#by that entire argument leaning on them having distinctive head shapes

[smallhatlogan]

"Same face syndrome" is a term that very often isn't the exact literal same face and more like, "yeah they all look very samey and if you completely shave them and remove makeup/tattoos/etc someone who isn't a super dork about these characters is not going to be able to tell who is who."

and like, when all your women have the same soft, young, flawless features and generally like they've been carefully crafted to be conventionally attractive while your men have a wide range of often exaggerated features....

[juniorgman187]

About Time (Reid Fic)

Summary: Reader’s offer to help Morgan renovate one of his properties makes Spencer jealous enough to confess what he never could before. 

A/N: I try to avoid specific Reid eras in my works so that it can be up to you how you imagine him, but please just imagine seasons 1 or 2 Spencer - I’m telling you it’ll make the experience richer. Also, I might improve this fic in the near future bc I’m not entirely happy with it. Category: Drabble, Fluff Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid Content Warning: None Word Count: 2.5k Playlist: Would You Be So Kind by Dodie

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　

Clink … Clink … Clink … 

The repetitive noise was barely discernible at first, then it became all that I could focus on. 

In an attempt to find the source, I looked up from my paperwork and scanned the room. It only took me half a second to discover that Morgan was the culprit. 

From across the round table, I watched as Derek absentmindedly stirred his coffee and sugar together, making a ‘clink’ noise each time his spoon hit the rim of the cup. This wouldn’t have been bothersome had it not persisted for more than 10 minutes which, by all accounts, is plenty of time for the sugar to dissolve.

“Derek… ” I sort of sang, trying to capture his attention as nicely as possible. 

“Derek.” I repeated, this time a little less quietly and a little more sharply. Still, my voice did nothing to stop the noisy stirring of his coffee. I stayed silent for a second, just in case he finally noticed I was speaking to him, but when he didn’t, I gave a concerned look to Spencer beside me as if to ask if he was seeing what I was and he returned just the same expression of confusion. 

That’s when I knew something was wrong. 

“Derek!” I said even louder, finally catching his attention. 

His head snapped in my direction, his ghost-like countenance falling away after looking directly at me. I was relieved to see proof of life had been regained behind his eyes. The abrupt reaction made me squint harder in his direction to decipher what was truly going on. “Is everything okay? You were kind of zoning out just now.” 

He sighed while rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “It’s nothing. I just had a late night last night and I didn’t go to bed till three this morning.” 

“Oh?” I asked coyly. “And what was her name?” I brought my mug to my lips to hide my growing smirk behind the rim. 

He didn’t catch on right away, which to me was more than enough evidence that he wasn’t well. He was usually the first to be aware of an innuendo, maybe even the one to be making it. “Whose name?”

“The girl that kept you up till three this morning.” I mimicked his voice in crude yet playful imitation.

To this, he shook his head and rolled his eyes with a grin. “Alright, get your pretty lil’ head out of the gutter, Kitten. I was busy fixing up a property I got down in Emporia. Lost track of time. That’s all.”

Whether or not he was hiding something more, I didn’t care anymore. He’d piqued my interest in this new topic. “Emporia? That’s like 2 or 3 hours away.” 

His eyebrows lifted in agreement. “Yeah, like I said - late night.” 

Not even trying to tempt him with my words, I simply remarked, “But I mean it can’t be that hard though, right? Fixing up the house?” 

There was no verbal response from him, only a mirthless chuckle.

I was less careful with my words than I should’ve been, letting them flow through my mouth without filtering them first. “I’m just saying, I worked with Habitat For Humanity for years. We built thousands of houses from scratch, each of them within a matter of days.” 

He sat up in his seat and leaned forward to assert himself. It was nearly the same mannerisms he would display in an interview when he wanted to maintain dominance. “Well, that’s because you got how many people working on one house?” 

When I didn’t answer, he simply tapped the table and leaned back comfortably in his seat, prematurely relishing in a self-proclaimed victory. “Yeah, exactly. Whereas, it’s just little ol’ me fixing up these properties.”

“Okay, then I’ll help you.” 

He only snickered in response, lending way for me to believe he didn’t trust that I’d provide any sort of productive assistance. 

“I will!” I insisted. “Since you’re so convinced those houses were only built as fast as they were because it was a group effort, I want to prove to you that it’s actually because I’m just a fast worker.” 

“It’s not a race, Kitten. All I said was it took me a while to fix up the house. I don’t need you to help. And I wouldn’t be paying you even if you did, by the way.”

“Oh, I’m not doing this for money,” I reasserted. “I’m doing this for pride. I know I’m right, and I want you to know it, too.” 

It’s worth mentioning that Derek and I made these kinds of bets all the time. Our friendship was practically built on the foundation of competition. The first interaction I ever had with him was when he came up to me while I was arranging my desk to ask what I thought the odds were that he could toss his paper ball into the trashcan across the bullpen. 

Years Ago . . .

“What are the chances I’ll make the shot?” I heard a deep, unfamiliar voice inquire from behind me.

“You’re aiming for the trashcan all the way over there? No way.” This voice I knew was Elle’s. She’d been the second person to introduce herself to me and if I had to guess, the deeper voice belonged to the guy I recalled sitting diagonally from her. I made eye contact with him when I initially walked in, but he hadn’t taken the time to introduce himself to me, nor I to him. He seemed a little preoccupied … making a paper ball and all. 

“Actually, if Morgan’s throw had specific arc, the trajectory of the ball would -”

“He’s not making it, Reid.” Elle cut off the small, almost mousy voice promptly, shutting down any ‘pro-Morgan-making-the-shot’ argument he was about to make. 

You could get a lot from just listening. Some might call it eavesdropping, but I like to call it being observant, and from what I’d observed 

A) The one throwing the ball was Morgan. 

B) The smart-sounding one was Reid. 

C) Reid was a proponent of Morgan, so I could assume they were close friends. 

D) There were three very distinct, very different personalities in this general vicinity of desks alone. 

“O’ ye of little faith! Gimme a break, Elle. You’re just busting my balls ‘cause Reid came to me about Lila before he came to you.” 

“That has nothing to do with the fact that I’m right.”

“No, but it means you have bias.” Derek retorted.

“Fine then. If it means that much to you to have an unbiased opinion, let’s ask someone impartial - like Anderson.”

“Actually, I have a better idea,” The deep voice said as soon as I’d placed the last item on my desk - a stack of sticky notes in the shape of a cat’s face that’d been gifted to me the moment I exited the elevator by Penelope Garcia. 

“Excuse me, Kitten,” The deep voice purred. “You think I could get this ball into that trash bin right over there?” 

It took me a second to register that he was addressing me until I realized where the nickname originated from and that it had belonged to me - I could thank Penelope for that.

“Oh, um …” I looked around the room like somehow it would have my answer. In some ways, it did. 

I made contact with Reid first. He smiled weakly at me with tender awkwardness that melted my heart a little bit. Meanwhile, Elle’s eyes were luring me to join her on the dark side and say he wouldn’t make it. To be fair, riling him up seemed like fun. I’d be on Elle’s good side, gain her approval, and if I executed my jest playfully enough, I’d be on Morgan’s good side, too.

“No shot in hell, big guy.” 

Present Time . . .

That’s how it all started - this sibling-like rivalry. Ever since then, we’ve been challenging each other like our lives depended on it. And if I had to make it my life’s mission to win this most recent bet, then so be it. 

“Alright, kitten, I’ll take you up on that offer. I’ll pick you up at 9 on Saturday.” 

We sealed the deal with a cross-table handshake, and at that moment, I hadn’t realized it - only when I thought back to it, did I notice - Reid had been watching the entire interaction unfold. Misinterpreting every painstaking second of it. 

_ _ _

Sticking true to his word, Derek had taken up my offer in spades. Not the least bit shy in delegating me each and every duty there could possibly be. 

I’ll admit, he used my pride to his advantage. Because while I was practically doing all the handy-work imaginable inside the property, he was resting on his laurels outside, probably taking up the view of rolling green hills that went on forever just beyond the front yard. 

It just so happened that that would be our maintained, respective locations for the unexpected arrival of Derek’s very first (very unhappy) guest.

I was inside painting when I heard the placid squeak of Derek getting up from his Adirondack chair on the wraparound porch. I remember peeking my head out of the doorway for a second to see if he was finally going to come inside and help me, but lo and behold, I caught him walking further away from the entrance. While I might’ve given an eye roll of annoyance at the action, I thought nothing of it. Not until I heard Derek speaking to an eerily familiar secondary voice. 

“What are you doing here?” I could hear Derek ask. My ears had perked up like a dog on high alert. 

“Don’t play dumb. You’re trying to … to -” The second voice stammered. 

“Spit it out, kid!” 

“You’re trying to steal my girl!” Whoever it was, was desperate to speak with conviction, maybe even malice, to prove some level of strength that could match Derek’s, but they tried and failed. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Steal your girl? What the hell are you talking about, man?” 

“You know I like her! And yet you’re just hanging out with her alone now? On one of your desolate properties? Can’t you see how suspicious that looks? You’re supposed to be my friend.” 

I’d stopped painting completely at this point so I could take asylum behind the closed door. I could place that voice anywhere, and I needed to press my ear against the only thing separating it from me to confirm what I already knew. 

“Reid, I am your friend,” And there it was. Reid? “And as your friend, I’m telling you: lower your voice unless you want her to hear you.”

“Don’t patronize me. Just tell me,” Spencer, if anything, spoke louder. Perhaps he did want me to hear him, or he simply wanted to defy Derek. “Why do you flirt with her?”

“Flirt?” Derek seemed appalled at the word. It would’ve been offensive that he was disgusted at the thought of engaging with me in that manner had I not felt the same way. What we were doing was not flirting - by any stretch of the imagination. 

“You know what I’m talking about. You call her ‘Kitten,’ you both make sexual innuendos that you think fly over my head, you invite her to come over.” 

“Slow your roll, Pretty Boy. First of all, ‘Kitten’ is just a nickname I gave her the first time we met because I didn’t know what her actual name was. You know that - you were there. Second, the sexual innuendos are just playful jabs at the fact that I sleep around. Low hanging-fruit. Third, inviting her to come over might seem suspicious, but if you walk in there right now, you’ll see that nothing is going on between us. She’s just here to help.”

I wanted any excuse to walk out there myself and announce my nearby presence. Confront Spencer and tell him I heard everything. Ask him where any of this was coming from. How he could think, for even a second, that there was something between me and Morgan. 

Turns out, I didn’t need an excuse. I had already walked out. 

Spencer gulped hard when he saw me. And for that I felt sorry for him. He looked so unlike himself. His hair was disheveled like he’d ran his fingers through it a million times out of stress. His outfit was strangely untidy, the buttons of his cuff unclasped. “Could you ... did you-”

“I heard everything,” I clarified to the dumbfounded shell of a man standing at the base of Morgan’s stairs.

It was a triangle of stares between us all. Exchanging quizzical glances in a battle of wills to see who would fold first. I was looking at Reid, Reid was looking at me, then he looked at Morgan, who looked back at him, then at me. Like I said, a triangle of stares. 

“Um ... I’ll leave you two to talk. I’ll just be inside.” 

I suppose there were worse ways to finally get Morgan off his ass and working. 

Reid trailed Morgan with his eyes, while I simply waited for the sound of the door shutting behind me. It took a few more seconds until one of us had the gall to speak.

“Did you mean what you said? About liking me?” This question that I posed went unanswered for what felt like minutes. Looking at Reid, I could tell he wanted to say something, he just didn’t know what. 

The soul was willing, but the flesh was weak. 

“If you’re not ready to admit it, that’s okay. But then why did you really come here, Spencer? To yell at Morgan for possibly making a move on me? Because now’s your chance. Make your move, Spence.” I descended the stairs, stopping to stand on the very last step so I’d hover a mere inch above him. “Make a move.” 

Make a move, he did.

Warm, clammy hands that were disproportionately bigger than the rest of his body caught my face so that unbelievably, inconceivably soft lips could make their fierce attack with no resistance. His fingers laced through my hair until his hand found the nape of my neck. He used that as leverage to pull me impossibly closer. 

When he was just one step away from sucking my soul out of me, I laid my palm on his chest and pushed him slightly backward. I think I heard him laughing when I did this, probably to hide the shame of letting himself commit so fully to the moment that he forgot just how intense his passion was. 

His eyes fluttered open and his lips were still contorted in a pucker. It took him a second, but it finally came. 

“I meant what I said,” He confessed ever so nonchalantly as though it were the easiest thing in the world to him, despite being unable to come even close to admitting it just minutes before. “I like you. A lot.” 

It was me who laughed then, both from the sheer elation hearing him say that brought me and the distant, exasperated comment that came from within the house. 

“Well, finally! It’s about damn time!” 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 

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[rookie-ramsey]

Across the Universe, Chapter One

Description: All the medical training in the world couldn’t prepare Ethan for a terminal brain cancer diagnosis.

Warning: Major angst and eventual character death ahead.

Preview: “Ethan? What is it?”

Ethan didn’t meet her eyes. When he spoke, she had to lean closer to hear him. “Glioblastoma multiforme.”

The weight of his words almost took her breath away. Her chest tightened as she tried to convince herself she’d heard wrong. “That’s… that’s terminal…”

He was always the first one to wake up.

Ethan awoke before his alarm, to the early rays of sun bathing the room in soft golden light. He stifled a yawn and opened his eyes. His body curled around Olivia’s, his arm draped over the curve of her waist, the same way they’d fallen asleep.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. She’d been living in his apartment for over a month and each morning he still awoke in awe that he got to wake up with the woman he’d been longing for lying next to him.

Ever the heavy sleeper, she remained peacefully oblivious to his gaze fixated on her. Ethan pressed a soft kiss to the back of her head and quietly slipped out of bed. He made his way into the kitchen and turned on the coffee maker. As he started breakfast, he heard the alarm ringing in the bedroom.

A couple minutes later, Olivia shuffled into the kitchen, yawning and wearing Ethan’s shirt from the evening before.

“Morning,” she yawned. She hugged him from behind, squeezing his waist and pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck. “Something smells good. I assume it’s not pancakes.”

“Hilarious. I made eggs.”

“Not as good as pancakes, but it’ll do,” she teased, helping herself to a serving and taking a seat.

“I suppose it’ll have to. I don’t think pancakes will become a reality anytime soon.” Ethan reached into the cabinet and found the bottle of aspirin.

Olivia frowned when he swallowed a dose with a sip of water. “Is your head bothering you?”

“A little bit, but it’s not serious.”

Unconvinced, she watched him closely. “You wouldn’t be taking anything for it if you weren’t really uncomfortable. That’s the second headache you’ve had this week. They’ve both happened early in the morning, too.”

Ethan leaned down and kissed her. “Don’t worry about it.”

“If I were the one having headaches out of nowhere, you’d be nagging me.”

“That’s… not inaccurate,” Ethan admitted.

Olivia rolled her eyes, but dropped the argument. After breakfast, they dressed and left for work. Hand in hand, they walked into the hospital, crossing the atrium and making their way upstairs.

Ethan fought to suppress a groan when they found Bloom already waiting for them. “How can we help you?”

“I just thought I’d drop in to see how the case is going.”

“As expected. The latest test results ruled out several possible causes. We have another set of tests to run today,” Ethan explained as Baz and Tobias joined them.

“Ah. And is there a chance those can be expedited? Our patient’s willing to pay for faster results.”

Annoyed, Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose. “The tests take a few hours. We’re not going to sacrifice quality to save a few minutes.”

“I see. I hope this team keeps solving cases the way you have been, because we have plenty of interest!”

“Fantastic. If you don’t mind, we have work to do,” Ethan dismissed. “Now that we’ve already been sufficiently bothered, let’s discuss the next steps,” he instructed when Bloom left the office.

XXXXXX

At the end of the day, Olivia clocked out and found Ethan in his office. He had his attention buried in their patient’s test results and didn’t seem to notice her entrance.

“Ready to go?”

Ethan looked up from the patient file on his desk. Nodding, he set it aside. “Yes. I’m on the verge of going cross-eyed from paperwork.”

“Sounds like you need a distraction.”

“Are you volunteering?”

“Maybe.” She grinned and winked, earning a low chuckle in response. “Let’s get out of here.”

As Ethan stood up and reached for his jacket, he felt the dull ache from earlier returning to his temples. He winced involuntarily.

The motion didn’t go unnoticed. Olivia frowned. “Another headache?”

Ethan shrugged. “It’s from stress. I can’t help but notice they seem to strike when Bloom meddles in our work.”

She gave him a sharp look.  “It worries me. I think you need to have it checked out.”

Ethan shook his head as he slipped into his jacket. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“Aren’t you the one who always says not to ignore any symptoms, because they could be part of a bigger picture?” Olivia countered, gently poking her finger into his chest.

At her adamance, Ethan smiled wistfully. “I should have known you would learn to use my own advice against me.”

“Yes, you should have. And you should get some scans. Even if the scans are completely normal, it helps us figure out what is or isn’t causing your headaches.”

Ethan arched a brow, mildly amused at the sincerity of her voice. “You sound remarkably like me.”

She smiled softly, but the determination didn’t leave her eyes. “We have state of the art MRI machines. Let me do one for you. Even if it shows up completely normal, it wouldn’t be a waste of time since we’d be able to rule out some causes.”

“I think I’ve created a monster.”

Olivia tried not to laugh. “Yes, you have. But you know I’m right."

There was no sign of her giving up, so Ethan sighed in defeat and nodded. “Fine.”

Satisfied, Olivia leaned up and pressed a kiss to his lips. Ethan leaned into it, deepening it for just a moment before she pulled back and flashed a teasing smile that made his heart skip.

“Let’s do your MRI now while nobody’s using the labs. Nobody would ever know. It would be our not so dirty little secret.”

Ethan rolled his eyes but followed her in the direction of the MRI labs. “Now’s as good a time as any. Might as well get it out of the way.” He followed her down the hallway and to the MRI room, empty this time of evening.

When they stepped into the lab, Olivia closed the door. “You know what to do. Take off anything with buttons or zippers, so… strip.”

Ethan stripped down to his underwear. He sat down on the MRI table and leaned back. Olivia took a seat in the observation room and turned on one of the computer monitors. Then she pressed the button to start the scans.

Seconds later, the machine started. Ethan held still as the machine whirred with noise. “Anything?”

“The image is just starting. And… there. Nice and clear. I’ll take a look and-“ When a spot of light caught her eye, Olivia froze. She leaned closer and felt her heart quicken when she saw an illuminated shape on the scan.

Her silence spoke louder than words. Ethan frowned. “What is it?”

Olivia bit her lip, a hard lump forming in her throat. “There’s… there’s a tumor. Near the back of your frontal lobe. It’s close to the base of your skull.”

Ethan fell quiet as he took in her words. He barely contained a sharp breath. “Print the scans. I want to see them.”

Olivia processed the prints and ended the MRI. Once Ethan slipped back into his clothes, she handed him the films. She met his eyes for a brief moment, but he diverted his glance before she could get a read on him.

Ethan pinned the scans to the backlight and stared at them. Sure enough, a spot illuminated. “The shape isn’t particularly distinctive.”

“You’ll need a biopsy to determine what type it is.” Olivia gingerly rested her hand on his arm and hesitated before she spoke. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I’ll schedule a biopsy and work on determining if it’s operable.”

“That’s not what I meant…”

Ethan hesitated, not taking his eyes off of the MRI films. “I know. But there’s no point in getting worked up until we have a definite answer.”

She tried to take reassurance in his words. Letting out a long breath, she focused on everything she’d learned since med school. “There’s a seventy to ninety percent chance it’s benign. Let’s get your biopsy scheduled right away so we don’t waste time.”

“Right.” Ethan nodded tightly. “I’ll find somewhere else to have it done. I don’t want the entire hospital knowing until I know exactly what’s going on.”

“Okay... “ Olivia slipped her hand into his and squeezed. After a moment, he responded, curling his fingers around her hand. She rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb and looked up, her eyes locking with his. His gaze remained almost unreadable, but she could just barely detect the worry he tried to mask.

Ethan cleared his throat and removed the films from the illuminator. He slipped them into an envelope and tucked it under his arm. “I’ll make some calls in the morning.”

“Alright.” Taking his hand again, Olivia urged him out of the room. Silence fell between them as they left the hospital. Neither of them spoke until they were settled in Ethan’s car and he pulled out of the parking lot. “Are you okay?”

Ethan nodded. “Like you said, there’s a seventy to ninety percent chance that it’s operable and benign.”

Whether he was trying to convince her or himself, he didn’t know.

XXXXXX

True to his word, Ethan made some calls and arranged for a biopsy two days later. He didn’t want to get people worked up too soon, so he ruled out Edenbrook and Kenmore and scheduled the procedure at Mass General.

He took days off so rarely that he knew Naveen suspected something when he filed for a day off on Friday, but the older man didn’t push him for information.

The procedure went simply enough, the only evidence of it being the small spot on his scalp that had been shaved and sutured. Once he combed his hair over the spot, it was unnoticeable. Nobody questioned his absence and Ethan planned to keep it that way.

Four days after the biopsy, Mass General called him to retrieve his results. Ethan picked them up on his lunch break. He couldn’t bring himself to open the envelope right away. It was ridiculous, he knew, but he didn’t open the envelope until he got back to his office.

Ethan’s hand hesitated over the envelope seal. He groaned and chided himself. Waiting and worrying wouldn’t change a thing, so he sent Olivia a text before he tore open the envelope and read the paper inside.

Reacting to the message the second her phone chimed, Olivia rushed to his office. She closed the door behind her. Immediately something felt off and the color drained from her face when she took in Ethan’s absent expression.

“Ethan? What is it?”

Ethan didn’t meet her eyes. When he spoke, she had to lean closer to hear him. “Glioblastoma multiforme.”

The weight of his words almost took her breath away. Her chest tightened as she tried to convince herself she’d heard wrong. “That’s… that’s terminal…”

Time slowed to a crawl. Neither of them spoke or moved. Olivia’s head spun as she rushed to him and hugged him tight. At first, Ethan didn’t respond.  After several moments, the tension slowly eased from his body and he leaned into her.

“What else do you know?” she whispered. “Maybe it’s early enough that they can get it removed.”

Ethan shook his head almost imperceptibly. “It’s inoperable. Since it’s grown into the brain tissue, complete removal would never be possible. The only option would be a partial removal and treatments that might shrink what’s left.”

The words left his mouth just as he would have recited them to a patient. But they felt peculiar, as if they carried no meaning. Maybe some part of him didn’t think this was real, or maybe he needed time to process, he didn’t know for sure.

“Oh god…” Olivia let out a shaky sigh and took a deep breath. Determination set into her eyes. She tightened her arms around him. “We’ll get you a second opinion. You never know.”

“Anybody else is going to say the same thing.”

“You don’t know,” Olivia repeated. We can ask Harper. She knows this better than anyone in the country. Maybe she’ll know of something else you can do.”

Ethan shook his head. “No. I don’t want to tell anyone else yet.”

“Ethan…”

“I mean it,” he insisted. “Until I know what the next step is, I want this to stay between us.” Uncertainty crept into his eyes, but it vanished as soon as it began. He cupped Olivia’s cheek in his hand and urged her closer, stealing a soft kiss. Ethan leaned into it, taking some comfort in the tenderness of it.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Olivia surrendered reluctantly. She gave him one more kiss as he stood up. Before he could leave the room, she touched his hand. “Promise me something.”

“What’s that?”

“You won’t shut me out. I… I know you need time to think about this. It’s… I can’t wrap my mind around it yet, so I can’t even imagine what it’s like for you. Just promise me you’ll talk to me when you’re ready.”

His features softened a little and he nodded. “I promise.”

“Thank you.” Olivia waited until he left the room. Then she found the extra set of scans she’d kept, the ones she’d removed his name from. Anxiety gripped her heart as she tucked the envelope under her arm and made her way to Harper’s office.

 Next Chapter

Note: This is a re-write of my series (under the same title) that I originally wrote in 2019 and never finished. I’m deleting the original one. I have my reasons for putting Tobias on the team and keeping Harper in her original job. Stay tuned!

Tags, part 1

@princess-geek / @lapisreviewsstuff / @silverlitskies​ / @paulfwesley​ / @dr-brianna-casey-valentine​ / @junehiratas​ / @choicesstanblog​ / @trappedinfandoms​ / @justanotherrookie​ / @bellcat2010​ / @desmaranj​ / @lion-ess24​ / @nooruleman​ / @caseyvalentineramsey​ / @xee-na​ / @edith-eggs1​ / @oofchoices​ / @schnitzelbutterfingers​ / @tefigranger​ / @jlynn12273​ / @laceandlula​ / @crazy-loca-blog​ / @somegdchoices​ / @briefdreamlanddream​ / @forthebrokenheartedthings​ / @lilyvalentine​ / @parkerattano​ / @drramseysownsme​ / @misswhit12​ / @drethanfreakingramsey​ / @juneiswriting​ / @macy-ray85​ / @swimmingauthordreamerbonk​ / @myusualnerdyself​ / @siaramsey​ / @takemyopenheart​ / @queencarb​ 

[hb-writes]

My Person

Some people have been asking for some Clara and Isiah and a little something came to me while listening to ‘Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High?’ by Arctic Monkeys. Once I started writing, it strayed from that a bit and I’d still consider this very much platonic but I hope you like it!

Summary: From the Little Lady Blinder universe. It’s 1925. Clara and Isiah haven’t talked in weeks but after a drunken night filled with a break up and scrapping in Small Heath, Isiah insists on going out to Arrow House to see her. 

Featuring: Clara Shelby, Isiah Jesus, Tommy Shelby, Finn Shelby, Charles Shelby

-----

Because Clara was awake far later than was wise, reading by the light of the small lamp on her bedside table when she should have been asleep, she heard the rumble of a car engine out on the front-drive, the sound distinct and seemingly louder because of the quiet that descended upon Warwickshire at this time of night.

She’d made it down only two steps when Tommy crossed the foyer, giving her a quick glance as he kept moving to the door, Clara’s eyes drawn to the gun in his hands.

“Go back to bed.” 

“Who’s—?”

“Clara, get up the fucking stairs,” he answered, the words inching towards a shout. 

Tommy kept walking, turning his head towards Clara once again, this time only long enough to see her lift her foot, finding enough satisfaction in that small movement that his sister would cooperate with his command.

Clara couldn’t see anything from the foyer, the hall leading to the front door much too dark, and in Tommy’s absence, she drifted down a few more steps, leaning over the rail for a better look.

She started when the front door slammed against the wall and Tommy stalked back into the room, locking eyes with Clara for a moment, shaking his head as he went to put the gun away. Clara took a few more steps before Tommy came to the bottom of the staircase.

“Who’s—?” she started.

“Is that upstairs, then?” Tommy asked, hand extended to gesture towards the spot where she stood.

Clara glanced at the placement of her feet and then back to him, shrugging. “I’m up the stairs from you.”

Their eyes pulled from one another to the boys, to Finn and Isiah, as they came through to the hall, stumbling a little, the both of them clearly a bit drunk.

“See, Finn, told ya she’d be awake,” Isiah said, pointing up to her and leaning an arm over Finn’s shoulder. “Put us off for a night with your stories, eh Clara?” 

They were the first words Isiah had directed at her in weeks and Clara wasn’t sure how to respond. She had indeed passed the evening after her nephew was asleep alone in her bedroom with a book, that much was true, but it wasn’t why she’d declined Finn and Michael's invitations in the first place.

Clara cleared her throat and settled her eyes on Finn, decided on speaking to him rather than Isiah. “You two idiots had a cup too much an—”

“Enough. Charles is asleep. Get the fuck to bed,” Tommy said. “All of you.” 

“We came for dinner, Tom,” Finn said. “We’re fucking starving.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow as he glanced at his younger brother. “Well now, you’ve missed that by about nine hours, Finn.”

“Chef’s probably left something,” Clara answered Tommy, taking a step. “At the very least there’s a bit of chocolate cake. I could—” 

“They boys can feed themselves,” Tommy waved them on before turning to his sister. “You go back to bed. And actually do it this time, eh?”

“Why have I got to go to sleep if they haven’t?”

