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when-wolves-howl · 2 years ago

Text

Liquid Courage

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: Tony throws one of his usual parties but an unexpected guest makes an appearance.

Genre: Angst. Sexual content towards to end. No smut.

Word Count: 6.9k

A/N: Here's chapter 6. Still angsty as hell. I can't lie, there's not going to be fluff for quite a while. After this chapter, I plan to really kick things into gear. The story will move forward and more questions will be an answered and secrets revealed. I think I've teased you all long enough. I hope you're ready.

Enjoy reading!

*you do not have permission to repost or translate my material or claim as yours*

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Ross once again kept his promise and returned to the compound with Dr, Sarkissian a few days after Wanda’s return, to continue with the testing. He informed you that you wouldn't be cleared of any suspicion until he got some answers, therefore wouldn't be cleared for active duty. Both Steve and Tony made it known that it wasn't his decision which pissed him off and made the testing that day even more brutal. You made Wanda promise that she wouldn’t be there for the testing. You think she’s seen enough of you in this state to last her a lifetime, even if she didn't know the extent of what was happening. So, you made Pietro promise that he would take her out of the compound for the day.

You thrashed around the hospital bed trying to escape the pain that rattled your body. You couldn’t scream or protest in any way. All you could hear was the boiling of your own blood and the sound of the heart rate monitor beeping at an alarming rate. You felt like your heart and brain were about to burst. You could also feel Tony wearing his gauntlets on each hand, desperately trying to pin you down.

“You said this stuff would immobilise Agent L/N!” you hear Ross yell at the Doctor as you try to catch your breath. The doctor was right, you had never been through that kind of pain before. Not even with Strucker.

“It does. You've seen the results yourself, Ross.” The Doctor retorted, her eyes darting from Ross to you.

“Then how do you explain this?” Ross asks, motioning towards your violently writhing body.

"My guess is that Agent L/n’s body is starting to become immune to the effects of the serum I created. Their metabolism is burning through each dose, meaning that the substance is no longer taking effect.” The Doctor explained, through gritted teeth, clearly frustrated with the results.

Ross was determined to push through the barrier that your mind had built but you were even more determined to block his advances. You couldn't allow to find out that Dr. Sarkissian’s serum had worked and that you had seen more than you had revealed. You were still trying to figure it out yourself.

“Administer more serum doctor.” Ross demands.

“No!” Tonys voice booms throughout the med bay and you are hopeful for a break from the doctor and Ross’ tortuous methods. “For God sake, can we discuss this later and help Y/N? I can hold them down much longer!” The Doctor takes another syringe from her pocket and administers it to your IV. Your body immediately relaxes, and then starts to heal from the trauma it had just endured. A grateful breath releases from your lungs. Ross walks up to your side and looks down at you, a scowl residing on his face.

“I know you know something L/N. I don’t care how long it takes or the methods I have to go to find out what happened to you, I will find out one way or another. You’re an enemy of this country and I’m going to prove it.” With his final word said, Ross leaves the room. The doctor takes his place next to the bed, just as Tony helps you sit up.

“Agent L/N, if you know anything, it’s in your best interest to tell Ross everything you know. He won’t stop with the testing until you tell him what he wants to know.” Pleads the doctor. Her tone isn’t caring or delicate, instead it elicits a venomous tone which sends a cold shiver down your spine.

“I’ve already told you what I know.” you tell the doctor, effectively ending the conversation there. The doctor then turns to leave without a word.

“Ross is going to want some answers sooner rather than later Y/N,” says Tony. You turn to face him and watch in confusion as his repulsors shrink back into the bracelet on his wrist. “Nanotech. Cool, huh? Could barely hold you down though,” You shake the confusion from your head and instead ask Tony to release you from the cuffs, but he refuses.

“Excuse me?” you ask in irritation. Tony stands there with his hands on his hips and you just know that he’s about to ask you a million and one questions.

“Tell me what’s going on and don’t say nothing because I know you better than that Y/N."

“Then believe me when I say that it’s better that you don’t know.” Your fists clench at your sides, trying to keep your anger at bay.

“Don’t give me that shit. I know you’re lying to Ross about what you saw and now with Wanda’s sudden release from the Raft? I’m pretty sure the President just doesn’t give a pass to a weapon of mass destruction.” You automatically fight against the restraints at Tony’s words, but they keep you in place.

“Do not call her that.” You demand angrily. Tony raises his hands in apology but continues that subject further.

“Y/N you know me, and you know you can trust me.”

“It’s not about trusting you, Tony. You know that I do. It’s about keeping you safe, keeping everyone, I care about safe. I’ve already lost so much. I can’t lose anything or anyone else."

“Y/N, I gave my address to the Mandarin on national television. I literally flew into space with a nuclear bomb.” You roll your eyes at his last comment. It was before your time with The Avengers, but you had heard about that more time than you can count because he never shut up about it. I can look after myself,” reasoned Tony. “I know you’re just letting Ross do this to you so you can keep his focus on you while other things are happening elsewhere.”

He wasn’t wrong about that. Bucky was currently at CIA headquarters in Virginia, sneaking around and trying to find any information that related to you. You let out a deep sigh and thought over your situation. You know Tony can help you in more ways than you can help yourself. Even with Wanda’s powers, there was no guarantee that you’d be able to find out everything that your brain had hidden. You know there’s answers out there, most likely out of the country. Tony can help with that.

“Fine. Take these cuffs off me and I’ll explain everything.” Tony does just that and you explain everything that you didn’t tell Ross and what Wanda’s powers allowed you to see. Also, how you secured Wanda’s release, opting to leave out Bucky and Pietro’s involvement. There was no need to involve them. You had never seen Tony laugh so hard at the President being caught in a compromising position.

“…and you don’t remember ever being on the mountain before? I mean before the explosion.” Tony asks curiously. You shake your head and rub at your wrists and see Tony furrow his eyebrows, deep in thought. “You know, when Doctor Sarkissian mentioned that you may have erased your own memories, it made sense to me. Clearly in the years you were missing, you may have been made to do some unsavoury things, so you wanted to erase those memories and like you never did anything.”

“But both Maria and Bruce confirmed that there was no evidence that my brain was ever tampered or manipulated with in any way.” You counter, confused as to what he was getting at.

“That’s true. But look at you Y/N. Dr Sarkissian just put you through an extremely painful test. One that directly links to your brain. I saw your brainwaves and heart rate while you were under and saw how much pain you were in. But look at you now, you look like you just had a massage.”

“You know that’s not how it is.” You tap your temple, and he nods in understanding at you silently pointing out that while the physical pain you feel will subside quickly, it’s the psychological pain that remains is what hurts the most.

“I know.” Tony admits in a guilty tone. “I just mean with the speed of your healing abilities, maybe you, yourself, found a way to stop the healing process even for a moment so you could erase your memories.” What could be powerful enough to stop your healing abilities enough to erase your memories? It would have to be damn powerful, and it made you curious as to whether it could stop your healing abilities all together. Something you wanted to visit again in the future if the topic came up again.

“I don’t know anything that powerful, Tony.” You slump in defeat and lay back down on the bed as you hear Tony say that he doesn’t either. Although your body had healed itself, you were still exhausted. You knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep right now though. Sitting up and swinging your legs off the bed, Tony steps up and places a hand on your shoulder to stop you.

“Thank you for telling me everything. I do recommend you tell the rest of the team, but I know how stubborn your ass is.” You chuckle at his words because you know he’s right.

“I hear you, Tony. If it comes to it, I’ll fill everyone in on what’s happening. But until then, it stays between us, okay?” Tony puts up two fingers, swearing on scout’s honour. He pats your shoulder and moves to let you off the bed. Just before you reach the threshold of the med bay, Tony asks where you’re going.

“To blow off some steam.” You say as you continue walking, not looking back at him.

---

Despite the ache in every part of your body, your bandaged knuckles kept hitting the punching bag. Natasha taught you a lot of things and one of them was that when you felt like punching someone in the face that you shouldn’t, it was always better to punch a bag full of sand. With music blaring in your ears, you wanted to tune out the sound of every single person in the compound and just stay inside your own head, alone. As you lay an assault to the bag and watch it swing back and forth, you find it difficult not to become more and more angry at the joke that your life was now. You were beginning to feel doubtful that you would find the answers that you desperately needed. Since you’d been back, the approach you had taken to finding them had been tame at best. You decide that maybe its time to kick it up a notch. You had already broken the law half a dozen times since you’d been back. What’s a couple more?

Keeping light on your feet, with raised fists, you skilfully dodge the bag as it comes towards you. You think about the events from earlier how Ross stood above you and pretty much told you that he would tear you apart to find the truth about your disappearance. To you, that sounded that he’d probably break a few laws of his own. You know having the President under your thumb would be useful for a while, but it’s useless if Ross goes against CIA protocol. You’re pretty sure what he and the doctor are doing is illegal anyway. You suddenly feel the hair on the back of your neck stand up and you know its because someone has started walking up behind you. You keep your back turned to them as you keep swinging, listening to their footsteps get louder the closer they get. Spinning your wrist as quickly as you a can, a metal fist stops you as another flesh one grips your shoulder to steady you.

“Careful doll, you could really take someone’s head off with that swing.” Bucky says, amusedly. You release the breath you were holding and feel the anxiety you were feeling dissipate.

“Sorry Buck. How’d it go in Virginia?”

"As well as expected. If Ross or anyone at the CIA has any information about you from the last three years, it’s not on any database there. He could be keeping any information on his person, but I found nothing, Y/N.” You drop your head with a sigh, feeling a migraine starting to form at the base of your skull. “They do have personnel files on all of us, as expected. But it’s all the basics. Name, date of birth, abilities. Everything we did when the Avengers were working officially with S.H.I.E.L.D before I came and screwed that up.” You smile at Bucky and his reference to his time as The Winter Solider and bringing down the corruption within S.H.I.E.L.D.

I did find something interesting about this Dr. Sarkissian though.” You raise your head up in interest. You had no interest in the doctor. “The CIA keeps record of every employee that works there, past and present. Even records of outside contractors who CIA agents work with. Everything gets documented. She has her own file, of course, but it was sealed.”

“Records can only be sealed by the director and deputy director of The CIA. Go figure,” you say in annoyance. “She hasn’t given me a good feeling since the moment I met her. She’s definitely hiding something. I’ll figure it out.” Bucky hums in agreement.

“I did find one file that he had on you. It was hidden behind a heavily encrypted firewall, but I managed to bypass it. Why didn’t you tell me that you were being practically tortured by him and his doctor?” You look away in shame.

“As painful as it is, it’s one of two options that I have right now that may help me find out what happened to me.” You had told Bucky that Wanda had helped you but not the details of what you had seen. He didn’t push you to tell him and you were grateful for that and he understood that you wanted Wanda to rest. ” Thanks Bucky. Nothing else?” Bucky shakes his head. You run your hands over your face in frustration at another dead end. As much as you wanted to keep Ross’ focus on you so you could find out what you could with the help that you had, you know it’s time to take the matter into your own hands. It’s time to find the one person who always seems to have the answers to everything, even if says that he doesn’t. You make a mental note to call Maria to get some answers on the whereabouts of your old boss. Before you can thank Bucky for his help, Pietro speeds into the room in the blink of an eye. He smiles widely and you can’t help but return the smile at his infectious attitude.

“Better get cleaned up, Y/N.” says Pietro, pointing to your bloodied bandages.

“Why?” you ask suspiciously.

“Tony just told me that he’s throwing a party tonight to welcome you and Wanda home," he says excitedly. You clench your jaw and take a step towards him, but Pietro is always too quick for you as he speeds over to the exit of the gym. “I promise it wasn’t my idea. I do listen to you, you know.” You roll your eyes and give him a small smirk that lets him know that you aren’t mad at him but at Tony. He beams in relief and walks out of the gym. You turn to Bucky.

“You got any nice clothes?”

---

“Do we have to?” you ask angrily, not bothering to hide your pout You were sitting on the end of Wanda’s bed, arms crossed defensively, dressed in a white dress shirt and black dress pants while she sat at her dressing table applying makeup. Wanda assured you that it was okay for you to get ready in her room and not in the spare you room had been occupying since your return. You hadn’t been able to enter the room you and Nat had once shared.

“Look, I’m not that thrilled about this either, but I wouldn’t mind getting a little drunk and dancing. God knows it’s been a long time since either of us have had some fun, Y/N.” Wanda pointed out, turning to you. Her rosy cheeks highlighted her face, and the ruby red lips were plump and full. Her long strawberry blonde locks, twisted into curls, framed her the delicate features of her face. A small smile took over your face at how beautiful she looked in this moment. Her smile matched yours and you know that she heard your thoughts. You raise an eyebrow in a silent request to stay out of your head, but she just smiles again and moves to the bathroom to change into her outfit.

You stand and walk over to the dresser and grab your tie and pull it over your collar, trying to decide on whether to wear it tonight. As you fumble with each side of the tie, the bathroom door opens and Wanda strolls out wearing a red dress that matched her lips and clung to all her curves. Your mouth instantly dries, and you find it hard to swallow. You instantly quieten your thoughts to avoid any teasing but decide its best to speak.

“Wow Wands. You look beautiful.”

“Thankyou.” Wanda’s cheeks flush red as she walks over to you. You tried to keep a respectable eye on her as steps up to you and removes the tie, throwing back on the dresser. “Looks better without it.” You turn to look in the mirror and you instantly agree. You smile at Wanda in the reflection, and she smiles back, and in that moment, you feel a sense of happiness for the first time in a long time. She grabs your blazer and holds it out for you to slip yours arms and lifts it over your shoulders. You turn back to Wanda and feel the anxiety about the night ahead leave your body. She grabs your hand and leads you to the door before turning back to you. “You ready?” With a deep breath, you nod and let her lead you out the door and down to the party.

---

As you walked through the entrance and into the party, with Wanda’s arm looped through yours, you were met with an eruption of cheers and applauds. The room was filled dozens of faces that you recognised and some that you didn’t. There was a band in the corner playing a song that you could already feel your foot tapping to. You could hear Wanda laughing at your side just as a tuxedo clad Pietro sped up quickly to the both of you before quickly whisking her off to the bar. You couldn’t help but laugh as you saw Wanda give you a silent plea to help her. Wanting a drink, yourself, you got to follow before a hand on your shoulder stops you in your path. You can already smell his expensive cologne.

“I’d apologise, but I wouldn’t mean it,” says Tony, nonchalantly. You both make to the bar as the bartender slides two glasses of whiskey neat towards you.

“Oh I know. But it’s okay. I think I needed this anyway. We both do.” You say with as you nod in the direction of Pietro and Wanda further down the bar, clinking their glasses and taking a shot. Tony chuckles and shakes his head at the twins before turning back you and raises his glass you. You clink your own with his and down the amber liquid in one swift motion. It burns your throat momentarily, but you don’t grimace like Tony does.

“Still can’t get drunk?”

“I can, but I’d have to clear out this entire bar before any of it made a dent,” you answer, pointing to the multiple shelves that aligned the walls, all full of alcohol worth more money than you’d ever see in your lifetime.

“I may have a little something to help with that then.” hinted Tony. You raised your brows in suspicion, but he was already backing away with a smile on his face. “Go find Bucky, he has a little something for you. I’m off to find Pepper.” He disappeared before you could protest. Leaning against the bar, you fully take in the scene of the party. The dancefloor is full of bodies all huddled into a mosh pit, something that wasn’t your scene. You could smell the sweat radiating from it, thanks to your enhanced abilities. You tried your best to switch it off, along with you enhanced hearing. You didn’t want to hear the nasty conversations people would surely have towards the end of the night. Sweeping your eyes across the room, you see Clint and Laura chatting animatedly with Bruce and Dr. Cho, Steve playing pool with Maria and someone you assume was Sam. Steve had mentioned his joining of the Avengers in your absence. You see Vision speaking to Wanda and Pietro at the bar, where you know neither of the two had left since you walked in. You see Vision subtly place his hand on Wanda’s shoulders when they both laugh at Pietro’s joke, and you feel your jaw tighten involuntarily. Tearing your eyes from the scene, you continue your sweep of the room until you find Bucky alone, tucked away in the corner, sipping from a glass. As you make your way over to him, you receive multiple handshakes and pats on the back, all of which you give a tight-lipped smile to.

“You being anti-social? I never would have guessed.” You observed. Bucky gives you a silent laugh and does his own scan of the room. He’s always on alert. “Tony says you’ve got something for me?” Bucky reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a flask and passes it to you. You screw off the lip and bring it to your nose.

“Odorless?”

“Tasteless too. But it will get you drunk.” Buck says with a smirk and side eye towards you. You want to ask how but gets to it before you can. “I found it hidden in the bookshelf when I moved into Thor’s room after he left to off world for a while. I know it will get you drunk because I took a mouthful and it knocked me out for almost two days. Steve had to take me to Cho because I had alcohol poisoning.” You laugh loudly at that, but Bucky just playfully shoves you. Seeing no reason not, you take a sip from the flask and feel a warmth run through your body the moment you swallow it. Bucky takes his own sip and it’s like you see a light go off in his head.

As the night continued, you felt a buzz from Thor’s flask and had managed to greet and speak to everyone, beat Sam and Steve at pool while Bucky laughed at their pouting. You barely seen Wanda all night and wanted to spend some time with your best friend. You spot her once again by the bar still talking to Vision and sipping from a glass of wine.

Your legs moved faster than you could register, and you took yourself towards the bar. Wanda’s eyes light up at your appearance and she goes to welcome your arrival until you grab her risk, ignore Visions existence entirely and drag Wanda to the dancefloor. She giggles as she wraps her hands around your shoulders, and you take her waist. The beat from the music starts to vibrate your entire body and you feel Wanda start to sway her hips, forcing her to move with you. You pull Wanda flush against you and feel your bodies mould into one another. With each beat, yours and Wanda bodies move as one and when you look her in the eyes you see her pupils are dilated to the point that the green is barely visible. You and feel Wanda’s breath on your lips and the smell of the wine on her breath dancing around your nose. Your breath hitches as you see Wanda slowly lean in and before you can do the same the smell of Chanel invades your senses, and you immediately pull away from Wanda’s embrace. She frowns in confusion as you back away from her, your heart beating hard against your chest. You’re grateful for the open collar your wearing but still finding it difficult to breathe. Wanda steps forward, concerning written all over her face but you put out your hand to stop her from touching you, instead sending your thoughts to her mind.

“I’m okay. I just need a minute.”

“Are you sure? Do you want me to come with you?” You can hear the concern even in your head. You force a smile but shake your head and exit the party to find the bathroom. Splashing your face with water to try and clear your mind, you lean against the sink and look at yourself. Your face is a pale white and the dark circles that have lived under your eyes since you returned are as evident as ever. The nightmares that plagued you every night didn’t help with your appearance either. Flashes of the colours you saw in your memory retrieval, the suited man plunging a mirror into your neck, Wanda in her cell wearing the collar, Natasha’s face as she walked through the door in Berlin. The images haven’t escaped you since you came back the compound.

The familiarity of the perfume only brought your nightmares to the light of day. Her perfume. You’d bought it for her as a birthday gift and she wore it on every special occasion. Now the smell of it made you sick and beyond furious and you took that fury out with a fist to the mirror. You wince as you pull your hand back and pull out the shards of glass from your knuckles and watch as the blood pours out. You hear movement behind you and the door to the bathroom swings open and you see his face in the reflection but ignore his presence and wash your hands.

You try to exit the bathroom, but agent Campbell stands in your way but when you try to pass him, he put his hand on your forearm to try and stop you.

“Y/N, please.” Campbell begs. You automatically grab Campbells wrist and push him against the wall and lift him off the ground by his collar. He splutters and struggles to breathe and tries to remove your hand, but you can’t find it in yourself to care at the man that betrayed you.

“Don’t you dare fucking touch me,” you growl, as you lift Campbell higher off the ground, his feet dangling. “What the hell could you possibly say to me? Your apologies are useless to me because they are bullshit. You tried to take me out. I trained you, taught you and that team everything you know, and you use it against me?” You push Campbell harder into the wall and you see his face start to turn pale at the lack of oxygen and his eyes plead to you to let him go, which you do. Campbell coughs violently when he collapses to the ground, scratching at his collar and tie to loosen it.

“What did you expect coming in here, Campbell? That I would play nice with you? That we’d just go back to being buddies? You don’t get to walk in here acting like you didn’t marry the love of my life and that my life hasn’t been falling apart. Go fuck yourself Campbell,” you spit out.

“Woah, woah. Slow down. I’m not married to Nat. Are you serious?”

“You’re lying. I saw the way you looked at her. You also called her Nat. You’ve never called her that in your life. It was always Ms. Romanoff.”

Y/N, I’m gay.” Your eyes widened in shock. That was something you didn’t consider. “After you disappeared me and the squad started our own investigation as soon as we heard your body hadn’t been found. We knew that something was up. We didn’t find anything though. Maybe a few months later, I ran into Nat in a bar, and she was drinking herself to death. I’d heard from some other agents that they had seen her there multiple times a week, just drinking until she blacked out. I tried to stop her and told her that you wouldn’t want her to be like that, but she tried to swing at me. She was so drunk that she could barely stand. So, I took her back to her apartment and slept on the couch. I didn’t want her to be alone when she woke up. When she did, she made me promise not to say anything to anyone and I never did. After that night we just bonded and became close friends. She’s one of the very few that knows I’m gay. As for that day in Berlin, I was just following orders.” You stand there in disbelief as you hear snippets of Natasha’s life while you were gone and the downward spiral she had fallen into. You had no idea.

There’s an apology on the tip of your tongue but you can’t bring yourself to speak. Instead, you pass Campbell, making sure to slam shove your shoulder into his and take yourself back to the party. Nothing has changed when you enter. Everyone is laughing, dancing and knocking back drink, while you feel the room start to close in on you, panic setting over your chest. Spotting the doors to the balcony, you make your way towards it, sipping heavily from the flask Bucky gave you. When the fresh outside air hits your lungs, you feel a calm wash over you and deep breaths calm your erratic heartbeat. The view of upstate New York looked beautiful and it nearly took your breath away until it actually did when a voice interrupts your peace and the perfume almost hypnotises you.

“Hi.” The voice couldn't be mistaken. It was raspy and deep and still sent a shiver down your spine. You had heard it every day for years before you had disappeared. Taking a deep breath and clutching your flask a little tighter, you slowly turn around to face to the woman you once trusted your life with. God, she looked ethereal. A black body con dress caressed her voluptuous frame, full lips coated in a shade of blood red lipstick that matched the colour of her hair that framed her face. It took all your self-control not to drool at the sight.

“Hello Natasha.” You kept your tone as neutral as possible. You saw her momentarily flinch at the use of her full name, something you never did but the movement disappeared as soon as it appeared. Her past as a spy could never be erased.

“How are you?” You hear the sincerity in her voice, but you feel like she’s asking the most stupid question in existence. You scoff, and open your arms wide and in a silent show of the obvious that you’re not okay

I’m sorry.” You scoff again because you can’t believe the audacity she has right now.

“For what? Burning a hole in my chest or for getting married to someone that wasn't me? you snap at her. You see her clench her jaw and it feel guilty for a second but youre the one who was missing for three years. Not her.

“That’s not fair Y/N. I told you, Fury wanted a face that you trusted to bring you in. It was the safest option.” Natasha whispers. You turn away from her, desperately trying to keep your tears from falling.

“Then he should've called Wanda,” you pointed out.

“Yeah, that was a nice little display on the dance floor there.” Her tone is so thick with jealousy, that you’re offended of what her accusations insinuate.

“Oh, give me a break. You don’t get a say in what I do in any situation. Not anymore. Not while you have that damn ring on your finger!” you exclaim, your voice beginning to rise.

Nat sighs and looks down at her feet, twisting her wedding band in her finger. You can see the build-up of tears ready to fall from her eyes, but the Asgardian liquor makes you want to ignore them.

“You know I buried you right? Consider that for one second.”

You allowed your anger to consume you because you didn't care anymore. You threw the flask as hard as you could and watched as it shattered the doors that led to the balcony. The heads of party goers turn towards the sound of broken glass spilling across the floor. Despite flinching before, Nat doesn't flinch this time, even when you take a step towards her..

“You didn't come here to see how I am. You came here ease your guilty conscience. To see how you are. You know what you did. You feel it in your heart, don’t you? Because I do. Every damn day i feel it, Natasha. I am broken! My life has been torn apart the minute I woke up in Berlin. My life was taken away from me and I don’t have a fucking clue why So do not stand there and tell me you're sorry because I don’t accept it. And the only reason I don’t accept it is because I know for a fact that if it was you that went missing, if it was me who had lost you, I would have waited. i would've went to the ends of the earth to find you and the people responsible. And that’s how I know that I loved you more than you loved me.” you accuse, pointing your finger in her face.

“What the hell is going on here?” Dr. Sarkissian walks over the broken glass, towards you and Natasha. You barely recognise her without her glasses and lab coat. Instead, she wore an emerald, green dress with her with her hair styled like Natasha’s.

“None of your business doctor.” You kept eye contact with Natasha but were about to get a lot angrier if she didn’t leave.

“It is my business if you're yelling at my wife.” The Doctors spat at you, her tone cold and venomous. She wrapped an arm around Natasha, and you noticed her relax in the doctor’s hold. You visibly gulped and you know Natasha saw it. Your eyes flickered to the doctor’s ring, and it matched the one that laid upon Nat’s finger. The courage and anger you had built up suddenly disappeared on the spot and you felt yourself beginning to crumble under the weight of your own stupidity. Natasha had always been able to read you like a book and you saw that she wanted to take a step forward and take you into her arms, but another set of arms wrapped around your own and held you instead.

“Come on, lets get out of here.” Wanda whispered in your ear. You allowed Wanda to pull you from the situation and before you knew it, you were in front of Wanda’s door. She tried to pull you into her room, but you stood your ground and shook your head when she frowned in confusion. You looked over your shoulder at the door of your old bedroom and decided now was the time to walk through it. As you enter, familiarity overwhelms you when you find the room exactly how you remembered it. Photos of you and Nat lines the walls, yours and her favourite books sit on the shelf covered in dust, small gifts and trinkets that you’d given each during your time together still sat on the nightstand. Walking to the dresser, you see remnants of your old life and decide maybe it’s time to leave your past with her behind.

A painful scream erupts from your chest as raise your fist and slam it through the dresser, shattering it beyond recognition. You rip the photos off the wall and throw them across the room, watching the glass shatter everywhere and continue to destroy everything in your path. Once you were done, the room was beyond recognition and with that you felt a sense of piece that the fresh air had brought you earlier.

“Feel better?” Wanda asks, standing in the doorway. You look to her but don’t answer, instead reaching from the flask again and taking a large mouthful. You hand it out to her, but she holds up her own bottle of whiskey which she drinks from. She follows you back to her room and sits next to you when you take a seat at the end of her bed on the floor.

“So, Nat’s wife is your doctor? That’s so messed up.” Wanda blurted out. You laugh at obviousness of her statement, and she laughs along with you. You smell the alcohol on her breath, and you know she’s more than a little tipsy.

“The woman that’s been torturing me for the last few weeks.” Wanda’s head turns so quickly towards you that you can’t bring it in yourself to look at her. You didn’t tell her about the pain you had endured during Ross’s testing. But you don’t want to keep anymore secrets from her. You take her hand and hold it to your temple as you take her back to each time the doctor and Ross visited you and the pain you felt. She gasps as she feels the pain that you felt and when you open your eyes, you see the tears that threaten to fall from her eyes. Her fingers fall from your temple and rest on your cheek, which you lean into. She doesn’t ask questions as to why you allowed Ross and the doctor to continue. She knows you need answers.

“I hate her, Wands. I hate them both.” Your voice cracks under the weight of your misery but Wanda only bring herself closer and places her lips on your forehead. “I’ve always thought of myself as a happy person, but after all that’s happened in the last few weeks, I can’t help but feel utterly miserable every time I wake up. I’m sad every day and I try to be the happy person I once was, but it’s so damn hard. I just feel so alone.” Wanda fully embraces you as she wraps her hands around your neck, and you pull her into your lap and cry hard into her shoulder. One hand of Wanda’s rubs up and down your back, while another scratches lightly at your scalp, soothing you as you try to control your sobs. When you gain control, you sit back and look up at Wanda who had been crying with you.

You wipe at both of her cheeks, and she does the same for you. As you both hold each other in a close embrace, you’re not sure if it’s you or her that leans in first but when your lips touch, you don’t care. Wanda’s hands move to your neck and yours to her hips and you bring her closer to you as she tightens her arms around you. An experimental hand and squeeze to Wanda’s ass makes her gasp, allowing your tongue entry to her mouth. The both of you moan as the kiss becomes more desperate and needy and you feel Wanda reach for the buttons of your shirt starting to undo them. As Wanda reaches for the last button of your shirt, you pull down the zipper of her dress. As you both reveal yourselves, you can’t help but stare at Wanda’s exposed chest. You always thought she was beautiful, but as she sits on your lap right now, she is but just a goddess that you want to worship. As if Wanda heard your thoughts, she launches herself at you and wraps her legs around your waist, kissing you hard.

Wanting to be more comfortable, you try to stand with Wanda still clinging to you but stumble, the Asgardian liquor to present in your system. You fall onto the bed on top of Wanda, her lips never leaving yours and continue your worship of her body. As you move your lips to her neck, a wild moan leaves Wanda mouth which prompts you to move your lips down her body. As the rest of your clothes are removed, both of your names are moaned loudly, and you end the night with your bodies intertwined.

Hours later, you wake suddenly, plagued again from the nightmares that haunted you. Soaked from head to toe in sweat, you turn to looked that the body that lies next to you, thankfully undisturbed. Wanda’s chest rises and falls so peacefully that you’re relieved that she isn’t the one suffering from nightmares tonight. Moving from the bed, you’re suddenly bombarded with images of a face that you’ve seen before but not one that you’ve seen in person. At least not that you remember. A man with a horrible, red disfigured face, flashes before your eyes and a German accent echo in your ears. You’ve seen this man, but you need to confirm. Getting dressed and taking one last look at Wanda, you leave the bed and take yourself to the War Room.

As you bring up the files of each Avenger which contain their past mission reports, you click on Steve’s file. Going back to report archives as far back as 1945, you find the photo that you were looking for. The black and white photo sets a feeling of dread in your stomach, and you know you’ve found the source of red that haunts your dreams.

“The Red Skull,” you whisper.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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#natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff #marvel fan fiction #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow x y/n #black widow x you #black widow x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you

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dearlazerbunny · 4 years ago

Text

Let it Go (Ch. 2 of ?)

Pairings: platonic avengers team x reader, potential background loki x reader

Words: 3000

Genre/Ratings: -WARNINGS- there will be an (unsuccessful) suicide attempt by reader- chapter will be explicitly marked in advance. Drug (pills) and alcohol abuse, lots of negativity and self loathing. There will be an arc, but said arc is going to start in the eleventh circle of hell and inch up from there.

Summary: *not far enough into this one to give an accurate summary, so this’ll have to be updated eventually. enjoy for now!*

He had just gotten used to the noise.

When he first woke up, it felt like he was suffocating him- always there, always cars honking and lights flashing and music playing and people going about their lives- the city that never sleeps. Someone told him that, he forgets who. He figured out what they meant the second he stepped outside for longer than a minute.

Now there’s just the wind stirring up dust, and occasionally toppling over a loose pile of debris. City workers push brooms along the street, trying to clear a path. Machines groan and creak as they haul away pieces of the city- days ago, that window was hundreds of feet in the sky- like its nothing. Another day. Just a little quieter than usual.

t’s hard to believe, even though he has the scars on his shield and healing bruises on his ribs to prove the aliens did, in fact, try to invade New York and take over the planet. Led by a god. And then he’d teamed up with another god- he still wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He’d never been particularly religious, but Bucky was- the insufferable bastard Stark, two assassins and a green giant and became an Avenger of planet Earth.

This wasn’t what he signed up for in 1941. Nazis or aliens, punching them in the face still uses the same muscles. Metal torsos don’t have quite as much give against the knuckles though.

He wanders the streets with no real purpose in mind, other than helping out with lifting here and there where needed. The war roars to life in the back of his mind, overlayed with the eerily calm day. His eyes mark the battle: here, where he launched Nat into the air, her dry words echoing in his ears; here, where Thor had very efficiently covered his back. Here, where for the second time in his life he watched a man who didn’t deserve to fall hurdle towards the ground.

And here- something happened here. His feet remember even if his mind doesn’t- they’ve stopped in the middle of the road. He squints, resisting the urge to cough on a cloud of dust that gets kicked up in his face. Something… his shield, doing far greater damage than his fist ever could, and then someone… screamed?

Her. A girl, in the middle of the road, eyes sunken and skin so taught and paperwhite he’d wondered if the ghosts of this battle were already coming to haunt him before it was even done. She’s screamed at him to duck, and her voice was so raw it triggered something in the back of his brain from basic training and caused him to hit the ground before he fully knew what he was doing. Something had flown over his head- he could hear it cutting through the air- a thunk, a screech that would likely be added to his rotating litany of nightmares- then nothing, save the battle raging behind him. A Chitauri he assumed he’d missed lay twitching on the ground just inches from his neck, and sticking from its chest- ice. Solid ice. So cold that his gloved hand still recoiled when he reached out to touch it.

The irony wasn’t lost on him.

The girl’s face had been a roulette of emotions- a hint of pride, a darkly sarcastic flicker of her lips, and then her eyes widened and- fear. He watched her watch him, clenching and unclenching her fists. By the time he had opened his mouth to call out to her, she was gone, leaving only a trail of what looked to be frost on the ground before she disappeared around a corner- and something that slipped out of her pocket, jostled from her sweatshirt as she made her getaway.

He didn’t have time to think about her after that. A second later, his comm had crackled to life in his ear, and Stark started barking instructions, and Captain America had straightened his spine and grabbed his shield, and got back to where he was needed.

Steve Rogers, though, still has her tucked in the back of his mind.

The frost is still on the ground. Not as white as it had been, but a few grains of ice still cling to the cracks in the pavement. Strange. Magic? After everything he’s seen the past few days he wouldn’t be surprised. He follows the trail, irrationally hoping she’ll still be tucked behind an overturned car or crumbling building corner.

She isn’t. But there is a neon orange bottle tucked amongst the wreckage, and as he reaches for it he has a flash of memory of it falling from your pocket as you run. The contents rattle. A prescription bottle- like the ones medical gives him never get touched and sit collecting dust in a corner of his closet. Neat rows of print declare it Klonopin, 0.5 mg. Take once a day at bedtime, take an additional half as needed. Ingest with food. In the upper left corner is a name and address and phone number- Christian Heysworth.

The girl in the sweatshirt doesn’t strike him as a Christian. He should probably drop the bottle- it’d never be noticed among the rest of the chaos- and walk away. Worry about his own life and his own mess.

He tucks the bottle into his pocket. It might be a place to start.

…

The knock on her door is crisp and succinct, with no room for error. A soldier’s knock. She knows who it is before she turns the lock, because Clint doesn’t bother knocking anymore. When the door opens, she tries not to look as tired as she feels. “Captain.” It’s an easy acknowledgment, and it gives him time to categorize the healing gash on her cheekbone, covered with a butterfly bandage; the bruise blossoming on her collarbone that peeks just far enough above the neckline of her shirt to be seen. She doesn’t need the attention, but he needs a reminder that not everything is different since the forties. Same soldiers, different decade. Despite herself, the corner of her lip flicks up in the tiniest hint of appreciation. It has been a while since someone’s cared. “What can I do for you?”

“I need a favor.”

Interesting. “With?”

“Something stupid, most likely,” His voice is just sheepish enough to believe him. From his pocket, he pulls an orange bottle identical to the ones SHIELD’s psych department keeps prescribing her and the ones she keeps using for target practice.

Oh. Something deep in her chest softens and clenches all at once. She knows these questions all too well. “Cap. If you need help with- well. I can try my best, but I doubt I’m the best person to-”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Oh, no, these- they aren’t mine.” He hands the medicine over and she appraises it with a practiced eye. Klonopin, schedule IV drug in the United States, dose as low as one milligram to sedate an average adult male within forty-five minutes, effects greatly compounded by alcohol- “I, um. I’d like to track down the owner.”

Her brain is humming. “Any particular reason?”

“It’s a long story.”

Wordlessly, she steps aside, letting him in. “I didn’t have much to do tonight.”

Eventually, there are cups of tea in front of both of them, though she’s only taken a sip and Steve hasn’t touched his at all. He tells her about the girl who leaves frost on the ground in the middle of Manhattan and saves him with a spear made of ice. From the way he speaks, its almost like he isn’t quite sure if she was real or not- just a ghost or a very strange guardian angel. It’s bizarre, but not even on her top ten list of bizarre things in this week alone.

“So. I want to… thank her, I suppose?” He laughs without mirth. “I’m not really sure.”

“Think she’s enhanced?”

“Hopefully not by force.”

It doesn’t even bother her, anymore, the implication. Her breathing becomes more controlled on instinct. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Don’t think about it. “Let’s hope. Is she on anyone’s radar? SHIELD?”

“I wouldn’t even know how to check. And if I did, I don’t have anything to go on.”

Natasha glances down at the bottle of pills. But there is Christian Heysworth. She reaches under the couch cushion she sits on to produce a laptop from the gap. It’s wafer-thin and high tech enough that pulling up something as inane as Facebook looks categorically ridiculous. There’s a few Christian Heysworths, but they’re quickly narrowed down by what little information she has. “Christian Heysworth: junior at NYU, frat boy, wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got a couple of DUIs under his belt paid off by someone in his family-” she glances up, sharp cheekbones illuminated in blue light. “What?”

“I just… what are the odds he’d be in SHIELD’s databases…?”

“Hardly, Cap. Behold the wonders of the internet. So, are we wringing his neck, or were you thinking something more subtle?”

She says it to get a rise out of him and is rewarded by an aghast expression. “I just need to ask him some questions, Natasha, not-” he stops when her quiet smirk lifts a little of the weight from her eyes and laughs with her. “Fine. But I’m doing the talking.”

...

Natasha Romanov has infiltrated thirty-seven countries in as many or more disguises and has never been caught. She is failing miserably at attempting to camouflage Captain America into a generic civilian. There aren’t enough sunglasses and baseball caps in the world to make him a more manageable height and physique, and his t-shirt- at least two sizes too small for him- attracts the eyes of every wannabe pro sports player and every girl and guy hanging off of their arm. Honestly, they expect her to work in these kinds of conditions? Thankfully pulling her top a little lower and batting her eyelashes nets her enough information to direct her to her “absolutely earth-shattering one-night stand.” They climb stairs in a dorm hall that could be nicer than some of the floors in Stark Tower. She has the urge to crack the tile with something sharp.

