can think better of it and approaches the wall, looking for a good spot to stick it. It’s nearing sunset, and the wall is bursting with letters shoved here and there, crammed into every visible crack. If he can’t find room for his, how will anyone who came tomorrow find a place for theirs?

He turns, looking at the other visitors to the wall. A few feet away, a teenager presses a kiss to her envelope before jamming it underneath a loose brick. Further down, a woman takes a letter from the wall and drops it in a basket. Wait—she’s taking a letter from the wall? Niall inches closer.

Yep, that’s definitely what she’s doing. She stretches onto her tiptoes to grab a letter just above her head, and when she can’t quite reach it, Niall steps forward to pluck it from the brick for her.

“Grazie,” she says, smiling at him and holding out her hand for the letter. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Niall says. He holds the letter hostage for a second, though. “Are you stealing the letters?”

The woman laughs. “Stealing? No, of course not. We write back.”

“You write back?” Niall turns his own letter over in his hand and considers throwing it away. He didn’t realize someone would read it.

“Yes.” The woman slips her basket over her arm and holds out her hand. “I’m Sonia.”

“Niall.” She reminds him a bit of his mum, with soft smile lines around her mouth and light eyes. That must be why he returns her handshake.

“Nice to meet you, Niall,” Sonia says. “Would you like to help?”

Would I like to help? Niall repeats the question in his mind. On the one hand, he’s absolutely shit when it comes to love—the letter he’s hiding behind his back right now is proof enough of that—but on the other hand, he doesn’t have anything else to do.

“Sure,” he says. “I’d love to help.”

Three - Bea

Verona is full to the brim with tourists, something Bea should’ve been expecting. She’d deluded herself into thinking that since it wasn’t Florence or Rome or Venice, it’d be quieter, she’d be able to wander the streets and appreciate the cobblestones and worn door knockers without bumping into American tourists, but she was wrong.

American tourists are everywhere, and Japanese tourists and French tourists and Indian tourists, huge groups of them wearing matching lanyards and giggling as they clog the narrow roads, and Bea regrets this entire trip.

She’s regretted the decision to come since the word “yes” came out of her mouth, but once she saw Gran's smile, there was no going back. This was something Gran had been waiting years for.

Not that they’ve talked about that. Bea’s just turned it over and over in her mind, convincing herself that she’s held her Gran back from living a full life with the hot Italian man she loved when she was twenty years old. She can’t begrudge Gran her chance at happiness now.

“Mi scusi,” Bea mutters, pushing her way through a crowd of American teenagers. She’s just slipped out of lunch with Gran, telling her she was running into a store they’d passed to get a gift for her boss, and her time is limited. Now she’s going to have to do what she intends and duck into a store for a gift in the time it would take to do only the latter.

The alleyway ahead is crowded, which is a good indication that Bea is approaching her target: the house where the women who respond to Juliet’s letters meet. After reading the letter in the envelope and agreeing to Gran’s insane Italy plan, Bea had done a quick Google search, just to understand what she was dealing with.

From what she found online, the letter writers seem harmless, for the most part—just middle-aged and older women who like indulging the whims of lovesick teenagers. Teenagers being the key word. Gran isn’t a teenager, though—she’s a grown woman with disposable income and the ability to pick up her life and bloody move to Italy if she so chooses—and Bea needs to let these letter writers know just how much damage they’ve done.

Particularly N. Nancy? Natalia? Nicola? Bea will waste no time finding out when she arrives. N is the one who answered Gran’s letter, encouraging her to abandon her life and seek out her lost love, potentially setting herself up for heartbreak. Heartbreak again, because her heart was already broken once, 55 years ago, when she returned to England to marry Bea’s grandfather instead of running away with Alessandro.

What if’s are dangerous things, N had written, suggesting that it was better to avoid them at all, if one could help it. It was better to go after the things you wanted, even if those things might end up disappointing you.

This is not, suffice it to say, Bea’s life philosophy.

Bea passes the courtyard where all the tourists are gathering beneath Juliet’s balcony and makes a left. There is so much potential chaos ahead, so Bea rolls her shoulders back and focuses on the things she can control. First on the list, giving this N a piece of her mind.

At the end of the alleyway, Bea stops in front of the door that has a knocker shaped like an envelope. She’d read a description of it online, but there weren’t any photos: the letter writers like the anonymity, she gathered, of having a headquarters with no address. Bea smiles, proud of herself for locating it, and knocks.

A second later, the door opens, revealing a woman with dark hair and pasta sauce on her apron. “Bonjourno?”

“Hello,” Bea says, playing the odds that this woman speaks English. She grabs the letter out of the back pocket of her shorts and holds it up. “I’m looking for the writer of this letter.”

“Hmm.” The woman frowns and holds her hand out for the letter.

Bea hesitates. What if the woman doesn’t give it back? What if she destroys it because Bea’s breaking some unspoken rule by coming here? Maybe Bea shouldn’t hand it over.

“It’s alright,” the woman says, seeming to sense Bea’s reluctance. “I’ll just look at the signature, and then you can have it back.”

Bea nods, handing it over.

“Ah,” the woman says a second later, returning the letter to Bea. “He’s here today, actually. You’re in luck. Please, come in.”

He? But Bea doesn’t have time to think it through as she follows the woman into the house. They pass through a narrow corridor and emerge into a dining room, where ten people sit around a table covered in letters. Piles of letters, baskets full of letters, letters everywhere. It reminds Bea of that scene in “Harry Potter” when Harry’s letters from Hogwarts burst through the fireplace. It’s complete chaos.

“Niall, she’s here for you,” the woman says. A man with dark hair seated at the far end of the table looks up.

“For me?” he says, standing up and walking towards her. He has some kind of ridiculous, cartoon character accent.

“You?” Bea stares at him. This is impossible. This entire thing is impossible. It’s a dream, this all has to be a dream, that’s the only reasonable explanation. She clutches the letter in front of her like she’s warding off a demon. “You wrote this letter?”

Niall nods. He’s taller than her and wearing khaki pants, which, she decides, is the strangest thing about him, the whole writing-letters-with-old-Italian-ladies thing notwithstanding. An Irish, khaki pants-wearing, letter-writing, heart-breaking demon.

“I did,” he says. “But I take it you’re not the recipient?”

“Of course not,” Bea says roughly. “I’m her granddaughter whose life has just been entirely upended because of this letter, because my Gran has dragged me all the way to bloody Italy to try to find this bloke she loved 55 years ago, who might not even still be alive, and it’s your fault!”

Said bloke, instead of taking responsibility for his actions, smiles at her. He fucking smiles at her.

“Carolyn is here?” he says. “That’s excellent. Can I meet her?”

That is so not what Bea was expecting to hear, so it takes her a moment and a bit of sputtering to muster a sensible response. “No, of course not. Absolutely not. That is not happening.”

“Okay,” Niall says, nodding slowly, his smile lessening slightly. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, then. It was nice to meet you.”

“It wasn’t nice to meet you!” Bea snaps before turning and rushing from the building before she can say anything else.

Jesus H. Christ, she thinks as she reenters the alleyway and slides around another group of tourists. Could she have been any more embarrassing? She’d had a whole speech planned out—she was going to tell the letter writer, who, yes, she’d assumed would be a woman, how irresponsible it was to respond to a letter from 55 years ago, knowing it was possible and even likely that she’d be upsetting the balance of someone’s life. She was going to lay it out simply and with such biting and intelligent language that the letter writer would be begging at her feet for forgiveness by the end of it.

Instead, she’d responded with a comeback worthy of a ten year old on a playground and run away in shame.

Best not dwell on it. Next mission: buy the first tacky gift she sees and get back to lunch.

Seven minutes later, snow globe bagged in her hand, Bea slides back into the chair across from her grandmother.

“Sorry about that,” she says, over-exaggerating her breathing to make it seem like she’d hurried back. “The line was crazy! This was the perfect gift, though, so I couldn’t let it get away.”

“Of course, dear,” Gran says. “I ordered dessert while you were gone. I got you tiramisu.”

“Thanks, Gran.” Bea smiles. Good old Gran, always taking care of her. Even now that she’s a full-grown adult, capable of ordering her own food and embarrassing herself in front of strangers all by herself, her Gran is still helping her along. “After lunch, do you want to—”

“Carolyn?”

Bea whips her head around and, oh, crud, he’s followed her. He strides up to their table like he’s been invited and extends a hand to Gran.

“I’m Niall,” he says. “I wrote the letter.”

“Oh!” Gran grabs his hand and uses it to pull herself to her feet, though Bea isn’t sure that’s what he intended. “It’s so nice to meet you! Thank you so much for your letter! Please join us.”

“Are you sure?” Niall says, putting a hand on the back of the empty chair. He looks at Bea, an eyebrow raised. “Bea invited me, but I really don’t want to intrude.”

Bea raises an eyebrow right back. The nerve of him, this Irish bloke with bright blue eyes and the audacity to upend her grandmother’s life and butt in on their lunch. How rude. How inconvenient. How inconvenient and rude.

“You’re not intruding. Please, sit!”

“Thank you!” He sits down right next to Bea as Gran flags over the waitress and orders three cups of hot tea. Niall will probably drink his, the bastard.

Four - Niall

An hour later, Niall has the full story and plans for at least the next two days. Caro, as she likes to be called, invites him to join her and her granddaughter on their Alessandro hunt, and who is Niall to refuse? Especially when it seems to be driving Caro’s granddaughter—Bea is her name—so crazy.

It’s been a long time since Niall’s had the pleasure of annoying a beautiful woman, and he’s not about to pass up an opportunity to continue doing so.

“You’re sure you don’t have other plans?” Bea asks for the third time, her voice so high-pitched that Niall wonders if she’s stopped breathing.

“No, definitely not,” Niall says, taking a sip of the tea that Caro ordered for him. Very polite, she is. “My, um, fiancée is off on a wine tour for the next few days, so I’m free.”

“You’re in Italy with your fiancée and you want to spend your vacation going on a snipe hunt with us across the whole countryside?”

Caro laughs. “You’re so dramatic, Bea Bug. It’s hardly the whole countryside, just one region. And a snipe hunt, what nonsense!”

Niall grins. He likes Caro; she has a pleasant voice and speaks warmly, as if it’s a pleasure to be listened to. “I’d love to join, if you’ll both have me.”

“I don’t think—”

Caro cuts Bea off. “Of course we will. It will be our pleasure.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Niall says. Bea scoffs.

Back at his hotel room that evening, Niall waits for Rhiannon to return from today’s food tour with a ball of anxiety swirling around his stomach. This is something he probably should’ve discussed with her before he agreed to it, right? Or maybe not. Now that they’re no longer engaged, they don’t have to clear things with each other anymore. Niall can do what he wants, when he wants. He can make decisions for himself without considering how they’ll impact anyone else.

So it’s a force of habit, then, that has him sitting in the armchair next to their bed—the bed they’re sharing, though it feels more like sleeping next to a friend than an ex-lover—and picking at his cuticles. He keeps glancing at the door, waiting for the moment Rhiannon is going to burst through. She’ll have acquired at least two bottles of wine on her bus tour, a slight sunburn on the tip of her nose, and, he’d bet 10 quid, plans for dinner with a new American friend.

Twenty minutes later, there she is, red-faced and smiling, exactly as he expected.

“Oh, Niall, you weren’t waiting for me, would you?” she says, setting her bags down on the bed. “I’ve got plans with my new American mate for dinner. We’re absolutely dying to try this place near the Piazza delle Erbe. I hope that’s alright? You can come with us, if you’d like.”

“That’s okay,” Niall says. “Actually, Rhi, there was something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Sure.” Rhiannon flips open her suitcase and begins digging through it, throwing a pair of shoes on the floor, and then another. She’s looking for a particular dress, he expects, one that will show her new American friend just how London cool she is. “What’s up?”

Niall contemplates how to explain. Best to keep things as simple as possible, he reckons. “I met some people today and they invited me to travel with them for a couple of days.”

“Hmm?” Rhiannon finds the dress she was searching for and smiles at it triumphantly before picking up her makeup bag. “A few days? That sounds nice. Travel where?”

“Around Verona, to some of the vineyards and smaller towns.” That sounds truthful enough, doesn’t it? There’s no need to mention Caro or the letter or Juliet’s balcony, and there especially isn’t any need to mention Bea, the granddaughter whose sass and long legs make Niall’s blood boil.

“Sounds like fun,” Rhiannon says. She looks up from her makeup bag, a tube of mascara in her hand, and smiles at him. Crazy how that smile used to make him smile in return, and now it does nothing to him. “Teresa, that’s my new American mate, wants to take the train out to Venice for a day or two. Should we touch base in a few days?”

“Oh,” Niall says, feeling strangely hurt by this information. He’d expected Rhiannon to be upset, or at least slightly inconvenienced by the plans he’d made that did not involve her, and instead, here she is, with Niall-less plans of her own. Would she have even told him about her plans if he hadn’t brought up his first? He doubts it.

As soon as they’d landed in Italy, Rhiannon had taken off her engagement ring, sealing it into the inner pocket of her makeup bag.

“I’ll give it back to you when we have our staged breakup, when we get back home,” she’d told him.

Some bit of Niall, some deep, ego-driven bit of his soul, had been hoping that Rhiannon was using this trip as a ruse to win him back. She didn’t want to break up, not really, so she conned him into coming on the trip with her so she could prance around in skimpy summer wear and lure him into loving her again.

He didn’t want to love her again, of course, but part of him, that ugly, prideful part, wanted her to want him to lover her again.

It didn’t make any sense, he knew that, and it wasn’t until Rhiannon took off her ring that he realized he was being tremendously silly. But part of him still aches, even now, a week later.

A breakup is a rejection, even a mutual breakup. As Niall was rejecting Rhiannon, she was rejecting him right back, and part of him, though he’s loath to admit it, is hurt by that. This conversation has just reinforced those feelings.

“Sure,” Niall says, attempting to shake off the emotion welling in the back of his throat. “We’ll touch base in a few days. I’m leaving in the morning, so you can check out of the hotel whenever you’d like.”

Rhiannon smiles. “Thanks for being so understanding about all this, Ni,” she says. “Coming on the trip and everything. You really didn’t have to do all this for me.”

Niall shrugs. “I’d be crazy to turn down a free trip to Italy.”

Five - Bea

“He should be here any minute, dear.”

Bea looks up from her phone and resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Great,” she says. “I’m eager to get on the road.”

Eager is a bit of an exaggeration. Bea knows she would’ve been crazy to pass up a trip to Italy, even a trip with her grandmother, but this is far from ideal. Their travel companion is as far from ideal as one could get.

But this matters to her grandmother, so Bea will suck it up, put her best face forward, and pretend she likes the Irish bloke.

Well, she’ll at least pretend to tolerate him.

As they wait, Bea begins to develop a list of things that she doesn’t like about Niall, just to fill the time. First, he doesn’t care about anyone aside from himself: he didn’t give a thought to how his letter would cause upheaval to Gran’s life (or the lives of those around her) before he wrote it. Second, he hides his evil tendencies under a charming appearance, complete with sweet blue eyes and a homey accent and well-fitted shirts. Gran, bless her heart, will never discover just how disingenuous he really is.

But Bea knows. And, she decides, it will be her mission on this trip to make sure that Gran realizes it.

She’ll have to do it subtly, though. Very subtly—no big speeches or yelling, or Gran will realize what Bea’s trying to do, and she will not be pleased. She’ll pull Bea aside and scold her just like she did when Bea was a child on the playground, cutting other little kids in the queue for the swings.

“Oh, there he is!” Gran says now. “Beatrix, look!” Niall is climbing out of a taxi at the end of the hotel’s round driveway. He accepts his bag from the driver in exchange for a couple of folded bills and steps out of the way so the car can leave.

Bea considers him as he pauses and adjusts the roll of his shirtsleeves—they’re cuffed just above his elbows, which is definitely not attractive in any way—before he grabs his duffle bag off the ground, swings it over his shoulder, and turns towards the building. Even the way he walks is infuriating, all jovial, like he doesn’t have anywhere he’d rather be.

Bea can think of a thousand places she’d rather be.

Gran waves instantly. “Niall! Over here!”

Bea forces a smile onto her face as he approaches. He’s smiling too, though it dulls significantly when his eyes meet hers.

Go away, she attempts to communicate through her glare alone.

Over my dead body, she imagines his glare answering.

“Good morning, Caro, Bea,” he says. “Are you two ready to go?”

“Yes, certainly,” Gran says. “We’re so excited to have you joining us. Bea will drive. Bea, can you help Niall with his bag?”

“Of course—”

“That’s not—”

Bea and Niall speak at the same time, meeting each other’s eyes in a staring contest of wills that ends when Niall looks away and picks up his bag.

“Pop the trunk, would you please, Bea?” he asks.

Bea grits her teeth and complies. This is going to be a long, long few days.

Five minutes later, they’re all in the car, Gran and Niall chatting as Bea tries not to grip the steering wheel too tightly. Driving has never been easy for Bea. She’s always worried about what the other drivers are going to do. Will someone merge into her lane without signaling, leaving her little time to brake or merge out of their way? Will someone run a red and bash into her car? There are so many things that can go wrong, and none of them are in her control.

Which is why Bea has remained in London, even as so many of her mates moved out to the suburbs. In London, you don’t need to drive. You take the Tube or an Uber or a taxi to get where you want to go, and you never have to worry about having enough petrol or parking illegally by accident and getting a ticket.

Driving in Verona is nearly as bad, or maybe worse, than driving in London, Bea decides as yet another taxi driver forces his way in front of her car. She grits her teeth again; her dentist is not going to be happy with her.

“Macbeth is my favorite,” Niall is saying, and, were Bea less focused on the road, she would pipe up to tell him how wrong he is (Hamlet is obviously Shakespeare’s best work), but as it is, there’s nothing she can do. She comes to a stop at a red light and forces herself to take a deep breath, in through her nose and out through her mouth.

“Make a left at the next signal,” the Apple Maps robot voice chirps from her phone, which is clipped to a vent on the dashboard.

Fuck you, Bea thinks, gritting her teeth. She can see the next intersection, and a left turn there isn’t going to be easy. Protected lefts do not, apparently, exist in this country. The light changes and Bea eases into the intersection. The car in front of her appears to be looking for a parking space, but the entire block is packed on both sides of the street.

“Gah,” she huffs, letting out a breath.

“Don’t forget to turn left up ahead, Bea bug,” Gran says.

“Got it, Gran.”

Bea takes another calming breath, but she feels anything but calm.

Six - Niall

Bea is the most tense driver Niall has ever witnessed, but that shouldn’t surprise him, considering how tense she is as a human being just existing. They’ve only been in the car half an hour, but from the looks she’s sending him in the rearview mirror, he’s sure she’s thought about ways to kill him at least half a dozen times.

Before they got in the car, when he pulled her aside so he could tell her the address of their first Alessandro, she looked at him like she wanted to murder him. Not just murder him, but chop him into tiny pieces and scatter him about the Italian countryside.

If Caro wasn’t in the car as well, he’d probably already be dead. She’d flip the car off the side of the road and land them in a field full of grazing cattle, where, if he by some miracle didn’t die in the crash, he would be licked to death by cows.

“What was it you studied in uni, dear?” Caro asks him, drawing his attention away from Bea, who absolutely doesn’t care what he studied in uni.

“Political science,” he says. “But I’m a journalist now.”

Bea scoffs. “Of course you are,” she says quietly.

Caro either doesn’t hear or decides to pretend that she didn’t. “That’s wonderful. What do you write?”

“Human interest, mostly,” Niall says, which is the simplest way of saying, I spent six months shadowing a homeless encampment on the South Bank last year. “My last piece was published in The Guardian, but I freelance.”