Tommy was growing impatient with the kids, impatient with this particular interruption to his evening because even being as close as it was to two in the morning, and regardless of whether he was usually awake at this time or not, these hours were the hours he filled with distractions entirely of his choosing. And he’d certainly not chosen to be dealing with his sister’s smart mouth and the boys’ whiskey addled brains. 

He was about to give her an answer, ready to tell her that his giving an order didn’t require her to ask any questions, but they were saved from the shouting match it would have quickly devolved into by Charles’s arrival at the top of the stairs. 

“Dad?”

Tommy took a deep breath, rubbing his face with one hand as he beckoned the boy forward with his other. “C’mere, my boy.”

Charles came down a few steps but never made it to his father, stopping to hug Clara’s side, her arm fitting over his shoulders.

“Who’s here?” Charles mumbled as he settled his head against her.

“It’s just Uncle Finn and Isiah,” she answered.

Charles glanced around her looking for the older boys. “Why?”

“Well, my sweet sleepy boy,” Clara squeezed him a bit as he yawned. “They came to spend the night because they want to play with you bright and early tomorrow morning,” she said. “You should wake them extra early. Lots of shouting and jumping, eh?” 

Charles grinned as he looked up to her. “You think they’ll want to ride horses?”

“Hmmm, you know, I think they’d love that, Charlie. A brilliant idea.” 

Charles looked to Tommy. “Can we, Dad?” 

Tommy glanced at his sister, snorting a bit at her smirk, the small bit of devilment she’d shown in planting the seed in her nephew’s head, the seed which would result in a bit of hell for the boys in the morning when Charles called on them. 

“We’ll see about that in the morning,” Tommy answered. “Let’s get you back off to bed.” 

“Can Aunt Clara come for a story?” Charles asked. 

“One story,” Tommy answered, grateful his sister didn’t fight when Charles tugged on her hand, grateful she left her arguments and defiance on the staircase. 

-----

It had taken two stories to get Charles back to sleep and though Clara wasn’t tired, she hadn’t gone back to her book, instead electing to lie awake in her bed and stare at the small sliver of moonlight passing through her windows while she listened to the boys come down the hall, finally finding their way to their rooms after several moments of hushed chatter.

She was unsurprised when her door was pushed open though it was nearly an hour later. It was why she was so intent on resisting sleep, because she wasn’t just lying there with no purpose. She was waiting. 

“You shouldn’t be in here,” she said as Isiah came through, his eyes immediately finding hers in the dim room.

He didn’t seem so drunk now, the couple of hours and the food he’d probably consumed settling him a bit, the effects showing on his composed features.

“I want to talk.”

Clara snorted. “You came all the way out to Warwickshire for a chat?” she said. “Doesn’t your girl talk to you, Isiah?”

“She’s not my girl,” he answered. 

Oh. The word was only a thought in Clara’s mind but Isiah read the understanding in her face, her lips subconsciously taking the shape needed if she were to voice it, and he twisted the knob before pushing the door closed, nothing more than a soft click sounding off as he did it.

“Well, I’m sorry to hea—”

“You’re not,” he answered. “You never even tried to like this one.” 

Clara shrugged. “Either way, no reason for you and Finn to drive out here drunk. We could’ve waited, chatted about your woes with the girls of Small Heath without endangering your life and risking one of you getting arrested.” 

Isiah sat down on the edge of her bed. “One of the new boys drove us.” 

“Well, good. I’m glad to hear it.” Clara nodded, pulling her robe tighter. “But you really shouldn’t be in here. Tommy’ll kill you.” 

“Will he?” Isiah asked. 

Tommy hadn’t yet, though he hadn’t ever really come across Isiah and his sister together in quite that way either, every instance of them being caught together someplace her family would probably kill any other boy for being had been so innocuous that the Shelbys had nearly come to believe what the pair consistently insisted, that there was little more than a close friendship between them. 

“Why is it whenever you can’t find a girl to bring home from the pub, you come find me?” 

“We needed to talk.” 

Clara met his eye and took a deep breath. It had been a long couple of weeks without talking to Isiah. She slid across the bed, offering him some space by the headboard. Slipping off his boots and dropping them to the floor with a solid thump, he joined her at the head of the bed, picking up the book on her nightstand and glancing at the title in the small bit of light through the window. 

“So this is why you couldn’t come out with us, then?” 

Clara shrugged, focused on the braid over her shoulder as she sat cross legged facing him. “Didn’t think you’d really want me there.” 

Even before they’d rowed, Clara hadn’t wanted to be around the boys so much, not when all they wanted was to go out with the girls from the factory, with Millie and her friends. She’d been avoiding Isiah in general, claiming an extra bit of school work and Tommy’s insistence that she spend more time with Charles was keeping her home at Arrow House when in truth, she just wasn’t feeling up to facing him. 

Clara wasn’t often like that after an argument with him, wasn’t often distant or aloof after the initial flare of emotion subsided, but then again, she was often the one who did the shouting, the one who left the other person a bit peeved or hurt, the one who needed to take the first step and do the apologizing. 

And though she’d done her fair share of shouting the last time they spoke, it was Isiah’s words that stung and it was Isiah’s tone that left Clara’s heart a bit melancholy. 

“You were right.” Isiah glanced at her. “What you said about Millie.” 

The tightness in Clara’s chest released a bit as she took a breath. 

“You won’t believe me but I am sorry, Isiah,” she said. “I know you liked this one.” 

Isiah shrugged.

“Not like it’s your fault,” he said. “You tried to warn me off of her. I should have listened when you told me there was someone else. Would’ve saved myself from this.”

Isiah flexed his hand and Clara caught sight of his knuckles. 

“Christ, Siah.” She leaned over him to switch on the lamp and pulled his hand into hers, looking it over.

“They’re just bruised,” he said, nonchalant, his hand left there, the fingers of his right hand draped over her palms though he flinched when she drew her thumb over the tender skin. “You should see him.” 

Clara glanced up and saw the red mark on his cheek. “I hope he looks worse than you.”

“Of course he looks worse than me.” 

“You shouldn’t go picking figh—”

“I didn’t,” he said. “Not that it wouldn’t have been deserved, but it was actually Millie who brought it all about. I was ready to let it be.” 

“It’s good I didn’t come, then.” 

Isiah raised an eyebrow. 

“We’d both have bruised knuckles,” Clara answered. “I don’t know I’d have been able to stop myself.” 

A light snort escaped before Isiah sucked in his bottom lip, tilting his head a bit as he met Clara’s eye. “You know, I didn’t mean what I said that day, right? I was just mad.” 

“You did mean it,” Clara answered, looking away from his face, down to the hand she was still cradling in her lap. “And you were right, I suppose… Well, half right, at least. I said what I said because it was true and I didn’t want you hurt but...”

Isiah smiled. “Miss Clara Shelby, are you in love with me?”

Clara pushed his hand away and glanced up to him at the end of her eye roll. She’d wanted to say something clever in return but instead found herself just missing the warmth of his hand as she mumbled. “Siah, you’re my…”

They both struggled to find a word to describe what they were to one another, even after all this time, a decade or so of various labels unable to do them any proper justice because nothing seemed to catch all of the different elements, all of the moments, all of the meaning. 

“Person?” Isiah finally said and Clara gave him a small smile. 

“I suppose,” she answered, because she did suppose that was it. Isiah was her person, a little bit of everything to her, as he always had been, a bit beyond her best friend, not quite like a brother though she considered him family in every way that mattered. “Even when you’re so infuriating I’d like to have one of my brothers chuck you in the cut.”

“You’d miss me if you did,” Isiah said. “Just like I miss you when you decide to hole yourself up all the way out here.” 

“You were avoiding me too.” 

Isiah shrugged. “I shouldn’t have said it. Shouldn’t have yelled at you.” 

“I was jealous though,” she answered. “Always am when you find yourself a new girl, a new...” 

Clara focused on picking at the covers of her bed.

“Person?” he said, guessing again. “You really think one of those girls could push you out?” 

Clara shrugged. 

“I imagine someday one of them will,” she said. “I just hope it’ll be the right one when it happens. Someone I can get on with well enough. A nice girl who’ll help keep you in line and let us stay friends.” 

“Christ, Clara,” he answered, grabbing for her hand, squeezing once despite the pain it caused. “Don’t be worried about that.”

He had been annoyed when he called her jealous, put off by her constant derogatory nagging about Millie Clarke, a bit triggered by her telling him she was seeing someone behind his back.

“I never should’ve said it.” Isiah tugged on her hand. “Come here.”

Clara shifted so she was sitting beside Isiah against the pillows, her cheek resting against his chest as his arm fit over her shoulders. 

“It will happen someday, Siah,” Clara said. “And it should. You’ll fall in love and things’ll change.” 

“Yeah, well, whatever happens with that doesn’t change this,” he answered. “It’d be a bit of a waste, yeah? To let some girl push you out after all the nagging and sassing and trouble you’ve put me through?” 

Clara elbowed him. “Don’t be a prat, Siah.” 

“See what I mean?” he continued. “Why would I just toss out ten years of elbows to the stomach for a girl who doesn’t even know how to properly push me about?” 

Clara glared up at him but took thing no further, settling against his chest once again. 

“And I can’t imagine there’s another person on the face of this earth who looks at me like you do.”

“Like you’re an imbecile I can’t believe has made it to the age of nineteen on his own?” she answered, though that wasn’t right, not nearly close to being it, because the way Clara and Isiah looked at each other, whether it was a glare or accompanied by a laugh through crinkled eyes or with a pooling wave of tears, was something different altogether. It communicated something that no one really ever put words to, something neither of them ever really tried to describe. 

“Like you’re my person,” he said. “A right pain in my arse, but my person, nonetheless. and I’m sorry for shouting at you and for not properly hearing what you were trying to tell me.” 

Clara didn’t answer him right away, thinking over his words, contemplating the relief she was feeling for the first time in weeks.

“I think I’m meant to be comforting you,” she finally mumbled, her head still there against his chest. “You’re the one who’s been dumped.” 

Isiah’s body rose and fell beneath her as he took a slow, deep breath and Clara looked up to watch his face though he was deliberately looking to the ceiling. Isiah played at being the cheeky womanizer, played at wanting nothing more than fun and chaos and lust but Clara knew there was a bit more to Isiah than that.

“I’m alright, Clara,” he said.

“You’re not. You’re upset. You want to talk about it?” 

Isiah finally met her eye and shook his head. “Not right now. How about we just read a bit?” He reached for the book on her nightstand, holding it open between the two of them. “You can go first.” 

“I don’t think you’ll like this one,” she offered. “It’s a bit romantic.”

“What’s wrong with a little romance?”

“Nothing. I just thought what with Millie and all, it might not be the best choice of material,” she said. “Seeing as you’re a bit-”

“Enough deduction. Just read to me, eh?” 

“Fine, but you’ll let me know if you want to talk about it?” she asked. 

Isiah nodded, shifting a bit to get more comfortable against the pillows. Isiah closed his eyes as he settled, resting them for a moment, and Clara still studied his face, continuing with her investigation in peace now that he’d closed his eyes.

Isiah squinted an eye open at her. “You gonna read that book or just sit there staring at my beautiful face all night?” 

He coughed as her elbow once again found his side.

“So much for you comforting me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you liked me throwing elbows and pushing you about.” 

“I never said I liked it, just that I’m too invested at this point to go tossing you out.” Isiah sighed, rolling his eyes. “Though maybe I should reconsider, let Mickey and Finn fight it out to be my best mate. Michael’s probably as good of a reader as you, probably got more better taste in books anyway.”

“Give me that.” Clara snatched the book from him and started reading without offering a rebuttal, the two of them falling asleep atop the covers before the chapter came to a close.

-----

Read more Little Lady Blinder here.

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[holycatsandrabbits]

Tollense, an original serial romance by Dannye Chase, Chapter 3

A history professor falls in love with his best friend, a 3000-year-old vampire.

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Chapter 3

1996 (Three years later)

Liam got a letter in the mail that morning, another one, from New York this time. Liam didn’t know anyone in New York who would send this kind of letter. In any case, they were all from the same person, no matter the constantly changing postmark, and they all said the same hateful, frightening things.

Liam had just tossed this one into the drawer with the others when Kurt appeared out of nowhere, as only he could. Liam had done a bit of research on vampires in the three years he’d known Kurt (as much study as he could on something that was supposed to be fictional), and teleportation was not a common vampire ability. But then Kurt was not a common vampire.

“Morning,” Kurt said, dropping into a kitchen chair. He looked a bit bed-rumpled, but Liam honestly wasn’t sure whether it was because Kurt had been sleeping or because Kurt thought that humans should look bed-rumpled in the morning. “Been for your run yet?” Kurt asked.

“I was just getting ready to go.”

“Want company?”

“You’re not dressed for it,” Liam pointed out, waving a hand at Kurt’s blue jeans, and that caused Kurt to vanish again. Liam was lacing his shoes when Kurt reappeared, this time wearing athletic shorts and, crucially, no shirt. Liam’s fingers tripped over themselves and got tangled in his shoelaces like clumsy people with jump ropes.

Liam had seen Kurt without his shirt on occasionally over the last three years, most memorably when Kurt had shown Liam the scars he still carried from the earliest thing he remembered— a Bronze Age battle. There was a scar above his heart and two on his left shoulder, the marks of flint arrowheads, presumably the wounds that caused his death.

But that was not what caught Liam’s attention when Kurt was shirtless. Kurt had the build of a fighter: a slender waist, sturdy legs, broad shoulders and strong arms. His chest was smoothly muscled around the scars. Meanwhile Liam had the body of a thirty-year-old history professor who went for a run most mornings, but also had a fondness for rocky road ice cream.

Liam wasn’t sure if Kurt knew about the threatening letters. He was also not sure if Kurt knew how fervently Liam desired him. If he was aware of either, or, most importantly, felt any desire in return, he had never said. And while Liam was sorting out the shoelace mess, Kurt pulled on a shirt, so the distraction passed.

The morning was cool, with fog still gathering around the trees. While they ran, Kurt told Liam about a morning in 1914 outside of Ypres, when snow had fallen silently, covering fallen leaves and fallen soldiers alike.

Liam had learned by now that Kurt did not feel the cold. It must have been obvious during a winter campaign, when Kurt’s fingers did not stiffen with frostbite, or his toes blister with trench foot. Sometimes, Kurt had told him, his fellow soldiers thought of him as an indestructible good luck charm. Sometimes they looked on the only member of their group to emerge from a battle unscathed and called him a demon.

A countless number of Kurt’s stories ended with him holding a fellow soldier as he succumbed to injury and passed out of this world.

When they turned back onto Liam’s street, there was a blue car in Liam’s driveway that belonged to one of Liam’s students, Martina. She was standing beside the car, waving at them. Of course, she wasn’t there to see Liam.

When Liam got out of the shower fifteen minutes later, he was surprised to see Kurt in the kitchen alone, drinking the coffee that Liam kept on hand for him. Coffee and water were the only things Liam had ever seen Kurt eat or drink. “Martina didn’t stay?” Liam asked.

“No. She was just returning my jacket.” Kurt looked melancholy for a moment, a brief flash across his features before it faded back into his usual somewhat detached expression. “She met someone else. He’s moving in.”

Liam looked at him in shock. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

Kurt shook his head. “I’m happy for her. She’s about to graduate anyway, so we were going to break it off.”

Martina was not the first of Liam’s students that Kurt had dated. Kurt was very good about it, really. The students he chose were from the graduate program, so all in their mid-twenties or older, and they’d all known what Kurt was. They’d chosen to be a part of his life for a while, providing him with companionship, and, though they didn’t usually state it so plainly, with blood.

“I don’t get attached,” Kurt said. “And I pick those who won’t get attached to me. I don’t have the patience for a line of angry exes. Better to be with those who will part as friends.”

“Have you ever been wrong?” Liam asked. He didn’t look at Kurt, carefully focusing on the toaster and butter dish.

“Accidentally broken someone’s heart, you mean?” Kurt asked. “Or lost my own?”

“Either.”

“Not in a long time.”

“Ah.” Liam buttered his toast with perhaps more force than was called for.

“I investigated him, though. Martina’s new boyfriend. His name is Devon.”

“Investigated,” Liam repeated. He sat down at the table opposite Kurt, accepting the cup of coffee Kurt passed to him.

“He seems like a very nice man. And he loves her.”

“So you read his mind.”

“I can’t read minds.”

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

Kurt looked amused. “I know. But not because I read your mind. In any case, Martina is my friend. She’s under my protection. And so are you.”

This last part was said gently, but Liam caught its meaning as overtly as he was meant to. He let out a groan and pushed away what was left of his toast. “How long have you known?”

“Long enough. The letters are mailed from around the country, but I am almost certain the sender is local. He probably travels a lot, and also has other people mail the letters without knowing what’s in them.”

“That’s what the police think. They also think they’re not serious.”

Kurt seemed immensely unimpressed by this opinion. “So did you do something that some bastard holds a grudge for? Murder his wife? Steal his parking space? Or do you think it’s because you’re gay?”

Liam’s sexuality was not something that had come up in conversation before, so Liam was a bit startled to hear it accurately described. “I have no idea,” he said. “I certainly don’t recall murdering anyone.”

“I’ve looked over the letters. No fingerprints, and I can’t find anything distinctive about the printer he uses.” When Kurt got emotional, he wore it strangely, as if he could be both agitated and unaffected at the same time. Right now his green eyes were bright and his mouth tight. His fingers curled sharply around his coffee cup, blanching white where they gripped too hard. But the rest of his body was still relaxed in the chair, stretched into the sort of lazy pretzel shape that sore legs often took after a run. Liam sometimes wondered what Kurt would be like if he stopped trying so hard to seem human.

“They’re not serious,” Liam told him.

“I’m not convinced of that. You really don’t have suspects?”

Liam shrugged. “Nobody in particular.”

“Ex-lovers?”

Liam focused on his coffee. “I haven’t had one of those for some time.”

“Family?”

“It’s just my sister and me, and we get along fine as long as she can pretend I’m not gay.”

Kurt’s fingers clenched around the coffee cup again. “This is a very intolerant period of history.”

Liam laughed, not unkindly. “It is all history to you, isn’t it? This is just another era to walk through. How odd to—”

“Stop trying to change the subject. Colleagues?”

“I’ve never had any problems. Anyway, the letters are all anti-university. Anti-technology. Unabomber-type stuff.”

“I’m not sure I trust the subject matter. Why send anti-technology missives to a history professor? It still feels personal to me. The one you got today talks about kidnapping you, Liam. That’s a very intimate threat.”

Liam groaned. “How the hell—”

“I read it while you were in the shower.” Kurt did look a little regretful, at least. “Look, I know you don’t like me being all— the way I am—”

“If I minded the vampire stuff, I’d never have agreed to work with you. What I object to is your being sneaky and intrusive on an entirely human level.”

Kurt seemed surprised, which was not a common look on him. He stared at Liam for a moment before saying, “Well, I object to being kept in the dark about your safety.”

“Kurt—”

They were interrupted by the ding noise that Liam’s computer made when he received an email. Normally Liam might ignore it, but at the moment, he welcomed the distraction.

The email was from a colleague in Germany, and as Liam read it, he forgot all about their argument. “Kurt,” he said, in an entirely different tone than the one he’d just used. Kurt was behind him in an instant, moving with that silent speed he had.

Liam traced his finger across the screen, aware that he wasn’t supposed to do that, but he hadn’t quite yet learned not to treat emails like they were pieces of paper. “Look at this. Someone found an arm bone with a flint arrowhead in the bank of the Tollense River in Germany. It’s not— it’s not a giant battle, not yet, just with one body, but it’s the right place, the right time. My colleague thinks this could be what we were looking for, and I think he’s right. Your earliest memory. Your origin. It could be Tollense.”

Kurt had knelt down so that he could read the screen more easily. When he turned his head it brought his mouth so very close to Liam’s. “You did it,” he said softly. “You found it.”

“Well, I didn’t find anything. Someone else—”

“But you put your neck on the line, theorizing about a battle in a time and place no one expected.”

“It’s not like I don’t have eye-witness evidence.”

“But no one knows that. You’ve endured a lot of controversy, trying to help me.”

“Oh, I don’t care about that. I care about—” Liam cut himself off before he could say it.

Kurt seemed to hear it anyway, because he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against Liam’s.

It was a light kiss only for a few seconds, until Liam made an intensely hungry noise and Kurt responded to it, bringing his hands up around Liam’s face to hold him steady. Kurt deepened the kiss, sweeping into Liam’s open mouth with his tongue.

Liam had thought about a kiss like this, thorough and overwhelming, fantasized about it, wondered if it might happen someday because Kurt would read his mind and know how much Liam wanted it. But Liam was suddenly sure in that moment that Kurt could not read minds, or at least, that he’d left Liam’s to its secrets. If he had read it, he would have known not to kiss Liam. Because unlike the students Kurt sought out, Liam was already attached, far too much, to this utterly alien man who kissed with a technique undoubtedly honed over millennia, ranging from soft to strong all in a single lick of his tongue, instinctively knowing which parts of Liam’s mouth were most sensitive, and all with a kindness Liam had never before felt.

It was the kindness that made Liam put his hands up and push Kurt gently away. Liam didn’t want kindness at that moment, didn’t want Kurt offering this kiss out of gratitude or friendship, or because Kurt knew Liam was attracted to men and would probably enjoy it. Even because he was worried about Liam’s safety. Kurt was three thousand years old, and he’d no doubt live for many thousands of years after this. Liam’s lifespan was a drop of water in the river of Kurt’s life. Kurt had said it just this morning— he would never allow himself to get attached.

After the kiss broke, Kurt looked at Liam searchingly for a moment, and then moved away.

“We should— we should visit Germany,” Liam managed to say. Kurt just nodded.

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

The battle of Tollense is a real thing! Here is the wikipedia and another article.

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

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My previous serials are for Good Omens: Mr. Fell's Bookshop and Love's Endless Light

My Carrd

[petrichoravellichor]

What We Deserve

Written for Day 14 of the Supernatural Deserved Better Creative Challenge (prompt: free will).

Relationships: Adam Milligan/Michael, minor Adam Milligan & Sam Winchester

Rating: T

Warnings: n/a

Summary:  After helping the Winchesters defeat Chuck, Michael avoids Adam until one day, Adam seeks him out; OR, the soft, angst-with-a-happy-ending epilogue these two deserved, damn it.

(Read on Ao3)

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

In the days after his brothers beat God, Adam tried many times to talk to Michael, only to have Michael push him away.

“Leave me,” he said finally, not meeting Adam’s eyes. “I don’t...I wish to be alone.” Then he vanished to some far corner of Adam’s mind, and nothing Adam said made any difference.

“I’m worried about him,” he confided to Sam, after two weeks of radio silence. “I know he’s still there; I can feel him.” Adam sighed, leaning back against the park bench he and Sam were sitting on. “He just won’t talk to me.”

“Maybe he just needs some space,” Sam offered gently. “What he did, standing up to his dad like that, watching Jack drain Chuck’s powers, it couldn’t have been easy. He’s probably still trying to process it.” A beat, then: “Has he said anything about going back to Heaven?”

Adam shook his head. “No, not since I got back. He’s hardly said anything, and it’s...” he hesitated, weighing various words and eventually opting for, “weird. For the longest time, we only had each other, and now it’s like I’m a stranger to him. It just doesn’t make sense, you know?”

He knew, of course, that Sam didn’t know, not really. How could he? No one who hadn’t spent the Earth equivalent of over a thousand years locked inside their own mind with only one other being for company could even begin to understand what it was like to suddenly feel like half a person when said being went quiet.

Still, he also knew that Sam was trying. He’d made a point to keep up regular contact with Adam since Jack had brought everyone back, as had Dean; but whereas Dean was usually keen to avoid acknowledging the proverbial archangel-shaped elephant in the room, Sam, at least, had been willing to listen. It didn’t fix what was broken between them, not by a longshot; but for now, at least, Adam just wanted to move forward as best he could with the family he had left, even if things were complicated.

“You know him best,” Sam said finally, “and from what I saw that time at the Bunker, you can get through to him even when he’s done listening to everyone else, so...just keep trying, I guess, and see what happens. Hopefully, he’ll come around.”

When nearly another week had passed with not even a mental peep from Michael, however, Adam decided that enough was enough. Michael could yell at him if he wanted to, but Adam would make him do it to his face...or at least, to his brain’s manifestation of his face. He lay down on his motel bed and closed his eyes, focusing carefully until he found the part of his mind that wasn’t quite his own and leaning into it.

Suddenly, he was standing in the woods at sunset, pine trees stretched tall on either side and a crystal lake sparkling in front of him. Adam surveyed the area curiously, wondering what made the place so significant that Michael would seek it out, when suddenly his eyes lit upon scorch marks and the remnants of some sort of spell, and the pieces clicked together: this must be the clearing where Michael had joined Sam and Dean in their final battle against Chuck.

No sooner had the realization occurred to him than he spotted a lone figure by the lakeshore; it was Michael. He was sitting on the ground, looking small and almost human-like with his knees pulled up against his chest, his back to Adam as he stared out over the water, apparently lost in thought. Adam took a deep breath, steeling his nerves for what he was pretty sure was going to be an argument, and headed over.

“Hey, Michael?” he called softly as he drew near. “Are you okay?”

Michael turned to look over his shoulder. Adam had been prepared for annoyance, even anger; what he hadn’t expected was anguish. Michael’s eyes were red rimmed and watery, and the gilded glow of dusk made shimmers of his tears; he looked, if not broken, just about to break. “I told you,” Michael said, voice rough and raw, “to leave me alone.”

For a moment, Adam wondered if he should. His goal had been to make sure Michael was all right, not to intrude upon a moment of private grief. And yet, now that he’d actually seen Michael, the thought of leaving him in his current state was not only unconscionable but downright unthinkable. Adam shook his head and continued forward, determined. “No,” he said, taking a seat on the ground at Michael’s side. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks, and I’ve had enough. You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to; we can just sit here.” He met Michael’s gaze and continued, more gently, “But I’m done leaving you alone. Got it?”

Michael stared at him, expression unreadable; then he nodded slowly, turning back to look out at the lake.

They sat in silence for what felt like hours, till the last of the pink and gold light had faded and the sky became a star-splashed indigo lit by a silvery moon. Adam’s eyelids grew heavy in the stillness, and he was just shy of falling asleep when:

“It wasn’t supposed to end like this.”

Adam started, eyes snapping open; he turned to look at Michael and saw the other staring forward as though in a daze. “What wasn’t?” Adam asked.

The corner of Michael’s lips twitched up in a mirthless smile. “Everything. I was supposed to defeat my brother, and my Father was supposed to usher in a new age of Paradise. Instead, He…” Michael trailed off, looked down at his hands, and repeated, “It wasn’t supposed to end like this.”

Adam hesitated, then scooted sideways till their arms were touching. Michael glanced up, apparently surprised by the sudden contact, but he didn’t pull away; Adam took that as a sign to continue. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I mean, I’m not sorry the world didn’t end, but the part with your dad...I know what it’s like to get screwed over by family. It sucks. Like, a lot. And I just...I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say, so instead, he wrapped an arm around Michael’s shoulders, hoping the touch would do what words couldn’t.

He felt Michael stiffen, and for a split second, Adam worried he’d overstepped; but just as he was about to pull away, Michael relaxed against him with a quiet sigh. “Thank you,” said Michael softly. “This is...Thank you.”

Adam shrugged, grateful for the pale wash of moonlight; the blush he could feel would be painfully obvious otherwise. “Yeah,” he managed. “Of course. You’re welcome. It’s what friends are for.”

Michael looked at him strangely then, and Adam got the distinct impression he’d caught Michael by surprise. “You would have me as a...friend?”

I would have you as anything, thought Adam, just as long as I get to have you. “Well, yeah,” he said instead, managing a weak smile. “You’re kinda the only one I’ve got.”

Michael studied him, brow still furrowed slightly, as though Adam were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. Then, before Adam realized what was happening, Michael leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. A tingling warmth spread throughout Adam’s entire body, and he gasped. Michael pulled back at the sound, eyes wide with concern. “Was that...unwelcome?”

