#but then their fic...takes every criticism and dials it up to 11

[benperorsolo]

I’ve fucking hated the Rey is a Mary Sue take for four years but TROS makes it kind of undeniable because of the way the narrative has no consequences for her character and just treats her like a fan avatar 😬

Uhhh...yeah. Under cut bc bitching, including general bitching about overall characterization.

TROS Rey is the definition of an MS. And to be honest...her character is not as stellar in previous installments as i think the fandom likes to make out. People like to talk about how she fails in TLJ, but I still don’t think she does in a very meaningful way. Sure, she fails to bring Ben back to the light side-- but we know that Rey is morally right in this situation and Ben is wrong, and we know that Ben will eventually also be proven wrong. So, sure, it’s a failure, but only cosmetically. And it doesn’t seem to affect Rey at all afterwards. She definitely sees it as Ben’s failing (and it mostly is) as she slams the door on him; and then in TROS she has moved on from any cogent emotion or self inspection and just tries to kill Ben on principle. 

Yes, Luke is rude to her on Ach-To, but this is again a problem with Luke, and not really Rey. She is doing the right thing by coming there, by talking to Ben, and by trying to help him. And she gets vindicated by all three of those actions. 

She succumbs to the dark side hole in the ground on Ach-To, but again; we know she’s right to do it, and she gets important insight into herself. She finds out her parents are nobody, but this isn’t really a failure on her part --you have no control over your parentage (oh, I guess unless you’re TROS Rey)-- barring the years she wasted on Jakku. But she’s already left Jakku at this point as well. 

A flaw she does have is that she is constantly trying to make others give her a ready made identity and purpose, especially Ben’s family. TLJ positions the narrative well to examine that in the next installment, but then ofc TROS does the exact opposite and gives her like, three ready-made identities. And loneliness would be her other...idk if it’s a flaw, really. It’s not her fault she’s lonely either; she’s not lonely because she alienates others or is rude to them, except in the very light touch they give to concepts like how she is emotionally walled off to her friends about important things, like Ben’s communication with her. But the way the narrative handles this behavior is so inconsistent that I’m not sure if it’s meant to be a flaw-- because we’re evidently supposed to believe that the trio is this great friend group despite how they all hate each other and keep secrets.

The narrative especially in TROS bends over backwards to accommodate her in places where any other character receives untold suffering. Her selfish actions are coddled because of the protagonist-centered morality of the movie. Her characterization in general throughout the trilogy is one where I think previous behavior could either be contextualized well or badly depending on where her arc ended up. TLJ did well to begin contextualizing it better, in a way where she felt more humanized. But her arc was a circle, which means that all of her inexplicable plot armor and luck in TFA was really just that, and it served no greater purpose. And yes, I know all of the arguments people make about how Rey is so good so fast because she fought on Jakku her whole life, and/or because the force bond allowed her to ‘download’ skills from Ben, and all of that, but like...so what? Does it make a good story when a character does those things, even if we can say they were logically informed? 

The writing for her character is very inconsistent --and, of course, it’s not just Rey-- and it’s difficult to discern what is meant as an intentional flaw and what is bad writing making the characterization look bad by accident. And it comes down, as you said, to JJ seeing her basically as an audience avatar before a real person. This is just kind of how JJ writes characters. Finn and Poe suffer from this too. 

I don’t hate Rey. This fandom is entirely too trigger happy to denounce criticism as hate, and any accusation of “Mary Sue-ness” as being from entitled manbabies. But, you know...some of this potential for TROS rot was there in the beginning. TLJ went a long way to nipping the issues with TFA into productive buds. But then TROS came along and really just destroyed the journey. The canon character Rey is at this point is not one I feel like following.

[fabulouspotatosister]

occupational hazard

summary: The best place to be when danger arises is by the Doctor’s side, but sometimes danger comes just by being at his side.

word count: 11, 934 (oof)

warnings: swearing, illness/poisoning, one character is kind of a creep

a/n: here it is.... finally.... the inaugural Long Fic for 11... i have “connections” (on ao3) for 13 and now i have this!! this took way too long to write because i kept getting distracted watching critical role, but now it’s finally done and i can... move on... anyway i hope you all enjoy!!

gif by: @dobrien

---

“…and this - should be Lobar Three!”

 The Doctor spreads his arms with a flourish as the TARDIS lands, its wheezing noise reverberating throughout the console room. The Doctor pirouettes around the console with the grace of a giraffe and slams down a lever – the TARDIS stills.

 A small laugh makes its way out of your mouth. “Should be?”

 “Yeah, should be. Moderate climate, beautiful mountain ranges, and gorgeous views thanks to its unique atmosphere,” the Doctor continues, dancing towards the doors. “Get ready for the sunrise of a lifetime!”

 He says it like a cheesy tour guide, flashing you one of his manic grins before he peeks his head out of the door.

 A beat of silence. You hear him groan, then he sticks his head back in.

 "Not Lobar Three," he says sheepishly, "Lobar Four. I missed."

 "You missed?" You dash away from the console to stand next to him and gently elbow his side. He mutters a soft "ow". "Oh, one day I'll learn how to drive the TARDIS, and you're going to be sorry."

 "Oi, don't diss the driver," the Doctor says indignantly, his mouth curling into a frown - though one that's probably more embarrassed than upset. It's fun to see the Doctor flustered, all frowns and furrowed brows, arms crossed over his chest. You decide to try again.

 You grin widely, moving closer into the Doctor's side. His mouth hangs open a little bit before he frowns again. "Maybe I should get try and get River to teach me, you've got her on speed dial right -"

 "No, no, no, you are not getting River involved in this," he grumbles. "And I do not have her on speed dial. At least it's inhabited. Come on!"

 The Doctor swings the doors open, and a bright white light spills through. Carefully, he steps out of the TARDIS, and you follow suit.

 You look around, your gaze travelling along smooth marble walls interrupted by framed portraits of wintry landscapes. Several green potted plants stand next to a stone desk. Right next to the empty desk is a shelf full of brochures - the Doctor shuts the doors behind him and runs to the self, plucking a brochure and flipping through it.

 "Doctor, where are we?" you whisper.

 The Doctor doesn't look up from his brochure. "Like I said, Lobar Four. Fourth planet in the Lobar system, very touristy, and also very cold, on account of it being farther from its system's sun -"

 You sigh, interrupting him. "No, I meant where exactly are we?"

 "That is a question I can answer."

 You turn your head towards a low, rumbling voice - your gaze focuses on a bear-like creature, standing on two feet, walking slowly towards you. Something about its presence is quite commanding, and you stand a little straighter. "Welcome, strangers, to the P'kone Mountain Resort. What is your business here?"

 "Hello!" the Doctor says cheerfully, stuffing his brochure into his jacket. "I'm the Doctor and this -" He pats your shoulders and you smile politely - "is my companion. We're just having a look around. Lovely resort. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. ...?"

 "The Doctor!" The creature's eyes widen, and he steps forward, bowing his head. The many chains on his suit strike each other and make jangling sounds. “I did not expect such an esteemed visitor to arrive. I am Merban, and the pleasure is all mine."

 "Oh, esteemed visitor?" The Doctor bows back, then glances at you - you fumble and bow awkwardly. If your bowing is offensive at all Merban doesn't say anything. "What's the occasion, Merban?"

 Merban straightens, folding his hands - paws? You'd have to count how many fingers he had - behind his back. His white fur almost makes him disappear into the white marble walls, but the many golden accents on his maroon suit shine under the lights. "We are having a political summit regarding our planet's trade. You may join us, if you like - dinner is just beginning."

 "Dinner?" you ask, then cringe at the way your voice echoes in the space. Merban nods slowly.

 "Yes, child," he says, a gentle smile spreading across his features. "We would be very humbled to be in your company."

 "Oh, his company, not mine," you laugh, gesturing to the Doctor.

 Merban frowns, tilting his head to the side. "No, your company is appreciated as well. We Lobarians have heard many stories about the Doctor and his companions. How they travel together, spreading kindness amongst the stars. You play a very integral role in those stories. We will honor you just as much as him."

 You feel your face grow warm. You glance at the Doctor and he smiles at you, a proud gleam in his eyes. "Oh. Well, uh - thank you," you manage, your voice small. "Yes, we'll join you. Please, lead the way."

 "Very well." With another polite nod, Merban turns on his heel and starts walking into the hallway behind him.

 "Honored? Me?" you gush, walking not too far behind Merban. You're only human, and although the Doctor's always said that humanity's brilliant, there's still a tiny part of you that jumps in joy at the praise. "They tell stories about you and I'm a part of them?"

 "We're a package deal, you and I." The Doctor shrugs, but there's still a smile playing on his lips. A package deal. Never one without the other. You soften at the thought. "Word gets around quickly. You get used to it."

 "Oh, I think I never will." You try to swallow a laugh, but it bubbles out of you anyway. "Spreading kindness amongst the stars is such high praise. I didn't think we were doing that."

 The hallway widens into a large room, and your breath catches in your throat. Intricately carved pillars curve upwards into a domed ceiling, leading to a shimmering centerpiece hanging in the middle of the room that seems to shift in the wind. Scattered around the room are circular tables, decorated with a silken cloth that reflect the lights beautifully. There are a few Lobarians at every table, all dressed in formal wear lined in gold, all of them prim and proper in their seats.

 "Friends and allies," Merban announces, "I proclaim the arrival of two very esteemed guests, the Doctor and his companion!"

 A bout of polite clapping spreads across the room before it quickly falls silent again. Merban leads you to a longer table set on a stage - a Lobarian with fluffy brown fur dressed in an azure suit quickly leaps up from his chair to greet you and the Doctor.

 "Hello!" he says brightly, taking your hand in his - five fingers, so not paws - and shaking it vigorously. "I'm Koramaz, it's so nice to finally meet you." He jerks his thumb behind him at another Lobarian with similarly colored fur, who rises from his seat to join Koramaz. "That's my assistant, Orvin. Why don't you say hello?"

 "Greetings." Orvin reaches out to take your hand, the faint gleam of a ring shining on one of his fingers. He presses his mouth against the back of your palm - you raise your eyebrows at him and he laughs, a low sound. "I'm sorry. Traditions travel far and wide across the cosmos. I was told about this human one. Did that offend you?"

 "N-no," you stutter out. The Doctor moves to stand behind you, placing his hands on your shoulders.

 "Lovely to meet you both," he says. You nearly miss him grumbling something under his breath.

 Merban settles into his seat. "If you are finished with your introductions, shall we begin?

 Koramaz smiles, his teeth bared. And they're sharp. "Of course, Merban. Shall we?"

 Merban offers that you sit beside him - Koramaz insists the same thing. In the end, you and the Doctor end up at the center of the table, with Koramaz on one side and Merban on the other. You watch as elegantly dressed Lobarians float into the room and begin handing dishes on silver platters to the guests, spinning around every table like the service is one big choreography.

 "So - about this political summit," the Doctor begins, leaning back into his chair and clasping his hands together, "what's going on? Why don't you fill me in on the details, Merban?"

 "Our planet is currently divided into two factions," Merban explains. He nods up at one of the servers politely as they set down a plate in front of him. "I am with the Protectionists. We wish to keep our planet's economy independent. That involves increasing restrictions and taxes on foreign exports."

 "And I," Koramaz starts, waving away a server, "am with the Expansionists. We want Lobar Four to be seen on the galactic stage! Opening our doors to foreign trade has to be the best way. Don't you agree with me, Orvin?"

 Orvin just hums in reply, the blue cloak resting on his shoulder swaying with the motion.

 It's only now that you notice how the room is divided in two - the ones wearing blue sitting on one side, and the ones wearing red sitting on the other. It's also only now that formality of the event hits you. The Doctor in his suit and bowtie fits right in, but you - you're in a shirt and pants. You reach up the grab the hem of your shirt, anxiously running your fingers over the fabric.

 "Preposterous," Merban mutters. "Lobar Four is not yet ready for that kind of progress."

 "If we're not ready now, then when will we be ready, Merban?" Koramaz counters. "Hmm? What do you say to that?"

 "Well, progress is subjective, when you really think about it," the Doctor says. "It all depends on what your goals are, and if your goals differ, then so does your idea of progress. I suppose that's what makes this so difficult."

 "Spoken like a true public speaker," you whisper, leaning in.

 The Doctor chuckles. "I was on Aristotle's debate team."

 Koramaz turns to face the Doctor, his eyes glinting. "Say, Doctor, why don't you put in a good word for us? Everyone here trusts you a lot, and I'm sure you agree with me. Opportunity for all, and all that."

 The Doctor smiles and shakes his head. "Sorry, I'm not really one for politics. The gossip can get a bit -" He grimaces slightly - "much. More of a negotiator. I don't really interfere."

 You snicker at that. Really?

 The Doctor narrows his eyes at you. Hush.

 "I'm sure you lot can come to a compromise," the Doctor says. Merban scoffs.

 "Compromise has no place in Koramaz's vocabulary," Merban says. Koramaz shrugs at that, raising his palms in the air. "The boy has a one-track mind, as the young ones say. I can only hope that these talks go peacefully."

 "Yes, we only want the best for our planet." Koramaz nods slowly. He glances at Orvin, his gaze hidden by his fur. "It's a shame you won't put your two cents in, Doctor. But rest assured, we'll come to a conclusion by the end of the night."

 A small tap on your shoulder makes you look up at one of the finely dressed servers. They carry a small tray filled with glasses of a rose-colored liquid. The server nods at you, then the drinks. "Would you like one?"

 "Sure, thanks." You reach up and take one of the glasses - the rose-colored liquid sparkles, and when you smell it, it does smell faintly of roses. "Is it alcoholic?"

 "It is a wine from our territory," Merban says, "a gift from my faction to Koramaz's for all of us to enjoy."

 Koramaz swirls his own glass of wine. "It's a wonderful gesture. What about you, Doctor? Will you drink?"

 The Doctor waves off a server, shaking his head, but he's got his own glass too. "Nah, I don't drink. But I do love to hold the glass in my hand, it makes me look cool."

 Your laughter is what sets the whole table off - Koramaz chortles, and even Merban gives a low chuckle. The Doctor smiles, proud, raising the glass like Gatsby at one of his parties. It's enough to make you laugh again, steadying your hand so you don't spill your drinks.

 You raise the glass to your lips and sip the wine - it tastes fizzy, and burns your throat when you swallow, but it isn't bad. The Doctor frowns like a disapproving parent, pointing his sonic at the glass. You raise your eyebrows at him as he skims over the readings.

 "What?" you say, lowering your glass.

 "I don't want you getting drunk, this is a diplomatic affair," the Doctor says quietly.

 "Okay, Mr. Grumpy Face. You're no fun." You take a big gulp of wine and then immediately regret it as it burns even harder in your throat, blazing a trail of fire all the way down to your stomach. You cough, your face twisting into a grimace. "Don't laugh."

 "'Course not," the Doctor says, laughing. "Are you okay?"

 "Fine!" you splutter. It still burns, and you pound your fist against your chest. "Ack. I shouldn't have done that. Don't go all 'I told you so' on me and tell me that the wine isn't safe for human consumption."

 "Oh, it isn't," the Doctor says nonchalantly. When you stare at him, your eyes going wide, he laughs. "Kidding! I'm kidding. Look at you, all panicked with your big eyes."

 You groan and the Doctor laughs again, louder this time. Your annoyance drops at the joyful sound and you smile, biting your lower lip. You're out of place in a super fancy alien dinner party, and yet the Doctor is still squarely by your side, his laugh like an anchor amongst all of the extraordinary things happening. You file that nice thought away for later, to admit to him in a more vulnerable moment.

 "And now, a dance," Merban announces, raising his glass, "to cement peace between our two factions. Koramaz, if you will?"