Heysworth opens his door in boxers and smoke still on his breath. Heavy-lidded eyes barely focus on her face. “Uh, hey. Can I help you?”

Steve comes up behind her. “Christian Heysworth? I’d like to have a word with you, son.”

“I didn’t do nothin’.”

“I didn’t say you did.” Steve’s blue eyes are cool when he takes off his aviators; primly folds them and hangs them on the collar of his shirt. “Recognize this?” He holds out the prescription.

“Uh, I didn’t really-” Heysworth stops. Belches. Squints up at Steve. “I- wait. Wait, holy shit, you’re fucking Captain America! Holy shit man, I can’t even-”

As he rambles, Steve looks over to Natasha, who shrugs. “You must have one of those faces.”

Captain America holds up a hand to the kid’s face. “Just answer the question, son.”

“I, yeah, okay, um-” he turns the bottle over in his hands. “Shit, is this what that bitch stole from me?”

“Language. Who stole from you?”

“I met up with some chick downtown who wanted to buy them, but then those freaking aliens started coming and I- you didn’t hear it from me though, ‘kay?”

Steve sighs. “Do you know her name?”

“Nah, chat rooms and shi- stuff. Sorry. I have her screen name?”

He agrees to trade for a selfie with the Captain, which Natasha promptly deletes as soon as he hands over his phone, transferring data to her own. “She’s communicating from this address,” she murmurs, showing Steve the area it triangulated before wiping that information too. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Uh-huh. Hey, are you-”

Steve neatly closes the door in his face. “I don’t think he looked at your face once.

Oh, Steve. What a pure soul. “To be fair, I don’t think anyone has been looking at yours either.”

Their trail leads them to the backstreets, to an alley so covered in grime it looks like the whole place should be condemned. And many of the buildings are- covered in caution tape, stairwells crumbling, and fire escapes rusted over. Wind whistles through shattered windows. Foundations are rotting. And yet there are a few minuscule signs of life- a door that’s scraped the ground so many times there’s wear on the concrete, a few piles of garbage here and there. “She’s off the grid.”

“Can’t be right. She was a kid, couldn’t have been more than twenty-”

“You do what you have to.” She gives him a look. “You know that.”

His face goes stony. “Let’s just find her.”

Natasha sets off in one direction, Steve in the other. They both know how this works. It’s a practiced dance. Search the bottom floors first, find faults in the buildings and stairwells so you can avoid them the next floor up. She picks a lock that has managed to stay fast despite rusting over, he leverages himself through a windowsill strong enough to hold his weight. Eerily silent save for scraps of trash and the skittering of mice. If you listen closely, you can almost hear the construction in midtown, slowly shoveling away.

Steve’s mark is almost laughably easy to find. There’s a door tucked in a second-level corner whose seams are iced over three inches thick.

Her boots crunch in frost spilling out from under a crack in the door. She punctures the air with a bird call, and seconds later Steve rounds the corner. He reaches down to run a finger through the snow. “it looks the same.”

“Do you want to do the honors then?” He tests the knob once, twice- the metal doesn’t even rattle, it’s too frozen solid. He opts to kick it in with a well-placed boot, wincing at the sound of ice cracking and then shattering into shards.

The apartment is empty. There’s a table along the far wall stacked with a few cardboard boxes to use as makeshift shelves. Packets of potato chips are shoved in one alcove, a few granola bars in the other. Empty soda bottles litter the floor. The table itself is mostly covered with alcohol: a whole skyline of glass bottles glinting in the light from the newly busted door. Some are empty, some are half full, a few have broken necks. An inspection of the crooked drawers attached underneath reveals nothing but a junkyard of pills, none of which are prescribed to the same person more than twice.

Natasha opens a few of the safety caps, rattling them like a scientist with an interest. “There’s enough in here to put even you to sleep.”

“Is she here? She would’ve heard the door.”

“Maybe.” A door leads off to a molding bathroom and a small hall closet. The next, a makeshift bedroom. A grimy mattress sits in the corner, covered in blankets so dirty there’s no telling what the print of them might’ve once been. There’s also a girl. She’s curled up in the center, drowning in layers of hoodies and sweatshirts. The second Natasha steps in the room she can see her breath. Another step in and the air feels like home. Whatever water was in the air has crystallized and fallen to the ground in a tiny hailstorm, surrounding her like a halo.

She also doesn’t move.

The spy moves with ruthless efficiency, ignoring the cold as she kneels by the mattress. Too many layers. Can’t even see if she’s breathing. She tugs her sleeve up over her fingertips before beginning to shove aside tangled hoods and t-shirts, digging for the collarbone.

“Natasha?”

“Here. She’s almost-” she cuts off with a hiss of pain, wrenching her fingers back like she was bit.

“What-?” the girl is still sleeping. Steve only spares her a glance before taking Natasha’s hand in his, checking for damage. There’s no blood, no broken skin. But the tips of her fingers are white and hard, paler than normal and cold to the touch. He recoils on instinct. “Frostbite.”

Natasha is muttering low in Russian, tapping her fingers together to move the blood, and Steve is momentarily taken back to a plane going down in the middle of an endless ocean surrounded by walls of blue. No going back, only going under, and nothing waiting for him but frost and ice and cold-

“Steve!” He blinks. Natasha’s face swims back into focus. “Get out. Contact the tower. We can’t move her like this and she needed medical yesterday.”

“I’m fi-”

“No, you’re not. I can handle this. Russian, remember?” She tries to give him a small smile. He doesn’t return it. “Get out and coordinate removal. That’s an order.”

Orders, some primeval part of Steve’s brain can understand. He turns and hopes he doesn’t run from the apartment, not even bothering to navigate the stairs- just jumps over the balcony to land in the courtyard below, chest heaving. Unconsciously, he glances in a nearby piece of glass, ensuring his breath isn’t fog. He isn’t cold. He isn’t. He’s fine.

He isn’t thinking when he puts a beacon out for JARVIS to trace. He isn’t flexing his fingers to make sure they can move. He isn’t drowning. He isn’t on ice. He isn’t, he isn’t, he isn’t-

In the apartment, Natasha swears and wrings her hand as pins and needles race down her arm. She’s handled plenty of frostbite, but it never gets easier. The girl is still unconscious, heartbeat dangerously slow. Whatever she put in her system, she meant to knock herself out for a long time. Or worse.

And Steve is on the verge of a panic attack and if your heart stops she can’t perform CPR, so she sits on the edge of your mattress blowing on her fingers as you keep causing the air around you to quietly freeze and fall, a tiny secret twinkle of ice in the middle of New York.

#marvel fic #marvel fanfiction #avengers fic #avengers fanfiction #avengers x y/n #avengers x reader #avengers x oc #loki x reader #reader insert #Steve Rogers #natasha romanov #tony stark #bruce banner #Thor Odinson #clint barton #Loki Laufeyson #angst

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barnesandco · 4 years ago

Text

Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy (11/14)

Story Masterlist

The plum seller at the farmer’s market saves Bucky from being captured for the attack at Vienna that he didn’t commit, but is she really all that she appears to be, or are ulterior motives involved?

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo 2020. Word count: 1371. Square filled: “We may not be perfect, but the safest hands are still our own.”

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: angst, hospital room, mentions of gunshots, mentions of mind control and Hydra.

Her hands are, thankfully, warmer. Bucky learns this by stroking a fingertip over the back of the hand not attached to an IV. She doesn’t stir, her eyes stay closed, and her face is free of the frown lines that have been marring it for the majority of their journey. This peace on her being is much more preferable to the perpetual danger they had been travelling in.

That trip has, seemingly, ended for now. Bucky has cleaned up and had dinner, spoken briefly with T’Challa, and done his best to avoid Steve. The pressure to be what Steve wants has yet to alleviate, despite his now unconscious partner’s previous reassurances in Baghdad before everything went to Hell.

Bucky watches her collarbone rise and fall as she breathes and is almost lulled to sleep in the late morning, the Wakandan sun a warm blanket on his skin. Almost. He is startled into awareness when Steve and Wilson appear from behind the curtain separating her bed from the rest of the ward.

Bucky stands. “You can sit, Buck, it’s okay,” Steve says, in the same tone of voice he had used when she was bleeding out on the forest floor yesterday. Steve brings over a couple of chairs from a neighboring, empty bed.

“How’s she doing?” Sam asks, gesturing to the woman at Bucky’s side.

Bucky replies, “She’s doing good. Doctor says she should wake up soon. She’ll be a little weak because of the blood loss for a few days, but fine otherwise. You did a good job.” It’s true. Sam did a great job of stitching up the wound and she will recover completely after some time.

Sam nods, rests a palm over each thigh, leans back. Open, inviting. Relaxed. “Good. I’m glad she’s okay.”

Steve, by contrast, sits with his hands folded in his lap and hunched forward, trying to be as close to Bucky as he can from across a hospital bed. He’s tense. Bucky doesn’t address this. “You hired her to find me and keep an eye on me when she did,” Bucky states, and watches for Steve’s reaction.

“She’s one of the best investigative journalists on the planet. Worked undercover in tough situations. I figured this would be the best way to find you and make sure you were okay without scaring you away,” Steve explains.

Bucky wants to be angry. He does. But her words ring in his mind. “But if he’s trying to keep you safe, please let him. For your own sake.” With another compromise, for his sake and for hers, he decides not to be. At least he has that choice.

He also has a lot of questions. Why do you still care so much about me? Do you know I can’t be him? Did she know what she was signing up for? Why would you sacrifice the new life you have built for me when you know I can’t repay you?

Silence reigns, until Bucky plucks a question from the hundreds rattling around in his brain. “Why did you resist the Accords?” Bucky asks. This is neutral ground. No man’s land.

Steve sighs, and Sam shifts in his seat. “We would’ve had to hand over accountability to the governments of the world. The Avengers were supposed to be about saving lives, and politics interfere with that. Not to mention it’s damn near impossible to get politicians to take responsibility anyhow. That’s something that hasn’t changed since the forties,” Steve jokes at the end, voice still tight. Bucky doesn’t laugh but Sam smiles.

Steve wipes his palms on his khakis. All the money he could want and still no sense of style. That’s never gonna change, Depression or not, Bucky thinks, and then bites back a laugh at his own mental comment, because it is everything that Steve would hope to hear from Bucky. It is exactly the kind of thing he wants to see, the kind that’ll give him some illusion that the old Bucky is in there. And he is, but this Bucky is a mix of everything he has ever been, and it isn’t all good.

“We may not be perfect, but the safest hands are still our own,” Steve finishes lowly.

There’s a rustle beside Bucky. “Ain’t that the truth,” a groggy voice says, and Bucky looks down to see its owner opening her eyes, blinking against the light. He stands and fidgets for a second, before pouring some water from a nearby jug. She drinks it in one go. “Having all the heavy, political discussions without me, gentlemen?” She asks with a smile, trying to sit up. Bucky pushes a button so the back of the bed elevates, as Sam stands and reaches for her hand.

“We didn’t wake you, did we?” Steve asks nervously. Shaking her head, she gestures for them all to sit back down.

“No, I don’t think so. I think I’ve slept enough for a lifetime,” she says, and Steve and Bucky share an uncomfortable look, before Bucky informs:

“It’s only been 18 hours.”

“That’s more than we’ve slept in total for the past few months.” She says, deadpan, and Bucky has to admit that that might be true. You don’t get much rest on the run. After a few more minutes, she asks another question. “Did I get shot?” Bucky nods, indicating her lower torso with his eyes. She feels the bandages under her hospital gown, and then looks back up at him. “What’d I miss?”

“Only these two fossils having a riveting discussion,” Sam tells her.

“And our arrival in Wakanda, it seems,” she says, finally looking around and taking in the scenery outside the windows. “How long are we staying here?”

Nobody has answer to that, and they all look at each other grimly, thinking of what that means. They are international fugitives who have been granted refuge in Wakanda’s borders. Untouchable here, but keenly aware that they are here on someone’s favor, a burden to be carried until they can return. And who knows when that will be.

“So I guess it’s my turn to wait for answers.” This is addressed to Bucky, who, instinctively and forgetting their audience, reaches for her hand and squeezes it quickly before letting go again. She looks at him, amused, a smile quirking her lips.

“Yeah, speaking of, we should probably go talk to T’Challa. See if there’s any news,” Sam says, and he and Steve leave.

“How are you holding up?” She asks after they are gone, and Bucky looks up from his hands.

He laughs. It’s a hoarse, broken thing, like he doesn’t remember how to anymore, and when he meets her eyes to answer, they’re sad. “You’re the one who got hurt. I’m fine.”

“Pain isn’t just physical.”

“You tryna be my shrink, too, now?” Bucky asks, feeling lighter now that nobody is watching him, even though the topic at hand is still heavy.

Shrugging, she says, “Maybe you should see one.”

“That might be a good idea,” Bucky responds, and she frowns at his answer, as though she wasn’t just suggesting it.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“T’Challa told me that the man who committed the attacks in Vienna did it to lure me out so he could make me the Soldier again. He had the words.”

“The words?”

“There was a book. In it were the words Hydra used to control me. There are 10 of them. My handler would say them and I would disappear behind the killing machine,” Bucky says coldly, looking at his hands. “Anyone who knows the words can turn me back into the Winter Soldier.”

“And you think that someone here in Wakanda can help with that?”

Bucky shakes his head, considers his answer. “If they can’t, I shouldn’t be out in the open. It isn’t safe.”

“Where do you want to go?” She asks gently, meeting Bucky’s eyes. He doesn’t want her to. He’s a danger to everyone around him, and this has been haunting him since T’Challa told him about Zemo’s plan. One way or another, he should go back into hiding.

“I don’t know,” Bucky replies, but he means to say, anywhere I can’t hurt you.

#SSB2020 #ayesha writes #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #marvel #mcu

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adrieunor · 4 years ago

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the one where they’re married (1/?)

Fandom: The Good Place Rating: T Pairing: Michael & Eleanor Shellstrop (pseudo-Michael/Eleanor)

amnesia, married-but-not, possibly dub-con bc identity issues but nothing explicit; implied Michael reboot or judge reboot Notes: found this thing hanging out in my WIP and I don’t even remember writing it. but I had fun reading through what’s here, so I thought I’d go ahead and throw it out into the world.

Story summary: It didn’t quite top the discovery of waking up in a hospital bed with potential brain damage, but Eleanor is quite sure of one thing. She’s willing to stake money on it, no matter how out of character or divergent he is from her history:

this man is her husband.

Which, great – wow, whoa and every other questionable w-sound.

Hadn’t thought you had it in you girl, Eleanor thinks.

******************

Eleanor wakes up.

Correction: Eleanor tries.

One moment, it’s the nothingness of unconsciousness and then the sudden clarity of what’s happening? Where am I?— except her body feels like it hasn’t caught up to this decision.

She feels heavy.

All of her feels heavy. From the bottom of her feet to the crown of her head, it feels like every atom of her person has suddenly gained ten extra ounces of new weight. Not enough to be a hardship, individually, but combined together—she’s drowning, suffocated by her own eyelids and the thick, still air that doesn’t give any hint to where she seems to be.

Her eyes feel heavy – the stupid gelatinous orbs feel like they’re suspended in concrete, while her lids struggle to flutter awake.

(It’s a stupid expression, anyway, because it’s more hippos doing ballet than graceful ostriches with large feathered fans prancing across the imaginary stage of her mind.)

Fuck.

It hurts.

It feels good to be able to give a resounding f-bomb in her mind. She doesn’t know why it feels good, just that it does—it shouldn’t, though, since Eleanor has been saying fuck and other double-dog-dare-you words since she was in secondhand velcro shoes. She says “fuck” more times on the daily than her own name, certainly more times than “please” or “thank you.”

Ten seconds of consciousness has her registering how rattled her bones feel. Someone has either taken her brain and expanded it to be too big for her skull, or taken her skull and fractured it, hot gluing the pieces back to fit her brain but accidentally leaving a few behind.

“Eleanor? Are you awake?”

Trying to be.

Even in her mind, the words she wants to respond with feel slurred, fumbled by a dull tongue that’s trying to unstick from the roof of her mouth.

She’s not sure if the keening sound is just bubbling frustration and pain she’s creating in her head, or if she’s really making it. Eleanor wants to open her mouth and let her sad, animal crying out, but it seems, between the last time she was awake and now, someone’s affixed her jaw with lead, super glue, and the caramel they use to cover those cheap, green apple pops.

Eleanor settles for a whimper.

It’s the trembling of her bottom lip that makes her realize something’s brushing against her face, threaded across her nose and mouth and affixed by sticky tape on her cheeks.

Dry fingertips, warm and calloused, brush over her temple. The stray, lanky hair that had been plastered to her forehead, tickling her brow and her nose, is brushed back and tucked behind her ears.

“Hold on,” the same person says, and something clicks or beeps beside her ear. She hadn’t thought of her wrists and hands yet, had only registered them being as weighed down as the rest of her. Now, she’s minutely aware of the tender clasp around her left wrist – a dry, warm steadiness that makes her joints ache painfully.

Eleanor wants to wiggle, wants to shake, wants to fucking jerk her arms and legs about until everything pops back into feeling, but she can’t. Something from inside must be conveyed outside, some twitch or snarl of frustration, because the warm hand gently turns her wrist. Unfamiliar (familiar) fingers slide and brush against her pulse before settling into a new position: her own hand cradled in a larger one, while a thumb that’s not hers gently strokes the tops of her knuckles.

The next sound feels like a land mine detonated in a pocket of silence. A heavy door opens with the force of five hundred hangovers, followed by heels clicking sharply and smartly against a linoleum floor. Rustling fabric, a pen clicking, a folder being dropped down onto a table surface all has her wincing, as if it’s been amplified right by her fucking ear.

Her companion does not let go of her hand, but he grips it until his thumb is a firm, anxious pressure that presses on the space between her ring finger and pinky.

“Is she in pain? She looks—“

Eleanor doesn’t catch the rest of it, but the voice has only picked up in volume, a little, harried but direct. Whatever answer the new body has, she doesn't hear it.

Amidst the skull-splitting pain that pulsates from her crown down to the rest of her, like a tree suddenly struck by lighting, she registers only one thing: a dry press of lips against her fingers, solemn and unbearably present sensation, before she’s swarmed by other voices and sounds.

******************

Eleanor is only catching every fifth word that is coming out of the woman’s mouth. The ice chips had alleviated the fuzziness on her tongue, but it hadn’t fixed what was wrong in her head.

Her head.

Words like damage, injury, sustained bleeding,

The wailing in her ears had subsided, a bit, since the last time she was awake. It was now a low, thrumming pitch in the back of her mind, like a loud fluorescent light bulb in an office space. She can ignore it, after a while, but it’s there.

Other things that are very much there and present: the man.

******************

Her eyes drift towards his hand, the one that’s not holding her own – long fingers woven loosely to catch her own, between the gauze and IV line – where it rests on his knee. She's not sure what the glimmer is, at first, until she realizes it's two gold bands on one hand, a comically smaller one slipped onto his pinky.

“Ah,” her eyes drift back up of their own accord to watch the way his brows furrow, mouth open in thought, “I thought it’d be better if I kept it, in case the tests and the machines…”

His mouth purses into a thin line, which only emphasizes the ones carved into the corners of his mouth and his eyes even more – he looks like the type that would frown a lot, Eleanor thinks. He seemed like the bookish-type that would have resting bitch face while deep in thought; a heavy oak desk with a tiffany lamp and a pen tipped in gold wouldn’t be out of place in a room with him, or a really fancy fucking wall of degrees and a sharp suit.

Her shameless eyes stray towards his thin lips, the defined line of his jaw, skipping back to the worn crinkles in his skin.

There’s a lot of something to him that seems to command the presence of whatever space he occupies. The corner he occupies wraps around him like a well-tailored jacket – even in his unassuming navy and pale blue.

Well, she revises her thoughts; he looked like he might laugh a lot, too. Eleanor bets he laughs with his mouth wide open, or smiles to show nearly all his teeth.

He wasn’t laughing now, of course. Given the circumstances.

******************

He is a man-shaped absence in her memory – she of the forgetful faces and even more forgetful names has seemingly forgotten her own husband, spouse, and partner-- legally bound tax accomplice, all of the above. Michael.

He’s got a face made for

He does a funny

Oh.

It didn’t quite top the discovery of waking up in a hospital bed with potential brain damage, but Eleanor is quite sure of one thing. She’s willing to stake money on it, no matter how out of character or divergent he is from her history:

this man is her husband.

Which, great – wow, whoa and every other questionable w-sound.

Hadn’t thought you had it in you girl, Eleanor thinks. She takes another second, ten, fifteen, a minute, to look appreciatively up and down.

******************

She’s not sure if the muscles in her face contort into the expression of surprise like the light bulb that’s gone off in her head – her jaw is still a little slack and her eyes are slow to blink. He might not have noticed, in between one second and the next, how utterly thrown off she is.

******************

It doesn’t look like a fake; Eleanor has seen a lot of fake gold jewelry in her time to know the difference. It’s beautiful in the way that all the ostentatious rings she would pick for herself would not be. She keeps turning her hand this way and that, until one of the nurses asks if she's having wrist pain.

Despite protests, a tall nurse with too much arm hair pushes her in a wheelchair towards the curb where a burgundy crossover idles.

“Hopefully we won’t see you too soon,” Gary, Gerry, Gerald – or whatever – his name is, says cheerfully. She squints up at him, and he falters. Eleanor supposes that one good thing about being brain damaged was she now had a legitimate reason to forget people’s names.

******************

The good news: if she had woken up too brain damaged to remember her own name, Michael would have fixed that problem easily—it would have been two minutes, tops. She’s pretty sure he says her name more than he uses any other noun or pronoun.

(Which, by the way, the fact that she still has a basic grasp of grammar makes her, again, want to keep track for curiosity’s sake what her loopy brain has decided to keep and discard. She’d stared at the red plastic dome on her hospital plate before, after a pronounced beat, Michael had reached across and pulled the foil top off of her gelatin.)

******************

It just sounds funny – something in her brain itches like a scab underneath a cast, present but unreachable. The way he says her name. It’s been her name for over three decades, so she knows what Eleanor sounds like, usually, coming out of other people’s mouths (when they’re coming, even!). Even knows what it sounds like sung in different accents, thanks to that fucking song.

(All the lonely people, where do they all belong?

Fuck. Her brain couldn’t have erased that?)

******************

It’s not the porch that surprises her; it’s the honest-to-god porch swing, pale wicker and decorated with springtime cushions. That throws her for a loop; breaks a little part of her brain that isn’t already struggling to function.

(“This…. This broke me.”)

(Something tickles her brain, there, too, but it’s gone.)

It’s a good porch, too. The kind that doesn’t fully wrap around the house, but gives enough room for someone to day drink and – ah, there it is, the little tea table that would be beside the—the ___________. She grasps for the word, shapeless and vague. It’s blurry in her head, the thing she’s thinking about also blurry and distant. Her mouth puckers in a frown.

Michael rolls the car to a commercial perfect stop. Eleanor still jerks in her seat. He unbuckles his seat belt and bounds around to her side, opening the door before she’s even lifted a hand to pop it.

“Here, let me-“

She wonders how often she’s let him do anything, in contrast to allowing him to – her hand moves to rest on the release of the seat belt, staking territory.

Her stomach does one, two, slow flops – a fat pancake turned by an amateur line cook.

******************

She doesn’t need an entire love story’s memory to make an easy conclusion, not when Michael’s eyes sweep across her face with a slow, longing softness while his mouth twitches, again, as if it has something to say he won’t let it:

Michael is in love with her.

Eleanor thinks this should be a good thing, if they’re married, but the conclusion settles uncomfortably on top of her chest – it doesn’t sink in, doesn’t settle into a slot of rightness, and she ignores the feeling of disappointment.

Stupid of her, honestly, to think this observation was all it would take to remember why Michael is in love with her. Or how Michael is in love with her.

(What Michael is in love with.)

******************

They have a cat. She doesn’t know why this is something that trips her up, but it does. She’d nearly tripped up on it, literally, when the thing had slunk up to rub itself against her legs, making figure eights around her legs and Michael’s. Michael had nearly stepped on its tail, foot stopping just before contact as if compelled by muscle memory or a glitch in the system.

“Oh,” he hisses, fumbling with the duffel bag, complementary hospital pillow (the socks she’d decided to “wear out” as she’d joked at the nurse, wiping drool from the corner of her mouth), and reusable water bottles, in his arms, “Vicky, stop.”

“Vicky?”

She hopes she hadn't been the one to name it. Vicky sounds like a bitchy girl name, and in Eleanor Shellstrop's book of past experiences she could confirm this. Twice.

Michael gives up on trying to carry everything into …wherever, instead dumping his load onto the love seat in an adjourning room.

Her fingers trail along the table in the entryway, eyes flickering up to give the large, round mirror at eye-level a glance before she’s turning away. She’s pale as a ghost in this strange grey-blue home.

There’s a kitchen island with real, actual stools that swivel plus a wooden dining table with upholstered chairs. She wants to hiss at how excessive it is – eating a bowl of cereal over a dirty sink was enough for her for years – but she bites her tongue. A voice in the back of her head asks if maybe she had picked some of these, had selected them herself. You don’t build a home for two from only one person’s purchases.

“What would you like first, Eleanor?” His expression is hopefulness strained through a sieve. He doesn’t seem to realize how he leans towards her, curves his entire, tall being to look down at her. “Anything you want, just- just let me know. If you’re hungry, I could fix us a snack before you’re due for your next round of meds.”

It should feel annoying and towering, claustrophobic, but instead, looking upwards at him, she feels watched. Seen. It’s an uncomfortable feeling for someone who has always depended on being able to grift just under the radar, but it also isn’t unpleasant.

His hands are pressed together, fingertips touching, long and lean, like prayer.

“Can I just lay down for a bit?”

Michael’s expression softens. “Of course, Eleanor.”

And he offers his hand, palm upturned, as if the hallway was some long, arduous passage instead of a short walk towards a few doors or a climb up the stairs. Eleanor’s hands are so small in his, but his fingers wrap around hers like old acquaintances—hers have forgotten the intricacies of where to go, his have not forgotten her shape and his thumb brushes, familiar, across her knuckles like hello.

It is a warm and dry hold, and what Eleanor has managed to scrape, glean, and covertly steal in her observations about Michael all lead to the conclusion that this is a good descriptor, the most basic, for Michael himself: warm and dry, like Arizona, but the postcard worthy-parts, not the dumpster fire, trash-bag parts that made her.

At the foot of the stairs he pauses, one hand on the rail, the other holding her hand lifted in the air like a debutante. Something flickers, for a moment, and Eleanor imagines a tall, dark woman in a gown and evening gloves, of all things, poised at the foot of the stairs as if to give a toast. She blinks and the image is gone.

“You know,” Michael says, looking up. His brows furrow. “Maybe we should use the guest room downstairs instead. Avoid the stairs.”

“No,” she says, surprising herself. “I want my room.”

******************

She gives the pillow a sniff, leaning down until her nose brushes against the cotton.

Yeah. That’s her. It smells like the scent of her hair, a little to the left of unwashed and greasy. Faint, but there.

There’s stray, blonde strands of hair that curl, pale and almost invisible, in the space where the pillow had been just before—like sunny, thin worms caught only in a certain slant of light.

Eleanor is playing excavation isn’t she? She is rooting around, examining and putting together all these clues left behind for a relationship, a love; building some semblance of understanding for the ghost of a woman—is she an anthropologist? Or is this a forensic-type investigation?

Is Eleanor Shellstrop dead?

She’s here but not here—the pictures and the gold band around her finger tell her these are her memories but they’re not. Her dumb lizard brain hasn’t ______ it out yet.

Oh. Another word that’s fallen through her fingers before she’s even remembered it.

It feels wrong to roll around, smell, and sleep in someone else’s marriage bed—it’s not the first time she’s done it, but it’s never been her bed.

What other intimacies can she find just sitting in the small-person-shaped dip of this bed? She doesn’t think about the dead flakes or skin, but she breaths deeply and her body nearly lurches into that place between awake and sleep—the familiar smell of bed that can only belong to ones own so strong.

The pillows on this side are fat and soft, just the way she likes them. She knows her head would sink into an orgy of clouds if she were to flop down now. It is tempting to do exactly what she had told Michael she wanted to do.

Eleanor resists—there’s another side to explore, still.

******************

It is during one of these days, where she rolls around on the bed (their bed) like a dog left unsupervised in an empty home, that a thought strikes her. It strikes her so suddenly and with a force that she has to press the palm of her hand to her temple, eyes wincing—

Dummy.

What’s under the bed?

She’d been thorough examining the faint layers of dust coating boxes and folds of laundry on the higher shelves, where someone like Michael would keep his things, that she hadn’t thought to drop below to see where someone like her—past Eleanor, GSTGSD-Eleanor, might have hidden and holed away her own treasure.

The only thing she finds, disappointingly, is a shoe caddy with shoes as big as her head, some dust bunnies, and a laptop still charging.

******************

Vicky the cat goes downstairs into the basement on a daily basis, almost always for half an hour to one, and cries for attention. It’s a bizarre, attention-seeking, and almost resentful performance and, despite being dead ass annoying, Eleanor can relate. What a mood, right?

******************

Forgotten your password? She clicks it.

The prompt doesn’t help at all: you know it, bitch!!

What? Why would she do that to herself? Except, that is so on brand for her and Eleanor hates, hates, hates Eleanor (herself) and loves Eleanor (herself) and hates Eleanor (herself).

She scowls, flexing her fingers. Vicky takes this opportunity to leap into her lap, tail high and crooked for attention, with her unabashed asshole right in Eleanor’s face.

fuckyou! She types, exasperated; before clicking enter, she scowls and adds an extra exclamation mark for good measure—using two exclamations is just enough to push something over the edge, enough to look off balanced, but three would be too much. She wants to send the right amount of recalcitrant bastard to her past self. And if she’s only got one log-in attempt before the laptop bricks, then, fine. Fuck you, GSTGSD Eleanor Shellstrop.

The little ball whirrs for a moment, before the screen flickers, the desktop loading in seconds.

******************

end thoughts: haha okay so I haven’t watched TGP for a hot minute, not since that finale broke me. but I legit don’t recall what GSTGSD stands for (if that’s a show ref) so fuck, haha, help me out here past-adrie. if there’s interest in this I’ll continue it.

#The Good Place #The Good Place fic #hellstrop #eleanor shellstrop #Michael the good place #TGP #my fic

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thedevilnamedlola · 4 years ago

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"Usually, I lie. At a party, someone asks the question. It’s someone who hasn’t smelled the rancid decay of week-dead flesh or heard the rattle of fluid flooding lungs. I shake the ice in my glass, smile, and lie. When they say, “I bet you always get that question,” I roll my eyes and agree.

There are plenty of in-between stories to delve into; icky, miraculous ones and reams of the hilarious and stupid. I did, after all, become a paramedic knowing it would stack my inner shelves with a library of human tragicomedy. I am a writer, and we are nothing if not tourists gawking at our own and other people’s misery. No?

The dead don’t bother me. Even the near-dead, I’ve made my peace with. When we meet, there’s a very simple arrangement: Either they’re provably past their expiration date and I go about my business, RIP, or they’re not and I stay. A convenient set of criteria delineates the provable part: if they have begun to decay; if rigor mortis has set in; if the sedentary blood has begun to pool at their lowest point, discoloring the skin like a slowly gathering bruise. The vaguest criterion is called obvious death, and we use it in those bizarre special occasions that people are often sniffing for when they ask questions at parties: decapitations, dismemberments, incinera- tions, brains splattered across the sidewalk. Obvious death.

One of my first obvious deaths was a portly Mexican man who had been bicycling along the highway that links Brooklyn to Queens. He’d been hit by three cars and a dump truck, which was the only one that stopped. The man wasn’t torn apart or flattened, but his body had twisted into a pretzel; arms wrapped around legs. Somewhere in there was a shoulder. Obvious death. His bike lay a few feet away, gnarled like its owner. Packs and packs of Mexican cigarettes scattered across the highway. It was three a.m. and a light rain sprinkled the dead man, the bicycle, the cigarette packs, and me, made us all glow in the sparkle of police flares. I was brand new; cars kept rushing past, slowing down, rushing past.

Obvious death. Which means there’s nothing we can do, which means I keep moving with my day, with my life, with whatever I’ve been pondering until this once-alive-now-inanimate object fell into my path.If I can’t check off any of the boxes—if I can’t prove the person’s dead—I get to work and the resuscitation flowchart erupts into a tree of brand-new and complex options. Start CPR, intubate, find a vein, put an IV in it. If there’s no vein and you’ve tried twice, drill an even bigger needle into the flat part of the bone just below the knee. Twist till you feel a pop, attach the IV line. If the heart is jiggling, shock it; if it’s flatlined, fill it with drugs. If the family lingers, escort them out; if they look too hopeful, ease them toward despair. If time slips past and the dead stay dead, call it. Signs of life? Scoop ’em up and go.

You see? Simple.

Except then one day you find one that has a quiet smile on her face, her arms laying softly at her sides, her body relaxed. She is ancient, a crinkled flower, and was dying for weeks, years. The fam- ily cries foul: She had wanted to go in peace. A doctor, a social worker, a nurse—at some point all opted not to bother having that difficult conversation, perhaps because the family is Dominican and the Spanish translator wasn’t easily reachable and anyway, someone else would have it, surely, but no one did. And now she’s laid herself down, made all her quiet preparations and slipped gently away. Without that single piece of paper though, none of the lamentations matter, the peaceful smile doesn’t matter. You set to work, the tree of options fans out, your blade sweeps her tongue aside and you battle in an endotracheal tube; needles find their mark. Bumps emerge on the flat line, a slow march of tiny hills that resolve into tighter scribbles. Her pulse bounds against your fingers; she is alive.

But not awake, perhaps never to be again. You have brought not life but living death, and fuck what I’ve seen, because that, my friends at the party, my random interlocutor who doesn’t know the reek of decay, that is surely one of the craziest things I have ever done.

But that’s not what I say. I lie.

Which is odd because I did, after all, become a medic to fill the library stacks, yes? An endless collection of human frailty vignettes: disasters and the expanding ripple of trauma. No, that’s not quite true. There was something else, I’m sure of it.

And anyway, here at this party, surrounded by eager listeners with drinks in hand, mouths slightly open, ready to laugh or gasp, I, the storyteller, pause. In that pause, read my discomfort.

On the job, we literally laugh in the face of death. In our crass humor and easy flow between tragedy and lunch break, outsiders see callousness: We have built walls, ceased to feel. As one who laughs, I assure you that this is not the case. When you greet death on the daily, it shows you new sides of itself, it brings you into the fold. Gradually, or maybe quickly, depending on who you are, you make friends with it. It’s a wary kind of friendship at first, with the kind of stilted conversation you might have with a man who picked you up hitch- hiking and turns out to have a pet boa constrictor around his neck. Death smiles because death always wins, so you can relax. When you know you won’t win, it lets you focus on doing everything you can to try to win anyway, and really, that’s all there is: The Effort.

The Effort cleanses. It wards off the gathering demons of doubt. When people wonder how we go home and sleep easy after bearing witness to so much pain, so much death, the answer is that we’re not bearing witness. We’re working. Not in the paycheck sense, but in the sense of The Effort. When it’s real, not one of the endless parade of chronic runny noses and vague hip discomforts, but a true, soon- to-be-dead emergency? Everything falls away. There is the patient, the family, the door. Out the door is the ambulance and then farther down the road, the hospital. That’s it. That’s all there is.

Awkward text messages from exes, career uncertainties, generalized aches and pains: They all disintegrate beneath the hugeness that is someone else’s life in your hands. The guy’s heart is failing; fluid backs up in those feebly pumping chambers, erupts into his lungs, climbs higher and higher, and now all you hear is the raspy clatter every time he breathes. Is his blood pressure too high or too low? You wrap the cuff on him as your partner finds an IV. The monitor goes on. A thousand possibilities open up before you: He might start getting better, he might code right there, the ambulance might stall, the medicine might not work, the elevator could never come. You cast off the ones you can’t do anything about, see about another IV because the one your partner got already blew. You’re sweating when you step back and realize nothing you’ve done has helped, and then everything becomes even simpler, because all you can do is take him to the hospital as fast as you can move without totaling the rig.

He doesn’t make it. You sweated and struggled and calculated and he doesn’t make it, and dammit if that ain’t the way shit goes, but also, you’re hungry. And you’re alive, and you’ve wracked your body and mind for the past hour trying to make this guy live. Death won, but death always wins, the ultimate spoiler alert. You can only be that humbled so many times and then you know: Death always wins. It’s a warm Thursday evening and grayish orange streaks the horizon. There’s a pizza place around the corner; their slices are just the right amount of doughy. You check inside yourself to see if anything’s shattered and it’s not, it’s not. You are alive. You have not shattered.

You have not shattered because of The Effort. The Effort cleanses because you have become a part of the story, you are not passive, the very opposite of passive, in fact. Having been humbled, you feel amazing. Every moment is precise and the sky ripples with delight as you head off to the pizza place, having hurled headlong into the game and given every inch of yourself, if only for a moment, to a losing struggle.

It’s not adrenaline, although they’ll say that it is, again and again. It is the grim, heartbroken joy of having taken part. It is the difference between shaking your head at the nightly news and taking to the streets. It’s when you finally tell her how you really feel, the moment you craft all your useless repetitive thoughts into a prayer.

At the party, as they look on expectantly, I draft one of the lesser moments of horror as a stand-in. The evisceration, that will do. That single strand of intestine just sitting on the man’s belly like a lost worm. He was dying too, but he lived. It was a good story, a terrible night.

I was new and I didn’t know if I’d done anything right. He lived, but only by a hair. I magnified each tiny decision to see if I’d erred and came up empty. There was no way to know. Eventually I stopped taking jobs home with me. I released the ghosts of what I’d done or hadn’t done, let The Effort do what it does and cleanse me in the very moment of crisis. And then one night I met a tiny three-year old girl in overalls, all smiles and high-fives and curly hair. We were there because a neighbor had called it in as a burn, but the burns were old. Called out on his abuse, the father had fled the scene. The emergency, which had been going on for years, had ended and only just begun.

The story unraveled as we drove to the hospital; I heard it from the front seat. The mother knew all along, explained it in jittery, sobbing replies as the police filled out their forms. It wasn’t just the burns; the abuse was sexual too. There’d been other hospital visits, which means that people who should’ve seen it didn’t, or didn’t bother setting the gears in motion to stop it. I parked, gave the kid another high five, watched her walk into the ER holding a cop’s hand.