Adam shook his head. “No,” he said quickly. “No, it’s just...you surprised me, is all. It was nice.” He tried to will his heartbeat down to a more reasonable rate, reminding himself that it wasn’t like he was an expert on angel behavior. After all, he really only knew Michael, and he’d only seen him interact with other angels during moments of battle. For all Adam knew, forehead kissing was just something angels did with their friends, and it wasn’t a big deal.

Thankfully, Michael just nodded, seeming to accept Adam’s words at face value. “Good,” he said, sounding like he meant it; and then he lay back against the ground, folding his arms behind his head to gaze up at the stars. Adam hesitated, part of him wanting to bid Michael goodnight and get the hell out of there while he still had at least some of his dignity intact, but instead he found himself copying Michael’s pose, leaning back until they lay next to each other like two parallel lines.

For a long time, they were silent. Adam pondered the night sky, nearly forgetting that they were still in his head as he picked out familiar constellations. He wondered if Michael had been there when the originals were made, or if maybe Michael had made the originals himself. He was about to ask when he heard Michael say softly, almost as though he were thinking aloud, “Did I do the right thing?”

Adam glanced over, not sure what Michael was talking about. “What do you mean?”

“With God.” Michael looked at him, expression laced with doubt and something else Michael couldn’t quite read. “How do I know the choice I made was the right one?”

Adam shifted onto his side to face Michael fully. “Do you regret it?”

“No. But neither did my Father regret the choices he made.”

“No, but I’ll bet he never questioned them, either.”

Michael was quiet for a moment, considering. “No,” he agreed at last, “I don’t think he did.”

“He chose to send everyone in the world away. You chose to stand against him to bring them back. Billions of people are alive because of you. It was the right call.”

For several seconds, Michael didn’t respond, and Adam thought their conversation was over; then, in a voice so quiet Adam nearly missed it: “That isn’t why I did it.”

Adam frowned. “It isn’t? I...What do you mean?”

Michael sighed; he rolled to his side so their bodies mirrored each other, gazing at Adam intently. “I told you, that day in the Bunker, that though you and I had been together for years, my Father and I had been together for eternity, and as such, He would always take precedence over you.”

Adam nodded, biting his lip against the sudden hurt in his chest. He remembered the exchange vividly; Michael’s words had hit him like a slap to the face. It wasn’t exactly a novel sensation, being made to feel he wasn’t good enough. His father hadn’t been there for him growing up, and his brothers had left him to rot in Hell for over a decade. Even Michael had only chosen him because Dean had been unavailable. Adam knew that, he knew all of it, and yet...and yet somewhere between falling into Hell and walking out of it, he’d let himself start to think that maybe, just maybe, he actually mattered to someone for once. Michael could have left him the moment they were free, but he’d chosen to stay, and Adam...he’d wanted to believe that had meant something, but apparently it hadn’t. He’d been—

“I was wrong,” said Michael, softly, and Adam almost forgot how to breathe; it took him a moment to find his voice.

“You...were?”

“Yes.” Michael looked down. “I—You must understand: for as long as I had existed, my loyalty—my undying loyalty—had been to my Father. He gave me orders and I obeyed them without question, because to question them would have been to question Him, and to question Him would have been to question everything. And so when Castiel...when he showed me what God truly was, for the first time in my life, I was lost. Heaven was in shambles. My brothers were dead. My Father had...used me; he’d taken everything from me. I was angry. I gave your brother and Castiel the spell to bind Him because I was angry, and when they failed, I avoided them because I was angry. All I had left, all I knew, was you.” Michael hesitated, and when he spoke again, his voice was heavy with pain: “And then He took you away as well. For the first time in over a thousand years, I was completely alone, and...and it was the most incomplete I’d ever felt, and I didn’t know what it meant.”

Adam swallowed; he didn’t know what to say, could only stare.

Michael continued without looking up: “And so when your brothers found me again, I decided to help them, not out of anger or because I cared about the rest of the world, but because it was what you’d asked of me when your brothers first came to us, only I hadn’t listened, not fully. I knew that to stand in open defiance against my Father was to very likely forfeit my own life, but I didn’t care, because it didn’t matter. Nothing did, except you, and the chance, however small, that I might get you back. That is why I chose as I did, and I don’t regret it, not at all, and…” Michael finally met Adam’s gaze, fresh tears in his eyes and something akin to terror on his face, “and I don’t know what that means.”

By then, Adam’s face was wet with tears of his own, but he didn’t care, because what Michael was saying...Adam did matter to him, had mattered more than God. And maybe Michael didn't know what that meant, but…

Adam shifted forward, closing the distance between them. “I think I do,” he whispered, and before he could talk himself out of it, he pressed a quick, chaste kiss to Michael's lips, hoping desperately that he hadn’t misread the situation. When he pulled back, Michael's eyes were wide, and oh God, Adam wanted to shrivel up on the spot. He opened his mouth to apologize...but before he could, Michael was kissing him, and it was so slow and deep and reverent that Adam felt sure he'd have floated away if Michael’s arms hadn’t held him firmly in place.

When at last they pulled apart, Michael was gazing back at him in open wonder. “You...I’ve never...What is this?” he asked, voice tinged with awe.

Adam let out a soft laugh, trying to catch his breath. He reached up to cup Michael’s cheek. “It’s me saying I choose you, too. I thought there was no way you could ever want me like this, but if you do—”

“I do." Michael's hand came up to caress Adam's cheek in return. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

“Then you’ll stay?” Adam whispered, and Michael nodded, leaning forward to rest their foreheads together.

“Yes,” he murmured solemnly. “Yes, I will stay. Where you go, I will go; and where you lodge, I will lodge. Your people shall be my people.” He pressed a careful kiss to the corner of Adam’s mouth, adding, “And your love, my love.” Then he kissed Adam again, soft and achingly tender, wrapping his arms around Adam’s waist and pulling him close till they were pressed together from head to toe, and it was impossible to say where one ended and the other began.

And Adam loved him, God did he love him, because Michael was comfort and safety and home. For the first time in a long time, Adam felt home; he felt loved. And he'd never feel like half a person again.

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

Note: The last part of Michael's dialogue is an adaptation of Ruth 1:16: "But Ruth said, 'Do not urge me to leave you or to return from following you. For where you go, I will go; and where you lodge, I will lodge. Your people shall be my people, and your God, my God.'"

Michael, wayward archangel that he is, replaces "God" with "love." 💙

[zosonils-art]

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: Gen

Relationship: Ferb Fletcher & Phineas Flynn

Characters: Ferb Fletcher, Phineas Flynn, Perry the Platypus (Phineas and Ferb), Linda Flynn-Fletcher

Additional Tags: Autistic Ferb, Autistic Phineas, autistic phineas is more implied and could also be taken as adhd but he has both anyway so, Autistic Meltdown, Autism, Sensory Overload, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Illustrations, Canon Continuation, Fix-It of Sorts, i think????? i don't frequent this goddamn website i don't know, Brotherly Love, Crying, some of the crying is me

Summary: A stressful day pushes Ferb past his breaking point, and Phineas feels that he has a responsibility to set things right. Takes place immediately after Ready For The Bettys. Was supposed to be a simple continuation fic but got wildly out of hand. Ph*n*rb shippers fuck off this isn't for you.

---

as you’ve probably figured out if you’re following my main, i recently wrote my first fic since i was about 13! it’s available on ao3 at the link above, but you can also read it on tumblr by clicking the readmore on this post! i put a lot of effort into this and it took a lot of courage to post, so feedback is greatly appreciated!

"Mom! Guess what Ferb did!"

Phineas bursts into the kitchen energetically, still buzzing with adrenaline from the day's adventure. Ferb follows a step or two behind. Linda turns her attention from the freshly baked pie in her hands to her sons, although Phineas is too beside himself with excitement to consider whether or not she's paying attention. "He made a secret tunnel, and a spy headquarters, and a villain's lair, and a hover jet shaped like Perry- tell her, Ferb!"

Ferb doesn't match Phineas' enthusiasm. In fact, at the moment, he's sick to death of it. He prepares to launch into the explanation he's been trying all day to give. "Actually, I-"

"Wait a second," Linda interrupts, eyeing the boys with suspicion. "Why are you two soaking wet?"

The interruption is just too much for Ferb. He doesn't even process the question, just lets out a harsh shout of frustration. Phineas recoils - Ferb almost never shouts. "I give UP!" Ferb yells, his voice shaking on the last syllable, and before either of his surprised family members can respond, he turns around and storms off, his destination betrayed by the distinct clunking rhythm of stairs being stomped on too hard and the sound of a door slamming upstairs.

For a moment, the kitchen is silent. Linda recovers before Phineas does, her eyes narrowing in disapproval. "Young man, that is not how we talk to each other in this house!" she calls, setting the pie tin and her oven mitts down on the kitchen counter and following Ferb's path to his room. Before she can make it to the doorway, though, her progress is halted.

"Mom, wait!" Phineas pleads. He's finally caught onto what's been going on all day, and although he's still only half processed it, he knows he doesn't want Ferb to be in trouble for it. He frantically tugs on Linda's arm to draw her attention. Once he's sure that she's stopped, he withdraws his hand (he's still wet, after all, he doesn't want to make her uncomfortable), but sidesteps around her to put his tiny body firmly between her and the doorway to the living room. "Mom, please don't be mad at Ferb, it- it's not his fault! I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it, he's just..." Phineas' voice trails off briefly, but he forces it back into action, complete with the most serious expression he can manage. "If you're gonna be mad at either of us, it should be me, okay?"

At first, Linda returns Phineas' gaze with suspicion, then her face softens with realisation. She crouches down to her son's eye level, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Phineas, did something else happen today?" she asks, the anger gone from her voice.

Phineas hesitates, dropping eye contact again. He's almost certain about the cause of Ferb's outburst, and he can't help but mentally beat himself up for it to a degree. "Well, Ferb's been trying to tell me something all day, but he kept getting interrupted by our spy mission, and I guess it must have been really frustrating because he hates being interrupted but I didn't realise and-" he pauses to breathe, and shudders as he inhales as if on the verge of tears - "and I should have asked at some point but I just kept getting distracted and I didn't even realise how upset it was making him but-"

"Phineas," Linda says gently, and he gladly accepts the invitation to cut his rambling short. His breathing is shaky, but he doesn't cry just yet, even though his emotional state has nosedived in barely a minute. After giving him a moment to snap back into focus, Linda continues. "Phineas, honey, it sounds like this has just been a misunderstanding. On my end, too," she adds, regretting having snapped at Ferb earlier. Phineas nods with a nondescript mumble of agreement. Although he still obviously isn't looking, Linda gives him a reassuring smile anyway, accompanied by a gentle squeeze of his shoulder. "Thank you for telling the truth, sweetheart," she praises him.

"Mmh," Phineas mumbles, tugging at his shirt collar. He tends to fiddle with his shirt when he's nervous or overexcited. It doesn't hold a candle to bouncing his leg or flapping his hands, as far as stimming goes, but it's a lot easier to do while someone is touching you. "I just should've realised what was up earlier, then he probably wouldn't have freaked out..."

He finally glances up again, and the look his mom is giving him tells him that he should drop the argument, so he stops. Linda ruffles his hair affectionately, leaning forward to reach all the way behind Phineas' oddly-shaped head, and flinches at the unpleasant reminder of how waterlogged he still is. She stands up, flicking her hand dry. "I'm sure he knows you didn't mean to hurt his feelings," she reassures Phineas. "Why don't you dry yourself off and then go talk to him? Which reminds me," Linda motions towards the puddles tracked all over the kitchen floor, "why are you two so wet?"

"Oh, we fell in Isabella's pool," Phineas answers matter-of-factly. He isn't quite back to his usual blindingly sunny disposition, but the panicky tremble in his voice has at least disappeared.

Linda smiles, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "Well, that I believe," she says. She'd tactfully decided not to comment on whatever that secret spy headquarters spiel was that Phineas had been getting worked up over, but she suspects his latest imaginary game took the boys to Isabella's backyard and ended up having some real-life consequences. "Oh, hi, Perry," she adds, as the platypus in question waddles into the kitchen.

Perry responds with his familiar chatter. Phineas leans down to pet Perry on the head. "At least you've had a stress-free day, huh," he says, then leaves for the bathroom. Perry stares at him blankly.

---

Ferb is having a meltdown.

He knows what this is, of course. He reads every textbook and blog post on the subject he can find, just in case it helps him make some more sense of himself. If he misses one, Phineas will no doubt have found and memorised it himself for the same reason, and will gladly rattle off anything new. Knowing why there's a raging storm beating at the inside of his head, however, is entirely different from quelling it. By the time he reaches his bedroom, he's trembling so violently that he can barely stand. He stumbles to his bed, pushing his hands down into the mattress to keep himself on his feet.

It's like feeling every feeling from every second of the day all in the same moment, and it hurts. So much is happening in his head that he can't even isolate a single thought, let alone process what it means. Is he angry? That'd make sense, sure, but his mental state isn't exactly conducive to deductive reasoning at the moment. Is he sad? Scared? Something else entirely?? He can't tell what emotion or mixture thereof it is, only that it's hurting his head, and he wants to get it out but he doesn't know how. He's struggling to breathe now, his arms shaking with the effort of keeping his body supported, and as he draws in a desperate shuddering breath Ferb feels something wet in his eye and then on his face, and he remembers that his entire body is wet and he hates it. It's cold, and his hair is sticking to his face and uncomfortably close to his eyes, and his clothes cling to his body oppressively and he wants to tear them off and stop feeling everything. Instead of doing that, he forces himself to breathe in again and looks around the room frantically, hoping to find something other than absolutely everything to concentrate on.

His eyes land on Phineas' bed, and although his vision is blurring as the panicky tears pour down his face, he recognises the shape instantly. Is he mad at Phineas? Should he be? He should be, right? If Phineas had just stopped to listen to him for once, he wouldn't be here with the world ending inside his brain. Another violent wave of emotion sends a shock through his whole body, and Ferb is still in no state to identify it, but he gets the message. He doesn't want to be angry. Not at Phineas. In fact, he doesn't want to feel anything he's feeling at the moment. Not the turbulent assault of everything inside his head, not the hammering rhythm of his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest, not every tiny thing that touches his skin or the light from outside that still feels blinding through the curtains or the muffled sounds of conversation downstairs that he doesn't have room in his brain to translate into anything but more noise.

Sensory overload is another term Ferb knows, and it's another one that doesn't really help to know in the moment. The feeling of anxiety that's been growing in his chest since that morning finally becomes too much for his body to handle, and he collapses on his bed, weakly gripping the blanket for support. Burying his face in his covers blocks out most of the sunlight, at least, but it doesn't significantly improve his mood. He shivers, partly from cold thanks to still being uncomfortably wet, partly from the sobs making his whole body convulse. (When did those start? He doesn't remember.) He uses the last of his physical strength to pull himself fully onto his bed and curl into himself, trying desperately to calm himself down.

...

It's not working. Why isn't it working?? It's as if every effort to steady his breathing just makes him cry harder, every attempt at a calming thought being shattered into a thousand anxious ones by the merciless torrent of everything whirling around in his mind. Ferb is suddenly hyper-aware of how empty the room around him is, and it makes him feel helpless. It's the first feeling he's managed to connect a name to with absolute certainty this whole time, and it's terrifying.

If he was making any noise before in his attempts to control his breathing, he's stopped now. No sound escapes him as he lies in place, too preoccupied with the overwhelming barrage of thoughts in his brain to move. More than anything, Ferb wants his brain to just shut off. Everything in his mind blends into a horrible white noise that won't stop, threatening to drown him in static.

Through the raging mental cyclone, he just barely hears the knock at the door.

Phineas waits a moment before entering his room. He wants to make sure Ferb has time to process that he's here. A few seconds pass, then he opens the door slowly so that it doesn't make any sound. A stab of guilt hits him when he sees Ferb curled up on his bed, visibly distressed. He's facing the opposite wall, but the way he shudders as he breathes makes it obvious that he's crying. Phineas feels his heart sink. He'd really hoped it wouldn't be this bad.

"Hey," he says softly. Ferb grips himself tighter. Just a minute ago, Phineas would have been the last person he wanted to see, but now his desperation for comfort outweighs any lingering hints of animosity. He doesn't object to his brother's presence, so Phineas gently closes the door and walks over to his side of the room. He sits on the bed, watching Ferb to see if he reacts negatively to the shift in weight distribution, and tenses up slightly at how damp the blanket is. Of course, Ferb wouldn't have stopped to dry off on his way up here. A closer look confirms that while a lot of the water on his body has run off and soaked into his bed, Ferb is still almost as wet as he was when he arrived home. Phineas frowns - that can't be comfortable, and it's probably making him feel even worse. "Are you okay?" he asks.

Ferb curls into himself even more instead of asking. The question is so frustratingly rhetorical that he almost reconsiders the possibility of being angry, but the idea still scares him, so the feeling passes. Fortunately, Phineas understands the unspoken 'obviously not' with no further input, and continues to talk. "I'm really sorry about today," he begins. "I know you don't like being interrupted, and I should've realised that it was making you feel bad but I just wasn't paying enough attention and- and I'm sorry, because it's kinda my fault you got so upset," he apologises, not realising that he's holding back tears until he stops to breathe. He wills himself not to cry. He's here to try and make Ferb feel better, not guilt him into forgiveness.

It takes a second or two for Ferb to process what Phineas is saying. It's a struggle to drag the words through the confusing whirlwind of everything still rampaging through his head. Eventually, after a great deal of mental effort, he shakes his head in response. Perhaps he was angry before, he still can't tell, but he definitely isn't now. He can't manage anything beyond the simple gesture, but it's not the first time he's been utterly uncommunicative, so Phineas understands the meaning as well as he needs to: it's not your fault.

"Th-thanks," he stutters, although Ferb's acceptance does little to settle the crushing feeling of responsibility. "Next time you can speak I'll let you tell me whatever it is you needed to, okay? I promise." He smiles a little. "No more secret agent business to interrupt you."

The last sentence sure prompts a reaction from Ferb - he rolls over so that his face is entirely buried in the blanket and makes a frustrated noise without opening his mouth, his body shaking with some mixture of anger and physical strain. Phineas inhales sharply and recoils, no more prepared for an audible outburst from Ferb than the first time. "Hey, what's wrong?" he asks, already speed-testing possible answers in his head. "Did you not have fun today? Of- of course you didn't, that's why you're upset, but I thought you did a great job on the spy mission! It was really cool." He's trying to be reassuring, but Ferb just shakes harder, seemingly becoming more aggravated rather than less.

Phineas tilts his head in confusion. "Ferb? Ferb, it's okay, I-I'm sorry. Did... did it not go the way you planned?" he guesses, searching increasingly frantically for any change in Ferb's body language. "Hmm... oh, were you not finished building it yet?" He thinks back to Ferb's numerous attempts at speaking to him throughout the day, hoping that he'll find some clue that makes everything fall into place - and something clicks in his brain. He deflates a little at how painfully obvious the realisation seems in retrospect, with a soft "Oh." Sighing at his own ignorance, he directs his voice to Ferb again as he says, "You didn't actually build all that, did you?"

Ferb sits up slowly and turns to Phineas with his signature deadpan glare, the silent, biting sarcasm undermined significantly by the tears still falling from his eyes. Phineas hums concernedly. "Is that what you were trying to tell me?" he asks. Ferb gets partway through rolling his eyes before giving up and returning to the fetal position.

Phineas sighs sadly. He hates seeing his brother cry. There's nothing he wants to do more than pull him into the tightest hug he can manage, but he knows Ferb won't appreciate being touched in this state, so he opts to fiddle with his shirt again to keep his hands busy. "Who do you think did build that stuff?" he asks. Ferb doesn't care. On any other day, a secret spy lair being hidden under his house would be cause for immeasurable excitement, but after the day's events he's thoroughly sick of thinking about the subject. Phineas picks up on Ferb's antipathy towards the question and, sensing that it might be a sore topic for some time, decides not to bring it up again for a while. He'll satisfy his curiosity sometime when it doesn't come at the expense of Ferb's comfort.

An uncomfortable silence falls over the boys. It's broken when Ferb suddenly sniffles loud enough to make Phineas jump, sits up again, and halfheartedly tries to wipe the tears from his face. "Oh geez, hold on," Phineas says, leaning over to rummage through his short pockets. He eventually pulls out a wad of tissues, somehow unaffected by the earlier impromptu dive into Isabella's pool. He offers them with a gentle "here you go" to Ferb, who takes a few silently and scrubs at his eyes.

While he still doesn't feel good by any stretch of the definition, Ferb at least doesn't feel completely awful anymore. What was once a violent hurricane in his mind has receded enough that he can focus on the world around him without breaking down, at least for the time being, and he's left feeling just drained. He balls up his handful of tissues and tosses them at the bin under his desk. The ball makes it to Phineas' leg before unceremoniously bouncing to a stop. Phineas picks it up and throws it the rest of the way to the trash, standing up to do so.

Rather than sit down again, he kneels down and pulls out one of the drawers conveniently built into the bed. Ferb watches inquisitively, still too out of it to immediately catch onto what's happening. Phineas rummages a little before finally pulling out a pair of pyjamas, suggesting, "You should dry off and change your clothes." He pauses to think. "Can you make it downstairs to the bathroom by yourself?" he asks. At any other time, it would be a silly question, but Ferb is always exhausted after a meltdown. The visible effort it's taking him just to stay upright isn't lost on Phineas. Ferb ponders the question, then gives a tentative nod. He's definitely shaky, but he really wants to change into something dry.

"Great!" Phineas smiles encouragingly. "Should I bring the usual stuff to the living room? Your bed's probably not gonna feel comfortable until it dries out." Ferb glances down at the unmistakable damp silhouette of where he had been lying earlier and nods again, more confidently. He slowly gets to his feet, first pushing against his bed for support, then grasping the hand Phineas offers him. He lets go once he's certain he's regained his balance, and only then does Phineas hand him his pyjamas. "I'll come meet you downstairs, okay?" Phineas says. Then, pulling at the bottom of his shirt, which is still a bit soggy despite his best efforts to towel it off, he adds, "I should probably change into something dry as well."

---

Ferb rubs his eyes as he comes out of the bathroom, his drenched clothes swapped out for his much more comfortable pyjamas. He's stopped crying, it seems, but he's still feeling sensitive enough that the light from outside bothers him. He's relieved to discover that it's much darker in the living room - Phineas must have been here already. The curtains are drawn so that the lamp on the end table is the only light source in the room, softly illuminating its surroundings with a pleasant warm glow. He doesn't have the energy to analyse the entire room, even in these far more bearable conditions, but his attention is drawn to his favourite weighted blanket folded neatly on the couch. He sits down and drags the blanket over him, struggling a bit with the weight, but relaxing once he feels its reassuring pressure on his legs.

It's as he's settling into his position on the couch that Phineas enters with an "Oh, there you are, Ferb!". Perry is firmly but comfortably wedged under one of his arms, like a fuzzy teal football or loaf of bread, and seems altogether unbothered by his position. Ferb gasps quietly at the sight of Perry, his eyes brightening momentarily, and reaches out for him with various soft noises of urgency. Phineas wastes no time in setting Perry down next to Ferb, and the platypus reacts with a gentle, almost soothing chatter. Ferb instinctively mimicks the sound under his breath, and Perry responds with a nearly identical noise. Ferb echoes it again, slightly louder this time, and his face lights up with a weak smile, the first one he's managed all day.

Taking this as a sign of progress, Phineas sighs with relief as he sits on the sofa. He makes sure to maintain a respectful distance from Ferb, who's running a hand through Perry's fur as they echo the same low growling noise back at each other. (It pains Phineas not to join in, but he senses the two have gotten themselves into a groove that would be rude to interrupt.) Ferb's smile fades almost as soon as it appears, but he seems much more relaxed after the change in clothes and scenery. His hair is sticking up in every direction from being towelled dry, and Phineas stifles a laugh at how silly it looks. The back-and-forth chattering eventually dies down, and it's only then that Phineas continues. "Mom's gonna make you some tea, and she says if you aren't feeling better by dinner you can eat in here if you want," he says. Ferb turns to him and raises a thumbs-up briefly before returning his hand and focus to Perry.

Phineas quietly watches his brother for a moment before speaking again. "Do you want me to stay?" he asks. Exactly how sociable Ferb is while he's coming out of a meltdown varies. He almost invariably needs some time on his own to mentally reset, but sometimes it helps if someone he trusts is there to reassure him for a while first. In Phineas' experience, asking is always the best way to tell.

Ferb hesitates for a second, then surprises both of them with his answer, which is to turn and collapse into Phineas' lap with one arm hooked over his legs in a sort of pseudo-hug. Phineas tenses up, not sure how to react. He cautiously puts an arm around Ferb, in a comforting gesture that doesn't fully subject him to the overwhelming sensory experience of a true hug. Ferb doesn't fight it, just repositions himself so that he's lying down with Phineas as a makeshift pillow and sinks further into the gentle embrace. Phineas laughs softly. "Okay, I guess you do."

This is nice, Ferb thinks. Definitely an improvement over violently sobbing alone in his room. Perry must be feeling relaxed too, because he climbs onto Ferb's stomach, circles a few times, lets out one more chatter, then flops down and goes to sleep, purring gently. Phineas giggles at the platypus' behaviour, and Ferb's shoulders shake in silent laughter - his blanket absorbs enough of the sensation that it just tickles. Watching Perry doze off reminds him that he's still exhausted, despite the positive change in environment, and his attempt to stifle a yawn fails. He's still on high alert, and he knows he won't be sleeping for longer than a few minutes until the emotional clutter completely drains from his mind. With that said, both the blanket and Perry weighing down on him make for a pretty cosy combination, and he finds himself fighting to keep his eyes open. Maybe just a moment of rest will be good for him.

Before he knows it, his eyes are closed, and he's powerless to prevent himself from drifting off. Phineas accepts his new career as a pillow without comment, simply adjusting his right hand so that both his arms are positioned protectively around his brother. Being trapped in place for the time being doesn't worry him. Ferb won't mind being stirred awake when their mom arrives with his tea, and until then Phineas can easily occupy himself with thoughts of what to do tomorrow. Besides, he can subject himself to a few minutes of quiet if that's what Ferb needs. What kind of a brother would he be if he couldn't, right?

Ferb half-consciously brings a hand to Phineas' wrist, as if it'll float off if he isn't holding on. He can feel his brain shutting down, and he welcomes the change. The last thing he's aware of before his consciousness finally leaves him in peace for a moment is the sound of Phineas' voice, promising him, "You're gonna be okay."

[deceptive-jo]

Whumptober 2021 - Alt. 1 Losing control

A headache has been tormenting Dark...turns out it’s a lot more deadly than that.

Words: 1109

(Apparently I write best when I’m stressed and should really be doing other stuff. However it is also late so this might still not be good.)

---

There had been this unsettling feeling thrumming in the back of Dark’s mind for the past days, not unlike the whispers that usually followed him but for some reason they seemed to bother him more. He considered some sort of argument breaking out but no matter how closely he listened there seemed to be no distinct voice reaching out. Regardless the whispers persisted, growing louder over the week, and by Friday the hissing and ringing was loud enough to drown out his own voice. Dark masked his discomfort well enough but he knew at least the Wilford and the Host must have noticed something, yet he felt no desire to talk to them, his entire body clamping up at the idea of them getting involved. It was a ridiculous thought to have about his closest friends of course, he was aware, but the constant noise in his head made it harder to think by the hour. Perhaps a tea would help them-

Wilford turned around when the Host suddenly stiffened next to him, tumbling against the wall a moment later, “Woah buddy, everything okay there?” The Host didn’t seem to react as his neck snapped around, facing the kitchen as if he could see through the walls right into the room. “They have to get to Dark!” “I know, that’s the plan, Host.” The Host grabbed him by his sleeve, not paying Wilford’s attempts at calming him down any mind, and pulled him down the hall, “their condition may be worse than the Host suspected.” Before Wilford could inquire further the two stumbled into the kitchen, coming face to face with…Dark. Except that wasn’t Dark. Wilford knew whatever was standing there in front of them now was not his husband.

