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coeurdastronaute · 3 years

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Essays in Existentialism: Plus One, Ch. 2

Previously on Plus One

It oscillated every other minute between being an amazing idea, but also being the worst idea of all time, and Lexa was mostly exhausted of bouncing back and forth. It might be easier, she decided, if she just got herself on board with it being a good idea, but a deep, gnawing hole seemed to manifest itself in her gut at the very thought of seeing her ex.

As she went through the motions of finishing the day, of doing inventory because it was Wednesday, Lexa tried not to distract herself with the thoughts of her impending trip. In just forty-eight hours, she’d be face to face with Costia, who she hadn’t seen in months, who she avoided before occasionally running awkwardly into each other at mutual friends’ events. She’d come face to face with her ex who was getting married.

And she was going to do it with a complete stranger on her arm.

With a heavy sigh, Lexa tossed her clipboard on her tiny desk in the storage closet and plopped down in the squeaky chair, tipping it back with a wail. Her sister was the worst.

It was quiet in the shop, closed for just a handful of hours, Lexa always took a day to inventory and repair the damage of the week. She enjoyed the late evening work, when her workers were gone, and the shop was empty and full of dreams. No one knew how the cabinets stayed so clean, or how the scratches on table tops got sanded and fixed, or how the wobbly table by the window was miraculous cured one day, or how the ceiling fans got dusted, just that it all happened, and Lexa was off, meaning she didn’t come in until at least ten, the following morning.

But Lexa sat in the chair and let her brain do the same mental gymnastics it always seemed to do in the new quiet she found herself craving. She opened her laptop and ignored the awaiting spreadsheet, and instead opted to look over the answer Clarke had given her to the “Know your partner” quiz Clarke googled and made them both do. A mix of basic information and Newlywed Game style innuendos, Lexa filled hers out after a bottle of wine and anxiously waited for Clarke’s.

That was what started the daydreaming. She scrolled through Clarke’s answers and furrowed, doing her best to memorizing all that she could, as if she’d be tested on it all, as if it’d be impossible to believe she could be happy with someone like Clarke.

And when those thoughts started to seep into her brain, Lexa leaned back again and dug the tips of her fingers into her eyes.

In a week it’d be over.

And with that and a deep, heavy sigh, Lexa looked at the screen again and went about learning Clarke.

She started professionally, of course, looking at her corporate page and resume, because this was, if not anything, simply a business transaction and Lexa thought it was easier to parse a person if she didn’t actually have to fall for her.

A graphic designer at Anya’s firm, Clarke held accolades and a long list of references. The link to her work showed a wide range of commercial campaigns and a certain amount of talent evident by her list of upcoming projects. A graduate of a small, private, liberal arts university, her academics leaned heavily scientific, which was a surprise until Lexa read some of the answers in the survey about a degree in physics given up for art.

Lexa promised that she wouldn’t have looked at Clarke’s Instagram if Clarke hadn’t requested her first. She wasn’t someone who lurked, or at least she thought she wasn’t. She didn’t want to be someone who snuck around, digging through someone’s past, analyzing every filter and caption like a private investigator. But then Clarke appeared.

And there were pictures of Clarke with friends getting drinks on a rooftop. And then the one with her laughing and baking. Or the Christmas party where she was on a corporate Santa’s lap, smiling so wide her eyes were shut. Despite herself Lexa found herself smiling along with the girl in the pictures. The one who went hiking with a pack of dogs, and the one who seemed to always be eating something. The one who had a lot of friends and enjoyed making them smile and laugh. The girl who posted storie about her morning run, and the girl who seemed to have a healthy work life balance.

Lexa closed the webpages and stared at her inventory for exactly two seconds before curiosity won again and Lexa started looking at Costia’s account. There were the standard pictures of her pre-wedding planning. There was Costia working out. There was her new bride-to-be, happy and smiling at a gift for her birthday.

And then a throwback that made Lexa’s stomach drop as she stared at a familiar image of Costia smiling in a bikini on a beach. It was from the last trip they took. Lexa was the one behind the camera.

Three weeks after that picture was taken, Lexa walked in on Costia and a girl in the middle of the afternoon. Right in their own bed. Only to then discover it’d been going on for months. And it wasn’t the first. And then, Lexa didn’t remember much except that she moved into the apartment above her coffee shop and woke up one morning alone on sheets that weren’t familiar, in a room full of boxes.

It seemed even more difficult to start inventory after that shot to the gut.

But her phone went off, and Lexa leaned back in her chair after shutting the laptop again, wondering if that sinking feeling ever went away when it came to someone you love, or loved, or once loved, even for a moment. She didn’t have anything to compare it to, and she didn’t have any idea what love really was.

It felt like a deep wound was scratched open, the scab pulled back, and a burning numbness gnawing at the bottom of her spine. It felt like it would swallow her whole, and Lexa hated, more than anything, giving anyone the power to do anything as such over her.

Hey! Do you think this will go with your outfit?

An image came next, of Clarke in a dressing room wearing a very pretty dress, with very messy hair with her tongue sticking out. Lexa didn’t notice the gnawing feeling disappear.

We don’t have to match completely.

We do! Don’t you know how to date?

Not really.

Another picture of another dress came a moment later. Clarke was pretty. She was happy and silly and kind. It felt oddly normal, for as crazy as the whole scheme actually was.

I like that one, Lexa wrote, making sure to add a heart-eyed emoji to emphasize her point. Maybe that was flirting. Maybe she was allowed. She definitely needed more rules.

Good, I do too. It matches your tie, you know? And these heels will still leave you a little taller than me.

Sounds good to me!

Kind of excited. I guess I’ll see you at the airport tomorrow.

I’ll be the one at the bar.

I’ve heard it’s possible to find your soulmate at the airport. Something about the crossing of paths and time and space.

If my soulmate is a bottle of wine, then I reckon I might.

A love story for the ages.

Lexa smiled once more at her phone before tossing it to the side and letting her head drop to the desk. With a groan she growled into her hands and broke it down. She just needed to make it seventy-two hours. That was it. She could sleep for about twenty of those. She could drink for another twenty or more, if she really tried.

But this was it. This was the end.

And regardless of the weight of everything else, there was something satisfying about knowing it was almost over.

XXXXXXXXXX

The airport was absolutely teaming with bodies and people, weaving their way through the swelling crowds, loading and unloading the terminals at a constant, steady thumping rate, so regular one could set a watch to the heartbeat of the building.

Clarke adjusted her bag on her shoulder and tapped the ticket against her thigh as she moved through the security line. The nerves were coming for some reason. That was why she was at the airport three hours before the flight. She was anxious and needed a stiff drink and a few moments to catch her breath. She needed to escape the whirlwind she’d allowed herself to create.

Carefully, she made her way through the airport, checking the boards and finding her way to a seat in the empty waiting room. Not even an attendant waited at the kiosk.

Once again, she let herself awkwardly scroll on her phone, learning everything she could about her future date and weekend plans.

Lexa was nearly non-existent online. She didn’t have any pictures of herself. She rarely posted anything on her personal account, and when she did, it was just a book or a coffee or from a trip. She wasn’t one to enjoy being the center of attention, but when it came to her shop, she made sure to post almost daily, highlighting her employees and their recommendations, she made share to highlight events, she made sure to be as active as possible.

Anya had already warned Clarke that her sister was devoted to her work. She’d poured all of her effort into being successful and part of the community, and Clarke admired it, she just wished that there was more for her to see.

And so, once more, she flipped back to the long line of questions they’d filled out before giving up and gazing out the window at the planes coming and going.

For a moment, she allowed herself to think that she was doing something nice and good. It was an act of charity. It was the shake up Clarke needed and was selfishly trying to package as benevolent.

“You beat me, and I’m usually the first one here for a flight,” Lexa observed, walking up to Clarke, stealing her from her reverie.

“I like airports. Just waiting for true love to stroll up and introduce themselves.”

Lexa shoved her hands in her pockets, her bag balanced on her shoulder as she cautiously looked around, surveying the empty terminal slowly. Clarke watched her look around, smiled at the innocence of it. Enjoyed the way she ran her hand through her hair, mussing it up a bit and tossing it to another side.

“No one likes airports,” Lexa shook her head before taking the seat beside her.

“I do. They’re romantic.”

“Romantic?”

“You can get onto a plane, and a few hours later, you’re hundred of miles away, and it’s different weather, and it’s a different time zone. You can go to sleep in a different state. How can you not be romantic about that.”

“It’s a tin can filled with recycle air.”

“But there are peanuts.”

That did it. Lexa cracked a smile to herself and relaxed a little.

“I was going to be the first one here. Surprise you with coffee, but you beat me to it.”

“You are quite a good girlfriend. Someone clearly trained you well.”

Lexa shook her head, somewhat bashful, somewhat reserved. There was always something right there, just below the surface, obfuscated by a kind of resolve to never give anything away, not at any price. Clarke read it between words in their texts and emails, a glaring finality in the simple pixel of a period.

“Can I get you a coffee? Two creams, two sugar right?”

“You don’t have to--”

“It’s early and I’m trying to be charming. Allow me to somewhat repay you for this whole endeavour.”

“Sounds good. Thanks, darling.”

With the term of endearment, Lexa nodded, grinning into her chest as she stood and made her way across the terminal in search of sustenance. Clarke watched her take out her phone, texting her sister no doubt.

Once more, Clarke resumed the digging on her own, scrolling on her own phone at old pictures on Lexa’s profile. She was ready for fun, and she was ready to crack at that facade.

“I don’t know if this will help,” Lexa sighed as she sat down. “I didn’t sleep a wink last night.”

“Oh this won’t be good for me either,” Clarke said as she took a sip. “I’m a fairly nervous flyer.”

“And yet you let me get us both coffee.”

“You made a good point, and I’m prepared to be paid back all weekend.”

With another grin, Lexa leaned back, her arm going on the back of the chair that Clarke inhabited, naturally, with ease, with a level of comfort.

“Are you ready to tell me the story?”

“Which one is that?” Clarke turned to look at her date, returned from an absent moment.

“How we met.”

“How we met,” she nodded, her smile bordering on mischievous. “That’s simple. Don’t you remember? It was a very blustery Tuesday, and I was trying to escape the wind and rain. I almost tripped coming into your coffee shop, but you happened to be sweeping, and were kind enough to catch me.”

“You’re severely overestimating my reflexes.”

“Fine. I ran you over and we both ended up on our asses in the middle of the coffee shop. Coffee everywhere.”

“Sounds pretty likely.”

“And I knew right there, I was hooked. Those eyes, all angry and annoyed at me for not looking where I was going, despite my persistent defense that I’d been assaulted by the weather.”

“Why do I have to be the angry one?”

“Wouldn’t you be though?” Clarke returned, daring her to be contradicted.

“Maybe,” Lexa agreed over the lid of her cup, fretting with it nervously.

“So I crashed into you, and you bought be a coffee. I turned up every day after that until I finally asked you out. You took longer than I would have liked to answer me, but I accepted it anyway, and we’ve been madly in love ever since.”

“And when was this?”

“About eight months ago.”

“How’s it going so far?”

“Splendidly. I’ve already met your sister, who it happens that I work with, which is super convenient for everyone.”

Quietly, Lexa sat there, going over the story, going over all of the past eight months of apparent bliss in her head. Clarke watched her furrow before softening, her eyes not seeing, but rather looking through the window as a plane took off and another landed. The softening of her features was soon met with a perplexion, a slight, gentle contortion of the brow and the lips, a tightening as a kind of confusion overtook the ease of the entire story.

“Is it that easy?” Lexa asked quietly, turning her head toward her date. Clarke cocked her head, waiting for more. “Is all of it… just… a wind? Waiting for someone to just ask you out? Is it that easy? Does that happen to people?”

“It can. How does anything happen in the world? It just… does. The universe is just a series of things happening, all of the time, right?”

“But is it that easy?”

To her credit, Clarke thought about it. She flexed her jaw and took a deep breath before slowing letting it go as she wondered if it really was.

“I don’t know. Maybe it can be.”

“How?”

“I guess there has to be a balance to making things happen and letting things happen.”

“I don’t know if I’m good at either of those things,” Lexa confessed. She sat up straighter a moment later, afraid of her honesty, and surprised more by how easily it came out.

“I think you can be.”

“That’s probably too kind.”

“We’ll see.”

Clarke rubbed Lexa’s shoulder, rubbed the middle of her back between her shoulder blades until she reached the collar of her shirt, where she massaged her neck. She tensed before relaxing, and Clarke didn’t stop, just rubbed there gently, slowly until she knew it was enough and she trailed her palm back toward the seat.

It was right there, they just didn’t know it.

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dostthouhavenochill · 3 years

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Performance

Rating: Gen

Fandom: Castlevania (Netflix)

Word Count: 2.6k

Characters: Alucard, Greta of Danesti, Sypha Belnades, minor OCs (mentioned)

Relationships: pre-Gretacard, Trephacard (mentioned)

Warnings: none

Summary: Alucard muses on how life has changed since the head woman of Danesti, now Belmont, and her people have settled about his home.

The clearing was relatively quiet that afternoon, with the odd settler or two roaming around, enjoying a moment’s rest after doing their part in the rebuilding effort for the day. The setting sun warmed Alucard’s skin as he sat against a large oak tree. Strong winds shook the branches above his head, sending bursts of orange and red drifting about him. He brushed errant leaves out of his basket and plucked out a dark spool to finish his mending.

Aaliya and Rahim, bless their hearts, were the most rambunctious out of all of Alucard's children. So it came as no surprise when a few hours ago, Rahim came to him with pieces of what used to be a stuffed horse, “His name is Sumac, Father!”, wailing his dark eyes out. Alucard promised to make time to mend him by the end of the day. The toy was a well-loved thing, with stains and misaligned stuffing, all evidence of a boy who took his friend everywhere he went. The horse’s reddish-brown fur was now a muddled sepia and its once cream mane and markings now gray. Alucard just about had his fill of bloody horses, but he could make an exception just this once.