Then we had our own forms to fill out. Bureaucracy’s response to unspeakable tragedy is more paperwork. Squeeze the horror into easy-to-fathom boxes, cull the rising tide of rage inside and check and recheck the data, complete the forms, sign, date, stamp, insert into a metal box and then begin the difficult task of forgetting.

The job followed me down Gun Hill Road; it laughed when I pretended I was okay. I stopped on a corner and felt it rise in me like it was my own heart failing this time, backing fluids into my lungs, breaking my breath. I texted a friend, walked another block. A sob came out of somewhere, just one. It was summer. The breeze felt nice and nice felt shitty.

My phone buzzed. Do you want to talk about it?

I did. I wanted to talk about it and more than that I wanted to never have seen it and even more than that I wanted to have done something about it and most of all, I wanted it never to have hap- pened, never to happen again. The body remembers. We carry each trauma and ecstasy with us and they mark our stride and posture, contort our rhythm until we release them into the summer night over Gun Hill Road. I knew it wasn’t time to release just yet; you can’t force these things. I tapped the word no into my phone and got on the train.

I don’t tell that one either. Stories with trigger warnings don’t go over well at parties. But when the question is asked, the little girl’s smile and her small, bruised arms appear in my mind.

The worst tragedies don’t usually get 911 calls, because they are patient, unravel over centuries. While we obsess over the hyperviolent mayhem, they seep into our subconscious, poison our sense of self, upend communities, and gnaw away at family trees with intergenerational trauma.I didn’t pick up my pen just to bear witness. None of us did. And I didn’t become a medic to get a front-row seat to other people’s tragedies. I did it because I knew the world was bleeding and so was I, and somewhere inside I knew the only way to stop my own bleeding was to learn how to stop someone else’s. Another call crackles over the radio, we pick up the mic and push the button and drive off. Death always wins, but there is power in our tiniest moments, humanity in shedding petty concerns to make room for compassion. We witness, take part, heal. The work of healing in turn heals us and we begin again, laughing mournfully, and put pen to paper.

Daniel José Older"

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motleymoose · 4 years ago

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Homecoming Pt. 3: Bits & Pieces Ch. 1

Chapter 1 Ashes in a Vacuum

Fandom: The Mandalorian, Star Wars Characters: The Mandalorain (Din Djarin), Gender Neutral Reader, The Child Words: 2.5k+ Warnings: Injury, Angst, A whole lotta attitude

Summary:

I AM ALL SORTS OF ANGRY AT THAT FRAGGING BUCKETHEAD!!! He's leaving me with more questions than I have the ability to ask, and I don't like it one bit.

But dang, that little greenie is cute!

Notes:

Heya! Thank y'all for reading!!! I'm not sure how many chapters this part is gonna have, so??? We're coming up on the halfway point of the story. Maybe my editing skills will improve by then (ha).

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Homecoming Masterlist

The way everything hurt, I was sure I was dying.

Squinting at the dim, fuzzy gray light of my bunk, I ran an internal diagnostics check. With every little wiggle and flex of an appendage, I gradually realized that I was not, in fact, dying, but I wasn’t in prime fighting shape either. Slowly, gingerly, I scrubbed sleep from my burning eyes with the heels of my palms, my vision spotty and fuzzy in places. It felt good to let them linger, pressing heavily into the closed eyelids and relieving the pressure built up behind my eyeballs. As killer headaches went, the one I was experiencing in that moment wasn’t the worst I’d ever had, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like doshing kung.

Now that I was sorta awake, I took physical stock of my body. My eyes still wouldn’t clear, the large flecks of gray shadow swimming lazily in my periphery, so I used touch to see what was going on. Letting my hands do the work, I started with my head, running my fingers lightly down my neck to my shoulders and chest. Something felt off about the shape of my body as I continued to scan downwards to my hips. Foggy memories swirled inside my head, screaming and pain and choking smoke. A jumbled mess of noise and smells overpowered everything else, and the bits and pieces of the fight and flight from Bosph scattered nervously into the darker recesses of my brain.

Frustrated, I sat up, ignoring the sharp tug at the pit of my elbow and the violent, painful thumping rattling my brain. “Fragging buckethead,” I hissed through clenched teeth. He had got me in this mess. Sure, it was my fault for getting a bounty put on me, but if only he’d listened to me in the first place, we coulda avoided Bosph entirely. The anger, bitter and sparkling and pulsing red, numbed the headache and the bruises slightly. And as the ire rose, so too did the functionality of my brain.

I could focus now on what my hands had been trying to tell me: all of my possessions, from my boots to my jumpsuit and everything in between or tucked into pockets, was gone. A worn coarseweave tunic hung from my curved shoulders, the sleeves neatly rolled up around my biceps, and a newer looking pair of long johns, the baggy legs bunched around my knees, had replaced my utilitarian and well-loved apparel.

Oh Mother of Kwath! Had the Mandalorian undressed me?! I mean, I was an adult. He was an adult. And apparently I had been injured enough to warrant such an invasion of privacy. Still, I couldn’t fight the blush burning brightly across my chest and face.

So doshing uncomfortable.

Nope, nope, nope. Didn’t want to think about it anymore.

Pushing down all of the humiliation and trauma and apprehension until the feelings were little more than an annoying itch under my skin, I allowed the rage to take over a little more. It was easier to be angry than to feel anything else, the outrage a warming presence in my chilly body. It also gave me the little boost of courage for what I had to do next.

Screwing my eyes shut, incredibly unprepared for the worst possible outcome, I touched the place under my collarbone where my silver skull pendant rested, a solid, reassuring weight...

Nothing.

Instead of skin-warmed metal, I was met with warm, padded resistance. Peering into the neck of the tunic, I found a thick, dull-colored wrap encasing my midsection from under my armpits to my hip bones. It smelled of the sea on a warm summer’s day, and I wrinkled my nose automatically. Bacta. Whatever injury I had sustained must’ve been bad enough to call for the precious, oftentimes expensive goo. The wrap wasn’t so tight as to constrict breathing or some movements, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either.

The physical uncomfortableness brought me back to the question of why the bounty hunter was keeping me alive, but just like all the other feelings, I ignored it. I needed to find my clothes, my necklace. Get dressed. Leave this beautiful ship and her tyrant pilot behind and become a krill farmer out on the Outer Rim.

Well, probably not a farmer. A droid mech, perhaps.

The soft skin on the inside of my elbow twinged again, pulling me out of my daydreams as I reached for the blanket covering the lower half of my body. A thin, clear tube snaked from a needle inserted into a vein to a nearly-empty pouch hanging from a hook in the bunk wall. Fumbling, my fingernails worked their way underneath the sticky medical tape, peeling up an edge wide enough to pinch. I ripped the tape from my arm, gritting as it pulled hair and skin with it. Once the tape was gone, I slid the needle out of my arm with a hiss, tossing it aside to leak between the cot and the bunk wall. Whatever cocktail of drugs the bounty hunter had mixed into the IV, he’d probably added a good dose of sedative to keep me down for the count. That would’ve explained the fogginess.

And it made me so mad.

I let the full-blown, all-consuming fury in, jerking the coarseweave blanket off of me and freeing my legs. Exhaling forcefully, I tested my injured knee, poking at the matching bacta bandage. The original searing-white agony I had experienced on Bosph was muted now, less of a screaming torment and more of a dull throbbing. Healed enough to put weight on. Hopefully

Groaning and cursing at stiff muscles and bucketheaded hunters respectively, I wriggled on the bed until my bare feet skimmed the floor. The cold steel of the hull platform sent shivers through my flesh, feeding the annoyance and anger and frustration. I inhaled, steadying myself for the shooting pain sure to follow standing on both legs. Pleasantly astonished as I was that it didn’t hurt too horribly, I wasn’t prepared for the lightheadedness. The blood rushed from my face, my vision blackening around the edges.

“Oh frag,” I managed to croak before slumping to the floor in an unconscious heap. --------------- I awoke, some time later, inside my bunk. The coarseweave blanket was tucked firmly beneath my chin, the IV reinserted into my arm, and my red-hot rage completely dissipated. An imposing, blurry figure stood at the foot of the bunk, and I took my time adjusting myself from lying flat to reclining, eyes tightly shut to avoid the spinning shadows. Once I was comfortable, I cracked an eyelid. The Mandalorian’s blurred steely stare greeted me, a clear bag of liquid over one arm and a sling supporting the other.

“You’re awake,” he stated matter of factly.

“D-Didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of travelling in silence,” I replied dryly, voice husky with disuse. “By the way, where’s my jumpsuit?” I opened my eyes all the way, blinking rapidly to dispel the fog coating them. It didn’t work.

The bounty hunter harrumphed softly. “Incinerated. You had a fractured knee, two broken ribs and a blaster wound to the stomach. Plus severe retinal damage and dehydration. You’re lucky you even made it off-planet.” He angled his visor away from me to tap out something on his vembrace.

“Wait, what?”

He tilted his visor towards me and put it simply. “You almost died.”

I feebly waved the non-IVed hand in front of my face. “No, not that. Did you say you incinerated all of my stuff?!”

Ignoring me, per his style, he continued to tap on his vembrace’s control panel.

Devastated, depressed and not a little bit murderous, I glowered squintily at him. I was reeling inwardly, but on the outside I was colder than carbonite.

As he ignored me, I studied him as closely as my recovering vision would allow. I could tell there was something different in his appearance, but it took a moment for me to recognize what it was . A softer quality to his edges that I couldn’t quite understand, his body looking less defined, less bulky than normal. I blinked several times to refocus, and was rewarded with infinitesimally better vision.

“Where’s your armor, shabuir?” I sniped. I may have been more than a little miffed that all of my worldly possessions were now ash and lumps of twisted metal, and biting at a Mandalorian was a temporarily soothing balm to my aching heart.

The hunter reached over me and unhooked the empty bacta IV bag from a rod above my head, replacing it with the one he’d brought. Adjusting the solution valve, he tapped the drip chamber twice before turning his attention back to me. “There’s a spare jumpsuit in the ‘fresher. Keep the bacta wrap on for another hour, at least.” As an afterthought, he added, “We’ll be on Nevarro in a few days.” A frown tainted his voice. “Stay out of my way ‘til then.” Spinning on his heel, he marched to the ladder and disappeared onto the upper deck.

………

It took about twelve hours for me to feel well enough to rid myself of the IV and bacta wraps and get out of the bunk without having the ship buck underneath me like a wild bluurg. I took that time to cry myself to sleep, wake up and cry some more. The loss of my tools and kit was a huge blow to my self-worth, but the loss of the pendant, well. It was the only piece I had left of a life full of fear and hunger and love; it connected me to home. If I didn’t have that, where did I belong?

It took another three hours for me to get up the nerve to get cleaned and dressed. I prowled around the cargo hold, poking and prodding at the carbonite storage, the control panels and the refresher. There hadn’t been much of a chance on my earlier voyages to explore, so with the Mandalorian occupied guiding the ship through hyperspace, I felt emboldened to figure out more about him. Not that there was much to glean from my investigation; the hold contained only the basics of survival for deep space travel, and weapons. Lots of weapons.

Oh, and several beings in what looked to be forced-stasis, frozen in carbonite.

Shivering in sympathy for my hold companions, I turned and shuffled back to the bunk. What I really had hoped to find was the incinerator - most ships kept them below near the back for easy dispatch of trash - but I hadn’t found hide nor hair of one below deck. It could’ve been located above. Not exactly the safest or most pleasant location, yet with all the fire power and carbonite in the hold, it kinda made sense. No need to put three dangerous elements all in one place, if you had the room.

A little voice at the back of my head reminded me of something else: that fragging Mando had all but ordered me to stay put. If he thought for one second that I was going to listen to him, he had another thing coming. I held no ill-will against Mandalorians in general, but this one was getting on my bad side. First arresting me and then almost getting me killed and then destroying the only thing I had left of home reminded me that I only had myself to rely on, that everyone else was out to either disappoint me or kill me.

I’d be doshed if I was going to let that buckethead dictate what I could and couldn’t do, especially since he was the one who took me off that Maker-forsaken moon in the first place.

Especially since he handed me over to Mihcas without an apology.

And took my pendant and tools to boot.

Ascending the ladder turned out to be a formidable feat in my weakened condition, but I prevailed. It took more effort than it should have, and I collapsed onto the cool steel platform once I made it all the way up.

“What are you doing?” The modulated baritone came from my right. Swiveling my head, I watched as the bounty hunter stomped out of the captain’s quarters, a bundle of clothes clutched to his chest and fingers unsurprisingly reaching for his blaster. Whatever was in the bundle must have been precious, for he shifted it away from me to his injured arm. It obviously still hurt; he held the bundle in the crook of his elbow, awkwardly bent and trembling with effort.

Good.

Rage flared in my chest, licking its way up like flames and leaving a red mask pounding behind my eyes. Pushing the anger away, I clambered up to my feet. I was going to get answers, and I’d be fragged if I was going to show emotion in front of him.

“Where’s the incinerator?” I spat savagely. So much for not showing any emotion.

Obviously taken aback by my vehemence and bluntness, he cocked his helmet and pulled his hand from his blaster, resting it casually on his belt buckle. “Why?”

Simple enough question, simple enough answer. But I didn’t feel like answering him. Opening my mouth to respond, a cooing sound interrupted me. It sounded like it was coming from the bundle still shielded in his injured arm.

Snapping my jaw shut with a painfully audible click, I raised my eyebrows pointedly at him. “Trafficking something illegal there, chakaar?” Anxiety clenched my stomach in its viselike grip, and I had to force the bile from rising in my throat. I was still weak from Bosph, but if he was buying and selling living beings to make a living, he was no better than my ex-boss. No better than me. Which meant I was going to have to hurt him or die trying.

A sharp hiss of an inhale through the vocoder told me I’d hit on something. Something he didn’t want me knowing. A whispery stream of very impolite Mando’a floated in the space between us. The air was thick with tension, and both of us were patiently waiting for the other to make the next move.

The coo came again, slightly muffled, followed by a bubbly giggle, startling us out of our stare-down. The bundle wriggled, and the Mandalorian shifted his attention from me to it as the thing became too much to handle with one injured arm. Grunting either out of pain or frustration, the bounty hunter stepped backwards until he was in the doorway of the bunk. Squeaking and chittering indignantly, the lump in the clothes broke free with a victorious huff.

And it was the cutest fragging thing I’d ever laid my eyes on.

_____________________

Notes:

chakaar - corpse robber, thief, petty criminal - general term of abuse shabuir - extreme insult - *jerk*, but much stronger

8 notes · View notes

shannygoatgruff · 5 years ago

Text

My Brother’s Keeper - Chapter XI

Genre: Psychological Thriller

Modern Ivar X Modern Hvitserk

Rating: MA+18

Overall Warning: Dark story told from an emotionally distributed person’s POV with graphic and sadistic material including rape, terror, torture, kidnapping, drug use, slash, implied incest, necrophilia, and insecurity. Heavy trigger warnings.

Chapter Warning: Character devolving.Graphic sex. Torture. Rape Necrophilia. Heavy trigger warnings!

Summary: Mama always said to be their brothers’ keeper. Now there is absolutely nothing these two won’t do for each other. Boys will be boys…

A/N: This chapter might be a hard read, but it's supposed to be because Hvitserk is devolving. It's hard to explain without giving too much of the story away, but trust me, there's a reason for this. I hope I did a good job showing the struggle within the character.

Chapter XI

I don't remember this ever being so stressful. Maybe it's because we've never taken two of them before. Well, we’ve had two in the same night, but never two at the same time.

I thought it was logistically impossible, but Ivar had everything planned to the letter. He's brilliant – a tactical genius. Just being able to think of every move before it happens, all of the calculated risks, even the reactions…if I could have his looks, charisma, and his brains? I’d be the total package.

Even though every part of the plan worked perfectly, there’s still something nagging at me. All of this feels off. Of course, Ives says it’s because I’m just a creature of habit, but I think it’s more than that. We’re doing all kinds of stuff that we have never done before. We’re breaking rules, making shit up…

I’m all for him being spontaneous, but for the first time since we were kids, I can’t read him. Normally, we’re on the same page when it comes to this. We know what the other is thinking by a look or a head nod – but right now? I don’t know what the hell is going on.

He came up with this plan and didn’t tell me about it. He just did shit. Naturally, it worked out; it’s Ivar. But, he just did it...without me.

He said he didn’t want to burden me with the details, that I’ve been so stressed lately, that he just wanted me to sit back and enjoy. I know and trust that he would never do anything to hurt me, and that he always has my best interests in mind, but it’s a little scary not being able to be inside his head.

It’s empty when I can’t feel him.

This bond we share, not as brothers, but as soul mates - being two life forces that are perfectly in-tuned with every aspect of each other…that feeling...he’s slipping away from me.

Now, he’s doing shit that he knows I don’t like. Take drugging them for example – I’m not into that. There’s a big difference between getting high with someone and drugging them. When we get high together, they get to pick their party favor, sit back, and enjoy the ride. It makes our night together so much more fun because we’re both in an alternate reality before anything ever gets started. It’s kinda like Star Treking through the Twilight Zone.

But when you drug a person, you’re taking away their choice. They don’t know what the fuck is going on. They’re all spacey and shit, and I can’t tell if they really want to be there with me, or if it’s the drugs talking. I need them to be able to make the choice. I need them to submit to me and not give up because they’re high.

I know I’m being a bitch about this. He was just doing the best he could to make sure we got both of them. I can’t help but to try to think that had to have been another logical way to do this.

I wonder if Ivar knows that I went inside their house last night? I bet they didn’t know that their bilco doors weren’t locked, or that Ms. Johnson never fixed that cellar entrance from that time when we got in there to get some of her pills, a few years ago. Hmm.

I was good. I didn’t touch anything; I just watched them make love. She is beautiful and the way she looks at him is enough to make me want to lick her face. Her body is amazing. I could tell that from when she was standing in the back yard, but naked? Dainty, pale skin, soft curves...she’s gentle and he was a little too rough with her, for my tastes.

His body was the direct opposite of hers. He’s got defined muscles, hard plains, tanned skin. The way he touched her, picked her up, slapped her ass...you don’t manhandle a woman as delicate as her, like that. It took everything I had not to kill him right there.

But she seemed to like it. He turned her. He destroyed a perfect, angelic being and turned her into his personal blowup doll. That’s why they had come. I have to save her, and he has to pay.

So, what other choice did we have? How else were we supposed to get them here? Drugging them was the lesser of the evils, but fuck...this?

If it was just slipping them something, I could live with that. But what the fuck am I supposed to do now? How am I supposed to go through with this if I know their names and their story?

I seriously don’t think I can do this anymore. I mean, I want to. God I really, really want to. But they're like real people now.

I guess it would have been a little weird to just take them out for drinks and not ask them anything about themselves. Well, I didn't ask, not really. That guy, Bishop…what did he say his real name was? Heahmund? Like I gave a fuck. Well, he decided to tell us all about him and his beautiful wife, Aud. And because that shit for brains doesn’t like the natural lull in conversations, we had to find out all about how they just got married and moved out here.

He's from up North and she’s from the back East and apparently, they met someone in the middle, blah, blah, blah... I don’t care about their life story. But I do care that their families back home are going to miss them.

Just talking to them was weird, too. Usually, people only talk to Ivar. But them? They were talking to me, like looking at me and everything. And the way Aud’s eyes twinkled every time she said, Fitz, it was like…wow. I just wanted to keep hearing her say my name over and over again. I almost told her my whole name, just to hear what it sounds in her mouth.

I want to eat my name off her tongue. God, that would be fucking amazing.

Maybe that’s why I started getting hot and dizzy when they got up to dance, and Ivar opens the capsules and dumps the contents into their drinks. I just wanted her to say my name one more time, without being drugged.

"Now!" Ivar's voice fills the cabin and pulls me out of my head. My eyelids feel heavy as I open them. My neck doesn't start to hurt until I reposition myself in this chair. From this new position, I realize that this guy is naked and handcuffed. He’s wearing the dog collar around his neck and Ivar is holding the end of the leash in his hand, practically dragging him around the room.

But, what is that damn rattling noise? Wait, are those the leg shackles? Where the hell did they come from? I thought Ivar got rid of those things months ago.

It hurts my neck, but I still strain it to look around them until I can find Aud.

There she is, sprawled out on the mattress, her arms tied to the metal grates of the fireplace, and her legs are tied to something that Ivar has sticking out of the floor. What in the hell is that, anyway? Whatever it is it looks sturdy enough.

I must say, Ivar's been doing a lot of work fixing this place up. He must have spent a lot of time here when I was out of it before. The lights in the ceiling work…they flicker but, at least, they're on. Most of the other shit has been cleared out, too. Between cleaning up this place and taking care of me, where does he find the time to do anything for himself? I really need to do a better job of taking care of him.

Bishop’s muffled voice is weak as just before he falls over when Ivar puts the cattle prod to his chest. If only there was a way to make him understand that my brother would just as soon electrocute him for the hell of it - it would be in his best interest to just follow along.

If dude thinks it’s bad now, just keep defying, Ivar. He’ll learn.

The sound of my chair leg scratch along the floor makes Ivar’s head turn toward me. His smile splits his face in half and he offers me a wink. "Glad you decided to join us. You woke up just in time." Now that he has an audience, I know he is not going to hold back.

Truth be told, I’m a little sad about that fact. I kinda liked them, Aud & Bishop. It might have been nice to have some friends or possibly get to know some people that Thora and I could go out with as a couple or something. I’d like to hang around some regular couples to see how they do things, get some tips on how to be normal. Judging by how far things went while I was out, there doesn’t seem to be much hope for that now, though.

Oh, well. It’s not like I can do shit about it now; unless blacking out counts. That seems to be all I can do lately. That must be why I'm sitting over here in this lumpy ass chair in this corner, like a child on punishment. I don’t even really remember what happened. One minute Aud was sucking me off and her husband was calling for her. Then I was sad because his voice was breaking my heart. Next thing I know, I’m waking up here, just in time to watch my brother break my two new friends.

"You with me, brother? Come over here, you gotta see how cool this is.” Ivar's face turns from pleasant to harsh when looks back at Heahmund, "I told you to get over there and fuck her. Now! Don’t make me tell you a third time." Did I wake up on planet Quaddork? Ivar usually does the torturing, but now he’s going to use them to do it to each other?

It’s a brilliant idea, but shit if I don’t feel bad about it.

My legs are wobbly, but I make my way over to the mattress and I swear Aud's eyes remind of Thora's when she's afraid. Just the way she's looking at Heahmund to save her, like a kid who needs their daddy to protect them from the things that go bump in the night…fuck. Out of instinct, I kneel down and touch her bare her foot. Even if I can't help her, I just want her to know that I'm here.

She's so scared, but I want her to know that she doesn’t have to be scared of me, “It's okay Thora. I'm not going to hurt you." I need to find her clothes. Her body is on display. Every man in this room, including me, can see her entire naked body. This isn’t right. She needs to be covered up, at least part of her, at all times. When she’s naked, she becomes the parts and the reaction I need and not the woman that I want. She can't be like that. Especially not here and definitely not around my little brother.

"If you don't fuck her, he will." Ivar's voice is harsh causing the tears to run faster from her eyes. "They think I'm fucking around, Serk. Why don’t you show Bishop, here, how it's done?"

I love Thora and I make love to her all the time. But not like this and I won’t do it in front of him. I have to keep something separate, something for myself. "Ivar, please. Keep Thora out of this."

"Aud." Ivar has the leash wound tightly in his hand as he kneels beside me. He strokes my hair and whispers in my ear. "Her name is, Aud."

I nod my head, "Right." That is her name, Aud.

Fuck Aud. She's not Thora. My hand trails her leg and when I reach her hip I hear a scuffle behind me. Bishop is trying to get at me. I guess Ivar’s trying to stop this from happening. I don't know how he managers it, but somehow he’s gotten the larger man on the ground and when he nods his head, I know what he wants me to do. I cover her body with my own and before anything happens, I remove the ball gag from her mouth. "It'll be over soon. I promise."

"Please help me, Fitz?" Her whisper makes my heart skip a beat. I stroke her hair back and focus on her face as she sobs her request. She's so pretty. So innocent. Ivar doesn't understand, we have to protect the innocent ones.

"It's okay, Thora.” I close my eyes as I kiss her forehead. “I'm here.” My thumbs trace the side of her face and I wedge my hips in between her legs.

I just need to look at her for a moment. I want to take in all of this innocence before I possess it.

I hear screaming behind me and it makes me turn around. My brother looks satisfied, he must have gotten his way from the man in the collar. "If you want him to stop, you know what you have to do." He gives the leash some slack before yanking it down forcing the man to kneel on the mattress. Holding his hand out to me, Ivar motions for me to come to him, "You'll have her soon, Serky. Let her husband have a turn."

As soon as her body is exposed again, I realize she's not Thora. She doesn't look like her; her body is not like Thora's. She's laid out and waiting for another man. Thora would never do something like this whore in front of me. Instead, she would be putting up a fight, trying to keep what we have sacred. She wouldn't betray me and lay with someone else.

"Heahmund?" She cries as he says muffled words into the bend of her neck, slowly positioning himself on top of her. He's taking his time, trying his best to stall. Little does he know, he’s just going to piss Ivar off more. I can't take my eyes off of them. All this human interaction is marvelous. "Just do what he says and he'll let us go," her words come out weak and choppy as she tries to reassure him.

"No, he won't," Ivar laughs at my statement. He’s squeezing my shoulders and cracking the fuck up like I just told the joke of the fucking century. I have to admit, his laughter is making me start to giggle, "He's never gonna let you go."

She turns those hopeful eyes towards me and suddenly it’s not funny anymore. "But, you can, right, Fitz?” Why is she nodding at me? Does she want me to agree with her? “I promise we won’t say anything. Please, help me?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ivar's boot come down on Bishop's hip. "I gave you an order, slave," his voice is so calm and even that it scares me. I know that tone – this is the calm before the storm. If this guy doesn’t get his shit together, Ivar’s going to get angry.

I don’t even know to describe what it looks like when Ivar’s angry. That time a few weeks ago, when he had a tantrum because he wanted to go out is nothing compared to when he loses control. It’s like his eyes cloud over to this shade of blue that’s not known to man, and his normally electrifying smile makes him look psychotic. That’s why I usually go into another room when Ivar works. I love to see him happy, but I hate watching him become a monster.

For my little brother to be such a beautiful man, his monster is so ugly. I hate the way it twists his face and how it sucks all the good out of him. It’s like he just becomes a black void, that can only destroy. I know it sounds crazy, but when Ivar’s monster takes control, he’s so ugly because he forgets he loves me.

Judging from the slow transformation in his features, I’d say Bishop’s only got a few minutes to get his shit together before Ivar starts turning, "Just fuck her, like you hate her." I don't know why I'm trying to help him. Maybe it's because I know what he's feeling. I know damn well what I'd be feeling if it was me and Thora.

Bishop pleads with her eyes and she permits him to hurt her. He's slow about it. He's trying to make it as pleasurable as possible, considering. He shouldn’t deviate from the script, just do what the fuck he’s been told. Oh well, I tried to help him. He's not listening to my advice, that’s just too bad for them. Any and everything Ivar does to them now will be on his head. All he had to do was follow the rules. Just let Ivar be in control without trying to be the hero. Now it's his ass. Literally.

Without warning, Ivar shoves the cattle prod into him, causing him to push violently into Aud, making her scream. I can’t stop laughing at the fact that Ivar's going to shock him from the inside until he gets his desired reaction.

"I said fuck her." He sends another shock to help coax him along. It’s not until the husband is behaving like a good boy, does Ivar pat floor next to him for me to join him.

I trust that Ivar knows what he’s doing. I’m sure that he wants me beside him, getting a front-row view because there’s a lesson here that I need to learn. I’m just too tired and confused to concentrate on it. My mind keeps wandering and I can’t seem to stay fully in this moment.

As soon as my head lands on his lap, his strong fingers gently rub my scalp. It’s almost enough to make me want to go back to sleep. Only, I can’t stop watching this man fuck his wife with so much force because he's afraid to have me do it. I don’t know if I’m enjoying this. It’s a little too fucked up, even for me.

"Punch her." I didn’t even realize how heavy my lids were until Ivar’s voice broke my concentration. He’s just saying the first thing that jumps in his head, now. I can tell by that boyish chuckle of his. Sending another shock to Bishop makes him react like a trained monkey. Each time he sends a charge, Aud gets another punch to her face. Each punch she gets, makes Ivar laugh. Every laugh from him, makes me wrap my arms around his waist tighter, and smile.

I can't tell who's crying harder, him or her...poor things.

Ivar's entire body shakes under my head as he laughs, but he never stops massaging my scalp. It’s the weirdest, most comforting sensation. I wonder if it feels like that for him, too. "Good dog. Now, choke her." His Pavlovian response technique seems to be working because he doesn��t even need to shock this guy into playing out his fantasy.

Without any more guidance than just Ivar’s words, a large hand wraps around his wife’s throat, but he’s not applying any pressure. “That’s not hard enough to choke somebody,” Did I just say that? I was thinking about it, but why did the words come out of my mouth? I don’t want him to hurt her. I like her. I have to protect her. If anything, I want to hurt him for hurting her. But, maybe this was his way of trying to keep her safe. Maybe by not choking her, he thought he was appeasing my brother and protecting his wife.

The only problem with his plan is Ivar knows it’s not hard enough to cut off her oxygen supply. "I'm sick of repeating myself to you, dog. You will learn to do what I say." This time when he shocks him, he doesn't let off of the button. He sends the shock waves throughout Bishop’s body in a way that makes the muscles in his hand stiffen, locking around Aud's throat.

Those eyes. All of that innocence seeping out of those eyes with each tear that rolls down her pretty face. She was so beautiful. So angelic. Now she's nothing. Those large eyes are fixed in my direction, staring lifelessly at me, begging me to help her. "Thora?" I reach my hand forward but she doesn't respond.

"You see what he did, Hvitserk? He killed Thora." Ivar's voice is soothing as he tries to console me through my grief. All the loving and coddling in the world can’t fill this empty void suddenly growing inside me. I know what I need to do. This man was twice her size and he raped and strangled this beautiful, innocent creature.

He is evil. "You thought he was your friend, Serk. But now Thora's dead because of him. He needs to be punished."

I stand to my feet in one swift motion and I kick him in the ribs. I watched him kill her. All she wanted was for him to protect her, but he was too weak to do that. Well, I’m not weak.

He is going to pay for failing her.

The cattle prod lands with a crash across the room and I'm inside of him faster than he can recover from it. "You like raping women? Do you like how it feels?" I pound into him ignoring his cries. My weight, on his back, lands him on top of her and he gently shakes her body to try to wake her up. "She's dead, fucker! This is your fault! Why didn't you just fucking listen?" I grunt my words because I'm so angry. How could he let that happen on his watch? He didn't deserve her.

The leash is wrapped so tightly around my hand that the blood no longer circulating in it. With each thrust, I pull back on it until I start to hear the bones in his neck crack under the pressure. He can't die soon enough.

"That's it, Hvitserk. Just like that." Ivar coos from behind me, his lips gently grazing my neck. I know that panting sound he makes when he’s jerking off. When I look over at him, I feel myself smile at the sight of his hand vigorously stroking his cock. The harder he jerks, the harder I thrust. It's like we're finally in sync again, pumping rhythmically with each other.

I didn't understand what he was trying to show me before, but now I do. People like Bishop, the strong ones, they deserve this. They are ones that the world bows to because they're charismatic and exude a presence that people like me don't have; they deserve to be taught a lesson. Ivar has shown me that I'm stronger than I think and that it's my job to let the rest of the world know my strength.

It has nothing to do with the act; this all about power. No matter how many muscles Aud’s husband has or how tough he thinks he is, I'm more powerful than him. She should have known that, too. She should have chosen me to be with, not him. They made the wrong choice by overlooking me. Now they have no choice, I'm the last thing they'll ever see.

Bishop's lifeless body lies limp in the corner until Ivar decides what he's going to do with him. Right now, he sees fit to just stare at him while smokin a joint and listening to music. I, on the other hand, can't get enough of Aud. I don't understand how I could confuse her with Thora before.

Maybe it was something I took before I left the house or maybe it was the helpless, innocent way she looked at me. Whatever it was, I’ve never met someone that could blur everything around me like that. For the briefest moment, I couldn't tell what was real and what was just in my head. Right now, though, being inside her now, I know the truth.

She feels just as soft and just amazing as I thought she would. She didn't see me before, but now she does. I've shown her more care and love that fucking coward she married ever could.

It’s because I need her to see that I can take of her that I can’t stop indulging in her. It’s almost like I need to show her that I’m worthy of the gifts that she's given me. She helped me get back my confidence.

She showed me how to find my strength, and she gave me back my power.

My new neighbor, Aud, saved me.

I want her to feel how much I appreciate everything she's done for me. Every time I cum, I'm hard again, just thinking about what freedom feels like. If I could figure out a way to consume her so she would never leave me, I would…I just don’t want this feeling to ever go away. I've already licked her; tasted her; bit her; cut her and loved her. What other way is there to make her a part of me?

She drove the hunger away. It's not just fed, it's gone. She did that for me. She gave me a chance to have a normal life.

Aud sacrificed herself to cure me. I will forever be in her debt.

Kissing her mouth hungrily, I turn her head to have her eyes focus on me. "Thank you." When I roll on my back to look up at the ceiling, I notice Ivar's smiling face looking down at me. "Did you have fun tonight?”

I look at the hole at the ceiling before cutting my eyes back at him. Rubbing my bare chest I start to laugh, "Ives, tonight was fucking awesome!” Gently placing a hand on Aud’s thigh, I give it a light squeeze, “Thanks, brother. I needed that.”

“Of course,” he says, winking his eye at me, “I will always be my brother’s keeper.”

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ghostbustermelanieking · 6 years ago

Text

phantom weights (pt 1 of ?)

season 11, post my struggle iv. part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files.

Summary: In the wake of their second encounter, Mulder, Scully, and Jackson reconnect (both by accident and on purpose).

note: i am posting this in parts simply because it is way too long so far, and it’s easier to post it in small chunks instead of a couple big ones. this story basically examines the aftermath of msiv, and how jackson and m&s come together. there are some references to events occuring in the lies told and praescitum, particularly the scheme that CSM puts on in lies, as it debunks that msiii garbage. (there are some indirect references to a mountain in colorado; it is, of course, AU, but i see parts of it as canon compliant, which make an appearance here.) additionally, i reused some parts of proelium and pervicacia, mostly because i am too attached to these old fics, and didn’t want to change some things. although i promise this fic is different than these two.

warning up front for some slight discussion of suicidal ideation (as shown in MSIV), some references to death and violence, and discussion (in the name of debunking) of CSM’s paternity claims. it’s bullshit, but i had to address it somehow. now let’s forget it lol.

---

He was supposed to be dead right now.

That was the whole plan. He would die for the man who said he was his father, for all the people he'd hurt, for the future he'd never have. For his parents, who they buried without him months ago, who died because of him. He would die in place of Mulder and give his birth mother the chance to start over. (What the fuck would she do if it had really been Mulder and she was stuck with Jackson, great disaster that he is? What would happen to Sarah, to Bri, to anyone else he tries to connect with? What would happen to him?)

But he didn't die. He took a bullet straight to the forehead and sunk deep into the brackish, salty water, salt and copper at the back of his throat, but he didn't die.

He heard the man who shot him—the man he'd thought was his birth father—get shot himself, multiple times. He fell into the water feet away from where Jackson was drifting, his blood in the water, and Jackson was still waiting for death when he felt something like a release. Like something snapped loose in his head, a taut wire breaking, something set free. A weight gone, and something coming in to replace it. A rush of emotions from a man Jackson had never, ever felt before; the grief of the man standing up on the dock, like a crash overwhelming his brain. It hurt, almost worse than the bullet in his head.

As Jackson drifted, waiting for death, he understood suddenly. It all became clear. Mulder wasn't making it up when he said he was his father; he wasn't ignorant to everything that had happened. He was telling the truth.

It was too much to take, and Jackson didn't want to think, and he didn't die. He drifted far away from the docks, the harbor, before rising out of the water like the newly baptized.

---

Mulder and Scully told their story to the police again and again on that dock in Norfolk. Scully was quiet and numb, teary, her head bent forward as she answered questions in a murmur. Mulder would barely answer their questions, tense and nervous and furious. He asked about Skinner several times before he got an answer, his voice rising towards a yell before they finally told him that Skinner was alive and had been taken to the hospital for surgery. Scully sniffled behind her hand, her eyes squeezed shut, swaying slightly in place.

The police gave up and told them that they could go. There was no sign of Spender's body, of course, and no sign of Jackson's, either. If Mulder knew how this works, he suspected that they'd never find the bodies. (He flinched at thinking of his son as the body, as a lifeless corpse somewhere out there in the deep. It felt like a betrayal. It stung, the casualness of it. He couldn't believe he was gone.)

They got into their car, but Mulder didn't move to start it. He had a headache, his skull pounding, tears building at the back of his throat. He was as shellshocked as Scully, his stomach rolling with nausea, his muscles tense with protest. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. He leaned forward abruptly, burying his face in his hands as his eyes welled with tears. It wasn't fucking supposed to happen this way, goddamnit, it was supposed to go differently, and he wanted to shout with the unfairness of it. He wanted to scream until his throat was raw, he wanted to pull this dock apart board by board. He wanted his son back. He wanted his son back.

He'd been hallucinating a little since all of it; he'd had flashes of currents, of freezing cold and salty wetness and the taste of blood in his mouth. Of his son's face, still in the black-green water, a trickle of blood across his forehead. His eyes shutting, he saw it again: William's pale face in the depths of the murky saltwater.

He shuddered, biting back a scream of protest—he didn't want to upset Scully further, sitting quiet in the passenger seat with a hand pressed over her mouth and her eyes wet with tears. He pressed his face harder against his fingers, his palms intended to muffle the sound, and sobbed.

---

They drove to a hotel. Mulder was quiet the whole time, his eyes red, his face pale and streaked with tears. Scully thought, absently, that he was probably mad at her. Maybe he resented her for the things she said, or the things she didn't. Maybe for sending their son away all those years ago.

She didn't have the headspace to process any of this. She was shaking. She was shivering, wrapped up in her coat in the passenger seat, her chin trembling like she was going to weep again. She had a hand instinctively over her belly, but she was mostly not thinking of the baby; she was mostly thinking of him, of her first baby. Her William. And she was also thinking about nothing at all, her mind blank. She was so cold, her jaw quivering, her cheeks wet and salty. She felt scraped raw, stinging; she couldn't breathe.