“Oh, how freeing!” Caro exclaims. “Bea, you should consider that. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have no boss? No schedule! You could have as many vacation days as you wanted! And no one would shake his finger at you and tell you to work harder.”

Niall tries not to smile as Bea’s grip on the steering wheel tightens.

“Gran,” she says, her annoyance obvious to Niall, but Caro keeps on smiling. “I don’t think you can teach primary school from your sitting room.”

“Oh, poo,” Caro says, swatting her hand in Bea’s direction. “I’ve always told you that you can do anything you set your mind to, Bea bug.”

Bea bug? There’s a lot to grab onto in what’s just been said, but Niall’s not an idiot; he knows that teasing Bea about her Gran’s nickname for her would not be the smartest move right now. She is in control of the car, after all. So he goes for the second lowest hanging fruit.

“You teach primary school?” he asks, trying and failing to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Her glare in the rearview mirror nearly burns him alive. “Yes,” she says through gritted teeth. “I’m goddamn delightful.”

Niall can’t hold back his laughter at that. “I’m sure you are.”

“All of the children love her,” Caro says, turning in her seat slightly to look at Niall head-on. She’s apparently missed the hint of sarcasm in his last statement. “She sings the sweetest songs for them. I knew those piano lessons would pay off someday, but I certainly didn’t imagine Bea would use her talents to entertain five year olds.”

“They’re seven, Gran,” Bea corrects.

Caro waves a hand and continues. “You’ve a beautiful voice nonetheless, dear. You really do spoil those children. Perhaps we can convince you do sing for us tonight after dinner.”

Niall looks from the pride on Caro’s face back to Bea, who looks more annoyed than she has all afternoon. Her grandmother goes on and on about how all the parents positively adore her and how Caro knew she was destined to be a teacher since she was a child herself, and Bea seethes.

She’s seething. That’s the only way he can think to describe the way she keeps her eyes steady on the road and her grip tight on the steering wheel and a perpetual frown on her mouth. His gaze traces the slope of her sharp nose and the indent of her cheek that suggests, were she to smile, a real smile, she might have a dimple.

Dimples. On this girl. This stubborn, tempestuous, argumentative, always frowning girl. Preposterous.

Dimples, he supposes, would make her almost appealing.

But as of now, she’s nothing but a nuisance. She probably thinks the same of him, though, he supposes. As Caro continues to sing Bea’s praises, much to Bea’s chagrin, Niall reaches into his backpack and pulls out the notebook where he’s made some notes about the mysterious Alessandro Bianchi. Based on Caro’s letter and some details she’s filled in for him, he has determined the following:

1. Alessandro would be about 80 years old now, as he’s a few years older than Caro.

2. He is likely still in the Veneto region of Italy, as when Caro knew him, he was set to inherit the family lands and winery.

3. He rides horses.

4. He is, in Caro’s words, “the handsomest man I’d ever set my eyes on.”

It’s not a lot to go on, and there are some major issues. The Veneto region first of all, is massive: nearly 5 million people live there, and it stretches all the way north to the Austrian border. Niall’s hopeful Alessandro is still in the province of Verona, a much smaller area that only has a million people.

That’s still a million people to sort through, though. From some database searches on his laptop last night, Niall turned up a list of Alessandro Bianchi’s from that million and then narrowed down by age. His smaller list contains 50 names, smaller in comparison but still a huge number when one is driving around the country going door to door.

There has to be some way to narrow the names further. Niall pulls out the list, which he printed in the hotel business center, and, when there’s a lull in the conversation, passes it up to Caro.

“This are the Alessandro Bianchi’s I’ve found,” he says. “I know the list is long, so I’m hoping you know something else that can help us narrow it down.”

Bea glances sideways as Caro examines the list. Niall’s distracted by her mouth, which has morphed from a frown into something sadder, more regretful. Intriguing.

What’s she hiding? he thinks.

But that’s not a question for now.

“Does anything stand out to you?” he asks Caro. She slides her reading glasses up her nose and moves the paper closer to her face. “Anyone look familiar?”

After a moment, she shakes her head. “I don’t suppose this list comes with photos?”

“Unfortunately not,” Niall says. “It’s a combination of property ownership and voter registration, but it’s not one hundred percent reliable, since people move and don’t change the address on their licenses and such.”

“Of course,” Caro says. She lowers the paper to her lap and pulls her glasses down, allowing them to hang around her neck. “It was rather silly of me to expect this to be easy, wasn’t it?”

“No—” Niall begins, but Bea cuts him off.

“You’re not being silly at all, Gran,” Bea says. She reaches across the center console to take Caro’s hand. “Alessandro is important to you, so we will find him. With or without Niall’s help.”

“Thank you, dear,” Caro says, squeezing Bea’s hand. “But since we’ve got him here with us, we should absolutely take advantage of Niall’s help. He is a journalist, dear, don’t forget.”

Niall is certain that his occupation has done nothing to endear him to her, if the look Bea gives him in the rearview mirror is anything to go by.

“Take the next exit,” the GPS chirps, drawing Bea’s attention away. He misses the fire in her gaze immediately, and that unwelcome realization occupies his mind for several minutes—seriously, what the fuck, brain—until the car turns up a winding dirt road and comes to a stop in front of a cute, if modest, country house.

“This is the first address,” Bea says, voice completely devoid of excitement.

Seven - Bea

“This is the first address,” Bea says, but what she’s thinking is, this cannot be the first address.

The house is, she supposes, cute enough, but it’s run-down. It hasn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in decades, the steps leading up to the porch are crumbling, and the house’s facade is covered in overgrown vines, the kind that slither in cracks in the plaster and make their way into the pipes and destroy everything.

“Let’s get out, then,” Niall says, already opening his door and climbing out of the backseat. He opens Gran’s door for her and helps her out, so Bea has no choice but to follow. She pockets the car keys and follows them up to the front steps.

“Should we knock?” Gran asks, looking from Bea to Niall and back to Bea. Bea can see a bit of nervousness in her gran’s face, and a hint of timidness. It’s strange, seeing it there; it’s not an emotion Gran normally expresses. Gran is always in control, taking the lead, charging headfirst into battle, Bea trailing behind her. That’s how they ended up in Italy, .

But right now, it seems like Gran needs Bea to take the lead. So she steps forward, planting herself between Niall and Gran, and puts a hand on Gran’s shoulder.

“What do you want to do, Gran?” she says in a tone she hopes is gentle and encouraging. She squeezes Gran’s bony shoulder and tries not to think about how much of Gran’s life she’s spent alone, dreaming of her lost love. “Do you want us to knock?”

Gran’s hand drifts to her neck, her fingers playing with her necklace. It’s a thin gold chain, gifted to her, Bea knows, by her husband, Bea’s grandfather, who died before Bea’s parents did. She wonders what Gran is thinking. Is she concerned about being unfaithful to her deceased husband? Is she regretting her marriage to someone who wasn’t Alessandro entirely? Or is she simply nervous about the possibility of seeing Alessandro again after so much time has passed?

“Gran,” Bea says again. “We can stay here as long as you need.”

Bea can feel Niall’s eyes on her, but she ignores him. He shouldn’t even be here; he’s intruding on a private family moment, no matter what Gran says to the contrary. But at least he’s smart enough to be keeping his mouth shut right now.

“No, that’s alright,” Gran says, dropping her hand from her necklace and shaking her head. “I’m being silly. We came all this way, and it’s probably not him. We’ll have wasted a trip if we don’t find out for sure.”

Bea looks up, toward the front door, but on the way, her gaze runs into Niall’s. He’s frowning slightly, like he’s confused. She wrinkles her nose at him, and he grins. If he weren’t so annoying, it might be cute. He might be cute.

“Okay, Gran,” Bea says, slipping her hand into Gran’s for a squeeze. “Let’s go, then?”

“Let’s go,” Gran repeats. She takes a step, then hesitates. “Niall, will you do the honors?”

“Me?” Niall meets Bea’s eyes, his eyebrows raised, but she’s just as surprised as he is. Niall is a guest here—and barely that. He’s an interloper. But Gran wants what Gran wants. Bea shrugs.

Bea watches with bated breath as Niall climbs the battered steps to the house and knocks on the door—twice, and then a third time, louder. She counts the seconds, waiting.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

Finally, the door opens.

The man is backlit by the sun as he steps outside, so it takes a minute before she can see him fully. Dark mustache, suspenders over his shoulders, tan shirt, and a face that’s much, much too young. He can’t be Gran’s Alessandro.

Gran asks anyway, though, drawing on her rusty Italian to ask for Alessandro Bianchi. The man shakes his head.

“It’s not him,” Gran says quietly, tugging on Bea’s sleeve. “He says no one with that name has lived here for years. Decades.”

Bea looks back at the man, who is standing on his front porch looking irritated, like the knock on his door has interrupted his entire day.

“Grazie, signore,” she says, allowing Gran to tug her back to the car, Niall following behind.

As she starts up the car and waits for Gran and Niall to decide where they’re headed next, Bea analyzes her feelings. Annoyance, of course, at Niall for being present, and a smidge at Gran for dragging her all the way out here. Frustration at the poor infrastructure of Italy’s backcountry roads. And—wait, is that disappointment?

Yes, Bea admits to herself. It sucks to strike out this early in the game. It sucks that Gran has spent so many years without Alessandro, and now she’ll have to wait even longer to find him. And what if they never find him? How long will they keep looking? How long will Niall follow them around the country, riding in the backseat and running new Google searches to grow their list of possibles?

Bea looks at Gran, who has pulled her gray hair back in a low ponytail at the nape of her neck to get it out of the way while she compares Niall’s list with a paper map. Gran, who has weathered so many storms. Gran, who has carried Bea through the worst of them.

Gran, who has bounced back from this disappointment like it was nothing.

So Bea will do the same. She will put on a brave face and input the next address Niall gives her into the GPS app, and she will force herself to be hopeful that this Alessandro will be the one they’re looking for.

And if that one’s not him, she’ll hope the same for the next Alessandro.

And the one after that.

Eight - Niall

After they scratch three possible Alessandros off the list, they stop for the night at a boutique winery hotel buried in a valley. It’s dark by the time Bea parks the car, but Niall expects that the surrounding countryside will be beautiful in the morning. Maybe he’ll wake up early and watch the sunrise, notebook and pen in hand, knowing he’ll never have words enough to describe its beauty. Back in college, he took a poetry class and tried his hand at some sonnets, but it was never really his thing.

Maybe now it will be, though. He’s only been in Italy a week and a half, and he’s already done things he never expected to do. Write a letter to a fictional character, for example, and join a girl and her grandmother in the search for a long-lost love.He’s been surprising himself for a while, actually, ever since he made the decision to end his relationship with Rhiannon.

Rhiannon. As Niall unloads the bags from the car, he wonders what she’s doing right now, who she’s spending her time with. Rhiannon has never had trouble making friends, and neither has Niall. That’s one of the reasons they were so good together. At least, that’s what he used to think. He also used to think that any time spent away from Rhiannon was wasted time, but now he knows better.

Today was not wasted, despite three failed attempts to find Caro’s Alessandro. The first man was too young and not named Alessandro anyway, the second man was far too old, and the third was a woman who was completely aghast to find out that she was misnamed and misgendered in the census data. Caro kept in good spirits, always positive in the car, but Niall could tell that her energy was waning. And Bea, meanwhile, was growing more and more annoyed with every grape vine they passed.

Now, as Niall walks the ladies to their rooms, it’s obvious that Bea is ready to be rid of him. Caro hugs both him and Bea goodnight outside her room, whispering, “thank you for being here” in Niall’s ear before she lets him go. Bea takes off down the hall, clearly in disagreement with the sentiment.

“I told you I could carry my own bag,” Bea scoffs when Niall reaches her door. He rolls her suitcase to a stop and chuckles as she grabs the handle, eager to have it back in her possession.

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t help you with your bags?” Niall asks.

“You’re no kind of gentleman.”

Niall raises an eyebrow. “I can carry your bag back out to the car, if you’d like. Then you can wheel it in yourself.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Bea huffs. “You’re so infuriating.”

She turns around, sliding her keycard into the door and pushing it open. Niall grabs her suitcase again and passes it to her as she goes into the room. She flips on a lightswitch, illuminating the space behind her, but Niall doesn’t pay any attention. He’s too fixated on Bea’s face.

She has light brown eyes, the color so diluted that he wonders if they might actually be green, or maybe blue. And the sweep of her nose, the pout on her lips as she frowns at him—God, she’s beautiful. She’s the kind of beautiful where it’s not the first thing you notice about her, but once you notice it, you can never stop seeing it. From now on, she’ll be beautiful every time Niall looks at her, every minute he thinks about her, every second he spends looking at her from the backseat of the rental car.

“Thanks for the help, I guess,” she says to him now, one hand on the door handle.

“You’re welcome,” he says. He steps forward without thinking, needing to be closer to her. “I can let you handle your own suitcase next time, though.”

“Thanks for that, too. But I meant, thanks for being here, for helping with Gran. This is really important to her, and I’m grateful to you for taking her seriously and respecting what she wants.”

“Of course,” Niall says. “She’s wonderful. And this is such a great story. Why wouldn’t I want to help her find Alessandro?”

“I don’t know. Because I’m not sure I do, maybe.” Bea looks over his shoulder, not meeting his gaze. This is hard for her to talk about, and it’s probably even harder for her to talk to him about it. “She loved my granddad, I know she did. If she finds Alessandro again, will her love for him cancel out her love for my granddad? And where does that leave me?”

“The same place you’ve always been.”

Bea’s eyes meet his; she’s startled, surprised that he answered her questions. Or maybe surprised that she was speaking out loud in the first place.

“Your gran loves you the same no matter what,” Niall continues. “I can see that every time she looks at you. That’s not going to change, no matter what happens with Alessandro. And her love for Alessandro won’t change how she loved your granddad. Someone can have two great loves in their life, don’t you think?”

It takes Bea a few seconds to respond, like she’s catching up with what he just said. “I don’t know. If that’s true, then what are all the stories and poems about? What’s Romeo and Juliet about?”

Niall asked himself that question days ago, looking up at Juliet’s balcony just like Romeo, except in his reality there was no beautiful young girl standing there, ready to throw away her life of privilege to be with him. Now, looking at Bea, he feels differently.

“That is what it’s about,” he says. “Those questions. How do you know when someone loves you? How do you know you’re worthy of their love, or that their love is going to last? How do you know when to risk your heart?

“Hmm.” Bea’s eyes drop to her shoes. “Sometimes I think it’s better not to try. Too much risk.”

“You know what they say. No risk, no reward.”

Bea goes quiet, and Niall doesn’t know what to say next. So he waits, waits for her to fill the silence. He finds himself reluctant to remove himself from her doorstep, reluctant to go to end this conversation and go to his room and be alone with his thoughts when he could be here, sharing them with her.

“Right,” Bea says abruptly. “As nice as it was talking to you, Niall”—he can tell from her tone that she doesn’t think it was nice at all—“I think it’s time for me to go to bed. We’ve got an early start in the morning.”

“Right.”

“Goodnight, then,” she says.

“Goodnight.”

It’s baffling, really, how quickly his feelings toward her changed, Niall thinks as he looks at her looking at him. Maybe it happened this afternoon, as Bea comforted her disappointed grandmother over and over again. Or maybe it happened even earlier, on their way out of Verona this morning, when she cursed at a taxi driver under her breath.

She’s beautiful, still. Beautiful, again. Beautiful, always.

Damn, this is not what he thought would happen when he agreed to help an old woman track down the man she loved half a century ago.

“Goodnight, Niall,” Bea repeats, staring at him.

“Goodnight,” he says again, but he doesn’t move. His eyes are glued to her face, and he can’t look away. It’s probably starting to get a little bit creepy, but she’s a mystery, and maybe if he looks long enough, he’ll be able to discern some tiny clue.

“You’re blocking my door,” she says, looking, as per usual, less than pleased with him.

Niall practically jumps backwards in an attempt to make space for her. “Right, of course! Sorry about that.”

There’s enough clearance to close the door now, but Bea freezes for a moment, hand on the doorknob, eyes locked on Niall’s.

“Bea?”

“What?” Bea shakes her head, blinking, as if coming out of a daze. “Right. Sorry. Goodnight, Niall.”

Then she shuts the door, leaving Niall standing there, wondering if he’ll ever have words enough to describe her beauty. And how utterly confused she leaves him.

Nine - Bea

In the morning, Bea wakes up itchy. At first she thinks it’s bedbugs, because that’s what every traveler thinks when they wake up itchy, but this hotel that Gran is paying for is much too nice for bedbugs. They left chocolate on her pillow last night and there are enough towels in the bathroom tokeep her in baths for years to come. Too bad they’re only staying two nights.

Maybe it’s a sunburn, she thinks, trudging to the bathroom and craning her neck to examine her back in the mirror. It’s a bit pink, but certainly not burnt enough to cause the kind of itching she’s feeling. The straps of the tank top she wore yesterday aren’t even outlined.

Something else, then. Maybe she ate something that triggered an allergy. Bea muses on that thought as she brushes her teeth with one hand and scratches her thigh with the other. What’d she eat yesterday? Spaghetti, gelato, a panini, and lots and lots of bread. Nothing too out of the ordinary, no shellfish or undercooked meat or questionable cheese.

Maybe it’s a rogue clothing tag. She slides her pajama shorts off and turns them inside out, hunting for a tiny piece of plastic that might’ve been left behind when she snipped off the price tag. Nothing. There isn’t even a tag with laundry instructions. There’s absolutely nothing there that could be causing that infernal crawling sensation Bea’s feeling all over both legs.

And her back, not to mention her back, where a million tiny spiders are tap-dancing in flip flops, tickling all of her nerve endings and driving her batty.

Bea tosses her toothbrush on the counter and moves to turn on the shower, imagining all of the spiders washing away down the drain. What a way to wake up: in a beautiful hotel room in the beautiful countryside of Italy, itching all over. She hasn’t been itchy like this in years, not since she told her best mate, Theresa, that the boy she liked didn’t like her back, even though he did. Bea liked him too and didn’t want to watch him date her best friend. Rosie saw straight through her lie, as best mates often do, and turned all of their friends against Bea. That was the last time Bea ever got involved in someone else’s romantic life.

Oh, crud. The only thing that makes Bea itchy like this is romance. And, well, lying.

But, lying. She hasn’t told any lies lately, has she? She hasn’t tricked Gran or tried to lure her away from the Alessandro hunt. And she hasn’t lied to Niall about how much she dislikes him or—

Oh, crud. She doesn’t dislike him, does she?

Last night, when Niall walked her to her door and stood there for what felt like hours, staring at her with his piercing blue eyes, there had been a moment, the briefest of seconds, when Bea wondered if he was going to kiss her, and thought that she might like him to. She’d stood there in the open doorway of her hotel room and considered that it might be nice to kiss the cute Irishman who’d given up his vacation to help her gran search for her lost love. In that moment, that brief, endless moment, he’d seemed sweet, genuine, likable, handsome, and exactly the kind of person whom one enjoys kissing.

But then the moment had passed, Bea had shaken herself out of it, and she closed the door on him and his tempting lips and intriguing eyes. Niall is engaged, and, regardless, he’s not the kind of person one has those thoughts about.

Bea’s brain still seems confused about that, though, as it wonders, will his lips look as tempting and his eyes as intriguing at breakfast this morning?

Oh, crud. Bea scratches at her elbow.

The itchiness abates during her shower but then comes back full-force when she meets Gran and Niall at breakfast. She sees them before they see her so she takes a moment to observe before she approaches. They’re seated at a table on the terrace outside the hotel’s restaurant, and Gran’s laughing at something Niall said, her head thrown back and joy clear on her face. Bea longs to hear the joke herself, longs to know this side of Niall, when his humor’s not at her expense, when he’s not teasing her or sending her funny looks via the rearview mirror.