He wasn’t resting alone though. After depositing lumber and stone for Solomon and his building team, Greta settled beside him. She only dozed off a short while ago, but not before giving a knowing chuckle at his project and a snark about how he was finally as used to people as people were used to him. Absolutely maniacal. He couldn’t find room to complain.

So much had changed in just these last four months. Alucard would be lying to himself if he said that it wasn’t jarring to go from months of solitude to human interaction and back again, a hellish cycle that always seemed to end with him alone. But with the settlement of the people of Danesti, now Belmont, that cycle had been broken. Funny, considering how he had been hesitant towards the idea.

Except hesitant wasn’t an accurate description. Initially, Alucard had to wrestle with his desires for both solitude and companionship. As much as he longed for the latter, Alucard wasn’t prepared for its magnitude. Saint Germain, for all his scheming, offered a reasonable solution to a suffering people. Only that reasonable solution left Alucard feeling bare and scrubbed raw, as if the entirety of the world made itself at home in his ribcage before even giving him the courtesy of undoing the frog of his cape first.

Those first nights after the battle was when the enormity of his hospitality truly began to set in. He lamented the loss of his solitude. Protection, knowledge, and safety-he would never hesitate to offer, but with so many rooms holding so many personal memories, he’d unintentionally left his soul bare to all. He remembers all but dashing ahead of Greta while showing her the food supply to hide his makeshift companions from her teasing, scrutinous gaze.

But...it was nice.

It had been so long since the halls were alive, filled with laughter and with people milling about the halls. It hardly ever seemed like he was alone now. His role as champion along with Greta’s say-so granted him a founding role in Belmont and as such was bombarded with questions daily; someone asking for aid, someone asking for instruction, someone...just asking how he’s faring that day.

From beside him, Greta, with her arms crossed, snored softly. Alucard let out an undignified chuckle. For someone who had such hasty and scathing observations about settling at Castlevania, she seems quite content.

Greta wasn’t wrong when she called the Castle cold. Alucard remembers plenty of nights alone, abandoned, shivering and craving nothing but someone, anyone, to ease his loneliness. His mother. His father. Belmont. Sypha. Anyone. But after Sumi and Taka’s betrayal, Alucard began to appreciate the aura Castlevania emanated. It’s dark, cavernous windows and ominous silhouette, looming and judging those who came across it, a warning sign to all. It stood imposingly with cautionary tales skewered at its lip. Greta was simply experiencing the emotions Castlevania intended to elicit from oncomers; the cold, fear, and danger.

Even so, after everything that’s happened, Alucard couldn’t help but feel a sense of welcome and warmth in those dark, cavernous windows.

The windows that led to the study where Adrian spent years on years learning a multitude of languages, preferring the ones with lots of “s’s” because of the way it slithered off his tongue.

The windows that led to the southwestern dining room, where an infantile Adrian nearly chomped off his mother’s finger whilst she tried to stop him from swallowing a frozen carrot he’d been teething on.

The windows that led to the science hall, where he, Sypha, and Trevor spent the last few blissful days of their union getting drunk and blasting off various spells into the ceiling to see what would happen.

Yes, there had been plenty of warmth in the Castle, even before it had been graced with the people of Danesti. Almost every room he can recall with a smile and a fond tale. He’d had to convince Greta, he thinks. He can already imagine it; the disbelief on her face when he tells her he learned to shapeshift into a dire pup in a conservatory, a room filled with foliage and beakers and sunlight and all sorts of breakable things. And he can imagine telling her that Lord Dracula himself had to call for aid from his wife when their son burst through a window and pranced about nude in the outdoor sun. He can imagine that curious wrinkle in her brows before she thinks of something, immediately says it, and rarely regrets it.

He can imagine telling her so much about his childhood. About Vlad and Lisa Țepeș. About growing up the only dhampir, to his knowledge. He can imagine telling her so much about his past and about, ahem, possibly their present; what’s changed since he met her and what’s stayed the same. The tangled but firm bundle of feelings she’s elicited from him. He’ll have to ask for her time one day, one day when she isn’t exhausted from doing the work of half a dozen persons in a few hours time and taking a well-earned break.

Alucard was broken from his musings when he saw Sypha striding up to him in the distance. In the midst of Sypha’s pregnancy, her passion and spitfire were amplified. As such, she had enough of all the side looks and loaded barbs between them all.

They had talked, Trevor and Sypha and Alucard. They talked about feelings, about abandonment and betrayal and neglect, about Trevor and Sypha’s child also calling Alucard father. About how it was almost too soon to make such a leap, feelings too raw. About sentiments that could have, perhaps should have, been properly expressed before fucking off across Europe. About regrets and pain, about trust and building it back up. It wasn’t ruined, but it was worse for wear. Nothing that some regular maintenance wouldn’t help.

Alucard almost stands to offer Sypha a hand, but she politely declines, saying that if she gets down, she won’t get back up as easily. Besides, she was only here for a quick thing. Then, she took note of the sleeping Greta, and lowered her voice, saying, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so still before.” Alucard was inclined to agree. With her coat draped over her lap, and her head lopped to the side, Greta looked at peace. The tasks of a head woman were never-ending, it seems.

“What brings you out here, then?” Alucard asked, once he was able to drag his gaze away from Greta’s sleeping form.

“Rahim was looking for you,” she cocked her head, giving him a puzzled look. “He said that you would help him find some sumac?.” Chuckling into his chest, Alucard ties off the thread on the poor thing's left haunch and passes it up to Sypha.

“I believe I stitched together all the bits of his Sumac as best I could.” Alucard wonders if Sypha even heard him over all her soft albeit consistent cooing.

“Alucaaaard. I never knew you were so good with a needle,” she spoke as she ran her fingers lovingly through its sullied mane. “With the state of Trevor’s socks, he could learn a thing or two from you.”

And then the most terrifying thing happened; Sypha got The Look. To the casual observer, looking at the duo of Belnades and Belmont, one would think that the former was the sensible one. And they wouldn’t necessarily be wrong. However, what the casual observer typically fails to notice is that Sypha, for all her grace and intellect, was at least half as crazy and twice as impulsive as Belmont himself. Arguably, she was at her worst when she got mischievous, and the only tell for that was a distinct Look; one where her impossibly large eyes sparkled and her lips twitched like a kitten holding onto a canary for a little too long.

“You knoooooow,” she began, sounding like a child all too eager to tell an adult about some fact they recently learned, a fact that they had no business knowing. “It's never too early to start preparing things for the baby-books, clothes, toys and things. Perhaps little Trefor would appreciate something personal from his Alucard. Mayhaps if you had any miniature dolls of his parents lying about,” her bright eyes squinting in mischief, “Or something like that.”

Alucard would’ve liked the earth to swallow him whole or for a wayward night creature to snatch him away into the woods. He would’ve liked a multitude of things, but he was stopped by a soft snort coming from behind him. He turned to see Greta trying and failing to suppress a smirk.

With her eyes still closed, she gave up her storybook act and said, “I’m sure sunshine here could pull something off. Yours and Trevor’s resemblance is quite striking.” Sypha howls with laughter, calming herself only after Alucard throws her a glare, all the while blush painting his...well, everything. He sighs, turning back to Greta.

“I hadn’t known you were such a fan of my needlework.”

“Well, I hadn’t intended on saying anything.” Greta barely got her last word out before Alucard rounded back, still mortified.

“Quite unlike you. I ought to be worried.” Greta cracks open an eye at that, playfully raising an eyebrow at the dhampir.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said indignantly.

“I don’t know what gave you that impression,” Greta closed her eye again, crossing her arms behind her head, “ I was merely resting my eyes.”

“And your heart rate?” Alucard bent an arm against his leg, resting his chin in his palm and gazing at her through lidded lashes. “If I had poorer hearing, I would have almost certainly mistaken you for a sleeping person.”

Greta raised a single finger. “Almost. Key word: almost.”

Rolling his eyes under closed lids, Alucard said, “You would make an excellent performer, you know.”

“I am a woman of many skills.”

“Indeed. One day, I imagine you might even be able to successfully imitate a rock.”

Greta effortlessly lands a hit against Alucard’s thigh. There’s no real force behind it. It’s the same friendly banter they’ve always shared, the same heat that fills his chest, the same stir it causes in his gut, and the same burn to the spot she touched.

“Smartass.” As she draws her hand back, the smirk on her face never drops.

Alucard, chuckling and chest warming, cocks his head back to Sypha to ask if she needs anything else from him and is surprised to see an intensity in her widened eyes. Wide as they were when they first entered the Belmont hold, large and curious and flickering as she combed through every book she could find, devouring any new information at her grasp with a thrilling quickness. Before the embarrassment at being perceived settled in his bones, Greta spoke up, this time to Sypha, making her eyes softer than usual.

“How are you and the little one today, Sypha?”

“We’re well, thank you,” Sypha takes her hand and rubs it across her slowly increasing bump, giving the head woman a pleased grin. “I see you’re taking a well-earned break.”

“Nothing wrong with a little rest,” Greta shrugs, relaxing further back against the bark. Her brows get that curious wrinkle, however, and she says, “Especially for those of us with child who’ve been running about since dawn.”

Alucard takes solace in the fact that the air around Sypha tingles ever so slightly and he is, for once, not subject to embarrassment. If Greta sensed Sypha’s chagrin, as she almost certainly did, she didn’t make it known, aside perhaps from the cute crinkle around her eyes and nose.

But Sypha recovers much faster than Alucard ever has, giving Greta a self-satisfied smile. “I’ll have you know I wasn’t up and about until after the sun broke.” She then releases a long sigh. “But between Trevor, Khadijah and the other healers’ constant fretting, you’d think I was on my last legs instead of giving life.”

Mischief incarnate would do well to take note of Greta of Danesti, with a hand propped under chin, a single digit tapping her cheek, and a dangerous glint in her burnished eyes. “Foolish of them, then, to disregard the woman who battles night creatures regularly and moved an entire fucking castle as incapable of anything.”

“Foolish indeed!”

Alucard cast a sly gaze towards Greta, naughty of you to rile her up like this-Belmont is sure to get an earful later. Coy is never a word he would’ve ascribed to the head woman, but the curve of her lips and flutter of her lashes had him reconsidering.

Sypha says her goodbyes and goes to return the horse to its rightful owner. Stopping short, she looks back to Greta and says, “I don’t think you have much room to talk, however, Head Woman Greta of Danesti-now-Belmont-who-wakes-with-the-sun-and-slays-night-creatures-and-carries-lumber-and-.”

Greta ducks her head, sending the Speaker off with a wave, “Enough of that, Belnades.” She lowers her hand, her brows creasing as she says, “Thank you and be well.”

As Sypha departs, Greta settles back against the tree. With nothing to keep his hands busy, Alucard joins her in relaxing in the setting sun, hands folded in his lap. Being immortal, the dhampir never needed excessive amounts of sleep to function, per se. Perhaps he would just rest his eyes and enjoy the company.

Alucard sighs as the cool breeze passes through his hair and picks up fallen leaves, carrying them across the clearing. Then he sputters as one flies straight into his mouth. The dhampir gets no warning as Greta’s soft hands pull his hair aside, causing him to jump slightly. Her slender fingers pick out the foliage from his hair and shoulders before tossing them to the ground beneath them.

She can’t stop herself from letting out one last chuckle at Alucard’s expense. “Are you sure you don’t have anything better to do that loaf about with me, sunshine?” Her tawny eyes held still against his. Alucard arched his head back against the tree to appreciate her gaze.

“Nothing in particular springs to mind,” he doesn’t bother smothering the smirk growing on his face, “Besides, as I understand it, Khadijah has ordered you to loaf about after your mishap two nights ago.”

That earns him quite the eyeroll. “Khadijah, the worrywart, would order me to loaf about if I tripped over a stick.”

“Tripping over a mere stick?,” he lilted, “ I’d think he’d need to examine your head if that ever happened.”

Another thwack. Another burst of heat. Only this time, Alucard held fast, catching her hand before it could completely fall away. Greta startled at his reflexes, her head teasingly cocked aside as her eyes flicked from his to their joined hands. Before he lost his nerve, Alucard placed his other hand atop hers, giving it a soft squeeze and resting it in his lap. “I’m sure. I’d much rather be here than anywhere else.”

#come get y'all juice #fanfic #who did this #castlevania #gretacard #greta danesti #alucard #adrian tepes #sypha belnades #trephacard #castlevania fanfic

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welllpthisishappening · 4 years

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But Once a Year (3/5)

This is a trick.

It has to be. Something Pan planned, or some nonsense only possible in Neverland, because one second Emma’s sitting outside the Echo Caves and wondering how exactly things could possibly get worse, and then the world decides to take her up on the challenge. She’s not where she was. Or when she was, either.

And the future isn’t entirely what Emma expects it to be, but that might not be entirely horrible and Christmas with a husband and a family that quite clearly loves her is only kind of messing with her head. God bless us, every one.

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Rating: T Word Count: 9K and change, but also stuff happens AN: I cannot tell you guys how much I appreciate you continuing to appreciate this story. It’s exceptionally nice, and I think you’re wonderful. Here’s a whole slew of feelings and tradition and magic. Like, lots of magic.

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll || Or start from the start

————

This is a problem.

Multiple problems, honestly. Like, at least seven different problems that Emma can think of off the top of her head, and obviously the most pressing is getting back to the right part of her timeline, but only marginally less distressing is the overall domesticity of her life at this point of her timeline.