They drove in silence. A sharp pain began at the center of her forehead and spread, jarring her as it rattled against her skull. When she shut her eyes, she saw water lapping at murky sand, cars and headlights on the highway. She gritted her teeth and shook her head until the pain subsided. A hot tear escaped from under her eyelid, trickling down her cheek.

It wasn't until they got to the hotel, until they entered the room and slid to opposite sides of the bed and Mulder flipped off the light and did not reach for her that she realized what was happening. She was in shock. That was the only explanation for it. She was in shock. She couldn't explain the things she said, the words spilling out of her mouth on that dock, but she knew she did not mean them. She knew almost as soon as she said them that she didn't mean them. She was in shock and she couldn't get warm; she was shaking, huddled under the thin hotel comforter. She felt so nauseous, the pillowcase cool and uncomforting under her cheek; the room was spinning. She wanted her baby. She wanted her son back.

She suspected that Mulder—Mulder, lying on the other side of the bed with so much space between them and a hand pressed to his temple like he had a headache, his eyes squeezed shut—was in shock, too. After everything, she didn't see how he couldn't be. He had killed his own father just a few moments after seeing his son get shot. His son. His baby, who he had only seen twice since the day he was born. His son, who he could not save, who neither of them could save.

Scully made a sharp, keening sound and buried her face into the pillow, clutching it hard. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. They were supposed to be safe, both of them. She'd been terrified all this time that she would lose Mulder all over again, that he wouldn't come back like last time and she would never get to tell him about the baby or do all the things that she was supposed to do with him, but somehow she never really thought she would lose William. Not again. She thought she'd be able to save them.

She kept seeing her baby with a bullet in his head, hearing Mulder's primal shout. She felt the loss of him in a way she hadn't felt in years, aside from the horrific few hours when she'd thought he might be dead before realizing that he wasn't: she was thinking of the weight of William as an infant in her arms, his soft skin and downy hair. A phantom weight she hadn't quite felt since she'd given him up for adoption, yet one she'd still carried with her for years. She couldn't believe the things she said on that dock. That he wasn't their son, that he was an experiment and she was never his mother. The words didn't feel like they were coming out of her mouth. The shock of the things Skinner told her, and William asking her to let him go, and Mulder telling her that he was dead, had manifested into that, but she didn't mean it. She didn't know what she was saying, a betrayal to everything she felt and everyone she loves. She didn't want to tell Mulder about the baby this way.

Her teeth chattered involuntarily as another wave of cold washed over her. She curled into a tight ball, her hand back over her belly before she realized what she was doing and pulled it away. Was it a betrayal, she wondered, to love this child after everything that has happened to her first two? She wanted her son back. She wanted to tell him she was sorry; she wanted it more than anything in the world. She pulled the edge of the comforter tighter around her and wiped tears away, just as another piercing headache hit her.

Scully gritted her teeth to keep from crying out. She was dizzy, her head spinning, but she didn't realize what was happening until she saw it: the darkened road, the headlights blurring like starlight. The coldness, the wetness, the roar of cars echoing in her ears, the sound of wet shoes squelching on the pavement. And a voice, hard and angry and sad: Just so you know. Okay?

She realized all at once what was happening, and the shock of it nearly made her shoot up in bed. “Jackson,” she whispered, gripping the covers desperately, realizing too late that she'd spoken out loud. Beside her, Mulder made a pained, wordless sound and turned over. She pressed a hand to her mouth and tried, I'm so sorry. But she had no idea if he heard.

She needed to tell Mulder. She closed her eyes and crawled closer to the warm mass of Mulder's body. He was tense and rigid, but when she burrowed under the tent of his arm, he didn't pull away. She pressed her nose to his side and whispered, “Mulder.”

He grunted in response, his eyes squeezed shut.

She pressed a hand to his chest, swallowed back her tears, said, “Mulder, I think William is alive.”

He opened his eyes, dark and wet, and looks down at her. “You can see him?” he whispered tremulously. She nodded.

His eyes slid back shut, and he shook his head hard. “Jesus Christ, I thought I was imagining it,” he murmured, gathering her up in his arms, bundling her against him. She rested her cheek against his chest, sniffling and dizzy.

“I-I thought I was going insane. I… I think I've been seeing him, too,” Mulder whispered to her in broken disbelief, and she blinked with surprise. “But I didn't know… I've never seen him before… how is this happening, Scully? I saw him fall, I…” His voice broke; he squeezed her tighter, choking out another sob against her scalp.

“I don't know. I don't know how,” she said, her voice shaking. She was crying again, tears sliding down her face. “I just… I can feel him. He's safe.” She didn't quite understand how Mulder could see William now, and she could barely believe it herself, but she didn't want to question it. He was alive, and if Mulder saw him, too, that made it real. He was alive, and that was all that mattered. Her baby was still alive.

“Thank God,” Mulder breathed, stroking the back of her head. “I didn't believe it when I… I didn't want to believe it in case it wasn't true. I-I am so glad that you feel it, too.” He pressed his lips to Scully's forehead, shaking in her embrace, tears falling on her hair.

She felt a sudden, desperate need to apologize for everything she said to him on the docks. He was the one who met their son, who hugged him, who saw him twice with a bullet in his head (twice, twice now, goddamnit). He was the one who never got to be with him as a baby, who didn't get to hear that his son wanted to know him better. (He had to be William's father. He had to be. She did a test when William was a baby, and she thought that Mulder might've done one again when they were in Norfolk, but she knew she was going to do another one as soon as she got a chance. First fucking thing. But somehow, the fact that Mulder could suddenly, miraculously hear Jackson was comforting to her, was enough to convince her that he was William's father. It had to mean something, didn't it? She held onto that hope tightly.)

She didn't mean what she said, not one bit of it. She was in shock. She didn't mean it. She felt like she was going to throw up. She had already thrown up once tonight, retching over a trash can by the water while Mulder whispered her name helplessly and rubbed her back, and she didn't think it was because of the baby. She heard the gunshots Mulder fired into the smoker's chest, every single one; she'd felt them deep in her bones.

She wasn't going to tell Mulder what Skinner said—especially now that she was nearly sure that Mulder was Jackson's father—but she needed to apologize. She needed to tell him she didn't mean what she said. She needed to tell him right now.

“Mulder, I didn't mean what I said,” she blurted, and his arms went stiff around her. She sniffled, burying her face in his neck. “I didn't,” she murmured, balling a hand in his shirt. “I was scared. I was in shock. But I didn't mean it, Mulder. He's our son. He'll always, always be our son.” She had to believe that, she had to.

His fingers brushed over his spine. “Are you saying this because you know he's alive now?” he asked quietly, and she knew that everything she'd said had hit him hard.

Wincing, she shook her head, frantic and immensely sorry, digging her fingernails into his shoulders. “No,” she said quickly, nearly stammering. “No, Mulder, no, he's our son. For God's sake, he's our son. He's our son.” She was crying again, near hiccupping, clinging to him like he's a life raft. “He's my son,” she whispered hollowly. “He's my baby, and I just… he asked us to let him go. I didn't know what to do. I… I couldn't lose him again.”

“Shhh,” Mulder was saying, his voice trembling. He was still crying. He was stroking her hair again, her back, her neck. “Shhhh, Scully, it's okay. It's okay.”

“I'm his mother,” she said. She was remembering the cold feeling of fear, of surprise and uncertainty just a few days ago, when she took the pregnancy tests and saw the results, sitting on the grimy tiles of a bathroom floor inside the handicapped stall. Of guilt, even. She didn't know how to do this again and it scared the shit out of her. She thought that she might want to do this again, be somebody's mother, but she had no idea how. She was Jackson's mother, even if he would never think of her that way, and now she was a mother all over again.

Mulder clung to her and she clung to him and they cried. She held onto the image of William—of Jackson—walking in the rain, huddling for warmth under a bridge. I'm here, she thought desperately towards her son as she started to drift off. I'll always be here, if you need me. Always.

---

They had breakfast next morning, at the continental breakfast in the lobby. Scully didn't exactly feel like eating, but she made herself. She was thinking about the baby, about proper diets and protein and three good meals a day, when she got a spoonful of scrambled eggs, three strips of limp bacon, a cup of yogurt with berries. She ate gingerly, thinking of the pregnancy tests that she lined up along the toilet paper holder, the rush of emotions that she'd felt when she saw that they were all positives. Her baby. She was going to have a baby.

She could feel Mulder's eyes on her, watching her as gingerly as she was eating. “Honey…” he said softly. He reached out to touch her shoulder, his fingers hovering, before he lowered them to touch her stomach.

She reached down and covered his hand with hers. “I know,” she said. “It's a lot to take.”

“It's… it's wonderful news,” he began, before something like guilt passed over his face and he shook his head. “I mean, I'm not sure how it's… how—how do you feel about this, Scully?”

She looked down at her plate, at their hands together. She curled her fingers around his. “I… I don't know,” she whispered. “It's… it's not what I would've chosen for myself. Not now. Maybe years ago… but… I don't know, Mulder.” She squeezed his hand. She lifted her head to meet his eyes. “I… I think I might want this. I do. I can't not. Mulder, I can't lose another child. I can't.”

“I know,” he said softly, and she knew that he did. They had both lost so many people. They had lost their son again and again, seen him dead far too many times. Neither of them could endure another loss.

He rubbed a gentle thumb over her abdomen, where it was slightly rounding, and she felt like crying all over again. She sniffled, wiping a tear away. “I suppose…” she said in a tremulous voice, “that I should ask you how you feel about this. If… if this is something you want.” She'd considered every possible response when she was trying to figure out how to tell him, and she had tried to focus on the ones where he was happy, but she kept coming back to the ones where he wasn't.

His eyes widened, his thumb moving over her stomach again. “Scully, of course,” he whispered. “Of course it is.” He lifted her hand in a fluid motion to kiss the back of it, and she sniffled again, her eyes shutting.

“I… it's scary,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “The prospect of another child… I think we're both a little apprehensive. But I want this as long as you want this. I've always wanted this with you.”

Her eyes filled abruptly, and she jerked forward in her seat towards him. He had his arms around her immediately, her chin on his shoulder. She made a shaky sobbing sound, one hand over her mouth and the other pressed hard into his shoulder. He put a hand to the back of her head, whispered soothing things into her ear. She knew that people were staring, but she didn't care. She held him tightly, nearly in his lap.

“I-I think we should go to the doctor,” she whispered in his ear. “Right away. To make sure everything is okay.” They both knew all the things that could go wrong, all the possibilities that they wouldn't be able to see this through. She didn't want to say the possibilities out loud; all she wanted was to know that everything was okay.

“Yeah. Yeah, we'll go right away.” He kissed the side of her head. “Everything's going to be okay, honey,” he whispered. “I promise.”

You don't know that, she wanted to say, but she didn't. She just held onto him harder and nodded. It was all too much, too much to process; all she wanted was for them to be okay, for everyone to be okay.

When they'd finally pulled away, when Scully was wiping her eyes with a napkin and taking another tentative bite of yogurt, Mulder spoke again. Spoke in a hesitant voice, as if he was unsure of what her reaction would be. “Scully,” he said, carefully, “do you… do you think we'll ever see him again?”

Her jaw clenched automatically. She looked back down at her plate. All she really wanted right now, she thought, was to go home. To get into their bed together, slip back into that sweatshirt of his and crawl under the covers and sleep for a week. She wanted her son safe and at home, and she wanted her baby to be okay. She wanted her family to be safe and together.

“I don't know, Mulder,” she whispered. “But I hope so. I really do.”

---

Jackson never really wanted to kill anyone.

He kept trying to tell himself that in the wake of his fucked up rap sheet: that he never really wanted to kill anyone. He put on a tough persona—he had to at that stupid school they sent him to—but half of the stuff he'd done was just a stupid prank that went too far. The car accident, the tantrums that exploded (sometimes literally) into chaos, the stupid fucking prank on Bri and Sarah that gutted him to the core. Fucked up pranks, horrible pranks, but just pranks, pranks he would always regret right after he did them.

But he had killed people now. His parents, if only indirectly, and those fucking lackeys who came after him. He killed them; that was him. It was under his control.

He could tell himself all he wanted that his parents’ deaths were not his fault, but he knew they were. They came looking for him, the bastards who shot his mom and dad; if his parents had adopted another baby, they'd be alive and well and probably happy right now. (With a normal kid who didn't play shitty, horrible pranks and destroy half their house, who didn't pout and act sullen, and who told them how much he loved them.) He knew that people blamed him for his parents’ deaths, that people thought he was a murderer. (He had gone to his grandmother's house in Wyoming after a week on the run, and she had slammed the door on his face. She acted like she didn't know him. She accused him of murdering her son, and he'd cried like a baby on her porch before running away in a panic.)

He used to tell himself that he wasn't a murderer, no matter what people thought of him. He might've been something of a monster, but at least he wasn't a murderer. And then he killed those people before they could kill him.

Now he tried to tell himself it was all in self defense. But it didn't work. He still woke up screaming most nights, images of blood and gore and his parents in body bags on either side of him imprinted on his eyelids.

He didn't know where to go. He thought about calling Sarah, that first night sleeping under a bridge, but he couldn't bring himself to pull her into this. Not again. He was going to put her in more danger if he did that. Aside from that, she was probably pissed as hell he didn't meet her, if she didn't think he was dead all over again.

How many people thought he was dead at this point? He knew his birth mother didn't. Scully, Ginger, whatever her name was. He'd showed her he wasn't dead. He thought that he might've showed that guy Mulder, too, if inadvertently. (He didn't entirely understand what the hell was happening with his birth father, but he thought it went something like this: the creepy smoker fucker had put some kind of telepathic block in his mind to keep him from connecting to the Mulder guy. To make Jackson think that he was his birth father. And when he died, it stopped working. He didn't even want to dig too far into that fucking mess, but he was pretty fucking glad that the smoker wasn't his birth father, as far as he knew now.)

He didn't know where to go, so he headed west again. Stole a car from a Walmart parking lot and just fucking drove. Maybe he should head north, go to Canada, he thought at one point. Maybe get out of the country completely. Maybe settle down and get a damn job before he ran out of money. But truthfully, he had no idea where the fuck he should go.

There was a small, traitorous part of him that offered, You could go stay with them. Mulder and Scully, his weird-ass birth parents who called each other by their last names. Who apparently loved him a lot. Who fucking gave him up and never came looking for him, who had no rights as his parents. They gave that right up, and they were not his parents.

No, he told himself furiously. Absolutely not. Only as a last resort. Never. He could not do that to his parents.

So he drove, moving into the Midwest. The furthest he got last time was Wyoming, back to his childhood home, before he turned around and slunk back to Virginia with his tail between his legs. This time, he told himself, he was going to go further. All the way to the fucking Pacific.

---

A few days after Mulder and Scully got home, they went to the hospital to meet with one of Scully's old friends from the hospital to confirm the pregnancy. Just to make sure. Mulder held her hand while the blood was drawn, staying right at her side, whispered in her ear that it would be okay no matter what. Grateful for his presence, she tried her best to believe that.

While they were waiting for the results, Scully slipped downstairs, found another friend and asked her to run William's DNA against Mulder's. She had to know, she had to know for sure. The fact that Mulder could hear Jackson now coupled with the DNA test he ran against both of them back in Norfolk gave her some comfort, but she was still uncertain enough that she needed to check. She had to know for sure. Just to reassure herself.

She hadn't told Mulder about it, and she wouldn't if she didn't need to. The entire idea made her nauseous, made her want to find the smoker’s corpse and put ten more bullets in his skull. It couldn't be true. It couldn't be true. It wasn't true, not until it was proven. She had refused to believe in so much, and she would refuse to believe in this until it was anything more than a rumor. And she wouldn't burden Mulder with it if she didn't have to.

She made the request, spent the next few minutes in a bathroom, forehead pressed into the metal of the stall, breathing uneasily. She went downstairs to find out if she was going to be a mother again.

The pregnancy was confirmed. She was over three months along, the doctor estimated with a cheery smile. Behind her, Scully heard Mulder's sharp intake of breath, felt his hand clamp hard around hers. Her heart was beating too fast.

She insisted immediately on doing an ultrasound to make sure that everything was okay, and it seemed that everything was. The doctor reassured her as she moved the wand over her abdomen, telling her that everything looked good, everyone looked healthy She could see the image of the baby on the screen (her baby), could hear the pulsing whump-whump of the heartbeat, and she couldn't help the rush of tears. She couldn't believe this was really happening. Looking at the screen, she felt a powerful rush of love pulsing through her. This was all happening so fast she could barely process it, but she knew she loved this baby already, without being able to help it. She loved it more than words.

Mulder wiped away her tears, wrapping his hand around hers; he was crying, too, she could hear him. He asked where the baby was, pointing to the screen, and she showed him. She showed him their baby, and she felt his lips press gently to her hair.

---

When everything was done with, she slipped back downstairs to get the results of the DNA test.

It was what she wanted to hear, to her great relief; William was hers and Mulder's. He had always been hers and Mulder's. It was the best news she could've gotten, and she nearly sobbed with the relief of it all. Crumpled the results in her hand, trembling from head to toe. It wasn’t true. It was a lie, a horrible lie, but Jackson was their son. She cursed the smoker in his watery grave, but she felt a little lighter now, the weight of Skinner's confession off of her shoulders. It wasn’t true. William was theirs, and Mulder would never know there was another possibility.

She found Mulder down in the lobby, lingering by the gift shop with a plastic bag clutched in one hand, looking at something on his phone. He looked up at her with soft, relieved eyes when she approached, said, “Hey,” in a gentle voice, and held up the bag. “I, uh… I bought you something. From the gift shop.” Surprised, she took the bag as he explained. “I was poking around in there, and—yeah, that, check it out.” She pulled a small cardboard box out, and he nodded eagerly. “That's the brand you drank before, right?” he asked. “When you were—with William? The caffeine-free tea?”

Scully nodded, stunned, turning the box over and over in her hands. “You remembered?” she whispered in astonishment, although she should not be astonished. Mulder remembered things like that, held onto the memories like they were something precious. She could remember the first time she'd drank it in front of him—wearing his sweatshirt on her couch, him sitting beside where she was sprawled, his hand on her knee as she'd drank from a Georgia On My Mind mug—but she had no idea he did.

“Yeah.” He smiled again, reaching out to touch her elbow. “I couldn't believe they had it. I grabbed three boxes of that, and, uh, something else I thought was kinda cute…” She rummaged to the bottom of the bag and found a small stuffed cat, tiny enough to be tucked into the corner of a crib. “For the, uh, baby. I dunno if you like it,” he continued, “but, uh…”

She cut him off, moving forward to hug him hard. She seized his face in her hands and kissed him thankfully. She was nearly shaking with the weight of it all, of this baby and of their son, out there somewhere, and of every single thing that he missed out on last time. “I do like it,” she whispered, smiling, her face hidden against his neck. “Thank you. Thank you so, so much.”

---

Jackson used to want to travel all the time. He hated Virginia, he'd whined, and he wanted to go somewhere else, somewhere exciting. And then they'd sent him to that school, and it had been anything but exciting, and he'd felt even more trapped than before. He wanted to go places, he wanted to be free and not have to answer to anyone and do anything he wanted to whenever he wanted it.

Now he had that. He was alone, he had no one telling him what to do or where to go, and his future could be whatever he wanted it to be, barring the fact that people were actively trying to kill him and that a lot of people thought he was a murderer. And he hated it. He wanted his parents back more than anything in the world. He kept expecting them to be there, telling him what to do: No, Jackson, don't do that. Don't be stupid, son. Be careful, be smart, be safe. He wanted to ask their advice on things, wanted them to be with him. The one time in his life he wished he was Haley Joel Osment. (In Sixth Sense, not in that stupid Pay It Forward movie.) He'd give anything to be haunted by his parents at this point. He'd give anything to have them back.

He made it all the way to California without any major hitches. It was uneventful; miles of driving on empty roads, stopping to see sights, eating fast food in the driver's seat of his car and sleeping curled up in the backseat in parking lots until some cop told him to keep moving. In Arizona, he considered going covert, dying his hair and getting a bunch of piercings, doing something besides just projecting so he looked like someone else, but the most he did was give himself a haircut because his hair was getting too long. A horrible, horrible haircut that he could practically see his mom cringing at. It looked like he was attacked by a lawnmower. He bought a baseball cap at the next visitor center and pulled it low over his head.

He made it to California. He went to San Diego for no particular reason, and found himself in a cemetery for no particular reason, and that was about when he realized that there was probably a reason he was here. He mulled around the gravestones for a long moment before arriving at a small, shiny one that read Emily Sim. Died when she was three years old, a week after her parents did.

Jackson winced, leaning forward to put his palm on top of the stone. As he did, a rush of images swept over him, images that made him sick with nausea, dizziness. Emily Sim, a little girl sucking her thumb before a bathroom floor streaked with watery blood; Emily on the floor of a children's home, a much younger Mulder and Scully knelt beside her; Emily Sim in a hospital bed, eyes screwed shut, face coated in sweat. Dying.

Jackson staggered back from the headstone, his heart in his throat, coated in sweat despite the relatively cool temperature. He was breathing hard. He knew immediately what this was. He'd had a sister. He'd had a sister who somehow wasn't Scully's, either, and she'd been an experiment like him, and she had died. No wonder Ginger seemed so protective of him, so panicky at the thought of his death; it wasn't just because she was his birth mother, it was because she'd gone through it before. He'd had a sister, an experiment who suffered her whole life and lost both her parents and died before he was even born. He swayed on his feet, fell to his knees in the graveyard. He was crying, and he didn't know why, but it made him furious, that he'd had a sister who was dead now because of these bastards who had murdered his parents. He'd always wanted a sister as a kid. A little sister he could protect, or a big sister who would stick up for him.

Her name was Emily. Emily Christine Sim. He resolved to remember that as he climbed to his feet, brushed dirt off of his jeans. Half his family gone, her entire family gone. A sister he would never know. Emily Sim. He pressed his palm to the stone and thought, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry that this happened to you. I'm so sorry I'll never get to know you.

After that, he didn't want to stay in California. He was getting flashes of other things, of a dark-haired girl that looked like that Mulder guy in pain, running, dying. Bad things had happened here. He looked out over the Pacific, at the great westward spread of the ocean, and then he got into his car and drove back east.

#it's gonna be painful but then it's gonna be not painful i promise #xf rewatch #xf fanfic #i wrote this

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stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale · 6 years ago

Text

with you [5/6]

Summary: Clementine pops the question.

Preview:

“Ruby’s going to see Clem, and the others are in the music room, so steer clear.”

Louis doesn’t know how he did it, but he actually convinced Aasim to let him wander off.

Of course, he promised that he wouldn’t go near the music room or go see Clementine, and he practically got on his hands and knees and begged to leave the comfort of Aasim’s room.

Aasim eventually gave in once Louis was dressed in the attire picked out for him; a dark green button down shirt tucked into his jeans and his signature jacket.

The yard is empty with the exception of Willy on watch. Before the young boy spots him, he makes a quick turn to the right and heads down the sidewalk towards the graveyard.

All the graves have fresh flowers on them, white ones with long stems. Louis places himself on the ground, not bothering to care if dirt clung to his jeans or jacket.

“Hey, Marlon.”

Warnings: Louis has a disturbing nightmare. Aasim can’t dance. Ruby’s super oblivious [or is she...?]. Mitch still doesn’t know how to handle gross feelings. Marlon’s grave makes an appearance. Clementine and Louis are separated because Ruby’s superstitous about bad luck, I guess.

Author’s Note: Y’know, it’s amazing any of you still follow me because I am a big dummy liar pants. After playing ep4, I went back to work on this and get more ideas to fully tie it together but as I was, it became ridiculously long. Too long to even be enjoyable to read. So. Here we are.

Thank you for all the nice comments and messages I’ve gotten for this story. The support you guys have given my dumb ass has turned me into a little ball of feely mush that can’t express words, so... thank you. Really. Every read, every like, every comment has meant so much. Hope you enjoy, and I’ll see ya next time!

---

There’s a heavy pressure building up in his ears, damn near deafening the sounds of excited voices and off-key piano. The weight of his own head brings a throbbing ache along his neck, falling forward to gaze through lidded eyes down at the wooden floors.

He’s in the music room. No question there. Several pairs of feet shuffle by in a blur of muted colors, stopping in front of him every so often before turning away to continue their business.

Whoever’s playing the piano clearly has never pressed a proper key in their life, instead opting to slam both hands over as many of the keys as they possibly can. The sound, so awful, so quick it’s enough to make him sick, spoiling the insides of his stomach until the acids are boiling up.

Louis swallows, though his mouth is so dry and sore that nothing goes down to ease the bitter burn bubbling in his throat. His tongue feels swollen, too heavy for his jaw to handle, too plump to allow the necessary amount of air to push through.

The stress pulsating in his ears and head worsens when the music grows louder, harder with each slam of the keys. Louis’ legs buckle, giving out and sending him backward. No one wandering around seems to take notice of his fall, still hurrying and still chatting gleefully. He tries to fully open his eyes, to see their cheerful faces, but the effort to even do that has left him drained, sore.

The shoes that approach him, oddly pristine, take hold of his focus. The figure standing before him isn’t threatening, nor is it kind. It’s just there, waiting patiently for his undivided attention.

Louis can’t bring himself to look. His arms, the only things holding his upper body up, tremble violently with his vain attempt to not completely crumble.

The figure kneels down before him, a gentle hand reaching out to lift his chin.

His father smiles at him.

It’s cold, unnatural.

His once handsome face is practically gray now, gaunt and leathery, and his teeth are rotten right down to his bleeding gums. His eyes, now sunken and bruised, are dull, clouded over.

Louis’ chin quivers as the heat spreads behind his widening eyes and down his nose. He takes a shaky breath, lips trembling without a sound as he tries to say, ‘Dad?’

He coughs, tries to clear his throat, tries to speak.

And that’s how he knows none of this is real.

He never has a voice in his dreams. He never makes a sound, no matter how hard he tries.

‘Dad…?’

His father’s boney thumb brushes his cheek, leaving a chill and a rise of goosebumps along his flesh.

Louis reaches out an unsteady hand to grasp the front of his father’s suit, trying to hold on with all his might, but he’s just too damn weak. His whole body shudders as his father fixes the tie around Louis’ neck, straightens his suit jacket, and stands. Louis’ arm falls useless into his lap as he hunches over.

‘Da-dad…’

He’s sobbing, unable to breathe as he silently wheezes and coughs. The tears burn hot against his skin, slipping over his cheeks and jaw, down his neck. His nose runs, and no amount of sniffling prevents it from dripping.

Blurred through his teary vision, he can make out his father’s offering hand. Louis blinks up at him, trying to see his face, his smile.

“C’mon, Lou, get up.”

His father’s voice is garbled, almost robotic.

Something glistens, catching Louis’ eye.

It’s the dented and loose band around his father’s finger. A wave of emotion crashes over him, shooting straight through his heart as he holds up his hand to admire his own ring. He’s horrified to find it rusting, tainting the surrounding flesh down to the bone.

The keys pound, harder and harder, and the chatter grows louder to compete.

Something hits his thigh, and when he looks down, he sees his father’s severed finger with the ring still attached, oozing dark blood and staining his pants.

He gasps, chokes and kicks his leg out to get the finger off him, snapping his eyes up to his father’s.

That cold, pseudo smile stretches unnaturally, his jaw dislocating and slowly gaping, tearing the flesh of his cheeks before falling onto Louis’s lap.

As Louis tries to find the strength to scoot himself away, crying out in both silent terror and agony, his father falls apart, limb by limb, soaking his suit and beating down against his legs.

‘Shit! Shit-no! Dad!’ he tries to scream. ‘Please, no!’

Squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head so hard it rattles his brain, putting him in a dizzy haze, Louis tries to wake up.

‘I’m sorry! I-I’m sorry!’

There’s clapping, sharp smacks that beat in time with his hard and fearful heart.

They’re standing, all of them, applauding. Faceless figures, familiar and slathered in shadows.

Banging on the doors. Shaking wood, muffled crying. More bangs.

Louis covers his ears by tucking his head between his knees, frantically murmuring, ‘Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!’

The doors open, and there’s a heavy thud of a body crashing through.

When Louis dares to open his eyes, that dread rushes black, heavy and throbbing, through his veins.

Clementine’s beautiful white dress is shredded, hanging loosely over her shoulder and falling over one side of her torso. On her hands and knees, arms and legs bruised and scratched, she’s crawling towards him with pleading, golden eyes. The wound, the bite, rots the skin around her neck and shoulder.

She gasps out, “Louis!”

But, he can’t move. He can’t go to her. He can only watch her collapse in front of him.

He’s shaking, shaking, shaking-

“Hey-!”

-shaking, shaking, shaking-

“Louis!”

-shaking-

Louis jerks up, gasping for air.

Firm hands grip his arm. Instinctively, he pushes away, crashing to the ground and taking the chair he sat upon with him. His calf smacks hard against the leg of the table, sending a jolt of pain through his thigh and up his side.

“Dude, shit!”

Louis scoots away disoriented until his back hits the closet doors. Heart racing, smashing brutally heavy in his chest as he takes in as much air as his lungs can handle. The muscles of his neck and back are tense, tightening with each movement. He grasps at his throat as his wide, teary eyes search desperately within the dark room for his father, for Clementine, but all he sees is Aasim’s panicked face.

“Louis, calm down!” Aasim kneels in front of him and raises a trepid hand, hesitating to actually touch him.

“ Shit -” Louis croaks out, coughing. He rubs at his face, wiping away the cold sweat clinging to his skin and tries to settle his breathing. He can feel Aasim move close, tentative and confused.

Under that questioning gaze, all Louis can give is numerous heaving huffs as he tries to calm himself down.

“You knocked over my pencil can,” Aasim says slowly, leaning forward to try and read Louis’ expression. “It woke me up. You were freaking out and- shit, you scared the hell outta me. I thought-”

The sudden pause is obvious, as is the confusion melting into deep concern. When hotness drips down his cheeks, Louis realizes that he’s crying. Not the choking, can’t breathe kind of crying, but one stemmed from shock and humiliation. Quiet, slow tears.

“Hey…” Aasim’s voice is soft, unsure. “Hey, it’s okay.”

Shame warms his skin as Louis glances away, lowering his head and wiping his eyes.

“I-I’m sorry.” His throat is so unpleasantly hoarse that it hurts to speak too loud. “I’m sorry.”

Aasim scrambles to a stand, pausing only briefly to shoot Louis another apprehensive look before grabbing his water bottle off the nightstand. This time he sits cross-legged in front of Louis as he offers him the drink.

“Here.”

Louis only looks at it until Aasim motions it towards him, silently telling him to take it.

He takes a small sip, grimacing at how hard it is to swallow, but after a few attempts, he’s chugging the whole thing, no longer caring how desperate or foolish he looks.

Louis breathes in deeply, mouth and throat sated and his pulse beginning to calm. He avoids Aasim’s eye, instead glancing over at the mess of pencils on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles again, sniffling.

“Uh,” Aasim scratches at his scruffy chin, “Are you- uhm…”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, coughing, “I should’ve warned you, but,” he cuts himself off, biting his bottom lip.

Fuck.

It was stupid to think he could have a peaceful rest the night before his wedding. Luckily, the dream wasn’t one that paralyzed him, unlike ones he’s had in the past. Parts of it were already beginning to fade, leaving only the prominent details to haunt his mind.

His father, or rather, the thing that resembled his father and the rotten finger, Clementine crawling towards him; those are the things standing out now, engraved in his memory.

“Warned me?” Aasim mumbles to himself, cocking his head curiously.

“About… this.”

“Wait, this happens a lot?”

Louis hesitates. “...Yeah, uhm, it’s- I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you up.” He gives him back the empty bottle, murmuring, “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Aasim says, but makes no move to get up.

They sit there in awkward silence, and Louis can see that Aasim’s racking his brain for something to say.

“You had a pretty bad nightmare, I assume?”

Louis nods.

“That makes sense,” Aasim says slowly, eyes sliding awkwardly, almost afraid of contact. “What was it about?”

Death. Misery. Guilt. Everything else in between.

A manifestation of what he’s truly afraid of.

It’s definitely not the first time he’s dreamt of his father. Back when he was younger, he had much fonder dreams about his parents; eating dinner together, going on vacation, swimming in their pool on the hottest days of summer.

God, he had loved that pool.

On weekends, when his father was home, Louis would drag him outside and beg him to throw him in, sometimes crying fat tears when his father snapped a “no” at him.

But, on rare occasions, his father would laugh and say, “That’s what the diving board’s for,” but it was never the same as when his father picked him up and tossed him in himself.

Sometimes he could even convince him to swim with him, teach him how to float on his back, how to flip himself around off the diving board, have contests to see who could hold their breath the longest.

After he ruined everything and they sent him to Ericson, and the world went to shit, he forced himself to only think about good things. He’d pretend that he hadn’t destroyed his parent's lives, pretended that they were on their way get him and apologize for leaving him there in the first place.

And they never did.

So, Louis’ willpower to only think about the good things cracked, then shattered.

Spoiled, vindictive, unapologetically cruel.

That’s the kid his parents left behind and next looked back.

That’s who Louis was.

And that’s only the beginning of the universe punishing him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Aasim tries again.

“Do you really wanna hear about it?”

“Yes.”

Louis shoots him a skeptical look.

“Sometimes you feel better when you get it all out on the table,” Aasim elaborates. “As I said before, it’s probably the pre-wedding jitters that’s got you freaked out.”

“And you want to listen to me?”

“Yeah,” Aasim frowns. “I haven’t seen you this scared since-” he bites his lip, glancing away, “-since what happened on the delta.”

“When I killed Dorian.”

“...Yeah.”

There are times where Louis forgets he wasn’t the only person there at that moment, that Aasim and Omar watched him as he pulled the trigger that sent the arrow right through her mouth and into her skull.

He didn’t see their reactions or even hear them. The moment she fell onto the ground before him, motionless and bleeding out, nothing else existed.

That’s where the real swelling shame came in.

He just sat there in absolute shock, frozen and nearly faint, and even tossed away his weapon.

In those seconds of hesitation, had Minerva not been distracted by the death of her apparent delta family member, Clementine could’ve been killed.

All because he couldn’t do one goddamn thing right.

“Was it about her?” Aasim softly asks.

“No.”

For once, Dorian left him alone.

Aasim shifts then crawls over to sit beside him with their shoulders touching.

“You’re not a murderer, you know.”

Louis scoffs. “No?”

“It was self-defense.”

It was self-defense.

She would’ve killed you if you hadn’t reacted.

It was her or you, Louis.

“That still doesn’t make me feel good about it,” Louis brings his knees closer to his chest, resting his chin on them and closing his eyes. “The one thing I’ve always been afraid of after the world went to hell was that I’d have to kill somebody. Doesn’t matter why or how, it’s just something I never, ever wanted to do.”

He stares forward, focusing on the darkness behind the window’s thick curtains.

“You’ve never had to do it,” Louis mumbles.

“We killed the rest of them.”

“Not like that, not personally. We injured and left them to the walkers.”

“Some might say that’s worse, but we couldn’t just leave them alive. Shit, just- just like how we couldn’t take Minnie with us after she passed out.”

“I know.”

Aasim stretches his legs out, leaning forward in an attempt to de-stress his stiff back. “Look, you’re right. I don’t know what it’s like,” he admits, “but it doesn’t change the fact that what you did helped break us out. Who knows what would’ve happened if you hadn’t shot her. We would’ve blown up with the boat, just like the rest of them.”

“I know,” Louis repeats, this time more harshly. “But that also doesn’t change the fact that I still have fucking nightmares about it, some so bad I can’t breathe or see straight. You have no idea how many nights I’ve woken Clementine and AJ up because I still can’t get my shit together and- fuck, they deserve a peaceful night of sleep, not a blubbering idiot who can’t get out of his own damn head.”

His throat’s tightening again with each emotionally bitter word he spits. Meeting Aasim’s wide eyes, he adds, “I know you’re trying to help, but there’s nothing you, or anyone- not even Clementine- can say that will ever make them go away.”

Aasim listens, really listens to every word he says, never once looking away from him. He’s hesitant but places a wary hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Louis sighs. “Ruby insisted I stay here, but I should’ve just slept in my old room. I’m just sorry that you had to see that.”

“I’m not,” Aasim replies. “I had no idea this was even a thing for you.”

“No one does, ‘cept Clem and AJ.”

Aasim pulls his hand back, curling his fingers together to rest in his lap, staring down at them with a contemplative frown.

Then, he shrugs and quietly confesses, “I have them, too. About the delta.”

Louis lets go of his knees, his legs sliding down to stretch out into a position similar to Aasim’s. He cocks his head, waiting for him to continue.

“They’re fuzzy, most of the time. I’m back in that cell by myself and Lilly comes in to ‘talk.’ She always tells me that she killed you guys, all of you, and once I see your bodies, I’ll ‘understand,’” he grimaces. “She’s going to ‘turn me into the best damn soldier the delta’s ever seen.’”

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” Aasim rubs at his tired eyes. “But, then I wake up in my own bed. No Lilly, no boat, you guys are alive, and I’m not a soldier. I’m still me.”

“Does it ever keep you up at night?”

“It has. Usually, I can’t fall back asleep. Too scared,” he shrugs. “So, I just grab my book, write down what I remember, and get an early start on the day and try not to think about it.”

“That easy?”

“What else can I do?”

Louis chews on his lip, turning away again. “You’re a lot stronger than me.”

“No, we just- we’re different. We saw and did different things, and, as you know, we’re not exactly two peas in a pod when it comes to thinking or reacting.”

That gets a breathy laugh out of Louis, which Aasim’s pleased to hear.

“No, we’re not,” Louis agrees.

It feels good to laugh, even if it’s barely a chuckle. The exhaustion that usually grabs a hold of his after a nightmare is present in each of his limbs, weighing him down.

“Sorry I scared you.”

“It’s okay.”

The boys stand now, muscles sore and stiff from sitting on the ground too long. Louis moves to pick up the pencils he knocked over, slipping them back into the can and placing it back on the desk.

The notebook he’d been writing his vows down is still open. He glances over the works with a tiny grin, hearing Aasim sit on his bed with a huff, repressing a yawn.

He doesn’t want to think about nightmares anymore. He wants them all to go away, leave him alone and let him live in peace. It’s the night- or is it early morning now?- of his wedding, his marriage to the love of his life. He shouldn’t be here thinking about his father or Clementine dying or the repercussions of what he did as a child coming back to haunt him.