Eyes cracked open, so many more than there should be, scattered over his forehead and cheekbones, squinting over the unnaturally wide smile that revealed the black tongue slipping over sharp teeth lazily. Grey limps were twisted in ways that shouldn’t support anyone’s weight, even less let anyone move around. The pristine suit was partly ripped to allow room for the extra pairs of arms growing out the torse and ending in sharp claws dripping with black liquid…that slowly mixed with red as it dripped to the ground. “What did you do?” The entity cocked its head to the side, eyes smiling curiously. As it spoke it sounded like dozens of voices screaming against one another, grating and painful. “We did not do much. But it has been so long since we ate. And the anxious boy was such an easy target.” Wilford’s throat went dry as he spotted the blood-spattered handkerchief caught in the backdoor. The Host stepped forward, power pulsating through his own aura. “The Host advises the Entity to hand control back to Dark. They caused enough damage as it is.” The creature’s grin- if possible- grew even wider as it let out a high-pitched cracked chuckle. “Leave the body back in that weakling’s control again already? Why, when we’re having so much fun right now?” Not thinking twice Wilford pulled out his resolver and fired- one, two, three. In horror he watched the creature cackle as the bullet wounds knitted themselves together in front of his eyes, only leaving behind a slight discolouring of the skin. And before he could recover it jumped-

Dark awoke in his office with no recollection of how he got there. His dress shirt hung off of him in shreds, suit jacket missing completely. As he let his eyes wander the room was completely thrashed. The bed wasn’t much more than a pitiful assortment of splinters with the curtains ripped apart slowly flowing in an invisible breeze and sprinkled with…blood? Dark sat up, entire body aching and stretching uncomfortably. Stalking closer he could safely identify the red substance covering parts of the wall and floor as well. When had anyone- Dark’s blood froze at the sight of the silver dagger embedded into the wall. Slowly turning but unwilling to see he followed the flying path of the weapon. The closest would be his office which looked just as thrashed, the desk overturned and barely revealing a pair of dark dress shoes. Dark let out a surprisingly soft gasp at the sight, realisation at what must have taken place slowly setting in with just the slightest flashes of confusing memory. He slowly inched closer, unwilling to face the massacre, but he had to know- leaning over the cracked table Bim’s broken face stared back, glass shards cutting into his cheeks and decimating his eyes, purple long-faded.

Dark stumbled back in shock, the urge to throw up growing unbearable. He couldn’t stay here anymore, the pressure of the room growing bigger by the second and yet he didn’t dare step outside in fear of what carnage would await him. Because whatever had caused this could have been in no way contained to the bedroom and office. He didn’t dare look back again as he pushed the door open.

The doctor’s clinic was empty, equipment discarded in a messy heap and dark blood puddle giving a clear idea about his departure. The androids- as far as they were still recognisable- were bent into unnatural shapes, limps and compartments pressed together like cheap soda cans and lenses dark and dim. Every room he walked in was another blood-fest, another massacre that made Dark’s insides turn over. By the time he reached the front entrance his hands were shaking, foot sticky with his family’s blood and throat sore from vomiting. And he had yet to find Wilford or Host. The thought worried him but he had so far checked every room except the kitchen and everything in his being screamed at the idea of entering it.

With a sight he turned around, deciding to check the basement just in case, when a flash in the big mirror caught his attention. Instead of the usual reflection an abstract parody of his person stared back at him, black eyes, too-wide grin and blood-stained suit. He had never seen such a thing before and yet a deep feeling of recognition settled in his heart. Dark, slowly stepped closer, the entity mirroring the movement with just a bit too much stiffness. “What did you do?” The question was not much more than a breath against the glass yet the creature seemed to understand just fine as it threw its head back in abstruse amusement, voices reflecting the ones that had been tormenting him for years. “No, Darkiplier. The question is: what did you do?”

Just as the darkness swept into his consciousness again a gun shot ripped through the air.

[whump-town]

A Cumbersome and Heavy Body

Chapter Five: They Told Me That The End Is Near

Summary: Stubborn until the very end, Aaron Hotchner isn’t going to go down without a fight. It’s just getting hard to tell the difference between fighting them and fighting the cancer.

Word count:  3195

Author’s Note: I’m about to fuck yall all kinda of ways-- buckle in babies cause shit is GETTING FUCKED

Warning: the subject of this fic is cancer and it’s treatment, cursing, maybe out of character (idk, man. hotch is weird)

Welcome to the final show Hope you're wearing your best clothes You can't bribe the door on your way to the sky You look pretty good down here But you ain't really good

She hates everything about labeling his days as “good” or “bad”-- this stupid emphasis on each thing that he does and how well he can perform it. The doctors will ask how he is, nearly expecting to be told something other than like he’s dying, and that always frustrates her beyond words. She can feel Hotch tense each time, looking to her in his desperate attempt to conjure a lie they will believe. “Good” or “bad” and he wants to say “okay” so that they don’t poke him more. So they don’t stand him up in the room and run their hands down his sides feeling for more swollen nodes and inclinations to infections or whatever other bad nonsense will rear its ugly head.

Mostly, she hates how there are “bad” days and there are days that aren’t gut-wrenchingly horrible but they aren’t “good” either.

Tuesday he’d smiled and sat for three hours with Reid. The genius turned on the sofa to face Hotch in the recliner, rocking himself gently as he spoke about anything and everything on his mind. Emily had watched them for a moment from the kitchen, shocked at the painless ease Hotch was sitting with. Enjoying something close to normalcy as Reid doesn’t look at Hotch and see the sickness overcoming his pale skin. Doesn’t see how tired he is or how weak. He’s just Hotch and they’re sitting in the living room talking about quantum mechanics and then attachment theory and diagnosing schizophrenia.

For three hours there is so much normalcy to their chaotic lives. For three hours there is “good” and for the remaining hours after Reid leaves there is something close to right in the middle. It’s fighting tooth and nail over some supplements he’s supposed to have in this meal replacement that tastes like chalk. She chases the fight with vodka and he locks himself in his office to drink the meal replacement in the sort of isolation that affords him endless frustration with no outward consequence. He ends up sitting in there and hoping she forgives him for being such a pain in the ass. He knows she probably will.

Then he does something stupid, something entirely brought on by impulse.

“You’re a fucking asshole.”

He can’t finish the job on his own, the clippers shaking painfully in his grip. His arm hurts and he can’t stand long enough to get the whole thing even. “It’s falling out, anyway.” He tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that he should be lucky he made it to this age without losing it. He tries not to think about it, mostly. To the way that his father used to smile at him and rustle it just to see the strands sit in all kinds of directions. How Haley would curl against him, arm over his shoulders, and brushing the strands as they talk.

But it’s just… hair. Mostly.

And “good” had melted into bad as Emily stood over him, running the clippers through his remaining hair. She’d cried and he had too but he had the free hands to wipe those tears before she could see them. She’s always the strong one, the least he can do is pretend for a moment.

Standing behind him, she can see every bone in his back. His pale skin stretched over each vertebra, like the hard pressure across knuckles clenched tightly. The plethora of scars in various stages of healing-- several from tubes and wires and tests and others from the childhood he refuses to speak of. A canvas with a story right there for her to see. There are no real secrets between them anymore.

The last bit of hair falls and she looks at what they’ve done. “You’ll have to wear a hat,” she tells him. She steps out of the tub, using his shoulder to balance herself. “I always thought you had a weird-shaped head but now I know.” There’s nothing abnormal about his head, she’s just thinking about how cold he always is. That at least now he’s got an excuse to wear a beanie inside and how he’ll look like a dork with the assortment of color and variations Garcia’s going to knit the second she catches wind of this.

She offers him her hands so that he can stand too and it’s a testament to their proximity that his shirtlessness isn’t strange. She’s watched his skin ease apart under the pressure of a scalpel. Sat beside him on the bathroom floor, head on his shoulder as the night moved on but they both knew he’d be back here all together too soon to get up. The scars are nothing to the vulnerability that he’s shown her.

Standing she… she sees the protrusion of his collarbone. Of the harshness, the invasion of the central line snaking into him. It overcomes her and she pulls him into her. Throwing an arm over one shoulder and around the other, pinning him against her. “I love you,” she whispers turning her face into his neck.

Her warmth seeps into him, in every place that her skin rests against his. The desperation in her tone makes him smile, the way that she holds him. He’s empathetic to her pain but it feels good to be held, to be loved like something someone is terrified to lose. “You know,” he says. “I kind of figured. You’ve stayed around too long for someone who, supposedly, hates me.”

She laughs. How many times had she gone out of her way to mumble “I hate you” at him? For waking her up to make her go back to bed so that she doesn’t spend her whole night on the floor as miserable as him. To have something to say in the face of the scary things that happen, when he squeezes her hand too tight or when he’s that numb calm she knows is no good.

“I do hate you,” she sniffles.

He laughs. An actual laugh. “Good,” he replies, wrapping his arms around her. “Good.”

Wednesday he makes her French Toast with a black beanie pulled down over his ears, one she’d seen only in the winter to stave off the threat of the ear infections the icy fingers of the wind give him. They talk while they eat and it’s a truly monumental thing to be shared between them-- a meal.

There’s something about sitting there and watching him perfect some glorified egg bread that annoys her. Knowing that likely, tomorrow this will be like a slap to the face. A taunt to see him now and then. Today he will the Aaron that she knows. The Aaron that peers over her shoulder while she’s trying to do things, baiting her into pointless arguments with his bad French and even worse German. To the Aaron who walks soundless and who grins when he turns up silently behind her and makes her yelp with a jump.

She watches the ease in which he takes to his french toast bleed away like the color in his face until lunch brings one of those meal replacements and he can’t do it. Then she finds the french toast she thought he’d eaten in the trash where he’d purposely tried to cover it. Knows that next week they’ll find the meal replacements didn’t work and do something else to his poor body. Cut another hole, insert another tube.

She hears him fall that night.

After hearing him laugh loudly over some stupid thing she’d said.

After playfully fighting with him over stealing one of his sweaters-- he has so many it’s not going to kill him to let her borrow one.

After just sitting with him on the couch for hours listening to music and sitting in the dark.

She hears him fall and, worst of all, she hears how hard he tries to cover it up. The sound is not as distinct as it should be with no crash that rattles dishes or a harsh thud. A stumble, really, a softer thump as he leaned into the wall for support but found none.

“Aaron.”

He’s sitting up against the wall, shoulders sunk in and head hanging. When he looks up she sees the blood pouring down his face, the tears pooling at the corner of his eyes. “...can’t stop it.” He coughs, wiping at the blood across his lips. “It won’t stop, Emily.”

She runs to the bathroom, grabbing a wad of toilet paper and not thinking twice about manipulating his face in her hands. One hand holding the back of his head while the other dabs the blood up. “We’re supposed to go to the hospital when this happens,” she reminds him. He’ll need platelets or something invasive but more than likely he’ll be submitted to an hour-long wait in the E.R. to be told it was the right thing to come in but altogether unnecessary.

He groans, not in pain but in the general theme of the awfulness he knows will ensue if she makes the decision they will be going to the hospital. To the cold beds and the wheelchairs.

“Water and bed,” she says, instead of what he’d thought would be her asking where his shoes and coat are. She smirks at him, knowing what he’s thinking and seeing the surprise written across his face. “We’ll tell them Tuesday about it,” she assures him. Tuesday when they’re probably going to tell them he needs to come back in another day. When they see the supplements aren’t working and he’ll probably need something invasive and painful. Then they’ll deal with the nose bleeds popping back (and that cough she’s noticed but has let convince himself she hasn’t noticed).

“Bed,” she says again when the words seem like they haven’t processed.  

“Bed,” he repeats thickly, her fingers clamped over his nose thickening the nasally quality of his voice.

They shuffle down the hall, Emily’s fingers curled around his hip and his arm over her shoulder. Heads bent in towards one another. He whispers an apology, feet hardly leaving the ground, and leaning on her a little too much. He imagines the beginning. When he’d laid on his bed, thinking about her and thinking about his father. The way the cancer had eaten his father away and he can see in the mirror, he watches closely and knows the same thing is happening to him.

His father had done what he can’t-- ended it.

It had been Aaron who found him. So strange to see such a violent man seemingly… peaceful. His memory is a patchwork of things, his childhood full of too many greys of undetermined moments, but that sight. Seeing his father’s lifeless body in the high-backed office chair he’d spent so many waking hours in has been unforgettable.

He can’t do that. He won’t make Emily see that or leave that sort of memory for Jack. It’s important to him that it be like this.

“You have to sit up.” She props him up on pillows, ignoring his complaints. The blood has slowed and there’s nearly no point in wiping it away. He just watches her, vacantly staring back as she tucks the blankets around his chest. “Sleep,” she instructs, kissing his forehead. “Do you want me to stay?” He knows she will. She’ll sleep right here beside if he asks but… no. He’ll be okay.

It snows.

He watches it from the only window in his room, she’d pulled the curtains back before she fell asleep. He sees her and her giant shadow with the yellowing light from the street pouring in, eating out the deep consuming darkness looming over him. Until today he’d only ever suspected she was dragging his office chair into his room but he’d never caught her, always waking up after she’d moved the chair back and gone back to her own room. Leaving behind only the three deep dents in the carpet where she’d sat for hours. There had been so many nights he’d spent sitting and watching Jack sleep as a baby-- some irrational fear that the baby would stop breathing in the middle of the night and so long as he was watching Jack would keep breathing. He needn’t ask silly questions, he knows she’s using the same irrational approach.

Clenching his teeth he tries to bite down against a cough breaking out, afraid to wake her some such peaceful slumber. He pulls himself upright, curling down as his temples throb, and his body shakes violently beyond his control. A goal in-sight-- the water on his nightstand and getting Emily back to bed-- he powers through it and overcoming the weakness of his body feels so satisfyingly familiar. To days when there was pain but no cancer and he loves the triumphant that washes over him.

The water is warm and stale, left there by Emily yesterday when she’d forced him to take his medicine (even though he thought he’d throw it back up and he had). It kills the ache of his throat, dry and bitter, and he clears his throat softly to take the rest away.

“Emily,” he whispers. Moving his lips cracks the dried blood on his face he grimaces as he smells the thick scent of the blood. “Emily, get up.” He won’t leave her to sleep in this chair all night. He’s made the mistake plenty of times, knows it’s no good. “Come on,” he touches her arm, palm against her bare skin. She jumps his touch is so cold. “Sorry, sorry--”

She really sees him and jumps even harder. Yelping in shock. “Oh! Oh, God!” She wraps her arms around her chest, breathing quickly, startled. “Fuck Aaron,” she shouts. “You scared the shit out of me!”

He rubs his nose, tries to dislodge the blood.

“Is-- Is something wrong?” She pushes her hair back from her face, “are you okay?”

God. He’s hurt her irreparably, hasn’t he?

“Nothing.” He offers his hand, even if the hand trembles visibly enough in the low light. “Nothing, I promise.” She takes his hand, allowing him to guide her up. “You shouldn’t sleep in that chair,” he informs her softly but still with that distinct fussiness to his voice.

She looks back to the chair and up at him, “I guess I’ve finally been caught.”

He smiles. The first time he’d put two and two together he was angry. Overly frustrated, seething over something so… sweet. She’d sat with him through the night, watching him sleep, just trying to be close and he’d been mad. Not now, though, now he can see how tired he is. He can feel her hand still clutching his. “It’s okay,” he shrugs. “It’s late, let’s go to bed.”

She frowns, brows crinkling as she looks around them in confusion. Sleep riddled brain torn between the rational thought that concludes he’s right, she should go to bed, and the worry she’d felt hours ago about leaving him in this room. She’s not sure what to do now, which thought to travel and act upon.

“Do you--” he looks down at the thrown back covers on his bed. Remembers this wouldn’t be the first time she’s slept in that bed beside him. Likely more than just the memories he can think of now, unprompted. He blushes, embarrassed he even had the thought but she looks down to and nods.

She doesn’t want to leave him alone.

He doesn’t want to be alone.

They start side by side, neither entirely comfortable. She falls back to sleep first. He can feel her breath even back out and within a few minutes she turns over towards him, her hand resting over his wrist. He looks back to his office chair, the giant back of the old thing. She’s so afraid to lose him, they all are. He can feel it in every little thing that they do. How Dave lingers a little more after each visit, hugs him a little longer. The way Derek looks at him, how close he stands. Even in Spencer and Jack who soak up his attention like flowers to the sun. Turning and facing him, finding him wherever he is to enjoy just one more moment. Hanging on to his every word.

He wakes soaked in sweat, shaking as Emily talks to someone rushed, too quickly to sound anything but frantic. Afraid.

He opens his eyes as a sea of red flushes through the room, the shrill of an ambulance breaking up the serene silence the snow has muffled the Earth with.

“Aaron?”

She’d woken to him struggling to breathe. Both had turned over in the night and while she’d turned toward him, he’d turned away from her. Her arm over his hip, her head against his back, they were nearly welded together. If not for the proximity-- his arm pulling hers closer, her leg in-between his, she likely wouldn’t have heard him at all. But she’d felt him jerk in his sleep, fighting his body for air.

And he wouldn’t wake up.

“Aaron?” she calls a second time. She should go open the front door, let the EMTs in but she’d seen a sliver of his eye. His cheek is cold against her palm but she cries, tears streaming when he opens his eyes. When he turns his face into her palm. “There you are,” she beams. His eyes slide back shut. “Stay awake,” she asks, her nerves getting the best of her and she shakes him. Pleased when his eyes open back up and find her. “Stay awake, don’t you want to see the snow?”

The stretcher is cold and he mourns the loss of his thick comforter but the drugs flooding into his blood makes him loose, pliable. He doesn’t fight being taken from his bed, even if he longingly looks back for it. Lets them strap his legs down place an oxygen mask over his face. The snow means nothing to him. He hates it, honestly, but as they step outside, Emily tossing his winter coat of him like a blanket, he looks up at it falling down on him.

Her hand slips away and he looks back for her, confused. She stands in the street, face turned to the fat snowflakes falling around her. All the light coming from street lamps high above her head. He’s reminded of a lifetime ago. When she’d gone against his orders and gone to investigate Michael’s death with a ferocity he hadn’t seen coming. When she’d avoided his eye and said she’d understand if he wanted her badge and gun after that little show. She’d forced his hand, made him call the Vatican, and consider his own allegiances. To when they were two very different people than they are now-- younger, naive… alone.

She catches up to them, slipping her hand back into his. Her fingers freezing cold as they curl around his. “Don’t you love it?” she asks. She looks back out, watching until the doors shut behind them and all she has is a tiny window.

He doesn’t but she does.

She looks young, weightless.

In a way, yes, he does love it.

@laiba-the-person, @emily-hottie-prentiss, @unionjackpillow, @clockedstar, @baumarvel, @blakeprentiss, @qvid-pro-qvo, @aaron-hotchner187, @ssalavellan, @lazyhater 

[mithranqueersmusings]

The Night Before II

Chapter: 2/15

Rating: E

Summary: Ringo hangs around after the club closes and meets a stranger.

Tags: Smut

Pairing: George Harrison/Ringo Starr

AO3 link here / Fic masterlist here

Ringo hadn't been to this club for a while, without John by his side he couldn't help but feel a little nervous. There were only two types of people who dragged themselves to such a questionable establishment so late in the night: people so off their faces in need of a warm place to dance until they could hardly stand upright, and predatory figures looking for an easy target. Ringo and George didn't fit into either category, making Ringo question the distinction entirely, but he supposed a drink or two could get them well on their way. The two of them headed straight to the bar which was littered with a few figures who were struggling to hold their heads up.

"What can I get you?" George asked, getting his phone ready to pay immediately.

"Oh, um... A vodka-coke if you're offering." Ringo once again felt his nerves getting the better of him, part of him still couldn't believe someone like George was even interested in him.

"Gross, how do you drink that shite?" George curled his nose up in mock disgust but ordered one for Ringo all the same, buying himself a gin and lemonade.

With their drinks in hand they moved over to the sparsely populated dancefloor, the music seemed to be the same every time Ringo came here: 80s throwbacks and cringey one-hit-wonders from the 2000s. Not that Ringo was complaining, it was easy to dance to and he almost always knew the words, but it was far from his music of choice.

"You ever been here before?" Ringo asked, having to shout over the music.

"Never." George replied with a smile "Is it always this dingy?"

"Yes." Ringo answered instantly "But it's one of the only places open right now."

"Who says I'm complaining?" George laughed.

The two of them continued dancing through a variety of songs, both of them drunkenly singing along to 'Don't Stop Me Now' and failing to mask their excitement when 'Dancing Queen' came on. Several rounds of drinks passed their lips, each one decreasing the proximity between them as they danced. Ringo wasn't entirely sure who initiated it first, but before he knew it George's back was pressed up against his chest and they were attempting to move with one another without falling over. They were far from the only couple grinding shamelessly like this, but they were certainly the only male duo.

When another song finally ceased, Ringo found himself getting a little worked up from all the friction with George; his jeans were tight, his heart was racing and he was beginning to sweat. The only solution would be to get out to the smoking area for some "fresh air". Ringo moved his hands slowly off of George's body and leaned his face in closer so he could shout in George's ear. George evidently thought Ringo had other ideas, because he turned around quickly and crashed his lips clumsily down onto Ringo's.

Ringo froze for a moment, his hands thrown up in shock before he could register what was happening. It was far from the most romantic kiss Ringo had experienced, but the last thing he was going to do was complain. George was pulling at the fabric of Ringo's shirt to pull them closer together, his sharp teeth poking through occasionally. Ringo felt himself being dipped down by the sheer force of George and had to cling onto his neck just to stay upright.

The kiss didn't last very long, at least Ringo thought so but time was a difficult concept to grasp at this moment. George pulled away, pulling Ringo back up with him, a satisfied grin on his face and a dark look in his eyes.

"Been waiting to do that all night." George slurred, the satisfaction still clear on his face.

Ringo could feel himself blushing, luckily the club was dark enough to hide it "All night?"

George nodded "Was watching you with your mates for a while, couldn't find the courage to say hello."

"Why don't we, uh... Go for a smoke?" Ringo could hardly hear what George was saying over the music, and this was a conversation he certainly didn't want to miss.

"Sure thing." George followed Ringo as he maneuvered through the labyrinthine club until they finally got to the outside.

The wind felt far colder than before, no doubt it was because the club was so tightly packed and humid. A bouncer stood in the corner of the fenced off area with his arms crossed, eyeing George and Ringo as though they were about to cause any trouble. Someone else stood in the corner yelling down their phone, seemingly having an argument with whoever was on the other end. George and Ringo found some relatively dry seating and sat beside one another.

"How you feelin'?" Ringo asked, rather than sobering up the cold air was only making him feel drunker.

"Pretty good." George hummed happily, his eyes were barely open.

Now they'd gotten to be alone together, Ringo had no idea what to say. Looking into George's eyes he could hardly string a coherent thought together. At least Ringo could be certain that it wasn't just the alcohol clouding his mind, George really was something else. Even the way he dressed was attractive, a retro windbreaker with flared velvet trousers, the shirt underneath a mixture of colours and shapes.

"So... You were watching me in the club then?" Ringo asked cautiously.

George let out a hearty laugh "Shit, yeah... Me and my big mouth." He looked embarrassed for a moment or two "I was worried the guy you were with was your boyfriend, even after they left I was still a little too scared to come over."

Ringo chuckled at the thought, dating either Paul or John was amusing to him "What made you come over in the end, then?"

"Felt like I couldn't let you get away." George smiled "You looked so cool, I was certain you were gonna tell me to piss off."

"Me?" Ringo laughed "Not very likely. I'm a sweetheart really."

George leant in a little closer "Something tells me that's not the whole truth." The darkness had returned to his eyes, his lips curling up in a devilish smile.

"I'm afraid I haven't the faintest clue what you're on about." Ringo leaned in too, close enough to feel George's breath on his face.

A beat of silence passed between them.

"This place has got a toilet, right?" George's voice was almost a whisper.

Ringo paused "Yeah, of course. Why, do you feel sick or something?"

George let out a splutter of a laugh "Don't be daft." His voice grew quiet once more, making the hairs stand up on Ringo's skin "But I don't think that bouncer will like it very much if I start blowing you right here."

Breath escaped Ringo entirely, this was far from the first time that he'd been prepositioned in such a way but hearing it from George made his head cloud.

"Well?" George asked, cocking an eyebrow and widening his toothy grin.

Ringo stood up a little too eagerly, but he was past the point of caring by now. Grabbing George by his slim wrist he quickly guided them back into the dingy club and towards the questionable toilets. By this point in the night, one of the cubicles was already out of order and something somewhere had started to flood and pools of water formed around the sinks. It was a ghastly sight, but Ringo hardly noticed it as he pulled George into the furthest stall.

"Charming place." George remarked as he locked the door, luckily the floor was relatively clean.

It was cramped to say the least, Ringo put the seat down on the well-used toilet and sat himself rather excitedly down.

"It's dreadful, I know. But desperate times..." Ringo had no clue what to do with his hands, his head was swimming with anticipation.

"I hope that's not a dig at me." George replied as he wasted no time getting to his knees, it made Ringo sad to see his trousers dirtying with the muck on the floor but George hardly seemed to care.

George quickly got to work, his slender fingers pulling at the zip on Ringo's achingly tight jeans. Ringo let out a sigh of relief as the denim was pulled from his skin, pooling down at his ankles, he only hoped they didn't get too dirty but that was a risk he was willing to take. Next were the boxers, Ringo wished he'd worn a more presentable pair tonight but it wasn't long before they were being pulled down too.

Ringo hadn't realised how hard he'd become until he was staring right at his aching erection, a sight which drew George's attention too.

"Fuck..." George breathed, his hand tentatively gripping the shaft "For a short guy you've got a huge cock."

"I'll skip the insult and take that compliment, thanks." Ringo was struggling to keep his composure as George's slim lips wrapped around the head.

It wasn't the most debauched thing Ringo had ever done, he'd fucked a guy at the back of a club surrounded by overflowing dumpsters once, but it was certainly the most thrilling. George was acting like he was starved, as though all he needed in this moment was Ringo. With George's mouth working up and down Ringo's length, it was hard to believe they'd only met a few hours ago.

"Jesus." Ringo hissed when George lightly grazed his teeth, he swore he could feel George's sharp canines individually on his sensitive skin.

George hummed happily, taking more of Ringo into his throat. The world seemed to be spinning around him, Ringo had to push his hand against the cubicle wall to gain the slightest feeling of being grounded. Maybe it was his bias for George, but Ringo could swear this was the greatest blowjob he'd ever had. He wondered whether George did this a lot, the thought of that alone released a moan from deep inside him.

Ringo ran his hand through George's hair, it had started sticking together with sweat but he still managed to look good. George let out a quiet gasp at the contact, feeling the coolness of Ringo's jewellery was welcome.

George was quickening his pace now, each time being able to take more of Ringo into his mouth, his determination was certainly admirable, but he never managed to take him all the way. Each time he gagged around the thickness, Ringo couldn't stop the moans from pouring out of his mouth.

"Fucking hell, George..." Ringo panted, gripping tightly at his hair "Your mouth feels incredible, just wanna fuck up into it."

The sound that left George's mouth was purely criminal, groaning with his mouth filled with cock. He looked up into Ringo's eyes with a hungry twinkle, it was all the permission Ringo needed to start thrusting upwards. At first he was cautious, testing the waters as he felt George's throat relaxing around him but soon enough he grew sloppy and erratic.

Everything seemed to fade into the background, all that was left was the sensation of George's hot mouth and the wanton noises he was making. The sounds were obscene, wet slapping of skin on skin, George gagging and moaning.

"Shit, shit... I'm getting close." Ringo announced, he could hardly see straight.

George didn't wait for another word, he pinned Ringo's hips down to the seat forcefully and sank his lips all the way down to the base. Hollowing his cheeks and gagging loudly, Ringo came in an instant, shooting down deep into George's throat. It took Ringo a few moments to recover, still gripping at George's hair tightly.

Pulling off suddenly, George licked his lips and swallowed hard. It was purely pornographic, the way he smiled with specks of cum still visible. Ringo couldn't help himself from rubbing his thumb tenderly on George's smooth cheek, he worried it would be too intimate of a gesture but he didn't seem to mind, instead he pressed his face into the hand.