Jesus H. Christ, Bea thinks, shaking herself out of it and approaching the table. Grams barely has time to look up before a waiter appears and pours her a cup of coffee.

“Good morning, Beatrix,” Gran says. Bea doesn’t miss Gran’s raised eyebrow over the rim of her own mug. Earl Grey for Gran in the mornings, always.

“Morning, Gran,” Bea says once she’s gulped down a mouthful of coffee. It’s scalding hot and not particularly good, which is a disappointment, but not one worth dwelling on when one is as itchy as Bea is. “Morning, Niall.”

“Bea,” he says, nodding at her. There’s a slight twinkle in his eye and Bea imagines it saying, I know you wanted me to kiss you last night. It makes her right knee itch. The fact that that’s the closest knee to Niall is of no consequence.

She looks away from him and grabs a menu, flipping it open. The entire thing is in Italian, which is fine for a dinner menu but a lot more complicated for breakfast. “I think I’d like an omelette today. Do they have omelettes in Italy? What’s the Italian word for egg?”

Neither Niall nor Gran answer right away, so Bea keeps on. “Pane, that’s bread, right? I know that word. What’s the Italian for bacon?”

“It’s bacon,” Niall says. When Bea meets his gaze, he’s smiling at her, a hint of a laugh lingering on the corner of his mouth. Gran is smiling, too.

“What?” Bea asks, looking from one to the other. “Do I have toothpaste on my face?”

Niall drops his eyes to his plate, but Gran doesn’t look away, so Bea narrows in on her. Gran has never been able to keep anything from her—except Alessandro, of course, but Bea doesn’t want to think about that right now—so Bea knows that if she stares long enough, Gran will buckle.

It doesn’t seem to work this time though, as Gran drops the smile into a concerned frown. “No, dear,” she says. “But I’m glad to hear you brushed your teeth.”

Niall snickers, and suddenly Bea hates him again, but her right wrist won’t stop itching.

Why was it that she liked him? All the reasons have disappeared as she finishes her breakfast and listens as Gran and Niall go over their agenda for the day. There are four Alessandros on today’s list and a short lunch break scheduled for the afternoon.

In the car, Bea takes the wheel again, Gran in the passenger’s seat and Niall in the back. Once they’re out on the main road, Alessandro’s address plugged into Apple Maps, Niall pulls out his notebook and begins scribbling away.

The back of Bea’s neck itches as she wonders what he’s writing. Is it a personal journal entry in which he’s describing how he almost kissed her last night? Or is it a draft of a novel, the story of lovers separated by centuries only to find themselves together again? If it’s the latter, she’s not sure how Gran would feel about becoming the heroine of a novel. Niall definitely should’ve asked first.

She’s still annoyed at him over that possibility when she finally asks, several ,minutes later, “What are you writing?”

It takes a minute for Niall to look up and meet her gaze in the rearview mirror. “It’s not done yet,” he says with a shrug.

“Okay, but what’s it about?” Bea presses. “Is it nonfiction? Fiction? Are you writing poetry?”

There’s a gleam in Niall’s eyes as he mimes zipping his lips and throwing an invisible key over his shoulder.

Bea huffs and turns her focus back to the road. On either side of the road are endless vineyards stretching as far as the eye can see. Every once in a while, there’s a barn or a house or a man on horseback, a copse of trees, a hill, but it’s mostly vine after vine after vine. Finally, finally, they turn onto a side road and head toward the residence of the first Alessandro.

Let this one be him, Bea prays. Let this one be him, and let him be married, so I can go back to my life as it was and forget any of this ever happened.

But then, what about Gran? Bea considers the ideal outcome for Gran. Maybe Alessandro is a widower, living alone on his vineyards, waiting for his lost love to return to him. He and Gran will marry and she’ll stay in Italy forever, leaving Bea to take care of her big house in London. Or maybe Alessandro will be dead. That’s preferable, Bea thinks, to him being married to another woman.

At least that’s what Bea thinks, until the man who answers the door proclaims himself to be Alessandro’s son.

“My father died last year,” he says, and Bea hears Gran gasp behind her. She tightens her grip on Gran’s hand. “I’m sorry, you say you knew him?”

Bea can’t see Gran’s face, but she can imagine the look on it. When her parents died, she felt as though the floor had dropped out from underneath her and she was clinging to the edge by her nails, waiting for someone to pull her back up. It had been Gran who had come to her aid.

That’s not something Bea likes to think about very often, but now, just for a moment, she’s glad she experienced it. Maybe now she can be here for Gran, as Gran was for her. She’s never had the opportunity to step up in that way before now.

Niall looks at Bea for a second before answering the man’s question. “No, I didn’t. This is Caro. Carolyn. She knew him, years ago. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Bea thinks she should echo the expression, but she can’t find her voice. This is too much of a shock: they came all this way for Alessandro, and though Bea had considered the possibility that he might be dead, she really didn’t expect it to be the case. What kind of ending is this?

The man, Alessandro’s son, looks at each of their faces, at their expressions. “And I, for yours. Would you like to come in?”

“Let’s go,” Gran whispers, tugging on Bea’s hand, pulling her back toward the car, but Bea steps forward. Maybe she can help Gran get the closure she needs. She clears her throat.

“Yes, please. We’d love to.”

The man nods, opening the door wider and allowing the three of them to follow him inside and into a small sitting room. Niall introduces Bea and himself, but she’s too distracted to be polite. The man’s house is small but well-kept. The tile floors are swept, books fill the shelves in the sitting room, and there is a piano with a row of picture frames on the top. Bea wanders over, looking at the photos and imagining this other life Gran might have lived.

In the first, their host, aged 9 or 10, stands with his parents in front of, what else, a vineyard. He wears overalls and his mother squints at the camera. The photo is in black and white even though it was taken, Bea guesses, sometime in the late 70s. There are balloons in the background, evidence of a party.

“Are these your parents?” Bea asks, carrying the frame over to the man. The man nods, taking it from her hands. “When was this photo taken?”

“I was 10 years old, if I remember correctly,” the man says. He lifts a pair of eyeglasses from his neck and slides them on. “My father had just returned from the army, his last tour. We were celebrating his retirement.”

“Alessandro was in the army?” Bea turns to Gran, who has settled on the couch, Niall standing awkwardly by her side, looking down on her as if worried she’s going to faint.

The man nods. “Yes, for many years. He enlisted as soon as he was old enough, in 1963, and was only home for a short time in 1968, when he met and married my mother. They had a whirlwind courtship, as you say.”

“1963,” Bea repeats. Something doesn’t fit, but she’s not sure what.

Niall is, though. “Caro met Alessandro in 1965,” he says. “Where was your father in 1965?”

The man scratches his head and takes so long to answer that Bea wants to grab him by the shoulders and give him a good shake.

“Somewhere abroad,” he says finally. “North Africa, possibly.”

Bea’s face mirrors the look of shock on Niall’s. She takes the frame from the man and walks it to the couch. “Is this him, Gran? Is this your Alessandro?”

Gran leans forward, looking at the picture for an endless minute. “No,” she says quietly, fingers playing with the gold chain around her neck. “No, that’s not him.”

Bea feels a wave of emotion crash over her, pushing her down onto the couch next to Gran. “That’s not him,” she repeats.

“That’s not him,” Niall echoes.

Bea sits quietly as Niall makes their excuses, apologizing for the intrusion and giving their condolences. He ushers them out the door and back towards the car, where he grabs Bea’s arm before she can open the driver’s side door.

“Do you want me to drive?” he says quietly. “You seem shaky.”

Bea rolls her shoulders back. She’s not shaky, she’s fine. So what if Alessandro was dead and then alive again in the span of five minutes? She’s fine.

“I’m fine,” she snaps. “Don’t you want to journal about this?”

Niall steps away from her, hands up, and gets in the car before she can apologize for being rude.

It’s just as well, she supposes. It’s not as if she likes him anyway.

Ten - Niall

The next day is much like the prior one, with visits to multiple Alessandro’s who may or may not be Gran’s lost love. At least none of them are dead. Yesterday’s first stop was so rough that Niall considered proposing to the ladies that they cut their losses and head back to the hotel, but Bea looked determined to press on.

This morning, though, her energy level seems lower, so on the way to the car, he offers to drive.

“Are you sure?” Bea asks, raising an eyebrow. “Have you ever driven in a foreign country?”

Niall raises an eyebrow in return, which makes Bea blush. He ignores the way his stomach flips at the redness in her cheeks. “Yes,” he says. “I’ve even driven in foreign cities. Like Verona.”

She blushes even darker as she no doubt recalls her terrible driving as they left the city a few days ago. “All right, then,” she says, passing over the keys. “But don’t kill us. My Gran is precious cargo.”

Niall nods. He doesn’t need to be told. Caro is one of the most wonderful people he’s ever met, aside from his own grandmother, who is back home in Ireland and whom he never gets to see. Growing up, his parents were always traveling for business, working late, making him feel forgotten, and it was his grandmother who remembered him. She took him on day trips to carnivals and national parks, attended all of his school plays, and helped him with his homework when he struggled. Leaving her behind to move to London was one of the hardest things he’s ever done, so it’s nice to spend time with Caro. She’s an excellent listener, and she gives even better advice.

Yesterday morning over breakfast, before Bea had shown up, Caro had asked him about his life, about what brought him to Italy, and he talked about Rhiannon in a way that he never had before.

“I thought I loved her once,” he’d said, stirring cream into coffee that he knew he wouldn’t drink.“But I know now that I didn’t. I just wanted to be in love so badly that I settled for her.”

Caro had nodded like she understood. “Or maybe you wanted to be loved. It’s okay to want that.” Then she’d paused, taken a sip of her tea, swallowed. “You like my granddaughter.”

She said it bluntly, like it was a fact, and Niall had been surprised, in that moment, to hear something he’d only felt sound so permanent, so real. But it was true, so he nodded.

“I do,” he said, and he had imagined, for the briefest of seconds, being loved by someone who stood her ground and said what she want, someone who cared about her family enough to drive through endless wine country with them, someone like Bea—and then he forced the thought out and away. It wasn’t an appropriate thing to be thinking while conversing with Bea’s grandmother.

But now that it’s a day later and he’s driving the car and Bea’s asleep in the backseat, mouth slack as she rests her head on her hand, elbow propped against the window, he has free reign to think whatever he wants. Which, try as he might to want something else, is Bea. Bea and her reluctant laugh. Bea and the fire in her eyes.

“Stubborn, isn’t she?” Caro says after a while, her voice so quiet that Niall wonders if he imagined it. Wonders if she was reading his mind. “My granddaughter. Stubborn as her gran.”

“Hmm.” Niall smiles softly at her, unsure what to say in response.

“I raised her, you know,” Caro says, glancing sideways at him before looking back at the road. “Her parents died when she was young, and ever since, she’s been this wild thing, but stubborn, practical. Always looking for evidence, for proof. But for some things, there is no proof.”

“What things?” Niall asks.

“Love, the most obvious. Faith. Hope. Dreams, especially dreams. Bea has rarely allowed herself dreams. Only when she’s asleep does she dream.”

Niall pictures her asleep, pictures her in bed beside him, rising from a nightmare and seeking his comfort. The image warms him. Now he has something else to think about: Bea and her forgotten dreams—for she must’ve had them, once.

“I dream enough for the both of us, don’t I?” Caro continues. Her voice turns serious. “We haven’t discussed this, but I know we can’t search for Alessandro forever.”

“I’ve got nothing but time,” Niall says, but it isn’t exactly true. He has to go back to London at some point. He wishes he didn’t, though. He wishes he could stay here forever, traveling the countryside with Caro and Bea.

“Your time is better spent on other endeavors,” Caro says, looking over her shoulder at Bea, who’s still asleep. Then she looks pointedly back to Niall. “You should tell her how you feel.”

Niall doesn’t answer. Bea is hot and cold—two nights ago, they’d almost kissed outside her door, but since then she’s barely spoken to him, barely looked at him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he finally says. Even if she likes him, even if she’d kiss him back—it doesn’t matter. “Like you said, we can’t search for Alessandro forever.”

“We can’t, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter.” She pauses. Then: “Another day or two, I think. These old bones grow wary of sitting in cars.”

“Maybe we’ll find him today,” Niall says, offering her a smile.

They don’t, though. They visit two Alessandro’s before lunch, one too old and one two young, and in the afternoon, travel to an address that doesn’t exist. Before dinner, they check into another hotel just outside Sienna, all three of them exhausted. Niall can feel his bones creaking at all the joints, a physical manifestation of his mental exhaustion.

As he waits in the lobby for the ladies to come down for dinner, he scratches off several Alessandro’s from his list. There are a lot left, but, as Caro said this morning, she isn’t willing to search forever. Another day or two, she’d said. So he looks at the list now and tries to derive, as if by magic, which ones are most likely to be the one they’re searching for. It’s no use, but he stares at the page anyway, stares so long that “Alessandro” no longer looks like a word, just a random arrangement of letters.

Energy levels remains low at dinner, and not even gelato can seem to cheer anyone up. Niall bids Caro and Bea goodnight and goes to his room, where he pulls out his notebook and stares at a blank page before finally giving up and going to sleep.

Tomorrow will be a better day, he thinks as he drifts off.

Eleven - Bea

The next morning, Niall knocks on Bea’s door before she’s had a chance to leave for breakfast. She’s braiding her hair over her shoulder when she pulls open the door and greets him.

“Hi?” she says.

“Good morning,” he says. He looks good this morning, dressed in shorts and a short sleeve button up. His sneakers are bright white. She wonders if he bleaches them.

“Good morning,” she says. “What’s going on? Is Gran alright?”

“She’s fine,” he says. “Bit tired. She said she wants to take the day off from driving today and hang about the pool. You could join her if you want, or…”

“Or?” She notices the backpack swung over his shoulder. “Are you going somewhere?”

He nods. “Sienna. I figured, since we’re here, I’d like to see it. And maybe you’d like to come.”

Her first instinct is to say no, because this is Niall and she absolutely does not like him, but then she changes her mind. What if she’s never in Italy again? What if they find Alessandro tomorrow and she’s on an immediate flight back home? What if this is her only chance to see Sienna?

“Okay,” she says. “I’d like to come.”

Ten minutes later, they’re in the car and she’s looking at his hands on the steering wheel. When he’d offered to drive, she’d accepted without hesitation, eager to spend the drive looking out the windows. As endless as the vines seem, they’re beautiful, and a bit otherworldly, as if England is more than a few hours’ flight away.

“Have you ever been to Italy before?” she asks Niall.

“No,” he says, glancing sideways at her. He’s an excellent driver, so careful, and she’s never felt safer in a car—a feat for her, because her parents died in one. “I’ve never made much time for travel. I regret that, I think. There are so many places to see that I haven’t seen.”

“There’s so much future for that,” Bea says. “So much forever. You can fill all of it with travel.”

“Maybe. Where would you like to go?”

Bea smiles, softly. She never lets her think about these things, about all the things she can’t have or will never do, but she indulges herself for a second. “Prague. Tokyo. Rio de Janeiro. New York City.”

“I’ve been to New York City,” Niall interjects. “It’s loud.”

“London is loud.”

“New York is louder.”

“Fine,” Bea rolls her eyes. “Where would you go?”

Niall shrugs, the fabric of his shirt rustling against the leather of the car seat. “Prague, Tokyo, Rio. I want to go everywhere.”

Bea doesn’t respond, and they fall into a surprisingly comfortable silence, during which they drive into Sienna and she thinks about how big Niall’s hands look on the steering wheel and how small hers feel resting on her thighs. She feels safe with Niall, not just when he’s driving, but maybe that’s not real. Maybe she’s transferring her feelings about his driving skills to the rest of him.

Or maybe, she considers, that she really does like Niall, just as she was thinking a few mornings ago, before the disaster with the undead Alessandro and the following day filled with disappointments. She scratches her knee.

“Bug bite?”

“Huh?” She looks over at Niall, who’s grinning at her. “Oh, yeah, I guess.”

“That’s rough,” he says.

“Yeah,” she says, but looking at Niall, nothing feels rough. Everything feels easy, smooth sailing, like she could sit beside him in a car forever.

Oh, crud.

In Sienna, Niall parallel parks easily near the city center and they wander through the streets, in and out of a museum, around and around the cathedral. Inside, Bea stands transfixed by the height of the ceilings and the intricacy of the design, horizontal lines spiraling around her, making her dizzy.

“This is the ugliest church I’ve ever seen,” Niall says quietly into her ear, making her laugh. She covers it up with a cough—it’s rude to laugh in a church, she’s pretty sure—before she responds.

“You can’t say that,” she whispers. “God can hear you.”

“God didn’t build it,” Niall whispers back. “And I’m sure he’s well aware.”

At lunch, they talk easily about their lives back in London, their favorite places to visit and their favorite places to avoid. They both hate Covent Garden and both love the South Bank despite the crowds of tourists outside the Globe.

“I can’t believe I’ve never seen you there,” Niall says.

“London’s a huge city,” Bea says. “Over 8 million people live there.”

“Maybe. But only one Beatrix Mason.”

That makes her blush, and the awareness that she’s blushing makes her blush more. He grins at her, and she smiles back, and if she could make a snow globe out of any moment, it would be this one. This perfect day in Sienna with a perfect man whose beautiful eyes look into her own like they can see all her secrets and aren’t judging her for them.

She thinks of Juliet then, of her decision to marry Romeo after only knowing him for a few days, and in that moment, it doesn’t seem crazy. It seems like the most sensible thing in the world.

In the late afternoon, they drive back to the hotel to meet Gran for dinner, but she’s already eaten, so they get a table in the hotel restaurant without her. Niall smiles and Bea smiles and something’s changed, she thinks. Today he cracked open a little bit and made a little bit more sense, and she wants to keep digging, she thinks.

He’s engaged, she knows that—he’s engaged, but tomorrow will be their last day together, and she can have one more day, can’t she? One more day with Niall, and then she’ll let him go.

“Come for a walk with me,” she says when they’re done eating.

They wander into the hills around the hotel, climbing to the top of one to look at the stars.

“Do you know the names?” Niall asks.

“No,” Bea says, which is a lie, but she’s hoping he’ll impress her. She’s hoping he wants to impress her.

“Me either,” he says. She laughs.

They lie on the ground like that for a while, watching stars shoot across the sky. Niall’s hand finds hers in the grass and holds on tight. The air tingles between them. A summer night, alive.

When he leans over and kisses her, it’s surprising at first and then the most natural thing in the world. She kisses him back, enjoying the weight of him over her, the brush of his hair in his eyes, the softness of his lips. And then she remembers.

She pushes him back, and it takes a second before he goes. He smiles at her, but she doesn’t smile back.

“Bea,” he says, reaching a hand down to brush some hair out of her face. It’s too much, and almost enough to get her to kiss him again. But he’s engaged.

She rolls away from him and springs to her feet. “I’m sorry,” she stammers. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

Niall follows, going after her as she crosses the lawn. “Why not?”

Bea looks over her shoulder. “You’re engaged. Aren’t you engaged?”

Niall shakes his head, but doesn’t respond. He looks like he’s fed up with her, which is just as well, because she’s fed up with him too. Why is he like this, hot one second, confusing the next? Why is she like this, attracted to such a man?

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “Bea, I like you, and—”

“How can you say it doesn’t matter? Your fiancée doesn’t matter?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I—”

“Look, we’re almost through the list,” Bea says, taking another step away from him. He needs to stop looking at her like that, with those glowing blue eyes, or she can’t be held responsible for her actions. The more space she can put between them now, the better. “If we don’t find Alessandro tomorrow, that’s it. Gran and I are going home, and you’re going back to your fiancée, and we can pretend that none of this ever happened.”

Niall steps closer to her, into the space she put between them. “I don’t want to pretend that none of this ever happened.”