He should be smiling, worrying about not getting enough sleep because he can’t wait to see her walk down that aisle towards him.

He needs a distraction.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks, turning back to Aasim.

“Sure.”

“How come you never told Ruby you liked her?”

The question isn't teasing, but genuine.

Aasim’s silent, but even in the dark Louis can tell from the thoughtful raise of his brows that he didn’t know that answer himself. He ponders on the idea, drumming his fingers on his knee.

“Honestly?” he finally says.

“Yeah.”

“I was scared. When I stayed with her to patch up Omar’s leg, she hugged me and told me how happy she was to see me alive and- and I knew I probably could’ve told her, but it didn’t feel right. It never feels right.”

“I don’t think there’s a single right moment, Aasim,” Louis says. “You should tell her. She might like you, too.”

“Doubt it.”

“Why?”

“Have you met me?”

“You’re a bit of a sourpuss, but it’s part of your charm.”

Aasim scoffs.

“And you’re smart,” Louis continues. “Like, really smart. You’re reliable, honest, a damn good hunter, you know how to be kind, and you’re not bad looking.”

“Dude.”

“Looks, brawn, kindness, and smarts. You’re the complete package. In fact, how come Ruby's not the one who's head over heels?”

“She doesn’t care about any of that,” Aasim rolls his eyes. “Why are you asking, anyway? I think I’ve made it pretty clear I don’t like her anymore.”

Even Aasim himself didn’t believe the words as he spoke them.

“I was just thinking… I have someone to help me through the nightmares, but you don’t, and that kind of sucks.”

“And, your point is?”

“My point is I think you should go for it.”

Aasim looks away, scowling.

“I’m serious. Look-” Louis approaches the bed, hands on his hips, “-you’re not fooling anyone. Admit it, you still really like her. I’m not saying you have to confess your undying love, but maybe you could show your interest a little more? Like, for example… asking her to dance tomorrow?”

“I don’t dance.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Aasim refuses to look anywhere but the floor now, absently scratching at his wrist.

“I don’t know how to dance,” he timidly admits.

“So? Ruby can teach you. It’d be a nice bonding moment for the two of you.”

“That’s embarrassing.”

“How?” he laughs. “She’d probably think it’s cute.”

“Or lame.”

Then, Louis gets an idea, and Aasim must see the gears turning in his head because he thrusts his hand up towards Louis’ mischievous face.

“Whatever you’re thinking, no .”

“You don’t even know what I was going to suggest!”

“I don’t need to because the answer is still no!”

“That signature sourpuss isn’t going to win over sweet Ruby’s heart, y’know.”

Louis moves across the room, leaning against the bookcase and folding his arms over his chest. “Now, seeing how I’m probably not going to be able to fall asleep anytime soon after my freakout, why don’t we play a little game? I’m going to stand over here and pretend I’m Ruby-”

“Dude, no -”

“-and you’re going to ask me to dance.”

“Uh, no, I’m not!”

“ Oh, Aasim, ain’t this just the most rootin’ tootin’est hootenany you’ve ever seen ?”

Aasim gapes up at him, on the verge of a dry laugh at the terrible accent Louis’ trying to pull over.

“That’s- that’s not what she sounds like!”

“Close enough,” Louis winks. Dramatically pressing the back of his hand against his forehead, he laments, “ Oh, look a Lou and Clem dancin’ so perfectly together! If only there was a devilishly handsome -”

“Oh my god-”

“- young fella who would come ‘n sweep me off my feet -”

“You’re fucking ridiculous-”

“- and dance the night away with me !”

Aasim can’t help it.

It might be from lack of sleep or from nerves, but he’s wheezing at the stupidity before him. Louis has said some idiotic things before, hell, some that even got a chuckle out of him, but this-

How the hell did they go from exhaustion-inducing nightmares to this ?

Louis breaks character to laugh along with him, not caring if they’re being too loud.

Of course, if anyone walked by their room, they might think two madmen live inside, one with a very poor, very fake southern drawl and the other an old chain smoker who can’t breathe.

“We’re not doing this,” Aasim coughs, chuckling into his hand.

“C’mon, man, it’ll help! I swear!”

“Do you even know how to dance?”

Louis proudly grabs the openings of his jacket, shooting him a wide smile.

“Nope!”

“Awesome.”

“Hence why we should practice. It can't be that hard,” Louis clears his throat. “ If only Aasim would notice me over here all by my lonesome !”

“This is so stupid.”

“ All by my lonesome! ”

Aasim rests his head in his hands.

He can’t believe that he’s actually considering going along with this nonsense.

But he does.

"Now, ya just put yer hand here-"

"Please stop talking like that."

"Makin' fun of a girl's accent is really rude, mister."

"Louis."

"Don't go steppin' on my toes!"

"Louis."

Aasim presses his heel into Louis' boot.

"Ow! Okay, I'll stop."

It's strange, a little unpleasant, but at least Aasim learns what not to do when dancing within the hour or so of dance practice before the exhaustion send both of them plummeting down into their respective beds.

---

“Alright, Willy, yer all set.”

Ruby pulls the sheet off from around Willy’s neck as the young boy excitedly hops up from the stool, his eager hands reaching up to feel his head.

He agreed to a haircut on one condition: mohawk.

Ruby didn’t fight it. Anything’s better than the dirty, scraggly mess he had before, and the style did actually look charming on him. Studying him now, she thinks it makes him look tougher, meaner. In a good way, of course.

“Woah,” Willy grins far too wide as he feels the short, prickly hairs on the sides of his head. The top strip, still damp from Ruby’s spray bottle, lays flat until he runs his fingers through it, spiking it up.

“See? Don’t’cha feel much better?”

“It looks cool, right?”

“Real cool.”

Willy gives Ruby a big smile before hurrying over to the ladder in the center of the room where Mitch is quietly working on attaching the smaller string lights to the chandelier.

“Mitch!”

“Hm?”

Mitch’s tired eyes glance away from his work and down towards the young boy. Upon seeing him, he smirks.

“Shit, look at you,” he says. “Badass.”

“Yeah? You should do it, too!”

“Pfft, yeah, probably not- shit !”

One of the small battery packs comes loose, causing it and the lights attached to it to fall to the ground. Willy’s quick to move around the ladder and examine the battery pack.

“Did it bust?”

“No, it's okay.” Willy reaches up to hand it to him after wiping it on his shirt. “Do you need help?”

“Nah.” Mitch shakes his head, pausing to suppress a yawn. He jerks his chin over towards the doors. “You can start lining the aisle.”

When Willy doesn’t respond or move, Mitch peers back down at him with a raised brow. Willy’s gazing up at him with his head cocked, a question lingering in his eye. When he opens his mouth to speak, Mitch cuts him off.

“Make sure the batteries are near the doors, then line them up coming this way.”

Willy frowns, but nods and does as he’s told.

With a small sigh, Mitch rubs his eyes and nose on his sleeve, mentally cursing himself to snap out of this haze. Grabbing more black tape from his belt, he secures the battery pack to the chandelier. He leans away to study his work, keeping his grip firm on the ladder as to not wobble backward.

He decided that they’d use the small, dainty lights to hang down above their heads, figuring that when it got dark enough, it’d look like little stars or fireflies floating in the air.

He reaches into his pocket to pull out the last one. He doesn’t have enough room to attach it, but he’s sure he can find another use for it somewhere in here.

Before he climbs down the ladder, he checks to make sure the other lights he has attached, the bigger ones, are fixed tight.

He stayed up late attaching all the lights to the chandelier before sticking the batteries to the walls. When he checked to make sure they were all still working, lighting them up one at a time, the room lit with a golden glow prettier than anything a candle could give.

It’d been quite a sight to just stand there alone, staring up at the bright ceiling.

“Mitch!” Ruby calls. “Yer turn!”

He scowls, lowering his head. Another yawn builds in his throat.

Without a word, he drags his feet over to Ruby and plops down on the stool, crossing his arms and staring off at the wall covered in white and gold hearts.

Ruby waits for the complaints, the argument, the curses but they don’t come. Mitch just sits there, waiting.

She drapes the sheet around his front and secures it behind his neck, pulling out the locks of hair caught under.

Dampening the hair with her spray bottle, she combs through it to work out any knots. Surprisingly, his hair isn’t that tangled. It’s the longest it’s ever been, damn near touching his shoulders. In fact, when was the last time she gave him a haircut? A year ago? Year and a half?

He’d really complained then. She remembers having to threaten to shave his head in his sleep to get him to cooperate. That threat prompted the little mishap in the greenhouse the next day, but she tries not to think about that. If she does, she’ll end up pissed and ready to yank the brown locks right out of his head.

So, instead of that, she attempts to make conversation.

“The lights turned out better than I thought,” she says, gently pressing his head forward to give better access to the nape of his neck. “Gotta say, I’m real impressed.”

Mitch grunts, grumbling, “And you wanted to use candles.”

“We’re still usin’ some, and I got the box over there incase any’a them go out.”

“They won’t go out. Checked ‘em last night.”

“That why yer so tired?”

Mitch doesn’t reply.

She can’t help but notice how off he’d been acting since he walked into the music room this morning. She’d been bursting with energy, thrilled that the day’s finally here. She listed off all the things that still needed to be done and all he did was look at her. He’d heard her, sure, but didn’t say much.

Usually, they would’ve been snapping at each other about this or that, but no.

Mitch didn’t even mumble to himself the entire time he worked. He always mumbles to himself when he’s working.

What could he be so sore about on a day like this?

It’s not like she could ask him how he’s feeling; for whatever reason, that always pushed the defense button for him.

Of all the kids she’d grown up and survived this nasty world with, Mitch was one she could never truly figure out. Sometimes she can guess his next move, other times he does something so bizarre that it actually hurts her brain when she tries to wrap her head around it.

“Gonna go see Clem later,” she says. “Fix up her hair real nice. Wonder if she’s picked out her shirt yet.”

Mitch shrugs a shoulder in response.

“Oh, and don’t ferget, I left some clothes in yer room. I’m thinkin’ that black button down shirt’ll look nice on ya. If that one don’t fit, wear the blue one.”

“Fine.”

They finish the rest of the haircut in silence.

Ruby brushes off the chunks of hair from his shoulders before pulling off the sheet. Mitch stands, rolling his shoulders and neck before turning to her.

He looks so much better, she decides. While still short in the back and on the sides, she let him keep some of his bangs, which he now pushes back. With it still being damp, it stays that way, revealing his whole scowling face.

Ruby smirks. “Y’know, you could be real handsome if ya smiled more.”

He doesn’t find that amusing.

“Shut up.”

“Jus’ sayin’.”

They hear Willy snickering over by the door, covering his mouth to try and hide it as he lines the aisle with lights.

Ruby sets aside her scissors, keeping an eye on Mitch as he feels around his neck.

Boy, he does look tired.

Now that she’s seeing him up close, the darkness lining his eyes is prominent, and his sunken posture is more than noticeable. She didn’t think working with those lights all week had taken that much of a toll on him, especially since he seemed perfectly fine yesterday.

She lightly hits his arm. “Hey? You okay?”

“Fine.”

There goes the button.

Ruby sighs. “Said ya were up late last night, right? Why don’t’cha go rest a while.”

Mitch crosses his arms again, glaring down at the floor. “No. I-” he glances up at the chandelier, “I got other things to do.”

“Like what? Aren’t’cha done with the lights?”

“Yeah.”

“Are ya gonna help the boys with the arbor?”

“No.”

Ruby quirks a brow. “So…?”

“I’m goin’ hunting. Someone’s gotta catch something for Omar to cook tonight, right?”

“Oh,” Ruby raises a curious brow. “I was gonna send Aasim and Louis out. Y’know, make sure Lou don’t try ‘n sneak a peek at Clem before the weddin’.”

“Doesn’t he have groom stuff to do?”

“Like?”

“Shit, I don't know, groom stuff. And, isn't Aasim’s his babysitter?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that-”

“Then, they’re busy,” Mitch says firmly. “I’m going. Besides-” he finally meets her eye, “-been cooped up here all week. Need to get outta here a while.”

“Well,” Ruby frowns. “Alright. Who ya takin’?”

At that, Mitch’s shoulders slump further.

“I can go,” Willy volunteers.

“No,” Mitch snaps harshly, startling the both of them. Upon seeing Willy’s wide eyes, his face softens just a bit. “I mean, you gotta stay and help Tenn and AJ with the arbor. I-” he breathes a frustrated sigh and heads for the door, “I’m taking James.”

Before either of them can say anything, he’s gone.

“Any idea what’s up?” Ruby asks, sharing the same concerned look as the boy beside her.

Willy shrugs. “No clue. But, is James even back yet? He left last night without telling anybody.”

“Haven’t heard.”

“Oh.”

Willy returns his distressed stare back to the open doors, thoughts still stuck on Mitch.

“Is- is he gonna be okay?”

Ruby turns to peer up at the chandelier with a thoughtful look. “I think so. Nothin’ bothers him fer too long, right?”

“Maybe,” Willy frowns. “He was being weird last night, too.”

When Willy got off watch and went to check on him in the basement, he’d heard a small crash followed by a string of curses. When he rushed down there in a panic, he found one of the shelves on the bookcase they kept down there broken in half and Mitch sitting on the stool, holding his foot.

He hadn’t hurt himself too bad, but that did nothing to ease Willy’s growing worry.

“That so?”

“Yeah… didn’t wanna talk about it.”

“Whatta surprise.”

Ruby decides not to fret. Whatever it is that’s bothering him, he’ll work it out. Maybe it’s a good thing to send him and James out instead. The fresh air will perk him up and he can blow off some steam, and if James is with him, she doesn’t have to worry about him getting hurt.

If he came back with that sourpuss still tugging on his face, then she’d talk some sense into him. Right now, she has to focus on getting everyone ready and working on the final touches of the music room.

If Clementine and Louis thought the place was beautiful for the proposal, then they’re going to be floored at how downright gorgeous it’ll be for their wedding.

As she sweeps the clumps of hair off the floor and into a dustpan, she realizes that she won’t be able to do anything with her own locks, at least, not by herself. While she was fairly good at doing the other kids hair, she could never seem to do much with her own.

However, there’s an easy solution.

The only person she’s ever dared let cut her hair in the past is Aasim. To make matters even better, she knew Aasim could do lovely braids. She watched him to it to Sophie’s hair years ago.

A smile stretches her lips at the thought.

“Willy, go out ‘n help the boys. I’m gonna go check on Lou and Aasim.”

---

The ceiling slowly comes into focus.

Clementine’s laid awake for a while now, comfortable on her back with eyes kept shut, only blinking up at the dust particles floating through the air whenever the curtains flutter, letting in more light.

She hasn’t woken up so calm, yet so restless in a long time. Even in her empty room, her empty bed, she finds herself at peace with a tiny grin adorning her lips. When she sits up, there’s no grogginess, no temptation to cover her head with the pillow and try to find sleep again.

Talking to Lee always makes her feel like this, even though she knows it's not real.

Even so, the images of her dream fade in and out, bleed together into an emotional mess.

She wonders to herself, or more so worries if Louis slept as well as she did.

Not that she could go find him and make sure. Ruby would throw a fit if they saw each other before the wedding. She doesn’t know if it’s really bad luck, because how could it be?

Then again, the bad luck might come in the form of a wooden spoon, courtesy of Ruby.

The door inches open noisily. AJ slides in, attempting to close it as quietly as possible. He’s carrying a cup of steaming coffee, the strong, bitter scent wafting through the air. When the hinges of the door continue to make more awful creaking noises, he shushes the inanimate object.

“It’s okay, goofball, I’m awake.”

AJ jumps at her voice, nearly dropping the hot mug. Whipping around, he pouts, “I told you I don’t like that name.”

“You’re right,” she smirks, leaning up on her elbows. “It’s okay, shitbird , I’m awake.”

“Hey!” AJ giggles, playfully glaring as he hands her the coffee. “That’s mean! You’re a shitbird!”

“Not as much as you are.”

As she sips the coffee, AJ hops up beside her.

"Today's the day!"

"It is."

“I’m excited. Are you excited?” he asks eagerly, practically bouncing. Seems he’s already forgotten about the shitbird insult, his zealous anticipation of what’s to come later today taking over.

“More than you know, kiddo,” Clementine beams. She downs the rest of the coffee, savoring the heat as it fills her belly and spreads warmth throughout her. “You know everything you’re supposed to do?”

“Yep! I’m helping the others and keeping an eye on you until we’re ready, then when it gets dark enough, I gotta come get you so I can walk with you and, uh, give- give you something?”

“Give me away,” she corrects.

“Give you away,” he says firmly, then cocks his head to the side with that thoughtful look he gets when he’s attempting to understand something alien to him.

“Give you away,” he repeats. “That sounds weird, like you’re a toy or something. Give you away.”

Clementine laughs, saying, “Well, you’re not literally giving me away, AJ.”

“I know. It’s just a weird thing to say. Why do they say that?”

She studies him for a moment, trying to piece together the right way to explain it to him.

“Remember when I first told you that I was going to propose to Louis?”

“‘Course I do.”

“And remember when I asked for your blessing to marry him?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, think of it like that, but this time you’re giving Louis your blessing to marry me . That’s basically what it means, like, you’re ‘give me away’ to him to show that you’re okay with us getting married.”

“Oh,” AJ nods. “Oh, okay. Yeah, that makes more sense. I’m giving you guys my blessing.” He smiles brightly, leaning over to hug around her waist. “I’m gonna give you guys my best blessing!”

She holds him back, chuckling. “How’s everything else looking?”

“Well, I can’t tell you too much because it’s a surprise, but me and Tenn made something super awesome last night and- and we’re working on something even cooler today!” he gushes.

“Well, I can’t wait to see it.”

“You’re gonna love it! Louis, too!”

“Have you talked to him this morning?”

“No,” AJ shakes his head, pulling back to look up at her. “He and Aasim are still asleep.”

“Really?”

Clementine stands to look through the window. The full daylight shines brightly over the school, leaving behind any chill morning brought. While not quite noon, it’s still a little late to sleep in, even for Louis. That knowledge does nothing to ease the anxious tightening within her.

“Can you go check on him?”

“Yeah, I can.” AJ presses his fingers together, picking at the skin around his nails as he asks, “If he had a bad dream, he’d come get us, right?”

“Well,” she starts, glancing back at the boy, “given what’s going on, he might not. He’s probably fine, I just want to make sure.”

“I’ll go after I help Tenn. I told him that I’d meet him out there soon, but I wanted to see you first,” AJ says, then his brows knit together earnestly. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

“Oh yeah?” Clementine asks as she leans against the dresser. “About the wedding?”

“That, and some other stuff. I know you said not much is gonna be different afterward, but I don’t think that’s true.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean- well, I was thinking- actually, Tenn and I talked,” AJ stumbles over his words. “You and Louis like to be alone, right?”

“Sometimes,” she replies hesitantly. “Why?”

“Tenn was telling me some stuff, like how married people like to spend more time alone together in their rooms.”

Heated dread tingles along her neck.

She knows her mind might be rushing straight into the gutter, but the possibility of Tenn telling AJ about certain things isn’t unthinkable, and if he’s about to ask her questions referring to-

“And I realized something,” he stands up from the bed and walks towards his own, “I bother you guys sometimes, don’t I?”

“What? AJ, you don’t bother us.”

“Yeah, I do. Sometimes I walk in and you two move away from each other really fast and you say weird stuff and it’s… weird.”

“Uh, well-”

“I know you guys like to kiss. A lot.” AJ crosses his arms, staring up at her with a ‘don’t even deny it’ look. “And I know you don’t like to do it in front of me, and if I’m always coming in here and bothering you…”

“AJ,” Clementine sighs. “Look, Louis and I do like to spend alone time together, but that doesn’t mean we don’t like hanging out with you, too.”

“I know.” AJ unfolds his arms, glancing over his shoulder and back at his bed. “I’ve been spending the night at Tenn’s a lot. Having sleepovers, I mean.”

“Yeah?”

AJ faces her now, saying, “Tenn asked if I wanted to move in with him, like as roommates.”

Her brows shot up in shock.

That’s nowhere near what she had been excepting.

“When did that happen?”

“Last night. I’ve been thinking really hard about it, and it might not be a bad idea. I mean, I like sleeping in here with you guys, and- and it might be scary sometimes sleeping away from you for more than a night, but I’m gonna be brave.”

AJ stands up straight, chest puffed out with confidence.

“I’m getting older, and I gotta do things on my own.”

“AJ, are you sure?” she asks. “You don’t have to feel bad about being in here with us. Does Tenn even have room for you?”

“Yeah, he’s got another bed and lots of closet space. I can move my things in today, after we finish our secret project, spend the night there. This is a good thing, Clem.”

“I-”

Clementine doesn’t know what to say. The thought of AJ one day moving out never actually crossed her mind. She always assumed that he’d continue having sleepovers with Tenn every so often, but now that she looks at him, he may have a point.

He is getting older.

Now, around the age of seven- hell, maybe even eight at this point- he’s grown taller, lost a little of that baby fat in his cheeks. When she really looks at him, studies his face, she can almost see Rebecca in his every feature.

Except for his eyes.

He has his father’s kind eyes. Even when they’re angry, or sad, or tired, the shape and color are Alvin’s.

He’s not the same child who first walked in through the gates with her two years ago. He doesn’t always look to her for all the answers. He makes his own decisions for himself, regardless of her input.

Eventually, AJ would be a preteen, then a teenager.

Somehow, that thought quivers her chin, tightens her throat.

“I think being Tenn’s roommate will be fun,” he says. “And, maybe one day, when I’m even braver and stronger… maybe I could get a room of my own? With just my stuff?”

Clementine swallows thickly, saying, “Think you’ll be able to handle that?”

“One day.”

She nods, biting the inside of her cheek.

“But, if there is a night when I’m scared, or mad at Tenn, then I can just have a sleepover here, right?”

Clementine grins. “Of course, but do you really think you’re ready for a change like this?”

“Yes,” he answers assuredly.

The way he looks at her, so sure, so confident in himself, it swells such an emotional pride in her chest that she can’t help but pull him into a hug.

“Okay, shitbird, if it’s what you really want, we can give it a try and see where it goes.”

“ Hey !” AJ’s hands move to his hips, teasingly glaring at her. "Quit calling me that!"

“You’re the one who said you didn’t like goofball.”

“Shitbird isn’t any better!”

“I think it is,” she smirks.

“Because you’re a shitbird!”

“Maybe. But, you know what you are?”

“Not a shitbird?”

“No, you're ticklish!”

“Ah- haha, hey!”

---

James slept in the woods last night.

If the wedding wasn’t today, he would’ve stayed out there for the rest of the week.

Back inside the walls of the school grounds, Tenn’s decorating the arbor with leaves and flowers, weaving them through the small openings to try and hide any of the fencings they used. Willy’s standing on a stool and using old fishing wire to dangle some of the white and gold paper hearts.

AJ’s running from the entrance of the school, waving at them and excitedly telling Tenn something before getting to work with the arbor.

It brings a small smile to James’ face watching the three boys work together. They’d been so thrilled to decorate it after he and Mitch finished shaping and securing it for them.

Willy happily waves at him, shouting, “Hey! Whattya think?”

“Looks wonderful,” James calls back, giving them a thumbs up.

He spots Omar sitting on the couch with Rosie resting beside him, a faraway look lingering in his eye and a subtle grin tugging on his lips.

Figuring the boys are okay for the moment, James wanders over to Omar.

Rosie’s head jerks up, ears stiff and alert, but upon seeing it’s him, she relaxes, laying her head on Omar’s leg.

“Hello,” James quietly greets, sitting in the chair beside him.

“Hey,” Omar smiles. “Noticed you didn’t come back last night. Willy was worried you’d miss the wedding.”

“No, I wouldn’t do that,” he shakes his head. “Just… needed some time alone.”

“Too much socializing?”

“You could say that.”

He watches AJ stand on his tippy toes, nearly off balance as he tries to swat at the dangling hearts with his cheeks puffed out in concentration. Tenn’s giggling into his hand, amused at his friend’s attempt to prove how tall he’s gotten.

“Had watch with AJ last night,” Omar says, pointing over at the chortling boys. “Know what he said to me?”

“Hm?”

Omar smirks, recalling the night before. “He was telling me how much fun this week’s been, planning for the wedding and all. He said he’ll be sad when it’s over, when we have to go back to ‘boring’ stuff.”

“It has been an exciting time for him. Makes sense that he’d be sad when it’s over.”

“I told him that maybe we’d throw another party in the future. I suggested a Halloween party, since Willy pulled all that stuff out.”

James perks up. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Omar sighs. “Then I had to try and explain what Halloween was.”

AJ nearly falls over, almost taking the arbor with him. Luckily, Willy’s there to grab the back of his shirt and pull him to his feet. Even from far away James can see the clear fluster in his pout.

“He said he can’t wait until one of us gets married next so we can throw another one.”

James’ quirks an interested brow at that. “Did you have to explain how that works to him as well?”

“I did, and all I got back in return was ‘Omar, when are you getting married?’” Now he’s really laughing. “I think he forgets it takes two.”

James laughs along with him, relieved as the tension leaves his shoulders due to the pleasant conversation. Feeling brave, he jokingly asks, “Well, when are you getting married?”

“Oh, soon, soon ,” he nods, rolling his eyes. “Very soon. I’m thinking any day now Ruby’ll finally throw me over her shoulder and make an honest man of me.”

“Pfft!” James has to cover his mouth before he spat as the laughter rocks his body. He can’t help it; the image is just too hilarious not to laugh at. This catches the attention of the boys, all three of them staring at them with curious eyes.

All of the humor in the air gets Rosie’s interest, as well. She slips off the couch, moving to sit at Omar’s feet and observing him with old, fond eyes.

Omar smiles down at the dog, reaching into his pocket to pull out a busted tennis ball. Rosie’s ears shoot up and her entire body becomes tense. She’s off in a flash when Omar tosses it towards the gate.

“I’m just teasing,” Omar says before eyeing James with a smirk. “Don’t tell her I said that.”

“She probably wouldn’t find it so funny anyway.”

“Neither would Aasim.”

Rosie comes back with the ball, dropping it in Omar’s hand and readying herself, eyes stuck intensely on his every move. As he sends it soaring through the air again, Omar sighs, saying, “In all seriousness, though? I just don’t see it in my future.”

“No?”

“Nah,” he shakes his head. “No disrespect to our group, but there aren’t a lotta options. Then again, even when our group was bigger, I could never see myself feeling that way about someone, y’know?”

“I suppose it’s not for everyone.”

Omar nods, humming. “I’m happy for them, though. Clem and Louis are good for each other. I can only wish them the best from here on out. Truth be told, I think I’d rather be an outsider to it all anyway. A witness to it happening, you know.”

“There is something about watching two people fall for each other.”

“There is,” Omar agrees. “‘Course, it can be pretty frustrating, too.”

“How so?”

Omar glances around. Then, as he throws the ball once more, he gives James a smirk and whispers, “Do you ever see Aasim talking to Ruby and think to yourself, ‘Aasim, buddy, just go for it! You’re killing me over here!’”

Oh yes.

It’s no secret around the school that Aasim has feelings for Ruby, even though he bends over backward to deny it.

When James first became acquainted with the group and they worked out their system, no one had to tell him about it. It was as clear as pure water that Aasim’s gaze always lingered on the girl, his lips curved into an involuntary grin. There was something about the way he spoke to her, so soft but alert, like he was ready to hang onto her every word.

Which is why it’s so odd that he denies it so fiercely.

Perhaps it’s due to years of Louis’ harmless teasing, or because Aasim, despite being vocal when it came to important matters and unafraid to voice his opinion, is actually shy when it comes to things like this. Maybe that’s why he becomes so defensive when someone teases him about it.

Which, they do.

A lot.

The only one who doesn’t seem to notice is Ruby herself.

Which, yes, is frustrating to those around them.

Mitch once said that someone should tell her so she can put Aasim out of his misery. Of course, James had argued that Ruby might like him back if she knew he were interested, but it’s best not to interfere in the first place.

“Maybe he’s not ready,” James finally says.

“Not ready? How much time do you need?” Omar asks. “It’s been, what? Three, four years? You’d think Ruby’d at least get the hint.”

“She might not be ready, either.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Omar shrugs. Rosie drops the ball again. Her long tongue hangs out the side of her mouth as she gleefully pants. For a dog of her age, she still moves as well as a young pup. It’s rather impressive, James thinks.

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Ever think about it?”

“About… telling Ruby?”

“No, I mean-” Omar throws the ball again. This time it bounces and hits Willy in the leg, earning them both a “Hey!” and a glare. Rosie doesn’t run this time, she strides at a comfortable pace. “Just, about romance in general, I guess.”

Of course he does.

After leaving the basement, he headed straight through the gates and into the forest, spending most of the night drawing stray walkers back to his barn. As he meandered through the trees, he found himself becoming increasingly distracted several times because he kept thinking about Charlie.

Or, rather, the Charlie he had fallen in love with all those years ago.

Then, he thought about Mitch again.

Charlie and Mitch.

Back and forth.

It still stung, a fresh wound torn open just last night, but James couldn’t stop hearing the harshness of Mitch’s voice in his head. He regrets ever bringing up Charlie.

He thought, or perhaps assumed, that he and Mitch had become real friends over the course of the week. Maybe Mitch would understand that it wasn’t just Violet who’s still coping with the loss of a lover, and how that loss isn’t just something a person could forget. Maybe he’d be sympathetic to his friend, apologize for all the mean things he said.

However, that backfired.

Omar notices his silence, leaning over to get a good look at his face before saying, “Hey, sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”

James meets his eye, cutting loose his thoughts and returning to reality.

“Don’t wanna bring up bad memories.”

“No, it’s okay,” James gives an unsure smile. “I had someone in my life once, but we’ve since parted ways. I, uh… I used to think these things all the time when we were together.”

James looks down at his hands, a sad grin pulling at his lips.

“It’s pretty silly, but… back when all this happened and we were surviving together, in the quieter moments I would imagine us running away, finding a safe spot in the middle of nowhere, away from people and the walkers. Just the two of us, safe at last, ready to grow old together.”

“That’s not silly.”

“It was at the time. Should’ve been thinking about survival, not… that.”

“Survival isn’t everything,” Omar offers before twisting his mouth. “Well, these days I guess it sort of is, but it doesn’t always have to be the only thing. We’re lucky to have a place where we can have quieter moments, like this one. Where we can talk about things like this with each other.”

“Yeah.”

“Can’t let it take over,” Omar says. “It’s good to remember happier times. Keeps us human.”

James nods slowly, chewing on his bottom lip.

“I do like to think about Charlie sometimes,” he admits quietly. “Talk about him.”

Omar’s sympathetic eyes fall on him now. “Do you miss him?”

“I-” James sighs. “Yes, but I think it’s more I miss the him from before, not the him that I left.”

Omar nods thoughtfully. “Understandable.”

He doesn’t pry any further.

The boys are finished decorating the arbor now, and even from far away he can tell it’s made with love. Fresh branches with green leaves weave throughout it, and little white flowers seem to bloom all over it. The hearts dangle down at different lengths, lightly swaying as the boys carefully lift it up and carry it across the yard.

James can already picture Clementine and Louis standing beneath it, hand in hand, ready to seal the deal with a kiss.

“I ever tell you I had a brother?” asks Omar suddenly.

James turns his attention back to the boy beside him, shaking his head. “No.”

Omar’s grin grows wide. “His name was Marcus, and when I say older brother, I do mean older. We were nineteen years apart.”

“Oh,” James says, eyes widening. “That’s… quite a gap.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” he nods with a smirk. “I was a ‘happy accident,’ if you will.” He uses finger quotes to emphasize his point. “My parents only wanted to have one, then Ma got sick and found out she was pregnant with me and months later, I popped out.”

“Wow,” James breathes out. “Nineteen years.”

“Marcus was my hero,” Omar beams. “You’d think we wouldn’t have seen each other much, given how old he was, but for a long time it was the opposite. He was still living at home and going to school. I can still remember him coming into my room to tuck me in after getting home. And, even after he moved away, he visited plenty. Always made time for me.”

He sighs then, staring off towards the trees with the ball held firm in his hands.

“It’s weird. I don’t miss my parents nearly as much as I miss him.”

James’ brows raise, surprised. “Really?”

“My parents were… older, I guess. Had a lotta opinions, were very honest. Brutally so. If they thought it, it was right. Couldn’t change their minds. Heh, think that’s why they stayed together. No one else could put up with them beside each other,” Omar frowns. “But, Marcus was different.”

“I can tell you loved him very much.”

“He’s what’s kept me going. His voice in my head telling me what to do. ‘Don’t use all that pepper! You’ll ruin the stew! No, Omar, cook it a little longer! Don’t want your friends to get sick! Kid, go to bed earlier, you know you got watch in the morning.’ Shit like that.” He chuckles then, smirking over at James. “You know what he grew up to do?”

“What?”

“He was a baker. Cakes, cookies, bread, candies, and everything else.” Omar throws the ball, sending Rosie out towards the tables. “Everytime he got an order or when it was someone’s birthday or anniversary or whatever, he’d make the best cakes. And he’d always give me a big spoon full of icing to eat when no one was looking. He’d say he couldn’t ice it ‘til I tried it, said my opinion mattered.”

James studies the tenderness resting in Omar’s eyes, something different that he’d never seen before.

“That why you always cook for us?”

“Oh yeah. When shit really hit the fan and we were eating bland, nasty scraps, I knew that I could make something better, something enjoyable. And-” Omar’s smile dies, becoming a disheartening frown. “-and I told myself that if I keep everyone fed, we’ll survive. We’ll survive a long time and when Marcus comes to get me, he’ll be so proud.”

There’s a tightening in James’ chest, one that almost makes him wince.

“‘Course, I-I’m not delusional. I know he’s not coming. Not because he wouldn’t want to, or because he didn’t try, or because he didn’t love me.” Omar look back at the school building with sullen eyes. “When… when I got sent here, he was working in another country, somewhere in Europe.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. He was still there when all this happened. He was so excited to go, him and his buddy, gonna take over the place. They’d be making all sorts of stuff for some crazy expensive bakery. He used to write me letters about his job there and everything he saw, send me pictures and stuff. Still keep ‘em in my room. Read ‘em when things get tough.”

His grin falls, becoming sad.

“And… when I was shot, locked up on that ship after the delta attacked us,” he starts slowly. “Thinking about him, alive and somewhere safe, kept me sane, kept me hopeful. When you guys finally brought me home and let me rest in my room, the first thing I did was pull that box out and look at his picture.”

James offers a comforting smile. “I’m glad you have something of his to remember him by.”

“Yeah, me too. I just-” Omar sighs. “Been thinking about him a lot this week, with the wedding and all.”

Rosie, tired of chasing the ball, hops back up beside Omar, happily panting. He reaches around the rub and scratch her side.

“I wish I had the stuff to make them a cake, you know? Something sweet for all of us to enjoy. Something Marcus would be proud of.”

James smiles, saying, “You’re making dinner, though. That’s something. Louis and Clementine appreciate what you’re doing for them, and I know everyone else appreciates you for all the years of feeding them, as well.”

Omar smirks. “They better. They could’ve had Lou cooking for them. Imagine the food poisoning,” he shudders, drawing a light chuckle from James.

“Hey!”

Both boys turn towards the front doors where Mitch is standing.

James immediately faces forward, feeling that strange, uneasy sting tug at his stomach. All the relaxing humor is gone, replaced with dread at knowing he’s about to face the boy who had truly hurt his feelings last night. He thinks about excusing himself and hurrying away, but Mitch is already there, standing beside him.

“Hey, look at you,” Omar grins. “Ruby got a hold of you, huh?”

“Did’ja think she wouldn’t?”

“It looks good.”

“Whatever.”

“Why can’t you ever take a compliment?”

“I- she’s gonna be looking for you, too, you know!”

“I already told her I don’t need a haircut. I’m growing it out.” Omar points up at the mess of curls tied up on his head with a smirk. “She’s not gettin’ a hold of these luscious locks.”

“Dude.”

James keeps his focus forward, trying to ignore the banter and Mitch’s presence looming over him until a hand bumps his shoulder.

“Hey.”

The first thing he notices is how soft his voice is, like a switch was flipped. The second thing he notices as he blinks up at him is that Omar’s right; his haircut does look nice. His bangs still fall over his forehead, but the length no longer brushes his shoulders or covers most of his face.

He finds his voice, quiet and repressed, cold. “Hello.”

Mitch shifts his weight to one foot and folds his arms over his chest. “We’re goin’ hunting. Grab a bow.”

James thinks he’s misunderstood the words, repeating them slower in his head.

“You guys?” Omar asks. “Thought Louis and Aasim were going?”

“No,” Mitch replies quickly, glancing away. “We are.”

Omar looks between the two, taking note of the obvious tension. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” Mitch scowls. He nudges James again. “Let’s go. Meet’cha at the gates.”

Before any more words can be spoken, he turns on his heel and heads towards the gates. James watches him go, his chest and stomach twisting.

---

Aasim’s the only one awake when the banging on the door starts.

He’d been changing into the clothes he set aside for this particular day: a faded pair of dark jeans and a heavy, oversized burgundy sweatshirt.

Through the muffled brightness of the room, he sees Louis lift his head. Lidded, glazed eyes glance around before he turns fully onto his front and smashes his face back into the pillow with a groan.

Aasim rolls his eyes, smirking. He runs his fingers through his bedhead, smoothing it out as he unlocks the door.

Ruby’s rosy-cheeked face grins at him. “There ya are! Thought the two of ya croaked in there.”

Aasim slips out, shutting the door behind him. “Not quite,” he says, straightening out his shirt. “We stayed up pretty late.”

“You, too, huh? Seems like Clem and I were the only early birds last night. Lou's still sleepin,’ I assume?”

Aasim jerks his thumb towards the door. “Yeah, I’d say it’ll be another few hours before I can even attempt to drag him out of bed. We might have to postpone our hunting trip until later.”

“Oh, don’t fret ‘bout that,” Ruby waves her hand dismissively. “Mitch and James are out there now. I got somethin’ else important fer ya to do.”

Before he can ask, she offers him a bag that he knows all too well. That’s also when he notices that she’s brought along her stool, the tall, adjustable one she uses for haircuts. He takes the bag from her with a timid grin.

“Been busy this morning, haven’t you?”

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” she chuckles. “Got up real early ta start finishin’ up the music room and cuttin’ all the boys’ hair. Tenn, Willy, Mitch, and I still gotta find James and Omar, and-” she studies him for a moment before smirking, “Oh, I don’t gotta worry ‘bout you. You always stay nice and trimmed.”