Reluctantly Ringo pulled the hand away, then passed what was left of a toilet roll over to George so he could clean himself up. George accepted it willingly, standing up and assessing the damage of his trousers which weren't as bad as either one had anticipated, although it was pretty clear what he'd been getting up to.

"Sorry about your trousers." Ringo said hoarsely, pulling up his own jeans and shuddering at the wet sensation against his skin.

"Don't worry about it." George's voice was even more wrecked "Worth it."

Ringo laughed nervously, even after all that he still couldn't help the effect George had on him. He could barely stand, his knees were far too shaky. George looked beyond satisfied, his hair a mess and his cheeks flushed.

"So... What say we head back to yours?" George asked with a grin, despite all the exertion he was still eager.

"I say the Uber can't get here fast enough." Ringo smirked, managing to get up to his feet to kiss George deeply.

He could taste his cum on George's tongue, mingled with alcohol and smoke. Perhaps it was just the heat of the moment, but he could've sworn it was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted.

[anthonyed]

Day 6: Wearing Each Other’s Clothes 

-//-

They fight. Not like the usual heated arguments between them but a full blown fight with raised voices and Steve storming out of the workshop and not returning even after a day.

He’s mad. Judging by the lack of Tony’s effort to seek him out, Tony is too.

Steve wants to say it’s a clash of opinions. But their opinions have clashed numerous times before and deep inside he knows the truth which he’s only evading because it’s easier to pretend they’re all emotionally as mature as the public likes to think; steel wall, unaffected etcetera.

Truth is, their last mission went pear shaped and caused a string of collateral damages that broke the meter of casualty they could deal with as a team for the year and none of them are alright. The air in the tower was still heavy with grief when Steve had tried to lighten up Tony’s mood by bringing up a random topic to chat on. But everything else reined in and the balloon blew so spectacularly that they’re both still reeling from what they’d said to each other.

Steve had called Tony unprofessional and Tony had called him pretentious in return; because Steve said, “We can’t let this affect us so much. We have to move on. We’re the Avengers.”

“Well FYI Steve, we’re also human – oh wait. I’m sorry, some of us are human and some of us aren’t.”

Steve had bristled. “That’s not why – This is not only about being human but about being those who others look up to, we have responsibilities and mooning around when we should be restoring their hopes is a little… unprofessional.”

Tony rounded up on him, seething, “What? Be more like you? Is that it? A pretentious hero? Cause that’s what you are right now.”

And that had hurt. There’s no need for you to call me that, was on the very tip of Steve’s tongue but Tony didn’t look like he was going to listen to anything anyone has to say right then. He looked defensive, ready to fight and Steve was, tired. Exhaustion gripped and twisted his insides and Tony was pouring acid so he turned and left.

Then, there was a call for a recon mission for Natasha and him and Tony was still on blackout mode so Steve had left without a goodbye because he couldn’t spend another round busting his knuckles of Tony’s super-strength proofed glass door.

Steve didn’t even compute half of the things he did during the last three days he was incognito. Natasha was less chatty than usual, her hits less uncontrolled in strength with impeccable precision as if she had been holding back all those other times she’d been on the field. Steve relied primarily on muscle memories and direct orders and for the first time, Maria was yelling up their throats because they were reckless.

It was quiet, bloodier and quick.

Now, Steve’s hugging himself in the back of the Quinjet sulking because Tony is right, while Natasha quietly focused on piloting them back home.

But god, Steve missed him, missed him real sore like someone had bruised his ribs badly and he wants nothing more than to hold Tony right then. But Tony’s not here, he’s back home being mad and Steve doesn’t care if he’s the first one to apologize, he will, because this madness isn’t worth it.

He rather his pride hurt than be like this with Tony.

He wishes their ETA is shorter. He wishes the Quinjet is faster. He knows what he’s going to do the minute they land; ask JARVIS where Tony is and go straight there. No pit stops, all he wants to do is beg Tony to let him in and hug him until this odd heaviness in his stomach fades. Then he’s going to convince Tony to come to be and cuddle with him to sleep. Yes, that’s what he’s going to do when they reach home.

But home is three hours away still and right now the heaviness burns like an ulcer, a feeling that Steve remembers from when he was fifteen and spent every day trying to not drop dead. So he stands up, the insane yearning within him leading by instinct to where the team stores their extra clothes and other necessities for emergencies.

Pulling the storage container out and open, he searches for the sleek black bag that he knows is Tony’s and pulls it out. The moment he opens the bag, Tony’s distinct scent invades his airway and Steve tries not to sob, or sniff closer like a creep. It’s incredibly easy to fish out a warm oversized MIT sweater among the small pile of clothes Tony keeps inside and pull over his undershirt. It’s even easier to dip his chin down, pull up the collar and bury his nose in the fabric.

When Natasha gives him a look from the cockpit, Steve ignores her and curls up in his seat, feeling significantly better with each deep inhale.

Each passing minute feels inconspicuous after that, Tony’s scent enveloping him like a secure blanket and Steve lets himself drift asleep until JARVIS announces the ETA is thirty minutes, which then Steve spends fidgeting nervously, worrying what if Tony wants to break up with him – because that’s a thing Steve hasn’t even considered and he realised that it’s completely possible – and that ulcer-burning is back to haunt his insides again. Then he realises that besides dating, neither Tony nor him have explicitly discussed their relationship status and – well – huh. That is - that makes Steve feel ridiculously stressed out that not even slinking further into Tony’s sweater quells that.

Natasha gives a squeeze to his arm before she walks away. Steve attempts to evaluate the state of his mind for barely a minute at the tarmac before deciding ‘fuck it’ and heading to the workshop. Halfway in the elevator ride, he realises that he’d completely missed the first step which was to ask JARVIS where Tony was at. He pushes the surging panic and opens his mouth but the elevator door is already opening, revealing a quiet workshop; none of that cacophony of holo-screen with their bright blue lights dancing around and Steve feels his heart plummet.

“JARVIS, where is Tony?”

“Sir is in the workshop, Captain Rogers.”

Frowning and eyes frantically searching, Steve murmurs, “Where?”

“Sir is in his cot, Captain.”

“Oh,” Then, “Can I go in?” He almost pleads.

The glass door whooshes open in answer and Steve says his thanks to JARVIS, stepping inside.

Tony is indeed in his cot. With both hands tucked under a soft pillow on a sofa bed, he’s asleep on his side, and Steve just wants to pull the blanket and tuck himself neatly along the curves of Tony’s back.

He considers doing just that but loses himself at the sight of Tony; with a blanket strewn over his legs stopping just below his waist, looking warm and incredulously soft and Steve marvels, thanking high heavens for being able to just lean in and caress his sleep-soft cheek and run fingers through his sleep-soft hair. He’s leaning in to press a kiss over Tony’s forehead when he notices it.

The hoodie zipped up to Tony’s neck is not, Tony’s. He knows that because it’s, well, he left it on the front couch the last time he was in the workshop and Tony must have –

Steve gulps.

Tony’s wearing a t-shirt under that hoodie; black with a little hole at the collar. It’s washed out and it’s what Steve likes to wear religiously even if it earns him dirty eyes from Natasha because there’s something about the way its material clings to his skin screams comfort.

And Tony’s wearing that exact t-shirt under his hoodie. With his hoodie.

His next breath is a little harsh and loud and it jostles Tony from his sleep. “Steve?”

“Hey.” Steve says, breathless.

Tony blinks, “Hi.”

“Scoot over?” Tony complies, and Steve pulls the blanket over his own legs before pulling Tony over his chest.

Tony’s tense for a second, before he goes soft and pliant like all of him had just melted over and Steve holds him tighter, breathing him in with long deep inhales. “I missed you.” He confesses hoarsely, heart racing wildly while he clutches to Tony like a lifeline and Tony hugs him back just as tightly.

“Is that why you’re wearing my sweater?”

Steve snorts. “I notice you stole my hoodie and shirt.”

“Hmm.” Tony squirms, his nose wrinkling a little like it does when he’s nervous.

Steve kisses his head and asks, “What?”

“Think I stole your whole wardrobe.” Tony fesses huffily, a little defensive.

Steve sits up a little to see the beginning of his favourite sweatpants, loose on Tony’s hips and what deceptively looks like a sliver of his old boxer short. He doesn’t want to assume so hooks a thumb down the waistband of the sweatpants and he asks, “Is that -,”

“Your boxer? Yes.” Tony exhales hotly against his neck, squirming some more and oh.

Steve sees what he means by the entire wardrobe and well, he’s not mad, not at all. Especially when he feels the long hard line of Tony’s arousal pressing up his stomach, he throws a possessive leg over his fella, rolls the over and whispers heatedly into Tony’s mouth, “Good. I like that.”

(tagging: @meredithraw)

[lunnamars]

Hello! I heard you wanted prompts ~~ "winter" with Ichiruki please?

Oh hello! So, although IchiRuki is my otp and forever will be, it's been a while I haven't actually read anything about them and there's the fact I have never written anything related to mah pretty babies. Actually, it turned out a little bigger than I expected, but well, I hope you like it! :) 

Ah, a quick reminder that English is not my first language, so forgive me for my mistakes. 

The cold had never been a problem to Kuchiki Rukia, which meant that the winter would never freeze her. After all, she's cold and snow herself. But the loneliness and the melancholy of that particular season had always affected her.

And there was something about the winter of those 17 months she spent locked in Sereitei and away from Karakura Town that had left her frozen inside. And even after all was said and done, when Ywach was gone and he and the others had gone back to his mundane life, she still felt kind of cold.

It has been a year she hasn’t seen him. And it was really fucking cold.

Rukia doesn’t know actually why she had not followed him through the Senkaimon to his world and why she still prevents herself from going to visit him and his family. Karin and Yuzu must be bigger now and way smarter than their thickheaded brother. Their father probably is still the same and she hoped he was, Rukia has always been very fond of him.

He probably was in his first year of college and she is happy for him. Rukia just wanted to tell him herself.

And when the snow is falling and the winds of winter are freezing her bones, she longed to talk to him. She really wanted to hear his voice, he's her best friend, for fuck's sake! Her partner in crime, her ride or die, the one who could actually make this cold go away. 

Rukia knows she had decided to stay, it was not his fault. She decided to stay because her life was actually there, in Seireitei and he deserved a normal life — that's what Rukia has always believed and he knows that. So she stayed behind and started to train harder than before so she could become the next Captain of the 13th Division. In all honesty, she did want to continue the legacy of Ukitake and Kaien, Rukia wanted to guide those people under her command. 

But she also wanted to be with him. 

Why the hell didn't she follow him? Why the hell didn't he ask her to go with him? Why the goddamn fuck did she tell him he should go, so he could still have the life he should have, and that she should stay?

Those 17 months were one of the hardest, with summer or winter. 

She heard from Renji that Inoue finally got to go out on a date with him and that did not sit well with Rukia. It left a bitter taste in her mouth, but she was somewhat happy for her friend.

But did he enjoy it? How did he feel? What was he thinking? She really wanted to know, like the old times. Maybe he wouldn’t tell her, but Rukia knew that just a look into his eyes would tell her everything. That's how they are. And she's pretty sure that if he walked through the doors of the Kuchiki mansion (in this goddamn cold) right now, she would still know him. Like, really know him.

Rukia had no words for the hell they were — just friends, best friends? Lovers? Something that transcends the ordinary idea of lovers? Soulmates?

She did not care. She just wanted to see him, give him a quick hug and then kick him, hear his voice, tell him that it doesn’t matter who he was hooking up with, she'd always be by his side because Rukia had lived a long and lonely life after death and he was the one who changed everything. 

The only thing she was sure it was that there have always had some unmistakable glint in her eyes when she looked at him and Rukia is a closed person, but he would forever break through her walls, baring her soul.

It was fucking cold, the winter was unforgiving this year and she missed him. 

To hell this idiocy of mine, stop being a goddamn coward, Rukia.

"Byakuya-ni-sama, I'll be off for two or three days, but don't need to worry about me", Rukia walks into her brother's office and says, absentminded while reading some reports. She has made her decision, but Kuchiki Rukia does not neglect work.

"I don't think that will be necessary, Rukia", comes the deep voice of her brother.

"What— why—"

And she stops midsentence and dead on her tracks. Her eyes widen and her heart actually skips a lot of beats.

"Ichigo."

"Yo, midget",  he smirks and suddenly, Rukia could not hear the wild winds of winter.

"Well, as I'm sure I'm not needed here, I'll let you both talk in private", Byakuya says with his usual stern demeanor.

Rukia is speechless (and for the record, she is never speechless) and barely pays attention to her brother's departure. He's here. Why are you here?

"Because I was a dumbass a year ago", he mumbles with his everyday frown. She had missed that too. But the fact he basically had read her mind didn’t go unnoticed by her. "I shoulda stayed with you."

She blinks and swallows hard. Rukia wanted to hear that so badly a year go. Heck, she still wanted to hear that, but her instinct to protect him always kicks in and always will if they ever meet again in another life. "No, you shouldn’t have. Ywach's words were not meant to be taken lightly, you moron."

Is it weird that she missed calling him a moron?

"You're unbelievable. I don’t see your sorry ass in a whole fucking year and the first thing you call me is moron?", he was fuming and she sneered.

"Haa… did you expect me to jump right to your skinny arms?", she raised an eyebrow, mocking him all the while.

"Hey!! My arms are not skinny anymore!", he poked her head really hard.

And then Rukia kicked him. Just like she wanted. But Ichigo was Ichigo and he didn’t even let her savor the moment, their moments of the good old days — he grabbed her wrist and pulled her closer. It was so easy for him to tower over her, especially when he catches her off guard, both things never ceased to make her feel somewhat fragile and protected at the same time. It made no sense in her head. 

Then he muttered, “I was a dumbass. I really was.”

And she responded in the same tone, “Me too.”

Rukia knew she already had the distinct spark in her eyes that only Ichigo was able to spurt out of her. It has been a year and he still does the same thing to her, he’s still completely effective against her — the smirk, the softness in his eyes, his unquestionable handsome features.

Those 17 months were the worst of my life, I’m sure of it. The worst winter, I was cold all the time.

But Rukia is stupid sometimes and always so so worried about him and she suspects she forever will. So she blurts, "Inoue is better for you."

Hurt dances in his eyes and a twist of his mouth scream to her how disappointed he was. But Ichigo never backs down, no, not Ichigo. Just a look into his eyes and expression and Rukia knows why he was there. After all, she had said before and will say it again — they know each other so well that it seems almost some kind of witchcraft someone cast on them in another life.

He pulls her closer, really close, and one hand is around her waist and she’s trapped, almost giving in—

"I don't want to be with Inoue", his tone is final, certain.

Then Rukia whispers with a trembling voice as if she doesn’t believe a word that was flying out of her mouth, "Inoue can give you so much more."

"I don't want whatever she can give me."

Ichigo leans in her brother’s desk behind him and they were almost on the same height. He was too tall and she was too short, so she rarely had the chance to be that close to his face to the point of drowning in his brown eyes, see clearly how he had marks from frowning so much and his well-shaped mouth.

He looked frantically at her, orbs moving fast, piercing her own big eyes, expecting some reaction from her. 

I don’t want to be cold anymore. I wanna go home.

"That'd never work. I'm literally a ghost, stupid boy. And you have an entire life ahead of you. Why waste your life with someone who's already dead?", she starts stumbling over her words and her expression was pleading for him to understand, it was almost pitiful, full of the longing of a whole freaking year. “Besides, what about Yhwach? I know I’m assuming you’d be happy with this predicament, but—”

Now he was truly close, looking at her lips, seeming to not listen to a word that was leaving her mouth; deciding, in the end, to swallow her pleas and doubts, “Then I’ll fight him again and again and again.”

Ichigo mumbled in her mouth and then she comes undone when he rests his hand in the back of her neck, his lips meeting hers. They had never kissed before, but somethings stirs inside her, some old memory and then she’s not frozen anymore. Any argument she had, dies in her throat, dies with her gasp and with her eyes closing ever so slowly, dies with Ichigo flushing her body to his, locking and embracing her, with the intensity of a year apart. 

She finds usage for her hands, resting one on his back — feeling the muscles, the spine, everything — and the other gripping his shirt with all the longing she had inside her. Then she had no idea how, didn’t even see it coming, but his tongue found hers and he tilts her head slightly, kissing with all the fierceness he possessed and Rukia caught her breath. With every nip of her lip and any tease of his tongue, he’s asking her to choose him. 

Asking her to stay with him. 

Like she had any control when it comes to Ichigo. So her answer overflows with every bite on his lips, with her hands running up and down his back, with the soft moan she let it slip. 

They part an eternity later so Ichigo could rest his forehead on hers, both panting for breath and she had never felt warmer in her life — no cold and lonely winter is able to break her now. He whispers again, his mouth brushing against hers, "You don't want it to work, Rukia?"

She closes her eyes and mutters, “I don’t want you to die, Ichigo. Everything I did from the moment we met was to make sure you wouldn’t die.”

“Please, Rukia”, a kiss, “It was really hard—”, another kiss, “to keep up with the speed of the world on those 17 months”, a tug on her lips, “Don’t do that to me again.”

“Ichigo—”, she whimpers.

"Let me stay. Please, midget."

Another kiss.

"Are you trying to convince me by kissing me?", she scoffed.

He decided to leave her lips and trail her jawline with slow-dive kisses, then basically purred in her ear, "I don't know, is it working?"

She could feel his smirk. Bastard.

Rukia rested her head on his temple and whispered with the affection she normally keeps to herself, "I want you to stay."

He stops kissing her and holds her tight in his arms, resting his head on her shoulder. "I missed you, you know? It was raining too much already", he says in a strange strained voice.

She answers with one of her own, but with sincerity, "Me too. The winter was almost unbearable, Ichigo."

He moves away just enough to look at her and then has the audacity to grin at her face after so many confessions, "So… is that an order, Captain Kuchiki?"

"I'm still not a Captain, Ichigo!"

"But you will be, so might as well start training", he shot her his lopsided smile that always lets her wondering how someone was not able to fall for it. She did, but no way in hell she would tell him.

She puts her hand in her chin and actually considers his suggestion, Ichigo just laughed. "Mmm, from that point of view, I guess you're right", then she arches an eyebrow and says in a mocking tone, "That's a first, huh."

Ichigo presses his lips in a thin line and she was almost sure there is a vein pulsing in his forehead, "Oe, you damn shorty—"

Before he finally snaps, she dives in and steals another breathtaking kiss and decides that she loved to hear him gasp. In the end, he had convinced her and she knew danger would always be lurking around, hunting them, trying to tear them apart, to sever their red thread, but Ichigo said he'd fight over and over again. So she'd do the same, over and over again.

"Just shut up and stay, Kurosaki."

Winter will never freeze her again.

[ephemeralstark]

Keep On Fighting In the Meantime

Summary: One decision is all it takes for someone's life to be thrown upside down, and sometimes it's not even a decision they've made.

Or, a drunk driver runs a red light and hits a car containing Peter and Happy. The physical and emotional injuries aren't going to go away easily, but thankfully Mr. Stark is always there for his family.

8.5K | Rated T and up | complete

Read HERE on AO3 or click the read more to view here on tumblr

“Peter are you sure you don’t wanna come?” Ned asked as he shoved a pile of papers into his locker, Peter supressed a flinch as he heard some of them tear from the rough force.

“Nah, Mr. Stark said he had some upgrades for Karen and I want to see if I can get her to understand Gen Z humour,” Peter said, “she keeps trying to call for help whenever I make jokes. Apparently, it’s ‘concerning’.”

“I mean it probably is to the uninitiated.” Ned agreed as he tried to jam his locker shut, the papers sticking out around the edges of the door.

“Y’know, MJ is gonna kill you when she sees the state of those.” Peter told him.

“Yeah, but I told her I don’t have room in my locker to store decathlon prep, this will just prove my point.” Ned said with a shrug.

“Dude.” Peter said, shaking his head at his best friend. “You’re a dead man walking. Like genuinely. You must have a death wish.”

“Maybe if she kills me, I won’t have to go to that 8am practice on Saturday.” Ned said after a moment of quiet deliberation as he looked at his locker.

“Bold of you to assume even death could get you out of practice.” Peter snorted, before glancing at him phone that buzzed with a message. “I gotta go, I don’t want to keep Happy waiting. Have fun going over all the wrong answers with the team.”

“It’s meant to be a team dinner.” Ned said quietly, a distinct whine in his voice. “It’s meant to be fun and relaxing.”

“Sure, and MJ stepped down as the leader.” Peter muttered; his words laced with sarcasm.

Peter laughed at Ned’s despair and made his way out of the back door of the school. He had an agreement with Mr. Stark that he would allow himself to be picked up by Happy so long as he used the most discreet car and parked around the back of the school.

While it would have been nice to rub it in Flash’s face that he really was an intern with Stark Industries, he couldn’t be bothered to deal with the extra attention that would come with people believing his story. His classmates would pretend to be his friend only to get close to Mr. Stark and reap the benefits, the media would jump on the story of the high school intern, and some people – in the depths of the internet - would even begin to theorise that Peter Parker was in fact Spider-Man.

So, yes, Peter decided to give up on trying to convince his classmates that he wasn’t a liar.

The familiar Audi was parked by the yellow curb and Peter could see an irate looking Happy checking his watch in the driver’s seat. He mentally snorted, apparently discreet meant an Audi that was illegally parked. Mr. Stark really didn’t have a clue.

“You’re late.” Happy said as Peter opened the back door and threw his backpack in, sliding in after it.

“Actually, I’m not.” Peter said.

“I was here bang on 5:30.” Happy said. “Practice ended at 5:30 and now it’s 5:40. You’re ten minutes late.”

“You’re insane,” Peter declared happily, “and time is a construct. It doesn’t exist, we made it up as humans to suit our needs.”

“You’re not going to exist if you continue speaking nonsense,” Happy said as he pulled away, the child locks automatically clicking on, “time is a real thing, trust me I’ve had enough arguments with Tony about that, and if you’re late again I’m gonna leave you.”

“Mr. Stark would make you come back and get me if you left.” Peter said, calling Happy’s bluff.

“Don’t I know it.” Happy complained. “He’s going soft thanks to you.”

He didn’t say that like it was a bad thing, in fact, Peter thought he almost sounded happy about that fact, but that was impossible. This was Happy they were talking about. Happy was never happy. He was always the grumpy, stoic figure in the driver’s seat who would make snide remarks and complain about the rudeness of youths these days.

If Peter didn’t care so much for his life, he would have called him a grumpy grandpa.

“Did Mr. Stark tell you what upgrades he’s planned for Karen?” Peter asked.

“84 seconds.” Happy said.

“I’m sorry?”

“You managed to stay quiet for an entire 84 seconds, it’s your personal best.” Happy said. “Do you want to try for 100 seconds?”

“Happy, I-” Peter stammered, “was that? Did you just make a joke?”

“No.” Happy said. “I’m serious.”

“Oh, well in that case I should probably tell you that I lost interest in the ‘who can stay quiet the longest’ game when I was five.” Peter continued.

“So, your poor Aunt has been suffering for the last ten years?” Happy asked. “Poor woman deserves a medal.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Peter mumbled. That was a point he wouldn’t argue on.

“Hey, Happy?”

“Kid really?” Happy asked. “What could you possible have to ask now?”

“Well, I was thinking ma-”

Peter didn’t get to finish his question.

His Spidey-Sense rang out loud and clear, it screamed ‘danger’ in his mind, and it was ready for the danger to come before Peter had even realised something was wrong – his hands were automatically in the air, waiting for a blow to land.

Peter’s Spidey-Sense had always been a bit of a guessing game, when he was in a dangerous situation it was useful, when he was fighting an armed assailant he knew that it going off would mean that he was at risk of being stabbed or shot and he could move in time. If he was walking in a dark alley, it could mean that there was someone behind him, so he could turn around in time and they’d lose the element of surprise.

But sitting in the back seat of a car? There was no one following, no one with a knife, and Peter knew Happy had a gun but one quick glance at him showed his hands in the typical ten and two position on the steering wheel. Not that Happy would ever shoot him on purpose, not unless Peter was really, really annoying.

Peter saw the danger too late, his Spidey-Sense had warned him but it was pointless because as he looked out the window and saw the truck coming towards them, he realised there was nothing he could do.

The truck hit with a bone-trembling crash, Peter heard Happy take a sharp breath before cursing loudly and slamming his foot on the breaks. He wanted to tell him that it wouldn’t do anything, they’d already been hit.

Metal gave way, crumbling under the force of the truck and shards of glass rained down on Peter as the windows shattered.

Peter watched numbly as his backpack was tossed around on the backseat as the car was forced to the side because of the impact that had been delivered.  

He was pretty sure he was screaming, but he couldn’t focus on anything that was happening, there was too much noise and light and fear and pain.

Peter didn’t even realise he had been knocked out until he woke up, blinking slowly to remove something from his eyes. He was struggling to focus properly, everything seemed to be hazy and the lights were trailing like a glow stick being waved through the air by a child on a dark night.

He guessed that he hadn’t been out for very long as he was still in the car, strapped in to his seat, he could hear people outside walking around – emergency services must not have arrived yet, because they seemed cautious and unsure about how to proceed.

“Should we pull them out?”

“I don’t think you’re meant to move people with head injuries.”

“How do we know they have a head injury?”

“How do we know they don’t?”

“That kid looks in rough shape, he’s bleeding a lot.”

“I think he’s awake.”

Peter groaned, he assumed that he was the kid that they were talking about, was he bleeding? Where? Oh. He looked down and saw a large, twisted piece of metal protruding from his chest, that was where. As soon as Peter saw the metal, he felt the pain, it was burning and all consuming, he wanted to grit his teeth and be strong, but he couldn’t.

At the end of the day he was a kid, a kid with jagged metal sticking into his body and he couldn’t hold in the screams of pain.

He wanted to go home. He wanted his Aunt.

“Ah, Ha- Hap-py?” He asked between grunts and gasps of pain.

No answer.

“Happy, ow, ah, p-p-please, answer me.” Peter pleaded.

He tried his best to focus, to listen for Happy’s heartbeat but his own was pounding too fast to hear anything else past it. There was too much happening, too many people outside, the car was still creaking and groaning, there were sirens in the distance and Peter’s senses were unreliable when he was feeling so frantic and distracted.

He was just like any other person in that moment, he had no enhanced senses to offer him reassurances, he would just have to hope that Happy was alright until someone gave him a reason to believe otherwise.  

“Clear the way, let us through.”

Peter tried to relax a little as he heard the paramedics arrive, they would help Happy, they’d make sure he was alive, they had to, they had to.

“Kid?” Peter hadn’t realised that the car was on its side until he looked up and saw a paramedic peering through the side window which was now on top facing the overcast skies. “We’re going to get you out, alright, just hold tight.”

“N-n-no,” Peter stammered, “not me. H-Happy.”

“Happy?” the paramedic asked in confusion, obviously wondering whether Peter had hit his head during the accident, to be fair, maybe he had. A lot had happened and at some point, he’d lost consciousness.

“D-driver.” Peter tried to elaborate, oh god why couldn’t they just get it? Every word was hurting.

“Alright, Happy is the driver,” the paramedic said, “don’t worry, we have another team here helping him.”

Peter looked to the front to see that they were telling the truth, there was a paramedic leaning through the broken windscreen to check on Happy, how had he missed them? Were his senses really failing him so drastically?

“See, we’re helping him too, now we’re probably going to need to get the fire service to cut you out, but don’t worry they’re already here so it won’t take long, in the mean time I’m going to come down there and see what I can do to help you.”

Peter nodded, letting his eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment as he breathed through a spasm of pain caused by the movement of the car.

“What’s your name?” The paramedic asked.

“Peter.” He whispered, he was so tired, talking felt like too much energy.

“Alright Peter, now I’m coming down alright?”

He couldn’t bring himself to answer. He was so tired.

The exhaustion was heavy, and it seemed to weigh him down, maybe a nap would be the best thing for him, he would only close his eyes for a minute. It would be fine… just a minute. Someone was talking to him, but Peter was too busy falling asleep to care.