“But you’re engaged,” she reminds him again. Why can’t he seem to remember that? “To someone else. To someone who I’m sure is very kind and very much in love with you and would not be pleased to find out that you’ve been kissing another girl on a hillside in the country.”

The corner of Niall’s mouth lifts, almost like—is he laughing? He’s definitely laughing. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

“What?” Bea’s jaw drops open. “That’s an awful thing to say. You’re disgusting. I can’t believe I just kissed you.” And I can’t believe I want to do it again.

Now he’s frowning. “Bea—”

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to bed, and we’re going to forget this ever happened, and we’re never going to talk about it again.”

Niall looks like he wants to say something, but he holds it back. Good.

“Goodnight,” she says, turning on her heel and marching away from him.

She can’t resist turning back, though, where he’s still standing on the hill, hand raised to his mouth, gazing after her. She spins away before he can catch her looking.

Twelve - Niall

In the car the next morning, they don’t speak of the kiss. Bea won’t even look at him, and Niall supposes he deserves it. She thought he was engaged, after all. But he isn’t. He isn’t engaged, and the only thing he wants is to kiss Bea again, and again, and again.

That doesn’t seem likely to happen, though, at least not if this morning is an indication.They sit silently in the car, all three of them off in their own worlds. Bea had said last night that today would be their last day—if they don’t find Alessandro today, this is it. They’ll return to their lives, story unfinished.

Niall wouldn’t put money on that, though. He’s a writer, and he knows that a story’s not a story if it doesn’t have an ending. And this one, the story of Alessandro Bianchi and Carolyn Mason—it’s going to have a marvelous ending.

Hopefully the story of Niall Horan and Beatrix Mason will have a marvelous ending, too. He won’t leave Italy without one.

The morning’s Alessandro is a bust, and after a roadside picnic, they hit the road again, driving east to the next one on the list. Niall picked today’s names, perhaps the final ones, at random, and he both hopes and doesn’t hope that one of them is the one.

They’re a few minutes out from the turn indicated on the map when Caro gasps in the passenger’s seat. Niall leans forward to see if she’s okay, meeting Bea’s eyes for a precious second before she looks away, refocusing her attention on her grandmother.

“Pull over,” Caro says, her hand already reaching for the door.

“What?” Bea says. “Are you okay?”

“Pull over,” Caro repeats, so Bea does, flipping on the turn signal and guiding the car off the road. Caro gets out and steps toward the road, staring across at a man standing in the vineyard. Bea follows, and so does Niall.

“Gran? What is it?” Bea asks.

Caro raises her arm and points. “That’s him. That’s Alessandro.”

Niall squints at the man across the road. He’s young, much too young to be Alessandro—he’s not much older than Bea. But Caro seems so sure, her gaze fixed, so Niall crosses the road to ask.

“Niall, wait,” Bea calls after him, and though it’s the first time she’s acknowledged him all day, he doesn’t turn around.

“Scusi,” he says to the man. “We’re looking for Alessandro Bianchi.”

“That’s me,” the man says. “I am Alessandro Bianchi. And my father, he is Alessandro Bianchi as well.”

“Your father,” Niall repeats. “Your father, where is he?”

“Out for a ride,” the man says, his gaze drifting across the road, where Bea and Caro still stand. “He will be back soon. I can take you up to the house, if you’d like.”

Niall nods. “Let me get my friends.”

He crosses the road back to Caro and Bea, who are staring at him with wide eyes. “It’s him,” Niall says. “Well, not him, but Alessandro is his father and he’s just out for a ride and he’ll be back soon.”

“He’ll be back soon,” Bea repeats, processing. Then, more eagerly: “Gran, he’ll be back soon!”

“Oh,” Caro says, looking off into the distance. “Maybe it’s not really him. We ought to go before he comes.”

“Nonsense, Gran,” Bea says. She tucks a lock of Caro’s hair behind her ear. “You look beautiful, just as you did 55 years ago. He’s going to be so excited to see you.”

Caro sighs. “I don’t know, Bea bug. It’s been so long, so many years. Maybe this box is best left shut.”

“Gran—” Bea starts, but the sound of a galloping horse interrupts her. The three of them turn as a horse emerges from the vineyards across the road, coming to a stop beside Alessandro Jr. They watch with bated breath as he converses with his son, both of them looking across the road, and then, still on his horse, he crosses.

“Carolina,” he says, drawing his horse to a stop a few feet from them. He climbs down and drops the reins, the horse forgotten as he approaches. “My Carolina, is that you?”

Caro steps forward. “Alessandro. It’s me.”

“After so many years,” he says. “Impossible.”

“Not impossible,” she says.

Niall can’t believe it. He truly can’t believe it, but it’s true. It’s him, after all this time, after all the places they’ve stopped, after all the ways he’s twisted himself into knots over Bea—there he is. Alessandro. Caro’s Alessandro.

Niall drifts backwards as they embrace, coming to stand behind Bea. She looks uncomfortable as well, her gaze drifting off into the endless rows of grapevines beside the road.

Niall puts a hand lightly on her back. “Should we—”

“I think—”

Niall laughs, which makes Bea blush his favorite blush. “You go ahead,” he says.

She bites her lip, and he can tell she’s trying not to smile. After everything, she doesn’t want to smile at him, but this moment, it’s special. “I was going to say, I think we should give them a few minutes.”

“I was going to say the same thing.” Niall grins. He can’t help it. They found Alessandro—they found Alessandro!—and he’s here, with Bea. There’s nothing better than this, nowhere he’d rather be.

“Let’s go,” Bea says, leading him through the vineyard.

They walk in step silently for a while, Bea ignoring him and Niall wondering what he should say.The vineyards wrap around them, pushing them closer together, but Bea avoids bumping shoulders with him. He can tell that she wanted to give her gran privacy, but, unlike him, she’d rather be anywhere than here with him.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he says, breaking the silence.

“Good,” she says. “You should be.”

Niall doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know how to explain to her what she means to him—how, in such a short time, she’s come to mean everything. He thinks, hopes, prays, that maybe she feels the same way.

“I think you should leave.”

“What?” he says. She doesn’t feel the same way, and it hits him like a brick to his gut. After everything.

“We found Alessandro, so there’s no reason for you to stay. You should leave now, go back to Verona, back to your fiancée and your life. I’ll find someone to drive you to the train station. I’m sure Alessandro’s son Alessandro would be willing.”

“You won’t drive me yourself?” he asks, annoyed now, frustrated, exhausted. What an emotional roller coaster this week has been.

“No, Niall,” she says, looking at him now, meeting his gaze, and in it he can see every emotion he’s feeling too—exhaustion and confusion and excitement and sadness and loneliness. But that clarifies nothing. “I won’t drive you, and I don’t want to see you again. This week was nice, but it was just that—a week. It’s over now, and we are too.”

She turns her back on him, walking away, so she doesn’t hear what he says to her retreating form:

“We barely began.”

Thirteen - Bea

Gran has never looked so happy as she does at dinner with Alessandro and all of his family—children and grandchildren and even a great-grandchild or two. This is the massive family gathering that Gran never got, everyone who loves each other gathered in one place, smiling, laughing. It’s bliss.

Except it’s not, because seated to Bea’s right is Niall. Niall, who’s engaged and kissed her anyway. Niall, who she can’t stop thinking about, who she won’t stop thinking about even when he’s gone. Niall, who she can barely look at. Niall, who she’s sending away.

It’s the right thing to do, she knows, but it feels so wrong, and she hasn’t even done it yet.

She barely pays attention to Alessandro’s relatives as they riddle her with questions, some of which Niall answers for her—making her feel safe even when she doesn’t want him to. Making her feel cared for, even though she asked him not to.

After dinner, Bea approaches Gran and Alessandro beside the table, where they are surrounded by a cluster of Alessandro’s grandkids and great-grands. Niall follows behind—Bea can feel him there, but she doesn’t turn around to look. Looking at him hurts.

She can’t believe that 24 hours ago she thought she’d be able to spend just these days with him and then let him go, and be okay with it. This isn’t okay. This isn’t okay at all.

Best to rip off the band-aid. Bea puts a hand on Gran’s arm.

“Niall is leaving,” she says when Gran turns to face her.

Gran looks at Niall. “Oh, no, please, Niall, you don’t have to.”

Alessandro echoes the sentiment. “Please, stay. You are welcome here.”

Niall looks at her then, looks for some kind of confirmation that he can stay, that she wants him here, but Bea doesn’t give it to him. She looks at the ground and doesn’t meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes burning a hole in Bea’s cheek. “I have to be getting back to Verona.”

Bea feels more eyes on her—Gran, this time. She meets her eyes and gives a quick nod, as if to say, I want him gone. Gran frowns, but doesn’t object.

“My son will drive you to the station,” Alessandro says, waving his son over.

Five minutes later, Bea stands back as Gran says goodbye to Niall at the car, hugs him and kisses his cheek and makes him promise to call. He won’t, though, Bea knows that. When Niall leaves, she will never see him again. She hurt him when she told him to go as they stood in the vineyards, surrounded by unborn wine. She hurt him, and there’s no taking that back.

He looks at her through the window as the car drives away, his face expressionless, his eyes bright blue even through the glass. He looks at her until he’s too far away to keep looking.

The moment the car turns at the end of the drive, disappearing from view, Bea can feel in her stomach that she made a mistake. It feels like a storm is broiling, rolling and twisting and throwing her dinner around like it’s lawn furniture. But it’s too late.

“Oh, Beatrix,” Gran says from behind her. “Why did you do that? Don’t you have feelings for him?”

“He’s engaged,” Bea says without turning around. Maybe if she keeps her eyes locked on the setting sun, she’ll be able to disappear alongside it. “It doesn’t matter what I feel.”

“Pish posh,” Gran says. She slips her hand into Bea’s and squeezes. “That boy is not engaged. He and his fiancée broke up months ago.”

What? He’s not engaged?

“That can’t be right,” Bea says. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“I don’t know,” Gran says. “And you’ll never find out, if you let him go like that.”

Bea shakes her head. “It’s too late,” she says. “He’s gone, and I made him leave. It’s too late.”

“It’s never too late,” Gran says. “I found Alessandro after all these years, did I not? How many Nialls do you think are on this planet? Don’t wait 55 years like I did.”

Bea looks at her grandmother now, looks at the wrinkles by her bright eyes, brighter than they’ve been in a long time. Alessandro has brought the light back to her gran’s eyes.

“Thank you for helping me find Alessandro,” Gran says. “Now, go find Niall.”

She presses the car keys into Bea’s palm.

“I—” Bea begins.

“Go,” Gran instructs.

So she does.

Fourteen - Niall

“Niall!”

Niall turns at the sound of his name, but he can’t see who’s yelling at him, so he keeps going, cutting through the crowd with his bag pulled tight against his side.

“Niall, you jerk! Stop right there!”

Is that—it can’t be. He comes to a stop and turns, and there she is.

“Bea? What are you doing here?”

She’s wearing cutoff shorts and running shoes and her purse bounces on her hip. She stops in front of him, a few feet away, and glares.

God, he missed that glare. It’s only been a few hours since he saw it last, but damn, he missed it. He missed the fire in her eyes and the sharpness of her nose and the way she looks at him like he’s the only thing worth looking at.

“I’m here because you’re awful,” she says, breathing hard. “I had to tell you.”

“You ran after me in the train station to tell me I’m awful?” he repeats, confused. “I’m leaving, just like you asked, Bea. You didn’t need to come here and make things worse.”

“No, you idiot,” she says, taking a step closer to him. “That’s not what I want.”

“Then what do you want?” he asks.

He knows what he wants. He wants to pull her tight against his chest and kiss her for at least the next five minutes and then for the rest of time. He wants to run through vineyards with her and stomp buckets of grapes and get wine drunk under hot the Italian sun. He wants to rub aloe on her sunburn and kiss it as it heals. And he wants to know what she wants.

But she ignores the question.

“My Gran, she said that you’re not really engaged,” Bea says, lunging forward to punch him in the shoulder. It barely hurts, but he rubs at the spot anyway. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“I thought I did,” Niall says, running through their previous conversations in his mind. Hadn’t he, the other night just after their kiss? “I swear I did.”

Bea’s fist comes at him again, softer this time. “You didn’t, you idiot. That’s why I made you leave.”

Niall tilts his head. He understands now, why she’s here, what she wants. His heartbeat speeds up. “Because I didn’t tell you I wasn’t engaged?”

“Yes!”

“Why do you care if I’m engaged or not?” Niall asks, even though the answer is obvious. He wants to hear her say it.

Bea huffs. As she grows more frustrated, her cheeks get redder and redder. “Because you can’t go around kissing people when you’re engaged!”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s rude!”

Her fist flies again, but Niall grabs it and opens it in his hand. He weaves his fingers with hers and pulls her forward. “Why?” he asks.

“Because,” she says, cheeks blazing. She’s so close to him now, close enough to kiss, but Niall holds off. He wants to see if she’ll say it. “Because it’s rude!”

“You already said that.” Niall can’t resist the loose strand of hair blowing in front of her eyes; he tucks it safely behind her ear.

Bea’s eyes follow the moment of his hand. “Right. What was the question again?”

“Why is it rude to kiss someone when you’re engaged?”

“Oh, right,” Bea says, her voice so low it’s almost a whisper. “It’s rude because… because you might kiss somebody so well that they want to kiss you again, but they can’t, because you’re engaged!”

“I’m not engaged.”

“You’re not…” Bea repeats, her eyes drifting down and landing on his lips. “You’re not engaged.”

“Right.”

“You’re not engaged,” she says again, the edges of her mouth lifting in a smile She lifts her arms from where he’d trapped them on his chest and wraps them around his neck. “So why aren’t you kissing me right now?”

“That’s a good que—” Niall starts, but Bea cuts him off before he can finish, pressing her lips to his. He runs his fingers along her cheekbone and pulls her close her, feeling her chest press against his, her warmth mingling with his. He can smell her sweat, can feel her bare legs against his.

There’s a fire in this kiss that wasn’t there the other night, an urgency. After a minute, he pulls back, resting his hand on her cheek. “What’s with the hurry?”

Bea blinks up at him, eyelashes batting at her cheeks. “I don’t want you to leave,” she says. “I had to stop you from leaving.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers against her mouth. “Staying right here.”

When he kisses her again, he hopes she can feel what he does: that he found what he was searching for—not Alessandro, but Bea. The girl with fire in her eyes and a stubborn spirit and the potential, he thinks, to love him forever.

There’s so much forever, Bea had said to him the other day. In the moment, it had sounded terrifying, but now he knows there’s nothing as good as forever when it has Beatrix Madison in it.

Afterward

Verona, 2020

Dear Juliet,

We both used to think you were a load of nonsense, but that was before we met each other, right here, just below your balcony. We’re not saying we believe in fate now, but it’s not totally off the table.

Love’s not totally off the table anymore, either. Neither of us believed in it before, but now we know a bit better. We know that you can love somebody for the way they blush and how much they love their grandmother and how terrible their driving is. And we know that you can love somebody for their bright blue eyes and the way they tease you and how safely they drive. We know that love, the way it’s supposed to be, makes you happy in all the best ways.

So, thanks, Juliet. We’re sorry you couldn’t get the ending we’re getting.

Love (the real kind),

Niall and Bea

#1dff #movies challenge #niall

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rainy-day-gracie · 5 years ago

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Old Friends 7

Hello!!

This chapter KILLED me. Just get ready.

More angst and fluff!!

Spencer Reid x Reader

Enjoy :)

Chapter 7:

Just breathe. In and out.

That’s what I told myself as I rode the elevator up to the BAU.

It’s been almost six months since the day I realized I was going to live. Six months since someone I called my friend beat me to a pulp until my ex-boyfriend put a bullet in his brain.

Riding up the elevator felt so much like my first day starting at the BAU. Except this time, I actually knew these people. And after my former experience, I couldn’t even bring myself to trust any of them anymore, even though I knew they would never try to hurt me.

I had thought that before also.

The first person that saw me was Morgan. “Hey, pretty girl is back!”

A genuine smile fell across my lips. “I couldn’t stand watching baking shows anymore. Figured it was time to get back to work.”

“We’re so happy you’re back, YLN,” JJ said as she patted my arm with a smile. I fought back the flinch reaction I had to her touch.

“Are you absolutely sure six months is enough time?” I heard Spencer ask from behind me.

I didn’t even turn around when I answered. “Yes, Spencer, I’m fine.”

He didn’t look too convinced when he stood next to me. Prentiss smiled when she saw me, and she walked over to stand next to JJ.

“We may have a surprise for you.” Prentiss gestured for me to follow her to the briefing room.

“Please tell me it’s cake,” I whispered to JJ. She laughed and nodded.

I realized when I walked in that it was red velvet cake. It was my favorite.

Now it only reminded me of my blood spilling over Spencer’s hands in that basement.

My smile never wavered. “You guys are the absolute best.”

I heard the thudding of Garcia’s high heels and I turned around to face her. “Oh my gosh, the beautiful genius woman has returned!”

She ran forward to hug me, and I immediately shrank into myself and took a few steps backwards. She retreated with an embarrassed look on her face, and I quickly tried to comfort her. “Sorry... um, I’m still struggling with touch.”

“No, no, I’m sorry. It’s just a habit.” She looked so sad in that moment that I felt bad about retreating.

“It is very wonderful to see you, Penelope.” I lightly patted her on the arm.

Hotch and Rossi walked into the room.

“It is very good to have you back, YLN,” Hotch shook my hand and Rossi kissed both my cheeks, making me smile.

The day passed slowly, catching up on paperwork. I felt Spencer keep glancing at me, and I finally couldn’t take it anymore.

“Spencer if you keep looking at me like I’m going to fall apart, I will slap your pretty face so hard.”

He flushed. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m just telling you that you don’t need to do that. I’m fine.” I could feel the lie in my mouth, and I knew Spencer could see it on my face.

I am not fine. Not even close. Every time I look in a mirror I see the scars riddled across my body. Whenever I sleep I hear my captor’s voice whispering in my ear. The memories seemed to laugh at me. You may have escaped Barry, but you can’t escape us.

As five o’clock neared, I was counting the minutes until I could drop the act of the strong survivor.

My heart sunk as I watched Garcia walk across the hall. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a case!”

Disappointment must’ve been clear as day on my face because Spencer and Morgan pulled me aside before we went into the BAU room.

“Hey, YLN, I’m sure Hotch would let you sit this one out if you asked.” Morgan looked at me with his concerned dark eyes, and a knot of anger rolled in my stomach.

“Why do you guys keep acting like I’m some delicate little thing?” I hissed at them. “I’m sick of it!”

“Because you’ve been through more than almost any of us on this team and we all care about you.” Spencer crossed his arms defiantly. “It’s totally acceptable for you to not be completely okay.”

I rolled my eyes and pushed past them into the BAU room. “I’m fine.”

“No you’re not,” I heard Spencer whisper.

Garcia pointed to the TV after we all had gotten seated. “You are headed to Nashville, Tennessee, where three women, all unidentified, have been found murdered in different motels. All of the bodies were discovered on a Saturday morning.”

The crime scene photos made me want to vomit. The women were found in the motel room bathtubs, severely tortured and beaten, cause of death being a strong slash across the neck. The bile rose up in my throat, and I swallowed it bitterly.

“Um, the killer likely met them on Friday night, maybe at a bar or club. That means he’s a charmer, he could get these women into a motel room with him.” I took a deep breath, trying to convince myself that I was okay. At least I added something, so the team won’t catch on to the intense churning in my stomach.

“Something triggered him to start killing, and now that he’s started he can’t stop. Wheels up in 30, and YLN, come see me for a minute.”

Shit. That can’t be good.

I stepped into Hotch’s office a few minutes later. “You wanted to see me?”