The compliment brings a familiar flutter in his stomach, one he tries to repress.

“‘Cept with that scruff,” Ruby teases, pointedly looking at his chin.

Like a reflex, his fingers scratch at the so-called “scruff.”

He wouldn’t admit it, but for the past few months, he’s been trying to grow a full beard. However, it wasn’t the thick, glorious facial hair he dreamed of.

Instead, he got a patchy mess of bald portions and uneven thickness along his jaw and upper lip. He shaved all that off after some stupid comment Mitch made, but left his chin untouched, it being the only place on his face where it grew perfectly. He’d be damned if he’s going to shave all that hard work off.

His face must be amusing because Ruby’s giggling, winking up at him and saying, “I’ll let it pass, though, since it does look mighty handsome, especially paired with that sweatshirt. Nice color on ya.”

Shit.

Did she just-?

“Uh-”

“Anyway!” Ruby claps her hands together, completely oblivious to Aasim’s internal crisis of having too many compliments thrown at him, grabs a hold of the stool and props herself up on it. “I didn’t come here ta tell ya how good ya look-”

Shit.

“-I was actually wonderin’ if ya could give me a trim? And, maybe ya could braid it fer me, too? I’m not so good at doin’ it on myself,” she says sheepishly as she reaches back and undoes the tie holding her hair together, the curls falling over her shoulders and down her back.

Shit, shit, shit-

“Yeah-” he croaks, quickly clearing his throat and coughing to cover up the crack in his voice. “I can do that.”

“Thanks.”

Aasim can’t help but gawk a little at how long it’s gotten. Last time he did this years ago, it barely touched her shoulders.

He kneels down over the bag, hiding his face from her and counting in his head, trying to quiet his drumming heart. It’s so loud in his ears that it’s a wonder Ruby doesn’t hear it.

Once he sprays her curls wet and combs through it, he takes a steady breath before working on trimming the edges.

“Mitch got the lights ta work, apparently,” she says. “Guess Lou was right. The boy is magic. Haven’t seen ‘em in action myself, but he swears up and down they’ll light tonight.”

“If not, we have the extra candles.”

“That’s what I figure. Oh, and the boys brought up the arch thing-”

“The arbor.”

“-yeah, that, and it looks real nice. I can see it now, Clem and Lou standin’ there while yer marryin’ them- Oh!” Luckily, he’s not in the middle of cutting anything when she turns to face him. “Did Lou finish his vows?”

“Yes. Why do you think we were up so late?” He partially lies, then curses himself for it, but he’s not about to admit what really happened.

He really would croak if she knew he’d practiced dancing with Louis while pretending it was her.

“Good, good,” she relaxes, letting him get back to work. “Jus’ need Mitch and James ta come back with somethin’ fer Omar ta cook and we should be ready.”

“Did you grab the headmaster’s glasses?”

“Aw, shit! No! I fergot- Omar was supposed ta remind me!”

Aasim chuckles, finishing off the back of her hair. He only took off about an inch, figuring she’d want the extra length to make a longer braid. Trying to focus on her bangs now rather than her curious eyes peering up at him, he’s careful not to poke or pull too harsh on them, his focus narrowing down to blending the bangs in with the rest of her hair.

“I really appreciate this, Aasim,” she grins.

“No problem,” he mumbles, still concentrating.

“And not just fer this, I mean. Fer helpin’ me out so much this week. I really couldn’t have made it look so nice without yer help. And I’m real thankful yer marryin’ them.”

He has to stop, noticing that his hands beginning to tremble slightly.

“Couldn’t let you do it all by yourself,” he pulls back, fumbling with the scissors and checking the length of the bangs between his finger.

“You’re just always helpin’ me with stuff, y’know, even when I don’t ask or when I’m bein’ difficult.”

His knuckle brushes against the smoothness of her warm skin.

Shit.

“Yer real sweet ta me, and I feel like I don’t ever thank ya enough fer bein’ there.”

“Ruby,” he tosses the scissors aside, “you don’t have to thank me.”

“Well, that ain’t gonna stop me,” she laughs, reaching up to brush her freshly cut bangs back to beam at him. “So, thank you, Aasim.”

Fuck.

How could not feel anything for her?

The way those sparkling, baby blue eyes stare up at him and how her pretty lips smile like that after speaking such kindness, he’d have to be a brain-dead walker to not see how beautiful Ruby is in every form of the word.

And, god, he hates what it does to him.

“You’re welcome.”

That brightens her smile.

She shifts on the stool, bringing her curls over one shoulder and twisting. “I’m thinkin’ a french braid, maybe? Or perhaps two of ‘em, like pigtail braids or somethin’?”

Aasim searches the bag for a fine pick comb and begins sectioning off chunks of hair.

“I think double french braids suit you.”

“You’d know best,” she says, fixing her posture to let him work better.

As he works on threading the chunks of hair through each other, he says, “I haven’t done this in a while.”

“Not many of us to do it to,” Ruby sighs, then snickers, “‘Less ya can convince Mitch ta sit still in a few months.”

Aasim scoffs. “That’ll just result in another greenhouse incident.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

“Just saying.”

They chuckle lightly together as Aasim finishes the first braid, tying it off with an elastic band he found in the bottom of the bag.

Ruby admires the braid, running her thumb over the remaining curls flowing past the tie. “How’d ya get so good at this, anyway?”

“I used to do my sister’s hair for school. Mom always had work early, so we had to get ready ourselves.”

“Ah, that’s right,” Ruby smiles. “What was her name again?”

“Aamirah.”

“Pretty name.”

“For a pretty girl. She was a handful, but can’t say I don’t miss her. I’m just-” Aasim’s words hitch as his heart becomes sorely heavy. “-I’m glad she wasn’t around to see the world go to shit like this.”

She peeks back at him with a sympathetic smile and grabs his hand, giving it a comforting squeeze, which he returns. They share the intimate moment in silence, merely staring at each other. Something changes, some minor in her eyes, her brow as she looks at her.

He forces himself to let go of her, otherwise, he might do something stupid.

“Well, it’s done,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

Two braids fall over Ruby’s shoulders now. She hops off the stool, shooting him a timid, self-conscious look before doing a quick spin and saying, “Well?”

So damn beautiful.

---

Within the warmth of the forest, the rabbits are eager to forage and stretch their legs.

One, thick with pretty taupe fur, dares dart from the security of it’s bush. It moves slowly, lolloping, grazing as it raises its nose in the air, twitching with every sniff. At the slightest noise, it’s up on their hind legs, black eyes darting around.

An arrow pierces its neck before it could possibly react, killing it instantly.

As they approach the small creature, James can’t help but admire the effective and skillful shot.

Mitch, when focused, is skillful enough that James believes he could pull off that old Robin Hood trick if he really tried.

Yanking the arrow out and stuffing the body in his bag to join the other two they caught previously, Mitch breathes out heavily through his nose. He glances over at James before standing up and strapping the bag back over his shoulder.

James isn’t unaware of the tension, nor is he unaware of the constant looks Mitch keeps giving him, though, he can’t figure what they mean. They’re not hostile, nothing like last night, but they’re not exactly friendly, either. They’re almost thoughtful, maybe. He’s still not sure.

Either way, they make him nervous.

Gurgled groaning echoes in the distance, catching their attention.

A walker moves through the woods, alone and at a slow pace. James’ hand instinctively goes to his mask in his backpocket.

Mitch turns to him with a raised brow and fingers hovering over the knife on his belt, at which James shakes his head.

“Too far.”

While Mitch wasn’t ever crazy about keeping all the walkers alive, even going as far as to actively argue against it multiple times in the beginning, he came around to the idea when James explained it to him as a weapon.

And after said weapon worked wonders towards infiltrating the delta and keeping the forest fairly walker-free, Mitch grumbled his agreement and promised he wouldn’t kill any walkers unless he absolutely had to.

They continue their walk in silence, nothing but the crunching under their boots and the wind sounding through the forest.

And as they’re walking, James realizes that he’s looking over at Mitch just as much as he is him.

Endless stolen glances.

“Willy asked about you this morning,” Mitch finally says, quietly. “Said you left last night.”

His voice is forcibly casual, James notes.

“You didn’t even tell anybody?”

When he doesn’t answer, Mitch stops walking. James comes to a slow as well, just a bit ahead, keeping his back to him.

“No, I didn’t.”

Mitch doesn’t move, waiting for an elaboration. When he doesn’t get any, he tucks his bow behind him, securing it to his bag, and crosses his arms.

“Why do you do that?”

Intrigued by the question, James cranks his neck to peer back at him with quizzical, furrowed brows, asking, “What?”

“Sleep out here,” Mitch looks around with a glower. “You’ve got a room at the school now. It’s stupid to sleep out here if you don’t have to.”

Once again, Mitch doesn’t understand, and James is quickly growing tired of trying to explain it to him.

“Especially for weeks at a time,” Mitch continues. “We don’t know if you’re dead or if someone grabbed you or whatever. Then, you don’t even tell anyone when you leave. It worries Willy sick. AJ, too. And the others.”

What about you? James wants to ask.

“It’s just-” Mitch shakes his head, sighing, “-stupid.”

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

His words come out much harsher than intended, but they clearly have an effect on Mitch, considering that he’s glaring now.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means-” James’ lips press together into a tight line as he breaks eye contact, instead focusing on one of the set traps attached to the trees. “-you choose to not understand something you don’t like. You’re not one for reason.”

Mitch’s glare is gone, replaced with bafflement as such bluntness. He opens his mouth, no doubt ready to spit some sort of retaliation, then promptly shuts it.

James turns from him again, beginning to walk away, which must’ve set some sort of panic within Mitch, because he blurts out, “So, explain it to me.”

With those words, a sarcastic irritation stings in his chest. James stops again, keeping his gaze forward as Mitch approaches from behind.

“Explain it to you?” he repeats. “Yes, because that worked so well last time.”

James turns to fully face him with a glare only to be met with puzzlement, then guilt. Mitch lowers his head, shoulders hunched, and expression twisted with a silent wince. His knuckles turn white as he grips his upper arms.

“Fuck-” Mitch breathes out. “I-”

While still hurt and a bit agitated, James can’t help but soften, just a bit, at the view of him now.

Mitch turns away from him, giving James the view of his profile now.

“I’m a prick,” Mitch mumbles. “A huge fucking prick. Last night, I- I didn’t mean to kick you out like that. I just-” He cuts himself off, biting his lip. Then, glancing at him from the corner of his eye, he asks, “You- why’d you tell me about Charlie, anyway?”

The question catches him off guard, even though a part of him expected it.

“What you were saying about Violet was unfair and ignorant. I thought maybe if I-” James sighs, forcing out, “- opened up to you, you’d see that, but clearly it didn’t work.”

Mitch’s fully facing him again, refusing to break their eye contact this time as he says, “I didn’t mean to do that. I’m sorry, I- you just-”

He stumbles over his words all while James stands there, bewildered that he actually got what sounded like a sincere apology. While Mitch wasn’t above it, James noticed that it took a lot to get him to admit he’s in the wrong, much less say he’s truly sorry.

Mitch moves past him now, walking ahead and grumbling something to himself as he rubs at his neck. James only caught the words, “ C’mon, Mitch, you goddamn- ”

He hurries until they’re walking side by side again, this time a bit closer now that the tension, for the most part, has been broken.

Mitch’s bothered, it’s clear in his twisted frown until finally, with a frustrated sigh, he admits, “I lied.”

“What?”

“I, uh- when we were talking about Vi and you were asking me all those questions…” He trails off.

James watches him carefully but doesn’t push. He can see Mitch’s struggling with his words, an internal debate on whether or not he should continue. It’s similar to his behavior last night when deciding on if he should bring up Violet and Minerva or not.

Something rustles in the bushes, then there’s a snap, causing them both to freeze. One of the traps up ahead, the one in the direct sunlight, is triggered, and from the looks of it, a rabbit’s hanging by its foot.

“Shit-” Mitch curses, picking up his speed towards the creature.

It’s full grown, a pretty, glossy dark brown coat with white spots, struggling against the trap. He takes care of it quickly, squinting at the light seeping in through the branches but not hesitating to put it down. James notices that he seems relieved with the distraction, and he wonders if he’ll take the opportunity to drop the entire topic.

That thought is squashed when Mitch continues to steal anxious glances at him as he places the rabbit in his bag with the others.

“James?”

“Yes?”

“There was someone,” Mitch says slowly. “Once. Kind of.”

“Someone-” His eyes widen. “You mean…?”

“It wasn’t really anything- we weren’t anything. Fuck, we weren’t even really friends- well, okay, we were , I guess, but-” Mitch abruptly stands, tossing the bag back over his shoulder and glaring down at his feet. “But we were never more than that- but, I- I did -”

The jumble of desperate words is alarming, leaving James to put his hands up and say in as calm and comforting of a voice as he can muster, “You don’t have to tell me.”

Mitch rubs at his face now, his eyes and his neck with exasperation at himself, his incompetence to put together proper sentences. Then, with a huff, he forces his arms to his sides as he drops the bag on the ground and takes a direct, intentional step towards James. He remains where he is, despite their much closer proximity now.

“Yeah, I know. I don’t have to do anything.”

With that intense stare boring into him, James quietly curses himself.

He knows it’s not the time to think it.

As inappropriate as it is in this moment, he can’t help but notice the shift in the shade of Mitch’s eyes. Before, he’d always thought they were a desaturated gray with barely a hint of color, nothing worthy of note. This close and in the light, however, they’re far from so. They’re green, a color that compliments his complexion almost too well.

His fingers bite into his palm as his pulse quickens, warmth spreads up his neck and to his cheeks.

Not the time, James. Stop it!

Mitch, those green eyes becoming unbelievably vulnerable, a jarring thing to even consider, speaks.

“His name was Justin.”

For a brief second, James thinks he might’ve misheard him as his mouth parts in a silent gasp.

“He was an asshole,” Mitch says, “but… not all the time. He’d always talk all big about how tough he was or how he could kick any walker’s ass and no one could hurt him and all that bullshit. But, he was scared, just like the rest of us.”

As he speaks, he never breaks the connection of their stares.

“He used to piss me off a lot. Like, really piss me off. One time, I was so mad that I wrote ‘Justin fucked a walker!’ on the wall right where I knew everyone would see it and I knew he’d know it was me. Gave me a pretty good shiner for that one.”

Mitch scoffs, biting hard on his lip.

“I don’t even remember what he did.”

He glances away now, his determinate features falling into one of dejected longing, gaze moving far away in remembrance.

“It wasn’t always like that,” he murmurs. “We liked a lot of the same things and he’d help me watch out for Willy when I needed him to. We graffitied the shit out of the school together. I liked having him around, talking to him and going on watch together and being roommates. But… there were a few times where I think it just-” Mitch shakes his head, “-it just caught up to him, y’know? The world’s over and we’ve been left to rot by the fuckers who promised they’d make us better. It was just us and…”

Mitch takes a deep breath and turns away, leaving James to gaze upon his back.

“He made me feel gross .”

Puzzled by the use of Mitch’s favorite word being used in this context, James asks, “Gross?”

“Not gross like ‘ew, disgusting,’ but like,” Mitch bites his lip, trying to find the right words, “like gross as in ‘I’m thirteen and you do something to me that I don’t like and don’t understand and no one can explain it to me and everything is fucked .’”

James tries to process it all, backpedaling and repeating what he’s hearing in his mind, striving to wrap his head around it.

And when he does, when he fully comprehends just what Mitch is confessing to him out here in the openness of the forest, his insides tie around in knots and his chest squeezes his uncontrollable heart.

“I didn’t really figure it out until the day he didn’t come back from a hunting trip.”

James breathes out, voice barely above a whisper, “Mitch…”

“We’d lost lots of others. I never cried over them, never let myself because it’s pointless. Crying doesn’t bring anybody back, but Justin…” Mitch whips around, startling James. “I was so fucking mad at him. He thought he could take on a bunch of walkers himself and-” his voice cracks “-and he fucking couldn’t. Of course, he couldn’t! He was fucking scrawny.”

His eyes fall shut, and James felt his hands twitch, wanting nothing more than to reach out to him.

“I didn’t let myself cry over him, and to this day, I still haven’t because I told myself to get over it, and I did, okay? But, he didn’t come back and even though I got over it, I still fucking hate him for it. And- and I hate him for making me-” he meets James’ eye again, “-for making me see a part of myself that I tried to hide from.”

James doesn’t know what to say, he can’t think properly.

“Mitch, I… I didn’t know.”

“No one does,” he shrugs. “I really didn’t mean to be a dipshit and say that shit to you, I- I just… None of the other guys ever seemed to deal with this shit so I didn’t think I’d ever meet anyone else who- uh-” he clears his throat awkwardly, “- you know . But, then you told me about Charlie and it freaked me out.”

“That’s understandable,” James tries. “I… I get it.”

“Yeah? Because, really, I can imagine what kind of a fucktard you thought I was for kicking you out because of that.”

“Yes,” James admits. “Let’s just say I’m not unfamiliar with that sort of treatment regarding my, uh, preferences.”

“Fuck. Then I went and- shit!” Mitch crosses his arms again and kicks at the uneven dirt.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

There’s more growling in the distance, another walker aimlessly roaming the forest, but Mitch’s focus is solely on James and the conversation, so intense it quickens his pulse.

“Really, no one knows?” James asks. “Not even Willy?”

“No. It’s not like anyone would care if they found out. Willy sure wouldn’t. Fuck, they probably wouldn’t think anything about it. They didn’t when Vi and Minnie got together. That shit doesn’t matter anymore. But...”

“You don’t have to be ashamed-”

“I’m not,” Mitch takes another step towards him.“I-I know I was raised to be disgusted with this type of stuff, and that I am an asshole a lot of the time, and I say lots of stupid shit I don’t mean, but no, I don’t have any real reason to be ashamed. I know who I am, I know what I like and I don’t give a shit what other people think about me.”

His face falls.

“Well, what most people think of me, I guess.”

Then, as if realizing just how close they are, he takes a step back and turns on his heel, moving back towards the triggered trap.

“Some kids got picked up, you know,” Mitch continues, his voice turning bitter. “Their parents came and grabbed them, hauled them off in the first few days when all this seemed like a short-lived disaster. When it turns out it wasn’t, our teachers weren’t far behind them.”

That…

James thinks back to everyone at the school, imagining them as small children huddled together in the nightmare that was the end of the world, the world of walkers.

How could anyone be so cruel as to leave behind terrified, defenseless children? What kind of monster doesn’t even try and help them survive?

Mitch grabs the bag of rabbits off the ground and shrugging it back on his shoulder, continuing, “One day, a while after we lost Justin, it just hit me. The world’s over and my dad, my brothers, my grandparents, none of them are coming for me. They’re either dead or worse. And, as fucked up as it is, I was relieved. Relieved that they’d never get that chance to tell me who I am, or hate what I like or who I like. They gave up that right the moment they dropped my ass off here.”

There’s something subdued in his expression now as he looks at James again and says, “And after realizing that, after denying it for so long, I finally felt I could admit it to myself.”

Then, he smiles.

Mitch genuinely smiles at him.

And it makes his knees weak.

“Thank you,” James whispers.

Mitch raises a questioning brow, blinking over at him.

“For trusting me,” he elaborates lightly. “I know it’s difficult to deal with on your own and even more so to share with someone.”

“I dunno,” Mitch smirks, scoffing and scratching at his cheek. “There might be something to this ‘sharing your feelings’ crap because I feel pretty fucking good getting that off my chest.”

James chuckles. “This is the most I’ve ever heard you talk.”

“That’s the most I’ve ever talked in my life.”

They exchange another smile, and James admits that this is the first time he’s seen this sort of grin from him.

He’s witnessed his proud smile, the one he always gives Willy.

His sarcastic sneer he has whenever teasing or arguing with Ruby.

His smirk at Clementine whenever they agree on something.

His smug grin whenever he successfully builds or fixes something.

Then there’s this smile, one that’s truly relieved, comfortable.

Happy.

James might be getting ahead of himself, but he can’t help but ask, “We’re friends, then?”

“Shit, we better be after I, uh-” Mitch glances away sheepishly, “- opened up to you.”

That widens the smile tugging at James’ own lips.

“And, since we are,” Mitch glances away, “I actually had a few questions… about it.”

“You can ask them on the way. We still have more hunting to do.”

“Shit, yeah. Omar’ll pop a gasket if we don’t catch enough.”

“We wouldn’t want that.”

---

Violet never thought she’d ever be one to do this, but here she is, standing in front of her open closet and studying the few articles of wearable clothing.

A long time passes as she remains indecisive, constantly debating on just growing a pair and grabbing something or slamming the door shut and crawling back into bed.

Either way, nothing happens until Tenn comes.

“Hey, Vi,” he greets, closing and locking the door behind him. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

All Violet can do is shrug, sighing an honest, “I don’t know.”

Tenn peeks into her closet before turning back to her. That’s when she notices he’s holding something.

A white flower, one of the ones that grow everywhere this time of year around the school.

“I was wondering…-” he starts, “-we still have a few hours before the sun starts to set. That’s when Ruby wants us all there, except Clementine. So… I was wondering if you changed your mind? About going?”

Her gaze remains locked on the contents of her closet.

She doesn’t answer.

And it kills her knowing that, even without looking him, disappointment is spreading across his soft features. He moves past her and sets the flower on her dresser, right on her notebook.

“If you do come,” he says, “everyone’s wearing one of these flowers. It doesn’t matter where, it’s just so we all match.”

Before he leaves, he gives her one final look. “Let me know if you change your mind… so you don’t have to go alone.”

When the door clicks shut, Violet sinks down to her knees, slamming her fist against her thigh.

“For fuck's sake, Vi,” she hisses. “What’s wrong with you?”

She isn’t doing this again.

She’s not moving back into the shadows.

As much as she wants to turn and dive back into her bed, wrap the blankets around herself and pretend nothing around her exists, she won’t do it.

She’s not staring at the door anymore with a hand so desperate to knock.

Not this time.

She knows she has to do this, has to tell all of her fears, her insecurities to fuck off. She has to try.

For Louis.

"Everyone'll be there, and it wouldn't be perfect without you, Vi. You know that, right?"

“You’re fucking better than this.”

If Louis wants her there, then damn it, she’s going to be there.

With a huff, she forces herself back up and yanks the first shirt she sees off its hanger, stretching it out before her. It’s a charcoal color with a purple heart adorning the chest area.

Fuck it, this’ll do.

---

“Ruby’s going to see Clem, and the others are in the music room, so steer clear.”

Louis doesn’t know how he did it, but he actually convinced Aasim to let him wander off.

Of course, he promised that he wouldn’t go near the music room or go see Clementine, and he practically got on his hands and knees and begged to leave the comfort of Aasim’s room.

Aasim eventually gave in once Louis was dressed in the attire picked out for him; a dark green button down shirt tucked into his jeans and his signature jacket.

The yard is empty with the exception of Willy on watch. Before the young boy spots him, he makes a quick turn to the right and heads down the sidewalk towards the graveyard.

All the graves have fresh flowers on them, white ones with long stems. Louis places himself on the ground, not bothering to care if dirt clung to his jeans or jacket.

“Hey, Marlon.”

The wooden cross is faded from constant sun exposure, but the carved letters are still prominent.

“It’s been a while. I know I promised I would visit more, and I did for a long time there, but a lot’s been going on.”

Louis rests his hands in his lap, glancing up at some birds flying overhead.

“Don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m getting married today. To Clementine. Who else, right? You wouldn’t believe it, but she proposed to me. Me. I know, you’re baffled with disbelief, but it’s true. I’d show you my ring, but Ruby confiscated it.”

He points to the naked finger on his hand.

“Anyway, it’s been a long time. I just wanted to see you before it happens, talk to you about some stuff. If you were here, I can only imagine what you’d say. I think you’d be happy, maybe not thrilled about Clementine, since you did warn me against her… though I doubt you had my best interests in mind at the time.”

“Dude, don’t get your hopes up. I doubt she feels that way about you.”

“...Yeah...”

He lowers his head, eyes squeezing shut.

“...you’re right.”

He can always remember that day so clearly. The last moments he saw his best friend before the thunderstorm hit, before he killed Brody and almost shot Clementine.

Before he died.

“Thanks, man. Goodnight.”

“Fuck,” Louis breathes out. After a brief pause, he continues, “The nightmares are still bad. Shit, they’re getting worse, I think. I haven’t told Clem about most of them, and I’m starting to think that’s not the right thing to do. I read once in one of those magazines that honestly is the key to an unbreakable relationship. Which, I guess it is in anything, like an unbreakable friendship.”

A chill overcomes him.

“That’s what really fucked us over, huh?”

Louis looks back up at the sky, admiring the fluffy clouds as he speaks, “I won’t make the same mistake. I know I have to tell Clem how bad it’s gotten, and I will sometime after the wedding. I can’t be afraid of it anymore, you know? I’m sick of waking up like that, of hiding it from her and the others. I’m sure you’d tell me to man up, get over myself and do better. But… it’s not easy.”

Feeling the wetness return to his sore eyes, Louis quickly rubs at them.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about her and our wedding, about my parents. I don’t think they’d like her very much. In fact, I’m pretty sure Dad would forbid me from accepting her proposal, and maybe-” he gives a dry laugh, “-here’s a funny thought, Marlon. Maybe he would be so pissed off that he’d break me and Clementine up.”

He hears distant voices from behind him but pays them no attention.

“How do you think he’d do it? A fake affair, like I did? Or would that be too predictable?”

A warm breeze carries the scent of a floral spring with a hint of dirt, something that’d be more enjoyable had he not been sitting where he is.

“It’d make sense, wouldn’t it?” he whispers. “An eye for an eye, one marriage for another-” he inhales a shuddering breath, “-that’d balance everything out, wouldn’t it? Why should I get to live in this world happily married after I fucked up my own parent’s marriage?”

He sniffles, shaking his head and stares at the mound of dirt before him.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” he murmurs. “But I’m going to do what I always do; enjoy this moment. It’s the only sure thing. Maybe the karma monster will rear it’s ugly head one day and hurt me real bad again, but until then, I’m going to smile, go back into that school, marry the woman of my dreams, and have the best night of my life.”

The voices grow louder, and recognizes them as Mitch, James, and Omar, no doubt getting ready to start cooking.

“I love Clementine, Marlon,” he smiles. “And I kept my promise. I’ve stepped up. Really, I have. You know I’ll never stop joking around, but I do take hunting and scavenging more seriously now. And we haven’t lost anyone since you, Brody and the twins. For the most part, everything’s been really good. Things are still tense with Violet- hell, I don’t even know if she’s going to show up today, but that doesn’t change anything. We… we’re all family now, Marlon, more so than we were before. I wish you could be here to see it, all of you.”

Footsteps approach from a distance, so Louis goes quiet.

“Hey,” Aasim calls softly.

“Hey.”

He stands beside him, peering down at the graves.

“It’s almost time. Mitch and James are back, Omar’s preparing the rabbits, and the music room’s officially finished. The boys are in there now.”

“Do I get to go in?”

“Yep, Ruby said you could play the piano while we wait for it to get darker. To calm your nerves, if you need to.”

“That sounds amazing,” Louis grins, looking back to Marlon’s grave. “Would you believe Ruby kicked me out of there? I haven’t touched the piano in a whole week.”

“And you survived,” Aasim rolls his eyes.

“Barely.”

“Well, when you’re done here, go ahead and go in. There’s no rush, though.”

“Thanks, I’m just going to say goodbye.”

Aasim gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze before turning and walking off back towards Omar. When he’s out of earshot, Louis decides it’s time to say his goodbyes.

“Well, guess that’s my cue. I’ll be back to talk to you again, let you know how things are going, what it’s like being married. I don’t imagine it’ll be all that different, right? I will get to call Clementine my wife. Looking forward to that.”

He shifts himself onto his knees and places his palm against the dirt, giving one final moment of peace for his lost friend.

“I miss you.”

A heaviness is lifted from him, a serenity replacing it. He let his doubts have their moment, let them shake his core and attempt to take over, but he leaves them there with Marlon’s grave.

Over the years of surviving in this world, Louis became a master of tucking those thoughts away, leaving them to be explored later, and focusing on the good things.

Like how in a couple of hours, he gets to see Clementine.

He gets to wear his ring, he gets to hold her face in his hands and kiss her, and dance with her. He gets to be with his family.

At least, most of his family.

“Goodbye, Marlon.”

As Louis goes back into the school, he keeps his head held high and adorns a tranquil smile on his lips.

78 notes · View notes

septic84 · 5 years ago

Text

The stranger who loved me.

Writing a book about our lives as Dan and Phil the YouTubers was surreal. I wasn’t sure how we pulled that off let alone the tour we were about to start. The Amazing Book Is Not On Fire sparked The Amazing Tour Is Not On Fire and we were about to go on stage to perform our first show. Everything was going smoothly until it wasn’t. I saw Phil stumble, try to regain composure, then fall off of the stage.

A03

“Oh shit,” my voice echoed over the microphone, I reached down to switch it off, waiting to see Phil come back up the stairs. When he didn’t, I hurried down to him.

“Phil, are you okay?” I said approaching him. The crowd was whispering and talking hushed. Phil didn’t respond. “Phil?” When I looked down at him, he laid still, there was a pool of blood under his head. “Oh my God!” By this time our security team had already started to section off the area as the medical staff was making their way towards us. I leaned down and switched off Phil’s mic. “Hey, hang in there okay? Help is coming.” He didn’t move. An announcement was made to the theater that there was an emergency and for everyone to stay seated. I heard people crying in the audience, I couldn’t blame them, I was almost in tears myself. I knew when Phil was well again, he would feel really bad about making so many people so upset due to his clumsiness. He had finally managed to hurt himself badly due to his constant tripping over his own feet.

When we got to hospital, a member of the security team was allowed to go with him and wait outside the door, I, however, was asked to stay in the waiting room. Nervously my knee bounced up and down as I wrung my hands and stared at my feet, I really wanted to be with Phil. Not knowing what was going on was killing me. It seemed like days had passed when A doctor came out to give us information.

“Philip Lester?” I stood up and walked to the doctor.

“Relation?”

“He’s my,” I paused, “Best friend and flatmate. We were in the middle of our stage show when he fell.”

He nodded, “Okay, come with me.” The doctor started to rattle off information too quickly for me to keep up. Several medical terms later I had sussed out that he had broken his nose, had swelling on his brain and was in a coma. “He is stable right now; we have a specialist coming in the morning to review his charts,”

“Okay,” I said as we entered the room. Phil was hooked up to several machines and an IV. His head was wrapped in gauze, his eyes were both black from bruising.

“I’ll leave you for now,” The doctor gave a sympathetic smile and left.

I sat next to his bed, “Oh Phil,” I choked. I could hear the beeping of the monitors and machinery as I laid my head down on the bed, not able to contain it anymore, tears slid down my face. I was so scared, Phil looked too fragile and helpless. What was worse is I knew I couldn’t do anything for him. Not at all.

I must have dozed off as I was startled awake by a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see Martyn smiling down at me, sadly. “Hi,”

“Hey. I would have let you sleep, but they say the specialist should be here soon,”

I nodded, “How long have you been here?”

He shrugged, “Few hours,”

“I can’t believe he is laying here literally because he fell off of the stage. “

Martyn chuckled humorlessly, “Leave it to Phil,”

“The swelling is already going down,” the specialist said after she had his head scanned again. “He should wake up in the next few days, granted he keeps making progress like this.” She looked at Martyn, then me, “It’s good news, boys.” She smiled, nodded and walked out.

Three days later Phil woke up. I was making my way back to him from the bathroom when I heard him groan in pain and saw his eyes flutter open.

“Hi there, Phily,” I said softly. He turned and looked at me, his face held the look of utter confusion, I laughed. “You fell off the stage, you absolute mess.”

“I was on a stage?”

“TATINOF?”

“What?”

I shook my head, “It’s okay Phil, take your time. I will properly drag you and we can talk about all that when you are feeling better,” I smiled at him.

“Well, that’s nice I guess,” he paused, “but I have no idea who you are.”

“Haha, very funny,”

“I wasn’t being funny,”

“What?” I swallowed hard, “You don’t know who I am?”

“No, am I supposed to?”

I felt as though I was about to faint, “Yes!” I squeaked.

“Mr. Lester, I see you are awake,” the nurse walked into the room. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore, my head, and face really hurt,”

“I’m sure,”

“He can’t remember!” I blurted out, panicking.

“Oh, “She said, what’s the last thing you remember?”

“Being at uni.” I audibly gasped.

“Let me go get the doctor,” she smiled as she left.

Luckily, Martyn came in at the same time.

“Martyn? Oh my god, I’m glad you’re here!” Phil’s face relaxed, but he was side-eyeing me.

He laughed, “Why are you looking at Dan like that?”

“He doesn’t remember who I am,” I said, sadly.

Martyn’s face fell, “What? How is that possible?”

“How am I supposed to know? I have no idea what's even happening,” Phil said.

“Sorry,” I muttered. The doctor came in and examined him, she ordered a series of brain scans to try to figure out Phil’s memory loss.

“Phil, do you know what year it is?” she asked.

“Well, no, but judging by how old Martyn looks I am assuming I am not in Uni anymore.”

“Hey!” Martyn said.

“You don’t remember why you’re here?”

“No, I don’t even know where “here” is.

“And you don’t remember Dan, at all?”

“No,”

This was a nightmare, I stepped out of the room and sat on a bench in the hall. I wasn’t sure what to do. After a few minutes the doctor came out, “He could remember everything eventually,” She clasped my shoulder. “Don’t give up.” I nodded.

I overheard Martyn talking to Phil, “Dan. As in Danisnotonfire.”

“I have no idea what that means?”

“YouTube?”

“Martyn, the last YouTube video I remember making is after I returned from Busch Gardens in America,”

“Oh my god, when was that? So that means you don’t remember him like, at all?”

“I take it Dan is important?”

“Ah, yeah. He’s become like family to us.”

“Us us, or like you and our parents?”

“Phil, Dan is your flatmate,”

“Oh,”

“And your best friend.”

“Oh,”

“At least that’s what you tell people.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I knocked on the door, “Excuse the interruption, I just thought I’d let you know I am going to get a hotel room,” I doubted Phil wanted me to sleep by his bedside anymore. “I’ll see you, I guess.”

“Dan,” Martyn started, I waved him off

“I’m really glad you are awake Phil,” I smiled, nodded and walked out. He had no idea who I was, the video he was referencing was before he even tweeted at me. I was a stranger to him. He didn’t know about the legacy we had built with YouTube, BBC radio 1, TABINOF or TATINOF. What the hell was I going to tell the internet? A member of our security team took me to a hotel, they had agreed to stay around until Phil was released, just for precautionary measures. I had a set of Phil’s contacts in their pot in my pocket, his phone and I knew that his pillow and things from the dressing room were in the car.

“Ready?”

“Yeah,”

Once I was checked in, I kicked off my shoes, took off my skinny jeans I had been squeezed into for days now, leaving me in my pants. My shirt came off next, grabbing Phil’s pillow I crawled into the bed. I inhaled Phil’s scent and fell asleep, crying into it.

I woke up to my phone ringing. It had only been two hours, it was Martyn.

“Hello?”

“What hotel are you at?”

“Why?”

“Because I am coming over.”

I groaned getting up to open the door when he had arrived.

“You didn’t have to leave, Dan.”

“He has no idea who I am, why would he want me there? If I were in his shoes, I wouldn’t want me there.” He said nothing, “See, exactly.”

“What are you going to do about the tour?”

“I have already emailed everyone to cancel it.”

“You decided this on your own?”

“Well, it isn’t like Phil cares, is it?”

“He would if he knew.”

“I know that but he doesn't, he can’t remember me, let alone our stage show.” I flopped down on the bed. “As far as the rest of it goes, what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“I’m not sure,”

“Same. Do I pretend to be Phil? Tweet that he was hurt, but keep it vague? Do I tweet as me? Do we just ignore it? I know Phil wouldn’t want us to ignore it, at least not the one who knows and loves his fans, but,”

“Dan, it doesn’t have to be figured out right now, you know, that right?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I want to ask how you are, but I’m sure I know. You overheard us.”

“Yeah.” I swallowed. “I, just. He’s my best friend, he’s my only friend. He doesn’t know who I am.”

“Still sticking with the “friend” label, huh?”

I rubbed the back of my neck nervously. “He is also my business partner,”

“I suppose you could let your manager and team handle it, but you would know what Phil would want, better than anyone. I won’t pressure you, but it has to be addressed.”

“I know,” I looked up at him, “What if he never remembers me, Martyn?”

“We can’t think like that,”

“I can and I am. Look, I get it, but you will always have a place in his life. He knows who you are. What’s going to happen when they release him? Is he coming back to our flat? Will he go to yours? Your mums? Why would he want to live with me?”

“Deep breaths,”

“How did this happen? How is this fair, to anyone? This is like a terrible movie of the week.”

“He hasn’t said much after I told him who you are, he just keeps repeating the same timeline he referenced before. In Uni.”

“Our story doesn’t exist, Youtube Dan and Phil don’t exist.”

“Not right now, they don’t. He has another brain scan tomorrow, they will be determining a treatment course, if he can go home or leave, I guess.”

“Where are you staying tonight?”

“I think I’ll stay at the hospital. The idea of him being alone really bothers me.” I felt the guilt stabbing in my gut. “I’m heading back then, so I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“You think I should come back?”

“Of course, you should Dan. Scans at 10:00.”

“Okay,”

“Try to stay positive, yeah? See you in the morning.”

“Sure, see you.”

Even though I was exhausted, I wasn’t able to sleep. I was so damned scared that my life was over. I was nothing without Phil, everyone knew that, and I was not the exception. If Phil didn’t remember me ever again, I had no idea what I was going to do. I tried to resist a trip down memory lane, but that only lasted so long. As I panicked, I loaded a PINOF playlist, set an alarm and closed my eyes, listening to us laugh.

My alarm went off and I pulled myself out of bed as the memories flooded through my mind. I showered, drank the disgusting hotel room coffee and brushed my teeth before I left for the hospital. I had no idea if Phil would even want me there, but I still went. I knocked on the frame of the door.

“Hey, Dan,” Martyn greeted.

“Hi,” I said, meeting Phil’s gaze.

“Your hair is really curly today,” He said.

I blushed; I had forgotten to straighten it, “Ah, yeah,”

“Come sit, Dan.” Martyn motioned to the chair.

I sat, but it was so awkward and uncomfortable that I was constantly shifting in the silence.

“Well, this sucks,” Phil said casually, smiling. I laughed. “Is this as weird for you as it is for me?”