-

“Pete? Peter, come on Kiddo,” a familiar voice was determined to rouse Peter from his peaceful slumber, but he was just as determined to stay in the blissful land of sleep, “Peter, come on, wake up. Please.”

Whoever that was, they sure were persistent, it was mildly irritating.

“He frowned,” another voice chipped in, also familiar but Peter still couldn’t place who they were, “did you see that, he definitely frowned!”

“Peter? Can you hear us?”

“He’s moving his lips!”

“Open your eyes, Peter.”

Ugh! Peter complied, hoping that his irritation at being woken up was clear to see. Oh, it was May and Mr. Stark who had been talking, both of them standing over him and staring at him with expectant looks.

What were they waiting for?

“There he is,” May said softly, “you were beginning to worry us, sweetie.”

“Yeah, May over here was panicking like you wouldn’t believe.” Mr. Stark said, with a faint red hue across his cheeks, Peter was sure he could only see that thanks to his Spidey-Senses.

“Mhm,” May hummed, casting an unimpressed look at Mr. Stark, “I was the one panicking.”

“In my defence-”

“You have no defence,” May interrupted.

“I know, but a car accident?” Mr. Stark asked, Peter had the feeling that hadn’t been the first time he’d asked that question.

“A car accident?” Peter asked, trying to filter through hazy memories.

He couldn’t remember it properly, he could remember chatting to Ned and getting into the back of the Audi – Happy had been his usual grumpy self, but after that, everything was hazy and difficult to comprehend.

Happy.

“Wait,” Peter mumbled, interrupting whatever it had been that Mr. Stark was going to say, “is Happy alright?”

“Uh,” May faltered, looking to Mr. Stark for help. Peter’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, since when did May look to him for advice, what was going on?

“Happy was pretty badly hurt,” Mr. Stark said honestly, “he’s in surgery at the moment.”

“Surgery?” Peter asked.

“He’s strong.” Mr. Stark said, trying to reassure him but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he looked as though he hadn’t slept in a while. They both did.

“How long ago was the accident?” Peter asked.

“A few days, you’ve been in and out of it since then, but you haven’t been able to retain much,” May told him, as she ran a hand through his curls, “the doctors say it’s just because of a bad concussion, and it won’t be permanent.”

“So you’ve told me all of this before?” Peter asked, feeling unnerved.

“Just bits and pieces, this is the longest you’ve managed to keep your eyes open so far.” Mr. Stark said.

“That sounds exhausting,” Peter mumbled, screwing up his nose only to find that there was something shoved up it.

“Don’t pull at that.” May said, gently guiding his hand away, “it’s just something to give you a little extra oxygen and a tube to give you nutrition.”

“Why do I need oxygen?” Peter asked. “I was in a car crash.”

“You were pretty beat up from the accident,” May said calmly, too calmly, she was obviously trying her best not to cause him any worry, “there was a piece of- uh, a piece of metal that stabbed you.”

“Ok,” Peter said, hoping that he appeared calm enough for her to continue, how had he reacted to this in the past? Had he been told about it before? How much of this was actually news to him?  

“It pierced your lung and caused it to collapse,” May said, “they called it, uh, a pneumothorax.”

“Oh.” Peter said.

So… he’d had a collapsed lung, that wasn’t too bad, right? He’d heard about them before, sure, they were dangerous, but he was in the hospital and being cared for, surely that meant he was safe.

“You’re taking this better than last time?” Mr. Stark said, looking pleased with that fact.

“How did I take it last time?” Peter wondered.

“Ugh, there was some panicking, from you and me,” May admitted, “you were convinced that you were suffocating.”

“But,” Peter paused, feeling unsure of himself, “I’m not, right?”

“No, but you did lose a lot of blood, so you’ve had a few transfusions and you should be weaned off the oxygen soon.” May told him.

“It’s weird.” Peter mumbled.

“What is, sweetie?”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

Peter didn’t hear her reply, the sweet call of sleep was too much to resist, he fell into a peaceful slumber with the sound of May and Mr. Stark talking soothingly somewhere in the distance.

-

The next time Peter woke up, he was in darkness. His heart instantly jumped into action as he panicked and forgot where he was, the beeping from the monitor caused a dark mass to move from beside him.

“Hey, calm down, Underoos, it’s just me.” Mr. Stark. “You’re safe, you’re alright, it’s all ok.”

“I’m sorry.” Peter gasped, using the dim lights from some of the machines to focus on Mr. Stark’s face.

“Don’t apologise,” Mr. Stark said, quick to reassure him, “you’re in the hospital.”

“I know.” Peter said. “I remembered this time.”

“Oh, thank god.” Mr. Stark said, falling back against the chair in relief, Peter heard the small exhale of air from the force of hitting the backrest.

“I was just speaking to you and May?” Peter murmured, confused.

“You were, but you’re on some pretty hefty painkillers, Kiddo, you fell asleep for a few hours after that.” Mr. Stark told him.

“I don’t like feeling so tired.”

“It won’t be forever,” Mr. Stark said reassuringly, “in fact, your healing factor is doing amazing things for you right now. You’ll be home before you know it.”

That was right, Peter was Spider-Man, he had a healing factor that had probably saved his life. Happy, though, he didn’t.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter waited for the quiet hum to continue, “how is Happy doing?”

“He’s stable, he’s in the Intensive Care Unit, but they’re optimistic that he’ll be able to step down in the next day or two.” Mr. Stark said.

“Oh,” that was good, not that he was poorly enough to need the ICU, but that he was improving at least, “and May? Where is she?”

“She nipped home about an hour ago to grab a shower and some food, I promised to stay with you until she gets back.”

“Thank you.”

-

The next time Peter woke up, it was light, and the annoying tubing that was blowing dry air up his nostrils was gone. As was Mr. Stark. May had taken his place, curled up on an uncomfortable looking chair, with a book in one hand and a travel cup of coffee in the other – Peter could smell the faint hint of bitterness in the air, she was drinking coffee. That wasn’t like her, May said that coffee normally made her feel jittery.

“May?”

“Oh, sweetie, you’re awake,” she said, tossing her book aside and unfurling her legs so she could rush over to his side.

“This isn’t the hospital?” Peter was sure of that; he couldn’t smell the antiseptic in the air or hear the beeping of thousands of machines anymore.

“No, you’re stable enough that Tony managed to wrangle a transfer to the Med-Bay, although why they had to wait for you to be this stable is beyond me.” May muttered. “You have S.H.I.E.L.D.’s best doctors organising your care, they were looking after you in the hospital too because of your abilities, you could have been moved earlier.”

“I don’t need their best,” Peter mumbled, “I’m doing fine.”

May didn’t confirm or deny his statement, maybe she didn’t want to jinx anything or worry him, “do you want to try eating something?”

“Do they have jello?” Peter asked.

“Do they- of course they have jello, you do realise that this is Tony’s compound, right?” May asked with a teasing smile.

“Fair point,” Peter mumbled, blushing as May helped him sit up in the bed. Was he really so weak that he needed assistance to sit?

Ow.

“Too much?” May asked.

“No, it’s fine,” Peter lied, but he didn’t want her to overreact and lie him back down, he was hungry, “how long has it been since I’ve eaten?”

“A while, but they put that tube in your nose to make sure that you could still get some nutrients, because it just so happens that your metabolism means that you need quite a high intake.” May said. “Imagine my surprise at only hearing about this now.”

Oops.

“I, uh-”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to lecture you while you’re recovering.” May said, waving away his attempts to cover his ass. “Now, sit still, don’t do anything stupid, I’ll be back in a moment with your jello.”

“I never do anything st- well, not intentionally.”

-

“This is a bad idea,” Mr. Stark muttered as he pushed the wheelchair, “like, a really, really bad idea.”

“Shh, if you speak too loudly someone will catch us.” Peter said, scolding his mentor.

It had been two weeks since the accident, two weeks since one of the most difficult experiences of Peter’s life. It was, however, one of the best days Peter had had since the event. He’d been struggling a lot with pain and lethargy, every medical professional had told him that it was perfectly normal, and that he was lucky to have survived, but Peter was growing restless.

He supposed that it made sense to be taking a while to recover when he shouldn’t have made it out alive, but he was Spider-Man, it shouldn’t be taking so long.

He’d wanted to be discharged from the compound, May and Mr. Stark had wanted him to stay in bed, they’d compromised by waiting until May left for work and Mr. Stark smuggled Peter into a wheelchair and promised to take him to visit Happy.

“Maybe someone should catch us.” Mr. Stark muttered.

“I swear, if you’re planning to sabotage us…” Peter let the threat hang in the air.

“You’ll what?” Mr. Stark asked. “Throw your jello at me? Tell on me? Kid, you won’t do anything, and you don’t need to, I’m not sabotaging anything.”

“How is…” Peter paused. “How is Happy?”

“He’s doing well, considering everything,” Mr. Stark said quietly, “he’ll be glad to see you.”

Will he? Peter wondered, it’s my fault he got hurt, I was the one he was picking up from school.

Peter had been told the details of the crash; he knew that it was no fault of Happy’s. A drunk driver had run a red light. It had been that simple and yet, that complicated.

So, logically, there was no blame to be placed on Peter, but then, it was Peter’s fault Happy was in the car; he knew that Mr. Stark would argue with him if he voiced that belief, so he kept quiet, he wasn’t ready for any reassurances, nor did he deserve them.

“Alright, we’re just in here.” Mr. Stark said, as he pushed Peter into a dimly lit room.

Happy had suffered a bleed on the brain thanks to the accident, apparently, he was still getting severe migraines and they were triggered by harsh lights and loud noises.

“He’s sleeping,” Peter whispered, “should we come back later?”

“No.” Mr. Stark hadn’t been the one to answer that.

“Happy?” Peter asked quietly.

“Long time no see, Kid, you’re late.” Happy mumbled, Peter vaguely registered Mr. Stark stepping out to give them a moment.

“Late?” Peter asked, unable to stop the smile from appearing as he grabbed the wheels and pushed himself closer.

“Yeah, I was expecting your annoying face to appear days ago, I never thought I’d get more than 84 seconds of peace.”

“You missed me.” Peter realised.

“Now, don’t go putting words in my mouth,” Happy said, “I most definitely did not say that.”

“You did, you missed me,” Peter repeated, “that’s ok, I missed you too… I was, uh, really worried about you.”

“I was worried about you too, Kiddo, you alright? You don’t look yourself.” Happy said.

“I’m good, much better now than I was.” Peter said.

“Hmm.”

“Happy?” Peter asked, resisting the urge to lean forward and shake the man, “Happy? Uh, Mr. Stark!”

“What? Oh,” Mr. Stark had burst into the room when Peter had called, only to pause and look understandingly at him, “he’s just tired, Pete, he can’t stay awake for very long at the moment. Don’t worry, he’s just sleeping.”

“Oh,” Peter said simply, as he stared at Happy’s prone figure, “will he ever be back to normal?”

“Time will tell,” Mr. Stark said honestly, “the doctors seem optimistic, but they’re sure to let us know it’s a cautious optimism.”

“Can I go back to my room?” Peter asked, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Yeah, of course you can, Underoos.” Mr. Stark said gently, turning the chair to push Peter out the room.

Peter closed his eyes, he could still see Happy lying there, looking so still in the bed, so pale… so-

No.

He was alright, he had sassed Peter, he wouldn’t have done that if he was as bad as he looked. Peter hadn’t realised how much he missed that attitude, how much he missed bickering playfully with Happy.

He missed the older man, the guy who had become such a daily staple in his life. Had he taken his presence for granted? Was that why this had happened? As some sick cosmic way to tell Peter he needed to appreciate those in his life more? Peter didn’t know, maybe there was no reason for any of it to happen, maybe sometimes shitty things just occurred.

Peter knew he should be focusing his questions on the drunk driver – the guy who had managed to walk away with a few lacerations and a broken arm, the man who was at fault had suffered the least. Was Peter a bad person for wishing that guy had been hurt more? Not so much that he had died, but just enough so that he would understand what he’d done to Peter and Happy. Maybe he was, maybe he was too vindictive to be Spider-Man.

“There’s a lot of thinking going on in that head of yours.” Mr. Stark said as he pushed Peter, “care to share?”

Peter shrugged, changing the subject, “this isn’t the way to my room, where are we going?”

“I figured you could see the common area before going back to bed, I stocked that fridge with jello too,” Mr. Stark murmured.

“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t really want to run into the Avengers, not today.” Peter said, feeling guilty for not being excited about Mr. Stark’s kind gesture.

“You won’t, they’re all out on a mission.” Mr. Stark reassured him. “The only person you might bump into is Rhodey, and even then, that’s a slim possibility, he’s meant to be in the gym doing his physiotherapy.”

“Alright then,” Peter said quietly. That wasn’t so bad – he liked Mr. Rhodes, he’d met him a few times and he’d always met Mr. Stark’s chaotic energy with his own deceivingly calm one, they were funny to see together, “as long as there’s lime jello.”

“You’re a really weird kid.” Mr. Stark said.

“So you keep saying.”

“Who even likes lime jello?”

“I do,” Peter said with a pout.

Mr. Stark wheeled him into the common area, it was large and empty – just as promised.

“So,” Mr. Stark said, clicking the breaks on so he could go rootle about in the fridge, “what’s on your mind?”

Peter shrugged, staring at the tabletop until a green pot of jello slid in front of him, followed by a shiny metal spoon.

“Eat up, there’s plenty more where that one came from,” Mr. Stark said, “I’m telling you no one likes lime jello.”

“Well, I do,” Peter mumbled, peeling away the foil lid and crumpling it in a fist, “it’s the best flavour and it’s even better that no one else likes it because then I get it all to myself.”

“Can’t argue with that logic.” Mr, Stark said, taking a seat opposite Peter with his own pot of red Jello – so Mr. Stark was a strawberry guy, that figured.

“What are you trying to do?” Peter asked, narrowing his eyes at his mentor.

“What do you remember from the car accident?” Mr. Stark asked.

“Nothing.” Peter lied.

“Hmm, nope, I’m not buying that,” Mr. Stark said, “you’ve been having nightmares, you keep zoning out, you’re refusing to talk about anything to do with it… you remember.”

“Did May put you up to this?” Peter asked as he slurped jello off the spoon, trying to distract himself from what Mr. Stark was asking about.

Smoke… he could smell smoke all around him, and the sticky odour of engine oil mixing in with something metallic and…oh. Blood. Someone was bleeding, was it him? or Happy? Was Happy even alive? Was Peter?

“-concerned, like me, Underoos,” Peter blinked and tried to focus on Mr. Stark’s words rather than the memories of that afternoon, “we want to help you, we want to do whatever it takes to make you feel better.”

“Mr. Stark, I had a collapsed lung, numerous broken bones, contusions, lacerations, a concussion that caused me to lose days from my memories, and I needed multiple blood transfusions.” Peter said. “I get you guys want to make me feel better, but I almost died, there’s a good chance I would have without my Spider-Man abilities.”

“So, you feel like you shouldn’t be alive?” Mr. Stark asked.

“No…well, kinda, not like I wish I’d died or anything,” Peter was quick to reassure him, “just, if I was meant to die, didn’t I cheat?”

“Cheat?”

“Yeah, like I should be in just as bad shape as Happy is, but because of my abilities I’m sitting in the common area eating jello with you while Happy can barely stay awake for a five minute conversation. It feels unfair, he should be the one sitting here with you.”

“You want to swap places?” Mr. Stark asked, but Peter could tell he didn’t expect an answer. “Kiddo, you can’t think like that.”

“Why not? Don’t you want the same thing?” Peter wondered.

“Of course not!” Mr. Stark’s voice was loud and verging on shouting, it hurt Peter’s still tender brain. “I don’t want either of you to be in Happy’s position, and just because you can heal, doesn’t mean that you aren’t affected by the crash.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry for shouting, kid, but you’re not, you’re wishing you could swap with Happy.” Mr. Stark said. “You’re wishing for further injuries because you feel some sort of misguided guilt over what happened.”

“It’s not misguided!” Peter snapped, dropping his spoon on the desk with a clatter.

“What do you mean?” Mr. Stark asked gently, too gently, Peter broke.

“Happy should have never been there, I shouldn’t have been ten minutes late, I could have walked or got a bus or a taxi or swung over, I could hav-”

“Woah, woah, woah!” Mr. Stark interrupted. “Slow down, take a deep breath.”

Peter copied Mr. Stark’s exaggerated deep breaths, mimicking the man like he used to as a kid – back when Ben would applaud him for wearing one of his old suit jackets that hung down to Peter’s ankles and tripped him up as he paced back and forth in front of the TV quoting Tony Stark’s clean energy speeches.

“Peter…kiddo…you can’t tell me you think this was your fault?”

“Why not?” Peter asked numbly. “It was.”

“No, it wasn’t, it was George Hendersen’s fault. No one else’s.”

Huh, George Hendersen. It was such a normal name, the kind that a father, brother, son would have. Peter wondered how many people were left confused and pained over his actions? How many members of his family were trying to deal with the knowledge that he had gotten behind the wheel of his car, drunk?

“Why did he do it?” Peter asked, tears falling without his permission.

“Oh, kid,” Mr. Stark said, abandoning his red jello in favour of kneeling beside Peter’s wheelchair, “look at me-” he paused, waiting for Peter to comply, “I don’t know. I wish I did, I really do. I wish I could give you an answer that would make all the pain and fear make sense, but I don’t have anything to tell you.”

“I hate him.” Peter said, the words pouring out without any bite thanks to the sobs that escaped with them. “Is that wrong of me?”

“No,” Mr. Stark said, “hate is a real strong emotion, and my therapist would probably say it’s dangerous to hold onto hate, but personally I hate him too.”

“I wish he hadn’t done it.”

“Me too, kiddo, me too.” Mr. Stark said quietly, before holding his arms open, “come here.”

Peter fell into them easily, breathing in the familiar scent of cologne and grease, Mr. Stark wouldn’t let George Hendersen hurt him or Happy again.

-

“What do you mean he got community service?”

Peter’s head jumped off the pillow with a protesting throb at the shriek that seemed to pierce through his walls and door.

“May, calm down,” Mr. Stark’s voice was quieter, he was trying not to wake Peter, not that it mattered now, “you know I’m going to get Pepper and my best team of lawyers on the case.”

“How the fuck could this happen?” May asked, only a fraction quieter.

“He’s rich, white, and has connections.”

“He nearly killed two innocent people!”

Peter carefully slipped his legs out of bed, toeing on his slippers and inching towards the door.

“He will pay, even if it kills me, I’ll make sure that he pays for what he did to Pete and Hap.”

Peter opened the door, alerting May and Mr. Stark to the fact that he was awake. They cast glances at each other meaningfully before their expressions smoothed out, they were planning to keep it from him.

Did they think that he couldn’t handle this? That he would break down at the thought of his almost murderer walking about normally? His only punishment being that he was losing his free time to help clean the streets of New York or something. Would they even suggest rehab?

“Hey, morning Peter, I thought I’d drop by on my way to work,” May said with her familiar, easy smile.

“Look at you, up on your own!” Mr. Stark said looking proud. “How do you feel?”

“My leg aches a little, where the break was, but otherwise I’m alright,” Peter mumbled, looking between the two of them, come on, come clean and tell me.

“Well, sit yourself down, I’m making breakfast and you can take your painkillers.” Mr. Stark said.

“You’re making breakfast? You?” Peter asked as he hesitantly took a seat at the table.

“Hey!” Mr. Stark protested, flicking some pancake batter Peter’s way. It landed on his nose. “I’ll have you know I’m a great cook. Back when the Avengers were an actual team, me, Cap and Bruce would make huge meals. We could have fed an army; trust me Cap would have known.”

“Do you miss those days?” Peter asked, taking a sip of the glass of milk that was placed in front of him; Mr. Stark didn’t let him drink coffee. Apparently, he had his hands full enough without a caffeinated Spider-Kid sticking to his ceiling, Peter hadn’t mentioned that he had never been on the ceiling in the Compound…at least not that Mr. Stark had seen.

“Sometimes,” Mr. Stark replied with a shrug, “but I prefer these days more.”

May smiled, seemingly understanding whatever Mr. Stark had meant by that.

“You’re weird.” Peter declared, wiping the milk moustache away with the back of pyjama top’s sleeve.

“Peter!” May scolded in exasperation. “There’s a stack of napkins right there.”

“Oh, uh, sorry.”

Peter bluffed his way through breakfast and made his excuses to leave and shower as soon as he thought he would get away with it – too soon and they may have realised that he had been listening to their conversation.

“Hey, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” Peter asked quietly.

“Yes, Peter?”

“Uh, if I asked you to look someone up, would you tell on me?” Peter asked, feeling like a little kid trying to convince an older sibling not to tattle to mom.

“It depends on who you want me to look up and what information you would like to know about them.” F.R.I.D.A.Y. said.

“Oh, ok, so theoretically if I asked you to look up someone called George Hendersen, would you tell MR. Stark about that?” Peter asked.

“Yes, George Kieran Hendersen is on the list of people you are not allowed access to, and should you request it I will be forced to send an alert to Mr. Stark’s cell.” F.R.I.D.A.Y. informed him.

“You haven’t though, right?” Peter asked quickly. “I wasn’t asking you to actually do it, I said ‘theoretically’.”

“Correct, the alert has not yet been sent.”

“Great, uh, thanks F.R.I.”

“No problem.”

Peter groaned and shoved his face in his pillow, of course Mr. Stark would put safeguard in place, this was the man who had created the baby monitor and training wheels protocols.

He knew Peter, but… he didn’t know Peter’s friends.

Peter pulled out his phone, typing out a quick text to his best friend:

‘Hey Ned, I need you to do me a favour and look up a George Kieran Hendersen pls’

Send.

Ned was probably at school, but that didn’t stop him from replying in a matter of seconds. Sorry dude, Mr. Stark already said I couldn’t.

Well, fuck…

Peter could have screamed into his pillow.

-

Blood. There was blood everywhere, it was surrounding Peter, preparing to drown him and he couldn’t breathe. He was covered in the thick dark red liquid. It filled every gap and stained everything around him.

He was in the car, the Audi, but it didn’t look like it normally did. The silver paintwork was coated in the sickening red liquid, and the metal frame was twisted and jagged; it looked sharp and ready to bite Peter.

“Happy, we need to stop, this is wrong.” Peter said, from his place in the back seat.

Happy couldn’t hear him.

The glass shattered.

“Happy, we need to stop, something bad is going to happen.” Peter continued.

He still couldn’t hear Peter, he needed to get closer, Peter pushed the button to release his seatbelt but it nothing happened. He jammed his finger against it repeatedly, trying his hardest to free himself from the strangling hold it had on him.

“Happy, please, stop the car, he’s going to hit us.” Peter begged. “Please! Stop! Stop the car! Stop the c-”

“-eter! Peter! Come on kiddo, that’s it, come on,” Mr. Stark’s voice pulled him from the blood filled, twisted car.

“Misser Star’?” Peter slurred in confusion, before the panic brought him back to consciousness faster. “Blood, I’m covered in blood, and I can’t move.”

“There’s no blood kiddo.”

“No blood?” Peter mumbled out the question in confusion, how was that possible? He could feel it, it was everywhere. He was covered in it.

“No blood.” Mr. Stark confirmed. “F.R.I.D.A.Y. can you turn the lights up please?”

Peter blinked against the harsh light but allowed Mr. Stark to pull him up into a sitting position, still leaning heavily against the older man.

“Look, kiddo, no blood.” Mr. Stark confirmed.

He was right. “But it was so real?” Peter marvelled, running a hand over his t-shirt, trying to find traces of the red liquid that he had been so convinced was there.

“Nightmares will do that to you, kiddo.”

“It wasn’t a nightmare.” Peter mumbled.

“No?” Mr. Stark asked, “what would you call it then?”

“I uh, I don’t know,” Peter mumbled. “I’m fine though, I’m completely fine.”

“Come on,” Mr. Stark said, standing up and holding out a hand to pull Peter up off the bed.

“Where are we going?” Peter asked.

“Well, me and Happy were having hot cocoa and I figure you’d benefit from joining us.” Mr. Stark said.

“You guys are having hot cocoa?” Peter asked in confusion.

“He’s still getting migraines and I’m meant to be caffeine free after 6pm.” Mr. Stark said with a shrug.

Happy had been improving, slowly but surely, it had been a month since the accident and Peter was physically all better, but he refused to leave the compound until he knew that Happy was better. Thankfully, Mr. Stark had been able to use his influence to organise online classes for Peter to complete the year and May had understood.

Peter was lucky.

Happy was lucky.

So why wasn’t it good enough? Why was he still faced with the nightmares and the memories? Why did he flinch when a car honked its horn? Why did he wish he had taken Happy’s place? Why did he wish Hendersen could feel the same pain they had felt?

“It’s a bit late for you to be up.” Happy commented as Peter sat opposite him, Peter followed his gaze to the clock – 01:21 – huh, maybe it was a little late.

“One hot cocoa coming right up, peppermint free for the spider.” Mr. Stark announced as he rummaged in the fridge for milk.

“I couldn’t sleep.” Peter lied to Happy.

“Yes, you could,” Happy corrected, “you just couldn’t forget.”

“Can you?” Peter asked.

Maybe 1am was the time to be honest, maybe when the safety of daylight was gone, the night-time allowed them to be vulnerable with each other.

“No.” Happy said gruffly. “Honestly, I can’t forget any of it, and I’ll never stop feeling sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Peter asked, frowning to himself.

“For not stopping in time.” Happy said.

“The light was green; you were right to go.” Peter said, staring at Mr. Stark’s back as he did so, he couldn’t meet Happy’s gaze. He couldn’t look him in the eye while knowing that he was the reason that the accident had happened.

“I saw the truck coming.” Happy said. “I just couldn’t do anything in time, I couldn’t stop quick enough or swerve out of the way. I could have killed you kid, because I couldn’t do anything other than panic.”

“Happy…” Peter paused, trying to work through everything that he’d just heard. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard you say, and you told me you hate froyo.”

“Yeah, me and Hap have been trying to work through his misguided guilt over the accident.” Mr. stark said, placing a mug in front of Peter.

“It’s not misguided.”

“You’re right, it’s completely unwarranted.” Mr. Stark said.

Wait. What?

“Happy, no,” Peter interrupted, “you don’t need to feel guilty, none of this was your fault. It was mine. I should have been on time after Decathlon practice, I should have been ten minutes earlier and then we wouldn’t have been at that intersection at the same time as Hendersen, I should have gotten to the tower some other way. You are Mr. Stark’s head of security; you shouldn’t be chasing me around the city or chauffeuring me back and forth between here and Queens.”

“Kid, Happy is the only one I would trust with you.” Mr. Stark said. “Both of you need to get off your self-sacrificial high horses and accept that the only person who should be taking any blame for this is the guy who decided to drive whilst drunk.”

“Tony told me you were trying to look him up.” Happy said quietly.

Peter’s gaze shot to Mr. Stark who was purposefully looking at the countertop, he knew? Why hadn’t he said anything?

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. you’re a traitor.” Peter mumbled.

“I did not tell Mr. Stark about your theoretical enquiry.” F.R.I.D.A.Y. informed him.

“You didn’t?”

“No, she didn’t, it was Ned.” Mr. Stark said.

“Ned?” Peter asked, betrayed by his own best friend.

“Yeah, he’s worried about you, you’ve been dodging his calls, ignoring his texts and then you randomly messaged him asking him to trace the person who hit you and Happy.” Mr. Stark said. “I think he’s pretty right to be worried.”

“I’m fine.” Peter said.

“No, you’re not.” Mr. Stark interrupted.

“I am.”

“You’re not,” Happy said, “and I know, because I’m not either.”

“You- you’re not?” Peter asked.

“Not at all, Kiddo.”

-

Two long, difficult months had passed since the accident. Peter was doing fine, he really was, despite what Happy and Mr. Stark said. He was going out as Spider-Man for a couple of hours each evening, he was meeting his friends once or twice a week and he was planning to ask MJ on a date.

He was fine.

Sure, he was still having nightmares, he refused to get in a car, and he would freak out at the sight of blood – which in retrospect made being Spider-Man slightly more difficult, but he was doing fine.

He didn’t really understand why he was still having so many ‘problems’.