Hotch looked into my eyes, and I was thankful he was the only one not looking at me like I was going to shatter at any given time. “I’m not sure I want you in the field, YLN.”

I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion. “Excuse me? I passed all my psych evaluations, and I’ve been cleared from two doctors to come back to work.”

“I know.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Hotch huffed a heavy breath. “I’m worried about you being in the field and painful memories coming back. I know from personal experience that can lead to recklessness and impulsive decisions.”

I raised my eyebrows and laughed bitterly. “You think I won’t keep my cool.”

“That’s my fear, yes.”

While turning to walk out of the office, I turned to Hotch. “Painful memories don’t have to come back, Hotch. They’re always there. Surely you can understand that?”

Hotch grabbed his go bag and followed me out. “All too well.”

I ended up with Prentiss and Morgan at the Nashville FBI Field Office. After hours of speculation over motive and victimology, we headed to the hotel around 1 AM.

Dark images filled my head more than usual as I sat in the backseat of the SUV. Morgan and Prentiss didn’t speak as we pulled up to the hotel, the rest of the team had already settled in.

I pounded on Spencer’s door. I felt bad that it was 3 AM, but I needed to see him, to know he was alive.

It had been a month since my kidnapping and torture, and I hadn’t slept since.

He cracked the door open to see me, in my pajamas and messy bed head, standing outside his apartment. Spencer swung the door open wide, letting me in. “What's wrong?”

We sat on his couch, and I cried for the first time in a month. He didn’t say anything, he just held me as I broke down. “Spencer… when he tried to… hurt me, I thought of you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought about all the little things and all the big things that we’ve gone through… I cherished them in that moment because… I really thought I was going to die. And I wanted to be thinking of you when… I finally did die.”

Spencer just shook his head. “But you didn’t die, YFN. You have to remember that.”

After five hours of sleep, the call at 6 AM alerted us that they had another body. The team met in the lobby, everyone’s faces looking grim.

“He’s sped up his time table majorly. Normally he’s only killed on Friday nights. It’s Tuesday.” JJ said in a low voice.

Hotch huffed a tired breath. “Alright, Reid, YLN, go to the new crime scene. Go and change then head over there as soon as you can. Check to see if anything is new or frantic. We’ll be at the station.”

“Got it.” As I went to go change, a ball formed in the pit of my stomach. How was I supposed to look at the mangled bodies of women when I could’ve just as easily been one of them?

When we pulled up to the motel the sun was rising over the horizon. I tried not to get distracted by Spencer’s cute messy bed head and the way he seemed to glow in the sun rise.

We walked into the room, and the scent of blood hit me like a truck. Spencer noticed my hesitation, but didn’t say anything.

The bathtub was nearly full of this woman’s blood, and her black and blue skin stood out against her pale complexion. “Major escalation,” I murmured. As I got a closer look, the more I wanted to run out. “He violated her with the knife this time.”

I turned back to face Spencer and I saw his furrowed eyebrows. He stepped forward to look at the victim’s face. “Up until now he’s chosen seemingly low risk victims, but this woman looks to be a prostitute.”

I sighed, closing my eyes. “He’s getting antsy. He can’t wait for crowded Friday nights anymore, he needed an accessible victim pool that would get in a car with him.”

I couldn’t take the metallic smell of blood in that motel room any longer. After pushing past officers and CSI, I took a deep breath of fresh cold air outside.

“What do you think this new victimology means for future victims?” Spencer said from behind me.

“I think… he’s hunting again tonight. And we need to be ready.”

The warmth of the coffee cup in my hand soothed me as I staked out in front of Lana’s Motel. It was my idea to stake out all the motels in the geographic profile, and the numbers were so high that we were all on our own in our SUVs.

About three hours had gone by when I saw a small dark green car pull into the motel extremely quickly. I watched as a man got out and went into the main lobby to get a room. The man came back out and pulled his car into an isolated spot in the parking lot. He grabbed someone from the passenger’s seat and seemed to throw her into one of the motel rooms.

I listened at the door for some kind of noise, and I dialed Hotch’s number as soon as I heard cries for help. “Hotch, I got him. He’s in Room 14A at Lana’s Motel.”

“Listen to me, do not engage. He is extremely unstable and paranoid. Do not enter the room.” Hotch was almost pleading with me. “Tell me you won’t go in until backup arrives.”

A terrified scream was muffled through the door, and I couldn’t help but think of my own screams echoing in that dark basement. “Hotch, she’s screaming for help. I can’t just leave her.”

“YLN-” Hotch started, and I hung up the phone and kicked the motel door in with my gun drawn.

A young woman was on her knees, a larger figure holding a knife to her throat behind her. “Please help,” she whispered to me.

“You don’t wanna do this.” I kept my voice even and calm. “I know that you’ve been rejected your entire life, and you're angry about that. I understand. But why throw away your life for…” I jutted my chin out to the terrified woman. “Her?”

He huffed a laugh and he unknowingly slightly lowered the knife.

I continued with my even voice. “Look at her. Do you really want me to shoot you over some blubbering mess?” The words hurt to say, especially now that I know what it’s like to be her. To be a victim.

Police lights illuminated the dirty motel room, and he finally made a decision.

The rest of my team burst in the room as I was cuffing the disgusting killer that I outsmarted.

Hotch was pissed.

“What were you thinking? The risks that you took? This is exactly what I was worried about!”

I leaned against my SUV, the lecture starting to get tiring after 15 minutes. Hotch was pacing frantically and Spencer was leaning against the car next to me. I’ve never seen either of them this mad before.

“Look Hotch, you can’t look me in the eye and tell me that you wouldn’t have done the exact same thing. The woman was screaming for God’s sake, what was I supposed to do?”

He didn’t have an answer for me. “Take a walk, YLN.”

I huffed a breath and pushed past Hotch and Spencer to stand by the motel pool, away from everything.

After a few minutes I felt Spencer stand next to me.

“That was a big risk, YFN.”

I rolled my eyes. “Everything we do is a risk. I couldn’t just stand by listening to her scream for help when…” my voice hitched.

Spencer looked me in the eyes. “When what?”

“When I know how it feels.” A rebellious tear rolled down my cheek, and I tried to keep my chin from quivering.

Spencer lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “When you were taken, I was completely panicking. I just kept thinking about how fast it happened and how I feel like it was my fault. There was a moment when we found you, bleeding in that basement, where I really thought that I would lose you… and it was the worst feeling I’ve ever had. I’m not mad that you ignored Hotch, I’m mad that you don’t even think about risks anymore. You’re not okay, no matter how many times you deny it.”

“Don’t you think I know that?!” I almost yelled at him. “I know that I’m not okay better than anyone. There’s scars to prove it, so you don’t have to keep reminding me.” Hot angry tears streamed down my cheeks, and Spencer enveloped me in a hug.

“You can’t be alone right now.”

Spencer and I both have a taste for the simpler ways of life. As I was sitting in his library of an apartment, he played soft tunes on his keyboard, and we didn’t speak. We sat like that for hours, him playing the piano and me just sitting on his sofa in silence.

“Spencer, dance with me.” I tugged on Spencer’s arm, trying to get him away from the book he was pouring over.

“Why?” He closed the book and looked up at me. “We’re in the middle of the MIT library and there’s no music.”

“Because I’m your girlfriend, and we’ve never danced before.”

Spencer rolled his eyes with a smile. He stood up and wrapped an arm around my waist, and I rested my head on his shoulder, swaying gently. We danced like that until the librarian yelled at us to leave, and she chased us out as we laughed, giddy with love.

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders from behind. “Dance with me.”

Spencer chuckled as he placed one hand on my arm, the other hand still expertly playing. “Like in college?”

“Yes.”

He turned around as he stood up, smoothly placing his arm around my waist, holding me like I was the most precious piece of treasure in the world. Scars and all.

He held our hands out and pressed his nose to mine. We swayed as gently as that night in the MIT library when we were 19. His breath smelled like the strawberry ice cream we had eaten earlier tonight, and I found it simply intoxicating.

There were no words as he pressed his lips to mine. We didn’t need them.

We had each other memorized.

@itsarayofsunshine @thesailbells @squirrellover1967 @softpeteparker @parkeroffline

#spencer reid #dr reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #dr spencer reid

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3000-200-grains-of-salt · 3 years ago

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SBI: Survival 101 (SBI Fanfiction)

Read it on Wattpad here: https://www.wattpad.com/myworks/275527714-sbi-survival-101-my-version

Chapter 1: Great View From Up Here

A shiny black alarm clock strikes nine PM.

Tommy had been waiting for this day for months. Tonight, he is finally going to see a concert by his favourite band, Lovejoy. Tommy's parents weren't as ecstatic as he was when he told them his plans. Even after weeks of begging, telling them he'd pay for it, even promising to do extra chores, the answer was still a resounding "no".

So, like any other teen without permission to do something, Tommy snuck out.

Grabbing his red and white camera, a few microSD cards, and a pre-loaded backpack, Tommy slid open the window and clambered out. The sun was casting its last rays of light on the surrounding neighbourhood and the warm night breeze gently brushed Tommy's golden hair. He slid onto the grass and walked to the bus stop.

All of the teen movies really hyped this up way too much. Sneaking out was way easier than Tommy thought. At 9:15, the evening bus arrived right on schedule. Tommy jumped on and dropped a few dollars into the driver's open hand. Sitting down on one of many empty seats, the excitement finally hit Tommy. He smiled. Today would be one of the best days he's had for a while.

Tommy spent the 20 minutes on the bus hyping himself up for the upcoming ecstasy. His smile only grew wider as the bus slid to a halt in front of an outdoor stadium glowing with lights. Tommy got out of his seat, thanked the bus driver, and jumped off. He tried to contain his excitement as he walked to the entrance. He showed the guard his ticket and stepped into the concert. Even though Tommy was early, the crowd was huge. Burgundy posters with Lovejoy's symbol hung on every empty surface. Shops were selling novelty Lovejoy merchandise.

Tommy remembered that his friends Tubbo and Ranboo were coming as well. He scanned all of the people standing around him, looking for Ranboo's tall silhouette. Tommy spotted him over by the snack bar, Tubbo standing next to him. Shoving his way through the crowd, Tommy made his way over towards Tubbo, using Ranboo as a beacon.

"Tubbo! Ranboo!" he called.

"Tommy! You made it!" replied Tubbo as his face lit up.

"Of course I did." Tommy turned his gaze to Ranboo. "Good to see you too, man." Tommy playfully shoved Ranboo.

"When's it gonna start?" asked Ranboo.

"I dunno. Maybe in like, two minutes?" replied Tubbo.

"Well then, we better get good spots. Right in the middle and towards the front, where we can see," suggested Tommy.

"Tommy, you can sit on my shoulders," Ranboo joked.

"Ha, ha, very funny. Come on, let's get to the front!" Tommy grabbed Ranboo's wrist and started pulling him towards the middle. But before they got there, the crowd pushed Ranboo from Tommy's grasp.

"Meet up with you later?" Ranboo yelled to Tommy.

"Yeah!" Tommy called back. He hoped that Ranboo would stay with Tubbo. Maybe his tallness would prevent Tubbo from floating away. Tommy pushed his way to the centre front just as the band members started to walk out on stage. The lead singer, Wilbur, had curly brown hair swept to one side and peeking out of a grey beanie. He was wearing a black leather jacket on top of a pale yellow T-shirt. The crowd clapped and cheered.

The opening riff started. Here we go.

"She's always asking,' Am I alright?' " Wilbur, the lead band member, sang.

"As if auspicious or in my pint," Tommy had never been so excited.

"I'll find the answer or a good night," He was being pushed around by the crowd.

"Thank God the time is short." Tommy looked around for Tubbo and Ranboo.

"And yes, you always do that one thing," The crowd was smothering.

"When you wrinkle up the nose bridge," Ranboo waved to Tommy.

"I'm tryin' to figure out what that meant," Tommy couldn't hear what Ranboo was saying.

"I took it as a taunt." Tommy turned away from Ranboo and faced the stage.

"Remember way back then in school?

Oh, did anybody ever say no to you?

Oh, did anybody ever say no to you? Whoa," Wilbur sang. Tommy was happy.

The rest of the show passed quickly and slowly at the same time. Tommy enjoyed every second. The band even played a bunch of songs that hadn't been released yet. After an hour of music, it was finally the end of the concert. Tommy had the entire thing videotaped and stored on a microSD card. He was sad it was over, but still satisfied. He started to look for Ranboo again.

Tommy saw him and Tubbo by the snacks again. Ranboo and Tubbo were buying treats for themselves. But when Tubbo turned around, he was holding up a green Lovejoy bandana. He waved to Tommy, yelling something that he couldn't hear over the hubbub. He gestured to the bandana, then pointed to Tommy. He understood. Tubbo bought Tommy a bandana. He smiled and started to walk towards the snack bench. But before he could reach them, a hunched man clad in red shoved past Tommy roughly.

"Hey! Watch it!" Tommy yelled. The man turned back towards him. Ghastly white eyes poked from beneath dishevelled hair. Thorny red vines crept over clammy grey skin. The man— thing? Whatever it was— turned away from Tommy and continued pushing through the crowd. Surprised outbursts came from whoever it shoved past. Tommy shook his head to clear it. His phone rang. It was Tubbo. Tommy accepted the call and held the phone up to his ear.

"Tommy? You there?" Tubbo's voice came through the speaker.

"Hi. Yeah. I'm here," Tommy looked around for Ranboo and Tubbo. "Where are you guys?"

"Uhh..." Tubbo paused. "We're towards the front of the stage. See you there?"

"Yeah. Hey, did you see that guy wearing red? He was kind of shoving his way through the crowd,"

"I did," Ranboo's voice piped in through the phone. "Kinda sus." Tommy ignored the joke.

"It doesn't matter anymore." Tommy shook his head. "Hey, I'm gonna go see if I can meet Lovejoy. Talk later?"

"Of course, big man. Have fun!" Click. Tubbo hung up. Tommy put his phone away. He started to walk to where the band was standing.

Tommy heard screaming behind him.

Tommy whipped his head around as the entrance doors flung open. Hundreds of people—were they people? They looked vaguely humanoid, but not enough— flooded in through the doors. All had glassy white eyes and dead grey skin. Thorny red vines clung to tattered clothing and ripped skin.

Tommy didn't know what the hell was going on.

All he knew was that the things—maybe zombies?—were spreading these vines that radiated evil. Tommy would have investigated more, but his fight or flight instinct kicked in. He fled. Faster than he had ever run before. He caught a glimpse of Ranboo and Tubbo sprinting out of the stadium unharmed and internally sighed with relief. They would be safe for now.

Tommy slid to a halt and surveyed his surroundings. He could barely see anything because of the stampeding crowd. His gaze turned to the stage, now devoid of any band members except for Wilbur, who was using his sturdy guitar like a club.

"HOW DO YOU LIKE MY MUSIC, FUCKER?" Wilbur knocked down a cluster of zombies. He was doing well, but seconds away from being overtaken. Adrenaline couldn't last forever.

Tommy snatched a heavy bass off of the stage and swung it at a bunch of zombies. Wilbur spun around, almost hitting Tommy as he smashed through the remaining zombies. He looked towards the huge doors of the exit. Tommy followed his gaze. A white van with Lovejoy's symbol on it sat just outside the doors.

Wilbur started running towards the van. Tommy followed, attacking any zombies that got in their way. Wilbur slipped on a green piece of cloth. Tears pricked Tommy's eyes as he realized what it was. The bandana Tubbo had bought him. Tommy grabbed it and spurred Wilbur onwards. The zombies were crowding around them. Wilbur and Tommy finally broke through the mass of bodies.

"GET IN THE VAN," Wilbur screamed. Tommy jumped into the driver's seat.

"Keys, keys, keys!!" Tommy exclaimed as Wilbur slammed the passenger door shut. He fumbled in his pockets and tossed Tommy the keys to the van. He shoved them in the socket and twisted the guitar-shaped keychain. The van shuddered to a start.

"Castaways... We are castaways..." The song from a kids' show blared through the speakers.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS MUSIC??" Tommy started spinning the radio dial.

"JUST DRIVE FUCKING DRIVE," Wilbur called back.

"WHY IS THIS ON THE RADIO??"

"SHUT UP, GREMLIN CHILD," Wilbur shoved Tommy's legs aside and pushed down the gas pedal with his left hand. He placed his right hand on the steering wheel and swerved away from a car just in time. The van veered onto the freeway. Tommy moved Wilbur's hand off of the wheel and straightened out the van. Wilbur sat back up and looked out the back of the van. He faced forwards and leant back. Tommy sighed and hoped that Tubbo and Ranboo were alright.

But for now, Tommy was in for a long night.

#so remember when kuwukie's twitch chat was brainrotting about an apocolyps sbi au?#yeah thats what this is #sbi fanfic #dream smp fanfiction

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hand-crushing-crusher · 5 years ago

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BAKUDEKU FIC REC

Hey all! Quarantine has been dragging on, so here are some BKDK fics to fill your time.

All fics are completed works unless the [∆] symbol is next to it. Please note there will be no ABO fics in this rec, just cause I made a seperate list for that HERE

Enjoy!

1. ∆ The Space Between by Kanae_vR

Holding his expensive camera tightly between his hands, Midoriya Izuku looked up at the once-white letters displayed on the black storefront banner. “The Hard Luck Bar,” he murmured to himself, unsure if he was getting ready to enter or flee.

Amateur photographer Midoriya Izuku is stuck in a rut and desperate for a change of pace. Deep in his city's grimy underbelly, he finds exactly what he's looking for in the form of an underground punk sensation on the verge of their big break, fronted by a foul-mouthed firework of a human being.

Loud, brash and passionate, Izuku may have just found the creative spark he needed, as well as something new to set his soul ablaze.

2. Album Title in Progress by bkdkink

"I mean, technically, sure. Anyone able to sing can sing. But am I good at it?" Deku left the pen alone so he could gesture as though he was weighing two different invisible objects. "...Yeah, I'm okay."

Now that got a chuckle out of Katsuki.

"I wouldn't call that just 'okay'." -- OR; Izuku's singing makes Katsuki realize sex is Real™ and uses those feelings to make a bomb-ass(lol get it? cuz his quirk is...) album while also helping a self-doubting Izuku realize how fire his mixtape is.

3. After Hours by Morpheel

Dialing a wrong number was no unusual occurrence. Everyone did it once in a while, and Katsuki was well aware of that fact.

However, possessing this knowledge made it no less aggravating for him to discover — a full two minutes into his rant about his day — that he’d been venting his frustrations to a complete stranger. As if that wasn't enough, said stranger was also inexplicably determined to hear his story to its end.

4. While You Were Sleeping by Belkacaramelka (annabelleg)

The one where quirkless fanboy Midoriya Izuku rescues Pro Hero Todoroki Shouto, gets mistaken as his fiancé while he is in a coma, and gets caught up in the most unlikely fake engagement... until his childhood enemy and Todoroki's classmate Bakugou Katsuki tries to catch him out, and they both end up discovering a lot more about each other than they'd expected.

Quirkless AU based on the film; endgame BakuDeku. -- Katsuki didn’t know when the change had happened: how he had gone from asking why Todoroki chose Deku of all people, to wondering why it was Todoroki that Deku chose. Troublesome Deku, who cooed like an idiot at cats, tripped at a random catcall and sang badly. Who, despite everything, proved that it wasn’t the quirk that defined a person. Deku, who was too much, not his, and undeniably off limits to begin with.

5. ∆ Hummingbird Heartbeat by Tokiji

“The knife went through his fucking chest, Kirishima.” Katsuki spat his name into his face, mouth twisting into a vicious snarl, teeth and all. “You know that's where his heart is, right? And his fucking lungs? All the vital shit?”