“I can’t be sure, but it’s pretty fucking weird.”

“Yeah, apparently we have known each other for years.”

“Oh Phil,” We were interrupted by his mum, she had finally made it here. I wondered when she would arrive.

“Hi, mum, this is Dan,”

“Silly boy, I know who Dan is,” she turned to me and kissed the top of my head. “Hello, darling. How are you holding up?”

“Fine,” I whispered. One of her fingers twisted in one of my curls as if to make a point, though she didn’t say anything else.

“The doc will be here in a while to take him for another scan, we will know more then.”

“He doesn’t remember Dan at all?”

“He doesn’t remember a lot of things, not just me,” I said softly.

“Oh, Dan,” She murmured

“You know, I am right here; I was the one who got hurt, like actually. He didn't.”

“If you remembered you wouldn’t be taking that tone with me, mister.”

“Well, I don’t okay? It’s not like anyone is telling me much anyway.”

“We don’t want to make it worse, Phil.” Martyn said, “The doctors haven't told us what we should and shouldn’t do yet.”

The doctor came in before anyone else could say anything, “Ready for your scan?” Phil looked scared so without thinking I took his hand in mine. He jumped and I released it. “I’m sorry,” I muttered. I got up and walked out of the room so they could take him to his scan. I watched in the hall as they wheeled him away for his procedure. Kath was suddenly pulling me into a hug.

“Hey there, my strong lad,” she soothed “You’re okay.” I clung to her; I needed this comfort.

“I just don’t understand how he doesn’t remember. What am I supposed to do? I mean he’s my best friend.”

“Oh, we are still going with that are we?” Kath huffed. I pulled back and looked into her eyes, blushing. “He’s also your business partner,” She grabbed his shoulders, “Have you decided what you are going to do?”

“I canceled the tour, other than that, I’m not sure what to do. Phil doesn’t remember anything since 2008,” I took a deep breath, “That means YouTube, BBC, the gaming channel, the book or the tour.”

“Let’s see what the doctor says, we can work on it from there.”

“I suppose you could call me; I doubt he wants me here.”

“Well, I want you here. And I am hungry, let’s take Martyn and get some lunch, shall we?”

“This is really a family matter, isn’t it?”

“Daniel, you are family and you know it. Stop it. Come.”

The doctor explained that Phil’s brain was healing, but the amnesia was an unfortunate side effect. It was diagnosed as selective amnesia, which I thought was a stupid name, but as Phil remembered his mum, his brother, and his childhood, this seemed to be the best fit. The doctor couldn’t give us a time frame or confirmation that the last 7 years of his life would even return to him. He was to rest, but also try to trigger his memories slowly. They warned not to do too much too fast, but “they” remained hopeful that this would work. I wasn’t so sure. They advised me to put things away that would cause him to ask too many questions, and slowly reintroduce them.

“We will be able to release you tomorrow,” she said, leaving the room.

I took a deep breath, chewing on my lip.

“Well, “Kath said, “We’ll get you back to London, back to your things and your bed.”

“I live in London?”

“Yes, you do.”

“You live with me, “I said softly.

“Oh,”

“You’ve lived with Dan for several years,” Kath said, patting his shoulder. “If we want your memory to return, that is the best place for you.”

Phil looked scared, I hated that. “Phil, you can stay with your mum or Martyn for a while, if it would make you more comfortable,” relief crossed his face.

“Nonsense, all of his memories are in and at your flat. “

“Mum,” Phil said.

“This is what’s best for you, Philip. You need to go back to London.”

“Look how scared he is,” I squeaked, “How could it be best for him?”

Returning to my hotel room, I sighed. Kath was not going to acquiesce my offer for Phil to stay with one of them for a while. Tomorrow afternoon Phil and I would be back in our flat, alone. He had no idea who I was other than what people had told him. I was headed back to our apartment shortly, to put away anything that was us. I would put it all in the gaming room, I would have to buy and install a lock to keep him out. It was overwhelming, as I packed up my things, (and Phil’s) I forced myself not to cry. It was not the time. It was shortly after three am and I had finally gotten the flat cleaned up to an acceptable level. Martyn and Kath would be dropping Phil off in the morning, I made sure his coffee mug and coffee were set out for him. The photos of us that were kept on the wall we never showed on any platform, all of our awards, plaques, and art that hinted to who we were, was now all locked away. Anything at all that made us, us. I looked around at how empty the flat was, it mirrored how I felt. Making sure the gaming room was securely locked, I hid the key in my room, which also was now bare. I was in my pants, laying numbly on my bed. This was going to be the hardest thing I have ever done; I wasn’t sure I was strong enough. It wasn’t like I had a choice.

I woke up to keys in the lock, Phil’s voice then Kath’s. “Wow, this is a nice flat.” “Yes, you and Dan have a nice place here,”

I pulled some clothes on and walked out to greet them, yawning.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

“It’s okay, Dan,” Martyn said.

“I’ll show you to your room,” I said, forcing the kindest smile I could muster.

“Right, thanks.” What he didn’t know is his room was actually our room, it had been for years now. I swallowed hard.

“Here we are,”

“Okay, thanks.” He walked in, looking around. “At least this looks the same,” He said, motioning to his duvet. I laughed softly. I missed him so much, I just wanted to hug him. After explaining to him where everything was, I excused myself.

“I’ll let you get settled, then.” I went back to the lounge.

“You can do this, Dan.” Kath pulled me into another hug.

“Can I?”

“Of course,” she lowered her voice “When you love someone, you would be surprised what you can do.”

I didn’t even refute it, I just pulled back and nodded.

“We’re off now, I will be staying in London for a time, just to make sure he gets settled.” she turned towards his room “Phil, we’re leaving.”

Phil came out and hugged his mum. “I know you’re scared, it’s okay. I promise you; you are safe here. I wouldn’t leave if that were not the case.” He hugged Martyn next.

“Dan really cares about you Phil, you’re fine.” He reassured.

“Bye,” He said, his voice was timid and it made my heart clench.

After they had left, we stood awkwardly. “Ah, I have things out for you to make your coffee if you’d like.” I motioned to the kitchen

“Yeah, okay.”

“If you need me, I’ll be in my room, which is the one just down the hall from yours.”

“Thanks,”

I didn’t know what the fuck I was supposed to be doing, I just wanted to be around him. I knew he must be feeling really strange too. For the most part, he spent the day in his room, I hoped he had been resting, but I couldn’t be sure. After the pizzas I had ordered arrived, I knocked on his door.

“Ah, yeah?”

“I ordered us Pizza, I’m hungry, I figured you would be too.”

He opened the door, “Yeah, I am, thanks.”

“Did you want to eat with me or?”

“Yeah, sure.”

We were set up in the lounge, I wasn’t sure what we should watch, what would be too much or too confusing, so I put Buffy on. He smiled.

“I love Buffy.”

I smiled at him, “I know,” I remained quiet for most of it until Phil had sauce dripping off of his chin and I absent-mindedly grabbed a napkin and wiped it off. His face was still black and blue, I sucked in a breath. Then I caught his eyes, they were wide and uncomfortable.

“Oh, god. I’m sorry.” I said quickly snatching my hand back.

“It’s okay,” He said. “I take it we are close, but I just don’t know that.”

“I know, I know.” I looked down

“Your hair is cute curly, you know.” He said, eyes still on the screen.

“Ugh, I hate it. I look like a hobbit.”

He laughed out loud. “I see why we are friends, you’re funny.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“So,” He turned towards me, “We have lived together for years?”

“Yes,”

“How did we meet?”

Was I supposed to tell him this soon? “Um,”

“I mean, I don’t know do I?”

“I’m worried to push you,”

“Well, the whole reason I am here is so that I can remember you, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, yeah it is. We met because of your Youtube channel.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Wow, that’s so cool.” He smirked.

“Yeah, I Tweeted at you, a lot. I liked Muse, you liked Muse.

“Do you watch my videos?”

“Yes,” I smiled, “and then we met.”

“Wow, when was that?”

“2009.”

He gasped, “Sorry, I keep forgetting it’s 2015.”

“I’m sure this is hard for you.”

“Yeah, I guess I graduated huh?”

“You did,”

“Good.” He yawned, “When am I allowed to go on the internet again?”

“Oh,” I took a deep breath, “Let’s just give that some time. There is so much shit, now Phil. I want you to be feeling better before you open that Pandora’s box.”

“Is it that bad?” He said softly,

“Some parts are, most are not. Are you tired?”

“Yeah, I suppose I am.”

“Okay, time for bed then,”

“Dan?”

“Yeah?”

“I know this must be hard for you too,”

“I’m okay, Phily, don’t worry about me.”

“Phily?”

“Yeah, ah, sorry.” I blushed.

“Well, goodnight then,”

“Goodnight.”

In the coming days, Phil had asked a few common questions, but nothing too in-depth. I was struggling and found myself face down in the hallway. I literally did this all the time but Phil, of course, didn't know. “Oh!” He just happened upon me having a lie down on the floor, “Are you alright? Should I call someone?"

I scoffed. "I'm fine this is a thing I do."

"Why?"

" That's the million-dollar question.”

"Should I do something?"

"Nope."

"Okay then." Phil had discovered my existential crisis hallway, he probably thought I was insane. I took a deep breath and continued my spiral.

“Dan?”

“Ugh,” I groaned.

“I don't mean to pry, but you've been laying on the floor for 3 hours, at least since the last time we spoke.” He crouched next to me, “I feel like I should do something,”

I smirked, “Yeah this is how you were when it first started too.”

“Well, that makes sense, since we're friends, right?”

“Yeah, right.” We stayed in silence for a while, he eventually sat leaning his back against the wall, wrapping his arms around his knees.

“You may not remember, “I chuckled, “but you sure act like the Phil I know.”

“Does this happen a lot?”

“More than it should, I suppose.” I sat up, “thanks for sitting with me.”

He smiled, “I want you to tell me more about our life, I want to remember you.”

“I'm not sure I can right now,”

“Why does it seem like there's something really bad that's happened?”

“There is a lot of things Phil, a lot.”

“Why won't you just tell me, why is there a locked room upstairs?”

“Because,” I stood up to leave, “I want you to remember and not just learn about it. I doubt you'd forgive me a second time.” I walked into my room and shut the door, but he followed me. I heard through the door “We're friends, of course, I will!”

But we weren't just friends and that was the problem. Did I have it in me to show him that video? The one that everyone now refers to as the” v-day video.” I was so mad when it posted, he was so embarrassed. There was so much backlash from that alone, but there was more. What about the “I like vagina” posts, or all the “no, I'm not gay” posts? Then there was the whole "no homo Howell 2012," that whole year was a cluster fuck.

“Well can you at least show me what shops I go to? I need toothpaste.”

I open the door and stepped out, “Yeah okay, we typically just order from Tesco. We don't go outside much, I mean we were going to, but then you fell.” I ordered a car.

“Oh, sorry.”

I smiled. “It's okay Phil, you didn't intend on this happening.”

“You said I fell off the stage, why was I on a stage?”

“Ah, don't you need toothpaste? Let's go.”

“You can't put me off forever, you know, that right?”

“I know,” I noticed he was in a t-shirt, “I have your coat in my room, hang on, “

He cocked his eyebrow when I returned. “We share clothes?”

I handed it to him. “Yeah, sometimes We do.” I guided him towards the door we got to the car

“Wow, I can't believe I live in London. That's truly mental, why did we move here?”

“For work mostly, we lived in Manchester before.”

"We did?”

“Yes, we did. I went to Uni there for a while. I know what you're doing, by the way.” I was so tired of not talking to Phil, of feeling so alone, that I answered his questions. I got lost in thought and my leg was pressed into his. I realize the comfort it brought me, it seemed to do the same for Phil.

“We're really touchy-feely friends, aren't we?”

I blushed and laughed, “We are. Does it bother you?”

“No, not really.”

“Okay, good.”

We had made it through Tesco fairly easily, thankfully not running into anyone we knew or any of our followers. We were at the checkout and Phil looked exhausted, his face looked sickly as the dark purple bruises were now fading into browns and yellows.

“Are you okay?”

“Starting to get a headache,”

“We're almost done.” He seemed unsteady; I looked around and seeing no one was looking, I looped my arm around his waist. “Lean into me.”

He snorted, “You clearly don't want to be touching me in public.”

“You don't understand,”

“Of course, I don't.” He pushed my arm away. We didn't speak the entire way home; I wasn’t sure what to say. When we got home, I started to put groceries away in silence, I glanced at him. He looked miserable.

“You should go lay down, I don't want you to get a migraine, you have that look on your face.”

He sighed. “It's so frustrating that you know so much about me and I can't remember anything about you.”

“I'm sorry, Phil,” He shook his head and walked away. There wasn’t much I could do to help that. I missed him so much, the him that would allow me to be close to him at the right times, the one who understood why we needed to be careful of who saw us in public. I missed Dan and Phil, both professionally and personally. I missed my old life.

I knew It was risky, but I snuck up to the gaming room. I needed to feel connected to my Phil to be able to help this Phil. I looked through our photos, our book, and his Twitter. I even watched the “V-day” video. I needed to hear him say I love you. I haven't watched it since the accidental uploading, it was too painful. But, now in the dark, with all things Dan and Phil surrounding me, I was glad I had it. I watched it twice wiping my eyes, I took a deep breath; it was time to pull myself together. Standing up, I looked around the room one last time, turned out the lights then shut and locked the door. I met Phil at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hey, are you feeling better?”

“I guess so, I'm so bored." His eyes drifted up the stairs, “Are you okay?”

I smiled at him, “Yes. We can play Sonic?”

He looked at me suspiciously, but said, “Yeah, okay, thanks.” Some time into the game, we were laughing and had made our way closer to each other on the sofa, our legs touched like they always did. When it was my turn, I noticed he was watching my face more than the game, I smirked.

“You know I can see you staring at me, yeah?”

“Ah,” he stammered, “sorry.”

“Do I have something on my face?”

“No, it's just,”

“Just what?”

“Nothing, never mind,” I pause the game setting the controller down.

“What?”

“It feels like we are or have been more than friends in the past,”

I swallowed hard, “what?”

“Oh,” he said, “I guess that means I’m not crazy?" I nodded in silence. “Why does everyone think we're just best friends then?”

“It's complicated,”

“My family even calls us best friends, why are we “best friends” if we are or were more?”

I sighed, “More than one reason, mostly because of me.”

Phil took a deep breath, “Are you embarrassed of me?” He looked down at his hands

“No, no not at all Phil. It's nothing like that. Why would you think that?”

“Well, look at you, then look at me.”

“It has nothing to do with that, Phil. And that’s ridiculous.”

“Wait, you’re not out yet, are you?”

“No” I whispered “I’m not even sure what I am,”

“When did we start being more than friends?”

“2009.”

He looked back up to my face. “Are we still more than friends now?”

“We were, before, the accident I mean. We didn't label anything and we didn't tell anyone. Something, well several things actually, happened. Things were really bad for a while, it almost destroyed us. Since then we are more than friends in private, but not in public.”

“So, we didn't tell anyone, meaning I had to be closeted again?” I tightly pursed my lips. “Wow, I was so ashamed of myself. I mean I struggled from 12-18 to come out,”

My eyes became glossy. “I know, you're the first “out” person I’d met.”

Phil looked around the flat, “you've hidden anything that may have hinted that we were together, haven't you?”

“Yeah, I wasn't sure what to do. The doctors said it would be best.”

“That’s what’s in the locked room?”

“Yes, it is also our office.”

“We work together, I know that, what do we do?”

“Phil, now that you know, about us I mean,” I paused. “I think it’s time to know the rest,” I got up and got my laptop. Maybe this was too much too fast, but I couldn't dodge the questions any longer. “If you remembered, you’d know how awful this is,” I pulled up “Hello Internet” and paused it before it could start.

“Oh my god, you’ve always been cute,”

“Shh, now, I won’t stay for this, I hate it.”

“So, you’re a Youtuber too?”

“Yes, I’ll be back in a few,” I came back after I knew enough time had passed. “You were the “really good friends,”

“Okay,”

I loaded up PINOF, “Watch this playlist, come find me when you are done,” I pressed play and left the room, hearing my younger version of myself say “Why do you always make cat whiskers on your face?” I went up to the gaming room, grabbed the copy of TABINOF, when to my room and laid down. I wasn’t sure how this was going to go. I was trying to take deep breaths to stave off the panic, in the process, I fell asleep.

When I opened my eyes, it was dark. “Shit.” I walked out to Phil, he wasn't in the lounge, I knew where he was. I realized that I probably hadn’t locked the gaming room and that's where he would be. I found him, staring at a picture of us in Japan, me kissing his cheek.

“Hey,”

“You're cute when you sleep, you know. Do you honestly think people believe we're just friends? I mean I don't remember and I can tell how much you love me when you look at me in videos.”

“What have you seen?”

“All of PINOF, Day in the life, some Sims and the Halloween baking video. The way you look at me, people know, believe me. If you think otherwise, you're just fooling yourself. Then I Googled, I saw Dailybooth, Formspring, then I made it up here the door was open. We have created a universe that is solely ours, haven't we?"

"We have,"

"I saw the "VDay" video, I had to after all the things I read. It wasn't a joke, was it?"

"No, it wasn't. It was really a valentine. It was also a very dark time in our history, I said some very stupid things."

"Yeah, I saw. Dan, are you afraid of your sexuality?"

"I don't even know what my sexuality is, Phil." I looked him in the eyes, "What I do know is that we work."

"You love me though, right?"

"More than you know, you saved my life."

"The stage I fell off of, that was our tour, right?"

I nodded handing him the book, "First performance,"

He thumbed through the book, "wow, we are very successful." He stood up and walked towards me. "This must be really hard for you,"

I snorted out a laugh, "well, it's not been easy, but I'm kinda attached to you if you couldn't tell."

"Yeah, I've gathered," he took my hands in his, "I know somewhere in here," he pointed at his head, "The Phil that knows you, misses you, very much."

I couldn't stop the tears from rolling down my face, "I miss him so much,"

"Please don't cry," he cradled my face with one of his hands, I leaned into his touch. "Dan, I know this may be weird, but can I kiss you?"

I leaned forward and my lips met his. It was a strange sensation, my lips knew his lips, but the hesitation wasn't something I was used too. I wrapped my arm around him and he started to kiss me harder. I pulled back and rested my head on his shoulder.

"I promise you, Dan. I will remember. I am so lucky that you love me,"

"I've always been confused about why you stayed with me, after everything,"

"Have you met you?"

"That's my point."

"Dan, I can't remember feeling what I did before, but I know already why I've stayed with you."

"It's really a brain fuck, being this close to you and missing you at the same time."

He nodded, "I'm pretty overwhelmed right now, I think I'll go to bed. This has been a lot."

"Okay, Phil, get some rest, I would hate for you to get worse," he nodded and started down the stairs.

Now that he knew everything, I didn't have to lock the gaming room anymore. He knew we were in love; that we were more than friends, he knew we were Dan and Phil, the iconic YouTuber Duo, and he knew that we also actually were best friends as well. I realized how tired I was, this had been a lot for me too. I wondered what questions he would have for me after he processed all the videos, all the Google searches, and that kiss. As much as I missed Phil, this was the most progress we had made since the start of this whole ordeal. Smiling to myself, I finally had hope.

I woke up to Phil groaning loudly. "Shit," I got up and walked to his room, his door was open. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Dan, can you bring me coffee? I really don't want to get up." His arm was a crossed his face.

"Do you have a headache?"

"No, not really. Something feels off. My nose hurts."

"I'm sorry, I'll be right back with some coffee."

He moved his arm and looked at me suspiciously, "Really?"

"Yeah, but don't do that again, okay? You woke me up and I thought you needed my help."

"Well, I do! Plus, you know If you make it, I won't steal your Shreddies."

I scoffed, "Yeah, yeah. You and your cereal stealing," I had made it halfway to the kitchen before it dawned on me. "Oh my god," I ran back to his room.

"What's wrong?"

"Phil?" I asked tentatively.

"What is it?" He had sat up.

"You remember me?"

"What's gotten into you? Of course, I," suddenly Phil froze, "Dan? Why are we at home? What happened? What about TATINOF?"

I jumped on the bed pulling him into a quick hug and forceful kiss.

"You remember."

"Oh my God, I fell off the stage, didn't I?"

"Yes, you nutter, you've caused quite the drama,"

"What happened?"

"You fell, broke your nose, cracked your head open. You couldn't remember me, us, YouTube, I mean at all Phil."

"Really?" I nodded, "Are people mad?"

"I've no idea, I haven't been online at all for a few weeks."

"Weeks? It's been weeks? I fell off a stage and had to be taken by ambulance to hospital and you haven't said anything to them? Oh my God, Dan."

"I'm sorry, okay. I was dealing with my own shit, yeah? It felt like a lifetime to me, I had to explain everything to you, Phil, I mean everything. Us, the “vday” video, YouTube, all of it. I had to relive all that shit, so forgive me for being distracted. "

He leaned over and kissed me and said, "I'm sure that must have sucked."

"Yeah, it was difficult." I rubbed the back of my neck, "He, well you, I guess, asked me why we weren't, like why we were "just best friends."

"Oh," he took my hand, "it's okay Dan,"

"But it's not, not really. You pointed out that I had forced you back into the closet because I can't figure out my shit."

"Did I say it like that?"

"No, but you weren't pleased."

"Dan, I don't care about that, you know that right?"

"How could you not?"

"I love you, Dan. I wouldn't ever want to hurt you. In the earlier years, after all of that stuff, I knew you weren't ready. I accepted it then."

"Phil, that,"

He continued, "I also accepted that you may never be ready, but having to act like you were only my "best friend" in front of people never bothered me. Okay, maybe a little, at first, but Dan, you are my best friend. You also are a person I get to hold and kiss and share my dreams with. No memory me didn't know everything when he made that comment, he didn't know how important privacy is to us, or what would happen even if you were ready to be out. He didn't have the whole story. I would never force you to come out for me, I don't have a right to. You come out when you're ready, it's no one else's business. Do it when you are ready."

"I love you, Phil Lester "

"I love you too, I'm sorry I forgot you, us, everything."

“I'm just glad you remember now,"

"Can we still do the rest of the tour?"

"Ah, maybe, I canceled it."

"What? Why?"

"Phil, you thought it was 2008."

"Oh, wow. I don't anymore though, I want to continue."

"Do you think we should?"

"Of course, we wrote a book and were going to tour it, I had an accident but I remember now, there’s no reason not to."

"I'll call everyone later,"

"Good. So, about that coffee?"

“Get coffee yourself, you spoon, and stay out of my Shreddies.”

Bingo Card:

Amnesia

TABINOF

Vday Video

#pff bingo 2019 #phanfiction

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bitsfordays · 7 years ago

Text

Work Visits

Another part to my nurseydex children series! Ive offically deemed this Au “Things That Stop You Dreaming” and it can be found on AO3 under that title!

Enjoy Addy being cute af, plus an introduction to Bella!

(pst, i posted this in two parts on AO3 but yall will get it all in one bc im lazy)

“Daddy, are we there?”

Derek sighed and looked at his daughter for probably the seventh time in the last 10 minutes he's been driving. This was the seventh time she asked.

“Addison, I know you have the route to the rink memorized, so I know that you know that we are literally in the arena parking lot. You don't have to antagonize me.”

Addison gave what could only be described as a shit-eating grin from her spot in the back seat. She swung her legs happily. “I know Daddy, but Papa says that I should mess with you more often. He says its funny”

Derek was going to kill his husband.

He pulled into one of the parking spots reserved for players families and shut off the car. He turned around so he could make proper eye contact with his daughter.

“Okay Addison, Papa is playing against Uncle Jack tonight. Uncle Bitty was in town already for his book tour and so he brought Bella with him and we’ll be sitting with them in the family section. Do you remember the rules for when Uncle Jack plays against Papa?”

“Boo when Papa gets checked but don't cheer if someone on Uncle Jacks team gets checked, unless it's by Papa.” Addison explained neatly.

“Anything else?”Derek prompted.

“Don't curse?”

Derek couldn't help but laugh. Addison had learned her fair share of curse words, despite only being 6 years old. It's what happened when a child had an uncle whose name was literally Shitty.

“Not quite, lovely but that's a good one. I was actually going for ‘don't heckle Uncle Jack.’ He needs to stay concentrated on the game ”

“Oh.” Addison shrugged her little shoulders. “I can do that. Can we go inside now?”

Derek laughed. “Yes, Addy. We can.”

They got out of the car and made their way inside, not even bothering to wave their passes at the security guards, who they knew by name and had for years now. They went to their seats in the family section, directly behind the glass and found their family already there.

“Bella!” Addison tore her hand from Derek's and ran to greet her best friend/pseudo-cousin. They hugged tightly in the way that only young kids could.

Bella was a year older than Addison but that didn't stop them from being as thick as thieves. They lived three hours apart so they didn't see each other often but they adored each other just the same. Bella was more soft spoken than Addison was,

“Nursey!” Bitty grinned and pulled Derek into a tight hug.

“Hey Bits.” Derek laughed and hugged the other man back, just as tight. “How was the book tour?”

“Oh, you would not believe...”Bitty launched into a story about his time touring for his newest cookbook and Derek let his thoughts drift as Bitty rambled on.

“Oh, there they are!” Bella interrupted her father, pointing down at the ice as the players skated on for warm ups.

Jack and Will were both easy to spot. Even from under his helmet, Will’s ginger hair was easy to spot, just as Jacks distinctive blue eyes were easy to spot behind his face guard.

“Papa!” Addison jumped up and down in front of the glass and waved her arms furiously. “Papa! Papa, over here!”

Derek could see Will’s grin from the other side of the ice. Will waved at his daughter, who waved back energetically. Derek could see Jack’s shoulders shake as he laughed and saw Jacks mouth move in some chirp. Will grinned and said something back before they skated their separate ways to warm up with their teams.

Addison kept waving her arms, trying to catch her father's attention again until Derek had to put a stop to it. “Add,let Papa warm up in peace. You dont want to throw him off his game, do you?”

“Its preseason, Daddy, it doesn't effect the season.” Addison responded, not looking away from the ice. Bitty chuckled from his seat.

“Addison. Leave him be until after the game, okay? Then you can harass him as much as you want.”

“Fiiiiiineeeee.” Addison backed away from the glass and sat down between Derek and Bella with a pout but Derek couldn't help but chuckle. There were times where he wanted to do the same thing.

Addison kept pouting and Derek took pity on her. “Hey Addy, how about you tell Uncle Bitty how your skating classes have been going? Im sure he would love to hear about them.”

Addison perked up immediately and Derek smiled.

This was going to be a good evening.

Rangers beat the Falconers 4-3, with Dex getting the game winning goal at the end of the 3rd period. Jack clapped Will on the shoulder during the handshaking and from the stands, Derek could see him say something and Will laughed before they both went on to shake more hands.

They met Dex outside of the Rangers locker room. He was sweaty and gross but he still beamed when he saw his husband and daughter. It made Dereks heart do flips, the same way it did when they met in college.

“Papa!” Addison tore her hand from Dereks and did a flying leap towards her father. Will dropped his hockey bag to open his arms as his daughter slammed into his chest. “Hi Papa! You played really good tonight!”

“Thanks baby.” Will hugged her tightly. “Did you enjoy watching the game with Uncle Bitty and Bella?”

“Yeah! Did you know Bella is taking figure skating classes? Im gonna have her show me all the stuff shes learning there and Ill teach her everything Im learning in my hockey skating class!”

“Thats wonderful, Addy-Girl.” Will smiled. He set her down and looked over at Derek. “Hey babe. Did you enjoy the game?”

“You know I did.” Derek smiled and kissed Will on the cheek. “Nice check on Jack during the 2nd. Had him rattled for a second there.”

Will shrugged. “He got me back in the 3rd, twice as hard. I felt my brain rattle.”

Derek frowned. “How's your head?”

“It's fine, Der. They got me all checked out and I'm fine.”

“Good. I like you better with your brain intact.”

“Same.”

“Quit being gross!” Addison jabbed Will in the leg to get his attention.

“Ow, Addison. That's not how you get people's attention.” Will chided.

“Sorry. Can we go see Uncle Jack and Bitty and Bella now?” Addison said.

“Sure. Lead the way.” Derek said.

Addison lead them around to the visitors lockers, just in time to run into Jack, Bitty and Bella, who was currently asleep on Jacks back.

“Nice game, Cap.” Derek said with a smirk.

Jack sighed. “I havent been your captain in over a decade, Nurse. Please stop.”

“Ah, but you were the best one Ive ever had. Sorry Bits.”

Bitty and Jack both rolled their eyes.

“We would love to stay and chat with you two but we gotta get headed towards the airport.” Bitty said. “Especially since Bells already asleep. Shes been up since 6am with me and is just bone tired.”

“Okay Bits. We’ll see you in a few weeks for the Falconers home opener. Wanna get dinner before hand, while our husbands do their thing?”

“Sure. We’ll see you then. Have a safe flight you three.”

“See yall later!”

The Zimmermann-Bittles walked away, leaving the Poindexter-Nurses on their own. Addison tugged on Dereks hand. “Are we gonna go home now?”

Will grabbed Addison's free hand and smiled. “Yes, Addy-Girl. Home for now.”

“Okay.” Addison gave a tired smile. “It was a good game, Papa.”

“Thanks baby.”

Together, the three of them left the area at the end of another good day.

Derek Poindexter-Nurse hates writing. Its difficult, its time consuming and tedious to do. He hates writing with an undeniable, fiery passion.

Which is why he does it for a living. Obviously.

When it comes to writing, Derek’s been lucky. Hot got published only a few years after college and he quickly made it onto the bestseller list. He has hordes of teenage fans who would probably commit many crimes if he asked them to, all of them clamoring for another installment, another book, another bonus story, another anything. He could give them a five hundred word shit stain and most of them would probably be content. Literally anything.

Which is of course, how Derek found himself holding down the ‘H’ key for ten minutes, thumping his head continuously on his desk, as if that will make the ideas come faster. Usually when Derek gets into a slump like this, he just goes and talks to Will but its early May and the Stanley Cup playoffs are looming in front of the Rangers, so Will’s at practice and will be for another four hours, meaning that Derek is stuck stewing in his own mind indefinitely.

Indefinitely doesnt last for long. Dereks stewing is interrupted by a knock on his study door and it being pushed open to reveal Addison in all of her 13 year old glory.

“Are you okay Dad?” Addison said, looking at her father with a mixture of concern and vague disgust.

“No.” Derek sighed. He thumped his head aginst the wood again.

“Um..” Addison walkedd ina nd leaned against the desk where Derkes head currently was. “Maybe stop hitting your head against the desk? I dont think getting a concussion would be very good for you. Besides, Papa’s gotten enough for the both of you.”

Derek leveled a glare at his daughter but he lifted his head off the desk and sat up. He rubbed the red mark on his forehead. “Ive gotten my fair share of concussions too, ya know. I did play hockey for a lot time.”

“I know, I know, all im saying is that Papa had a concussion like, a month ago. “ Addison shrugged. “So his might be a little more relevant.”

It was true. Will had gotten a harsh check and was out of the game for a while because of it. It was rough on all three of them, just as it always was whenever Will got hurt during games. It always made Derek worry, usually about how much longer Will could play in the NHL or if they should continue letting Addison play in her junior league. It sent his head in swirls and him and Bitty and Caitlin have spent hours talking about the stress of being married to three of the top players in the NHL. And Derek knew that their children have had similar conversations about being the children of NHL stars.

“Dad? Hello?” Addison waved her hand in front of Derek's face to get his attention. “You still with me or did you actually give yourself self a concussion? Do I need to drive you to the hospital?”

“You can't drive yet, Addison. You're 13.”

“I know but I figured that if you had a concussion you would let me try anyways.” Addison grinned.

“And that's where you're wrong.”

“Worth a shot. So what's wrong?”

Derek let out a long sigh. “Writing is hard, Addy. Don't do it. It isn't a viable career. “

“I mean, it wasnt on my list. I was more thinking hockey.”

“Huh?” Derek stared at his daughter and his heart thumped extra hard. “Really?”

“Well, yeah.” Addison shrugged. “Its what makes sense and I like it a lot. Is there…..something wrong with that?”

Derek let out a breath. The idea of his daughter, his pride and joy, one of the two most important people in his life, playing a dangerous game that both him and his husband loved made him feel nauseous. He knew first hand how dangerous the game was and while he knew that Addison took after her fathers in her love for the game, part of Derek wished that she didnt.

“Just..be careful.” Derek said carefully. He didnt want to admit to her how much it scared him. “You have time to decide. Most kids your age have no idea what they want to do. But, me and Papa will support you no matter what, okay?”

“Okay Daddy.” Addison leaned over and hugged him tightly. Derek hugged her back, putting all of his concerns and hopes into that hug.

“So, how can I help you get past your writing block right now?” Addison asked, pulling away from the hug.

Derek glanced at his laptop, which was just showing a word document full with the letter “H”. An idea tickled at the back of his brain. Something about an over-do meeting between a main character and their parent. A nice conversation about fears. Derek grinned

“You've already have.”

#nurseydex #zimbits #future fic #kid fic #AU:Things That Stop You Dreaming #my writing #hockey screams

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letmeletmetrashyourlove · 7 years ago

Text

Ambulance story... long one

So. When I was about 13 (I’ve always been a super anxious kid, but I started having panic attacks at 12-13) I started getting really really really really bad anxiety. Like I would wake up to go to school and just go straight into a panic attack and I was having random panic attacks and all that jazz.

So I went to see the psychologist that worked at the same place as my GP. So. I go in to see this guy. He’s an older dude, appeared to be of southern Asian descent and he had an accent.

And the second my butt hits the chair and I tell him what has been going on , he starts fucking laughing at me and pointing out all of my nervous ticks (Bouncing my leg, playing with my sleeves, licking my lips, etc.) and he turns to his assistant and he is laughing and saying “look at her she can’t sit still” WHICH IS EXACTLY WHAT I WANTED TO FUCKING HEAR, SOMEBODY LAUGHING AT ME THANKS PAL.

AND THEN HE GOES INTO THIS STORY ABOUT HOW HE HAS A PHD IN VETERINARY SCIENCE AND HOW HE’S A BIRD SPECIALIST AND HOW HE WORKED WITH BIRDS FOR 30 YEARS

and I'm like ok bud I’m a human so chill

So anyway, after that, he looks at my eyebrows and goes “your eyebrows are weird. it must be your thyroid’

Don’t know what that means, but okay.

SO THIS FUCKING PRESCRIBED ME SYNTHROID (WITHOUT TESTING MY THYROID), PROZAC, AND AMBIEN HE GAVE ME FUCKING AMBIEN AND I WAS LIKE 12 (if you look up this drug, it says that it cannot be given to somebody under the age of 18 and it is known to cause hallucinations and all that fun stuff.)

He also diagnosed me with PANDAS ( Pediatric autoimmune neuropsychiatric disorders associated with streptococcal infections. Basically the bacteria from strep infections fucks up a part of your brain that controls your emotions and other stuff like anxiety, ADHD, depression, etc. Fun fact: One girl with PANDAS threatened her mom with a knife! Fun!)

So I’ve been on this insane combination of drugs for like a week. I get out of bed one morning and I’m freaking out about going to school. And I walk into the kitchen and I’m like “yeah not going” AND MY FUCKING VISION JUST STOPS. IT JUST WENT BLACK. AND IM STILL FULLY CONSCIOUS AND I CAN’T FUCKING SEE

and of course I am screaming about it because it’s the scariest thing that has ever happened to me. and mom is like okay let's go get on the couch.

and I'm freaking out so bad that less than three steps later my legs give out and I'm trembling so hard that like the fucking floor was rattling.

so I was laying on the floor by our front door and mom brought me a pillow and a blanket and eventually my vision came back and I just laid there, like all day... freaking out.

a couple days later (ANOTHER THING I REMEMBER VIVIDLY)

I had just eaten donotos pizza for dinner and I was watching the walking dead (the episode where Rick and the governor meet at a table and have a dick measuring contest)

And I don’t remember how it started, but apparently, I just picked up one of the side tables we had in the living room and I laid on my back and I was just like spinning it around in the air?

And then I was like, rolling around on the floor.... and I went into my parent's room and pulled the mattress off the box spring... ESSENTIALLY I WAS TRIPPING BALLS

So I finally like, ran out of energy or snapped out of it or something and I got stuck laying by our pantry and I was trembling and I just couldn’t figure out what was going on.

and mom had called an ambulance because I was tripping balls and she didn’t know what the hell was going on.

so the EMTs get here, they come into the house and it’s three dudes and they’re like asking me questions and I'm so out of it like I can hear and process what they’re saying but I can’t reply. They did the test they do to see if you’re responsive (they lift your arm up and drop it if it falls you’re not with it, if you keep it up, you are) and I was responsive to that. Anyway, they get out a sheet to roll me onto to get me onto a stretcher. Like I said, I was coming out of it so I helped them roll me onto the sheet. And the guy that was helping me was the sweetest. but the other guy was a dick AND HE GOES “COME ON I KNOW YOU’RE FAKING IT”

LIKE OH, I’M SORRY. I’M HIGH AS A FUCKING KITE AND TERRIFIED BECAUSE I AM A CHILD WHO HAS SEVERE ANXIETY AND TWO STRANGE MEN CAME INTO MY HOUSE AND ARE TAKING ME INTO AN AMBULANCE BUT YEAH OKAY I’M FAKING BEING FUCKING MORTIFIED.

and the sweet guy looks at him and goes “dude, shut the fuck up.”

Anyway, they cart me out of the house and into the ambulance and every muscle in my body is tense because I’m so scared. The guy in the ambulance looked exactly like McGee from NCIS I shit you not.

Anyway, he was trying to put an IV port in but he couldn’t bc all of my muscles were tensed and he talked to me as I came out of it and he finally got an IV in.

So I get to the hospital and the doctor is like uh.... I don’t know who the fuck the guy is that gave you all of these meds but he should probably be fired

had to pee in a cup... after they threatened me with a catheter...

so they kept me for like 4 hours until I seemed to have most of the stuff out of my system.

and during that time I tried to escape... like three times... Mr. big security guard said no....rude

I went through a phase of just being pissed because I didn’t really remember what happened or why I was there and I just wanted to go home and cuddle my dog and they wouldn’t let me???? so I like raged out on the doctor a couple times...sorry doc... AND I HAD THE SWEETEST NURSE WHO TREATED ME EVERY TIME I BEEN TO THAT ER laura I love you

and she was like ok u need to chill imma get you some crackers.

and then I slept for approx. 15 hours.... and that’s all I remember....