He was alive.

He should be grateful for that; he knew that Happy was. Happy was even driving around the Compound, he wasn’t quite at the point where he could drive the streets of New York, but he was certainly doing well within private grounds.

May had brought up the subject of him moving back into the apartment a few times, and Peter wanted to, he really did, but every time he ventured into the city there were cars everywhere. They were loud, their tyres would screech, and horns would blare. Even though Peter wasn’t in them, he was scared.

He knew he was worrying everyone.

He was worrying himself.

“Peter, this isn’t your normal patrol area.” Karen said, interrupting Peter’s thoughts.

“I know, K, I just have something to do here,” Peter mumbled, as he scaled a building, eyes fixed on the balcony that he remembered from his computer screen, “it won’t take long.”

“Would you like me to alert Mr. Stark to your detour?”

“What? No! why would I want that?” Peter asked, irritation staining his tone. Why was everyone so ready to snitch on him?

“Just in case back up was required.” Karen said. “But your wishes have been noted.”

“Thanks, I promise, we’ll be back to our normal patrols soon.”

By normal – peter did not mean normal at all – he meant a short patrol in a low traffic area of town. He wasn’t ready to handle car accidents and hijackings just yet. Soon, but not right now.

The door to the balcony was slightly open, obviously the man inside hadn’t expected anyone to climb up to the seventh floor, after all, why would he?

“No, no, no, Jennifer, stop, think about this.” A man pleaded, he sounded so normal.

“I can’t do this anymore George,” Jennifer said, “I just can’t, you don’t even have any remorse.”

“I have plenty of remorse!” George shouted. Peter flinched. “I’m not allowed to drive anymore, my job laid me off, you and the kids have been so distant lately and that fucker, Stark, is still coming for me.”

“They’re all consequences.” Jennifer said. “That’s not remorse for your actions.”

“What more do you want?”

“I want you to look fucking sorry, that kid you hit? Stark’s intern? He’s the same age as your daughter.”

“I know that!”

“Why don’t you care?”

“He’s fine, he’s got Stark’s money, he won’t even care at this point.”

“This is about money?”

“No, it’s about you being a fucking judgemental bitch when you’ve made mistakes.” George shouted.

“Yeah, my biggest one was marrying you!”

SLAM

Huh, maybe Hendersen wasn’t as happy as Peter had thought, but still, he wasn’t as guilty as he’d hoped. He didn’t even seem to care that he was drunk driving, he only cared that he had been caught.

“Hey, Karen?” Peter whispered.

“I’m here.”

“Can you tell Mr. Stark that I’ll be home early tonight?” Peter asked.

“Sure thing.”

Peter had meant to confront Hendersen, to shout at him and tell him how much his actions had hurt Peter and his family, but now it seemed pointless. If Hendersen’s wife wasn’t getting through to him, why would he care what Peter had to say? Why would he care that Peter was still traumatised and scared? He wouldn’t.

Peter had heard the cocky edge to his voice, he knew that nothing he said would break through. It was pointless.

But peter wanted to be better.

Thwip

Thwip

He wanted to be the old Peter, the one who had carelessly thrown his backpack in the car and jumped in behind it. The one who knew accidents happened but never thought that any would happen to him.

Nobody ever does, Peter thought bitterly, as he ran out of trees to swing from and resorted to trudging the last few miles to the Compound.

“Hey, Pete,” a metallic voice said from beside him causing him to jump nearly a mile out of his skin, why hadn’t he heard him approach? Was he that off his game?

“Mr. Stark.”

“Karen said you’d be early.” Mr. Stark said, the suit retracting so he could walk beside Peter.

“Yeah, I told her to.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mr. Stark asked.

Did he?

Not really.

Yes.

“I went to Hendersen’s apartment.” Peter admitted. He heard Mr. Stark’s sharp inhale, but was grateful that he wasn’t interrupting, instead he was letting Peter talk. “I know I shouldn’t have. It was stupid.”

Peter pulled his mask off, he was on the Compound grounds, there wouldn’t be anyone going about to see him.

“It was.” Mr. Stark agreed.

“I didn’t speak to him.” Peter said. “I just stood outside; he was arguing with his wife.”

He has a wife, and kids, he’s such an ordinary man.

“Did it help?”

“No.” Peter said simply. “I want to hate him. I wanted to talk to him and make him hurt as much as I did, but then I heard him talking to his wife and I don’t know anymore. I don’t think that any amount of talking would help. He was a bad guy.”

“It’s not fair.” Mr. Stark said.

“I don’t know what I wanted.” Peter admitted. “I guess I’m just fed up of feeling like this.”

“Scared?”

“Always.” Peter mumbled. “It was a car accident, people have them all the time, why can’t I just get over it?”

“because you’re a kid, and it was scary and it’s not something you’re going to be able to forget about quickly.” Mr. Stark said.

“I should be stronger.”

“You’re plenty strong.” Mr. Stark said. “You’re the strongest kid I know, in fact you’re stronger than most adults.”

“But-”

“No buts on this on, Underoos.” Mr. Stark said.

“Aren’t I making your life harder by being here though?”

“Not in the slightest, I love having you here, just ask Pepper and May.” Mr. Stark said. “I’d keep you if I could.”

“I’d stay if I could.” Peter admitted. “I’m scared to go back to May’s.”

“Have you thought anymore on my offer of therapy?” Mr. Stark asked.

“I have…” Peter said, hesitating, he didn’t want to take Mr. Stark’s money, but… “I think I want to go for it.”

“I’ll support you every step of the way, Kiddo.” Mr. Stark promised.

“I know.” Peter said. “I heard something else at Hendersen’s… he said you were going after him?”

“Damn right I am,” Mr. Stark said, ruffling Peter’s hair, “he hurt one of my closest friends and my kid.”

[brawlingdiscontent]

the men of metal, menacing with golden face, 2/?

a.k.a sequel to terrible with the brightness of gold

(cherik fic, viking au, subtle a/b/o, mature rating)

(first part) (tl;dr for any of you, like me, who can’t remember what happened: Charles wakes alone, finds he’s trapped in the tent, snoops around and writes a secret letter)

(part three)

This part is dedicated to all you amazing anons and non-anons who have been checking up on me and sending encouragement. You know who you are!

Warning: this chapter contains minor descriptions of violence, graphic threats of rape and murder, and some misogynistic/feminizing slurs (none of these last from Erik)

.

..

...

As Charles is marched outside the tent and herded through the camp, guarded in front and behind, he reminds himself that Lehnsherr needs him alive. The thought is especially comforting as he hears the crinkle of the letter concealed up his sleeve. 

There’s no Azazel this time to fetch him. In the bleak silence of the passage, marred only by the everyday sounds of the camp, he almost misses the other's cheerful if subtly threatening presence. Now there's just the crunch of feet on the compacted dirt of the camp. Of course, there’s no need for such official escort, nor for formality now, he thinks grimly. Formality is for guests, which he is no longer. Now he's caught.

He hears them before he sees them, in snatches of raised voices, as they approach the edge of camp. The voices echo as though carried on the wind, rising in pitch in the distinctive pattern of an argument, but words indistinguishable. 

They round the corner and the narrow view of tents opens up onto the plains that demarcate the outskirts of the camp. Horses are tethered here, by a small copse of trees. He sees Lehnsherr attending to a horse, his figure—though by no means short—dwarfed by the hulking, agitated form of another man: the source of the argument. Despite the size difference and latent threat in the other’s posture, Lehnsherr, though tense, looks more bored than worried.

As they get closer, it becomes clear that the conversation is uneven. The large man seems to be doing most of the talking, his anger apparent. Lehnsherr’s reaction is subtler, but appears in the tight curve of his shoulders, gradually stiffening as the man goes on, like a bow drawn taught just before it’s loosed. Before Charles can begin to suss out the particulars of the dispute through tone and gesture alone, it erupts. In a flash Lehnsherr's opponent buries a dagger in the point of a nearby tree, and then tugs it out aggressively, brandishing it in threat. Lehnsherr, for the first time, looks up fully from his task. He says something, steady and so low that Charles can’t even make out the shapes of the foreign words. With a thunderous look the other man lowers the knife, and, sneering, retreats. Throwing final warning glare back over his shoulder, he stalks off into the thrum of camp heading somewhere off to Charles' left.

Curious though the scene is, Charles only half follows the man’s progress, for the sight of Lehnsherr sets off a flare in his chest that's been building, smouldering since he tried to leave the tent that morning. He forgets his apprehension at the ambiguous summons and breaks from the rank of his escorts. A breath later he’s standing before the man.

“I told you I wouldn’t be a prisoner.” The accusation spills out of him, sharp and hot.

"Charles," Lehnsherr says in dry acknowledgement. “A moment, if you would.” 

He doesn't like the familiarity of his name as it curls across the other man's tongue. 

Lehnsherr gentles the horse--who’d begun to flick its tail nervously at the commotion--and gestures off to the side. It’s only then that Charles sees the dark-haired woman beside him. She's much smaller than the man who just left, so much so that he failed to notice her. She doesn’t seem to be an alpha, but her dress is looser, freer than that he would expect of betas or omegas. Lehnsherr picks up the interrupted conversation, imparting a few more words; likely some kind of instructions. She gives a brief reply, perhaps an affirmative, and darts a curious glance at Charles before slipping off back through the camp—possibly following the path of the man who just left, but he doesn’t turn to look. 

Lehnsherr watches her go for a moment. "Now then,” he says, sparing Charles a mere glance as he turns back to the horse, a mare with a silver-studded bridle—probably not his, “what was it you wanted?"

“I won’t be confined to a tent,” he repeats. Anger still colours the words, but of a more controlled sort, his initial outburst steadying to composed censure now that his displeasure has been given breath.

When Lehnsherr looks up at him, his eyes are shaded, obscuring his expression and any hint of whether he’s surprised or displeased by Charles’ outburst. 

“For your protection, I assure you,” he says with a wry twist of his mouth. “I was concerned about you wandering around on your own in the midst of such unsatisfied men.” 

Though it's seemingly said in humour, Lehsherr’s voice carries an acerbic note to it, as if to remind Charles that it was he himself who had forestalled that satisfaction by leading the omegas and beta women out of the city.

He ignores the warning in the twist of the other man’s words. “You’ve no right to keep me.” It’s a foolish statement to make. Even had he not the conqueror’s right to do as he pleased, then the right surely falls to Lehnsherr as his husband-to-be.

Lehnsherr tugs the lead to check it’s secured to the tree and steps suddenly away from his horse—and into Charles' space. Charles feels his pulse pick up, despite himself, not sure what to expect.

Were they commoners, it might appear to be the close conference of a newly-engaged couple; young lovers tentative in their newfound intimacy or drawn together by the animal urges of youth, like the amorous shepherds sung about in the bawdier ballads. But for people of their station such marriages do not exist. Marriages are made for political reasons, not romantic ones, and whatever else may lie between them Lehnsherr’s gesture denotes not intimacy but a desire to shield their conversation from those around them—the scattered remnants of his guard and runners scurrying back and forth—and most of all, a power play. To lean back would be to cede ground, so despite Lehnsherr's uncomfortable closeness, Charles stands firm.  

“In the past day you’ve proven yourself more capable than my top generals combined." The words slip silkily from Lehnsherr's tongue in almost an accusation as he fixes Charles with a piercing stare. He notes Lehnsherr’s arm where it hangs loosely, aligned with but not quite touching his. It burns with the potential to grab his wrist and close the final distance between them--in violence or in something else. 

“Beyond that,” the other man continues, “you've all too readily shown that your loyalty lies with your people. I would be a fool to ignore the evidence I am presented with and underestimate you." 

Charles feels a burst of regret, then, at the necessity of showing his hand and drawing Lehnsherr’s scrutiny—though never at its result—while at the same time he's somewhat relieved that Lehnsherr had confined him in order to protect himself, and not in demonstration of his beliefs on the place of spouses. 

His point made Lehnsherr steps back, leaving a gap in the space where he stood, and returns to the horse. He grabs a coil of rope hanging from a nearby branch and begins to fashion a hitch, when Charles’ mind suddenly catches up to what he’s seeing.

"What are you doing?" 

With an efficient tug, Lehnsherr finishes tying the hitch, securing an oilskin bag to the saddle. 

“Leaving.”

“Leaving?” For a split second Charles imagines he means the island; withdrawing to the longships and departing, leaving the shores of England bloodied and battered behind them—before reality catches up with him. Such an undertaking would require the disassembling of the entire camp, yet the preparations around him suggest a smaller party, a group of men, only. His hopes raised deflate once again, dropping back into the reality of the present moment.

“Yes,” Lensherr continues, unaware of his brief flight of fancy. “It's what I summoned you to tell you. We’ll be married when I return.”

“Why, what’s happened?” He ignores the latter point in favour of more pressing concerns. 

Lehnsherr doesn’t respond right away. He seems to be considering whether or not to tell him. He holds out a hand in gesture, and a man, one of Charles' guards, offers over the casket from the tent. Charles very deliberately does not look at it, wondering if Lehnsherr will be able to tell that it's been disturbed, will notice the missing vellum.

“I've received report of a disturbance near Eoforwic," the other man says at last, relenting. "I’m heading off to investigate.”  

A disturbance...what could it be? What force in the land would dare to rebel? He now sees the reason for Lehnsherr’s hesitation. Regardless of the distance to Eoforwic, Charles’ actions have certainly marked him out as a suspect. But one thing Charles knows for sure...

“I’m coming with you,” he asserts confidently. “And beyond that, I’ll need my men back to accompany me.”

“I’ve just told you I can’t trust you, Xavier,--” he starts at in suprise his family name -- “what makes you think I would ever allow that?" Hardness and wariness are the dominant notes in Lehnsherr’s tone, yet they make way, in part, for exasperation and a hint of something further—humour, even admiration at his daring, and, unmissable now that he knows it’s there, the faintest undercurrent of desire. Lehnsherr has relaxed his barriers, perhaps; or else he is starting to be able to read the other man. He can use this.

“If you don’t trust me, wouldn’t you rather I was somewhere you could watch me?”

“And your men?” the other’s amusement is such that Charles can hear the implied finish...how are you going to justify them?

“You yourself have just told me that you keep a dangerous company. Who better than my own men to protect me?" His tone offers a hint of challenge. "Call it a demonstration of good faith, a show of Danish spousal respect,” he adds, recalling Lehnsherr’s words the previous night. Bold, but he thinks he can get away with it. “Furthermore, I’ll need to fetch my travelling clothes.”

Lehnsherr looks at him, now, with a calculating stare, as though he’s weighing his options carefully. His blue eyes appear quite grey in the afternoon light. 

“No,” he says at last, tone firm. “I’ll let you send someone to the city for your things. But that’s it.”

Charles opens his mouth to object.

“If it’s so important to you to be near your men,” Lehnsherr presses on before he can utter a word, “you’re welcome to stay here with them.” 

The glint in the man’s eye is the equivalent of a victorious grin on his reserved countenance, and Charles closes his mouth, accepting the temporary defeat. 

He submits once again to the escorts when Lehnsherr gestures them back over and directs them curtly in Danish. Their presence no longer chafes as much, having tested Lehnsherr’s limits and found some slack. If he’s caught now in Lehnsherr’s grasp, there’s give; and if he’s careful enough, strategic enough, he can use it in order to wriggle free.

.

…

.

Going through the camp a second time, Charles notices what he should have seen sooner: the signs of a journey in the making. The camp is buzzing with potential, like a dragonfly touching down on the water, its surface thrumming with tension. As they walk he sees a few more of those he assumes are beta women and omegas, moving with the camp’s rhythms. There’s even a child or two, ducking into tents and scampering underfoot.

The guarded tent they are approaching is a familiar sight. This particular tent is big, large enough to require the support of a central wooden pole that shoots up towards the sky. A place for meetings, likely, or even dry goods storage. 

“Be quick about it,” the group's leader says sharply when they stop outside. She's a female alpha, demonstrable, as Northern custom dictates, from the braided sash she wears across her shoulders. With the tinge of red in her hair she might remind him of his daughter, were it not for her lethally sharpened teeth. 

He wonders if her keenness to hurry him along is based on an explicit order from Lehnsherr, or if she’d just prefer not to waste time watching him. Whatever the case, he's relieved to note that her instructions don't seem to extend to surveillance, and he’s free to duck in under the canvas flap alone, stepping into the muted light of the tent. 

There's a moment of hesitation at first, as the tent’s occupants attempt to identify the intruder, and then a voice calls out, “M'Lord!” and the title spreads through the tent’s close quarters. As his eyes adjust from the brightness of the day outside, the shapes of his men, his formal escort of the day before, emerge. They snap to a semblance of attention, those seated scrambling to stand even as he waves them to rest. They look bored, restless, but other than that, fairly well. 

The tent floor is unlined, sparsely sprouted with grass that’s gradually giving way under the churn of feet, and he can see little in the way of what they might have used to pad or warm their sleep. But there are much worse ways to pass a night, and such conditions certainly shouldn’t have troubled the hardened warriors Logan had selected. The most offensive thing in the space is the strong stench coming from the bucket in a corner.

He gets this all in a quick glance, holding off on further assessment: he has a task to complete. Acknowledging their bows with a tilt of his head, he passes through the group, seeking his commander, and finds him leaned up against the tent’s central pillar. 

“Logan---what on earth?--”

The man’s left eye is a bloodied, bruised mess. A split in the skin near his temple oozes blood, most of it drying or tacky; and besides the purple bruises raging like a storm across his face, the white of the injured eye is inflamed with the red of burst blood vessels.

With evident difficulty, he attempts to stand, pushing off the pole to support himself as Charles rushes forward to stop him.

“Stay down, please!” 

He settles a bit as Logan somewhat complies, not so much lowering himself as collapsing back into the pole. Logan’s eyes, both the bruised and the normal, are active, taking Charles in as though seeking assurance that he remains unharmed. The last time the other man saw him, Charles realizes, he was dragged off by Lehnsherr’s guards to uncertain fate. He senses Logan struggling with the desire to question him about what’s occurred--prevented, Charles suspects, partly because as Charles’ subordinate it’s not his place to ask. But more, perhaps, because no matter the answer there’s not a thing he can do about it. While Logan’s not up to questioning, however, Charles certainly is.

“What happened to you? Who did this?” 

“It’s nothin’. Probably had it coming.” 

Logan’s brusque reply prompts an imperious eyebrow, which yields a few more words of explanation: "Got a little worked up is all.” 

It’s bullshit and they both know it.

The two stare stubbornly at each other, at a standoff. While Logan is fiercely loyal, and would never withhold something of strategic use or relevance, obdurate man that he is, Charles thinks with mixed emotion, he would certainly keep something back if he felt in doing so he was protecting Charles.

Charles examines Logan’s face carefully, the desire to know warring with external pressures. At first glance his injury seems to be mostly superficial, but his hunched posture and stiff movement suggest damage that extends beyond his face. And yet he may not have much time here, who knows how long the guards’ patience will last? Logan’s looking back at him like he knows it, too.

Reluctantly, he lets it go, but not without shooting Logan a warning glance to signal that they will discuss it later.

“I need someone who can take a message.” He can’t send Logan, now. Were he in shape to make the journey, his injuries would attract unnecessary attention—though the choice of his commander would have been suspicious, regardless, for such a trivial task.  

"Alex."

"Alex. Which one is he?” Charles asks, scanning the assembled group.

“Over there,” Logan offers. “Far side. Blond kid, skinny.”

Charles looks over and catches sight of the youth that Logan means. He’s younger than most of the men and seems somewhat scrawny, not strong enough to have joined the honour guard, but perhaps that's why Logan selected him: he is unlikely to be seen as a threat by any of Lehnsherr’s men guarding the gates. Then, once he’s in, he will pass through the city relatively unnoticed.

He nods and briefly claps a hand on Logan’s shoulder in thanks, communicating in the wordless language that is their shorthand both the reassurance of a commanding officer and the support and gratitude of a friend, and goes to find Alex. 

As he passes near it, the flap at the tent’s entrance flutters—doubtless a signal from one of his guards telling him to hurry up. Drawing close to the membrane, he calls out in his most regal tone, “I’m not yet finished,” and hopes it will appease them for a few more moments. 

He stops before the young man Logan had pointed out.

“Alex.” 

“Sir! Your Highness.” He ducks his head, as though slightly awed at being addressed, and only Charles’ firm hand on his shoulder keeps him from jumping to his feet. He looks a bit peaked. Charles crouches down to speak to him which will serve better to hide what passes between them, even from the rest of the tent.

“Have you all been fed?” he asks first. It’s something Logan certainly would have concealed, should the answer be negative.

“Yes, your Grace—I mean, your Highness—” 

“Good.” Charles says, cutting off any further attempts at formalities. “Now, listen to me. I’m sending you on a mission of the utmost importance. I need to know that you can follow my instructions exactly.”

Alex nods, his eyes widening at the seriousness of the task with which he is to be entrusted.

“I need you to go into town. I’m sending you under the guise of retrieving some items from the keep, which you’ll do as well, but more importantly I need you to arrange to have this message passed on. There’s a person in the village, Roz, white hair. You’ll find them in the Blacksmith’s forge. It’s vital that you deliver this to them."

He slides the paper, the letter written in Lehnsherr’s tent, free from his sleeve. “They’ll know where to send it.”

The letter is for his children. Despite the promise of their safety he'd extracted from Lehnsherr their position remains precarious; worse, if he can't find a way to let Raven know what has happened. Before she took the children to safety Charles impressed on her that should she not hear from him within two month’s time, she was to assume the worst: that the negotiations had failed and he was dead, and was to flee with the children out of the reach of the assassins would likely follow. Lehnsherr will have spies in and around Normandy, and now that they've come to an agreement would likely read Raven’s flight as a sign of Charles' treachery—that he was moving his children to safety before striking back. He's not sure that he fully trusts Lehnsherr's promise, but fleeing again now is the surest way to get them all killed. Thus: the letter. Phrased tersely, it instructs Raven to remain in place. It's not exactly treason, but taken in the wrong hands, it could easily, perhaps willfully, be misunderstood, and so demands utmost secrecy.

Charles reaches into the folds of his tunic and draws out Sebastian’s seal, which also he presses into Alex’s hands. Since he couldn’t risk signing it, the letter will require another form of authentication.

"Hold this separate and send it with the letter,” he instructs.  “If anyone sees it before then, tell them it is for the guards at my chamber, to allow passage. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.”  The look in Alex’s eyes, which resolves from uncertainty into determination, affirms for Charles that Logan suggested the right man. “I will guard it with my life.” 

This most important task secured, Charles takes a moment to consider something else. 

“Alex,” he says, hesitating only slightly, “what happened to the commander?”

There’s a reluctant pause, as the other almost squirms under his gaze.

“They were provoking him....saying things about you, Your Highness, about your character.” He looks embarrassed and this, if anything, confirms Charles’ suspicion that Alex is a new recruit. Embarrassment and shyness don’t last long in the company of warriors. 

Charles looks back at him expectantly, silently prompting him to continue.

 “That is...about you and Lehnsherr...and the things you might be getting up to...together…” 

Ah. 

While Alex hadn’t managed to finish the sentence, the redness in his cheeks makes his meaning unmistakable.

Even knowing the tenor of what was most likely said, Charles is too weary to bother to muster up embarrassment or indignation. Especially not when it’s so close to the truth. 

“I see,” he says, realizing he has one important task left to fulfill. And then: “Don't forget your commission. Lives beyond mine rest in your hands.”

Once Alex gives his solemn confirmation, Charles rises and makes his way to the front of the tent; waits until he has the group’s attention. 

“I thank you all for your service and loyalty,” he begins, pitching his voice to carry, so all of his men can hear. The faces of the hardened warriors looking back at him are defeated, set with grim expectation in place of hope. The fact that he’s addressing them at all is indicative of how far they’ve fallen. When the battles were still raging their orders were conducted through Logan, a matter of practicality that also allowed those of them (of whom he’s sure there are many, even here among Logan’s chosen) who respected him only as Shaw’s consort the pretense that Charles was not in charge. 

“I’m working to secure your release, but in the meantime, I’m sure you all want to know where things stand.” He swallows, clears his throat. “An accord has been reached. Erik Lehnsherr has promised to honour the treaty and guarantee the lives of the citizens. Your families should be safe.” He hesitates on the final words, not quite wanting to speak them into being; as though this moment, insignificant though it is, marks the point of no return. “And to seal the bargain...I am to marry him.” 

The news should be comforting. The marriage will afford the Saxons another layer of protection; much more than they had before. And yet there’s much resentment towards the Danes over the violence they have wrought, the Saxon lives they’ve taken, and the air is clouded with mixed feelings. This union, advantageous though it may prove to be, forever ties the Saxons to their enemies in the final sign of their defeat. 

While Charles surveys the assembled men, there’s one area of the tent he can’t bring himself to look, to the one man who won’t find much comfort in the knowledge that any outrages done onto Charles will be overwritten, any stains on his honour restored by marriage. He doesn’t want to meet Logan’s gaze, for fear of what he’ll find there. Anger, maybe. Accusation; pity. Or perhaps, most painful of all, the loss of something that never could have been. 

The fabric near the tent opening flutters again, this time with more impatience. Somewhat relieved at the chance to duck out from under those eyes, both seen and unseen, he moves back through the flap to scold his overhasty guard.

“Yes, what is it?” he demands, falling back on imperious, “I told you--” ...I’d be a few minutes. The words die in his throat as he almost bumps into the man waiting outside the tent. 

It’s not one of his minders. For a split second he entertains the absurd notion that he’s nearly walked into a bear; until he looks up and realizes it’s a large man wearing a bear cloak, the man’s barrel chest before him covered in the cloak’s thick fur. His gaze travels further up to a heavy brow, banded by widows’ peaks. Masses of unkempt hair sprout from the man’s head, separated only by several braids, dotted throughout, which are threaded with what seem to be teeth. It takes him a moment, overwhelmed by the man’s presence, to realize he’s seen him before. This morning, talking to Lehnsherr. Angry. 

“Your Highness.”

The title on the bear-man’s lips is not sardonic like it is on Lehnsherr’s, or histrionically obsequious like Azazel’s. Nor skittish as on Alex’s. But hard, flat, and raw, as though he’s chewing the words and spitting them out. While preserving the physical distance between them, he looks Charles over in a way that feels as intimate and violating as unwanted touch.

“Lehnsherr may be willing to forgive,” the man says, “he’s long scorned our ways. But I know it was you who robbed us of our rightful spoils.” 

Spoils. The word sends a chill up Charles’ spine, knowing he’s not talking of treasured objects.

“You’re a pretty little bitch, aren’t you?” the man continues. Despite vitriol of the words, he maintains an impassive, solemn countenance, his expression fixed except for his mouth, which now twists up into a sneer. “Pretty enough that he spared you. But if I were Lehnsherr I would have stuck my cock in you and gutted you while I was still inside you. Then fucked you until your screams died away.”

The afternoon light barely reaches the shaded side of the tent, and darkens farther in the man’s gaze, seeming almost to vanish into it. His yellow eyes glitter, burning like the dense centres of coals in a brazier. And swallowing all the light.

…

..

.

----

And 5000 years later, here’s an update. Hopefully the next one will not be so long.

To anyone still hanging around, thanks so much for reading and for putting up with my shameless misappropriation of history for personal edification!  Apparently this fic now has shades of Xavierine, which is akasanata and gerec’s fault!

[moonlightstars16]

Misunderstood Rage

30 Days Connverse Challenge

Day 20 ~ A Heated Argument

It began as a simple errand. Steven has picked up a sort of baking habit lately. It was a way to ease his mind off things. A week prior he had one of the worst nightmares of his life. Now nightmares were something he could shrug off easily. In fact ever since getting therapy it became much more so. At least after going to many sessions is when it began.

However this one took it way to hard and hit him to close in the heart.  Even though they had talked through and worked out everything and have been dating for at least a year; the past wanted to come out and play. Wanted him to never forget. But he fought against thoughts like that. He loved Connie no matter what. He already forgave her just as much as she forgave him if not more. Or at least that's what he thought.