It’s more than the pillows. Of which there are just an absolutely ridiculous amount, actually. They hover in couch corners and fall to the floor with alarming regularity because, between the two of them, Hope and Lucy are something akin to forces of nature, hopped up on Christmas-type sugar and the cookies that people apparently just hand out on the street in Storybrooke. Someone’s always got some sort of baked good, freshly out of the oven — and while Emma’s discovered she’s particularly partial to Granny’s snickerdoodles, she can’t imagine any of this is very efficient.

For Storybrooke’s economy, or whatever.

There’s no bank. Emma looked. And asked. Several dwarfs, actually. All of whom immediately bowed and narrowed their eyes at her like she’d totally lost her mind, which seems pretty accurate at this point. Five days after waking up on that couch, with all of its pillows and questionable comfort, and only a handful of people actually know what’s going on.

Not Hope.

And no one actually told her to do that, but Emma figures it’s kind of like deciding to take her boots off in the house. Polite. Plus, a growing determination not to traumatize a ridiculously cute four-year-old, even when that four-year-old appears to be far more adept at stealing cookies than anything else.

Crumbs line the counter in the morning, and there’s usually a bit of evidence directly outside Hope’s bedroom door, signs of a late-night theft that shouldn’t make Emma smile. She does anyway. Can’t seem to stop it, which might be problem number four. Three is definitely Killian’s consistent lack of jacket, which admittedly is a very surface problem, but the button-up shirts are all ridiculously patterned, and trying not to ask who initially took him shopping is like, problem, three sub-a.

So, no one tells Hope that her mom isn’t her mom. Technically speaking, at least. They go through the motions, and Emma smiles when she’s supposed to, and she eats what is undoubtedly the world record for snickerdoodle consumption by a wayward princess, but trying to be herself, while also not being herself continues to be a rather daunting prospect.

Particularly because whomever Regina believed would know more about Neverland vegetation and its ability to ruin everything is taking their sweet time responding or showing up in Storybrooke, and they’ve tried what feels like several thousand things to get Emma back, but magic beans were a no-go, and some very fancy wand didn’t do anything except infuriate Regina with it uselessness, and it’s still Christmas, so there are apparently a metric shit ton of traditions and expectations, and—

“Wait, what?” Emma asks, perched on the edge of her desk in the station because that’s at least something she’s used to. Less so to Killian’s presence at the only other desk, and she doesn’t remember the only other desk being quite so close to her’s, but it’s entirely possible that’s a trick of her not-quite coherent mind.

Might be problem six. Maybe seven. Making it six gives it power, and acknowledges how much the state of his tongue continues to affect her cognitive abilities. Of which there were already very few, especially while she was exhausted in Neverland, and Emma’s not willing to risk anymore.

“It’s something of a requirement,” Killian says, not for the first time. Princesses have a ridiculous number of requirements, Emma’s rather quickly learned. And he can’t seem to sit straight in any chair. Also ridiculous.

“Does that not hurt your spine?”

Shrugging, he smirks at her and that’s been happening more often. Not that she’s keeping track, or anything. She’s just—aware, that’s totally the right word. Of him, and what he does with his face and his patterned shirts, and there’s been no bare arm again, but Emma’s still not really his wife, and she knows the hours he’s spent holed up in one of the copious rooms in their quasi-mansion have been dedicated to research.

And getting his wife back.

That’s fine. It’s fine. Definitely not a problem. Hasn’t even crossed her mind.

Emma doesn’t want him to want her. Like, ever.

And they’re waiting for her dad, anyway. To report back on some magical failing in Wonderland. Seriously, everything is so fine that it's almost a problem as well. It’s too fine. Everything is—

Great.

“Are you concerned about the state of my spine, darling?”

Melting is not an option — so far as Emma is aware of, but it’s certainly very appealing in the moment. When that moment includes tilted lips and an angled neck seemingly designed to ensure Killian’s hair falls artfully across his forehead, as if the strands are there to frame his eyes and the hint of light in them.

She takes a deep breath.

The light brightens. Or she imagines.

“A tree lighting, though,” Emma says, not-so-subtly changing the subject. Killian’s brows jump. Up his forehead and past those strands of hair she’s only passably obsessed with. “Isn’t that kind of...I don’t know, it’s not very fairy tale.” “Regina lights the candles with magic, if that helps.” “So why do I have to be there?” “The monarchy usually stands on a platform, waves lovingly to their subjects and—” “—God, how is there more?” Emma balks, but that only gets her a more powerful smirk and eyes that are far too blue to be fair, and they still haven’t painted the dining room. She’s not going to ask about that.

She’s not.

“This is something of the central hub for the rest of the United Realms,” Killian explains, “and with Regina and the Charmings here, it makes sense that people...flock.” “Like birds.” “Not the ones your mother can commune with, but I suppose the metaphor is appropriate.”

“Who decided to hold Regina’s queen election?” Eyeing her speculatively, Emma does her very best not to wither under Killian’s expression. She’s not altogether confident it works, but they’ve almost come to something like an understanding, and it’s very easy. This, them. No, not them. There’s no them and while Emma’s done her fair share of staring, there can’t be a them now because that will undoubtedly fuck with the timeline and probably everything else, just to keep inspiring problematic lists, and her increasing desire to kiss him until he also has to deal with wobbly knees is just something she’s going to have to deal with.

“Maybe I won’t remember when I get back,” Emma reasons, but that one word comes out as wobbly as her knees have been and Killian purses his lips. “Ok, fine—tell me something totally random, then. A fun-fact, as it were.” “Random.” “Do you not know what that means?” He rolls his eyes. “I know at least three more languages than you do, so—” “—No you do not!”

Nodding, Killian smiles over the edge of his coffee mug, and neither one of them mention that his proclivity to drinking a gallon of coffee every morning could probably be this so-called fun fact. “English, obviously, and—” “—Ok, I can clearly speak English,” Emma argues. She nearly bites her tongue in half at the force of Killian’s answering look, part amusement and even more heat and that only circles her back around to the melting thing.

“Aye, but I definitely know more curses than you do, so that’s got to count for something. Also that’s simply my base language, as it were.” She sneers. He chuckles. Into the mug, but it feels like the emotion behind it sinks under Emma’s skin and times up with her pulse, less erratic than it had been those first few nights, and she’s actually started sleeping consistently. “Then of course, I’m rather familiar with Latin.” “Dead, it doesn’t count.” “Impressive, though.” “Sounds like you’re fishing for compliments, Captain.” “Unnecessary, when I know you’ll be all wide-eyed and amazed in a moment,” Killian promises, swinging his legs to prop his feet on the edge of her desk. “There’s also Greek, and—” Waving her hands, Emma doesn’t explicitly try to swat at his legs, but he’s just so goddamn close, and still exuding heat, and she’s starting to have some assumptions about that as well. Of the possibly magic and decidedly—no she’s not doing that. They’re not that. Not like this, anyway. And Killian doesn’t immediately move, but that only lulls her into a false sense of security, the metal of his hook is cold enough that she yelps when it circles both her wrists.

“Fairy,” he finishes, and Emma refuses to believe he leans forward on purpose.

“No.” “You keep objecting to my facts and you’ll give a man a complex, Swan.” “Why would you know Greek, you’re a—” “—Fairy tale character?”

Emma presses her lips together. So as not to make an undignified noise. She’s already whimpered enough, and cried more than she thought possible and the hitch in his voice threatens to shatter several things. Moving her hands is impossible, which is probably for the best, but all of her would very much like to cup his cheek, if only to see if he’ll kiss the inside of her wrist, and she’s like ninety-two percent positive he would. “Pirate prince,” she corrects lightly, and does get her a smile. “Do you have an official title here?” “Captain.” “That’s it?” “Not impressive enough, huh?”

There’s no music on in the station, but they’re clearly dancing all the same — around each other, and the maelstrom of feelings Emma is doing a God awful job of ignoring, and at some point one of them is going to have to pull away from the other. In more ways than one.

“I didn’t say that,” she shakes, “and don’t bother telling me it’s another argument, I don’t care. I’m just—curious, I guess.” “About me?”

Nodding is the least dangerous response when she’s so worried about tripping over her own feet in this metaphorical waltz, but it’s one of the more accurate things she’s said since she got here, and now she’s got an excuse. No repercussions, nothing exactly permanent about these conversations, or this information, and no one’s told her whether or not she’ll retain her memories once she gets back, but they also don’t know she’ll get back so—

Fuck it, honestly.

“Yeah,” Emma replies, not bothering to gloat when Killian’s the one whose eyes go wide first.

“Oh.” “Is that unexpected?” “Maybe at this point.”

Humming, she files that away, preening slightly under the not-quite-compliment. “Not an answer though. Habit of yours.” “Not really, you’re just very demanding in this incarnation.” “Product of my situation, I guess.” He laughs. It’s something that happens more often here than it did when Emma knew him — knows him, whatever tenses get confusing in time travel. Still, the sound consistently manages to catch her off guard. Free and easy, and the magic that rustles in the back of her brain might deserve its own list.

Or another conversation with Regina. “The Royal Navy,” Killian says, an answer Emma nearly forgot she wanted. Her eyes widen. He looks triumphant. “See, told you.” “Like an Enchanted Forest GI bill, huh? See new lands, learn new languages.” “Something like that, aye.” “How’d you get to fairy?” “Did you meet the Lady Bell before—” “—I got yanked out of Neverland?” Emma quips, and it might be a defense mechanism. Making jokes, but she also hasn’t gone into detail about the plant-thing yet, and that might be because she doesn’t want to freak him out.

Anymore than he already is. He spends at least an hour in that room every night.

“Yeah, I did,” she adds,” after she kidnapped Regina and told us Greg and Tamara were dead, which...y’know—” “—Wasn’t the worst thing in the world?” “Does that make me a horrible person?” Killian shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” “Are you going to tell me you learned fairy language from an actual fairy?” “Not much else to do on a hellish island for several hundred years, and it’s a rather complicated tongue. Takes some practice.” “Oh, you’re doing that on purpose now.” The speed of his grin is like molasses. Emma assumes. She’s not sure she’s ever encountered molasses in real life. Even so, the whole thing is bordering on obscene and the opposite of the Christmas spirit and—“Alright,” she concedes, “learning fairy is actually pretty impressive.” “You flatter me, love.”

“What’s your favorite fairy curse word and do you think anyone would be totally scandalized if I used it during this super fancy, exceptionally royal tree lighting?”

Absolutely, goddamn obscene. The tip of his tongue finds the corner of his mouth, and his eyes get noticeably darker, Emma’s pulse picking up until she’s sure they can hear it on the other side of town, and there’s already barely any space between them, but that appears to be decreasing with every passing second. She’s got no idea who’s moving. She might be moving.

God, she hopes she’s moving.

Losing control of her limbs may send her off some ledge.

And she’s just about to throw caution to the seemingly ever-present wind that comes off the harbor, because the front of this patterned shirt looks particularly yankable, but the station door creaks, and a muscle in Killian’s jaw jumps and David clicks his teeth exactly once when he walks in.

“Interrupting something, am I?” “No, no,” Emma stammers at the same time Killian mumbles “absolutely not,” and neither of those things sound all that honest.

She’s never gone into cardiac arrest, but if this is what it feels like, it’s kind of disorienting.

“You hear about the tree lighting, Emma?” David asks, and that’s obviously where her inability to tactfully alter the course of a conversation comes from. Killian rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, slumping back into his chair.

Exhaling feels like an admission of guilt, but Emma can’t have anything to feel guilty about here, and she hopes Killian’s getting sleep. On the couch. He keeps sleeping on the couch.

Of course he does.

“Do I have to wear a gown or anything?” “It’s outside,” David says, “there are trees involved.”

Killian’s hook pokes at his chair arm. “Only one tree, as far as I knew.” “Why are you like this?” “You’re charmed by it, I know,” he chuckles, eyes flashing towards Emma. Coincidence, she’s sure. Her cheeks are very warm.

She’s very warm. Passably magical, maybe.

David sighs. “No, there are no gowns. It is in fact only one tree, and Em—you don’t have to say anything. Regina will thank people for coming, Snow will open up the meal and that’ll be that.” “Should I know what the meal is?” Emma asks, and her gaze doesn’t automatically drift towards Killian either. It just, sort of—meanders there, naturally. His tongue is still doing that thing.

“I was going to get to that part eventually.” “There’s kind of a reception,” David explains, “with cookies.” “Shit, how many cookies can one United Realm eat?” “An exceptional amount,” Killian mutters, and Emma might guffaw. While realizing why her other version had been baking so much before.

“You don’t have to do anything,” David adds, “just show up and smile, and you’ll get some cookies out of it.” “Will I not get cookies if I don’t smile?” Not able to stop whatever noise rumbles out of him, the force of Killian’s grin makes Emma glad she’s sitting down again. “I’ll swipe you some if you don’t.” “Very gallant.” “Happens from time to time.” Flirting in front of her father is wrong. That’s if this counts as flirting. As far as Emma knows, most of their banter has been a product of their mutually ridiculous lives, and whatever situation they’ve found themselves in at the moment, but this moment doesn’t hold any danger and it is so goddamn easy.

She smiles.

Killian beams.

David sighs again. “Anyone want to hear about Wonderland now? Or how the White Rabbit can’t draw any portals? Or—” “—This is a really extensive list,” Emma grumbles, and Killian’s smile is going to get stuck on his face. Permanently. She’s very charmed by the crinkles around his eyes.

“Tinker Bell is here.” Slamming his feet back onto the floor, Killian practically snaps to attention, and Emma’s body goes through another reaction she does not expect. What feels suspiciously like jealousy rattles down her spine, rooting her to the spot and drying out her mouth and David’s far too observant.