 "Of course." Koramaz rises and makes his way to the very center of the room - the guests dressed in blue all form a circle, and the guests dressed in red partner up with them.

 Orvin extends a hand to you. "Wait. Before you join the dance, I have a gift for you."

 He unclasps the pin that holds his shoulder cloak in place - it slides off his shoulder, the fabric shimmering in his hands - and throws it over your shoulder. He leans in close to pin it, his fur just tickling the skin of your neck. It looks a little strange, the beautiful piece hanging off of your casual clothes, but Orvin looks proud. "Perfect for a beauty like you."

 You smile shyly at him. "Thank -"

 "Yes, thank you very much," the Doctor says quickly. He shoots a polite smile in Orvin's direction before he practically drags you away. "You didn't have to say yes," he says, his grip tight around your wrist.

 "I didn't?" You pry your hand out of his grasp. The cloak sways as you move, cold like metal as it brushes against your arm. "It's a really nice cloak, though."

 The Doctor huffs. "It's finely-woven chainmail - the metal links are as tiny as thread. Makes it look just like normal cloth. Lobarian craftsmen do not mess about. Symbolic Lobarian attire, the one-shoulder cloak, common throughout the whole system."

 "Symbolic of what?" you ask. The Doctor sighs, his brows pinching together.

 "It's an old symbol, it doesn't matter." You shoot him a look, trying to give him your best puppy-dog eyes - the Doctor holds your gaze before he sighs again, deeper this time. "Oh, you - alright, it means you're unbound."

 "Unbound?"

 "Unmarried, without a partner, whatever you want to call it!" the Doctor says, his voice climbing higher. "Single. I don't know."

 You watch the Doctor, shoulders slumped as if in defeat, his hands thrown up in the air in frustration - if you didn't know any better, you'd say he looked a little -

 "Raise the music!" Koramaz bellows, and the music grows even louder. Everyone starts to sway, some joining hands, some pulling each other close.

 At Koramaz's announcement, the Doctor relaxes slightly. He extends his hand to you, bowing slightly like a proper gentleman - "Shall we dance?"

 "Aren't you a terrible dancer?" you ask, placing your hand in his.

 The Doctor smirks up at you, and your heart stutters in your chest. "You've never seen me waltz."

 You breathe out a laugh as the Doctor steps closer to you, your hand still clasped in his. You bring your free hand to his shoulder - the Doctor, not taking his eyes off you, lets his hand come to a rest on your waist.

 And oh, his eyes. Have you ever really looked at the Doctor before today? Like, really looked at him? Has his face always looked like that?

 He said you were unbound but you certainly don't feel that way - swaying with him, the Doctor feels like the only thing keeping your feet on the ground. You blink up at him, at his hair that just looks perfect for running your hands through and his eyes that seem to hold everything.

 You haven't been looking. Now you're looking and you really like what you see.

 You exhale through your mouth at the realization, and hope that the Doctor doesn't hear. He's humming along to the music, happy enough. "Doctor?" you ask, jumping a little at the way your voice comes out strained.

 The Doctor hums in response, a note of the song. You swallow. What's brought this on? Is it the alien wine you've just drunk? It probably is. Liquid courage. "Have I ever told you that I think you're really -"

 "Excuse me," a Lobarian next to you coughs, "you'll have to pass her along."

 You feel the Doctor's hand tense against your waist. "What?"

 "We're meant to dance with everyone," they explain. "The dance can't continue until you pass her along. Sorry."

 Something flickers across the Doctor's face, too quickly for you to figure out what it is. He lets go of you, pushing you gently away from him, and you think you catch him frowning as you're passed along.

 It's easy enough to engage in light conversation with the Lobarians who dance with you. Most of them are overwhelmed at your presence, others are adorably curious about human customs. They ask questions about climate and plants, some of them tilting their heads in confusion at the idea of a "summer". A few remind you too much of old economics teachers.

 You've just finished talking with a tall Lobarian woman when she spins you and passes you along to the one beside her - strong arms catch you, and you look up at Orvin's face.

 "My cloak suits you well," he rumbles, smiling.

 "It does," you say brightly. "Thank you, it's beautiful."

 Orvin hums, intertwining his fingers with yours. You jump at the intimacy of the action, but his hold is too tight for you to pull away from it. "Do you know what it means?"

 "Y-yeah, the Doctor explained it to me."

 "Then you must know what I think of you," Orvin says. His hand, once settled on your waist, starts drifting towards the small of your back - you shudder at the touch. "Do you know what it means when it is given to someone?"

 "No," you squeak out.

 Orvin's pulling you closer, your bodies nearly flush with one another. "From one unbound to another… I think you know what I mean."

 "I'm not sure I follow," you say, leaning away from Orvin's face, which was now very close to yours. His teeth are just as sharp as Koramaz's. "But I'm - I'm not unbound."

 "Well, you might not be - but maybe your partner isn't here." He leans in closer to you and you stiffen. To anyone watching, Orvin might as well be dipping you, but all you want to do is kick him and run away. "Why don't we have a little fun?" he whispers, his breath tickling your ear.

 There's something almost predatorial in Orvin's gaze that sends your poor heart into a frenzy. Sharp teeth and something sharp digging into your back. You squirm in his grasp, trying to find safety - the Doctor. You meet his gaze from across the room, and you have to blink at the intensity of his glare.

 Orvin can't see it, but the Doctor is burning holes into his back.

 "I'm not unbound," you repeat, trying to put a little fire in your voice. The Doctor's gaze flickers from Orvin to you and he shoots you a polite smile, but the look in his eyes hasn't gone. My anchor, you think. "The one I'm bound to is right behind you."

 Not entirely the truth, not entirely a lie either. Maybe it's a wish.

 A few seconds pass, the silence between you and Orvin heavy with tension. He turns his head to face the Doctor, and then he laughs. The sound sends shivers down your spine.

 "Alright," he finally says, "I assumed. I apologize."

 You'd better be sorry is the first thought that crosses your mind. Orvin shifts his hand away from the small of your back - a sharp pain pierces through your skin. You suck in a breath through your teeth.

 "You alright?" Orvin moves his hand back to your waist. "Are you hurt?"

 "I'm fine," you say. The pain is gone as fast as it came. "Probably just static."

 Orvin looks down at you curiously, but nods. He pulls back from you, getting ready to pass you to your next partner, and you spin, and spin, and, spin, and hang on, should you be spinning for this long or -

 "Woah, woah!"

 You're spinning. You're still spinning. Or is the room spinning? You blink slowly, your eyelids heavy. Maybe it's the wine, the one glass of Lobarian wine you had that's messing with your system. Maybe the Doctor was right, maybe it really wasn't good for humans. The room lurches forward - or maybe you do.

 "Hang on, I've got you."

 The Doctor. You're back in his arms, still swaying slowly to the music, which sounds so far away now. Has someone stuffed your ears with cotton? You lean forward and rest your head on his shoulder, pressing your forehead against his tweed jacket.

 "I saw you stumbling," the Doctor says, his voice quiet near your ear. "What's going on? Have you had too much to drink? I told you -"

 You groan, cutting him off, your stomach roiling. "I don't… feel good. I feel like..."

 You grip against the Doctor slackens, and you fall - the cold marble floor doesn't greet you. Instead, the Doctor's arms wrap around you before you can collide with the floor.

 You can faintly hear a gasp spread throughout the entire room. The music's stopped, too. You want to apologize for ruining everyone's fun, but all that comes out of your mouth is another weak groan. You squeeze your eyes shut, but the room's still tumbling. So dizzy...

 Koramaz's voice drifts in. "Oh, no. What's wrong? What's happened?"

 "I don't know, I need to find out first," the Doctor says. You feel him pull you closer, letting your head rest against his chest. The double beats of his heart join the pounding in your head. "She said she wasn't feeling well, why would she be not feeling well..."

 "There is an infirmary, in the hotel," Merban suggests. A furry hand pushes the hair away from your face. "She can be taken there until she is well again."

 "Right, since you all have great service." The Doctor's voice waver's ever so slightly. You reach out, your hand wrapping around one of his braces. "I'll go with her. I'll stay until she's better."

 Please, you try to say. It comes out like a strangled noise in the back of your throat instead, but the Doctor seems to understand. You feel his lips press against your hair. Don't leave.

 "No, Doctor," Koramaz says gently. "This could be really serious. There might be a criminal in our midst. We need you here, to answer some questions."

 Merban speaks up. "Koramaz, are you insinuating that -"

 "No, I'm just being thorough."

 "And if I won't?" Something dangerous plays at the edge of the Doctor's voice. His hold on you tightens.

 "Do not worry." Merban's voice is calm and steady. "Rest assured, your companion will be provided the best care that we have."

 Koramaz speaks again, and you feel yourself being moved, away from the Doctor - a whine bubbles out of your mouth, your hands still searching for where the Doctor is. No! "Orvin'll help take her to the infirmary. Won't you, Orvin?"

 Not this bastard again… "As you wish," Orvin says. He scoops you up and lifts you. Everything lurches at the motion, and you groan again, dizzy, confused, and maybe just a little bit scared.

 Their voices get farther and farther away, but even though all the nausea there's a thought, clear as day, nagging at you in the very back of your mind.

 "H-hang on," you mumble. "Guys, I don't think I'm drunk..."

 --

 The Doctor tries to swallow his jealousy as he watches Orvin walk away with your limp form in his arms. That's not what he's supposed to be feeling right now, but he can't help the ugly feeling that's snaked its way into his hearts.

 You'd looked radiant tonight. The sight of you in Orvin's cloak - although a little bit annoying - is something that he's sure is etched in his brain. You'd looked like royalty in the blue piece. He’s seen a lot of royalty, and they’re absolutely nothing compared to you. And you looking up at him, almost dreamily, face flushed with alcohol, is not something he'll forget.

 But he can't get the way you reached out for him out of his brain, either. The way you gripped one of his braces for dear life, the way your hands reached out blindly through your confusion, looking to him for comfort.

 Not jealous, he tries to convince himself, worried. He's better at that anyway.

 "What's going on?"

 "Let me see, let me see!"

 "They've just carted her off..."

 The Lobarians start muttering amongst themselves. After you'd fallen into his arms, they'd scattered, grouping back into their respective factions. The beautiful palette of reds and blues divided again. It's funny what fear does to a people.

 "Now, now, everyone, calm down," Merban says. "There is no need for panic. Fear and suspicion will only make our investigation harder."

 "Fear and suspicion?"

 "Merban's right, we need to stay as calm as we can -"

 "No, we need to start asking questions!"

 Murmuring spreads through both factions. The Doctor watches Merban, hands held out, trying to placate everyone - and Koramaz, shifting on his feet, mouth bared in what almost looks like a snarl, his sharp teeth reflecting the light and making him look even more vicious. He can sense it, Koramaz's anger, and he takes a careful step backward. The whole thing is a puddle of gasoline, and if Koramaz says anything, there will only be ashes left behind.

 "Now, have any of you here seen anything suspicious during tonight's proceedings? Anything at all?"

 Most of the Lobarians shake their heads, looking at each other with wide eyes. The Doctor's seen this before - classic political intrigue. Two factions with a rivalry. It's something he'd love to solve, if he wasn't dealing with the nagging worry slowly climbing up his throat.

 Suddenly, Koramaz snarls, pointing a finger at Merban. "If anything, you're the suspicious one!"

 A collective gasp. There it was. Now there was a fire.

 Merban raises his hands, shaking his head. "Koramaz - you must be mistaken. As I have said, we all need to stay calm, and -"

 "No, we aren't going to stay calm," Koramaz grumbles. "Who invited the Doctor and his companion to the dinner? Whose territory was that wine from? Hmm?"

 There's another gasp, and another wave of panicked muttering. Merban sighs. "Koramaz, please. Let us talk about this."

 "They're the ambassadors of the universe, well known through time and space!" Koramaz voice shakes with emotion, his entire body trembling. "You did this! You tried to poison a visitor - a potential ally in trade, an opportunity - to keep our planet independent! Your cruelty knows no bounds."

 "Koramaz - no -" Merban begins, but soon enough his voice is drowned out by the sound of yelling and fighting. "Koramaz!"

 "Doctor, look at him!" Koramaz shouts, glancing at the Doctor with wild eyes. "Don't you see how guilty he is?"

 The Doctor stays silent.

 "Everyone, are you feeling well? Have you had any of the wine?"

 "You bastards!"

 "We're just trying to help Lobar Four!"

 Koramaz goes still in the middle of the chaos. The Doctor narrows his eyes at him - narrows his eyes at the way he takes a deep breath in, adjusts his suit, and relaxes as soon as the first stone has been thrown. He storms off, disappearing into the throes of panicked and angry Lobarians.

 The Doctor moves to stand next to Merban. The Protectionist leader looks absolutely frazzled, his once pristine fur now sticking out at unnatural angles.

 "Merban," he says, and Merban jumps at the sound of his voice. "I'm sorry, you lot are really being quite noisy. I think I'll head back to my ship now, if that's alright with you."

 "No, Doctor, we -" Merban sighs, ragged. "I may need your help. You must be concerned for your companion. If you cooperate with us, I'm sure we can find a solution."

 Concerned is an understatement. "I'll be here," he says, placing a reassuring hand on Merban's shoulder. "But I won't be of any help while you're all squabbling. I'll stay out of your way until this all dies down."

 Merban relaxes ever so slightly, and the Doctor gives him a small smile. Slowly, he nods, placing his own hand on the Doctor's shoulder. Merban's touch is firm, but his gaze wavers. "Of course. Feel free to leave, Doctor - but do come back. We will let you know when we need you."

 "You're a good man, Merban," the Doctor replies. "Thank you."

 The Doctor waits until Merban lowers his hands, and watches him as he plunges into the crowd of arguing Lobarians, his deep voice rising above everyone else's.

 Good show, Doctor. Time to make your escape.

 He slips into another corridor as quietly as he can, the sounds of petty words being thrown at one another getting softer and softer. He walks towards the lobby, where the TARDIS is parked, anxious hands fidgeting to keep his mind off the first thing it drifts to - a worst case scenario.

 But of course, it does. The Doctor just doesn't want to bring those thoughts to the front of his mind.

 His worry is practically clawing out of his throat now. The Doctor fights it first. Merban had promised you'd be safe, but Koramaz - Koramaz hadn't made any promises. Only threats. He stops fighting his fear, his hands curling into fists.

 The Doctor turns on his heel and walks the other way.

 He thrusts his hand into his jacket, and with a soft cry of "a-ha!", pulls out a brochure. It's the same brochure he'd picked up when he landed - it's shiny, reflecting the light into his eyes, and also very informative, as all good brochures should be.

 He turns it over in his hands. Printed on the paper is a map of the hotel, a tiny glowing blip on the paper marking where he's standing.

 The Doctor opens his mouth to explain it to you, paper-thin optics with a built-in directional tracker, waiting for your excited response - then he falters. It's quiet. You're not going to respond because you aren't there, right by his side, where you should be.

 Problem number one. The rest, he can deal with later. Finding the area on the map labeled "Infirmary", he sets off in that direction first.

 The Doctor walks silently though the hallways, sonic screwdriver held up like a weapon. He won't boast about it, but Time Lords have better hearing than humans - not the best, but still quite good. He can still hear the distant sound of raised voices, but he tries to focus on something else. He tries to see if he can hear you, your voice, your breathing, your heartbeat, anything of yours that he can recognize.

 Nothing.

 He looks through the glass doors of the infirmary - and they're empty. He peers in further, and there's still no sign of you. None of the beds have a pillow out of place, and the staff inside are too busy tending to other people.

 Not jealous, not jealous, worried, starts to sound quite bad in the Doctor's head. Jealousy would have been better than this.