His dream was horrific to say the least. She promised to be his knight and fight by his side when they were kids. Now she swore on her sword that they were a team in anything they did regardless. In his nightmare he saw her petting Lion whilst leaning against him and reading a book. Both perched on the top of the cliff  overlooking the ocean. She looked up and immediately was met with his own eyes. Smiling she closed her book and stood up.

But then that's when it happened. She had closed her eyes briefly since her smile was so big. Then opening them like a snap of the fingers he gasped. Her beautiful brown doe-like eyes were now blood red and black. Putting her arm behind her back she pulled her sword out from it's sheath. Like it appeared out of thin air. Taking her fighting stance she lunge forward towards him. Only her target was actually behind where he stood.

Turning around his own eyes widened in shock. Everything seemed to be in slow motion as she swung her weapon at a shadow figure. Nothing distinctive could be made clear out this person except for a mini version of the Rejuvinator Spinel brought two year prior in hand. Ready to strike at his heart. Now it changed directions to strike at her.

He lunged forward and tried to summon his shield, but it was no use. The mysterious shadow slashed the small electric blade right against Connie's front side. Just as she stabbed whatever the creature was in the middle. Only to find it seemed to be like a ghost. Disappearing into nothing. But that didn't matter as she fell, blood trickling down her skin into a small pool on the ground.

The worst thing of all, he couldn't heal her.

She died in his arms.

Gasping out for air he turned and was overcome with relief as his beloved laid right beside him. Sleeping soundly. A smile graced his lips. When suddenly he glanced upwards and saw the mysterious figure right beside her. Only this time the figure wore a cloak and had a devious smirk. With quick reflective skills he summoned his shield between her and the shadow and held her close.

"Stay away from her!"

"As long as you are by her side. I will always exist."

What are you talking about?!"

The smirk turned into a maniacal laugh as the figure pulled back the hood of his cloak, revealing a figure with a pink glow illuminating his entire body. Eyes shaped like Diamonds and a smile so wicked it rivaled the Diamonds. Steven gasped with a shocked expression.

"I'm the manifestation of all your guilt. What you feel every time she puts herself in danger to save your life!" Reaching out to pull Steven up by his shirt collar pulling him close to his face. Everything around them had disappeared into a black void. "Until you forgive her for what happened, I will never leave!"

"Forgive her for what?!"

"Figure it out!"

Sitting up straight from his sleep, drenched in sweat he glanced over to see her sleeping form right up beside him. His eyes flicked from her to the side of the bed where that figure appeared. Sighing he got out of bed and went to the bathroom. Sitting in a tub of water and thinking about what he meant. What was it that he didn't forgive her for?

'The dinner where our families met? No she and I already discussed that. I understood her reasoning. When she didn't talk to me after surrendering myself to Homeworld? No that's already been taken care of. When I proposed? Well that's the first thing we discussed since I got therapy and we've been dating. So no not about that.'

He thought about it more and more, every argument, every petty disagreement they had. Nothing. Thinking to his dreams he winced at seeing how blood lust she became, how determined she was to keep him safe from the shadowy figure. Then it hit him all at once.

'Her Sword training...'

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

"Steven....Steven!"

"W-what? Huh?" He looked at the items she was holding and gave a fake smile. "The green icing will do just fine." She gave him a once over look before putting the stuff in the cart. Connie wanted to get out of the house and do something to take her mind off studying. So he agreed to take her with him. Now wondering if that was a good idea.

He couldn't even think of his own baking project with her around. In fact ever since his dream he hadn't been even wanting to get close to her. Let alone kiss her. And she knew that. At first maybe it was another thing he was going through. Then he avoided her like the plague and disassociated when she was around. It hurt her to see him acting so coldly around him.

She had even stolen a kiss while they were leaving the checkout line and he just looked at her without any emotion. Usually a simple kiss on his cheek would make him smile. But now she realized something was wrong and she was to blame. Tears glazed over her eyes as she walked ahead of him quickly.

"Come on, let's go."

Neither one of them couldn't even look at the other during the entire ride back. In fact Connie had found herself scooting closer to the door of the car. Wanting to give him as much space as possible. Hand was over her heart as she gripped her blouse and looked out the window. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the pain she felt. And it made him feel worse about what he was doing. And yet something inside of him couldn't reach out to her. To inform her things would be okay. When they arrived back home and he had just put away the last of his supplies, he heard it.

"I-I'm so sorry Steven." Her voice was soft and full of sadness. Turning around from where he stood, he saw her holding her arm, head downcast in shame. Biting her lip as he could've sworn she was shaking a bit. The kitchen counter between them seem to make the distance so much more than it was.

"What do you mean?"

"Steven did I do something wrong?!" Shooting up a look that was a mixture of anger and sorrow he was taken aback. "All week you've been avoiding me! If you need me to go I will but if I did something that made you upset, please know that I am so sorry! I never meant to hurt you at all! Please, all I ask is that you tell me what I did and I'll never do it again!"

"No more sword fighting...."

"What?" Her voice dropped to a whisper as it was her turn to be in shock. "I-I haven't used the sword in months Steven."

"You're a liar." He mumbled under his breathe.

"Excuse me?! What did you just say?!"

"YOU'RE A LIAR! You Lied about not using the sword! But I saw you! You used the sword right in front of me!" He was leaning against the kitchen counter with fists on top. Just like she was only her grip was tight on the edge.

"Oh is that so?! Then tell me when did I supposedly used it right in front of you!"

"A week ago! On the beach!"

"Steven a week ago I was with my parents before heading to your place for dinner!"

"You killed someone!"

"Oh that's rich, who did I kill?!"

"YOURSELF!"

Everything went silent. Connie took a few steps back with her hands over her lips. If she was feeling guilty before, the feeling was a million times worse now. Anger clouded her mind and her vision. Not being able to see the full picture even if it was happening right before her eyes. She knew better than to let it come to this... but it did. Whatever happened before, didn't matter anymore. What's important now is helping him.

The pink glow. A sign of his rage. Coupled with the furious expression on his face. Yelling in anger at what was he blamed her. Fists forced at his sides, elbows slightly bent, breathing quick and heavy. Thoughts clouded his site, blinding him.

He felt it.

A touch of a hand on his upper arm. Wrapping itself around his muscle. Head down on his shoulder. Hand on his back rubbing back and forth. His entire body began to ache

He heard it.

The sound of a gentle tone shushing him. Calming him as his sight returned to the present. The blurriness fading into where he was standing. Eyes darting around, visions of windows, a table, a warp pad....

He sensed her.

His eyes landed on the one person he loved. The one he couldn't live life to the fullest without. Someone who was standing right there, right now, in his presence. Glancing down, her long black curls and tight grip in her hand, while her forehead rested against his frame.

Feeling tears falling and setting his t-shirt. His body trembled and shook, the glow faded until it disappeared. He pulled her in his embrace as tears of his own came over his cheeks. Head on top of her as she wrapped her arms around his torso, Clenching the back of him, careful of her own fingernails digging into his skin. It wouldn't have mattered because of his healing abilities. But it didn't matter. She couldn't hurt him like that. She couldn't bare to hurt him at all.

Or to see him in pain.

He rubbed her back whilst running his fingers through her hair over and over. Silence fell between them. Not a word was spoken. In their hearts they said it all.

'I'm so sorry...'

'I'm always here for you biscuit. My sweet Steven....'

"Please don't scare me like that again."

"I'll try my hardest for you.... I can promise that."

"It's all I could ask for."

Pulling apart he placed both hands on her cheeks. Her hands on his chest. Eyes gazing into one another as he wiped away her tears.

"My sweet, beloved, Jam Bud...My Connie. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scream at you like that."

"It's alright Steven. In all fairness I didn't exactly help in such matters."

"But....I need help if I go to far....please...pull me back if I fall off the cliff."

"Oh Steven..." Connie smiled and wiped away his own tears before giggling slightly. A laugh to ease off the tension she felt. They both were feeling. "I'll jump off and make sure we don't drown together in the sea. Be of open mind for me and we will be okay."

"Wow....listen to who is the cheesy one now." He laughed as she frowned, lightly hitting his chest.

"Way to ruin the moment, you dummy." Chuckling still, as she joined in a mere second later. Leaning in to kiss her forehead, both cheeks and then lips before pulling her close in his embrace once more.

"I'm your dummy."

"Shut up you block of cheese with aside of cringe."

Though he was right. He was her dummy. Always will be. Just like she was the jam to his biscuit from oh so long ago. Easing back into the light heartedness of their laughter and loving aura. They stayed together in that position for awhile. He explained everything to her. The dream, what he had felt and what he left fester in his mind. She accepted and forgave him instantly.

After talking about the beginning of her sword training, allowing Pearl to make her feel like a nothing and putting herself in danger, he forgave her too. It might have happened long ago, but he needed to let go of all these petty feelings. Happy to know she allowed him to let go in this way. Lifting up her head he pulled her in for a gentle-turned-passionate kiss. As all their love overflowed, surrounding them both in it's warmth.

[spn-rewrites]

01x13 (part 1)

Season One Episode Thirteen: Route 666

a/n: first, i’d like to say i’m sorry but i’m back if anyone cares at all. i would like to stick to a schedule, a real one, that forces me to do this because the truth is, i do love it. i enjoy it so much but i also have a main blog that i write for as well as working full time and other obligations, so sometimes this takes a backseat and i wish that wasn’t the case. SO! if anyone is reading this, if ya’ll are still out there, please let me know what kind of schedule would be ideal. as always, love you the very most. please reblog if you enjoyed it and any and all feedback is welcome and appreciated. thank you. xx

synopsis: dean gets a call from an old friend that turns out to be more than just an old friend

word count: 4092

and of course, i can’t find a gif for this part so already, i’m a failure

Dean is quick to cancel your current case in Pennsylvania, telling you right outside an old gas station that you needed to head to Missouri again. At first, he is sharp, blunt, and tight-lipped to any details other than the fact that it was an old friend who’s father was killed. It wasn’t until you are in the car and on the way to Missouri when he actually spills the beans and told you and Sam that it was Cassie who had called. 

Cassie seemed so far away and distant to you now, like an old memory that only holds a taste of nostalgia but you sensed by the change in Dean’s demeanor that she was much more than that to him; even still to this day. He’s avoiding eye contact and dismissing all of Sam’s questions. “By ‘old friend’ you mean,” Sam starts, trailing off the end of his sentence. 

“A friend that’s not new,” Dean quips. Sam chuckles at his brother and shakes his head. 

“Yeah, thanks,” Sam says. “So, her names Cassie, huh?” He asks. “You never mentioned her.” Sam crosses his arms over his chest and looks knowingly in Dean’s direction. Of course, Dean never told Sam about Cassie. You were very much a part of that time in Dean’s life and he tried to keep her a secret from you, too. He’d go out late and have midnight rendezvous with her, coming home before John woke up and noticed he was gone. You always noticed, though, and it wasn’t until a lot of pushing and prying that he finally told you. 

“Yeah, we went out,” Dean tells his brother. You inject yourself into the conversation, your head peaking out from the backseat between the two boys. 

  “He loved her,” you sing, looking at Dean. A blush rose to his cheeks but he cleared his throat and shook his head, ignoring you completely. 

“You dated someone?” Sam asks, surprise laced in his voice. Of course, it was surprising for Dean to have dated someone, especially considering his devotion to the work that you do and his constant remarks about Sam and Jessica but he did. And he loved her. “For more than one night?” 

“Am I speaking a language you’re not getting here?” Dean snaps and Sam laughs. You can sense his tension, his reluctance with the conversation and you know he’s stressed about seeing Cassie again. After all, she broke his heart. “Dad I were working a job in Athens, Ohio. She was finishing up college and we went out for a couple of weeks,” he explains like it was nothing. 

“And?” Sam pushes. 

“And, he loveeeeed her,” you sing again. This time, Dean gives you a glare of annoyance and you smile proudly at him. You know this is the last conversation he wanted to have, but Sam won’t stop pushing until he has the details he wants. 

“Look,” Sam says as he shrugs his shoulders. “It’s terrible about her dad, but it kind of sounds like a standard car accident. I’m not seeing how it fits with what we do,” he says. Sam looks back at the road and sits with his thoughts for a moment and then he comes to a realization. “Which, by the way, how does she know what we do?” 

“Dean told her,” you mumble from the back. You’re picking at some loose seams in the seat even though you know Dean would have a cow if he saw you and the words didn’t really process in your head before you say them.  

“You told her?! The secret? Our big family rule number one - we do what we do and we shut up about it,” Sam yells. Your breathing catches and you feel guilty almost for exposing Dean like you did but Sam would have found out eventually. “For a year and a half, I do nothing but lie to Jessica, and you go out with this chick from Ohio a couple of times and you tell her everything?” Sam’s face is turning red and you feel uncomfortable almost. It isn’t easy keeping a secret as big as the one you had, especially when you fall as deeply and as hard as Dean had for Cassie. You never really blamed Dean for telling her, in fact, he consulted you beforehand and you gave him the go-ahead but considering Sam’s negativity surrounding the entire thing, you keep that part to yourself. 

“Yeah, looks like,” Dean says, brushing off his brother’s anger. He wouldn’t admit it, but it was much more than dating for a couple of weeks. You think maybe he would defend himself, yell back, or tell Sam your involvement but he keeps his mouth shut and continues to drive without saying another word. 

The music plays a little louder and the tension grows a little thicker with each passing mile until you reach the sheriff's department in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, where Cassie and her family now live. When you go inside, Cassie is having an argument with someone and it looks like she’s losing. When all is said and done, she turns around and sees Dean and they make eye contact for the first time. 

Her eyes go soft at the sight of him like there’s no one else in the room and your heart jumps a beat just thinking about how happy Dean was the last time he was with her. “Dean,” she breaths out like a sigh of relief. 

“Hey, Cassie,” Dean says and Cassie closes the distance between her and the three of you. The two of them stare at each other like they’re in a movie. Like the entirety of their relationship was playing inside the other’s eyes. 

You look up at Sam and he looks down at you with a smirk on his face and you lean up, “see?” You whisper in his ear. Sam smiles wider and looks back at Cassie. 

 Eventually, Dean clears his throat and introduces Sam. “This is my brother, Sam and you remember, Y/N, right?” Cassie nods and says her hellos but her attention is right back on Dean. “I’m sorry about your dad.” 

“Yeah, me too,” she says. 

+++

Cassie takes the three of you to her parent’s home and you sit between the two boys on an old couch with an ugly pattern on it while Cassie prepares tea that no one really asked for, but she insisted so you all obliged. 

“My mom’s in pretty bad shape,” Cassie says as she comes back into the living room with a tray of the tea. “I’ve been staying with her. I wish she wouldn’t go off by herself, she’s been so nervous and frightened.” Cassie sets the tray down on a table and pours each of you a cup of tea. “She was worried about dad.” 

“Why?” Dean asks from next to you. 

“He was seeing things,” she says. When Dean asks for more information, Cassie tells him that her dad swore up and down that he saw a black truck following him. 

“A truck? Who was the driver?” Sam asks as Cassie brings the cups of tea around to you. You take it from her and smile, mumbling a thank you just as Sam and Dean did. 

“He didn’t talk about a driver, just the truck.” Cassie sits down on the chair opposite of you and rubs her hands against her jean skirt. “He said it’d appear and disappear and in the accident, dad’s truck was dented like it had been slammed into by something big,” she explains. 

“You’re sure this dent wasn’t there before?” You ask her. You set your cup on tea down on your lap so you resist the urge to start bouncing your leg. You tap the tap of the little plate instead. 

“He sold cars, always drove a new one,” Cassie says and shakes her head. “There wasn’t a scratch on that thing.” She sounds so convincing that you almost believer her before you get any more information. “It had rained hard that night. There was mud everywhere. There was a distinct track of muddy tracks from dad’s car right to the edge,” she says and then her voice cracks, “where he went over.” She resists the urge to cry as she looks down at her lap and you look up at Dean. His eyes are soft as they look at her, like seeing her in pain was causing him pain, too. Cassie looks back up but her sadness was replaced with anger. “One set of tracks, his.” She was insistent and determined. 

“And the first person who was killed was a friend of your father’s?” Dean asks, trying to get more information about the other victim. 

“Best friend - Clayton Solmes. They owned a car dealership together. Same thing - dent, no tracks,” she tells you. You take a sip of your tea and try not to grimace at the taste of it. You were always a coffee girl, no matter how wired it made you. “The cops said exactly the same thing as they did about Dad - he lost control of the car.” 

“Can you think of any reason why your father and his partner might be targets?” Dean asks her. Cassie shakes her head, no. 

“And you think this vanishing truck ran him off the road?” Sam asks. His eyebrows are raised and he asks her like he doesn’t quite believe her. 

“When you say it aloud like that,” she sighs. The sadness was back. The pain of not knowing what happened to her dad etched all over her face. “Listen, I’m a little skeptical about this ghost stuff or whatever it is you guys are into,” she says and keeps her eyes trained on the ground. 

Dean chuckles and shakes his head, “a little skeptical? If I remember, I think you said I was nuts.” You look up at Dean with wide eyes. He never told you that part. 

“That was then,” she says. Dean bums and nods his head like the answer wasn’t good enough for him but Cassie ignores it and sighs. “I just know that I can’t explain what happened up there, so I called you.”

You look over at Sam and he looks back at you and shrugs his shoulders just as the door opens. All

four of you swing your head around to the front door and an older woman with light brown hair and a trench coat walks in. 

Cassie’s quick to her feet and the three of you follow suit. The woman, Cassie’s mom, puts her hand to her chest when she hears Cassie call for her. She looks at you and the boys in surprise. “I had no idea you’d invited friends over,” she says. She was breathless. 

“Mom, this is Dean and Y/N, friends of mine from…..college,” Cassie explains. Her hesitation between words makes Dean shift on her feet and the two exchange a look that makes you exchange a look with Sam.  “And that’s his brother, Sam.” You wave at Cassie’s mom but she doesn’t smile or acknowledge either of you at all. 

“Well, I-I-I won’t interrupt you,” she says. She stutters over her words and rings her purse straps in her hands like she’s nervous. She goes to turn away when Dean stops her. 

“Mrs. Robinson?” She turns back around to look at Dean. He clears his throat and says, “we’re sorry for your loss. We’d like to talk to you for a minute if you don’t mind.” 

She looks offended at his question and furrows her brows at him. “I’m not really up to that just now,” she says and pushes Cassie’s hand off her arm as she storms out of the living room and up the stairs of the house. Cassie wears a face of sadness and disappointment but you all three give her a smile. 

+++

In the early morning, you and the boys are called to yet another crime scene. Jimmy Anderson, another black man killed. There are police cars everywhere and medics putting a body covered in a black bag in the back of the ambulance and Cassie was arguing with a man that looks like he’s wearing a tu-pay. 

“Did the cops check for denting on Jimmy’s car to see if it was pushed?” Dean asks as you walk up behind Cassie. She turns around to look at him and the man she’s arguing with looks offended that Dean would question his police department. 

“Who’s this?” The man asks Cassie, nodding towards you and the boys. 

“Dean and Sam Winchester, their friend Y/N,” she introduces you and then introduces the man as Mayor Todd. 

“There’s one set of tracks - one. Doesn’t point to foul play,” he says without saying hello to either one of you. He’s quick to dismiss any of Cassie or Dean’s concerns and he seems rather certain. You look around at the scene. A busted up car with the front bumper hanging off. One set of tracks in the mud following it. 

“Mayor, the police and town officials take their cues from you - if you’re indifferent about -“ Cassie starts her argument but Mayor Todd cuts her off. 

“Indifferent?” He asks. 

“Would you close the road if the victims were white?” She snaps. You raise your eyebrows but you always remembered Cassie to be quick and strong and never back down. 

“You’re suggesting I’m a racist, Cassie?” He asks. She tilts her head, taunting him, telling him the answer is yes. “I’m the last person you should be talking to me like that.” 

“And why’s that?” Cassie asks. 

“Why don’t you ask your mother?” Mayor Todd says. He looks up at you and the boys briefly before turning around and walking away. You almost could feel Cassie’s anger radiating off of her. 

+++

Instead of a hotel room, you convinced the boys to rent out a cute little cabin for the few days you’d be in town. Now that you were in it, it kind of creeps you out with the deer antlers on the wall and weird creaky doors. You sit on the edge of the bed and Sam grabs his suit jacket from next to you and starts adjusting his tie. “I’ll say this for her, she’s fearless,” Sam says. He goes right in front of the mirror to see himself as he adjusts and Dean’s standing next to him, doing the exact same. 

“Yeah, Cassie’s a total badass, huh?” You say and walk to join them after you slip on your heels. They click against the wooden floorboards and once you’re in front of the mirror, you fix your lipstick and fluff your hair. 

Dean just mumbles a response to you and as Sam puts on his coat and he looks at his brother. “Bet she’s kicked your ass a couple times,” he jokes. He looks back at himself in the mirror and adjusts his tie. You put your heels on the dresser in front of you and look at Sam in the mirror. 

“She totally has,” you tell him and laugh. Dean looks over at you and glares. You smile at him sweetly and he smacks the back of his hand against your thigh. You were wearing tights but that didn’t protect from the sharpness of his hit. The three of you were dressing as insurance agents this time. All black suits for the boys and a little black dress for you. Paired with the tights, it was rather professional looking but without: it would kill. “What? It’s true,” you defend yourself. 

Sam laughs and then lets out a sigh, shaking his head a little bit. “Well it’s interesting that you guys never really look at each other at the same time,” he says. You look over at him but he looks past you and at Dean. “You look at her when she’s not looking. She checks you out when you look away,” Sam continues. Dean glares are him, too, but he doesn’t respond. “It’s just an interesting observation,” he pauses, “in an interesting observational way.”

“Yeah? Like you and Y/N?” Dean quips. There’s a sharpness in his voice, anger. You snap your head to the older brother and your eyes widen. You hear Sam chuckle from behind you. “Anyway, you think we might have some more pressing issues here?” Dean’s tie is finally straight and he throws his hands up and let them fall, smacking against his thighs. 

“Hey, if I’m hitting a nerve,” Sam trails off his sentence and walks away from the dresser you were all getting ready at. Dean groans and follows him, telling you to leave. You fan out your lashes one last time before grabbing your purse off the bed and following the boys to the Impala. 

You had asked Cassie for any contacts close to Jimmy Anderson. Anyone that could give you any useful information. She gave you the name Ron Stubbins, who you found outside of a bait shop playing checkers. 

Ron is unfriendly at first, a grumbly voice with anger behind it. “We’re with Mr. Anderson’s insurance company. Just here to dot some I’s and cross some T’s,” Dean explains to Ron. 

“We were just wondering if the deceased mentioned any unusual recent experiences?” Sam asks. You hold a small, open notebook in your hands and you tap the end of your pen against the blank page. 

“What do you mean, unusual?” Ron asks. He seems unconvinced and the man sitting next to him was checking the three of you out so closely, you start to feel uncomfortable. 

“Visions, hallucinations,” you say to give some examples, trailing off at the end of your sentence where Dean picks up immediately after. 

“It’s all part of a medical examination kind of thing,” he says. He sounds unsure of himself and Ron senses it. 

“What company you say you were with?” He asks. Dean pulls out a piece of paper that was so obviously fake but he only pulls it out enough so Ron can see that it’s there and Dean tells him you’re with All-National Mutual. 

“Did Jimmy ever say anything about seeing a truck? A big black truck?” You ask. Your eyes are more focused on the man sitting next to Ron, who was now looking anywhere but at the three of you. He looks like he knows something. 

“What the hell are you talking about? You even speaking English?” Ron asks. He goes back to playing his checkers game when the man next to him speaks up. 

“This truck,” he starts. “A big, scary, monster-looking thing?” He asks. 

“I think so, actually,” Sam says from next to you. The man hums and looks away briefly. “What?” Sam asks, prompting him to continue talking. The man looks back to the three of you and sighs. 

“I have heard of a truck like that,” he says nonchalantly. 

“You have?” Sam asks. You’re slightly taken back for some reason. Part of you was questioning whether Cassie was actually telling the truth or just searching for something to blame for her father’s death. “Where?” Sam asks. 

“Not where - when,” the man says. “Back in the ‘60s, there was a string of deaths. Black men. The story goes they disappeared in a big, nasty black truck,” he explains. 

“Did they catch who it was?” Dean asks. 

“Never found him.” The man shakes his head. “Hell, not even sure they really looked. See there was a time this town wasn’t too friendly to all its citizens,” he says. Ron shifts uncomfortably next to his friend and the boys nod. 

“Seems like not much has changed,” you comment and tap your finger against the wooden picnic table the men were sitting at and the three of you turn to walk away. 

“This truck,” Dean says as you walk. 

“Keeps coming up, doesn’t it?” You say. You close the notebook you were holding and hand it to Sam, who tucked it into his suit jacket. 

“I was thinking, you ever heard of the Flying Dutchman?” Dean asks. 

You and Sam both nod, but Sam answers. “A ghost ship infused with the captain’s evil spirit. It was basically a part of him,” he explains. 

Dean nods his head and suggests that maybe you were dealing with the same thing now. “A phantom truck who’s the extension of some bastard ghost, re-enacting past crimes.” 

“The victims have all been black men,” you point out. 

“I think it’s more than that,” Dean says quickly. “They all seem connected to Cassie and her family.” Dean makes a good point and you rack your brain for what the possible connection could be but there was little to no evidence about anything that was happening, so that was hard. 

“Well, you work that angle. Go talk to her,” Sam suggests. Dean nods in agreement and Sam looks at you knowingly and you shake your head, knowing he was about to say something he maybe shouldn’t. “Oh, and don’t forget about that other thing.” 

Dean stops and turns around when you reach the Impala. “What other thing?” He asks. 

“That serious unfinished business,” Sam says and chuckles. “Dean, what is going on between you two?” You feel bad for leaving Sam in the dark about just how serious Dean and Cassie used to be but you were positive it was more serious than Dean even let you know. 

“So maybe we were a little bit more involved than I said,” Dean admitted. Sam shoves his hands in his pockets and you lean against the car. Sam nods his head like he’s not surprised and Dean looks over at you, making firm eye contact. You encourage him with a look and he sighs. “Okay, a lot more. Maybe.” Sam chuckles and looks over at you. You shrug your shoulders and let Dean talk. “I told her the secret about what we do, and I shouldn’t have.” 

You know that last comment has nothing to do with Sam’s outburst about Dean spilling the beans and more about what happened after he told her. Sam was a little more oblivious than that. “Look, man, everybody’s got to open up to someone sometime.” 

“Yeah, I don’t,” Dean snapped. “It was stupid to get that close. I mean, look how it ended.” You flashback to when Dean and Cassie were full force and how happy he seemed. There weren’t so many walls put up and ever since, he seemed to have built more. Sam smiles at him, looking at his brother like he’s trying to figure him out. Dean widened his eyes at his brother. “Would you stop? Blink or something.”

“You loved her,” Sam observes. He’s right, which is why Dean groans and turns around to get into the car but Sam just follows him. “You were in love with her, but you dumped her.” You stay towards the back of the car and let the boys have their moment. You don’t really know what happened toward the end of their relationship. You know he told her and then they broke up, but the details were hidden to you, too. 

Dean looks up at his brother briefly and the look he gave him said it all. “She dumped you?” You ask from behind Sam. The two boys look back at you and Dean gives you a serious look. Sam scoffs, just nearly as shocked as you were. 

“Get in the car,” Dean orders and throws himself in the driver’s seat of the car. Sam turns around to look at you. 

“I told you,” you sing as he walks towards you. He shakes his head and stops when he’s in front of you. 

“Why didn’t you tell me how serious it was? I thought you were mostly just joking,” Sam says as he looks towards the mirror where you can see Dean sitting in the car. His fingers are tapping against the steering wheel and he looks mad, upset, a mix of both. 

“He wouldn’t have wanted me to, you know that,” you tell Sam. He nods and then looks back at you. He puts his hand on your elbow and guides you to the other side of the car. He keeps his hand on your arm as he walks you around the car. “He was happy, though. Really happy,” you tell Sam. 

He puts his hand on the door handle and his breathing hits your ear. “I’m sorry I missed it,” he says. 

“Yeah, me too,” you tell him as he opens the door for you. 

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