He clicks his teeth again. “When?” Killian asks, already standing and offering Emma his hand. She takes it, not thinking about what that means — or how it affects the half-green tint clouding her vision, and her heart misses a beat. As soon as his fingers lace through hers.

“Just now. Went to Regina’s, but I had to come here, so one of Snow’s birds told me.” “You can talk to the birds too?” Emma balks, stumbling while Killian all but yanks her towards the door.

“No, no, they carry messages now.” “Ah of course.” “Did Tink say anything yet?” Killian demands, David already shaking his head and they’re picking up speed. All but jogging down Main Street and towards Regina’s office, and the nickname probably isn’t important. It’s fine. Everything is fine. It’s all going to be good.

Even when the fairy in question snaps towards the office door as it swings open, practically lighting up when she notices Killian and Regina’s eyes go noticeably thin. Staring at Emma like she’s trying to read her mind.

Her fingers are still tied up with Killian’s. “Hook,” Tinker Bell exclaims, and she doesn’t have any visible wings so she can’t fly out of her chair. She tries all the same, arms that bump Emma as they hug her not-quite husband and he mutters a greeting. It takes a moment for Tinker Bell’s gaze to find Emma, trying and failing to keep her expression even, and Killian might chuckle.

She kicks his ankle.

“Emma,” Tink breathes, “it’s good to see you again, you have to get the hell out of this timeline.”

“So, that’s it,” Tinker Bell finishes, shrugging like Emma’s not dangerously close to fully breaking down and Killian’s thumb keeps tapping the side of her palm. Because he’s still holding her hand. Cool, it’s cool. She’s not totally preoccupied with that.

Regina’s totally staring, anyway.

“Will-o-wisps,” Killian says, “I thought that was a rumor.” More shrugging. There’s too much shrugging for Emma. “I’ve never heard of it in practice,” Tinker Bell reasons, “but can you think of another plant in Neverland that could do such a thing? That rumor you’re talking about always mentioned how it would draw a traveler in, bewitch them with lights and—were there lights, Emma?”

She nods. Swallows, or tries at least. But her tongue is expanding again, and her heart might be shrinking, and the whole thing feels like a very cruel trick.

“Pan would have known about all of that,” Tinker Bell continues, “and used it to his advantage. If he could get Emma to follow the light, then she wouldn’t be a problem anymore.” “But I didn’t actually move anywhere,” Emma argues. “There was no following the light.” Regina exhales. “Probably more metaphorical, giving into what the light offered.” “Which was?” “This, obviously. What we talked about, and what you thought you couldn’t ever have while you were stuck in Neverland, convinced of a whole slew of wholly negative things. So, there was no walking, but—” “—I wouldn’t have just run away!”

Voice cracking is a sign of impending mental breakdown, Emma’s sure. As are Killian’s tightening fingers, although she’s starting to depend on those fingers just a bit because sitting hadn’t even crossed her mind before and now that might be the only reason she’s still standing.

That keeps happening.

“Doesn’t sound like you had a choice,” Regina says, “if Pan wanted to tempt you, will-o-wisps seem like the perfect way to do it. See the light, get pulled into this future, he gets Henry, and everything he wants.” “But Henry is here. He’s—he’s a grown man, with a kid and—” “—None of that is set in stone,” Tinker Bell interrupts, magic roaring in Emma’s ears. Killian’s going to cut off the circulation to her hand. “With you out of the way, Pan’s got a straight shot at the heart of the truest believer, he can change what you would have eventually done. Make sure he gets the magic that’ll save Neverland. That’s why everything else is falling apart.” “I’m sorry, what?” “Magic,” David clarifies. “All of it acting strangely? Turns out that is because of you, kid.” Scoffing makes her lean forward awkwardly, but Killian doesn’t mention the strain it’s undoubtedly putting on his arm, and letting go of her hand is disappointing for about two seconds. Before it turns into his arm around waist.

Regina’s expression turns calculating.

“Again,” she says, “it’s what we talked about. Things falling apart because you got pulled off the board. Into this exceedingly tempting place.”

Widening her eyes at the unspoken judgement doesn’t do anything to alter Regina’s face, but Emma didn’t really expect it to and her eyes hurt. From not crying. She can’t possibly cry anymore. “I’ve never been to Wonderland, though. How could I fuck up its magic?” “You’ve been other places, love,” Killian murmurs, “and all of that has ripple effects. Savior saves one place, and other realms reap the benefits.” “Is Neverland in the United Realms?” “No.” “Just like that?” “Just like that,” he echoes, smile not quite reaching his eyes. “What do we do now, Your Majesty?”

Taking a deep breath, Regina lets it out almost immediately — staring at limbs and their out-of-place placement for a moment, before glancing at Tinker Bell. Who shrugs, again. Emma’s going to scream. Before she cries. Maybe then all the emotions will balance out. “We figure out a way to get Emma back to the right place, so she can save Henry and defeat Pan, then we hope that things haven’t been altered so much in the past that this version of the future crumbles entirely.” “What was that about no pressure before?” Emma huffs, David laughing under his breath and the feel of something on her hair is absolutely not Killian’s lips. “And honesty, what options do we have left? As far as time travel goes.” “Eh, we're far from exhausted on possibilities,” Regina says. “Just need to get creative.” Tinker Bell’s gasp is very loud. “Have you tried—” “—No,” Killian cuts in, sharper than anything else he’s said. “That’s not going to work.” “But you haven’t tried.” “Because it’s not an option.” “Oh, that’s very negative.” He hums, and Emma waits for the rest of the conversation. Another verbal volley, but it doesn’t come and Tinker Bell looks very disappointed. She’s got another migraine. “How long do you think we have until this future just—disintegrates?” Emma asks.

She counts to twenty-four before anyone replies. “Maybe a couple days,” Regina replies, “a week at most.” “So—Christmas, then?” “I bet he didn’t plan that on purpose, just one of those crazy happenstances.” “Yuh huh.” “Try and sound more convincing next time, that one sucked a bit.”

Hearing the so-called queen of these supposed United Realms utter the word sucked without a hint of irony is not what Emma expects to be the straw that breaks her back, but it is and her back hurts, and all of her aches, and saving people is her gig. She’s got to figure out a way to do that. No matter what.

She can’t do that while standing here. With three matching looks of concern, and one of absolute and total fear boring into the side of her head, and Emma’s also very good at running.

That would suggest she’s got control over her limbs, though. Stumbling down the stairs, she makes it about three-quarters of the way down before the whole thing is too challenging and her lungs appear to be disappearing, or possibly melting, and something in her spine cracks when she falls forward.

Hair brushes Emma’s knees, shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs and the volume of her breathing and the hand that lands on hers doesn’t surprise her as much as it should. “In through your nose, out through your mouth,” Killian instructs, only for Emma to flat out fail at that too.

Becoming a very frustrating theme. “Why are you so worried about my oxygen intake?” “It concerns me that you’re not, actually.”

Letting out a breath she definitely could have used, Emma’s head lolls. Towards his shoulder and the very solid nature of him, and he doesn’t try to roll her off. Just shifts his arm so it’s back around her waist and that does make it a bit easier to keep her lungs functioning.

“Was it all of reality collapsing, or Regina using that particular word?”

Emma groans. “Mind reading’s kind of a violation of privacy.” “Invoking my pirate excuse.” “That’s not a thing.” “Eh,” he says, and she hears the smile. That’s...nice. “Having no regard for laws is something of a requirement for piracy.” “This is not working as well as you think it is.” “I respectfully disagree. We’re going to fix this, you know that, right?” “I can’t imagine how.” “Sheer stubbornness hardwired into your personality.” Laughing hurts her very tight and anxiety-riddled chest, but Emma can’t help herself and she’d been right about the smile. Magic flutters under her skin, a steady pulse that’s slightly different than her normal pulse because it’s also more consistent and Killian’s nose is close enough to brush her cheek. If he wanted.

She wonders if he does. She’d like him to.

But that’s another problem, and more danger than anything Neverland could offer, and—“Fuck Peter Pan, honestly,” Emma proclaims, Killian’s response warm on her skin because it also includes a sound drifting close to a guffaw and she supposes his mouth is as close as his nose. What with the general structure of faces, and all.

He kisses her cheek.

Quick — barely there, really. Over before it has a chance to register, but Emma’s certain she’s been catapulted into the stratosphere, and he blinks almost hyperactively at her. She’s right about the palm thing too.

He turns into her hand as soon as it finds his cheek.

“Apologies,” Killian mumbles, retreating back into formalities and behind walls Emma had been clinging to only a few days before. Now they’re just kind of annoying. “Force of habit.”

“Was it the fuck Peter Pan that got you?” “You’ve always been something of a wordsmith.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Emma smiles. “Can I—can I ask you a question?” “No need to preface it, darling.” That’s something like the eighth time that’s happened. In the last two days. Second in the last hour or so. Emma’s not counting that either. “Do you remember this?” “Currently?” “Don’t be an ass,” she snarks, but his hook is around her wrists before she can even try to lift her hands. “The will-o-wisp attack. I—well, it was my turn to watch and I was kind of wallowing because of everything that had happened, and—” Telling him she wanted to kiss him then and now and possibly for the rest of time is also very appealing. And terrifying. Emma bites her tongue. Coward.

“No,” Killian shakes his head. “I don’t.” “Is that weird?” “Decidedly.” “So, then—wait, I’ve got another question.” He lifts his eyebrows. Smirks. Has the absolute cheek to lift his thumb and brush tears away from her skin, and Emma resolutely refuses to acknowledge the shiver that goes through her at that. “What was with your huh’s, then?” “Last night, you mean.” “I said Echo Caves and you totally froze. Is that—” “Quite a lot of things happen in Neverland,” Killian finishes, “and not all of them have happened for you yet.” “Menacing.” He hums again, takes a deep breath that clearly isn’t a sign he wants to kiss her again. When he does not actually kiss her again. Fine, fine, fine, super. “Not all of it,” he says, although the words sound suspiciously like a promise and neither one of them blink when a bird flies through the open window nearby.

“Are those birds flying in sync?” “Stop talking, you’re going to get us in trouble.” “What was that about pirate code, or whatever?” Grinning up at him and his scowl, Emma can’t help but be a little proud that she’s managed to distract the great and passably royal Captain Killian Jones during the United Realm’s annual tree lighting. Which in retrospect, does seem kind of strange since Emma can’t imagine they actually have Christmas in the Enchanted Forest.

That’s a conversation for a different time, though.

For now she’s willing to keep playing distraction, and it’s very fun to flirt. With Killian, specifically. She’ll consider the repercussions of that later, too.

“As far as I’m aware,” Killian whispers, trying to keep Hope from jumping into the nearest snowbank, “your mother has instructed them to appear at certain and integral points in the ceremony. For dramatic effect.” “Kind of gaudy, isn’t it?” “A requirement of royalty, so it would seem.”

The muscles in her cheeks are starting to ache. From overuse, and that’s—another problem. Being here a tease. That one strand of hair that always manages to fall towards Killian’s right eye is the worst.

“How long have you been holding onto that particular opinion?” They haven't turned the tree on yet, so whatever light reflects in his eyes is more theoretical than anything. Regina must have practiced this speech at some point. No way this is all improvised, not with the dramatic pauses and introductions and— “Oh shit,” Emma mutters, the ends of Killian’s ears going red because Regina is introducing them and Hope is nothing more than four uncoordinated limbs and Henry snickers very loudly.

Ella elbows him in the side.

Emma likes her daughter-in-law. She hasn’t allowed herself to think about that title, or the granddaughter it comes with, but she’s getting very good at putting thoughts in boxes and only partially acknowledging what they mean and Killian's hand finds her again.

Magic rushes from the top of her head to the very bottom of her feet, standing a bit straighter in another pair of boots, and Killian’s whole body moves towards her. So as to make it easier when he openly gapes at her.

That must happen a lot too, though. No one bats an eyelash. “If you’re all done,” Regina drawls, but Henry isn’t and Ella can’t contain her laugh either. Mary Margaret looks overjoyed. Even as her birds break formation.

Emma nods. “All good.” “Gods, the whole lot of you are annoying. You know—” Waving one hand, candles burst into flame without a word, multi-colored lights appearing on every branch, and it takes Emma a moment to realize that everyone in the crowd is holding an ornament.

“What are they for?” she asks Killian, not bothering to lower her face over the cheers. People are cheering for the tree. “They’re wishes, Mama,” Hope cries. “From everyone!”

He nods when the four-year-old doesn’t explain anymore — already rushing towards Mary Margaret and her ornament. “That’s why people come from all over. Aside from the festive nature, and the talented birds, it’s an old superstition. Place an ornament where the candle was, and you’ll get your wish.” “What happens to the candle?” “Supposed to bring it home, and light that space with the feeling of the solstice.”

In any other situation, exhaling as forcefully as she does would be embarrassing. As it is, Emma figures she’s got a thousand excuses and the hand in hers gives no indication of letting go any time soon. So, seems like a wash. “Gods, that’s nice.” “Aye, it is.”

Hope puts an ornament on the tree.

So does Henry.

And Lucy. The list goes on and on, but all Emma can do is stand at the end of Granny’s counters and eat her weight in Snickerdoodles.

She's the worst, frankly.

Snow starts to fall just as Emma’s wavering between that happy medium of pleasantly buzzed and legitimately drunk, and she’s got to ask someone who doles out the liquor licenses in this realm because it appears Granny’s hand has grown a bit heavy over the years.

Lucy scampers towards the far window as soon as she notices the storm, already talking a mile a minute and detailing plans with Hope and Neal — and this happy medium makes it impossible for Emma to be too frustrated by that, but she also hasn’t actually asked what happened to Neal or why he doesn’t appear in Storybrooke, so it seems it’s more difficult to rid herself of the self-imposed asshole moniker than she’d like.