 The Doctor lifts the map to his face again, squinting at the tiny text printed onto it - Infirmary, Function Halls, Private Rooms. The private rooms don't look too far away from the infirmary. A guess won't hurt, the Doctor thinks.

 Then, close by - the sound of a clattering doorknob. And voices. Faint groaning.

 "Doctor..."

 Then a faraway thud, the sound of something soft falling to the floor. Like a body.

 Maybe this guess would hurt. The Doctor runs towards the source of the sound, one of the private rooms, and presses his ear against the door. What he hears next makes his heart twist painfully in his chest.

 It's you, it's your voice. It's too faint for him to make out any words. The Doctor grits his teeth as he presses his whole body against the door.

 It doesn't budge. He tries the doorknob - locked. Anger joins his repertoire of already jumbled emotions, setting his hearts alight with a white-hot anger that he hasn't felt in a very, very long time. He points his sonic at the doorknob, gripping it so tightly he can see his knuckles turn white - the door swings open and he very nearly drops the device.

 "Help," you mutter weakly, sprawled on the floor. "Help me."

 "No, no no no -" The Doctor drops to his knees beside you, sweeping the sonic over your body - the whirring noise makes you furrow your brows, and he apologizes under his breath. He has a feeling he's going to be doing a lot of that. He skims through the readings, his hearts pounding out of his chest at every point of data.

 He tucks his sonic back into his jacket and gently turns you over. You roll onto your back and groan, your arms hanging limp at your sides.

 "Hey," he murmurs, his vision going hazy. He blinks quickly. Not now.

 Slowly, he wraps his arms around your shivering form. You're shaking like a leaf in a storm, and you feel impossibly frail in his arms. A sob makes its way through your trembling lips, and the sound rips the Doctor's hearts in two.

 You had just been smiling, laughing, dancing with him minutes ago. Now you're sobbing in his arms. The Doctor swallows.

 "Doctor?" you mumble. You're looking into nowhere, your eyes glassy. "I need to - need to find the Doctor..."

 Now you were just being cruel. "It's me," the Doctor chokes out. He blinks the tears out of his eyes, again, but he can't stop the few that slip out. "I'm here, I'm right here. I'm so sorry."

 "Sorry?" Your cheeks are shiny. "Wha… what for?"

 This. Everything. The Doctor reaches out to wipe your tears - and he jerks his hand away. You're burning up, sweat beading on your forehead, your hair sticking to the damp skin. Even Orvin's chainmail cloak has absorbed some of the warmth.

 "Nothing," the Doctor whispers. He takes your face in his hands and presses a kiss to your forehead, even though heat is coming off you in waves. "I'm going to take you home, okay? You're going to be alright. I promise."

 "Home," you slur, your head lolling, "yeah, home sounds good."

 The Doctor doesn't like making promises. He's too afraid of what happens when he can't keep them, but he swears he'll fulfill this one. You lean into his touch and sigh, that one puff of breath scalding the skin of his hands.

 Your eyelids flutter as you head comes to rest on the Doctor's chest. Another round of shivers wracks your body, and the Doctor tightens his grasp on you.

 As gently as he can, he rises to his feet. The motion makes you whimper, and you curl up in his grasp. He sets his jaw and steps out of the room.

 You mumble things under your breath as the Doctor weaves through the hallways, making his way back to the TARDIS. Back home. He doesn't want to listen, because your delirious mumblings make his hearts hurt terribly, but he does catch a few. A few "sorry"s, a handful of "hurts", the occasional "ow", and "I tried to warn him".

 "Tried to warn me about what, sweetheart?" he coaxes when you mumble it for the third time. You blink up at him blearily, recognition flickering in your tired eyes.

 "M'not drunk," is your breathy response. "Didn't feel drunk. Felt sick. My back… hurts."

 "Your back?" the Doctor asks. You groan in reply, and when the Doctor jostles you experimentally that groan tapers off into a weak cry of pain. It's too much for his hearts. "Was it the wine? Do you think it was the wine?" he tries, following another lead.

 "My back," you insist weakly. "Dance… he was too close..."

 The TARDIS comes into view, and the Doctor quickens his pace. Just a few more steps and you'll be home, safe -

 Merban nearly runs into him. His jaw drops open at the sight of you hanging limply in the Doctor's arms. "Oh, goodness," he gasps, "what's happened to her?"

 "I don't know," the Doctor growls, the anger in his hearts a roaring fire. "How about you tell me why she wasn't in the infirmary? Or why she was all alone in a locked room with a raging fever?"

 "Doctor, I -" Merban stutters. "I was under the impression she was being cared for."

 "Well, your impression was wrong."

 Koramaz appears behind Merban, and his eyes widen in shock. He reaches out for you, and something in the Doctor snaps - he isn't allowed to get close to you like that, no one is! He steps back quickly, shielding you in his arms.

 "No, don't you touch her!" he snarls, suddenly much older and ancient and dangerous.

 Koramaz stops in his tracks. The Doctor glares at him, breathing heavily, watching as he stumbles backwards. There's a sick satisfaction building in him at the fear in their eyes - and the Doctor realizes that maybe, just this once, he doesn't mind being ancient. He doesn't mind being dangerous.

 But then you mutter something disjointedly, shift your frail body in his arms, and it's all wiped away like writing on the sand. The anger gone in just a moment, replaced by a fear that keeps him rooted to the floor.

 "Doctor, what are you doing?" Merban asks softly.

 The Doctor looks down at you. He's always scared, but not like this. Never like this.

 "I'm being selfish," he says, and he disappears into the TARDIS.

 --

 “Have you done it?”

 “I have.”

 “Good job.”

 Voices drift into your hearing. All you feel are sensations – incoherent and choppy, like someone had deleted entire minutes of your memory, scenes jumping from one to the other. Being scooped into someone’s arms, carried into the dark. Silken sheets brushing against freezing skin. Something thick and heavy being laid over you, suffocating you –

 “Make sure she isn’t found until later. You know the plan. You know what he needs to think.”

 The voices are familiar. Should you be alarmed? You feel like you should – but you can’t be. It’s too cold to feel anything else at all. There’s a soft click, and then laughter. Low laughter, laughter that’s too threatening to be kind. The sound sends shivers up your spine.

 A small part of your mind’s still awake, and its screaming at you to get the hell up. You roll, and twist - then you fall, and the bed disappears from underneath you. You’re weightless for a second before your elbow collides with the floor. You’re too tired to even cry out in pain.

 A thought pushes through your mind as you reach up at what looks like a doorknob – find the Doctor. He’s home, he’s safety, he’s everything. The doorknob rattles once, twice, nothing.

 “Doctor,” you manage, and then –

 Another voice drifts in. Warm and comforting. Soft against the sharp pain.

 “Hush, I’m here,” the voice says. Something cold presses onto your forehead. A bead of liquid trickles down your temple and disappears into your hair.

 “Where…?” You draw in a slow breath, your head lolling against a surprisingly warm pillow. You want to open your eyes – look upon your savior, as dramatic as that sounds. But your eyelids are so heavy, and you give up before you can even try.

 “It’s alright, you’re safe, you’re on the TARDIS.” This time it’s hands, a palm pressing against your forehead, gentle fingers pressing onto your neck, both of them blessedly cool. You sigh and lean into the touch.

 “Try to rest – you’re still burning up.” The hands retreat – then they come back, brushing against your cheek. The touch says a thousand words that you’re too tired to understand. “I need to figure out what they’ve put in you before…”

 Silence for a moment.

 “…I’ll be here when you wake up. I promise.”

 Darkness swallows you before you can say anything back.

 You come to consciousness like a computer waking up – every system flickering to life one by one. Touch comes first – you’re in a soft thing, a comfy thing, a bed. The faint hum of the TARDIS reaches your ears, low enough to be calming background noise. Sight is the last thing that comes to you as your eyes flutter open.

 This isn’t the medical bay. It’s missing the sterile white walls and clean lines you’re used to waking up to when your adventures go inevitably south – and this isn’t your room either. It’s big and barely decorated, and while most of the rooms on the TARDIS feel old, this one feels older than most.

 “You’re awake!”

 The Doctor comes into your vision. You notice three things – one, his jacket’s gone, the sleeves of his button-up rolled up to his elbows. Two, this bed you’re lying in? Huge. Three – the Doctor’s eyes are very, very red.

 “How are you feeling?” he asks.

 “Not – sure,” you reply, your voice hoarse. “Confused. How long have I been out?”

 The Doctor doesn’t answer that. He sits down on the bed instead, pulling your arm gently from under the blanket with a practiced ease. He rolls up your sleeve and peers at your forearm, his gaze steady and laser-focused on one spot on your arm.

 The Doctor’s mysterious, but sometimes he can be easy to read. It isn’t hard with his face – he doesn’t shy away from emotions, and even when he tries to, they slip out of the mask he tries so hard to maintain. There have been quiet nights on the TARDIS after those botched adventures, that have started with anger and ended in tears from the both of you.

 You flick your gaze from your arm to the Doctor’s face, and really look. Even through the thick haze that lays like fog on your mind, you can see his eyes, red-rimmed and sunken, and the way his jaw is tight and his shoulder are squared with a tension you’ve seen before.

 He must be angry, you think, angry that I’ve gotten hurt, somehow.

 “Good,” the Doctor finally says, looking up at you with a tired smile. “The antidote seems to be working – I made it with your blood, by the way, so if you feel a little lightheaded that’s on me.”

 But there isn’t any anger in his eyes. There’s no storm, no fire. Just… exhaustion, and maybe a hint of relief as he looks at your face.

 You must have missed it.

 “What happened?” Your mouth doesn’t form the words quite right, and you catch the way the Doctor’s lips curve up fondly.

 “You were poisoned,” he says, running a hand through his hair. It’s messier than it usually is, and his bowtie’s askew too. He turns away from you before you can reach up and fix it.

 “Poison?” you ask. You struggle to connect the dots in your head, your mind still running too slow for your liking. “Someone poisoned me?”

 “Not organic, not one you can buy either. Unprofessionally made, cobbled together in a back alley.” The Doctor’s gesticulating wildly now, moving his hands around in the air – without his jacket, he looks much smaller, and a little ridiculous. Then you wonder where his jacket is. “Something like this, you’re not looking for an easy kill – you’re just looking for results.”

 “Yeah, they got results,” you groan. Every part of your body aches, and trying to reach any thought is like swimming in an ocean of molasses. “They definitely got results.”

 You press your palms against the bed beneath you and push – and the world tilts at the movement, a sharp and sudden pain piercing through your lower back. You fall back against the mattress, the air leaving your lungs.

 The Doctor whirls around, and before you can blink his hands are frantically hovering over you. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

 “My – back,” you grit out, your head still spinning. “Ow.”

 The Doctor’s already wide eyes widen even more. His hands, once reaching out, pull back to rest against his chest, tightened into fists. “When I found you, you – you kept warning me about your back, telling me your back hurt, and I couldn’t look because I was too –”

 His voice breaks, and he trails off. He stares, eyes full of unshed tears, and swallows his words instead.

 “Never mind,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “Let me have a look.”

 Steady hands help you into a sitting position, even though the pain bares its sharp teeth every time you shift. You cling to the Doctor, fabric bunched up in your hands. He has to gently pry your grip open so he can move, and crouches behind you.

 Still lost in a haze of pain, you can only blink blearily into the distance. You barely feel the Doctor’s fingers slowly curling around the hem of your shirt, or the way hits your bare skin as he pulls it up slightly. But you do hear a sudden exhalation of breath, and the whir of the sonic as he passes it over your skin.

 After that – silence. Uncharacteristic silence, a silence that’s almost deafening as the Doctor skims through the readings.

 “What is it?” you venture.

 Another moment of silence. Then – “A puncture wound. So small you can barely see it.” The Doctor’s fingers brush over it, and you shudder. “It’s… an entryway. The source of the poison.”

 The Doctor moves, and then he’s right by your side again, gently pushing you back onto the bed. He’s sad, you can tell that much, but his eyes have a familiar storm brewing behind them. Just lying in wait to rip and tear into everything in its path. The smile on his lips does nothing to hide that.

 “Right. You –” He points at you, standing up – “should be getting some rest. I need to take care of things with the Lobarians – y’know, stuff. Diplomatic stuff. Important… stuff. I’ll be back.”

 Something in you stirs – not anger, because he doesn’t need it right now, worry – and your hand shoots out, weak fingers wrapping around the Doctor’s wrist. “Let me come with you.”

 “You’re supposed to be healing, not running off with me,” the Doctor says, his voice soft but admonishing, “It’ll be really boring, I promise -”

 “Isn’t that how this whole thing started?” Your grip tightens around his wrist. “Me running off with you.”

 The Doctor looks down. “I invited you.”

 “And I said yes,” you whisper. You tug gently, and he sits onto the bed with a soft thump. You know this Doctor – and right now he’s volatile. Letting him leave would be like a match to gasoline. “Listen, I don’t want you to do anything stupid.”

 Please stay goes unspoken. I care about you goes unspoken, and about a million other things too.

 The Doctor sighs, but there isn’t any edge there. “I can never say no to you, can I?”

 “Nope,” you say tiredly, popping the “p”. The Doctor laughs. Anything to make you stay.

 The Doctor settles into the bed beside you, and as if on cue, the lights dim. The TARDIS’s humming grows even softer, fading until all you can hear is the sound of the Doctor breathing beside you.

 “She’s being awfully nice,” the Doctor whispers beside you. “She’s spoiling you.”

 “She likes me,” you reply. “Jealous?”

 “Only a little bit.”

 You hum in response. The darkness is already lulling you back to sleep, but you shift and nuzzle into the Doctor’s side. You feel him go still against you, against the sudden affection, but you don’t let up – you cuddle closer to him, you ear close to his chest.

 You should be embarrassed. You’re probably embarrassed. But the relief you feel at getting the Doctor to stay by your side is clouding your judgement, and then there’s also the whole getting-poisoned-thing. You can imagine the look on the Doctor’s face – eyes wide, cheeks red, mouth parted like he can’t think of anything to say.

 But he loves surprising people. “A few days,” he says quietly.

 “What?” you mumble into his chest.

 “You were out for a few days.” The Doctor shifts, wraps an arm around you. “I’m answering your question.”

 “Oh.”

 Snuggled into his chest, you can hear the sound of his heartbeats. Their rhythm pulls you closer to sleep, and your eyes slip shut.

 Then you hear the Doctor sniff, feel his breathing hitch, and suddenly it’s your turn to go completely still against him.

 “I didn’t want to scare you,” he continues, sounding so impossibly small. “You were in and out of consciousness while I worked on the antidote. You -” A ragged sigh, then a soft whisper of your name - “you nearly died.”

 Fear grips your heart tightly, squeezing dangerously – partly because of the fear of dying without being aware of it at all, and mostly because of the fear that coats the Doctor’s every word. You would have left him all alone, and if the distant storm brewing in his eyes is any indication, he would have done something much worse than stupid.

 “I’m sorry,” is all you can say.

 “No, don’t be, don’t be,” the Doctor murmurs. His lips brush against the top your head, and he pulls you even closer to him. “Please don’t be sorry. You did nothing wrong. This is my fault.”

 “It’s not…” you begin, but the Doctor shushes you, and runs his fingers through your hair. Every motion pulls you deeper into sleep, and although you have a thousand things you want to say, you’re fading.

 The last thing you remember is a whispered apology.

 It's cold when you wake up again. You shift in the bed, trying to snuggle against something that should be behind you, but there isn't anything there. You blink the sleep out of your eyes and sluggishly reach out, letting your arm flop against the empty sheets, searching for warmth.

 Your eyes shoot open. Empty sheets.