#personal

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sheambdreams-blog · 5 years ago

Text

Alden’s Birth Story

For the second time being led through the labyrinth by the essence love itself was no less an experience. Each birth is a renewal, a rebirth by fire to the self, the right of passage into a deeper level of womanhood.

I have felt an immense rush of gratitude for our experience. I am amazed by the power of women, the strength of the small baby within, the presence and patience of the birthing partner (in this case my husband), the trust and knowing of midwives, and the whole spectrum of birth stories that we can inhabit with one another. All birth stories are empowering. I am certain that unmedicated vaginal childbirth, while incredibly revealing and beautiful, is no more a triumph than any other form of bringing a baby into the world. I am inspired by the strength of the parents in my life, their life stories of resilience, their birth stories, and I drew upon that force during labor. Much love, especially, to all the women in my life; we brim with the strength to endure.

///

I was inside the acupuncturist’s office for the third time that week when I noticed the beautiful full moon calendar hanging on the wall in the office, right next to a painting of a baby wrapped up an enclosure of flowers. The calendar showed that the following day, Saturday, would bring May’s full moon, a “blue flower moon”. I hoped our baby would decide to come on such an auspicious day, but earlier in the afternoon my midwife had felt the baby’s head still riding high in my pelvis, fairly certain that it would be a bit longer until he made his descent. The gestation period with Elliot was comparable to a midwest chili cook-off (low and slow, a friend once called me a crockpot), so we decided to touch base in a week.

Yet, I woke up at 4:30 am to a familiar dull, throbbing pain in my pelvis. It was too uncomfortable to sleep, so I took a hot shower and continued to rest. “Reid, this might really be it!”. We both buzzed with anticipation, and Reid excitedly put the plastic sheet on the bed, which kind of gave me the willies. As the morning went on, the contractions continued to form a steady rhythm. We decided to call our stalwart friends, Zach and Allie, to come fetch Elliot since we were decidedly in labor. Saying goodbye to Elliot was emotional, as I hugged his little body one last time as my only child, my first, the one who gave Reid and I confidence that we were fit enough to bring another life into the world.

Reid and I decided to go for a saunter, a sunshine walk. We held hands and walked at a snail’s pace...which can be a challenge for a guy with forever- long legs. I felt proud and excited to be in labor. I wanted to shout from the rooftops “I’m in labor bitches!” Instead, I held a large jar of water and imagined myself doubling over in pain as the jar shattered on the concrete, but thankfully that never manifested. We waddled on for about a mile, up the hill, down the hill, and to my surprise neither of us peed our pants (less surprising for Reid). We came home and Reid took pictures of my baby belly near the ivy on our back fence, we walked to the store and gathered the ingredients for a lemon cake, which I baked (see pictures for proof, if you need it).

“Reid, call the Incredible Midwife Regina!”

The Incredible Midwife Regina arrived and scoped out my vagina

“You’re certainly in labor, and you’re at 2cm. Try to rest and I’ll be back later” Oh nelly. I had been laboring for 7 hours already and only the size of a penny...I envisioned the long dark, damp tunnel that I would traverse in order to see my baby. I decidedly prepared myself for another ridiculous marathon of labor. Reid and I hunkered down, he rubbed geranium sage oil on my feet. I drank beautiful flower essence to stay in the present moment and not think about the steep hill I was climbing. My dear friend Sarah came over with muffins, a hug and a shoulder rub, she encouraged us to watch Amy Schumer’s standup “Growing”. (That DID make me pee my pants...go see for yourself, it’s hliarious) We stopped watching when the contractions grew closer together. Laboring at home had so many beautiful benefits.

The IMR (Incredible Midwife Regina) came back 4 hours later with her crew of womanly wonders. Upon arrival, I practically collapsed into the arms of one of the midwives during an intense contraction. “I’m so glad you’re here, you smell like my Auntie”.

They peeked into my vagina again and I was at 6cm! Progress! They all shouted good job, as if I had been the one (I can’t take credit, the body did it all by itself!)

From then on, I did all of the active labor things. I sobbed to Bon Iver, I asked for cold washcloths, I said things that only I thought was funny, I sipped diluted gatorade. Meanwhile an unusually powerful Oregon thunderstorm raged on outside. The lights flickered, wind whirred, and Raleigh came inside feeling anxious. She became the dog- guardian of my inflatable bathtub throne. And Reid, he was my anchor, tethering me to the present, reminding me with each wave of pain that our love would serve as a beacon to this new life. He held space so reverently, he stroked my thighs so commitedly and rigorously that he probably now has precursors to arthritis. He reminded me again and again that together we would bring our baby into this world.

I wonder if people who have already climbed Mt. Everest find the subsequent climbs to be more difficult. “What if I just can’t do it again?”

“What if I get too tired?” “What if something goes wrong this time?” This labor tested my mental fitness. My mind rattled on with doubts and worries, that I had to actively subdue and worked to regain stillness and surrender between each contraction. Each rush of excruciation led me closer to the inevitable, which I wasn’t sure I was ready for. Birth by fire. Rebirthing my motherhood. Becoming a mother to two. Holy shit.

In between contractions, I began staring at a picture of Elliot. I am a good mom, I can be a good mom again. “I can’t do this”. Another pulsing contraction, multiple waves getting stronger and stronger. “I want it to end!” I moaned. I was in a dark cave and the only way out was through the excruciating war that raged on in my pelvis. I was pushing hard up against an unbroken bag of waters that was impeding my urge to push, though I was fully dilated. I knew I needed help, I begged the IMR to break my water. She did and I felt the gush and the baby’s head move deeper into my pelvis.

As Reid hilariously tells it, a flip seemed to switch and my inner warrior rose from the near-dead. Apparently my inner warrior has a voice 8 octaves lower than my normal one.

“OH YEAH!” I grunted like a husky bear, “NOW I REMEMBER!”. I squatted, wrangled up the handles on the tub, felt a burst of intense energy rush through and my will surfaced, I would be able to walk through the fire to the other side. I began to push through contractions until the baby made his descent. Pushing went on for another half hour until I felt that familiar FBROF (*fucking* burning ring of fire) and heard voices of my husband and the womanly wonders chanting “YES! YES! GOOD JOB!”. This was it, the most conflicting best/worst feeling of all, somehow the intensity always feels...SO right. Suddenly the baby’s head was halfway out of my vagina. It was other worldly to feel the baby’s head and see his long hair waving in the water, to touch it and feel my body so insanely open.

On the next push the IMR got her hand around the baby somehow and helped him wriggle his way out safely, as his chord was partially wrapped and blocking his full descent. Push and ultimate relief, raw, open, exhausted. Suddenly there was a baby on my chest. A small, waxy, purple little grub rested on my chest and I panted “He’s here! He’s really here! He’s so much smaller than Elliot!” (But he wasn’t, he was the exact same size as Elliot). He was quiet and peaceful at first, his essence still in the water, safe within the womb. I hoped the water had muffled my battle cries, as I had once again screamed my baby out. Reid was behind me and I could feel his relief, his joy, his wonder as our boy stretched his lungs and became a breather of air.

As my good friend Jordan said, the power of the moon and the water ushered our baby Alden out, born after 14 hours of labor under a full moon, during a thunderstorm in our home. Our boy had finally arrived, and we crawled into our own bed together.

The subsequent events were less exciting, I ended up losing a lot of blood again, got to have some rectal medication administered (whoopee), two bags of IV fluid and many diaper changes (me, not the baby). My legs shook for a couple of hours and I struggled to stay warm. The night was long and the medications for the bleeding left me feeling like I wanted to crawl out of my skin. At one point Alden woke up and my brain continued to misfire, I didn’t know how to swaddle my baby. I hardly even registered having a baby. I’d forgotten how to do everything. I was already failing at mothering him.

The arrival of dawn brought immense clarity as it often does, in her gentle way of unveiling the day to tired eyes. I was relieved and so grateful to see our sweet, dark, squishy, hairy as a greek papu little baby safely resting in between our exhausted bodies.

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alienonthis3arth · 8 years ago

Text

ST gift exchange

Title: Lost and Found

Author: moi (lucifermoaningstar)

Summary: Jim may or may not have done something worthy of the top three for the list of Stupidest Things James T. Kirk Has Ever Done™.

Warnings: Uhhh, there’s some mention of vomiting and blood/injury and v minor sexy-times. Also Spirk??

Notes: This is for the amazing and sweet @commandtrek for the stnetwork gift exchange! Thank you for being so understanding of the delay! I hope you like it ❤️

(The story is 6.7k words)

Something wasn’t right. Some part of him knew what it was, but a bigger part—a stronger part—couldn’t process… couldn’t understand. He blinked, then blinked again. The things he saw held no meaning, but something deep within told him otherwise. If only he could figure it out. A shaking over took him. At first he thought it must’ve been him, then he realized that he wasn’t the only thing moving.

Then, as if a switch was flipped, the reality of his situation hit him. Explosions, fire, flashing lights, smoke. He was in deep shit. He shot up fast, only to immediately regret it when a sharp pain darted through his side. Swallowing down a scream, he looked to the source. Blood was seeping through his yellow shirt.

Small pieces of debris rained down around him as the room jolted again. His stomach rolled with each rattle, causing him to gag for a long moment before finally throwing up, barely missing himself. He leaned back against the metal wall and wiped at his mouth. His stomach threatened to revolt again so he pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars, trying to will himself to stop from feeling like he was in the middle of the ocean on a dingy.

An accented voice sounded through the chaos, too loud and composed to be anything but over a PA system. “Evacuation protocol Delta is in effect for Decks November through Romeo. This is not a drill. Emergency response teams have been deployed. I repeat, evacuation protocol Delta is in effect for Decks November through Romeo. This is not a drill. Emergency response teams have been deployed.”

His heart skipped a beat at the words. Evacuation? Emergency response teams? What the hell had he gotten himself into now? A loud banging and clinking sounded somewhere above brought him back to the problem at hand: his probable death if he didn’t get himself out. With a grunt, he ambled to his feet, using his hand to help steady himself with the wall. He didn’t get more than a few feet when a pipe burst through the ceiling and expelled steam so hot he felt like he was being boiled alive. With a cry, he pushed himself away from it, almost falling over once again had it not been for the broken door that didn’t automatically open for him. Pressing his forehead against it, he breathed in deep through his mouth, then out through his nose, willing himself not to throw up again. As he did, something niggled at the back of his mind, but every time he tried to grab hold it slipped right through his fingers. If only his head would stop hurting long enough for him to think.

The metal around him groaned and shuttered eerily, the still working lights down the way he was headed flickered and blackened, leaving everything cast in red from the emergency lights from where he’d just come. He swallowed hard, then, with both hands against the wall, he shuffled into the darkness. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been hugging the wall, or if the horrible swaying just fooled him into believing he’d been moving, before the rest of the emergency lights kicked on. The hallway shuddered again, this time so violently he lost balance and almost face planted against a fallen support beam, sending a fresh wave of pain through his body.

Everything tilted, and in what felt like just a blink, he was on his back. His stomach gave a painful lurch and he rolled over, promptly throwing up what little was left in his stomach. Panting, he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and shuffled forward on his hands and knees. He had to get out. He had to keep moving.

A loud voice echoed through the halls, each syllable feeling like fingernails on a chalkboard, but he kept moving until he felt confident enough that he could stand again. There had to he a way out. There had to be a way out. He needed to get out. He needed to… he needed…

Blinking hard, he tried clear the blurry darkness clouding his vision. Roughly, he rubbed at his eyes, feeling stickiness but not able to muster the energy to care. Groaning, he slumped against the floor. Slight vibrations shot through it every few seconds, making him feel like he was buzzing. As he lay there, looking at the sparking wall opposite, he realized there was something scratching at the back of his mind. Yet, the harder he focused on it, the more transparent it became. His head pounded in retaliation, begging him to give in. His eyes slipped shut on their own accord, just as he heard someone calling out. It sounded like they were looking for someone, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe they were looking for him? Maybe they could stop the pounding in his head and side. He ran his hand out in front of him, feeling for something, maybe he could get… maybe he…

Slowly, he opened his eyes. Sounds bounced around him like too many people talking at once. He tried to call out, but only garbled air came out. He needed to get their attention. He needed to find something to… he looked at his hand. He clutching a crumpled piece of metal debris. He bit back a grunt, and shimmied himself up, then threw it down the hall as hard as he could manage. A fierce pain consumed him just before darkness did.

... - .- .-. / - .-. . -.-

He came to with a soft grunt. Blinking, he tried to bring his arm up to rub his bleary eyes, but something caught and tugged at his hand. With a hiss, he blinked a few more times before his aching brain processed the IV. What had he gotten himself into now? Trying to remember was hopeless, flashes of lights were all he could remember, and forcing it just made his head pound harder with each heartbeat.

He needed a distraction. To think about something else until the fuzziness dissipated. Finding out where exactly he was was definitely the best first step. Looking around, from what he could see past the flimsy white curtains half-assed pulled around him, he was obviously in some sort of medical facility, though, from what he could see, the other beds were all empty. Cold grey walls and a cleanliness that made one afraid to touch anything left him feeling like something was off. Taking a deep breath confirmed it. He was in a space ship. The air always did smell different than Earth.

Before he had a chance to really explore, two conversing voices made their way to his ears as they approached.

“-worried, doctor,” said the woman.

“Let the hobgoblin worry. Looks good on ‘im.”

“Doctor McCoy!” the woman sounded exasperated.

Jim looked at the curtain, as if he could see through it to view them. His stomach clenched.

“I just think you should you cut him some slack. He does have feelings, even… even if everyone likes to pretend he doesn’t.”

The doctor snorted. “Only you Christine. I swear…”

The curtain was pulled back with a snap. The two medical staff looked at him, dumbstruck.

“Jim!”

“Uhm… hey?”

“My God man, we thought you’d be out for another two days at least.” The doctor, dressed in Starfleet blues, pulled out a tricorder and began scanning him head to toe. How long had he been out for?

“Get me some painkillers please, Christine. Oh, and one of those compounds I whipped up earlier.” The nurse nodded and quickly left but not before stealing a quick glance at Jim.

“Everyone’s been real worried about you kid,” he said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “What you did… has to be in the top three stupidest stunts you’ve pulled, and that’s saying a lot.”

“What?” Jim didn’t think he’d ever been so confused in his life.

“Don’t ‘what’ me brat.” The doctor raised his hand toward him, and he flinched. An awkward silence hung in the air before Jim looked away, ashamed of his own reaction. He’d been trying so hard to make himself stop doing that.

“Hey,” said doctor McCoy. It was so soft he thought for sure he must’ve imagined it until he locked eyes with the man. A pure, unadulterated understanding was there. His breath caught in his throat.

“I’m sorry kid. I’ll be more careful, okay?”

He swallowed then nodded. “Yeah.”

Doctor McCoy held up his hand again, though slower and farther away. “I just need to check your pupils with this light here.” He pulled a small penlight out of his pocket. Jim nodded, taking a deep breath. The man was nice, nicer than most other doctors he’d ever been around. He didn’t deserve to be saddled with any of Jim’s shit.

The man cupped the side of his head, using his thumb to gently pull up his eyelid, shining the light in and out of it, before moving to the next one.

“Anything bothering you?”

“No.” He blinked. In truth, his head had been steadily getting worse since he’d awaken and his back was so stiff he was sure if he tried to bend it he would snap in half.

The withered look he got made him feel like laughing, though he couldn’t imagine why.

“Can’t bullshit me, I’ve known you far too long now-“

“What?” He must’ve heard that wrong. Too long? They’d only just met… There was no way… He didn’t understand, what was the doctor trying to do here?

“What’s with all the whats? Jesus kid, I ain’t ever known you to be so quiet, you must’ve hit your head harder than I thought.”

Rage welled up inside him. What the hell was this guy trying to do here? “Look, I don’t know if you get off on this shit or something, but we don’t know each other, so just stop with whatever it is you’re trying to do here.”

He watched the colour drain from the doctor’s face.

“What did you just say?”

“I said,” he raised his gaze to look directly into the doctor’s, “stop pretending we know each other.”

... - .- .-. / - .-. . -.-

It’d been almost half an hour since he’d seen anyone. The doctor had left after he’d examined his head and hadn’t been back since. Almost just as long ago, he’d heard the swoosh of doors and rushed whispers between a group of people until they’d entered a different room, effectively cutting them off.

With a deep breath, he shimmied around so he was sitting on his knees. His whole body felt bruised, though most of his injuries seemed to be fully healed, he knew well enough by now that a special brand of soreness and stiffness would prevail for a least another week. He blinked away black spots trying to take over his vision and looked at the vitals panel. Something was off about it but he couldn’t quite figure out what. Groping the side of the panel, he ran his hand down it until he found what he was looking for: a hatch hiding the power switch. Experience had taught him a long time ago that just jumping off a biobed would result in a lot of unnecessary annoyance and loud noises. Popping open the hatch, he turned clicked the switch off and quietly slipped off the biobed. Peeking around the curtain, he saw nothing too spectacular. Unfortunately, he’d have to get by the room the doctor and his companions had gone into to escape.

With careful steps, he made his way towards the door. Peeking out, he saw no one and made a break for it and tip-toed out of the room and into the hallway. Now that he was free, he was forced to deal with the big hole in his plan. He had no clue where he was, or where to even go. It was definitely obvious now he was on a ship, and most ships, especially Starfleet models, would have to have a floor plan of some sort on each level, especially on a ship this advanced. The problem was, where exactly it would be located. Logically, by an exit, or even some sort of electrical or storage room, but that didn’t help when you had no idea where either of those things were to begin with.

He kept close to the wall, and made his way down the rounded halls. A door swished opened just feet away so he dipped into a doorway. Two science officers walked past, so engrossed in their conversation they didn’t even see him. Sighing in relief, he started back down the hall. A few metres later he came across a touch screen in the wall. It was locked. Only ship personnel could access it with voice recognition according to the text flashing across the screen under a rotating Starfleet logo.

“Shit.”

The device beeped. “Sorry sir, could you please repeat that?” He jolted back. A cool, slightly robotic voice had just sounded from the panel. Hoping for at least one miracle, he gave it a shot.

“Uh… yeah… how do I get to the hangar? Shuttle bay? Whatever it’s called.”

“One moment please, sir.”

There had to be some sort of glitch in the system. How was he able to access it if only ship personnel could? Something wasn’t right.

A comprehensive map appeared on the screen with blue flashing arrows heading toward the shuttle bay.

“Due to damage on decks November through Romeo, you are being rerouted to the only accessible elevator to your desired location. Please proceed fifty-seven point three four metres forward to elevator C. Once there, you will be able to continue to deck Romeo where the shuttle bay is located.”

“Uh… thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Sir… he could get used to that.

... - .- .-. / - .-. . -.-

Getting to the shuttle bay had been relatively simple. The people he’d seen he’d been able to easily avoid. They were all distracted with completing repairs to the ship anyways. Something serious had gone down from what he could see. Explosions bad enough to tear down walls and ceilings, with debris scattered as far as the eye could see.

It was a little unnerving.

Maybe he’d been caught up in it all? That’d explain the serious headache and general full body achiness. Each step had him feeling more and more lethargic, but he wasn’t going to give up now. Sleep was something he could do later when he knew he was safe and back home.

Rolling his shoulders, he moved along the wall. So far he hadn’t been able to find an extra uniform laying around he could swipe. The patient outfit he’d woken up in was far from conspicuous, and though it was quiet comfy, it would be obvious to anyone walking by he wasn’t meant to be down here. He’d only been gone from the med bay for coming up ten minutes, but it was more than enough time for someone to notice his absence and start to form a search party. Not that he really expected anyone to care if he went missing or not.

The stale air of the shuttle bay made his nose itch as he neared it. A hole had been blown through most of the thick metal door like it’d only been made of toothpicks. Poking his head through, he saw a mostly empty bay. Save for more debris, there was only a handful of shuttlecrafts, small enough to be manned by one person, but large enough to be missed, or easily detected once he got out into open space. Every once in a while a haggard looking crew member would scurry by.

With another quick look around, he bolted toward a skid hiding behind the large container on it. Blinking hard, he tried to clear the blurriness. Cold sweat started to run down his face and neck. Reaching his hand out to clasp the edge, he realized how truly nervous he was. His body was shaking. Closing his eyes, he tried to think back to something calming. Something that could ground him in the moment. Then, like something akin to being stuck in a twister, a vision of sorts flashed through his burning brain. It was hard to make out, like everything he saw was shrouded in a gaussian blur. A beautiful man, brushing soft fingers against his temple down to the underside of his chin, whispering to him in a language he felt he should know. His heart ached for him, but his mind spun. Then, as if it’d never even happened, he was back in the shuttle bay, gasping for air and clawing at his tightening chest, his head pounding.

“Jim!”

He jumped. Rushing toward him was the doctor from earlier as well as another man- no, a Vulcan. He’d never seen a Vulcan looked so worried before. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure there was anything that could worry them.

“What’s wrong with him, doctor?”

The doctor held up the tricorder to scan him. Mumbling under his breath, he pulled out a hypospray and stuck him in the neck before he even had time to react. His chest immediately loosened, the pain considerably dulled.

“Ger’off,” he tried to push the doctor away but his limbs wouldn’t cooperate. They were turning to jelly as his skin prickled and started to go numb. What the hell had the doctor given him? Struggling was futile, but he still tried, until he knew no more.

... - .- .-. / - .-. . -.-

“Now, before you get yourself in a tizzy, it’s only temporary.”

He opened his eyes with a start. Disappointed, he realized he was back in the medical bay. Then the doctor’s words hit him. Stay like what?

Then he noticed the restraints. His blood went cold.

“Let me out!” He jerked at them, desperate, but they wouldn’t give.

“Jim, calm your mind.” The Vulcan went to reach for him, but the doctor stopped him, shaking his head.

“Jim, look at me.” He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to hear the lies and excuses for what they were going to do to him. He was tired of them all. He just wanted to go home. “Please.” With a deep breath, he closed his eyes, refusing to give into his emotions. He couldn’t afford to show them anymore weakness.

“I know you’re scared,” continued the doctor, “but we’re not gonna hurt you kid. I promise.”

He laughed. It was so painfully obvious he was scared he couldn’t help but cringe.

“This must be very disorienting for you. Please let us explain what has happened.” He had no idea why, but the Vulcan’s voice made him feel calmer. Like maybe this wasn’t the end of the world. With a long sigh, he opened his eyes again and looked at them.

They looked almost… hurt. Something niggled at the back of his brain again, like he knew he’d left something at home but couldn’t remember what.

“Before we explain anything, we just need to know one thing, okay?” Doctor McCoy pulled a stool over and sat down. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

He frowned. They had to be trying to pull something.

“Please, it’s important.”

He hated himself for wanting to give in. Why did these two make him feel like he could tell them anything? Why did they make him feel so… safe?

Sighing, he looked at them, hoping he wasn’t making a horrible decision.

“I remember…” he blinked. It was harder than he thought to think back. Everything felt fuzzy. “I remember… I was at a shipyard… they were just starting construction on a new Starfleet ship and I wanted to check it out. Supposed to be the best in the fleet, if not the galaxy. Or so they say.” It was a half truth at least. He really was at the new shipyard, just not solely to check things out.

Doctor McCoy looked burdened by the news.

“Jim, what year is it?”

Now they definitely had to be yanking his chain.

“What’s with these questions, huh?” His faced heated with anger. “Tell me why I have to tell you anything. You’re the ones who should be answering questions for me! Instead I’m being held against my will with no idea why!” He yanked at the cuffs for effect.

The Vulcan and the doctor shared a look. It was clear they were trying to communicate something to one another.

“You were injured during an attack on this vessel.” His stomach jolted. He knew something had obviously happened to him and this ship, but having it confirmed still managed to shock him. “I am sure you saw the damage done to the ship on your way to the shuttle bay. We were attacked by a hostile species and suffered serious damage to decks November through Romeo. During this time, you made your way to deck Oscar to assist in the evacuation of personnel and help Chief Engineer Scott with the warp core.”

Jim sucked in a breath.

None of this made any sense. Why would he be doing something like that?

“Once the necessary measures were taken, you left to join us back on the bridge.” His mind was whirling with what this could all mean. “For reasons unknown to us, you remained on deck Oscar, where you were severely injured. At an undetermined amount of time later, you were found unconscious by myself and doctor McCoy.”

He averted his gaze. Possible explanations ran through his head at a dizzying rate. Maybe this was all a ruse. They’d kidnapped him and were trying to create a sense of Stockholm Syndrome. Or maybe he’d snuck aboard a Starfleet ship when he was in the shipyard and somehow ended up here, in a case of mistaken identity.

“I know this must be hard for you, kid. I can only imagine how you’re feeling. But we need you to let us help you.”

He licked his lips. Why did he trust them so much? It was something that had been bugging him this whole time. Yet, he had no real answer. Just a gut feeling. Something too deep within to control. But something he knew he needed to trust.

“2251.”

The doctor spluttered. The Vulcan looked almost shell-shocked. They shared a look.

“Jesus,” muttered the doctor, rubbing at his face.

“What year is it really? At least ten years later?” The doctor chuckled.

“You’re too smart for you own good, y’know that?” The older man sounded fond, it was weird. If someone ever said that to him, it was normally with contempt.

“The stardate is currently 2264.232. You are aboard the Starship Enterprise as a member of its crew.”

He wasn’t as surprised as he thought he’d be. It made sense, he guessed. The ship was extremely advanced, definitely too advanced for 2251. Its computer system had recognized his voice, and everyone he’d encountered so far had seemed to already know him. All the puzzle pieces he’d gathered fit into place. Even he couldn’t argue with the logic of it all.

“Huh, never thought I’d actually join up.”

“This must be a lot to take in, but retrograde amnesia is rarely permanent, and after your last scan, I’m confident you’ll be getting your memory back within a few days once the swelling in your brain goes down and you get the right medicine in your system.” He held up a hypospray. “You’re lucky you got such a hard head.”

He smiled. He liked this guy.

... - .- .-. / - .-. . -.-

After, he’d been filled in on some of the information about the missing thirteen years (including being the frickin’ captain of this baby!), him and the first officer Vulcan he now knew was named Spock, were headed to his quarters. Spock had been tasked with keeping watch on him for the next few days until his memories started to come back, something the doctor assured him would happen naturally and that trying to force it would only make his headache worse.

“These are your quarters.” Spock hesitated. “I am… aware of the entrance code. If this makes you uncomfortable, it can be changed.”

From what he could tell, Spock and the doctor were friends of his… or his future self. Yet, they didn’t try to force it on him. In fact, they seemed to be actively making sure they didn’t impose on him. If they really were his friends, he’d hit the jackpot.

“Uh, no no. It’s okay.” Spock bowed his head before inputting the code. 03226010. He wondered if it meant something.

His room was clean and orderly. A few knick-knacks were placed about: an old-fashioned printed picture in a frame of him with his mom and brother, a small statue he didn’t recognize, and a handful of candles. Pretty boring all-in-all.

“Is something unsatisfactory?”

“No… it’s just not what I expected… though I can’t say for sure what I was actually expecting…”

The Vulcan nodded. Jim couldn’t help but stare. Now that the drama of it all had subsided, he couldn’t help but admire the other’s beauty. The strong jaw and long eyelashes that brushed his cheeks. His stunning eyes, so deep with emotion and intelligence that it would be easy to get lost within them for hours. And his hands! They looked like something from a Grecian sculpture. God, he had the hots for this friend. What the hell was wrong with him?

“Captain, should I call the doctor?”

He blushed, embarrassed for getting caught staring. “I’m okay, just got lost for a moment.” Spock didn’t look appeased, but let it go.

“I will leave you to get reacquainted with your room. If you are agreeable to it, I can escort you to the mess hall at 2200 hours.” He looked to the clock on his bedside table. 30 more minutes.

“Yeah, that’s fine. Thanks.”

The Vulcan clasped his hands behind his back before nodding once more and leaving.

Jim immediately regretted it. He was happy for the time to be able to explore his room alone a bit, but a deep sadness had already begun to settle in. He didn’t belong here, not like this. What if he never got his memory back? The future him would lose everything. The present him would lose the promise of everything. His own captaincy, friends who actually cared about him, respect. It was a lot to take in. In his own head he was an 18 year old screw up with no prospects and no life direction. In reality, he was 31 with his shit together and a real life with real responsibilities. It was more than a little overwhelming.

He flopped down on his bed. Some kind of memory foam that his achey back loved. After a few moments he rolled onto his side and opened up the bedside drawer. Some candy, papers, two books, and box of opened condoms and lube. The box was almost emptied. Smirking, he praised his future self. He was definitely getting some. But with who? He scanned his bedroom once more. If there was one thing he knew, it was himself. Being a captain of one of the best ships in the fleet meant he’d have to be careful with certain things, especially relationships with other personnel. And since he knew himself as well as he did, he also knew he loved to keep things that reminded him of his loved ones close by.

He scooched off the bed and slipped onto the floor. When he was a kid, he’d hide important things in the furniture and under floorboards. His room here was carpeted, so he doubted he tried to hide anything underneath it. So that just left two beside tables, a desk, a chair, a bookshelf, and his wardrobe.

He opened the bottom drawer. It was empty save for two energy bars and another book. He flipped through it, then turned it upside and shook it. Nothing. He grabbed the energy bars and peeled the wrapper back and bit off a chunk, almost ashamed of himself. Almost. Then, he reached into the drawer, and ran his hand against the bottom of the upper drawer, seeing if there was anything tapped to its underside. Nothing. He opened the top drawer again and felt the underside of the top. Again, nothing. Sighing, he shuffled over to the other table and repeated the same thing before approaching the other furniture. All he ended up finding was more non-perishable food, some bottled water, more books than he was sure he had time to read, and a whole lot of not what he was hoping for.

So maybe he didn’t know himself as well as he’d thought. His years in Starfleet obviously had made him craftier, or more paranoid, as his mom liked to call it. As he looked around once more, it clicked. The best place to hide something was always in plain sight. He went over to the picture frame, opened it and pulled out the photo. He looked at it from the side. A thin line ran down it. There were two pictures. Carefully, he pulled away the second photo. The breath caught in his throat.

It was him and Spock. Their faces so close they were almost touching. He was genuinely smiling while Spock looked at him, and honestly, he looked as close to happy as he was sure a Vulcan could get. So… apparently him and the Vulcan were an item. Happiness spread through him like a shot of hard liquor. Then it clicked. The “vision” he’d had in the shuttle bay, it was Spock. Spock was the one who’d been caressing his face, whispering beautiful words to him. He couldn’t believe it. How the hell had his life turned out so well? Jesus, he’d never had so much luck before. But something had to give. Something always did.

Huddling onto the floor, he clutched the picture to his chest as tears welled up. Goddammit, why couldn’t he remember this? Maybe that’s how his life was just destined to go. One horrible experience after the next. Have everything he could ever want, only for it to have no real meaning—no personal emotion and experience attached. Just empty. He also knew, if he never got his memory back, what that spelt for him career-wise. He’d be honourably discharged and dropped back on Earth (if he was lucky), and promptly forgotten about. It always circled back to him being left behind like an unwanted piece of trash.

“Jim,” he jerked. Spock was kneeled next to him, his hand hovering inches from his shoulder.

“S-Spock,” his voiced cracked, his vision blurry with unshed tears. “I’m sorry.” God he was such an asshole. Here he’d been lamenting about how he couldn’t remember, when Spock very much could and had to pretend like they didn’t mean more to each other than just casual work colleagues.

“There is nothing to apologize for, Jim. You have committed no offence against me.” A sob slipped past his lips. How was he so understanding? He should be yelling at him, hitting him, telling him he wasn’t worth the energy or the time. Instead, this Vulcan—someone from a species who didn’t do emotions and touchy-feely things—was holding him, stroking his hair, whispering things to him he couldn’t understand. His mind told him over and over he didn’t know this man, yet his body and his heart told him an entirely different story. He buried his face deeper into Spock’s chest. Why did he have to destroy every good thing in his life? Why was he such a screw up?

“Fuck, I’m so sorry Spock.” His voice was shaky as he pulled away. “I know… I know this must be so hard on you. I wish I could remember. I want to remember. I want to remember you.” Spock lifted his chin so their eyes met. Once again he was struck by the depth in his eyes.

“Just because I am lost to you, does not mean you are lost to me.” Spock gently pulled his hand away from his chest, taking the photo from his shaking hand. “I was not aware you kept this photo.” Something played over the other’s face so fast he’d almost missed it entirely. “I do not expect anything from you, in regard to our relationship, at this time. I am…” Spock made a face, as if his next words were painful to say, “confident in the doctor’s abilities. I believe his diagnosis is accurate. Your memory will return soon.”

“But what if it doesn’t?” He held his breath, unsure if he really wanted the answer or not. What if Spock was lying to him?

“Though the chance of you not regaining your memory is 1.33 per cent, if it were to happen, I would continue to stay by your side as your first officer, and friend if you so choose.”

“And what about this? …Us?”

Spock hesitated and looked away. “I would not presume to believe that you would want us to continue seeing each other.” His heart fell. Maybe at first he’d be uncomfortable, but he could easily see why he fell for the Vulcan in the first place. Would Spock really not fight for them? Then brown eyes met blue.“Yet, I will continue to try to win your affections again if you will allow it.”

The world stopped. He was sure it must’ve. Or maybe it was a stroke. That had to be it.

“I… I’m not sure I heard you right.”

Spock cupped his cheeks and brought him close. “I will fight for you, ashaya, until the day you want me no longer.” He closed his eyes, refusing to let more tears escape. Then the Vulcan pulled him closer and gently kissed each eyelid.

“Sleep, Jim. You will feel better. Tomorrow I will answer any questions you may have.”

Spock helped him up onto his bed, then left for a moment before coming back with a pair of Starfleet issued pyjamas.

“I am just next door.” Spock pulled out a piece of paper from his desk and wrote something on it. “I will leave the code to my quarters with you. If you find yourself in need of anything, you may come at any time.”

Jim nodded. Maybe Spock was right. Sleep would do him some good.

“Goodnight, Jim.”

“Night.”

And with that, Spock left.

... - .- .-. / - .-. . -.-

The next few days were a rollercoaster for him. The first real day he’d been awake since the accident, no memories came back. It’d been a hard pill to swallow. Thankfully, Spock and McCoy were there to guide him through it. So, instead of sitting around, he’d gone a tour of the ship in hopes that it may jog something, but also because he felt he should know what was going on—he was captain after all, whether he remembered it or not.

They’d ended up encountering a lot of personnel, all who seemed very happy to see him up and about. All them very understanding of his current condition. It made his heart swell. He wasn’t sure if he would go as far as to say he was proud of his future self, but he was pretty damn close. The camaraderie and support he saw, not just toward him, but everyone else, made him feel like maybe he wasn’t screwing up as bad as he’d secretly feared his future self was.

At one point during their tour, McCoy had pulled him aside and told him of some not so pleasant memories that may be coming his way of Spock. That him and Spock had practically hated one another until “you both got your head outta your asses, that is.” And had even come to blows at one point. The doctor looked pained at having to talk about their relationship, but he could tell the older man honestly cared, and didn’t want Kirk to misconstrue any memories he may get since there was no guarantee they would come back in order.

Day two he’d remembered something, this time so vividly he’d almost blacked out. McCoy had been on hand with another hypospray to help him with the panic attack. It’d been a memory of him meeting Spock at the transporter platform, his hand outstretched, a look of devastation clearly written across his normally stoic face. Though that was the only memory he’d gained that day, he somehow knew what had happened to cause it. He wanted so very badly to lie to the Vulcan when he’d asked what had come back to him, but he knew he couldn’t. The last thing he wanted to do was bring up something so obviously painful again. Yet, as the words tumbled out, Spock seemed to take it well. A deep hurt had flashed through his eyes before he admitted that it was more to do with that he wished that it hadn’t been Jim’s first regained memory. All Jim could do was pull him close and kiss him on the cheek.

Day three he’d woken up with most of his memory from his time at the academy—good and bad. He’d ended up crying on Bones’ shoulder, blubbering about how sorry he was for making him late to see his daughter in their second year.

“Jeez, kid, I never knew you felt so bad about it,” he said, patting him on the back. “But don’t worry your pretty little head over it. The ex and Joanna were running late that day as well so I didn’t look like too much of an ass when I got there.”

He just hugged his friend harder.

Day four was the worst. Memories of Khan and dying and not so nice things that had happened to him before he joined up all flooded back. It’d been so tiring and emotionally draining he refused to leave his room, instead, opting to lay in his bed refusing to do much more than stare at the wall. Spock refused to leave his side the whole time.

Day five was… interesting. Intimate moments with Spock swirled in his head. How their relationship started, the chess games, all the shore leaves together, the sex. God, the sex! It was… hot. So hot. After a rather awkward morning, he and Spock sat down and talked for hours. Spock was afraid of taking advantage of him, that much he knew, but with most of his memories back he craved Spock’s affection and attentions again. He knew he needed to make sure they were on the same page though first, not wanting the Vulcan to feel responsible for anything supposedly untoward. Spock was able to roll with the punches, adapting to each memory as it came day after day, yet Kirk wasn’t sure if he was up to adapting to something more carnal so soon. After expressing their concerns to one another, they’d decided to keep it simple. Only over the clothes stuff and nothing more. Turns out Spock was a really good memory booster.

It was day six when he got the rest of his memories back, save for the incident that caused this all, which Bones had informed him would likely never come back. He’d been a little disappointed to realize they’d never know why he’d stayed on the deck instead of heading back to the bridge like he was supposed to. But he guessed somethings would forever remain a mystery.

Having his lost memories back was like surfacing from being under water too long. Everything was clear now. He had focus and understanding like never before. The crisis that lead up to his accident was clear, as was the attack on Yorktown over a year ago. He know remembered Pike—the father figure he’d never had. All the times he’d gotten wasted with Scotty over engineering theories. How Spock learnt French just for him because his mom used to speak it with him when he was little. That he always got his ass-kicked by Uhura and her impeccable poker face when they played cards, and that Sulu and Chekov got the whole crew to start calling him ‘mom’ and Spock ‘dad,’ much to their annoyance. Suddenly, birthdays and names and anniversaries and little tidbits about people that had been wiped from his mind just days before were all back. It was exhilarating. Freeing.

With Spock by his side, and all his friends—his family—to back him up, nothing could stop him.

He was sure of it. Now more than ever. He was Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise. And damn was he proud.

#stnetworkge #commandtrek #star trek #star trek fanfiction #spirk #I hope this is okay!!#if you dont like it #pls let me know and i'll write you something better/different #my fic

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