And the bell over the door rattles like it’s the goddamn town crier, another familiar face stepping through the frame. With red highlights in her hair. “Are we doing this, then?” Ruby asks, flanked by a woman Emma doesn’t recognize and another redhead who is obviously not Ariel and it’s strange to see Mulan out of armor.

“Cap?” Ruby presses, when no one responds quickly enough, “this is happening, right?” Glancing at a wary Henry and back towards a clearly confused Emma, Killian grits his teeth. While she does her best to come to terms with nicknames, and another tradition and Hope tries very hard to climb up Emma’s side.

So as to yell in her ear easier.

“It’s snowing, Mama. We’ve got to play!” Emma blinks. “In the snow.” “It’s a...thing,” Killian explains. “Gets almost—” “—Bloodthirsty,” Mary Margaret says, which is not the most shocking thing that’s happened so far, but Emma’s buzz is starting to ebb slightly and someone’s knocking on the door. Another redhead, with her hair in braids and what looks like suspiciously like a crown on her head and David lets out a joyful noise when he notices the guy behind her.

Mary Margaret tugs at the edge of Emma’s sleeve. She might be nearly drunk too, actually. If her slight wobble is any indication. “In the past,” she starts, “there’s been some notably magical snowstorms here. It was quite an event when Elsa first arrived, but then well—you helped save her, and her sister.” The redhead waves, as if she knows she’s being talked about and Emma can’t fathom how she makes that connection, but she’s getting better at puzzles. “And now,” Mary Margaret continues, “it’s become something of a ritual.”

Ruby gags. “Oh Gods, don’t say it like that. Sounds ruthless.” “Isn’t it, though?” Henry challenges. “The gist is, that Elsa shows up after the tree lighting with her snow powers and we have a snowball fight.” She’s too drunk for this. Definitely well past buzzed at this point. “A snowball fight,” Emma repeats, half a dozen nodding heads replying with equally large smiles and the almost audible sense of anticipation hovering around them.

Hope widens her eyes. It’s a very good trick. “She practices that,” Killian mutters, more mind reading that Emma doesn’t bother to point out because the redhead is shouting "come on, let’s go'' and that sounds like a command. And bloodthirsty is a very appropriate adjective.

Teams are quickly formed, alliances announced and the guy Emma realizes is named Kristoff claims “honor must be defended” enough times that it appears to be a catchphrase. Laughter rings out around them, dancing on the magically-induced snowflakes and off the lights, and there aren’t as many candles on the tree anymore, but some flames continue to flicker, casting shadows across faces and snowballs.

As they fly past Emma’s ears.

“Your aim could use some work,” Killian says, breathing heavier as he ducks behind a snow drift they’re using as a blockade. Emma sneers. “Where’d the kid go?” “Ours?” She nods. Tries not to die. Only marginally succeeds. Killian doesn’t appear to notice. Force of habit is a very strong rationalization, it seems. “She’s allied herself with her much more impressive brother, who—” Lifting out of his crouch, Killian cups a hand to his mouth, like that will help the volume of his ensuing insult. “—Has clearly been practicing snowball creation in the Wish Realm and only knows how to win by cheating!” “I learned it from you,” Henry calls back.

David’s laugh is loud enough to disrupt a whole flock of birds. Perched on the branches above his and Mary Margaret’s head.

Goosebumps make a glorious return to Emma’s arm — and quite possibly her soul, which only seems like an exaggeration until she notices the spots of color on Killian’s cheeks and the bits of snow clinging to his hair. His eyes get bluer when she brushes the moisture away. Have to, if only to explain Emma’s fluttering magic and fledgling pulse and a snowball slams into her left shoulder blade. “Gotta hide better,” Anna calls, the blonde behind her, who is definitely Elsa, shaking with the force of her laughter. Everyone keeps laughing. Everyone is so happy. It’s—

A goddamn Christmas Utopia.

“You did offer yourself up a bit,” Killian reasons, Emma gasping at the betrayal. Pulling on the front of her now-damp jacket, he tugs her back against his side and they’re very close. Too close. Possibly not close enough.

“And what would you suggest o ye master strategist?” “Little wordy, don’t you think?”

“I retract my compliment, then.” “Ahaha,” he chuckles, “a compliment, was it? Well that’s totally different, then. Now, if you just stay here with—” The rest of the sentence gets caught up in his grunt and groan and Emma’s not particularly disappointed to see Hope’s return to this side of the snowball fight, but she’s also fairly certain there was a me looming on the tip of Killian’s very distracting tongue and she’d like to hear that. Selfishly. “Oh, switched allegiances again, have you, little love?” “Henry can’t enchant the snowballs,” Hope says, like that’s supposed to make sense and it almost does because Emma has magic, but she’s never tried to use it on snow. At least not yet.

“I don’t—” she starts, only to cut herself off. At the overall circumference of Hope’s eyes, and the color of Killian’s and there’s something to said for sheer force of will. “Gimme a snowball, baby.”

Excitement immediately colors her daughter’s face, smile wide enough that it’s probably a record and Killian doesn’t say anything. Watches without a single shift of his chest, which means Emma is staring at his chest, but he’s also obviously not breathing, and her lungs can’t stand up to much more of this.

An admittedly lackluster snowball gets plopped in Emma’s upturned palm, and she blinks away the cold like this is old hat. Or something less lame sounding. Snow packs together like—well, magic, she supposes, a perfect sphere that isn’t quite iced over, but won’t fall apart when one of them throws it and obviously Hope’s got to throw it.

“Ok,” she says, nodding encouragingly. “Who did you want to take down?” Killian’s lips disappear. Behind his teeth. To stop himself from grinning like a maniac, or so Emma very quickly convinces herself.

“Uncle Kris,” Hope announces, and this family’s apparently only grown in the last decade or so. Maybe Emma should be more concerned about her heart. And its ability to burst.

“We can do that. Just—toss it up, and…”

She’s got no idea, really. Just generic hope, and a surplus of feeling, but Emma’s always been told that magic is emotion and she’s not sure she’s ever been more emotional, which is a scathing commentary of her life, but this is also her life and— Killian scoops Hope up, an impressive act of balance and dodging incoming snowballs, and Emma will use that emotion as a reasonable excuse for what she does next. Reaching forward, her fingers curl around the brace at the end of his arm, not able to actually touch skin because he’s wearing a leather jacket, and that’s only sort of messing with her mind. But the motivation is the same, and she’s got all those suspicions and thoughts and—

The most powerful magic in the world.

“Throw it, love,” Killian directs, Hope’s arm pulling behind her like she’s a professional baseball player, and Emma squeezes her eyes shut. Warmth curls at the base of her spine, inching up her vertebrae until it takes root at the base of her skull, spreading out through her brain and the rest of her limbs and he definitely kisses her hair again.

She’d been counting on that, just a bit.

Muscles loosen under her skin, no sense of tension or that ever-present anxiety Emma’s always just assumed was part of her genetic makeup. Shouts echo around her, in addition to the snow, but she can’t quite hear any of it over the explosion of magic between her ears, and Hope’s cry of success will probably be branded on Emma for the rest of her life.

She hopes so, at least.

Opening her eyes to find Kristoff sputtering, and Anna as impressed as she is indignant, Emma only barely has a chance to catch her breath before there’s a kid flying into her arms. It’s harder to hold her when she doesn’t let go of Killian. And Killian doesn’t pull away.

He watches both of them. Traces over Emma’s face, the same way she had in the hallway, and something happens. Something important. Passing between them, and cementing itself in her gut and her soul and his lips twitch. At her magic, probably. “Thank you,” Killian mouths, Emma nodding against Hope’s hair. She kisses it. Out of habit, or whatever.

Strands of hair are damp against Emma's temple by the time they traipse back to the house, Hope asleep on Killian’s shoulder. Enchanted snowflakes linger on the back of her jacket, hovering on her eyelashes for maximum effect and peak cute, which didn’t need any help if Emma’s being honest and she might be willing to err on the side of that particular feeling right now. So as to keep the feeling, all year long and maybe even indefinitely.

Or whatever they said about Ebenezer Scrooge.

After he learned to love Christmas. And other humans.

Emma’s still not thinking too hard about that particular word, though. So, maybe complete honesty’s something of a stretch, but the kid is undeniably adorable and it’s admittedly difficult to think straight when Killian is—

Killian. In italicized and underlined lettering, meeting Emma snark for snark, and snowball for snowball, and she really wants to know his Monopoly cheating strategy, but that’s a problem for an entirely different list because that list has impossible words and improbable feelings and he’s staring at her.

Where she’s leaning against their front door.

Using possessive and collective pronouns isn’t helping her cause.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly. For the benefit of the sleeping kid, Emma figures. Not the state of her pulse, or the magic he could feel, and the cyclical nature of time is just toying with her at this point.

She nods. “Better than, somehow.” “Oh, that’s a little negative, Swan.” “Kind of my schtick, isn’t it.” “Not always,” Killian says, another pair of words that shouldn’t sound like a promise and clearly do not care. Emma feels her smile. Like, possibly in the very core of her being. At least between her ribs, where the growing sense of belonging has decided to linger, this feeling of home and possibility and staying here is not a possibility. Tinker Bell will figure something out.

Emma will — that’s how Savior’ing works, after all.

“You know,” Killian adds, Hope humming into his neck and there’s quite a lot of neck. Emma might be staring at his neck. “At some point we concoct this very impressive buttered rum recipe, that’s notoriously good at warding off chills.” Digging her teeth into her lips does not do anything to disperse the butterflies in Emma’s stomach, but she’s also not all that interested in them leaving. “Concerned about my breathing and my overall body temperature?” God, she’s an idiot.

Flirting isn't quite second nature, though — and Emma’s even less accustomed to flirting as a two-way street, but this feels as easy as it has and will and there’s those tense-based issues all over again. Killian grins. Slow, and measured and inching almost close to lecherous, sparking a handful of other other ideas that—

Immediately disappears when the four-year-old wakes up.

Brushed teeth take precedence, as do picking out pajamas and Hope is in possession of more pajama sets than Emma knew could exist in one set of drawers. Then there’s a bedding routine, lifting comforters and crawling under sheets and Emma doesn’t know the story requested of her.

She’s got no idea what happens after Prince Charles spun around with his sword.

It’s got to be impressive, though.

“Oh, Hope I—” she exhales, fear creeping back into the forefront of her mind. Until fingers find they’re way back into hers, and they’re just as warm as they always are and it takes Killian less than three minutes to promise a different story on another night.

No tears are shed, so that’s got to be a victory and Hope’s eyes are already fluttering closed when Killian flicks off the light. Lingering in the hallway, Emma’s not sure what she’s supposed to do or where she’s supposed to go, but there’s a hook pressed into the small of her back and buttered rum turns out to have a ridiculous amount of cinnamon in it. “Shit,” Emma mutters into her glass, and Killian looks far too satisfied. “This is really good.” “Took some trial and error, but we got there eventually. Or get there for you, I suppose.” Sipping instead of responding is another cowardly move, one Emma won’t ever admit to and it doesn’t matter because he can read her mind. At least her face. Open book, and all that.

“I’m sorry.” Killian blinks. “For what, exactly?” “God, throw a dart. Everything I—showing up in your life and making the right Emma disappear, maybe, and that’s got to be fucking with you, and—” “—You’re not the wrong Emma,” he interrupts, with enough force to pull her up short. Buttered rum drips on her chin. So, she’s a picture of romance and flirting potential. “Just a little early, that’s all.” “Not what you said when I got here.” “Aye, well that was the bastard version of me. He’s a—” “—Bastard?” “Absolutely,” Killian nods, “and maybe a little unsure of himself when it comes to you.”

It’s her turn to blink. More than once, only a little concerned the scene in front of her will change, but it doesn’t and it won’t and there’s got to be a limit on time travel. Emma’s reached her quota by now, she hopes. “Because I’m a mess now? I mean, this version of me. Not the wife one.” “You’re worried about Henry. And I understand that, did then as well. I just—you want to know why the Echo Caves gave me pause? Because if you got tugged right after that, then all you’re sure of is that I think I could move on from Milah, but nothing else has happened for you yet. No promises or—” Swallowing, he sets his glass down and there wasn’t much room between them, but there’s even less now and Emma’s got nowhere to put her hands. Except on his thigh. Where it bumps hers. “Leaving behind that bastard who wouldn’t give you the magic bean was always something of a challenge, but you made me want to. Made it easier to do just that. Because eventually you do trust me, and you believe in me, and—”

He exhales. Licks his lips. Emma can’t move. “The thought of losing that terrified me,” Killian finishes.

They’ve stopped dancing. Are standing stock-still in the middle of the floor, while other people twirl around and wait for them to get their rhythm back. And Killian doesn’t blink, which is equally frustrating and overwhelming and a much more positive adjective that Emma can’t be bothered with because she’s too busy saying, “I...like you?” “Was that a question?” “Maybe,” she admits, “it’s not really my forte, and I told Neal a bunch of shit in the Echo Caves too, so—is...did my parents name their kid after him?” “Yuh huh.” “Don’t sound particularly pleased.” “We’ll get to that,” Killian says, “Rehash the liking stuff, please.” Maybe laughing at inappropriate times is actually his greatest talent. Emma’s head drops, bumping Killian’s shoulder, but then there’s an arm back around her waist and there’s so much of him, and that’s always been the problem. Opposite of a problem, really.

“You just—” Emma mutters. “Came back, for us and me and I...that kind of terrifies me too, but you always make sure if I'm ok, and that’s—not a ton of people do that.” “Becomes something of a habit.” “I’m going to ask you a question.” “Still don’t need to preface it.” “Are you Prince Charles in the story?”