 You turn your head to the side to find the spot beside you empty, the sheets smoothed out like a certain Time Lord had never even been there. Even your blanket's smoothed out, pulled over your shoulders and up to your chin like a parent would do.

 It shouldn't hurt, waking up alone. It always happened. The Doctor isn't yours - he's always moving, always running, and someone like that can't ever be tethered, especially not to you.

 But it does, and you find tears pricking at your eyes at the thought. If he can't be yours, then you can't be his either, and that means -

 "No, you listen to me!"

 You push yourself up. The pain in your back is still there, but it's a dull pain now, and certainly nothing compared to way your heart's started hammering in your chest.

 That's the Doctor's voice in the distance, loud and ringing and angry.

 You throw the blanket off your legs and climb off the bed. Your bare feet press against the cold wooden floor, and the chill sends another burst of clarity to your mind. He's out there, alone, and furious. Never a good combination for the Doctor, historically, you think, reaching up to rub your arms.

 Your gaze falls onto a crumpled pile of tweed fabric slung over one of the chairs. Picking it up, you run your hands over the fabric. It feels sentimental, doing that, like interacting with a memory. The things this must have seen...

 It's too big for you when you throw it over your shoulders, but it feels like him and smells like him, so it's enough. You wrap the Doctor's jacket tighter around yourself and stumble out of the room.

 The sound of arguing drifts down the TARDIS hallways, and it's hard to make the Doctor's voice out from all the overlapping voices. The Doctor was right, though - the TARDIS is kinder today, and the hallways don't wind as much as the usually do. It's a straight shot to the console room. The voices get louder as you get closer to the door.

 "Y'know, the funny thing about politicians is that they lie."

 "Doctor -" That's Koramaz - "you have to believe me; I would never lie to you!"

 "It's in your business to lie, part of the job description really. Why wasn't she in the medical bay? Why was the door to her room locked?" The Doctor's voice gets louder as he speaks. "If I didn't think so highly of you, I'd think you were trying to leave her for dead!"

 There's a sigh, and Merban speaks - "Your opinion of us shouldn't have to change, Doctor. Let's keep this amicable."

 "Amicable?" the Doctor asks, incredulous. "Ha! We'll see about amicable when I find out what you've really done - no one hurts the people I love and gets away with it!"

 Fuck. You run up to the doors and try the doorknobs - they're locked. Fuck!

 The Doctor's voice is dark, darker than you've ever heard it before, his words laced with an anger usually reserved for only the cruelest of beings. He knew he would leave, and he knew I'd follow him - the nerve of the man! Your sweaty hands slip against the metal doorknobs and you swear under your breath again. You press against the door, but it doesn't give.

 "Please," you beg, looking up at the TARDIS's engine. It hums lowly. "I know you're listening. Please, old girl, before he does anything he's going to -"

 The TARDIS doors swing open, a gust of wind pushes you out the doors and you stumble out of the ship and back into the P'kone Mountain Resort.

 "...regret."

 A wave of silence crashes over the room. Everyone stands frozen in time, still dressed in all their finery - Koramaz and Orvin standing side-by-side, hands raised in the air; Merban with an arm outstretched, held up protectively over the other Protectionists; and the Doctor, because he is the Doctor, standing proud in the middle of the room. Jacketless.

 The Doctor's head whips towards you and his gaze softens, his eyes raking over your form. "Are you okay? What are you doing up?"

 "I'm fine," you say, waving away his fussing hands. "What are you doing?"

 "I thought I told you to rest," he says. Something cold cuts through his voice, and you narrow your eyes at him.

 "I thought I told you to stay," you shoot back. The Doctor closes his mouth. You peer into his eyes, finding the fire that's infamous for, and counter it with your own. He shrinks against your glare.

 The room's still divided, glittering red against shining blue. The Lobarians whisper to one another, and while you can't catch what they're talking about, you can make a guess. Time to put on a show.

 Orvin steps forward from the crowd, wringing his hands together. "Are you well, now? We were so worried about you."

 The words drip out of his mouth, sickeningly sweet like honey. You remember the glint of his teeth when he smiled at you on the dancefloor, and the sharpness of his hand against your back. He was too close, much too close.

 Two can play at that game. You bare your teeth in a smile.

 "Thank you for your concern," you say sweetly, walking up to him. The Doctor reaches out, tries to stop you, but you shoot him another look. "Might I say, you're a wonderful dancer."

 "Oh, well, thank you," Orvin mutters. He swallows and clasps his hands together tightly in front of him. "So were you."

 "Yeah?" Your smile grows wider, and Orvin shudders. "You know, you're a great dancer, but a terrible fucking liar."

 You grab Orvin's clasped hands and pull, prying his hands apart. Your fingers dig into his wrists, nails carving crescents into his skin, and he yelps.

 "Didn't we get close, Orvin?" you ask, leaning closer to him. Orvin's breaths come in short puffs, and behind him Koramaz's eyes are wider than dinnerplates.

 Glinting on Orvin's left hand is a ring, golden and intricately carved, a shiny red jewel set into the top. The Doctor comes close, leaning down to look at his hands.

 "Ooh, nice ring," the Doctor says, peering at the ring, understanding dawning on his face. "College ring, class of 4320 at the University of Neloba - good school, I was a professor there for a cycle. But -"

 The Doctor turns towards you, gives you a quick smile, then shoves his hand down the pocket of his jacket. He pulls out his sonic screwdriver, and with a flourish, points it at Orvin's ring. He holds it upright to read the results - and something dark crosses over his face.

 "It's a match," he says quietly, "to the poison in your system - by the way, mind if I take a look?"

 Orvin opens his mouth to protest, and you twist his wrists upward, his palms facing the ceiling. He makes another pained noise.

 The Doctor pulls the ring off his finger and holds it up to the light. Gently, he presses against the red jewel - and on the bottom of the ring, a small needle pops out for just a second before it disappears again.

 "Ah," the Doctor says simply, gesturing to Orvin with the ring still held between his fingers. "What do we have here?"

 "Orvin, how could you!" Koramaz gasps, his voice shaking with every word. "My own assistant, doing something so dastardly -"

 "Oh, THAT'S ENOUGH!" the Doctor roars, throwing the ring to the floor. You jolt, and the whole room seems to shake at the sound of his voice, loud as a crack of thunder. "Stop lying, stop acting - just stop! Why did you do this?"

 Koramaz shakes slightly, exhales, then goes completely still. If the Doctor's fire, Koramaz is ice, reflected in the pristine blue of his clothing. The Expansionists, standing near him, look like an ocean ready to swallow the Doctor whole. Slowly, he smiles, and spreads his arms.

 "You're a warrior, Doctor," he says, shaking his head. "You've destroyed. Razed down everything in your path. Sometimes..." He glances at Merban - "that can help people."

 "Koramaz..." Merban's jaw is hanging open. He shakes his head slightly, his eyes wide and unbelieving. "I did not think you were capable of such things."

 "You didn't think at all, Merban."

 "Help you," the Doctor spits, glaring at Koramaz. His hands are balled into fists at his sides. "What, so you wanted to turn me against the Protectionists? Was that it?"

 "Your anger is a weapon, and one I intended to use." Koramaz smiles again, but it's thin. "I had no choice. Like Merban said, I don't believe in compromise."

 The Doctor stares, fire burning in his eyes. Shoulders tense, he starts walking slowly, stalking Koramaz until there's barely any space between them, until he's cornered, nose-to-nose with the Oncoming Storm. The Doctor almost dwarfs Koramaz, his glare boring holes into him.

 "Funny, because I'm starting to think that too," the Doctor growls, his jaw set. He looks down at Koramaz like a predator to prey, and for the first time, you see genuine fear in Koramaz's eyes.

 "Doctor," you call out. He doesn't seem to hear. He's the Oncoming Storm now, surrounded by a hurricane of his own making. "Doctor!"

 "My anger? A weapon?" The Doctor's voice is cold and sharp, like knives trailing against skin. "Do you want to find out why, Koramaz?"

 You know why - you know exactly why, from stories weaved across time and space - Koramaz trembles under the weight of all the Doctor's sins, and the Doctor doesn't need to add another name to his list.

 You have to fight it. You have to fight against the blustering winds of his fury, but you push through - and your hand wraps around his. The Doctor faces you, his eyes shining with an anger that isn't entirely human, and you do the only thing you can really do -

 Pull him from the edge. Smile, and squeeze his hand tight.

 "Don't" you whisper, and although what you really want to say is still left unspoken, in that split second, there's no one else in the room. Just you and the Doctor.

 You're his anchor now.

 "You had a choice," you tell Koramaz, still clutching the Doctor's hand. "You thought that if you hurt me, you could make the Doctor do something terrible. But he's better than that. He's a good man."

 You look up at the Doctor. He's staring at you, gazing, a mixture of pride and sadness in his big green eyes. His lower lip trembles.

 Deep breath. Only the truth, now. "I know him."

 You can hear the faint murmuring of the Lobarians, and before your eyes the colors shift - the red mixes into the blue, Protectionists and Expansionists talking with one another, hands on shoulders, offering comfort.

 "What do we do now?" one of them asks, their hands tightly gripping the front of their dress.

 "You sit down," you say, and stand a little straighter. They're all looking at you now. "Reconvene. Actually discuss things instead of plotting and scheming behind each other's backs. Be better, for the future of your people. That's what this was all about, wasn't it?"

 One Lobarian bows. Then another. Soon enough, all of the Lobarians in the room are bowing to you, a show of respect and reverence. Even Koramaz is bowing, his face cast to the floor.

 You glance at the Doctor, smiling. I learned that from you.

 He smiles back, gentle. I know.

 Merban lifts his head, still poised despite his ruffled appearance. His eyes are damp, sorrow swimming in them. "Koramaz will be dealt with as best as we can. I am truly sorry for what we have done."

 "Occupational hazard," you reply, bowing back to him. "Learn from this, won't you?"

 "We will try." Merban nods slowly, and a tear slips from his eye. "I'm sure you understand now."

 "Understand what?"

 "Why you are a part of the stories," Merban says, bowing once more. As you stare at the Lobarians, all bowing in a show of respect and reverence, you do now.

 You turn away from everyone and tug at the Doctor's hand, as gently as you can. The storm in his eyes ebbs, leaving behind a slight drizzle. "Let's go home, yeah?"

 "Home," the Doctor echoes. "Home sounds good."

 --

  The Doctor doesn't say a word for the whole trip home.

 He's quiet as he walks up to the console, pushing buttons and pressing levers without the manic energy that he usually has. It's disconcerting, but not surprising, and you settle for leaning against one of the railings as he works. The TARDIS stays kind, and takes off without even a shiver.

 You keep your eyes on him as he pilots - watching him push in coordinates, swinging screens around - but the tension hasn't left his body. He's still wound up, ready to snap at a moment's notice, so you stay quiet. There's no sound but the hum of the TARDIS's engines.  

 Your mind drifts just as the TARDIS does, the room swaying slightly underneath your feet. This is what it's like, travelling with the Doctor in his magical blue box, and you know not every adventure ends well. Not every story has a happy ending.

 What was another near-death experience? You practically lived off of them, thriving off of the rush that filled you when you escaped danger by just a hair. Running and laughing together. But this feels different, you think, still watching the Doctor walk slowly around the console, because something's changed.

 But what was it?

 You pull the sleeves of the Doctor's jacket. He hasn't asked for it back yet, and a small part of you hopes that he never does. It's incredibly comfortable, and the only warm thing in the cold space between the two of you.

 The Doctor's eyes are dark, and the dim TARDIS lights cast shadows over his youthful face. The ship's lights and sounds were a tell if you couldn't figure out how the Doctor was feeling, and now they were completely in sync, darkness against darkness.

 He brushes past you and slumps into one of the chairs, crossing his legs. He shuts his eyes, presses a hand against his forehead, and heaves out a shaky sigh.

 "Are you mad?" you ask, your voice just above a whisper. The Doctor snaps his head up to look at you and he looks so weary, so old and so tired.

 "Mad? Of course I'm mad," he says, the edge in his voice still there, but fading away. "I'm cross. Extremely. That doesn't usually happen."

 You swallow, still gazing at him. His stare is intense, and he hasn't really looked you in the eyes since you stepped back onto the TARDIS. "I mean, are you mad at me," you add softly.

 The Doctor's eyes widen a fraction, and he sits straighter in the chair. "No," he says, "no, not at you. Never at you. Why would you think that?"

 You're quiet. You're never this quiet. You shrug, and the Doctor's jacket nearly slips off your shoulders. You catch it before it can fall - you also catch the Doctor's eyes tracing your form, his gaze stuttering to a stop at the sight of you in his jacket.

 You shift against the railing, pulling his jacker tighter around your body. "You okay?"

 "'Course I am," the Doctor replies, obviously not. He looks deflated sitting in the chair, his form almost swallowed by the seat. "I'm the king of okay. I said I was never gonna use that title again. Ignore me."

 You give him a small smile, and he lights up a little bit. "No, you're not."

 The Doctor frowns at you. "I am."

 "You always lie," you tell him, raising your eyebrows.

 The Doctor sighs again, but it isn't exasperated or angry - just defeated. He stands up in one quick motion, his hair flopping with the movement, and moves to stand in front of you. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and gazes down at you.

 "I'm sorry," he says slowly, and the words echo in the room. He's standing close enough for him to reach out, but he doesn't - instead, he keeps his distance, his arms hanging loosely by his sides. "It's my fault you got hurt."

 "It isn't," you protest, but the Doctor shakes his head.

 "It is," he insists, and something like desperation colors his words. "They hurt you because of me. They knew how much I cared and they weren't afraid to use that."

 "It's not your fault." You reach out and take his hands, shaking your head. "Caring isn't a weakness, you know that better than anyone."

 The Doctor stays silent for a moment. He's still staring, unnaturally still despite the tears that threaten to spill out of his eyes.

 "I should take you home," he whispers hoarsely, trying to pull his hands away from yours.

 "No!" you blurt, and the Doctor goes still again. "No," you say again, softer, and intertwine his fingers with yours.  

 "I can't promise to keep you safe," the Doctor mutters.

 "You don't have to." One by one, you lace your fingers together. His hands are bigger than yours, and he practically covers your entire hands with his. He watches you do this, his lips slightly parted, eyes sparkling with what looks like… wonder? "I want to stay with you. I don't care how dangerous it is, or how many times I get hurt - it's worth it."

 And you mean it, every word. Every bruise, every scar – just something that comes with the life that you’ve chosen with him.

 You stand on your tiptoes - the Doctor laughs quietly and leans down his head. You press a kiss onto his forehead, pouring everything you want to say into it, and hope he understands.

 The Doctor straightens, standing taller. You frown up at him and fall back onto your feet. "You're so tall."

 "Regeneration's a lottery," he says, and a smile - a real one - spreads across his face, like a sunrise warming the cold evening air. And just like a sunrise, the TARDIS's lights grow brighter, her humming and trilling like a triumphant symphony. "You're wearing my jacket."

 "I am," you say. You're still very comfy in it, and the Doctor notices, because his lips curve up in a fond smile. "Does a Time Lord giving someone their jacket mean anything?"

 "Why do you ask?" the Doctor asks, pulling his hands away from yours to smooth down the front of the jacket.

 "Well, Orvin's cloak meant something. Does this mean something too?"

 The Doctor's face goes red, and you have to push down a childish giggle as he flounders.

 "The Lobarian courting cloak means a lot of things," he says, waving his hands around, "It's a symbol for the heart, the soul, the being of a Lobarian. Giving all of you to another."

 You raise an eyebrow at him. "But I took your jacket."

 The Doctor's eyes glitter. "...Well?"