Kirishima blanched. “I-I know, I just meant—”

“What, you mean to tell me that your stupid fuckin’ ass is so ignorant to forget that he lost a shit ton of blood, hah?! Yeah, it was a flippin’ knife wound, oh hoo-ray, but look at the nerd now! He’s fucking dying because of it!”

6. Addiction by MiraChaDoodles

An abundance of freckles smatters his sun-tanned cheeks, and dark green waves curl around his face. But Katsuki gets hung up at his eyes. They’re huge and green, innocent and filled with tears, just li—

Wait.

Holy shit.

Is that... Deku?

---

Or... the first time that Katsuki gets off to a porno, Deku turns out to be the star.

7. In Another Life by hollyandvice (hiasobi_writes)

Katsuki's never been one for gentle words, but from the wild panic in Deku's face, he knows this is the time for it.

"Deku—" The weapon presses a little harder against Katsuki's forehead and he stops, getting his bearings. "Fine. Midoriya, then. Look. I'm not going to hurt you. I swear. I'm just looking for some answers I'm hoping you can provide."

After a battle gone awry leaves Katsuki stranded, he seeks out one of the few people he really trusts: Deku. Except when he finds his hero partner, he looks completely different, and the first thing he does is put a gun to Katsuki's forehead. So that's different.

Canon-divergent future fic where Katsuki gets sent to a parallel universe during a villain battle. One where Izuku's a cop instead of a pro hero, and Katsuki himself has been dead since middle school. In a world that's different enough to be strange and similar enough to be familiar, Katsuki does whatever it takes to find his way home.

8. F.U. by warschach

Izuku smiled; Katsuki understood why people warned that the devil wore a Sunday hat and fine clothes because deception worked better if no one expected it.

Not anymore. He knew Izuku’s evil ways, and his ass might be a 20 on the hotness meter but Katsuki held grudges.

“Izuku,” he sneered; he too could be evil right back.

(or Katsuki's a football player; Izuku's a cheerleader; they have a rivalry until it isn't one)

9. Oh My God They Were Roommates by Maginot

Bakugou had really, actually moved in with Deku.

They were roommates.

Oh my god, they were roommates.

In which Bakugou's hero insurance bills seem to climb with every explosion he makes, and Izuku happens to have an extra bedroom and an absurd amount of patience for his childhood best friend.

10. And It All Keeps Coming Back to You by GuardianMira

Ground Zero and Deku are the world's top two heroes, constantly knocking each other out of the number one spot. Their rivalry keeps them both sharp, and while Katsuki would prefer to be the undisputed champion, he’s not unhappy.

The thing is, he’s still a virgin. It’s not like he’s shy. He just doesn’t want to waste his time with people who aren’t good enough for him. But he’s admittedly let his personal life fall by the wayside so that he could focus on being a big damn hero. Anyway, now that he’s finally thinking about it, it’s clear there’s only one person who’s worthy of being with him. His oldest friend. His rival. His permanent pain in the ass. The only hero alive who comes close to being Ground Zero’s equal: Deku.

#bkdk #dkbk #bakudeku #katsudeku #katsuizu #bakugou x izuku #bakugou/izuku #bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #bnha #mha #fic rec

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earsofducks · 4 years ago

Text

Day 3 - Mechanic

This is so much longer than I meant for it to be. Also, the wives are making an appearance. Also, there are no words for how much I love Anathema.

@ineffablehusbandsweek

I can’t think of any warnings. Unedited? Ridiculous? Very long? Aziraphale being smitten and Crowley struggling?

“Oh, dear,” says Aziraphale, well aware that she’s fretting and not helping matters but unable to help herself. “What can we do?”

“Not a lot,” says Newt glumly, looking nearly as worried as Aziraphale feels.

They’re in the middle of nowhere, and Newton’s antiquated car (He affectionately calls it ‘Dick Turpin.’ Aziraphale calls it ‘wretched thing.’) has finally decided to give up the ghost. The clock is ticking ever closer to midnight, and all because they went to watch the latest Greta Gerwig movie. (Which was, admittedly, worth it.)

“Oh, you’re both ridiculous,” huffs Anathema, pulling out her phone. “We can just call a tow service. Didn’t this occur to the two of you?”

Aziraphale and Newt are quiet. This option had not, in fact, occurred to either of them. (This is probably because neither of them are very intuitive about technology. Newton has single-handedly destroyed every mobile phone he’s ever had, and Aziraphale hasn’t even bothered getting one. The landline at her shop works just fine, thank you.)

“Honestly,” says Anathema, rolling her eyes and dialing a number. She explains their predicament to whoever’s on the other end of the line, listens, nods, says “see you soon,” and hangs up. “Now,” she says to Aziraphale and Newton, “that was a two-minute conversation, and it means that we’re going to be home in, like, a couple of hours, tops. Surely that’s enough to convince you that phones are good, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale tries to look like she’s considering it. “Well, I suppose that it would be frightfully convenient to be able to call someone at any time,” she says, trying to sound placating.

“Yes!” says Anathema.

“But isn’t it a bit concerning, the fact that it could run out of battery at any time?” says Aziraphale, and Anathema looks like she might cry.

“I give up,” she says, and Aziraphale tries not to feel smug. It’ll take a lot more than that for her to cave and buy a mobile.

They wait for twenty minutes, during which time Aziraphale and Newt grow more and more skeptical and Anathema becomes more and more insistent. And impatient.

“Honestly,” she says for the umpteenth time. “Just because the mechanic owns a tow truck doesn’t mean she can break the sound barrier. She’s still beholden to the laws of physics like the rest of us.”

And that intrigues Aziraphale. Old-fashioned, she knows, to be intrigued by a female mechanic, but here she is. Blame it on her sheltered, shuttered upbringing. She wonders what the mechanic will look like. She wonders what prompted the mechanic to pursue a career in mechanicking.

And then she doesn’t have to wonder anymore, because there are headlights shining in her face and she feels nervous, of all things. Don’t be silly! she scolds her foolish, hopeful heart. As if she’d be interested in you.

Anathema gets out of the car, and so does Newt, so Aziraphale does, too, because it’d be weird to stay in the vehicle when no one else is, right? The mechanic swings her door open and slides down to the ground. Aziraphale’s breath catches in her throat.

She’s not sure if it’s the purply-pink light of the setting sun or the fact that she’s had a little bit of time to convince herself that the ‘she’ mechanic might be her soulmate, but the woman striding towards them is stunning. She’s tall and slender and her hair is fiery and Aziraphale isn’t sure how she’s supposed to act like a normal person when faced with such a magnificent woman.

“Hello, folks,” says the mechanic, offering them all a lopsided grin that makes Aziraphale’s heart speed up. (Down, girl, she thinks.) “What seems to be the trouble with your lovely vehicle, here?”

She gives Dick Turpin a glance that is decidedly amicable, and Aziraphale thinks that she really needs to get her heart under control. She could never date someone that liked the wretched thing.

Newt details the wretched thing’s ailments and Aziraphale busies herself with trying (and failing, mostly) not to stare. Oh, but there are so many things to stare at. The long, elegant fingers with which the mechanic is pointing at Dick Turpin. The twist of her torso as she looks back towards her truck. The curve of her mouth and the flash of her teeth as she smiles at something Newt said.

“You could be a little less obvious with the drooling, you know,” Anathema says into Aziraphale’s ear. Aziraphale jumps.

“I’m not - It’s not - I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says guiltily.

Anathema is grinning like the cat that got the canary.

“Oh, yes you do,” she says gleefully.

“I do not, and I’ll thank you kindly to leave it alone,” says Aziraphale, flustered.

The mechanic, who hasn’t introduced herself, looks over at them and smiles. That smile, turned in her direction, is overwhelming. And then Newt says something and she turns back to him and Aziraphale feels like she can breathe again.

“Yep,” says Anathema, who is smiling so widely that Aziraphale is surprised that her face hasn’t cracked, “You’ve got it bad.”

Aziraphale would protest, except that now the mechanic is walking towards them and any and all words are catching in her throat.

“Hi,” says the mechanic, flashing them another grin. (They seem to come far too easily for such devastating things.) “The two of us haven’t met yet, have we? Anthea J. Crowley, at your service.” And she proffers a hand which is far more attractive than any hand has the right to be, topped with black, glossy fingernails. Aziraphale thinks distantly that mechanics should not have manicures.

Her voice is stuck somewhere in her stomach, but Anathema’s elbow nudges her ribs again and dislodges it.

“Hello,” says Aziraphale, taking Anthea’s hand and trying not to think about how strong and slim and wonderful it feels in hers. Her voice is a little rough but no one comments on it. “Aziraphale Malak.”

“Ah, an angel,” says Anthea, eyes twinkling. “Makes sense - you look like one.”

Aziraphale feels herself blushing and splutters a little, trying to figure out how to say “how absurd” and “thank you” and “how do you know anglicized Arabic?” and ends up saying none of them.

“She does, doesn’t she?” says Anathema, who hasn’t stopped smirking since Anthea sauntered towards them.

Aziraphale finds her voice, and it says, “You’re ridiculous,” and Anthea smiles again.

“Ah, friendship,” she says.

“Indeed,” says Aziraphale, and Anthea meets her eyes, still smiling, and Aziraphale is mesmerized by how very like gold they are. She has never seen eyes that colour, and she never wants to again, because she wants to lose herself in Anthea’s forever and always.

“So!” says Anathema. “Enough space in your rig for all of us?”

“Oh, yes,” Anthea says. “Bentley can handle anything.”

“You’ve named your truck?” asks Aziraphale, feeling amused and still incredibly disoriented due to Anthea’s amazing eyes.

“‘Have I named my truck?’” parrots Anthea, rolling her eyes. “Of course I’ve named my truck! Haven’t you named your vehicle, angel?”

“Aziraphale doesn’t have one,” says Anathema. “They’re too modern an invention for her.”

Anthea gapes. “No car?” she echoes. “How do you get around?”

“Mostly I find charitable people that are willing to take me somewhere in return for a small payment,” sniffs Aziraphale, feeling (irrationally, probably) attacked. “Otherwise, I take the bus or walk.”

Anthea holds up her hands placatingly, clearly picking up on the defensive tone. “I meant no offense,” she says, “I was just surprised. This may come as a shock, but I love cars.”

Aziraphale, feeling foolish but amused, says, “Trucks, too, apparently.” Anthea grins again (she has to stop doing that) and nods.

“Trucks, too. And vans. Oh, and motorbikes! Speedy little machines.”

She looks off dreamily. Aziraphale doesn’t have to fake a little shudder.

“Heaven help us,” she mutters, and Anthea throws back her head and laughs.

“They won’t need to,” she says, “I’m not taking you home in a motorbike. I’m taking you in Bentley. She doesn’t move very quickly.”

“About that,” says Anathema quickly, “you don’t have to take us home - ”

“Nonsense!” says Anthea cheerfully. “You’re paying me enough, and I haven’t got anything else on for the evening. Now,” and she jogs back to ‘Bentley’ and opens the passenger door, “hop in!”

Aziraphale isn’t sure what Crowley’s (she prefers Crowley, it turns out) definition of ‘very quickly’ is, and she’s very sure that she has absolutely no interest in finding out. The truck zooms along the motorway, with Crowley cheerfully answering the questions that Newt and Anathema are asking her. (Aziraphale still can’t quite seem to find her voice. Something about the curve of Crowley’s neck, the grip of her hands on the steering wheel, steals it away.

“Didn’t grow up thinking I was gonna be a mechanic,” Crowley says, changing lanes so abruptly that Newton lets out a little shriek. “Got kicked out when I was sixteen, dropped out of school, and didn’t have anything better to do.”

Aziraphale would dearly love to know why she got kicked out but is also aware that that’s not an appropriate thing to ask someone you’ve only just met.

“And do you have a partner?” asks Anathema, steering the conversation. “Kids?”

“Nah,” says Crowley. “Got a godson, though. Adam.”

”“How old is your godson?” Aziraphale asks, surprising herself.

“Four,” says Anthea, smiling a little. She has a lot of smiles, Aziraphale is starting to realize. This one is soft and fond and makes Aziraphale’s tummy perform some impressive acrobatics. “He’s adorable, and also a menace. Little hellspawn needs to be doing something at every hour of the day. You know how kids are.”

“Of course,” says Aziraphale, who has not seen a child younger than the age of eighteen since she was one. Anathema smirks audibly.

“What about you, angel?” asks Crowley, glancing at Aziraphale and then back at the road. Aziraphale tries to pretend that a little tingle doesn’t go through her every time Crowley calls her ‘angel.’ “Got a family?”

“No,” says Aziraphale. “I am currently unattached.” But I could be attached. I’m not averse to attachment. I -

“We’re right down this street,” says Anathema, and Aziraphale forces herself to focus.

Crowley drops her off at her flat, and Aziraphale is overwhelmed with panic at the thought of never seeing her again, but she needn’t have worried.

“It was good to meet you, angel,” says Crowley, rolling down her window so she can speak to Aziraphale, who is on the pavement. For some reason that Aziraphale would very much like to know Crowley is blushing. “If you ever - uh, I know you don’t have a car but if you have a friend that - yeah. Um. Here’s my card.”

And she all but throws a piece of paper out the window in Aziraphale’s direction, and Aziraphale doesn’t have time to respond to her hasty “bye!” before she takes off down the street.

Aziraphale stands outside for longer than she’ll ever admit, clutching the card to her chest and feeling butterflies.

They text a little bit, after Aziraphale works up the courage to send a ‘thank you again for the ride,’ and then they call each other once or twice, and then Crowley, amidst quite a bit of stammering, suggests that they go out for lunch.

Aziraphale spends the morning fluctuating between telling herself that it doesn’t matter what she wears, that if Crowley doesn’t like her as she is then she isn’t worth her time anyway, and changing in and out of five different outfits.

“Heya!” says Crowley, when she opens the door to a brisk knock. She’s showing no sign of the nervousness she displayed on the phone, which makes Aziraphale jealous, because her nerves are on full display.

“Hello,” says Aziraphale nervously.

Crowley immediately switches tactics.

“Hey, angel, you know it’s just lunch, right? There’s no, uh, no pressure. I have no expectations. Zero expectations. Less than zero. Negative expectations. Not that they’re negative! But, you know - ”

“I do,” says Aziraphale, because she thinks she does and she can’t seem to stop smiling. “Thank you, Crowley.”

Crowley turns a vibrant shade of vermillion but smiles back at her.

“Where to?” asks Aziraphale, once they’ve settled into their respective seats. (Crowley is not driving the truck today. She’s driving a black convertible, which she has also referred to as Bentley. Aziraphale has decided not to ask.)

“Wherever you want, angel,” she says, flipping on a turning signal, and Aziraphale looks out the window, hating how hot her face is. Crowley misinterprets it.

“Oh, no,” she says, and then says something that is a lot of consonants. Aziraphale is very impressed with how suddenly Crowley’s composure seems to have fallen apart. “‘M really sorry a - Aziraphale. That - sorry. I never even asked - and I’ve been saying it all this time - ’

“Don’t worry,” says Aziraphale, incredibly endeared. “I don’t mind.”

Crowley visibly relaxes and risks a glance over at her. “Thank goodness,” she says. They ride along in silence for awhile, and then, “So, where to?”

They end up at Crowley’s auto shop, because after a lot of wheedling on Crowley’s part Aziraphale finally admits to being curious. She has, after all, never been to one.

She’s struck by how glorious Crowley is in the place she’s made for herself, how incredibly well the sleek black lines of the garage and the minimalist design of the waiting area suit her.

“And these are my plants,” says Crowley with a flourish, indicating a wall that is nearly entirely lined with shelves, upon which is a veritable garden of plants.

“Oh, they’re lovely!” says Aziraphale, darting towards them and stroking a leaf with her hand. “Absolutely beautiful!”

She turns around to beam at Crowley and then gets distracted, because Crowley is staring at her with a look in her eyes that sets Aziraphale’s heart quivering. She licks her lips, and watches Crowley’s gaze drop to follow the motion. She feels entirely too warm.

“Do you grow them yourself?” she asks in little more than a whisper.

Crowley seems to come back to herself, shake something off. She clears her throat and offers Aziraphale yet another smile, but this one seems shaky, like its foundations aren’t solid.

“Yep,” she says, shoving her hands in her pockets.

“Well, you’re quite the find,” says Aziraphale. “You own a garage and a garden.”

“Well, what can I say?” says Crowley, shrugging, blushing again. Aziraphale is entranced by the way she can watch the pink flush spread across her face. “I do my best.”

Aziraphale thinks of a lot of things to say, but says none of them, just turns back to the plants and strokes another leaf. Her heart is pounding.

Crowley clears her throat again. “Well,” she says, “I promised you lunch.”

“That you did,” agrees Aziraphale, stepping through the door to the garage that Crowley’s holding open.

“Did you have a place in mind?” asks Crowley, and when Aziraphale looks back at her she’s still holding the door, watching Aziraphale, something very soft and warm and thrilling in her eyes.

“Not particularly,” murmurs Aziraphale, and then Crowley is stepping towards her, hands in her pockets, looking incredibly nervous. Aziraphale’s heart seems to have relocated to her throat.

“Look,” says Crowley, “I don’t - I’m not - aghck. Can’t believe I’m doing this. But you - and I - you’re gorgeous, Aziraphale, you must know that, must hear it all the time, and I know I’m just a scrawny awkward car enthusiast but you’re beautiful, good Lord are you ever beautiful, and if you say no then of course I’ll respect that and no hard feelings, obviously, and I hope we can still be friends - or friendly acquaintances - or just acquaintances, at least - and of course we can still go to lunch after, of course, if you want, and if this is too - well, I just wanted to know if you’d - um - would you maybe - ”

And then Aziraphale, driven by impulsiveness for perhaps the first time in her life, does what she’s wanted to do since Crowley sauntered towards Dick Turpin, backlit by the setting sun. She reaches out and tugs Crowley’s face towards herself and kisses her like her life depends on it.

Crowley stiffens, and for one horrifying moment Aziraphale thinks she’s read it all wrong, and then Crowley makes a small, desperate sound and wraps both hands around Aziraphale’s waist and melts into her and Aziraphale is tingly everywhere and extra warm in a few places and she’s kissing Crowley, she’s kissing Crowley, and it is wonderful.

Crowley pulls back after awhile, looking dazed, and keeps one hand on Aziraphale’s waist but brings the other up to cup her cheek.

“You’re perfect,” she says softly.

Aziraphale hides her face in her shoulder, and Crowley wraps her arms around her tightly.

“I mean it,” she insists. “Blush and deflect all you like, but you’re perfection. You’re amazing. You’re - ” she makes a frustrated noise and Aziraphale squeezes her and she relaxes. “You’re everything, angel.”

“Oh, my,” whispers Aziraphale, a little overwhelmed.

Crowley promptly (predictably) starts to panic.

“But I don’t - that’s too much, too soon, isn’t it? Why can’t I say the right - I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I mean it, I really do, but I shouldn’t have said it until later, and - ”

“Oh, hush,” says Aziraphale gently. Crowley discreetly wipes her eyes. “You’re quite an exceptional woman yourself.”

“Well,” says Crowley, pulling away and sniffling. “Thank you.”

“Any time,” says Aziraphale, and means it.

“Well,” says Crowley again, clapping her hands and effectively shattering the moment. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” says Aziraphale, and they go to lunch.

#ineffable husbands au week #ineffable wives #aziraphale #crowley #mechanic au #cars #trucks #Bentley #anathema #newt #we love them all very much #fanfic #how to tag #please love me

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underthewingsofthblackeagle · 4 years ago

Photo

“Berliner Fernsehturm” * Foto: BernardoUPloud

After her marriage with Frank Randall has failed and Claire Beauchamp flees from her violent husband, she finds refuge in the house of the Fraser/Murray family in Berlin-Wilhelmshorst. But then tensions arise between Britain (which has since left the EU) and some EU member states. All holders of an English passport are required to leave EU territory within six weeks … and suddenly Claire’s fate looks more uncertain than ever.