Surprise is a good look on him. All of them are, but Emma’s already crossed one emotional threshold and like wasn’t really the word she was thinking about before. “Aye,” Killian says, soft enough that it’s difficult to hear.

“Does that make me the princess?” “In almost every story I tell.”

The warmth moves to her cheeks, and the same skin Killian’s fingers graze, coming dangerously close to the edge of her mouth and barely parted lips. “So, uh,” Emma stammers, “not our first time travel adventure?” “Gets confusing when you haven’t done that other part yet.” “Time travel might be overrated, honestly. But we get back, right? That’s—I mean, you’re here.”

Nodding, his nose replaces his fingers and it’s oddly endearing. “If you remember this in the past, I refuse to be held accountable, alright?”

“Seems fair,” Emma laughs, and she thinks she hears him swallow before he responds. “You give up your magic, for me—which is something else I never entirely pay you back for, but then we get pulled into the portal, adventures ensue, including that very impressive spin move, and then your magic comes back.” “How?” “With that wand Regina used before, that’s why she thought it would work.” “You’re skipping over things,” she accuses, and flirting might not be the only two-way street. He’s getting easier to read. “Was that was it you? Helping with my magic?” Shrugging isn’t easy when they’re so tangled together, but Killian’s ears are as red as Ariel’s hair and Ruby’s highlights and—“The only reason I magic’ed that snowball was because I was holding onto you. Control’s not something I’ve got much of right now.” “You would have been able to figure it out.” “Not with a kid waiting, and all those people and—” Problems be damned. Lists be damned. Time itself, be goddamned. “Paying me back is a stupid thing to think.”

“Swan.” Shaking her head, Emma moves before she can reconsider how incredibly dumb this is and possibly even more dangerous, but he keeps staring at her and it’s so easy and normal, and if she were someone who breathed with any sort of regularity, that wold be an appropriate analogy. Killian shifts too, so that helps.

And she definitely mumbles kiss me like some harlequin romance heroine, but he doesn’t laugh and he doesn’t object and the fingers that find her hair help ground her. To this plane of reality. Nice exists for about half a second, before it rather quickly evolves into need and desire and there are hands everywhere. Emma’s and Killian’s — tracing each other like this is the first time all over again, and her back arches once she clamors into his lap.

Rocking down at the same time he rocks up draws out several sounds Emma’s never heard before, and would not mind hearing on loop. Fingers search out skin, pushing into the tuft of hair at the nape of his neck, and she can’t tilt her head enough. To get the right angle, or more of his tongue and his tongue’s already swiping at her lips.

He groans again. When she opens her mouth, lets him trace as much as he’d like, and Emma would like even more, but she’s always been kind of greedy when it comes to him and really oxygen is vastly overrated.

She can’t keep her eyes open.

Can’t imagine how anything gets better than this, or them and there’s that pronoun again.

Both of their shoulders heave when they finally have to pull apart, more black than blue in Killian’s eyes and— “We’re really good at that,” she mutters, working a laugh out of him. That he presses against her neck. And under her chin. Drags across her jaw, and up towards her temple, kissing whatever he can reach and everywhere he lands and it takes a power she did not know she possessed for Emma to keep herself from demanding he take his clothes off as well.

She opts for the next best thing. “Thoughts on sleeping in your own bed?”

The eyebrows, honestly. Flying up, and reacting quicker than he can respond and Killian kisses her. Soft and easy, and as normal as anything. “Vast,” he says, mostly into her mouth, “and it’s difficult to fall asleep without you, so it’d be nice to actually do that.” “Yeah, ok. That works.”

#cs ff #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan #captain swan fic #but once a year #festive fic a thon 2k20 #MAGIC SNOWBALL FIGHTS #making a united realms solely to bring back frozen characters???#more likely than you think!!

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ieattaperecorders · 4 years

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Something's Different About You Lately - Chapter Seven: Carrying On

A challenging work environment proves to be too stressful for some.

Read on Ao3

Jon missed the tape recorders. He wanted something to talk into, a way to externalize his thoughts. Before the institute he'd write things down – not notes, really, just lists and scribbles he'd use to map his thinking, then discard. Couldn't do that anymore, though. Not without Elias seeing him plan.

He had a notebook and pen in front of him at the moment, and he was using them to draw the same simple pictogram, over and over. A horizontal oval, a smaller circle inside it, and a black dot in the center – which was immediately scratched out until it was no longer recognizable.

The idea had come from Gertrude. Her crates of eyeless dolls, magazines with the eyes cut from every face, they had felt like wards. He wasn't sure how effective they were against Elias, but doing something with his hands helped him think. He'd been at it for a few hours and had managed to fill most of a notebook with crossed-out eyes.

Melanie was being difficult. It was his own fault, really. He'd made the mistake of trying to discourage her from following the incident with Sara Baldwin, and only led her to feel dismissed and disbelieved.

She'd stormed out and he'd run after her, catching up outside the Institute and all but pleading with her. He confessed his fears and repeated what he'd told the others about the paranormal being dangerous. She wasn't pleased, still indignant that he'd take it on himself to decide what was best for her. But she did soften a bit. Made it clear she had every intention of continuing her investigations, but agreed to keep working with him. That was something.

It wouldn't save her, though. Not if she was determined to keep throwing herself at sites of blood and violence.

There was a knock at the door, and Jon flipped the notebook shut.

"Come in."

His door – unpainted wood, bright brass handle – opened a crack and Martin's head poked through the gap. He was still hesitating, taking stock of how busy he was before entering. Jon smiled and he took it as the invitation it was, shouldering his way in and closing the door behind him.

"Brought you some tea," he said, setting down the red and green mug Tim had bought ages ago. "Thought you might be needing a break."

"Not sure if I've earned one. But thank you."

". . . Been quiet today, huh?" Martin's tone was aimless, talking largely as an excuse to linger. "No weird surprises?"

"Not today, no. Would you like to count the doors?"

"Um. Wouldn't take long, would it? Just the one."

Jon smiled, closed his eyes and took a sip of tea. He used to take it black. He'd just defaulted to it naturally, always, until one afternoon when Martin brought him a cup made the way he took his – with too much sugar and just a little milk. Jon had taken a sip of it and realized that he liked he tea sweet. That he'd denied himself that little pleasure for years, for no real reason but habit.

That was before, of course. The Martin who brought him that tea was the one in his memories, not the one standing in front of him. This Martin thought that Jon had always taken his tea with sugar.

"No sign of Michael, then?"

"Still nothing. Maybe it's gotten bored, found someone else to harass."

"Doesn't it bother you? Knowing he's out there, trapping people in those hallways?"

"I don't know." Jon set the mug down, looking at his hands. "Obviously, yes, it bothers me. But I suppose I'm not sure what I could do about it."

"D'you think – maybe this is too easy, but – d'you think you could just smash it with an axe? The door, if it appeared? I know it's supernatural and all, but it's still wood, right?"

"I think we can be quite sure it isn't wood, actually."

"Still thought. Might be worth keeping a fire axe around? Could at least chop through a wall if you got trapped like before."

"Chopping a hole through evil architecture – strangely practical, blunt, and a little bit violent." Jon observed. He couldn't help thinking that Adelard Dekkar would be proud. "If anyone could do it, it would be you."

"Oh –"

"But no one can," he finished. "It's impossible and it would be foolish to try."

"All right, all right. I get it." Martin rolled his eyes. "Suppose I'll let you get back to it, then . . . ."

Jon stood, the scrape of his chair against the floor loud enough to make Martin turn. He hesitated, standing awkwardly by his desk.

"Ah. Hey. H-How are you holding up?" he asked.

Martin blinked. "What?"

"It's been a difficult few months," he continued, hesitant. "There's everything with Prentiss, and even if you didn't encounter Michael yourself, everything I said . . . it's a lot to take in?"

"Oh . . . well, um. Not much to say about Prentiss, I guess. You know I've been settled back home for a while. Still go a little spray-crazy whenever I see an ant, but, um. I know she's dead, so," he shrugged. "Thanks, by the way. For the, um, jar."

"I know it was a bit weird. I just thought it might, um . . . closure and all?" He tapped the edge of his desk, looking down. "Someone did something similar for me once, and, ah, it helped."

"Yeah. I mean. It is sort of weird, but it's nice." Martin rubbed at the back of his neck. "Also uh – y'know. Appreciate all the phone calls. I'm sure you're sick to death of them."

It had taken a little encouragement, but Martin had been phoning him at night for a few months. First hesitantly and infrequently, then with something approaching regularity. He'd call when he wasn't able to sleep, or wakened by vivid nightmares, and in need of another voice to settle him. No singing, thankfully. It seemed that danger was in the past.

Mostly when he mentioned nightmares, they were about the worms. But Jon suspected there were other things behind some of those calls. He remembered one occasion when Martin didn't say why he'd phoned, barely said anything at all. Just rang Jon up and asked him to please, talk to him about something, anything. He sounded like he'd been crying, and it had taken all of Jon's willpower to not ask why. He'd fumbled around until he found a book on naval history that had been left beside his bed, opened it and began reading out loud. It was all that he could think to do.

It wasn't usually so fraught as that, though. Usually Martin just needed to get his mind off things, long enough to calm down and rest. They'd reached a point where it was a pattern, a quiet little ritual of their own. A moment at the beginning talking through it, then a shift to something easy – books they'd read, movies they liked, silly things that had happened at work.

Sometimes when Martin didn't feel safe in his flat, Jon offered to come over and look over it with him. He always declined, and Jon promised himself that he wouldn't push the issue. Not unless he believed Martin was in real danger, which fortunately never seemed to be the case.

"I've actually come to enjoy our little late night chats," he said. "I'm learning a lot about independent film."

"I know I'm waking you up a lot."

"Sometimes. I still keep odd hours, though. Really there's nothing you could do to my sleep schedule that hasn't already been done." He paused, glancing back at Martin. "Ah . . . what about the other thing? What I said about Elias? We haven't . . . well, we never really talked about it?"

"It's . . . augh, I don't know." Martin shifted from one foot to the other. "Okay, would you explain something to me?"

"Of course."

"So you said that Elias is spying on us, with some supernatural clairvoyance. And he was probably doing it when you told us that, meaning he knows the secret's out, right?"

"Almost definitely. I can't be sure when he's watching and when he isn't, but I would be very surprised if he doesn't know."

"Then why hasn't he done anything?"

"Why would he?" Jon shrugged. "What could he gain from addressing it? Look at it this way – if you all think I've lost it, then he has every reason to keep you thinking that. Even if you believe me, if there's room for doubt at all he's still better off acting normal. He has no reason to discard the facade until it stops being useful."

"I suppose . . ."

"Look, its – it's all right if you don't believe me. I know it's a hell of a claim to make, and I don't have any proof. But don't trust him. Even if you can't trust me, don't trust Elias either. He doesn't have our best interests at heart."

"I didn't say I didn't trust you . . . ."

Jon blinked, startled. "Then you do trust me?"

"Wh – That's not what –" Martin shook his head. "I mean . . . yes? I guess? I don't think you're lying about this. It's just a lot, I guess."

"Have you tried quitting yet? That's probably the closest thing to proof I can offer."

"Nah." Martin shrugged. "Don't see the point, really. Either I try and I can't, so no reason to bother, or I can and I'd be leaving you all to deal with the monsters, so . . . ."

He shrugged again. So. So he wouldn't leave even if he could. Jon shook his head and sighed, smiling.

"For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here. That is – obviously I'm not glad you're trapped here, I don't, ah, I don't want that. But just . . . in general."

A surprised huff came out of Martin. He looked down and smiled, leaning towards the praise like a plant to sunlight. "Ah, y'know. Even without supernatural compulsion, I'd probably be stuck here anyway. Don't think my job prospects are that impressive."

"That's not true," Jon frowned. "You've been here, what, over ten years? That shows reliability. Then there's experience, familiarity with the catalog systems . . . you'd have an impressive resume even without any—"

Shit. He cut himself off as he realized what he'd nearly referred to. Unfortunately Martin noticed the abrupt stop, furrowing his brow.

"Without any what?"

"Hmm? Nothing." Jon looked hard at the wall, trying not to betray the tension he'd created in himself. "Was thinking of something else for a moment."

Stupid, stupid. He wasn't supposed to know about the fake degree. Martin hadn't told him about it, or he had but not this Martin, not this time, couldn't he keep the two straight in his mind? He tried to think of a direction to turn the subject towards. Martin was giving him a searching look and he knew damn well he needed to stop looking so caught, he'd said almost nothing, and if he could just act casual there would be no reason at all to assume –

"Oh . . . oh." Slow realization built on Martin's face. "Shit."

"It doesn't matter," Jon blurted out. "Forget I said anything, please."

". . . Did Tim tell you?"

"No. It's a long story and – and it doesn't matter anyway, does it?" He shrugged, a sad smile on his face. "None of our resumes mean anything here. You can't lose this job however much you might want to, and Elias already knows, so . . . ."

"Wait, what? Elias too?"

"He's known from the beginning. I suspect he's enjoyed having something to hold over you."

A conflicted look passed over Martin, and Jon saw him rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.

"God, that . . . that actually makes a lot of sense." He let out a frustrated sigh. "I used to think maybe, with some of the things he'd say . . . but I thought I was just being paranoid."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said."

"No, no," Martin exhaled, tension still fixing his features. "I'd rather know. Thanks for telling me, I guess. Even if it was, you know, an accident."

The thumb and forefinger again, moving back and forth at his side. Jon had noticed him doing that in the time they'd spent in Daisy's cabin. It was a habit that would come up sometimes when they talked about Peter, or Elias. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what it was . . . tension, rumination? More that anything else, Jon had come to liken it to the repetitive movement of a tiger pacing a cage.