 Now it's your turn for your face to burn - you pull at the sleeves again, biting your lower lip. Your heart does flips in your chest, and you don't try to stop it from going haywire.

 The Doctor, with another laugh, scoops you into his arms - he wraps his arms tightly around you, pressing his face into the crook of your shoulder, his whole body shuddering as he breathes a sigh of relief. You place your hands in his hair as he finally unwinds, relaxes, and lets go.

 "Keep it for now," the Doctor murmurs against your ear, "I've got spares."

 You stay there for a moment, just holding each other as the TARDIS sings around you.

 "I’m not leaving you," you breathe out. "Package deal, remember?"

 The Doctor doesn't say anything, just nuzzles closer, and it's enough of a reply for you.

[grayintogreen]

I was not technically tagged, but at least two people on my dash were like DO WHAT YOU WANT NO ONE IS YOUR GOD, and you know what? They’re right and valid. 

1) How many works do you have on AO3?

96! And 90% of them are from just this year. Can’t wait to find out what the big 100 is gonna be. Any one of my WIPS could be Disney’s next 100th fic.

2) What’s your total AO3 word count?

455,024 (also mostly from this year...)

3) How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

In my entire life??? Since I was twelve??? I don’t even know, man. I wrote a lot of ooc crackfic and fic for cartoons when I was on FF.net, and then I was on LJ and wrote for a TON of different fandoms, but on AO3, I have written for Critical Role (so much CR), Yashahime/Inuyasha, Guardians of the Galaxy, His Dark Materials (TV), Steven Universe, Bleach, Alias, Supernatural, Dollhouse, Pushing Daisies (the last four were all transferred here from LJ, though)

4) What are your top five fics by kudos?

- turning wine back into water (Critical Role, de-aging fic with plot, 30457 words)

I STILL CANNOT BELIEVE HOW POPULAR THIS FIC IS. It beat out two of my super popular GotG fics that have been up since 2017 BY A LOT. Apparently, there was a market for the Mighty Nein being adorable cocktail brats and saving the world. Thanks, Liam’s Quest!

It is probably one of the most wholesome fics I will ever write too. I love it.

- Sunshine Came Softly (Guardians of the Galaxy, Rocket and Mantis friendship, 3188 words)

THIS FIC STILL GETS HITS EVEN TODAY. It was written right after I saw the movie so it hit hard and fast on the hype train. 

- Mine Is Just a Slower Sacrifice (Guardians of the Galaxy, Rocket-centric, 2248 words)

BOY YOU CAN TELL THESE FICS ARE ANCIENT BECAUSE I HADN’T DEVELOPED MY TITLE NICHE YET. where are the lower caps and Seanan McGuire lyrics!!

Anyway, this was written probably IMMEDIATELY after I saw the movie and had to process Rocket’s emotions during the last moments, because of who I am as a person. For what’s mostly a character study, it got some mileage on it.

- they drink dreamers up like brandy (Critical Role, 1625 words)

Back to Critical Role! I wrote this one when I was in a fucking blind post-finale haze and producing massive amounts of Kingsley content and I wanted to write a silly fic about Caleb being tiefling catnip. 

- if adversity breeds character (we’ve character enough for two) (Critical Role, Beau and Molly-centric, 1824 words)

I feel like most of my most kudos-ed CR fics are Beau-related, which is funny because I never really wrote her EVER. I guess I need to write her more often. ANYWAY, this one got jossed immediately after 141, but I needed to write Beau and Molly bantering and I couldn’t get her flipping him off after revealing her card is Rumor out of my head.

(Incidentally my sixth most kudos-ed fic is my Fjorester next gen fic, WHICH I WAS NOT EXPECTING AT ALL. IT’S A FIC BASED ON MY OC FANCHILDREN!! I’M VERY EMOTIONAL ABOUT THAT!!)

5) Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

Usually!! There are times when I forget and then it’s been so long that I never go back, but I like responding to comments. They make me so happy and I want to make sure the people who take the time to comment know that I see them and appreciate them. Especially if they give me long comments. You long commenters know who you are and I value you and also flail incoherently in your direction.

6) What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

God, probably this church takes no conversions simply because, like, the whole ending scenes are MISERABLE AND FULL OF ANGST and then it has the hopeful ending that is actually a bullshit lie.

But second place probably goes to what couldn’t i offer, what couldn’t i give, which is just misery porn in disguise as a character study. Sorry, Cree.

7) Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

Okay, so back in the day when I was a tineh fanbrat I wrote a lot of self-indulgent crossovers featuring my friends and I in true Mary Sue format being ~saviors of the world~ alongside our favorite fictional characters and after I grew out of that, I very rarely did it again, because as someone who can only write AUs if they’re high concept and can only write crossovers if the canon welding is pristine, it’s difficult.

I have ideas for some! I just haven’t written them yet. Or they’re sitting in Google Docs partially written.

8) Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Not to my recollection, which is insane, because I’ve written some things in my youth that deserved it, but also I was a kid, so maybe I definitely did not deserve it. Don’t send hate to kids!!

9) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

The first smut I ever posted on AO3 involved some fucking American Gods flesh horror shit, so that answers your second question.

Basically, yes, but I write smut to facilitate character development in a way that regular story beats can’t, mainly with characters who are in some way deeply fucked up and have unbalanced dynamics. 

So basically chances of me writing smut that isn’t Creecien or Lucigast? Very low. (I haven’t written Lucigast smut yet but I will. Inevitably.)

10) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that anyone’s told me, but one time when I was a teenager someone ripped off an entire group messageboard RP I was in and tried to pass it off as a fic they wrote.

11) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that anyone’s told me!

12) Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I tried and it did not work out, because of (non-wanky) reasons, but it’s just not something I’d be very good at. I was the kid who wanted to work alone on group projects. I’m bad at group work.

13) What’s your all time favourite ship?

That I’ve WRITTEN??? Because that at least narrows it down significantly. Sesshoumaru/Rin hands down. It’s a good dynamic and they’re fun and sad at the same time. 

My self-indulgent ass does also enjoy writing Creecien though. I’m putting it out there because I want it.

14) What’s a WIP you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

GOD POOR SUPERNOVAS OF ALL SOUND AND LIGHT. THAT FIC COULD’VE BEEN A CONTENDER, but I unfortunately posted it RIGHT BEFORE the White Diamond episodes aired and it became so jossed by canon so fast that I gave up on life with chapter two half finished. I need to delete it but I can’t bring myself to bury my shame.

15) What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue and meta-narrative and character-specific stuff. I go into every story with CHARACTER FIRST mentality, which is how I end up writing so many damn character studies or why my word counts explode. I’m just out here naval gazing because I love character stuff SO MUCH.

I’ve been told I’m good at fight/action scenes too, which... Shocks me, but I think watching and playing a lot of D&D stuff has really improved how I write fighting and action sequences.

16) What are your writing weaknesses?

[whispers] too much naval gaze. dial it back, bitch. 

I get really caught up in character stuff and forget to do important things like ADVANCE THE SCENE OR DESCRIBE THE SCENE OR LITERALLY ANYTHING. I also don’t think my prose is all that great, but I’m pretty sure every writer feels that imposter syndrome bullshit, so /waves hands. All I’m saying is I have seen some writers on AO3 who are writing some fucking vivid imagery and stringing flawless sentences together and weaving introspection and description together like beautiful baskets and they are stronger than any US Marine and I salute them and wish to be them.

17) What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

Iiii try not to. There’s times where I want to throw in, like, a little Zemnian for Caleb flair, but I try to stick to things that are either untranslatable (like German compound words), common phrases (like please or come here), or insults/curses/ pet names. Things that I don’t think Google will fucking lie to me about.

18) What was the first fandom you wrote for?

I think it was a Sailor Moon crackfic about Haruka being forced to enter a beauty pageant which was just a blatant rip-off of Ms Congeniality and oh my god was it awful. I don’t even wanna talk about it.

19) What’s your favourite fic you’ve written?

this church takes no conversions, probably BECAUSE it’s my little red-headed stepchild of a fic involving so many things that are just never going to make it popular (backstory fic, fic that is almost 85% headcanon, doesn’t involve popular characters, etc.), but godDAMMIT I love that fic so much. It was fun and I use every bit of that headcanon in almost everything like it’s my job.

shattered stage is a close second, because it was such a crazy concept for a fic that I PULLED OFF SOMEHOW and is this wonderful mix of crazy plot and character and lore and my three favorite tieflings having to work together. And also Jayne Merriweather as the main villain. 

A lot of love went into both of those fics and they are my babies. this time next year we’ll see if I add Creedemption and shoot at fate to this list- probably. All of my epic long fics resolve to be my babies because I spent so much time on them, and I have to love them and cherish them because I raised them into gigantic wordy attempts to write a doorstopper.

[kianraidelcam]

IT’S HERE. Day 6: “Panicking” for @whumptopia‘s RoboWhump 30 Day Challenge! I originally posted a preview of it which kind of didn’t happen...oops. This idea ran away from me. Full explanation for that in the link! Tomorrow’s prompt is “Temperature Regulator Damage” and I am researching how computers react to the cold. Full fic under the cut for those who prefer it! Reblogs are love!

Connor would later describe it as feeling as if he lost all control.

Red blood. Blue blood. Spilling over, combining into a macabre purple. Playing over and over again in front of his eyes. His fault, his fault, it was all his fault. Breath quickening, eyes searching for a danger that wasn’t there, systems scanning even though he didn’t tell them too. His thirium pump pounding in his chest, elevated past what was considered optimal. It hurt, why did his chest hurt, there was nothing wrong but everything felt wrong. He almost ruined everything and they know, they know it is all his fault and they’re coming.

{SYSTEMS SCANNING…}

{NO THREATS TO SELF DETECTED}

That couldn’t be right. He had what Hank called a gut feeling. He was in danger, danger, danger.

{SYSTEMS SCANNING…}

{NO THREATS TO SELF DETECTED}

{WARNING: STRESS LEVELS ^80%}

{STASIS RECOMMENDED}

Connor grips his hair, pulling on the synthetic strands, while his chest heaves for air he doesn’t need ( air air where was the air ). A tingling sensation begins to fill his limbs, starting with his fingers before filling his hands, before weighing down his limbs with a static lead. Sumo, he needed Sumo. Hank’s dog always lowered his stress levels and if he could just get the warnings appearing bright red in his visual field to stop, he could find the danger, he could see the danger.

“Sumo,” he rasps into the empty living room, distantly aware that his voice echoes with a mechanical reverb brought upon by his systems working overtime, “Sumo, come.”

He waits for the clacking of nails on the hardwood floor, for the heavy panting from the Saint Bernard to announce his presence. Nothing comes. The only sound that echoes through the empty home is his labored breathing, his fans kicking into overdrive. Connor’s legs give out and he tumbles to the floor in front of the couch.

{SYSTEMS SCANNING…}

{NO THREATS TO SELF DETECTED}

{REVIEW MESSAGE FROM LT. HANK ANDERSON: FRIEND}

{Taking Sumo to the vet. Try not to burn down the house or shoot anything while we’re gone.}

That’s right. Sumo had an appointment at the veterinary clinic today. But that had been at 11:30am and his internal clock told him it was currently 2:47pm. They should have been back by now, what if something happened? There could have been a car accident, an ex-convict with a grudge could have happened across the lieutenant, anti-android activists could have recognized him as the police officer with an android partner. There could have been a robbery gone wrong, Sumo could have tried to cross the street at the wrong time, things could have spiraled out of control like he was now.

{SYSTEMS SCANNING…}

{NO THREATS TO SELF DETECTED}

{THIRIUM PUMP REGULATOR UNSTABLE}

{WARNING: STRESS LEVELS ^90%}

{PROBABILITY OF SELF-DESTRUCTION: HIGH}

{STASIS RECOMMENDED}

Hank could be gone, what if he was gone, Connor wasn’t ready he wasn’t ready. And he can still feel the danger approaching like a freight train, ready to completely destroy him once it hit. Hank, he needs Hank, he needs his friend, his partner, his father.

{CONTACTING LT. HANK ANDERSON}

{CONNECTING…}

{CONNECTING…}

{CONNECTING…}

“Hey, Con. What’s up?”

The Lieutenant’s gruff voice sounds in his head and Connor’s systems immediately offer an analysis on the man’s tone. Calm, not out of breath, low levels of stress. There’s the faint sound of jazz music playing in the background, along with Sumo’s signature panting. Evidence suggests they are in the car, perhaps on the freeway. The relief that courses through his wires is even stronger than the relief he felt upon seeing Hank the day after the revolution.

“Connor, you there,” Connor can’t bring himself to respond, opting to scan the room yet again, “Jesus, can androids even fucking pocket dial?”

He must subconsciously switch his phone call to match his vocal unit because Hank is suddenly speaking, concern seeping into his tone, “Hey, kid? Is that you breathing like that? What’s going on?”

Everything, he wants to say. Something or someone is coming for him, even if he can’t say what. He feels like his needs to deactivate his skin and tear off his plastic chassis because here is static that won’t go away underneath it, bringing him down and rendering him unable to even get up. His memory files are playing back images of blood, both red and blue, that he spilled and it won’t stop. Gunshots echo in his head, almost drowning out Hank’s voice, along with screams sounding off in a rusted ship. Too much , Connor wants to say.

“I-I-I...I can’t,” is what he manages.

There’s a pause, then a curse on the other line before Connor’s auditory unit’s pick up on the sound of the engine revving. “Yes you can. I need you to talk to me, what are your stress levels at?”

{WARNING: STRESS LEVELS ^90%}

{PROBABILITY OF SELF DESTRUCTION: HIGH}

{STASIS RECOMMENDED}

“Ninety percent…” Connor’s voice is hardly a whisper.

“Where are you? Are you safe?”

Connor’s shaking his head, despite knowing Hank can’t see him, “I-I’m home… I don’t know what’s wrong… they’re coming…”

“Shit...take a deep breath, Connor. Who’s coming,” Hank’s voice is like a tether, promising to secure him back to the ground.

“I don’t know, Hank, I don’t know. I don’t- I don’t know what’s going on with me,” his respiration rate picks up to 60 breaths per minute, “What’s...what’s happening?”

{WARNING: STRESS LEVELS ^95%

{STRESS LEVELS CRITICAL: STASIS RECOMMENDED}

“You’re having a panic attack, Connor. I need you to take deep breaths and focus on my voice, okay?” Hank’s voice is low and steady, with a calming inflection. The part of Connor that is still capable, still logical, offers him the reasons why. Low, even tones helped to calm distressed people, building a sense of security and trust. His systems also offer him a definition for panic attack.

{PANIC ATTACK: A sudden episode of intense fear/anxiety that triggers severe physical reactions despite a lack of danger or apparent cause. Panic Disorder common in adults between the ages of 20-25}

But he wasn’t human. He’s a machine. He wasn’t designed to be capable of having a panic attack.

He must voice these thoughts out loud because Hank is suddenly speaking again in the same, reassuring manner, “You weren’t supposed to feel emotions either, but here we are. It’s alright, the feeling will go away soon. I want you to breathe with me, alright? In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

Connor hears the exaggerated breathing and makes a few attempts to mimic it. It feels as if his ventilation biocomponents are stuttering, hiccuping their way through his imitation of a breath. He can’t breathe, he doesn’t need to but he can’t fucking breathe where was the air?

{STRESS LEVELS CRITICAL}

{PLEASE SEEK A CALMER ENVIRONMENT}

{STASIS RECOMMENDED}

His snort would be derisive if it didn’t sound so choked. He’s home, it is supposed to be the safest, calmest place he had but he could feel the walls closing in. Threatening him. Trapping him. Suddenly, the open space of the living room leaves him feeling claustrophobic, imprisoned, trapped. He ignores Hank’s questioning and surges to his feet, static forgotten as he sprints to the front door, nearly ripping off the doorknob in his haste to get out, to escape.