This story was written for the #14DaysofOutlander event, hosted by @scotsmanandsassenach

Chapter 8: 14 Men (4)

During her medical studies, Claire had seen many horrible pictures. And what she saw in the emergency room where she later worked had often been just as bad. Except that they were no longer just pictures, but injuries endured by living people. That which had been bad but far away during her studies had come close and seemed all the more terrible to her. But Claire had never seen anything like what she saw when she walked through the door of James Fraser's gym. Later, she would realize that this experience gave an answer to all her questions.

“Fitnessraum” by lewisgoodphotos

The sensitive person inside her shuddered at what she saw. But the healer in her could not help but stretch out her hands and lay them on the terrible scar tissue that covered Jamie's entire back. Only later did she realize how much she could have frightened him with this gesture. But Jamie, who had finished his work out and was almost dressed, sat on a bench facing a wall of mirrors. There he had seen her coming. Still, he felt a slight tremor when he felt Claire's hands on his back.

"Who ... who ... did ... did this ... to you?" Claire asked quietly and in a trembling voice.

Jamie grabbed her left hand and pulled her gently down onto the bench. Claire slid into the seat next to him. Her face reflected the immense shock she felt about what she had seen. Jamie carefully put his left arm around her shoulders and pulled her gently towards him. Then he replied, just as quietly:

"Jonathan Wolverton Randall, better known as Black Jack Randall."

Claire's eyes filled with horror.

"Did ... did you kill him?"

Though the situation was so serious, Jamie could not help but smile.

"No," he said quietly, his words accompanied by a slight shake of his head, "I wished for it many thousands of times. But in the end, other men put an end to his life, at least to the one he had on this earth."

"He ... he ... was Frank's cousin ..." she said and a long breath escaped from her lungs. Then her gaze wandered into emptiness.

"I didn't know ... but ever since I ... since that day in Boston, I've felt that somehow they must be related."

Claire turned her face back to Jamie. Slowly, she ran her right hand down his left cheek. She wanted to say something, but nothing she could think of seemed appropriate for that moment. She shook her head again, then lowered her gaze to the floor of the gym. Jamie pulled her gently towards her again.

"Don't worry, Claire. It's all over. And no one here will hurt you."

They remained like that for a few minutes. Then Jamie stood up, put on his shirt and undershirt and stuffed them into the trousers he had put on before Claire arrived. Finally, he slipped into the black leather shoes that stood under the bench. Still in silence, they left the basement and took the elevator that brought them to the attic. It had not escaped Jamie's notice how deeply this further revelation about the background of Frank's family had shaken Claire. Arriving at the door to her room, he asked:

"Claire, are you okay? Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I'm exhausted and I want to lie down, but ... "

"Yeah?"

"I don't want to be alone right now. Could ... could you ...”

"I can stay with you - if you want me to."

"Yes, please."

“Schlafzimmer” by innokurnia

They entered the big, bright room. While Claire sat on the bed and wiped off her shoes, Jamie stepped to one of the windows and looked out. Then he turned back to Claire:

"I haven't asked you if you like this room. I hope you're comfortable."

"Oh, yes."

Claire looked around. Her face showed that she was thinking.

"But?"

"No but. It's just that I've ... well, I've never had a room all to myself that big before. It's ... basically an apartment, not a room. I enjoy the light ..."

She looked up towards the roof. The middle part of the ridge of the roof was glazed, so that it let the sun in during the day and at night you could look through it at the starry sky.

"Do you know that you can cover the glazing in the ridge? In case it gets too bright or too hot from the sun."

Claire looked at Jamie questioningly. He walked over to the small coffee table that stood near the door and formed the center of a small seating area. Next to a bowl of fruits was a kind of remote control. He took it and gave it to Claire.

"There are only two functions: open and closed. Press 'close' once."

Claire pushed the button and together they watched a dark cover slide across the glass.

"If I cover these windows, does that mean the windows on the other side of the ridge are also covered?"

"No. You don't have to worry about that. The glazing above my room will stay clear. I also have a remote with which I can control my side. But didn't you want to get some sleep?"

Claire nodded, went back to the big white bed and sat down against the wooden, large pillow-backed headboard of the bed.

"Can you ... sit next to me?"

"Sure."

Jamie walked round the bed, wiped off his shoes and sat down beside her. After a moment's hesitation, he decided to put his right arm around her. Claire lowered herself against his shoulder. The scene reminded Jamie of the night they had left Boston sitting next to each other on the plane. And indeed, again it was only a short time before Claire fell asleep. He watched with joy as first her body relaxed and a little later her facial features. About half an hour after she fell asleep, Claire began to spin. Obviously, her body was trying to get into a more comfortable position while she slept. Jamie got up, circled the bed and gently lifted her up on both arms. He set her down a little below the pillows, bedding her head on one of the it. Then he took the blanket that was at the foot of the bed and covered her with it. He was glad Clair hadn't woken up during this action, but before he could sit down next to her again, she had turned around, still asleep, and was groping for him with her outstretched left hand. He reached for her hand and whispered:

"I am here."

There was no reply from Claire's direction, just a light sigh. Instead of letting go of his hand, she pulled it towards her belly and held it there. Jamie had to smile. He closed his eyes and was grateful that no one could read his mind at that moment.

Around 4pm the alarm on Jamie's smartphone sounded. Claire woke up and yawned. Then she noticed her hand clasping his and let go in shock.

"Good morning," Jamie, who hadn't been sleeping, muttered jockingly.

Claire turned abruptly and now they were face to face.

"Have I ... the whole time ..."

"No problem, Claire. My arm's a little asleep, but there are worse things. I didn't want to wake you. But now it's time for tea, and then we have to get ready for the evening.

Claire sighed.

"Lie still. I'll ask Helene to bring us the tea."

"But it doesn't have to be ..."

He smiled.

"Yes, it must be," he said and reached for his smartphone to dial Helene Ballin's number. While waiting for the housekeeper to pick up, he thought that this evening, especially the conversation they had to have with his 'friend', would be exhausting enough for Claire.

“Tea Time” by NajukusnijiRecepti

Three hours later, at 7pm sharp, the front doorbell rang. Jamie had already seen a big black Opel coming up the driveway from one of the windows of the hall. The driver had stopped, then opened the passenger door and let an elderly gentleman about six feet tall get out. Jamie had opened the door and welcomed his friend.

Claire and Jamie had taken the tea that Helene Ballin had served. As Jamie prepared in his room for the evening's conversation, making a short list of questions and thoughts, Claire showered and thought about what to wear for the occasion. In the end, she decided on a dark, classic-timeless dress, with a skirt that went way up over her knees. Although it accentuated her body, Frank had called it a 'prude Pietist frock' when he first saw it. When she had looked at him then in astonishment, he had added that she would look in it 'as if she had come out of the 18th century'. He was not so wrong with this remark. Claire had discovered the dress in a shop during a stroll through town, and the owner also made re-enactment costumes. But that she had not told Frank. She knew that he would then finally declare her insane. But how could she explain to him that it wasn't only fashionable reasons that had persuaded her to buy that dress. She couldn't quite explain it to herself. All she could say was that something about the dress spoke to her. This dress was not the only one she had bought in that shop. Little by little she had bought one dress in dark red, one in dark green and another in dark blue. Claire stored all these dresses in a wooden box that she had inherited from her Uncle Lambert so that Frank would not discover them. A few weeks before 'the horrible night' happened and she left Boston, she had felt the urge to go to the store once again. On this occasion she bought three more dresses. These too disappeared into Uncle Lamb's box. In all the chaos that had accompanied her escape from Boston, Claire had forgotten all about the dresses. But then the suitcases and boxes that had disappeared in that black van marked "New Castle Movers" arrived in Berlin, and Claire wondered if she would be able to wear them now. But when she noticed that Jamie's sister also wore ladies dresses almost exclusively, she had dismissed the question of whether she could be dressed inappropriately. On the previous days she had worn more modern dresses with a light, floral pattern. But for the occasion of this evening this dress seemed appropriate to her. Like the other dresses she had bought, this one had an oval neckline, into which she had tucked in a white silk scarf. Normally she tucked it in so that a small part of her neck was still visible. But this time she covered everything. The marks that 'the 'that horrible night’ had left had turned blueish in the past two days and she did not want anyone to see them. Claire looked at herself in the mirror once more. Then she opened the door and stepped into the hallway. She decided not to take the elevator. Slowly, she went down the stairs. Suddenly, she heard the doorbell ring and when Claire arrived on the first floor, she heard voices. One of these voices belonged to Jamie, who was greeting a man he called Ferdinand. Claire paused for a moment. She was now just a bend, a landing and some more stairs away from the entrance hall. She was far from eavesdropping, yet something was holding her back.

"Jamie! It's so good to see you again!"

"The pleasure's all mine, Ferdinand. Even if the occasion is a bit, well, complicated.”

"Jamie, we don't even start before ‘complicated’. We start with ‘impossible’ and move on when ‘hopeless’ appears. But when we com to ‘utopian’, we are at our best."

The men giggled briefly. But then the voice, which belonged to the unknown Ferdinand, became more serious:

"Jamie, none of this has to be a real problem. We just have to be wise about this whole thing. It is important that we act calmly. The elections are in a year and a half and Ernst has a good chance of being promoted to the top of a ministry. From there it's just a matter of winning an election or two. With each of these steps we are getting closer to our common goal. We may ..."

"... not to endanger it," Jamie finished the sentence.

After a short pause he continued:

"I know, Ferdinand. I know. And I'll do everything I can to make sure it doesn't happen."

Claire wondered what goal it was the men had in common. And who was this man called Ernst they spoke of? But then she had to turn all her attention to an itch in her nose. She tried to suppress the approaching sneeze. She went around the corner and stepped on the steps that led directly into the hall.

“Foyer” by ErikaWittlieb

Then she sneezed - loud and audible. The men standing in the hall looked up at her.

"Gesundheit."

The men’s wish came as if from a mouth.

Claire sneezed again. She shook herself slightly. Then she smiled and walked down the final steps of the hall.

She felt Jamie's gaze latch onto her, accompanying her every step down.

"Good evening," she said as she arrived in the hall.

"Good evening, Claire," Jamie replied. Then he turned to the older, tall man and introduced them.

"Claire, this is my good friend, Ferdinand Groide."

She shook hands with the stranger, who to her surprise indicated a kiss on her hand.

"Good evening, Mrs. Beauchamp. Welcome to Berlin."

"Ferdinand, this is Claire Elisabeth Beauchamp."

"Good evening, Mr. Groide, and thank you for welcoming me."

Jamie led the guest and Claire into the dining room, where Ian and Jenny were already waiting.

Clair noted with interest that the Murrays, and Mrs. Ballin, treated the guest like an old friend. When the housekeeper served dinner, she mentioned that she had prepared his favourite vegetables and Jenny thanked him before and after dinner for the large bouquet of flowers that the guest had brought. Claire herself was very restrained during the meal, but also during the conversation between courses, and was more inclined to observe the interaction of the individuals.

When the coffee Helene had served with dessert was also finished, Jamie urged to leave. The Murrays said goodbye and retired to their living room while Jamie led Claire and Mr. Groide into the library. There he previously had Helene Ballin prepare the larger rectangular table for their small conference. He had not found it appropriate to have this conversation at the coffee table.

“Chipendale” by JamesDeMers

After they sat down and Jamie poured a glass of water for each of them, Ferdinand Groide began:

"Mrs. Beauchamp, Jamie, Mr. Fraser, told me that your husband is Dr. Frank Randall. Is that correct?"

"Yes, that's right."

"And is it also true that your husband is not only a professor of history at Harvard University, but also works for British Ml5?"

"Yes, that's also correct."

"You'll forgive me if I enquire. But people who work for an intelligence agency don't usually talk about that activity. Not to their spouses or to their family members. What makes you think your husband is in the service of Ml5?"

Claire smiled lightly.

"My husband is not only convinced of the cause of what he calls the great British Empire and its superiority, but also very much of himself. This ... arrogance and ... his use of alcohol ... often caused a certain talkativeness. On top of that, especially in the last few years, he did not consider me to be his intellectual equal. I don't think he could imagine that what he told me would one day be used against him or even leave my mouth."

"Can you give me an example?"

"Mr. Groide, I am prepared to share my knowledge with you. But you will understand that I need certain guarantees."

Now Jamie smiled lightly. He hadn't underestimated Claire, and he was happy to see her speak up for herself so clearly.

"What kind of guarantees do you have in mind?"

"Well, first of all, I have to ask if I can stay here, in this country. At present, I am grateful to accept the hospitality of the Fraser family. But as you may know, I am a trained physician. Surgeon, to be exact. And once I've settled my affairs in the United States, I'd like to return to my profession, earn my own income."

Ferdinand Groide nodded.

"For the time being, nothing should stand in the way of your stay in our country. If I am correctly informed, you have a visa that is valid for three months. This can easily be extended, as Jamie, I mean Mr. Fraser, will vouch for you. And if you should decide to acquire German citizenship ... I also don’t see any problems in principle that would prevent you from taking up work later. As I'm sure you're aware, our country has been seeking medical personnel for years, and as you can imagine we're always happy to hire well trained doctors.”

He smiled, then he went on:

"I can't promise you that we can employ you as surgeons or in a hospital, but I'm sure we'll find a job where you can use these skills and abilities and earn your own decent salary. But you were talking about guarantees, plural?"

"Yes. As you may also know, I have left my husband. Our marriage had been on paper only now for several years. I will ask for a divorce, if that is possible from here. However, this ... this ... I care about his life. I'm a doctor, I took an oath. If I reveal the secrets I have learned ... what will you do to him?"

"What do you mean? What are we gonna do with him?"

"Will you lay hands on him? I mean, will you let someone lay hands on him?"

Ferdinand Groide and Jamie looked at each other in amazement.

"Mrs. Beauchamp, we're not the Mafia. We don't hire hit men."

"But you are part of a secret service, Mr. Groide."

Claire said those words with the same calmness and objectivity as if she told Jenny:

"If you put one more egg in the batter, it gets better."

"And intelligence agencies do these things," she added to her statement with the same objectivity.

"Well, maybe the CIA or the KGB," Groide replied smiling. After a brief pause, he continued:

"Let me answer you this way: In my opinion, a living Frank Randall is far more interesting and valuable to an intelligence agency than a dead Frank Randall."

"That is, you guarantee me that the information I give you will not put his life in danger."

Once again, Groide and Jamie looked at each other.

"Promise me!"

It wasn't a question, it wasn't a request, it was a demand, and the way she made that demand left none of the men unaware that for her there was no alternative to this deal.

Groide took the hand Claire held out to him.

"You have my word, Mrs. Beauchamp. You don't know me yet and you probably mistrust me. That's only natural. But Jamie, Mr. Fraser, can assure you that I'm a man of integrity, a man of my word."

Claire looked over at Jamie. This one nodded.

"Done."

She reached for the glass of water that Jamie had put in her hand and emptied it in one gulp.

Then she began to talk.

#14DaysofOutlander #Outlander #Outlander Fan Fiction #From Boston to Berlin #Boston #berlin #germany #Jamie Fraser #Claire Beauchamp #Frank Randall #Black Jack Randall #Ian Murray #Jenny Murray

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let-me-write-shit · 5 years ago

Text

Like We Used To: 29

A/N: This chapter is HEEEAAAVVVVYYYY! It’s a long one, but I’m really proud of it. One more chapter left!!!!

*WARNING*: Mentions of miscarriage!

[Click Here For Previous Chapters]

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CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Elizabeth paced her kitchen for an hour, occasionally picking up her phone to reread the TMZ article. ‘Harry Styles on a Romantic Night Out with Ex? We’re confused too’. She tried to reason away the pictures. Maybe it was photoshopped. Maybe it was the angle. Maybe it was the wrong place at the wrong time. Honestly, it could have been. But the fact that Harry didn’t return a single call or text all night made his situation worse.

She thought back to why Harry was upset with her in the first place; Kyle’s statement to the press. Emotion flooded Elizabeth and she collapsed on the ground, pulling her knees to her chest and balling into her arms. The past year has been one of the hardest years in her whole life, and when Harry showed up, it finally felt like things were falling back into place for her. Everything started to make sense again. She recalled all of the events leading up to Kate’s wedding. The excitement, the confusion, the hurt, the pain, the heartbreak. Her life was turned upside down.

When Harry was there, she felt like she would be okay. She honestly thought she had finally found the one who could hold her up when things got tough. The one who she could rely on no matter what. She knew that the time apart and the distance between them would be rough, but she thought that it would be her who struggled with it, not him. Yet the second the waters started to get rough, Harry freaked out and acted rashly. Whether he went against Elizabeth’s wishes by hanging out with his ex or not, he shut her out. That’s not the kind of relationship Elizabeth wanted. Not this time.

Elizabeth looked at the time on her phone that read 8:27 AM. She knew that meant that it was only 3:27 AM where Harry was, but she couldn’t wait any longer. She was pissed. She had everything she wanted to say memorized, and she needed to get it off her chest. Furiously she dialed his number. As the phone rang she suddenly got nervous, afraid that he might actually answer. She didn’t know if she’d have the guts to say everything to him directly. She’d rather say it to a machine. Luckily, his voicemail picked up. She held her breath, trying to regulate her heartbeat, directing her to leave a message.

Elizabeth took a deep breath to steady her voice as she spoke, stern but somehow soft at the same time, “Hey. It’s 8:30 in the morning here. I felt like I gave you enough time to cool down. I was hoping you would have called me back last night so we could talk, but you never did. Instead, I woke up to TMZ articles of you and Camille together. At first, I thought I would wait for you to call me so you can explain. It couldn’t be true, could it? But all articles are true, right? That’s what you thought when you read Kyle’s statement in the news yesterday. Except it wasn’t true. Not entirely.”

Her voice began to crack as she continued to explain, her composure deteriorated with each word she spoke, “I was pregnant, Harry. It wasn’t planned. It happened just after Kyle and I got back together. But we were happy. Excited, even. So he proposed to me. Through blood work we found out we were having a boy. We picked a name out. Asher. We weren’t going to tell anyone until I was halfway through. But at 18 weeks, I started bleeding and cramping really badly. I went to the hospital and found out I miscarried. I had to get scheduled surgery to get Asher out of me. Surgical evacuation, they called it. Kyle didn’t come. He said it would be too hard for him. So, I told Kate and she went with me. Two hours. The surgery was only maybe 15 minutes, but I was there for a total of two hours before I went home. Sore and empty. Kyle acted as if nothing happened. Like we didn’t just lose our baby. He didn’t understand how broken I felt. He couldn’t understand why I didn’t want him to touch me. I wasn’t ready to have sex yet. So he cheated. And I left. Do you know when our due date was? The day of Kate and Lewis’ wedding. The day I saw you again.”

She couldn’t help it. Tears began to stream down her cheek, reliving the pain all over again. In the back of her mind she regretted leaving this message. She didn’t want Harry to feel guilty for her. She didn’t want him to think she was making excuses. But he needed to know. He needed to understand why she was so hesitant to start dating him. It wasn’t because she was worried about the spotlight, it was because of the trauma she had just gone through, and the lack of support she needed from her previous partner.

Her voice began to tremble as she continued, “I built a wall up after that, but I tore that wall down for you. I let you in. Being with you enabled me to pick myself back up again, piece by piece. I let myself have fun again. I let myself feel normal again. Because of you, I let myself love again. I wasn’t ready to talk about it, but I would have if you gave me the chance to yesterday. Instead, you ran away like a coward and went right to Camille. Now, I don’t know if you cheated on me or not. Maybe I shouldn’t assume, but then again you didn’t give me the luxury of defending myself, so I’m not sure if you deserve a chance.”