". . . Are you all right?"

"Yes! No!" Martin dragged a hand over his face. "God, I don't know! It's such a stupid thing to get worked up over. I mean, if anything it's good news, right? One less thing to worry about . . . ."

"The revelation that a man you've known for the majority of your adult life has been deliberately letting you sweat over a harmless lie for a decade?" Jon shook his head. "No, I wouldn't say that qualifies as good news."

"Right!? It's messed up, isn't it?" He threw his arms out to the sides. "I just . . . now I'm thinking about these comments he'd make? Never anything where I could say for sure, but he'd mention someone else not being qualified for their job and look right at me. Or ask weird, pointed questions about the university I didn't go to so I'd have to make up something on the spot and –" his hands shook as he gestured, "– and he was laughing at me the whole time. Wasn't he?"

"It's what he does. It's what he is," Jon said darkly. "He watches other people squirm."

And you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? He could almost hear the smug bastard's voice in the back of his mind, but he shook it off. That wasn't the point. He looked over at Martin, who had gone quiet, and wondered if it would be inappropriate to put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Jon continued, staying where he was. "You have every reason to feel . . . I don't know. Angry? Betrayed? Used?"

". . . The whole ‘no quitting' thing. I saw people come and go in the library a lot. It doesn't apply there, does it?"

"No. Just the archive."

"He knew about that too. Didn't he?"

"He did. That's something we have in common," Jon said softly. "I brought Tim and Sasha into this – that's my unfortunate role in it all. But you and I were placed here by someone who knew exactly what he was doing to us."

". . . Fuck."

"Agreed."

"Well, I sure as hell don't trust him now." Martin let out a long breath, straightening up, releasing a little of the tension he seemed to be holding. "I guess this means everyone knows? Except Sasha . . . ."

"I'm sure Sasha knows too. Do you really think we have any secrets from her?" Jon shook his head. "The other day I made an offhand comment about the trouble with statements coming from criminals, and she started needling me about the time I spent in juvenile court."

That seemed to startle Martin enough to shake his mood. "Wait, what? Back up. You've got a criminal past?"

"Nothing so dramatic," Jon huffed, waving his hand "it was all incredibly minor offenses, childish things, you know."

"Sorry, I – I'm just having trouble imagining you as a juvenile delinquent."

"Whatever you are imagining, it wasn't that." He leaned stiffly on the desk behind him. "I was a fairly troublesome child. I was bored easily, and I liked to explore. Sometimes I found myself on one side of a fence that I . . . simply needed to see the other side of. A number of authority figures took issue with this."

"Huh," an amused smile crossed Martin's face. "That's . . . honestly kind of adorable."

"My grandmother did not share your opinion. The point is, Sasha didn't learn that through me. She's probably dug into all of our backgrounds."

"Ugh. Probably." Martin shook his head. "We really ought to have a talk with her about that . . . it's getting less and less like a quirk and more like a serious privacy concern? I swear she sees even the monster stuff as a mystery for her to solve."

"At least she's taking it well."

"Yeah . . . not like Tim."

Not like Tim, no. He wasn't the bitter, broken man in Jon's memories. He still smiled and joked around, and he wasn't isolating himself. But the revelation about this place had reached something deep and wounded in him. He got into somber moods, and his humor had taken on a noticeably harsh edge. Even his more playful moments seemed worrying -- he was impulsive in a way he hadn't been before, like he was desperately trying to cover it all with cheer. They were still talking at least, Jon hadn't ruined that line of connection yet. But seeing Tim's pain poke its head above the surface made him fearful. He knew that it ran deep. It was hard not to be skittish around him now.

"No," Jon said. "He puts on a brave front but I know it's hit him hard."

"Have you talked to him about it at all?"

"Not really. The other day I tried to ask how he was handling things and he just . . . slowly shook his head at me. So, ah, I –" hid in my office like a coward until everyone had left "– thought it best to drop the subject. You?"

"Mostly the same. I mean, I know it's bothering him, and I've tried bringing it up. But he always brushes it off with a joke, or just tells me to leave it. I think he talks to Sasha more."

"Yes . . . I'm glad he has her here," Jon sighed. "She seems to keep him grounded."

"And Sasha seems to manage on her own. So they're okay, more or less." Martin glanced pointedly at him. "What about you, though? Who's keeping you grounded?"

He asked as if the answer wasn't obvious, but Jon supposed it wasn't. Not to him.

"I could ask you the same," he smiled. "You're always checking in on us. Reminding Sasha to eat, nudging Tim, seeing that I don't waste away in here. Who's checking in on you?"

"Oh. You know," he shrugged, "I-- I'm pretty good at taking care of myself."

"Maybe," Jon said softly. "But you could still let somebody take care of you."

Surprised, Martin blinked and looked away with a nervous little laugh. His voice cracked slightly as he spoke – easy to miss, even easier to ignore, a quiet and ordinary pain.

"Well, unless you know someone who's likely to volunteer, I don't think –"

Jon's feet moved without his permission, one step forward, two, until he was close enough to put a hand on Martin's arm. Enough to stop his waving hand, to quiet the gesture of brushing away concern. He stilled immediately.

"You deserve to be cared for, Martin."

He knew right away it was too much, it was far too much. He'd crossed a line that he should be leaving alone, the words were too honest and too intimate and too close. You deserve to be cared for. If he'd said it from across the room in a different tone of voice, it would be possible to hear as advice – something about self-care or accepting help or something more removed. But not there, not standing so close. Nothing about this was removed.

"Oh," Martin's eyes were wide and staring. "Um. Oh."

He didn't pull back, but he was stiff under Jon's hand so he let go. If – if Martin was just startled, frozen like a deer in headlights, he didn't want to box him in. Unmoored, his hand hovered as if it had forgotten where it belonged.

". . . I would like to take care of you," he let it out in a breath. It felt like he'd been holding it forever. "If you would let me."

Martin breathed in sharply, but didn't speak. Jon spoke, words spilling out faster than he could hold onto them.

"I've felt this way for a while," he said. "I . . . I want to be there when you're afraid, or when you're lonely. I just. Want to be with you."

Something shattered when he said that, and Martin took a step backwards. He placed a hand over his mouth, stifling what might have been a laugh and might have been a sob, shoulders shaking, gaze cast down and away. There were tears in his eyes and Jon knew he'd made a mistake. It was too much, too close, too soon, and he'd hurt him and he couldn't take it back and he'd ruined it all –

"Oh, Jon . . ." Martin looked at him, eyes still shining with tears. "I've been in love with you since we ran from Prentiss together."

Carefully, Jon reached forward. Martin didn't freeze and he didn't step back, he moved towards him like a miracle. Jon's hand remembered where it belonged, it ran itself along Martin's cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin, smoothing the hair at his temple. Martin closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, and it was a gift, a prayer answered. He moved closer and then there were Martin's arms encircling him, Martin's head resting on his shoulder, Martin's breath against his ear. It was like coming home, like remembering himself. Nothing was certain and nothing was safe and none of that mattered at all, because finally, finally, he was back where he belonged. They were back in each other's arms.

"I love you," Jon said. "I'm so, so scared, but you give me a reason to be brave. You make me want to be human."

"I'm scared too," Martin whispered. "All the time."

"I know . . . God, I know," he whispered back. "I want us to have each other. I want to just – just take you places. To cook for you and show you things that I like. To do all the simple, normal things we could never do before."

"I want that too. I want to walk in the rain with you, and hold your hand, and read you my poetry."

"I want to fuss about my appearance, because I know I'm going to see you later," Jon laughed, "I want to worry about harmless, little things like that."

A contented sigh came from Martin, and he pulled back, taking Jon's hands in both of his.

"You know what I really want to do, though?" he asked, "more than anything in the world?"

"Gouge our eyes out, murder Elias, and flee the country together?"

Martin grinned. "You read my mind."

"I didn't have to!" Jon said, grinning back.

* * *

"Jon? Jon. Are you all right?"

"Hmm?" Jon blinked, pulling himself back to reality. The edge of his desk still pressed against his back. "Sorry, what?"

"We were talking about Tim?" Martin frowned. "Then you just sort of stared into the distance for a minute."

"Right. Yes. Sorry," he cleared his throat, glancing away. "Low blood sugar."

"Oh. When did you last eat? I could grab something from the break room, if you–"

"S'fine. Really." Jon pulled himself back behind his desk. "I'm sure the tea will help. I should get back to work."

"Oh. Okay." Martin hesitated, glancing back. "Don't work to hard, all right? We worry about you, you know."

The door closed behind him and Jon slumped in his seat, sighing. When his own lovesick daydreams veered into self-mockery, it was probably a bad sign. He picked up the mug, letting it warm his hands, sipping slowly.

Martin had been attentive since he came back from the Distortion's door – checking in, bringing him tea, prodding him to come out for lunch. It was . . . well, it was familiar. And nice. God, it was nice. But did it mean anything? Martin was drawn to taking care of people. Fussing like this, it meant that he was worried about him, and that thought alone made something in his chest ache sweetly. But he wasn't sure if it meant anything else.

He knew Martin had feelings for him long before he himself had noticed, but where those feelings had begun, he didn't know. He absolutely didn't know how his actions might have changed things, might continue to change them. That left him guessing, and he had never been good at guessing such things. He'd admired Georgie for a while before gathering the courage to ask her out. When he had she'd been surprised – apparently she'd been flirting with him without him noticing or responding to it. By contrast, he'd been awkward around Tim for almost a week after misinterpreting a few comments he'd made and not knowing how to feel about them. (Tim had rather kindly, if embarrassingly, put an end to it by pointedly saying Jon was ‘nice, but not his type' within earshot.)

Still. He didn't need to know how Martin felt about him. He could take a risk. Risks were something he was always taking.

Things still weren't that simple.

His feelings for Martin weren't small. They had a weight that he didn't always know how to carry. He looked at him and saw someone who'd kept vigil at his hospital bed until the pain of waiting had worn him down. Someone he'd pleaded with in the cold, deep heart of the Lonely, who'd clung to him as they walked through the fog. Someone he'd been with during the last peaceful weeks the world had ever had. Someone who gave him hope when all was hopeless.

How was he supposed to make that seem like anything that had developed in the time they'd known each other? At best he'd seem over-invested in a relationship that hadn't begun. More likely he'd come off as an obsessive stalker. And if he shared his feelings with Martin, he wasn't sure he could keep a lid on everything else. It wasn't just the end of the world. There were so many things.

How's the poetry going, Martin? What's that? How did I know you wrote poetry? Well, I assure you I found out through entirely non-invasive means that require no follow-up questions.

Say Martin, how is your relationship with your mother? Any pressing emotional difficulties you'd really like to have closure on there? Why yes, these are extremely strange and inappropriate questions for me to ask considering you've never talked to me about her! Unrelated, but if I knew the date of her impending death do you think it would be crueler to tell you, or to let it be a devastating surprise?

While we're on the subject of things I know, M artin, have you ever wondered what it's like to be digested alive? Or to be an unwilling spectator trapped in you own body as it stalks and kills everyone you love? Because I can describe both of those experiences in intimate, firsthand detail if you're curious! Ah, you appear to be backing away slowly. What a reasonable reaction.

Time was passing intolerably slowly, yet it still felt preciously short. And while he waited, hesitated and worried, he was running out of time for himself.

The Unknowing would fail, but the circus was still coming for him. And perhaps he should just let them have him? He'd survived it once, after all, and there was reason to assume things would play out as before. If he tried to struggle, tried to change things, it might go badly. They might decide he was too much trouble to hold for a month and flay him as soon as he was caught. Or someone else might be grabbed alongside him, even killed outright. To say the circus was unpredictable was an understatement that bordered on comical. The safest, most practical option was to play through his period of captivity again.

But . . . God, he didn't want to. He hated to admit it - wished there was another reason, some danger, some unacceptable risk. But the simple truth was that he didn't want to live through that month again.

He was being childish. It wasn't as if they would actually take his skin in the end. He wouldn't die or lose anything permanent, he just had to spend a month in their hands. It was only a month. He'd seen worse. He'd caused worse. Every time he thought about it his hands shook, he felt sick and couldn't eat.

Circus aside, he'd at least learned something useful after his failure to save Helen. He'd done some snooping behind Rosie's desk and found that Elias had ordered a cab for her, just as he had done originally. Meaning he was still trying to mark him. But surely, he was marked already – psychological scars had been enough the first time, and he had the full compliment there. If Elias didn't know that, that was some reassurance.

Jon was fully marked, but he was not yet suffused with the Eye's power. So the world was safe from him, for now. All he had to do was stay human. That was it. He could surely manage that, couldn't he?

Except . . . there were still other things.

The table had shaken him. He'd kept out of the archive on the day it was to arrive, not wanting to encounter Breekon and Hope. But when he returned, nothing had come. He waited, he checked and triple checked artifact storage, asked around to see if anyone had signed for it. There was nothing. After a month he accepted that it simply wasn't coming. But why? Nothing he'd done could have caused this. It was new. A change that came from something other than him.

The spiders were becoming more noticeable as well. Everywhere he went, he saw cobwebs clinging to the corners, or spotted something skittering in the outskirts of his vision. It was worst in his flat – he'd destroy any webs he found on sight, only to find they'd respun themselves hours later. They appeared in odd places – in cabinets, drawers, strung across his pillow. Sometimes he'd wake to feel something crawling on his neck, that vanished when he tried to grab at it.

They gave him peace now and then, leave him just long enough for desperate hope to leak in. Then he'd catch himself in the mirror and swear, swear he noticed a dark little leg vanish into the crevice of his ear.

All that was nothing against what happened a week ago, however.