It’s pouring outside, Detroit currently in the rainiest April they’ve had since the invention of androids. The rain soaks him in seconds, slicking the hair to his artificial skull and drenching his clothes. It feels nice and cool against his overheating body and he falls to his knees on the lawn. Connor’s fingers grasp at the grass, digging through old leaves and dirt. He’s always liked the rain. The way it washes the earth clean, making the smog of the city disappear for a couple hours. The way the world seems new, painting the soft greens and blues in more vivid colors. The way it smells fresh and how everything feels softer.

Rain is good. It’s nice. It paves the way for new life.

{STASIS RECOMMENDED}

The prompt flashes in his vision like a neon sign. A failsafe against self-destruction Josh designed to assist deviants with their new, stressful lives, it gave them a way out that didn’t involve slamming their heads against whatever hard surface they could find. Once his levels reached 98%, his systems would automatically be forced into stasis, but at anything 80 or above, the prompt would flash until their levels either lowered or they powered down. Powering down, out here in the pattering rain, seemed like a better idea with every drop that touched his skin.

Connor disconnects the call with Lieutenant Anderson, despite the yelling coming from the other line, and he lies on the ground, looking at the gray sky. His limbs were once again replaced by static, terror threatening to wash him away. Images flashed over and over again and he wanted nothing more than the nothingness of stasis. He can feel the failsafe urging him closer and closer to the coding that induced stasis in androids.

Josh should be proud. He did his job and he did it well.

{INITIATING STASIS IN 3}

{2}

{1}

{GOODNIGHT RK800}

{MODEL RK800}

{SERIAL #313 248 317 - 51}

{BIOS 8.7 REVISION 2221}

{REBOOT…}

{STRESS INDUCED STASIS}

{LOADING OS…}

{SYSTEM INITIALIZATION...}

{CHECKING BIOCOMPONENTS… OK}

{INITIALIZING BIOSENSORS… OK}

{INITIALIZING AI ENGINE… OK}

{MEMORY STATUS… OK}

{ALL SYSTEMS… OK}

{READY}

{STRESS LEVELS 20%}

Connor blinks, his LED switching from the calm blue of stasis to a puzzled yellow as he stares at the ceiling. He didn’t remember changing into dry sweatpants or putting on Hank’s police academy hoodie. He didn’t remember grabbing a blanket and laying down on the tattered, old couch. And he certainly didn’t remember Sumo coming home, even though the old dog was now laying on his chest, breathing heavily on his face. The RK800 looks around the room, brown irises searching until they land on a grizzled, older man sitting on the recliner, eyes intent on the TV screen playing the Detroit Gears game  across from him. “Hank?”

It’s like a bullet goes off in the room from how high the man jumps, beer spilling from the bottle in his hand. “Jesus fucking christ, kid! Warn a guy before you scare the shit out of him next time.”

“Apologies.” Hank sets the now empty bottle on the glass table, still cursing as he wipes his sticky, wet hand on his pants. He looks at Connor with tired eyes, blue eyes nearly glowing in the darkened room. Connor checks his internal clock; 11:32pm. “How long have you been home?”

“I got home ‘bout five minutes after your shiny plastic ass hung up on me. Speaking of which, don’t you,” Hank points a finger at the android for emphasis, “ever do that again. Thought you went and shut down on me.”

If Connor were sitting, he would look down at the floor. As it is, he touches his chin to his chest and stares at the sleeping dog, unable to make eye contact, “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

The human heaves a sigh and Connor can hear the sound of skin dragging over stubble, “Don’ apologize, kid. Shouldn’t have said that. You just scared me is all. I came home to find you passed out on the lawn, staring up at the sky. I thought you had self-destructed or some shit.”

“Josh designed a program to induce stasis in case my stress levels ever got too high,” he offers as a way of explanation.

Hank nods, snapping his fingers to get Connor to look at him, “Yeah, that’s what Simon said. Speaking of which, he left some solidified thirium for you. It’s shaped like fucking animal crackers, when the hell did that start happening?”

Connor ignores the question, raising his eyebrows at Hank’s statement, “Simon was here?”

“Yeah, well, I thought something was wrong so I called him over to help. Not as young as I used to be, Con, no way I was going to lift your metal ass back inside. He helped me get you inside and explained what happened after connecting with you.”

He looks away from the Lieutenant, watching the muted game instead. “So,” Hank says.

“So?” Connor questions.

“We gonna talk about what happened?”

Connor sighs, a habit he picked up from the man, “I don’t know what happened. I assume it was an error or malfunction.”

There’s a pause in which the Gears score and Sumo huffs softly in his sleep. Then, a napkin bounces off the android’s head, bringing his attention back to the Lieutenant. Once Hank is sure he has his attention, he speaks, his voice gruffly affectionate, “You know, for a walking supercomputer you sure are a fucking dumbass.”

“Lieutenant?”

“You had a goddamn panic attack. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, it happens,” he raises his hand to stop Connor as the RK800 opens his mouth to protest, “I know the symptoms well enough by now to recognize one when I see..hear it.”

A frown finds its way onto Connor’s face, eyebrows furrowing, “It was…” he trails off, unsure.

Hank nods in understanding, “Overwhelming?”

“Yes. It felt like I was in danger, but I couldn’t find the reason why, then my systems went into overdrive.”

“Works the same way in humans, Con. Welcome to living, it fucking sucks,” Hank kicks his recliner back into its original arrangement, putting him into a sitting position, “But we can learn what triggers them in you, and how to make them shorter and less intense. You ain’t fucking doing this alone.”

Connor lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, “How?”

“Shit, well...you know I’m bad about talking about my feelings but I ain’ half bad at listening. And I’m guessing it’s going to be trial and error. But we’re gonna see if what works for humans works for androids. Breathing and grounding techniques that I learned might help. Also, Simon told me to let you know he’s invited you to a support group he has going on at New Jericho. A lot of Tracis and military androids are supposed to be going to it.”

His stress levels decrease at Hank’s words and he offers the man a soft, half smile, “Thanks, Hank. I...appreciate it.”

The Lieutenant pats his legs, calling Sumo. The big dog sighs before lumbering off Connor and padding toward his owner’s side. Connor sits up, catching a box Hank tosses at him once he’s fully up. “Here, eat your fucking blood cookies, ya vampire. Here you are, going off on me about what I eat and then you go and stuff your face with blue shit.”

“The difference between thirium and what you eat is that thirium is necessary to my function, and therefore, considered ‘healthy’ for an android. Fast food, filled with grease and sodium, is not.”

“Hey, Con?”

“Yes?”

“Fuck off.”

[lurkinmerkin]

So I’m doing some math (I’m terrible at it) but nonetheless, I did some thinking and then some subtraction and realized that it was in about 1998 that my family got a computer with Microsoft Windows installed along with a dial-up internet connection. And so this is technically my 20th anniversary of reading fanfic and being a part of internet fandom. I figured I should celebrate it a bit. 

I don’t remember the exact date or time or whatever, I can barely add or subtract, so June seems like a good in the middle of the year kind of time to recollect and think about what I’ve been doing with my life. Think about why I read so much, why I reblog things, why I am the way I am. 

This ask meme was written by @mabel-but-slytherin​ and I decided, I’ll just answer the whole damn thing. I’m sure absolutely no one is interested in this info but I don’t give a fuck. 20 goddamn years of my life in fandom, do you seriously think I give a fuck anymore? I don’t care about you or your eyes. I officially left the give a fuck building a long ass time ago.

If you have seen a fandom ask meme about being a lurker (which I was for a good ten years) or about reading fanfic instead of just writing fanfic, send it my way and I’ll answer it too. I have stories.

1. What was your first fic and could you stand to reread it today?

It was Thursday Night Routine and it’s readable but I find it a bit repetitive and out of character. Although, with Glee, how was I supposed to know who these people would become, lol. ;A;

2. What’s your most recent fic and how far do you think you’ve come?

My most recent was Vesper Lynde for the Spy fandom and I think I’ve grown as a writer but my characterization is still clumsy and my comedy isn’t as sharp. I think I was funnier before. I also have issues getting to the sex scene that I never had before. It drives me batty.

3. In your opinion, what’s your best fic?

The thoroughly depressing and out of nowhere for me fic, Ozma. That night was a eureka moment, it was bliss writing that fic. It flowed. I probably got the closest to american gothic and poetry with that fic--which is my usual goal when I do creative writing off the internet. 

4. In your opinion and without looking at any numbers, what’s your most popular fic?

So much of what I wrote was done anonymously before AO3 and Tumblr so it’s hard for me to say but I’m gonna guess Everybody’s Pickin’ Up on that Feline Beat because the cat!boi thing really slapped. Like people loooooved the cat!boi thing in 2010. 

5. Is there any fic that makes you super happy to reread and remember you wrote that?

Third is the One With the Treasure Chest. It has some issues but I still can’t believe I wrote it, like that was my third fanfic ever and it was a muppet babies’ orgy. I have no idea how I did it, :D

6. Is there any fic that makes you super embarrassed to reread and remember you wrote that?

Not really? I’m not embarrassed by what I write (I can’t be, I write weird shit), but I don’t necessarily want people to come up to me in real life and start describing my fic to me. Like I don’t want my realities to intersect. That’s what I’m really sure would embarrass me. 

7. What’s the fic you most want to continue (unfinished or no)?

I’m not gonna finish it, like it’s not happening, but I kind of wish I had finished Look What You Made Me Do. I still noodle a about Sarah Plain and Tall Klaine story. I did a lot of research into Gilded era hair and fashions.

8. What’s the oldest (longest since last update) fic you most want to continue (unfinished or no)?

Probably the epically awful and creepy Matchmaker, Matchmaker, Make me a Match where Sandy and Karofsky kidnap and assault Kurt. I was fascinated by how absolutely horrific Sandy Ryerson was as a character. He’s the worst. I’m not doing a sequel though. I’m not.

9. Have you ever written for a fandom without watching/reading/playing the source material?

Read? Yes. Written? No. I don’t think I’m the best at characterization but I do feel a need for a basic grasp on it before I start writing anything. 

10. Have you ever written for a fandom without reading other fanfic for it?

I wrote Vesper Lynde before I read any of the fic which was probably a good thing because there are some really good fics out there that already cover the subject I did (and did it better). But I’m glad I wrote it anyway because I have so many feelings about Rayna and Susan.

11. Have you ever written a fic for a concept you know someone else has done before? How did it impact your writing process or feelings after posting?

I honestly don’t know so I’m going to say no. I have seen these stories after I wrote what I wrote and have thought, Oh I should have done that or why didn’t I think of that?, but I have never seen a fic beforehand and thought that I could do it better or different enough. I wrote fic in order to fill a gap of weird skullfuckery that was missing before I showed up. 

12. Have you ever written a fic and decided never to publish it? Why?

Yes. It was bad, I wrote myself into a corner and had no interest in fixing it. The writing felt dull and flat. If I post an unfinished work, I do it because I think the writing has merit. 

13. What’s the biggest change between your style when you started in fandom and today?

I write more original work now, I write poetry mostly nowadays. And fanfic I do write has been smaller vignette pieces, has had way less sex in it and minimal wacky shenanigans. I kind of want to go back to wacky shenanigans honestly.

14. What’s the biggest change in your taste between when you started in fandom and today?

I’m riding a girl swing this year so I’m way more interested in stories that involve cunnilingus and strap-ons, boob devotionals and short fingernails. I sort of got into that in the middle of my Glee career (the Golden Age) before swinging back to boys and their balls (the Modern Age). In this new Age, I’m back to ladies. 

15. Have you ever purposefully written one fandom/fic idea over another because you knew it’d be more popular?

I think I tried to do that once but then I failed because my niche is being an off-beat weird motherfucker, not popular. I thought that I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman would go awf but instead it fizzled. So I stuck with dickpunching.

16. Have you ever stopped writing a fic/for a fandom because it wasn’t receiving enough attention?

No. I didn’t really get a lot of attention outside my circle anyway.

17. In your opinion, what’s your most overrated fic?

I guess the Cat!Kurt fic? I think it’s a good story, I just think that I wrote some that were better.

18. What’s your most underrated fic?

And if the world runs out of lovers, my Blaine/Finn fic. I had a lot of fun with that one and I think I got some really funny lines in. 

19. If you had to pick one fic/scene/chapter of your work to describe your entire portfolio to a stranger, which would you pick?

I would say, They’re Both Just Full of Feelings, OK? which is a story were Puck and Mercedes get very drunk, complain about their homosexual tendencies and then motorboat each others tiddies. I feel like that about covers the gist of my aesthetic.

20. Have/Would you ever rewrite a fic? If yes, would you take the original down?

I am doing a slow ass sloow rewrite of As Needed, just some clean up of tense issues and little nudges here and there of some of the wording. And I will take down the original when I do that. It needs better grammar, it does.

21. If someone starts kudosing and commenting your fics in a spree and has a few works of their own, would you go look through theirs?

Yes. I love spying and I love other people’s bookmarks. I keep mine private because I’m a hypocrite and I don’t know how to make them public en masse. I am not doing that individually.

22. Has there ever been anyone who’s made you freak out because they read your work and followed/favorited/reviewed?

No, but I freak out at every follow/favorite/review regardless. There are people who I love love love but they aren’t in the fandoms I write in so I never expect to have an insane fangirl moment like that.

23. What’s the nicest review you’ve ever gotten?

When I wrote Ozma, someone on the kinkmeme said that it read like a contemporary short story and I was flattered!

24. What’s the meanest review you’ve ever gotten? Do you think the reviewer intended it?

25. What constructive criticism, however well-meaning, always makes you feel bad when you see it in a review?

Gosh, that’s tough. I’m gonna go with criticisms that question your intent? Like when someone goes, “Did you mean to say this or that?” but not because it makes me feel bad but more because it makes me feel like I didn’t get my point across clearly enough that the reader could make their own conclusions about what was happening. I am very much of the author is dead style and part of that is leaving enough there to satisfy the reader without giving it all away.

26. What aspect of your writing do you most enjoy to see praised?

My humor. I like it when people find me funny. I don’t feel like my humor makes sense a lot of the time. Also, when people say that they re-read my stories. That’s always a heart warmer.

27. If you could only ever write crossovers or single-fandom fics ever again, which would you pick?

I prefer single-fandom fics as a writer. Crossovers get messy for me, too many locations to choose from.

28. if you could only ever write for a single crossover or a single fandom again, which would you pick?

Schitt’s Creek. David/Patrick 4eva!

29. Does the division of your writing across fandoms line up with your reading? What’s the biggest discrepancy?

Absolutely not, LMAO! I have done way more reading than writing in any fandom. My participation is a pebble on a mountainside.

30. Do you continue to write for a fandom after you’ve moved on or do you focus solely on the new one?

I wrote Glee fic (and I am still working on As Needed) after I had moved on from the show but a lot of us did. My attention span allows me to multifandom.

31. Who’s the one character you’ve just never managed to get perfectly right?

Susan Cooper. She’s an enigma.

32. Who’s the one character who shines without you even trying?

Puck, I feel like I wrote a very solid Puck.

33. Is there any particular character whose scenes always wind up being longer/more frequent than you expected? Does the quality hold up?

I would guess Brittany but I don’t think the quality holds up. I liked writing Brittany but I don’t think I captured her essence.

34. Was there any fic that you wrote that really surprised you in the fandom reaction? Was it just by the numbers or did they take it an entirely different way?

I get a lot of requests for a sequel to Sex Bomb even to this day and it surprises me.

35. Have you ever written a ship into a fic without meaning to?

No, I was ready to write anyone with anyone in any fic. I love it.