Her voice became more clear. Elizabeth wiped her tears and cleared her voice, feeling more confident in herself. “At the end of the day, you ran. And I’m tired of being in one-sided relationships. I’m tired of being left behind, standing in the dust of the person I care about because they’re scared. And I’m not going to let myself be in that position again. So I’m done. You don’t have to call me back. You don’t have to text me. I don’t want an apology or an explanation. I probably won’t answer if you tried. You can go back to Camille, if that’s what you want. Or don’t. I don’t know. But, I just can’t do this anymore. Thank you for helping me feel like myself again. I love you. I always will.”

Elizabeth ended the call, putting her phone face down on the kitchen island. She planted her palms onto the counter and leaned into it, letting what she had just done sink in. She broke up with Harry. After twelve years of pining over him, she finally got him, and she broke up with him a little over a week later. Typical.

Elizabeth slowly ascended the stairs towards her bedroom, opening her closet doors and rummaging through the shoe boxes on the top shelf, taking hold of one with a pale blue lid and pulling it out. She took it to the end of her bed and took a deep breath, lifting the lid off and placing it beside her, staring down at the contents in the box. She felt her throat tense up, getting emotional after having not looked at these things for months. She pulled out a ziploc bag with a used pregnancy test in it, two prominent pink lines stained onto the screen. She frowned, pulling out two strips of ultrasound pictures. The first showing a string bean of a baby, shape barely recognizable, and the second showing the little boy’s growth at 16 weeks, features clear as day. She ran her finger along the length of his leg, wiping a tear that had fallen from her cheek. She set it aside before pulling fabric out of the box. A onesie that she had bought when she found out she was having a boy. The front read, ‘I’m new here’.

Elizabeth frowned, remembering how she was going to tell her friends she was pregnant with that onesie. Instead, she had to tell Kate through a frantic phone call that she was pregnant, but now she needs a ride to the hospital for an appointment because her baby had died, and to please not tell anyone. Eventually she had told her closest friends and family members, but they were respectful enough to not bring it up again. That memory alone was dizzying. Finally, she pulled out the paperwork she had received upon discharge after her surgical evacuation. She took a deep breath and shoved the contents back into the box, quickly pushing it to the back of her closet. It was time for her to get to work. There was no use in moping.

Instead of working from her home office today, Elizabeth decided to work on her balcony. It was a chilly day, but at least the sun was out to warm up her face. She nuzzled in her blanket and clicked away on the keyboard. However, as the day progressed, her mind wandered often, anxious about the voicemail she left Harry. She wondered when he would wake up. Wondered if Camille was in the bed with him right now. Was he happy? Was he a mess like she was? Would he listen to the voicemail? Would he feel bad? Or upset? Or not care? She doubted that he wouldn’t care. Harry may be many things, but unempathetic was not one of them.

She skipped lunch, ignoring the signs of obvious hunger as her stomach growled and cramped, continuing her work. The loud chimes of her ringtone startled her, heart lurching as she flipped her phone to see that Harry was calling her. She stared at it for a minute, thumb hovering over the green answer button, before sending him to voicemail and setting her phone down, continuing her work. A second later her phone rang again. Harry. Once again she sent it to voicemail. On the third time he called, she just turned her ringer off, set her phone on silent, and turned it over.

Curious to what he had to say, she knew it was best to put him behind her. At least for now. She didn’t know if she could handle whatever it was he had to say, and she just needed time to herself. Still, she cracked a smile at the thought of Harry trying to get a hold of her so desperately, feeling the vibrations of her phone every time he attempted to call or text her. To her, it showed that he still cared. At least that’s what she hoped, as she was too afraid to turn her phone around to read any of the texts or listen to any of the voicemails. As curious as she was, she wanted to refrain.

By the time the sun had set and Elizabeth could no longer ignore her hunger anymore, she made her way back inside to fix herself a plate of spaghetti and collapsed on her couch, turning on ‘Always Be My Maybe’. The presence of her phone’s existence occupying her back pocket nagged at her until she gave in, shoving her bowl on the coffee table and pulling it out. Her eyes widened. 47 missed calls, 23 missed text messages, and 5 voicemails.

As she skimmed through she realized that, although Harry had left most of the messages, she had also gotten some from her friends and family. Harry must have reached out to a few people because Kate, Matt, and Lewis had texted her to see if she was alright, expressing their worry, and asking for her to call them back. She shot them quick texts saying that she was find and that she would call them tomorrow before reading the messages from her sister who hadn’t been reached out to, but texted to let her know that she had seen both articles about Kyle and about Harry and was checking in to see if she was okay and to talk about it. She even got a text from Anne who had told her to hold her head high and that she wasn’t sure what was going on, but would be there for her if she needed it. Elizabeth frowned, realizing that she probably didn’t know that she had just broken up with her son a few hours ago. The most recent texts she got were from Sarah and Mitch who had texted her 20 minutes ago saying that they just landed and that they were on their way to the rehearsal space and they would try and talk to Harry when they saw him. Poor things didn’t know what was going on, either, as they were on a 9 hour flight to New York.

She hovered over Harry’s texts, of which there were 13. The most recent saying ‘I’m on my way to rehearsal, so if I don’t…..” the rest being cut off from display as the text was too long.

Elizabeth debated on clicking it to read all of his texts, but again, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Instead, she turned her phone off and continued watching the movie, shoving her face into her food and letting her feel sad for herself for the first time today.

Thursday almost seemed to drag. She had continued to get calls and texts from Harry, which she subsequently ignored. This prompted an onslaught of texts from Mitch, Sarah, and even Jeffrey begging her to call him and just give him a second to explain. That it wasn’t what it looked like. Honestly, hearing that made her start to feel guilty, second guessing if she was doing the right thing. But she needed to stay strong. To prove to herself that she didn’t need to be in a relationship to feel whole.

For dinner, Elizabeth visited her neighbor, Judy. Of course the first thing she asked was where Harry was. She filled her in on the jist of things, not wanting to go into too much detail. It was the first time Judy didn’t make a joke of anything, simply telling her, “If your heart has wanted him for this long, it’ll never stop wanting him. Make sure you can live with that if you’re going to walk out.” The seriousness of her voice and the words she spoke lingered in the middle of Elizabeth’s chest for hours, but her pride was too strong to give in just yet.

Elizabeth explained to Kate, Lewis, and Matt what had happened and why they would no longer be flying to New York on Friday. If they were upset about it, they did their best to hide it from her and instead, they made plans to have a sleepover at Kate and Lewis’ house. Nothing like a night full of booze, movies, and party games.

And that’s exactly what they did. She headed straight from her work’s office to Kate’s house with the three of them already there, waiting. There was no build up, chit-chatting, or consoling. The second she walked in the door and dropped her overnight bag, her friends screamed and bombarded her with shots. She laughed again. For the first time in days, her mind was distracted. They stayed up until 2 AM, the drinks all gone, cards and game pieces scattered on the carpet, Elizabeth falling asleep on the couch to a movie with her feet propped on Matt’s lap.

The next day, everyone was woken up by a knock on the door. Elizabeth stirred, seeing Lewis stumble by before wiping the sleep out of her eyes and squinting at her phone as the sun shone brightly through the curtains. 12:13 PM. How could they sleep until noon? Familiar soft voices were heard by the landing before the sound of a door shutting echoed and Lewis walked back in carrying about 12 stacks of chubby little paper folders.

“Who was that?” Kate muttered, sitting up from the other side of the couch. Elizabeth kicked Matt awake, and sat up, cross legged, yawning.

“Your sister,” Lewis said to his wife, handing her half of the stacks, “She was driving by on her way back home and wanted to drop these off. It’s the pictures from the disposable cameras at our wedding.”

“No way!” Kate exclaimed, the excitement making Matt and Elizabeth grin as she shuffled through the stack. Kate’s eyes flickered, looking up at Elizabeth, “Heather wrote ‘For Harry’ on this one.”

Elizabeth frowned, reality hitting her. They would have been in New York right now if she hadn’t broken up with Harry. She outstretched a hand to reach for it and Kate passed it over. When she opened the stack, the first thing she saw was a picture of his chubby 14 year old face, laughing with Jimmy and Lewis. She flipped through, realizing that these were the old pictures from Kate’s photo album that he had asked her to make copies of. But as she neared the back, she recognized more recent photos from the wedding and their weekend at the manor.

She saw a picture of Elizabeth dancing with Edward at the reception. Harry could be seen off to the side with Kate and Celeste, smiling at her. Elizabeth’s smile grew as she continued to flip through the photos, laughing at some of the goofier photos, before landing on one that caught her attention. The picture was taken from a bit of a distance, but the image was still extremely clear for it being from a disposable. Harry and Elizabeth were the only ones in the lake, sitting with their butts in the inner tube. Harry was holding onto Elizabeth’s float so that she wouldn’t drift away. Her head was tilted back, eyes closed as the sun beamed on her chest. And Harry sat there, eyes covered by sunglasses, smiling at her.

Elizabeth remembered that moment clearly, remembering that was the moment that she had realized she still liked Harry. She remembered Harry telling her that this was the moment that sparked the lyrics for one of the songs he wrote about her, ‘There’s No Way’. She felt an empty pit form in his stomach, looking up at her friends in realization.

Matt and Lewis furrowed their eyebrows in confusion, but Kate’s eyes lit up, understandingly, as she softly asked, “Are we going?”

“Let me take a quick shower!” Elizabeth exclaimed, bolting up the steps of her friend’s house as Kate was left to explain what was going on to the two clueless boys. She had messed up. Judy was right. She wasn’t willing to live without herself if she had just given up on Harry. She wanted to fight for him.

The drive to the airport seemed almost frenzied as the four friends rifled through their small duffel bags, trying to figure out what they had forgotten to bring, as they had packed so hastily, and making sure they had all of their ID’s, passports, and credit cards within easy access. Once at the airport, they immediately headed to the check-in counter to buy their tickets. The next flight out would be boarding in 20 minutes and would be landing in New York at 8:30 PM if there were no delays. But their gate was all the way at the other end of the airport. They quickly purchased the tickets and bounded towards TSA. The line was quicker than normal, but they had no time to waste as it had taken 15 minutes to go through and they overheard their gate being called for boarding.

They dashed through the airport, zigzagging in and out of groups of people. Their gate was in sight, and Elizabeth got a second wind, speeding up as they called for final boarding. The four friends panted, reaching the doors as the flight attendant smiled sweetly at them, scanning their tickets.

“Have a great time,” she called to them as they calmly walked down the hall towards the airplane.

Elizabeth glanced at her seat number once more, parading down an aisle of the huge double rowed plane, finding her seat towards the middle. It was a fairly packed flight which was why it was so surprising that Matt had landed a seat next to her, although Kate and Lewis were assigned seats further down the aisle. They tucked their bags in the overhead compartment and took their seats, catching their breath.

Her anxiousness grew as the plane began to reverse out of the terminal, grabbing onto Matt’s hand. She hated the departure, and her nerves about the whole situation didn’t help. Matt squeezed her hand to calm her until they were in the air and Elizabeth felt like she could breathe again. She suddenly remembered all of the unread texts she had gotten from Harry over the past couple days and decided that she should probably read them now.

Her hands shook, as she read text after text. ‘Baby please pick up’, ‘Please don’t do this. Let me explain’, ‘I love you. It’s not what it looks like’, ‘It was a coincidence you have to believe me’, ‘Camille and her friends are staying in the same hotel as me. We just happened to get back at the same time. You can see her friends in the picture walking into the hotel a little ahead of her’, ‘Please, Lizzy, I promise I didn’t cheat on you. I would never’, ‘I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions. I was a stupid. I should have listened to you. I didn’t know. I just need to hear your voice, please.’ And many more desperate pleas.

Towards the end he texted less and less, but the sadness and desperation still evident in the messages. ‘I sent Jeffrey to the airport just in case you changed your mind and decided to come anyway. I really hope you did.’ ‘I guess you aren’t coming. I love you baby. Goodnight.’ ‘Goodmorning. My show’s tonight. I miss you. I’m sorry.’.

Her heart sank, full of regret that she hadn’t read his messages earlier. The last thing she wanted was to break his heart. And she realized she did exactly what she was pissed off at Harry for doing; ran away like a coward. How would she make up for it? Was all of this too little too late? It was worth a shot.

The 9 hour flight felt more like 48 as their plane descended into the airport. Although it was nearly 9 PM, the city lights illuminated the sky so brightly, at first glance it looked like mid day. The four friends grouped together as soon as they got into the terminal and briskly walked through the airport towards arrivals as Lewis requested an Uber, thankful that they didn’t need to check their bags in the first place. It took all of 6 minutes for their uber to meet them, and they headed straight for the arena that Harry would be playing. A 30 minute journey. By her calculations, Harry would be nearing the end of his performance by the time they would have gotten there.

People still crowded the entrance of the arena, Harry’s voice carrying through the street from how loud the speakers were. Elizabeth bound up to the ticket taker with her friends behind her, explaining who she was and that she didn’t have tickets but they needed to get inside. He laughed at her. 15 minutes of the four of them arguing and security being called, it was no use. They stepped away, pulling their duffel bags further onto their shoulder.

“Why don’t you just call him?” Matt asked.

Kate scoffed, “Because, in case you couldn’t hear, he’s currently singing to thousands of people at the moment.” she slapped Matt, earning a laugh from Lewis.

Elizabeth thought, talking to herself, “Yeah….but….maybe Jeffrey?”

She quickly pulled out her phone, dialing Jeffrey’s number, bouncing on her toes with anxiousness. It rang four times before he picked up, screams blaring through his end of the line. “Lizzy?!” he shouted.

“Jeffrey! Oh, thank god! I’m here, and I’m trying to get in, but….”

“Hello?” He hollered back, cutting her off, “Lizzy? I can’t hear you!”

“Can you hear me?!” she shouted back.

“It’s too loud! I can’t hear you.”

“I’ll text you!” she responded, hanging up the phone. She silently begged that he could hear that last part as she frantically typed him a message, ‘I’m out front with Kate, Lewis, and Matt. Security won’t let us in. Please help!’

The four of them stared at her phone, hoping that he saw it. Three little dots appeared as he typed a response. And a simple ‘on my way’ appeared. They sighed, a huge wave of relief washing over them. Elizabeth bent down, digging through her bag and pulling out a thin piece of paper, gripping it carefully in her hands. Five minutes passed before the front doors opened and Jeffrey walked out, two large, burly security guards behind him.

“Lizzy!” He called, waving the four of them over.

The four friends dashed over to him. Matt shot the ticket taker and the security guard that he had called over a nasty look, flipping them the middle finger and following Jeffrey inside. Jeffrey pulled Elizabeth into a tight squeeze as they were escorted towards a ‘staff only’ door, walking down hallways towards the back rooms and side stage to avoid the crowds.

“Thank god you showed,” Jeffrey exclaimed, “Harry’s been a mess. Look I know what that photo looked like, but I was actually with him and he didn’t…”

“I know,” Elizabeth grinned, patting Jeffrey on the arm, “Don’t worry, I know.”

He shook his head, pursing his lips before saying, “He’s on stage right now, but we can take you to the side stage behind the curtains so he could at least see you’re here.”

“Perfect,” she agreed, turning to Kate and grabbing her hand.

Kate squeezed her reassuringly and Elizabeth looked at the boys who’s eyes wandered around, taking everything in. She grinned at their amazement. Harry’s singing voice became louder and louder as they got closer. They rounded a corner and Jeffrey allowed them to set their bags against a wall before they climbed up a pair of rickety metal stairs, the stage coming into view. Sarah was the first person they saw, banging away on the drums. Mitch was the next, just barely swaying from side to side as he played. Charlotte was just barely out of view and she could see Adam and Ny on the other side of the stage. They all seemed to be in halloween costumes, dressed as ghost busters.

Jeffrey and the four friends inched closer to the side, finally able to see the back of Harry, Elizabeth’s heart pounding in her chest. The first few rows were visible from the stage lights and her eyes wandered to the VIP section, instantly noticing Camille, swaying along to the music with her friends. This time, she didn’t feel annoyance or jealousy, but indifference; she didn’t care. She felt eyes on her, and her attention snapped back to Sarah who was looking straight at her, eyes wide and smiling broadly.

“Hi!” Elizabeth mouthed, waving shyly.

She shook her head, laughing, “Hi!”

Mitch must have noticed because he turned to see what Sarah was looking at and grinned, his chest jolting from a small chuckle, nodding at her appearance before turning straight ahead as Sarah beat the hell out of the drums, the song finishing. The crowd screamed in the silence and she could hear Mitch’s voice.

“Harry!” his soft voice called.

Elizabeth watched as Harry looked up at his friend while taking a swig of water. Mitch’s head nodded in the direction of the side of the sage and a subtle finger pointed towards her. Harry’s attention traveled past him and his eyes landed on hers. He stiffened up a bit, clearly shocked, but also very obviously happy. Elizabeth waved the paper she held in her hands at him and he looked from her, to the crowd, back to her before quickly jogging over. A few concerned crew members started shouting at him to go back on stage, but Harry ignored them at first.

“You came! I’m so sorry!” he rushed, muttering words as Elizabeth tried to quiet him, feeling the frustration from the crew members grow the longer he stayed off stage.

Elizabeth smiled, forcing the paper in his hands, “It’s okay,” she reassured as he looked down, seeing the picture of the two of them sitting on the floats in the lake. He looked up as she said, “Go on. I’ll be here when you’re done. Go!” She pushed him back towards the stage.

He smiled back at her, glancing back down at the picture before shoving it into a pocket of his costume. “Sorry, I saw a ghost that needed busting,” he joked to the crowd, an eruption of screams and laughter filled the stadium. He turned towards the band and mouthed something, everyone nodding their approval and understanding as he faced the crowd again, “So, this next song I want to sing for you is off of my new album. It’s very special to me, I hope you like it. It’s called ‘Brown Eyed Lover’.”

Harry turned and winked at her as the band sang a few lines of ‘waiting’. Sarah banged on the drums and the music started. Harry’s voice bouncing off the walls.

Waiting Waiting Waiting

I've got a brown-eyed lover On the other side of town I don't wanna keep her waiting (I don't wanna keep her waiting, waiting) She's got me upside tongue-tied Twisted all around I don't wanna keep her waiting (I don't wanna keep her waiting, waiting)

Well, I don't know I can't tell Will this last Or just come and go? It came so fast And my feet feel cold But my mind is for sure And my heart remains

Oh, she's got everything you want Wardrobe bought at the thrift shop And all my friends adore her She reminds me of my mother She wonders how my day went And don't care about my paychecks Well, I don't wanna keep my baby waiting

Oh, let me think What if she finds a man Who's got so much more time For her than me on his hands? That don't make sense Why would she wait so long Just to run away?

Oh, she's got everything you want Let's me pick the restaurants And all my friends adore her And I can still afford her She wishes I'd stop worrying About where my next paycheck is Well, I don't wanna keep my baby waiting

I've got a brown-eyed lover On the other side of town I don't wanna keep her waiting, ye (I don't wanna keep her waiting, waiting) She's got me upside tongue-tied Twisted all around I don't wanna keep her waiting I don't wanna keep her waiting (I don't wanna keep her waiting, waiting) I don't wanna keep her waiting (I don't wanna keep her waiting, waiting) I don't wanna keep her waiting (I don't wanna keep her waiting, waiting) I don't wanna keep her waiting

Harry’s voice died out with the symbols and the crowd screamed wildly, jumping with excitement. He glanced to the side where she stood, smiling from ear to ear. Quickly, he ran over and planted a kiss on her lips, salty from all the sweat that was dripping down his face.

“I love you,” he whispered.

She giggled, “I love you, too,” kissing him and pushing him back onto the stage to finish his set before she got yelled at by any more crew members.

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