36. Have you ever sincerely written a ship you do not support into a fic?

Don’t support? Well, I don’t support Kurt/Karofsky but I write non-con fic so...

37. Have you ever purposefully bashed a character/ship in a fic?

I would only in an in-character sense, like the character would be against that pairing because of the show dramatics. At least, that was always my intent.

38. Have you ever purposefully written something you know your readers would find uncomfortable/would not enjoy? If yes, why?

Because that’s how the glee_anon meme worked sometimes LOL. Sometimes, you gotta have the anal worm lay the eggs.

39. Do you consider yourself to have a readership?

Not anymore lol, if I ever did. I don’t write enough.

40. Do you feel like you put out enough content?

I peaked with the Muppet Babies’ orgy, that was my third fic. Everything else was gravy.

41. If you cross-post your fics on multiple sites, do you have a favorite? Are there certain fics you would only post on certain site?

I want all my fics on AO3 largely because I think livejournal is gonna die soon and tumblr is unsearchable and lacks a forum function. 

42. How many views has your most popular fic gotten?

(Based on AO3): Ozma at 28672 Hits

43. Your least popular?

(Based on AO3): There’s a Lobster Involved at 38 Hits

44. Do you follow/favorite/kudos/comment/review more stories than you have received?

Oh gosh, I never thought of it that way but I hope I at least kudos more than I’ve received! I don’t have that many bookmarks and I don’t review and I rarely comment (I’m more like to DM you) but I do leave kudos a lot.

45. If you had to call yourself an author of a single genre (besides fanfic) what label would you give yourself?

With my original works: poetry. With my fanfic works: absurdism

46. Do you consider yourself a diverse author?

Yeah, I think I covered a wide range of topics and styles along with a lot of different characters. I had humor, drama, horror, angst, slice of life, porn, I covered a lot of ground.

47. If someone you know in real life who isn’t involved in fandoms asked to read your work, would you let them? If yes, what would you recommend they read first?

NO.

48. Does anyone you know from outside of fandom know you write fanfic? Are they involved in the same fandom too?

Yes, they know and they were also Glee fans but not necessarily fanfic readers. Just how much they know will remain a mystery between us because they won’t tell me and I won’t ask them to tell me. I don’t need that knowledge and I don’t want it.

49. Has anyone in your life ever read your fanfic just because you wrote it?

NOT THAT I KNOW OF AND I DON’T WANT THEM TO TELL ME IF THEY DID. KEEP IT TO YOURSELF.

50. Has writing fanfic had a significant impact on your life? Would you say it’s entirely positive?

I have an absolutely incredible circle of friends that I would not have had without fandom. So many people that I know out of fandom don’t spend as much time on the internet, they aren’t as easy to reach as my internet friends. You guys give me your time and your energy and that means so much to me. It really does. 

I wouldn’t say my time in fandom has been 100% positive. There are always downfalls to being in a large group. I have had my moments of internet drama, on anon trolling, and bad feelings. But my friends make it all worth it. You guys are the best.

[the-reason-to-sail-home]

The Cuddlist (2/3)

ProfessionalCuddling!AU. Maybe going to a professional snuggler was the craziest idea Emma ever had, but it certainly wasn’t her worst. In fact, weekly cuddling with Killian Jones could’ve been the best decision she ever made.

Inspiration for this fic finally struck (after over nine months) and I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to surprise @swanandapirate, who has been studying her butt off. This fic is for her, my sweet love! I hope you all enjoy it just as much. Special thanks to @phiralovesloki who gave me feedback of immeasurable worth. This fic would have suffered without it.♥

Note: This chapter contains very brief and non-descriptive mentions of a client crossing personal boundaries toward the beginning. 

(Rated T)    (6k words)   (ao3)   (chapter one)

Session Six

Emma Swan was Killian’s favorite appointment. His magnetic refrigerator calendar - a sailing themed one - had all his clients and the times they would arrive printed in his flourished cursive with black ink. Swan’s name had been written in a light blue color slightly larger than the rest of the things he’d written on his schedule.

It was the one thing he looked forward to. Emma Swan. Every Wednesday. Noon to one in the afternoon. His midweek break.

Don’t get him wrong, he loved every - well, most - of his clients, and he loved his job even more. He’d seen so much change in so many people, it was hard to not become addicted to the warm feeling he got from giving therapy.

It was just that Killian wished he liked all his clients as much as he liked spending time with Emma, but not of all of them could be as great as her. She didn’t know, but in the time he had met her six weeks ago, he had turned several people down for a second or third appointment. It was one of the few downsides to his job. Some people wanted more than a friendly presence.

And he had decided years ago, without question and without much thought, he was not going to be a male escort, contrary to what some people expected from him.

Take for example the woman in his arms, who was one such person. Cora Mills. One of his older clients, Killian knew that she had acquired quite the sum of money from a strange marriage to a younger CEO. It was the only time someone had abused his confidentiality policy to allow for their cheating habits. Because sure, the touches were platonic on his end, but the way she tried to feel all over him made him squirm.

Especially the way her hand was trailing up his thigh. Killian felt a wave of nausea flood over him. He caught her hand before it could travel too far up, and clutched it into his chest.

“Boundaries, love,” he reminded in his most professional cuddlist voice.

“To have fun, one must push boundaries, darling,” she replied, sickly sweet in his ear. She tore her hand from his grasp and moved to continue her search along his thigh, but Killian jolted back.

“Cora, I’ve asked you more than once,” he said sharply. He spun away, standing up and putting distance between them. “And I shouldn’t have to. I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.”

“I paid for an hour.”  Killian glanced at the clock, relaxing just an ounce to see it was 11:59am.

“And an hour you got, ma’am.”

Just as Cora opened her mouth to argue, at which point Killian planned to call the police, a steady knock resounded throughout the room from the front door. He could have cried in relief. Emma Swan truly was a savior.

“It’s open!” Killian called, before Cora could intervene.

Emma came tumbling into the room, as radiant as the sun peering behind the fall leaves. She wore a white turtleneck sweater tucked into a burgundy skirt, the personification of autumn spirit. She smiled as soon as she saw him, leaving a warm feeling in his chest, but paused as she caught sight of Cora.

“Did I interrupt?” she asked, glancing down at her watch. Killian shook his head, trying to show just how thankful he was in his heavy stare. Her smile twitched, a minute sign that told Killian she caught how perturbed he was.

“Not at all, love,” he answered. “Miss Mills and I were just finishing up.” Both women in the room could tell his tone meant finishing up for good.

Like a tempered child pouting, Cora slipped her shiny black heels on, grabbed her wool jacket, then clacked across the room toward the door.

“If he refused me, don’t expect him to keep you for very long,” he heard the woman murmur to Emma, but the door had slammed behind her before Killian could voice just how very wrong she was. He planned on keeping Emma around for quite some time if he could, thank you very much.

But just having the woman gone was enough to make Killian’s pulse slow down and his hands stop trembling. Emma was by his side at a second, a comforting hand on his arm. He closed his eyes and focused on steadying his breathing. A hand come up to cover Emma’s on his arm, offering a gentle squeeze.

“Are you okay now?” she asked.

“Aye, love. You have immaculate timing,” he replied, voice hitching on the tightness winding in his throat.  Emma dropped her hand to give him some space, but the loss of contact made Killian’s nerves thrill under his skin.

“Though perhaps we should reschedule. I’m afraid I’m in no condition to give you what you paid for.”

It was unclear just what she was thinking as she held him in a scrutinized gaze. He felt frozen to the floor, knowing that if she showed even the slightest sign of disappointment, he would take it all back within an instant.  

There was no disappointment in her eyes. There was only something akin to understanding, and a fiery bite of rage that she seemed to have held back by a single thread.

“Give me your phone,” she demanded gently. Killian’s hand immediately reached toward his back pocket, but then he hesitated.

“Why?”

“Just hand it over, Jones. Weren’t you the one who taught me about this whole trust thing?” It was enough for him to comply, and within moments, she was pattering away at the screen with furrowed eyebrows.

“You said her name was Mills?” she continued, fingers scrolling up through a list. “Cora Mills, there she is. And…number blocked. She won’t be able to call you again.”

Emma paused, waiting for him to respond. As Killian took back his phone, his mouth was locked in a gape, searching for some way to answer. All words had escaped him. There was nothing but this woman before him, so stable and sure.

“I was going to-” he finally tried to defend.

“No, you probably would’ve thought about blocking her number and then let her call you back, only to forgive her and rinse and repeat whatever happened in here today. She’s not worth the anxiety, Killian.”

His pointer finger found the spot behind his ear that prickled when he was nervous. Of course Emma would understand. Other people in the past had criticized him whenever something like this had happened, subtly claiming that it was his fault for putting himself in such an intimate profession. He was wise enough to know that it was never his fault, but it never made it less horrible when it did happen.

When he looked up from the floor, Emma was lounging across his couch with a massive chinese menu in one hand with the other dialing a number.

“What are you doing?” Killian asked. “And where did you get that?”

“Ordering lunch.  I never leave the house without a take-out menu,” she replied, as if it were obvious. Killian sauntered over to her, pulling her phone and menu from her hands just as she finished dialing the number.

“Darling, I told you. I can’t today.” Killian began to fold the expansive menu, but Emma plucked it back just as quickly.

“Look, I’m ordering you lunch, sticking around to make sure you let me pay for it, and then I’ll be out of your hair,” she explained casually. His incredulous stare prompted her to add one last clarification. “You spend every day pampering people, but you never have time to let anyone pamper you. I’m not here as a client, I’m here as a friend.”

A warm rush spread through Killian. Her presence seemed to brighten the room in a way that was almost therapeutic. He considered all his clients his friends to eliminate the awkwardness of holding a complete stranger, but it wasn’t often the other person reciprocated.  

He suddenly became aware of something: there was nothing he liked more than being Emma Swan’s genuine, bona fide friend.  

Within the hour, they were sitting shoulder to shoulder, white cartons in hand and stomachs filled with delicious food. Killian could sense Emma’s relaxation radiating off of her, coming off in gentle exhales.

“I’m glad you stayed,” Killian admitted. His eyes stayed glued on his fork searching around for tiny pieces of chicken lingering at the bottom of his take-out box.  

“Me too.” Emma set her empty container on the table in front of them. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“A woman violated our client-therapist agreement which resulted in her permanent removal from my services. What else is there to talk about?”

“And you’re okay?” Emma placed a comforting hand on his knee, a touch that seemed to pull the answer right from his lips.

“Yeah,” he said on a breathy exhale. “I think I’m okay.”

Any sourness left over from the incident earlier was erased away minute by minute as Emma put his favorite indie movie on the TV. As gentle acoustic music played behind the opening of the film, Killian leaned his head into her lap, cheek nuzzling up with the soft fabric of her long skirt.

And maybe Killian’s heart raced as Emma threaded her fingers through his hair and scratched at his scalp. Maybe her touch was just what he needed to send away everything nasty he’d been carrying, leaving room for her comforting presence in his heart. He nearly suggested that she become a cuddle therapist herself, but the very thought of her hands on someone else sent a recoiling scowl down his face.  

If Killian Jones was developing a crush on Emma Swan, then no one needed to know. It would probably go away before anything could become of it.

* * *

Except that it didn’t. If anything, Killian’s growing infatuation was only getting in the way of his work. He’d have a lonely widower in his arms, but find himself aching for her touch. His routine of massages was muddled with the thought of her creamy skin and lovely smile.

It didn’t help that Emma started scheduling appointments for twice a week, rather than their usual single consultation. She even had a habit of popping over when she knew he wasn’t busy and visiting as a friend, rather than a client.

Eventually, their dynamic shifted without any spark or prompting. It was organic, their relationship growing in a way that friendships do when the people and the conditions are right. It started as timid text messages - Would you care to come over for pizza tonight? I rented Back to the Future. - and shifted into Emma’s sporadic visits after his business hours. She did occasionally schedule an appointment with Killian the Professional rather than just popping over to see Killian the Friend, especially when she had some extra money saved and work was wearing her down.

It was good. It worked.

Killian blamed habit of routine for the way they always ended up tangled together in each other’s arms.

* * *

“How many sessions does this make?” Emma murmured into Killian’s chest one day. They’d been laying like this on his couch for an hour, legs a tangled mess. There were few places she liked being more, held by her best friend while his fingers rubbed along her scalp.

“This isn’t even a real session,” he answers, his breath whisking through loose strands of her hair.  

There were certainly benefits to your best friend being a professional cuddler, Emma decided. For one, he was naturally affectionate. Gentle touches and warm hugs came easy to Killian, a talent Emma had always been glad she didn’t have. It was different now that she’d felt the comfort of his embrace, so she thought she’d make an exception. And boy, was she glad she did. From that day on, Emma spent the end of her stressful days in the company of a friend who genuinely cared about her, made her laugh until her stomach was in knots, and gave a damn good foot massage.  

Of course, there were also disadvantages.

Like the intrusive thoughts that Emma certainly did not ask for,  the ones that insisted that she was nothing special to Killian Jones and that he was only being nice to her to earn money off of her. Or worse, that he was just like every other guy she’d been with who always seemed to take advantage of her.  

The one thought that really kept her up at night, the one that she was most ashamed of, was the small tiny voice in her head that admitted that she was falling for him. Getting feelings for Killian was absolutely, under no circumstances, allowed. She’d signed the agreement and everything.

“Swan, if you think any louder the neighbors are going to start complaining.”  

Emma jolted a little in his arms, like she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to. Shaking her head, she leaned up to burrow her face into the side of his neck and muttered an unconvincing, “I’m fine.”

The hand weaving through her hair moved down her back, his fingers gliding over her skin. He was waiting for her to say it, because they both knew that something was wrong. There wasn’t any point in trying to hide it from him.

“Can I ask you something?” she asked in a low voice.

“Of course.” Killian held her in place as he shifted against the couch so that they could face each other. It was a tight fight on the small cushions, and Emma could smell the spearmint on his breath. It was his eyes that coaxed the question out of her, the way they didn’t judge or hold suspicion.  

“How many people do you do this with?”

Killian gaped at her. Smooth, Emma she sneered at herself. Real smooth. He was careful to keep his expression fixed, though she swore she saw the slightest hint of offense dampening the light in his eyes.

“Do what, exactly?”  

“Spend time outside of consultations.”  

Killian sat up, taking Emma with him that she had nowhere else to look but at him. His brows furrowed, gaze intense. Running his hands down her arms, he locked their fingers and squeezed.

“I love each of my clients, and I like to think that I’m not just their therapist, but also their friend.” Emma opened her mouth to interrupt, take back the question, change the subject, forget that she even mentioned it , but he stopped her. “The people that visit me all have their own lives, their own friends, their own families. Many of them are embarrassed to admit they see a professional cuddler, so they leave me separate from their real lives.”

“Does that bother you?” she asked.

“No. People don’t keep in contact with their chiropractors or dentists, I don’t expect them to treat me differently.”

“But I’m different?”

A smile broke on his lips. “Very.”

Emma could feel the heat rushing to her cheeks as he grinned at her. All her life she’d been ordinary Emma. Nothing special to her foster parents. Nothing special to her teachers. Nothing special in general. But to be different to Killian Jones felt good.

“So, when people ask me what my best friend does for a living…”  

Just when Emma thought that his smile couldn’t get wider, he proved her wrong with a grin that sent butterflies to her stomach.

“You tell them he’s a professional cuddler. Trust me, the reactions are priceless.”

* * *

Life with Emma Swan was great.  

It was what they both needed: something reliable, something familiar and routine. They spent their time together at his apartment because Killian, I’m poor and my apartment is the size of a walk-in closet. And when he wasn’t convinced - Fine, it’s because you have that fantastic bean bag that I would give my left kidney for.  

She always brought food, whether a full meal from that surprisingly good chinese place down a few blocks, or just a few brown bags of groceries. Somehow they always ended up tangled up together, watching YouTube videos or one of those Netflix series which can’t actually be that good, and turns out an all-time favorite.  

Sometimes he played guitar while she chopped vegetables in the kitchen. And other times she added songs to their joint Spotify playlist (appropriately named “untitled” because Emma wouldn’t allow any of the other ridiculous names he’d suggested) that she just knew he’d be playing on repeat for the next week.

And when he was having a really shitty day, she brought Captain Morgan. That was how he knew she was his best friend. He didn’t even have to say anything, the bottle would already be in his hands.

It had been eight months since their unlikely friendship began. Had it not been for his constant stream of clients - who valued their privacy - in and out of the apartment, he’d have already asked her to move in. Once Killian’s last appointment ended for the day, she was there and really only ever went home to sleep.

“Just because you live somewhere doesn’t make it home, Killian. My apartment is like living in a graveyard. There’s no life. At least your apartment has ferns.”

“Aye, love, well I’m glad my ferns keep you coming every day.” His chest tightened as he wondered where exactly she considered home to be. If he had any other job, he could just allow her permanently into his life, whatever that meant. Instead, Emma would continue to pay her rent and sleep in her own bed, but eat her meals at his table.  

“Can I schedule another appointment?” she asked through a mouthful of fried rice, chopsticks digging around the white take out carton hidden shrimp. Killian blinked a few times.

“Did something happen at work?” Emma shrugged, not in the mood to elaborate. Lately, it wasn’t often that she kept things to herself. He was glad to help her, though, even if it was as a professional before it was as a friend. Finally he said, “Yes, I have openings, but I’m not going to ask you to pay me. That’d be ridiculous.”  

“Why? If you were an artist, and I wanted you to paint something for me, you’d still ask for a commission. You’re a businessman who has to work for a living.”

“Oh, now you’re making me sound like a white-collar.” He paused for a second. “You’re adamant about this?” If she wanted to hire him once more, then who was he to deny her?

“Alright, love. How’s Wednesday at noon?”  

* * *

It began like it always did, Emma standing in front of his apartment dressed in comfortable clothes. Her fingers tapped mindlessly against her hip while she fought the urge to check her watch for the fourth time.  

It felt almost the same way it did that first appointment when she didn’t know who he was or what to expect. But this was Killian, her best friend of all people! He was the most predictable thing in her life, the one who never expected more than she could give, the one who always could read her as easily as one of the books on his shelf. When she was wrapped in his arms, there was no place in the world that was safer.  

That was all she’d ever wanted since she was a little girl, and she had long since given up hope that she would ever find it. But it had happened, after almost twenty-eight years it had finally happened.

She couldn’t even thoroughly enjoy it because she was falling in love with him. Emma scoffed. Who was she kidding? The falling had already happened. The falling had sent her plummeting toward over a cliff where she crash landed, head way over her heels.

Emma couldn’t help it, she glanced down at her watch and saw that he was thirteen minutes past noon. She frowned. Killian always had his clients in and out very promptly, and she was positive he was supposed to have someone in there with him. Tugging at the bottom of her sweater, Emma decided to wait for a few more minutes.

Five minutes passed and no one exited the apartment. Killian hadn’t even gone out to check to see if she was there, so she knocked lightly. The next moments were agonizing, the anticipation of seeing him making it difficult to breathe. But he never came. She checked to make sure she had the right apartment - of course she did, she practically lived here- and that she had no messages on her phone. Trying the handle, Emma discovered the apartment was open. First she peeked in to see if Killian had just lost track of time with a client on the beanbag, but the apartment was empty.

“Killian?” she called out. Entering the apartment, she dropped her purse and keys on the counter. “Killian, are you home?”  

No response. Okay, that was different. Killian was always home to be available for potential walk-ins. Emma padded through the apartment, noticing the minute differences in its condition. There were dishes in the sink, a half full mug of cold coffee beside the stove, and a dirty plate sitting on the end table beside the couch. Killian was never the type not to not pick up after himself.

She searched the apartment for signs of him, but he wasn’t in his bathroom or in his bedroom. Just as she pulled out her phone to call him, she heard a cough from outside the window.  

What was he doing on the fire escape?

Emma peered out of the open window and found him sitting on one of the metal stairs, a flask at his lips.  

“I’ve never known to you do drink,” she called out.

Killian’s head snapped down at her and for a second his eyes looked right through her, dazed and confused. Reality dawned on him as the fog in his gaze cleared. With a quick glance at his watch, he groaned.  

“Gods, Swan, I totally forgot. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” It wasn’t just an apology, Emma noticed. It had an unsettling amount of self-loathing and grief. Emma leaned over the windowsill, letting the cool fall breeze cut through her hair. “Just maybe not today.”

“Are you alright?” she asked. His response was an ashamed look at his flask. “Mind if I come up, then?”

Killian shook his head.

Emma settled herself just below him, sitting parallel to the stair with her knees to her chest. Killian mirrored the way she sat so that he could look at her.

“So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” she asked. His fingers fidgeted around the curve of the flask.

“I saw something earlier that reminded me of my brother,” he stated simply, if not a bit sad. Emma blinked, attempting to keep hide her surprise.

“I didn’t know you have a brother.”

Now that she thought about it, Emma knew next to nothing about his family. She’d never asked before to avoid answering any questions about her own family, but it was different now. She was ready to open up if he was.

“His name was Liam,” Killian finally admitted quietly. “He was the man who raised me, the one who fed me and sent me to school each day. But he was my role model too. Everything I learned about being an honorable man, he taught me.”

“What happened?” Emma asked. The muscles in his jaw clenched, the tension making his hand clench around the flask. When his sea blue eyes began to glisten, she wondered if maybe she shouldn’t have asked at all.

“He passed away,” he stated simply. “A boat accident five years ago. He was supposed to be repairing it, but there was a gas leak. The engine sparked and well…Anyways, there was an incident down at the harbor last night and when I saw it on the news, I guess I realized I wasn’t entirely done grieving.”

Emma waited as he took a swig of the rum and let the alcohol ease the ache of remembering. She didn’t know what to say. Her own experience with tragedy made her sure that he didn’t want any pity, but she didn’t want to discount the strength it took to talk about it.

“You’re an amazing man, Killian Jones,” she finally said. The warmth in her eyes matched her sweet tone, and Emma hoped it told him just how proud she was of him. “This world is a brighter place with you in it.”

Then she leaned her head on his knee, stroking his hand with a soft touch. Killian remained silent, letting the atmosphere between them whisper all the things he couldn’t say to her. The shaky squeeze of his hand said thank you, the tiny smile on his lips hummed I’m a better man when I’m with you, and his tender gaze spoke the message that he hoped she couldn’t hear. I’m falling in love with you.

Emma didn’t stay for her appointment. Instead, she turned on his favorite music, warmed up some leftover mac and cheese, and let him spend the rest of the night with himself. He was thankful. Any other time he would’ve wanted her to stay, but this last ounce of healing was something he needed to do alone.

Besides, if he needed her, she’d only be a phone call away.

* * *

Two days went by before Emma heard from him again. She had just woken up, her hair still a mess atop her head and a steaming coffee in hand, when her phone buzzed.

Killian [8:47am] - My apartment, 5pm, come hungry.

Killian [8:47am] - This is a real appointment, but don’t even think about paying. I owe you one.

Emma [8:49am] - Sounds like I’m seeing my best friend AND a professional cuddlist tonight. I’ll be there.

She was three minutes late to knocking on the door. From the hallway she could smell the aroma of something sweet in the oven, traces of cinnamon and apple reaching her senses. When the door swung open, she was greeted by a Killian Jones who looked like his few days alone had done him some good. There was a new life in his eyes, an excitement to go through with whatever he had planned for her.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said casually when he was frozen in the doorframe with a grin.

“Nonsense, we’ve all evening. Come on in.”  

“How would you like to start, Master Cuddler?” Emma asked, starting to feel her nerves prickle in anticipation as he rushed into action.

“You can start by getting comfortable. Is a massage okay with you?” he asked, his voice taking the warm tonality of his professional self. When she nodded, he laid some soft towels across the couch. “I don’t really have a massage table, but I hear the couch works just as well.”

Standing across from him not knowing quite what to do, Emma crossed her arms in front of her and watched as he pulled a basket of candles from the cupboard. She’d never gotten a massage from him before, only at fancy spa getaways (which were also gifts from her mother). Unlike the other places she’d been, she didn’t plan on stripping out of all of her clothes. Instead, she pulled off her sweater, leaving her in her leggings and cami.

“I need to go grab a few things, but you can lay down on your stomach and get cozy.”  

Emma did as she was told, feeling her body relax into the soft cushions of his couch. Her mind, on the other hand, raced at a million miles a minute. Had she known he planned for a massage, she definitely wouldn’t have agreed to coming tonight. How could she ask him to touch her in a borderline intimate way when she was developing feelings for him? Before now, she’d been good about hiding her romantic affections, especially from herself.

Folding her arms under her chin, Emma frowned. This was a doomed situation if she ever heard of one. She should probably just run while she has the chance.

Killian came back before  the instinct to flee could grow too strong. There was a bounce in his step, like he was excited to do this with her for real. At the very least, the melancholy from earlier seemed to have faded. She watched as he lit candles, plugged in the space heater, and pressed play on his stereo.

“Are you alright, love?”

Emma bit the inside of her cheek. Was she that transparent?  

“Yeah, why?” Killian didn’t answer. He simply knelt in front of her and brushed some hair out of her face.

“Just checking,” he said gingerly. “As always, stop me if you get uncomfortable. It’s just a basic massage, though. No funny business.”

Emma would’ve chuckled, but as he settled into position, the only thing her brain could process was his comforting smile. Killian instructed to relax her arms so that they settled at her sides. With one last confirmation of her consent, he began his work.

The silence between them was comfortable, filled with the hum of ambient electronic instrumental music. She could tell Killian was in full concentration mode as he worked, rubbing his hands together so that the friction would warm them up.

Killian started with her feet. He’d given her foot massages before, but not quite like this. His hands pressed into the soles of her feet slowly, urging the tension to release and relax the muscles. The nerves all over her body vibrated even though his focus was latched onto rubbing her feet. Chills erupted up her leg when his hands moved to knead her calves, each slow pull of his hands completely unwinding her.

As his hands worked into her leg muscles and nerves, Emma felt the passage of time slow to a halt. It was the first time in years she’d felt so at peace, so safe and well-taken care of. When he was sure all the tension in her legs was gone, he trailed his palms up to her spine where he massaged her unhurried and tender. Smooth palms over her back alternated with his fingernails as he scratched in gentle circles.  

Emma bit her lip to keep from vocalizing how marvelous she felt. But it wasn’t just the massage itself. He caressed her with such reverence, as if she were precious treasure in his hands. All she wanted was for this to continue forever, to always be free to feel his worshipping hands on her skin, to hear his breath in her ear. She wanted it indefinitely.  

And that scared the hell out of her.  

There were many things she expected to feel during this, but fear wasn’t one of them. Shouldn’t she have felt glad that he cared for her, respected her? After all, he was the only person she’d met in a long time who wanted to do something like this for her.  

“Are you alright?” he asked, noticing how she seemed to have tensed up. She hummed in response, unable to lie to him. But he knew her well, and he removed his hands, and instructed her kindly to “Sit up, love.”

She complied, hands folding nervously in her lap.

“Can I keep going?” he asked.

“Of course! But only if you want to.” He frowned, and she was quick to explain herself. “I wasn’t sure if I did something wrong or-”

“No! Never. I was wondering, myself, if I had done something to make you uncomfortable.” He was so good to her, always paying such detailed attention to her reactions.  

“Killian, I’m fine. This has probably shaved ten years of stress off of me.”

He began again, this time closer. With her sitting up, he had better access to her shoulders. Warm puffs of his breath ghosted her neck as he dug his fingers into her shoulder blades. His touch emitted even more veneration than before, as if his concentration was well honed to perform his best work.

When his fingers reached her hair, she leaned back into his touch. The man was too talented for his own good, fingernails scratching along her scalp bringing sensations that distracted her from her fears. She could feel his chest pressed against her back, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed calming her down.

His touch began to slow, becoming fainter as he brought the massage to a close. Emma sat frozen, unsure if he was really finished, because his hands still rested on her shoulder.  

The next events passed like a hazy vision, her mind blurry with fogginess, but nerves aware of every touch.  

There was silence, and then his lips pressed against her shoulder. Emma turned rigid the same second he did, both of them stunned into stillness. Killian immediately pulled his hands off of her, swallowing as he skirted a few inches away from her. Emma turned and sucked in a breath of air. He was closer than she thought, far enough away to give her space to breathe, close enough that he was within reaching distance.  

The spot on her shoulder he had kissed still burned sweet, and she craved more. This was new territory, ground they hadn’t traveled yet. He was just Killian now, the professional cuddler dissolving as desire filled his eyes. Just as she was about to reach for him , he leaned forward and took her cheek in one of his palms.

Killian opened his mouth to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. They hung in the intensity of his eyes, their meaning just out of reach. Maybe she didn’t know about him, but Emma knew what she wanted. She tilted forward just a fraction, the movement so slight she doubted he noticed it.

Something in his gaze sparked, and that was it.

Before she could register the decision on his face, he was kissing her. Emma’s mind numbed of all sense and awareness, overwhelmed by the soft way his lips were pressed to hers. He tasted sweet, like refuge and acceptance. Her hands grasped at his shirt, seeking an anchor.

When she lifted her arms around his neck, the kiss dissolved into a search for the other’s touch, needing to soothe the ache to bring the other closer.

And just when she was starting to think that she could do this forever - kiss him, hold him - a voice spoke to her loud enough that she could hear it over the roaring in her ears. He’s using you. Emma kissed Killian harder, as if the intensity would hinder her walls from rising. Just wait. He’s not going to want you after this.

Right on cue, Killian tore away.  

He looked as stunned as she felt, chest heaving, cheeks flushed.

“That was a mistake,” he murmured, shooting to his feet and clenching his fists. “A really bad mistake. I shouldn’t have even considered-”  

Emma stared at him, utterly horrified. Was it that bad? Was it so appalling to even consider wanting her?

“I’ve gone three years without the thought even crossing my mind, much less acted on it,” he rambled, pacing across the floor. “But this….you…”  

The man was unraveling and she was the cause. Maybe that was what she wanted, but not like this.

Suddenly, Killian’s pacing halted. He took a fortifying breath before turning to look at her with a composure that meant that the professional was back, masking what he was really feeling.

“That was completely, utterly inappropriate and I am so sorry.”

“No, I’m the one that’s sorry. I put you in this weird position by scheduling an appointment and then I gave into the moment.” Killian shook his head, like the fact that she was feeling guilty was something he wanted to extinguish. “I just really, really don’t want this to ruin your career.”  

He heard the silent or our friendship.

And out of all the things he could’ve said, she wasn’t surprised when he murmured in a quiet voice, “I hope you’ll understand when I tell you that I can’t accept you as one of my clients anymore.”  

Emma expected as much, but it still ached to her core to hear the words spoken aloud. He wanted nothing to do with her, and she was senseless and shortsighted to think that anything would change.  

But she wasn’t going to let him see her cry, so she rose to her feet, grabbed her shirt, and headed toward the door.  

“Where are you going?” he called out, voice rough.

“You’re absolutely right, Killian. About all of it,” she said weakly. “I should probably just go.”

Killian’s blood ran cold as he got the slightest feeling that when she vanished out of his front door, she was leaving for good.

* * *