A woman had come to give a statement, someone he didn't recognize. She wouldn't take the form. She insisted he hear her speak, said he had to know her story, that it had to be him. He protested and tried to pull away. But then she started talking. And he started listening.

He didn't want to. He tried to interrupt, stop her, walk out of the room, but he just . . . couldn't. It felt different. He remembered what being dependent on statements was like – after reading out loud became automatic, after listening was a physical need. This was something else. He wasn't in control of his body, couldn't put his hands over his ears, couldn't force his thoughts away from the rapt attention he was giving her.

It was a spider one. Of course it was.

She'd succumbed to a mysterious malaise that was making her grow slowly weaker. Not an illness, no – the doctors were no help at all, sending her back with a shrug about chronic fatigue. But it wasn't just the tiredness. Her thoughts were foggy, her emotions were both heightened and muddled. It felt like being drugged, but she was on no medications and took nothing that was recreational, so it couldn't be some previously unseen side effect. It wasn't likely anything in her environment, either. Her partner had no symptoms, and they lived together and shared most of their meals.

Of course, her partner was the one who prepared all their meals. She loved her partner, trusted them, and yet . . . it would be too easy, wouldn't it? To slip a little something into her plate every time. Just a few drops of liquid, a few granules of powder, carefully dissolved into a heavily seasoned sauce, undetectable under everything else? Her partner always did spice things so heavily, enough to disguise anything. Paranoia became hostility, and the relationship fell apart. But even after they moved out, that hazy, lulled feeling got worse. She had dizzy spells, lost time, she never felt quite herself. Her suspicions broadened. Was her food being contaminated at the store? It wouldn't be difficult to slide a needle through the loose, plastic packaging. Could it be one of her neighbors? She slept so heavily at night, any of them could slip in with an eyedropper to hold over her sleeping lips.

That last notion is what prompted her to place a camera over her bed.

When she played back the footage it recorded, she got an answer of sorts. She watched herself get into bed, toss and turn for a while before falling still. Then she watched as the blanket covering her sleeping form shuddered, as something dark began to spread from under it, out over her body. A swarm of tiny black spiders crawled over her, covering every inch of skin, biting her just hard enough to inject a tiny drop of venom. They withdrew a moment later, vanishing under the blanket and leaving no marks behind. She slept through it all.

None of the frantic investigations she made of her bedclothes revealed any sign of infestation. She burned the blankets and replaced the mattress, but the process repeated itself the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that. Even leaving her apartment didn't make a difference. Wherever she slept, they came. The watchful eye of the camera captured the same image – a thousand thousand bodies swarming over her, poisoning her, without waking her.

Each day, she grew weaker. But thanks to the camera, she knew now that there was no escape.

He'd stood frozen afterwards, whether overwhelmed by the horrors he'd been force-fed or stilled by some other hand, he didn't know, but by the time he came back to himself she was long gone. He tried asking after her – Rosie hadn't spoken to the woman much, but she did sign her in as a visitor and pointed the name out to him: Hazel Rutter. It was all he could do not to scream.

The Web had led him to the end of the world as surely as Elias had, keeping its hand in everything. And he was still dancing on its strings. Had sending his memories back been what it intended all along? Was he keeping himself free of the Beholding only so the Web could come pouring in? Would he be made into a destroyer again, remaking the world in the image of a power that had held him in its threads since childhood?

He was afraid of being taken again by the circus, but there was another fear behind that. That this time he would escape would come not through a deceitful door, but because of a lock clogged with cobwebs, a captor bloated with venom, a path to safety marked by pale, silk threads. If his salvation came at a puppeteer's hands, what would he do then?

He didn't have an answer. He spent most of his time hiding in his office, turning over these things in his mind, and he knew that he wasn't doing well.

The more he agonized, the more confining the walls began to seem. He stood to move to the door, but stumbled and hit the floor instead. He felt lightheaded. Rather than trying to stand again, he pressed his back against the wall, pulling his knees to his chest. Motes of dust swam in his vision as he tried, desperately, to get his breathing under control.

There was a noise somewhere near him, and the room was flooded with light.

* * *

Someday, Tim was going to get it through his head that knocking on a door while opening it was basically the same as not knocking. Today wasn't that day, though.

At first he thought he'd caught Jon out of his office and had been about to leave the papers he'd brought on his desk. But then he heard something shift against the wall and his fight or flight switched right on. He should probably have wondered why, like a teen in a horror movie, his instinct was to go towards the mysterious noise in the creepy, dimly-lit room. But this time it didn't matter because it wasn't an army of worms, or a soul-stealing clown. Just Jon. Sitting on the floor, breathing erratically, with a thousand yard stare on his face.

Tim hesitated, glancing quickly around to confirm that whatever Jon was spooked by wasn't still in there with them. Then he took another step forward, carefully.

". . . You okay, boss?" he asked.

Jon turned towards him and stared, his mouth moving in an unsuccessful attempt to reply. After a moment, he managed a shaky inhale and a nod.

"Yes," his voice was tight, barely above a whisper. "Yes, I'm fine."

Tim nodded. He wouldn't dignify that one with an eye roll or a sarcastic reply. He stood there for a little while, thinking.

There were options. He could drop the papers on the desk and leave, do a casual ‘well, see you later' as if there was nothing noteworthy about coming across your coworker having a panic attack on the floor. It was embarrassing, being found like this, and Jon would probably rather have privacy. Tim could walk right out and pretend this never happened. Or he could tap his shoulder later, after he'd pulled himself together, ask what it had been about then. If he did that, of course, Jon would no doubt say it was just a bit of stress and thank you for your concern but there's no need, and so on.

And maybe that was all right. Maybe that was all either of them needed.

Tim still remembered the early days, back before he'd gotten comfortable at the Institute. Back when Danny was too fresh and raw a wound, before the pain had dulled enough for his dazzlingly charming personality to come back. When he was quieter and much more short tempered, and the only person who tolerated him for long was a prickly nerd that most people found just as irritating as him.

There had been a lot of late nights in the library back then. Jon catching up or getting ahead on whatever bullshit they were supposed to be working on, Tim obsessing over his own work, looking for anything he could find about circuses and hidden theaters and place that take the people you love. They didn't talk that much, certainly not about the important things. There was some small talk, complaints about other people in research, arrangements to go in on takeout together. Mostly there was silence.

Sometimes Tim would take a bathroom break that lasted far too long and come back with his eyes red and puffy. But Jon never, ever commented on Tim's absence or on the state of his face. He'd sit quietly at the table across from him, occasionally remarking on something unimportant, certainly not asking what he'd been crying about. And maybe – hell, probably – Jon just genuinely didn't notice, because that was how Jon was. It didn't really matter either way.

Later, he would get comfortable. Later his laughter would come back, people would warm up to him and he'd warm up to them. And later, everyone would wonder how two people as different as himself and Jon could end up being friends. But during those late nights, Jon had been what Tim had needed. More than anything.

Maybe that was what Jon needed now. Someone to not notice his pain.

". . .You sure about that?" Tim asked.

Jon nodded again, whispering. "Come back later."

It was what he was asking for. No surprise there. He'd been secretive and edgy and weird for ages, and Tim hated it. But still he couldn't leave. It was that face – tear—trails drying on his cheeks, but not crying. Eyes glazed, expression distant, as if he was nowhere near his body at all. It rung against Tim's core, like a familiar tune. Like tucking someone into bed on his couch and finding them gone the next morning.

He closed the door behind him and sat on the floor, putting an arm around Jon's shoulders.

"Nah," he said. "Not gonna do that."

Jon stiffened for a moment, shaking his head. "I – really, I don't need –"

Tim squeezed just the tiniest bit, and he would never hear what Jon thought he didn't need. Words dissolved, shoulders dropped.

He knew Jon's secret. He didn't come off as the touchy sort – not like Tim, who was all side-hugs and handshakes and high-fives with everyone. Jon kept a careful bubble around him, but the second that bubble was popped-- the second someone else initiated contact, that was it. He tightened his hold, and Jon let himself be pulled closer, bringing a hand up to grip Tim's arm. He took it as silent confirmation that a tighter hug was right, brought his other arm around the front and squeezed.

They sat that way a while - Tim holding Jon in place, not looking at him, focusing instead on the opposite wall. On the stacked boxes and itchy-looking olive green coat that hung on the hook. What material was that thing made of? It didn't look comfortable, and was probably a nightmare when it got wet. Tim didn't know what a head archivist got paid, but it had to be enough to afford better outerwear than that. He contemplated this as Jon shuddered against him, muffled noises coming from him in the quiet. If at any point Tim felt tears through the fabric of his shirt, he would never, ever, ever admit it.

Gradually, the shaking died down. As Jon slowly relaxed, Tim felt a small, quiet tension melt out of him as well. When it felt right he loosened his grip enough for Jon to pull away. He did, taking his weight off and sitting a little straighter. He kept close, though, and didn't try to shake the arm off his shoulders. The bubble was popped.

"I-- forgive me," Jon's voice was hoarse from crying, but it sounded better than the strained crack he'd been speaking through before. "I don't know what came over me. Stress, I suppose. Getting to me a little."

"Yeah," Tim sighed, making a point to keep his tone casual. As if this was small talk, as if nothing worth commenting on had just happened. "It's been a heck of a year, huh?"

Jon let out a weak laugh, wiping his face with the end of his sleeve. "It certainly has. Hah. Exceptionally so."

"Not the cushy academic careers we were promised, huh?"

"Not in the least." Jon's face was grim. "I'm – I'm sorry. For dragging you into it."

"You didn't know about the not quitting thing. S'not your fault."

"You don't . . . ah – You don't think so?"

"Don't mistake it. I fucking hate that I'm here," he smiled without really feeling it. "If I could go back in time and make you absolutely hate me, so you never wanted to see me again, so you'd ask for anyone else, I'd do it. But it's not your fault. Just . . . rotten luck."

Slowly, Jon nodded. He looked surprised. This had probably been on his mind a while, then.

"Can't do that, though. So this is it," Tim sighed. "Just got to make the most of what we still have. Until something out there gets close enough to take it from us."

". . . I won't let that happen." Jon's response was immediate, reflexive, even. Sharp, quick, and absolutely meaningless.

"So what?" Tim asked. "You think you need to let it happen for it to happen? That monsters are only going to get in here with your permission?"

"No . . . no, you're right," he drew a breath. "It's not as simple as that."

"I'm not saying not to fight, though. If anything comes for me, I for one plan to go down swinging."

That quieted Jon. He looked down at his folded hands, frowning, for a while.

"Just don't be too eager for it," he said eventually. His tone was strange, careful, uneasy. "Things might not always be this way. It might – might be worth staying alive a while longer."

Tim raised an eyebrow. "You know something you're not telling me?"

". . . More than you can imagine," he sighed, leaning back against the wall and letting Tim's arm slide off him. "But I can't explain. It's . . . complicated."

He could practically hear Sasha's voice in his mind, begging him to press for more. But Sasha wasn't here, and he honestly wasn't sure if he wanted to know whatever secrets Jon was holding back.

"All right, Captain Cryptic," he nudged him with an elbow. "I won't push it. Just promise me there aren't any more worm queens hiding in the walls."

"I certainly hope not. I've had enough of worms for –" Jon laughed once, to himself, looking down at his hands "—more than one lifetime."

"I'd drink to that. Now if only I had a flask to pull out here. Then you could say--" he shifted his tone, imitating Jon's voice "'Tim, I hardly think that's an appropriate thing to have in the workplace.' And I'd remind you we work in a building of pure nightmares, and tell you to stuff it."

"Honestly, if you pulled out a flask right now I'd be inclined to join you."

"Scandalous. And here I thought you were supposed to set a good example for us."

"It's become abundantly clear to me that no one should be following my example."

Tim paused for a moment, then smiled. "You know what? Fuck it. I don't have a flask, but there's a bar a few blocks down." He elbowed him again, putting more weight into it and actually knocking him back a little. "Let's get shitfaced at eleven on a Tuesday morning. Not like they can fire us for it."

"Oh. Uh." Jon bit his lip, tension slipping back into him. "I'm not sure if it's a good idea for me to go outside right now . . ."

"Mmm." Nope. Tim wasn't going to let him get away that easily, and he was pretty sure he knew more than one of his secrets. "Not even if I rope Martin into coming?"

"I-- ah," Jon's gaze was suddenly on the coat that had captured Tim's attention earlier. Small world. "I don't really see how that would be relevant--"

"Would you swallow your damn pride and ask him out already? It's getting hard to watch."

A slightly choked noise came out of Jon, and his back went ramrod straight. And it was satisfying, so satisfying to see that even with the danger and the fear and the cloud hanging over them all, Tim could still get him worked up over something like this.

"I don't know what-- I think you've misinterpreted. . . ."

"Have I, then? Sorry for making assumptions."

"Yes, well," he was going to bore a hole through that thing if he stared any harder at it. "You ought to be."

"In that case, guess I've got the all clear." Tim pulled a leg up, leaning casually back. "If you don't want to play hooky with me, maybe I'll see if Martin wants to get drinks. Just the two of us."

"—Don't."

"Ha!" Tim grinned as Jon looked away again, diving wholeheartedly into friendly sadism. "Goodness. Who would have thought our beloved leader was the jealous type?"

"I'm no- - that isn't- -" He frowned, shoulders hunched, quietly radiating pique. "Martin is - - he's free to do as he likes. I don't - -" he glanced back anxiously. "But you were just saying that to provoke me, weren't you?"

"Seriously? Ask him out. Worst thing is he says no. And if you haven't got the guts to ask yourself, you've really no business getting riled up at the idea of someone else doing it."

"I know, I know. . . it's just - -" Jon sighed and looked back at his hands, having apparently given up on denials. "It isn't that simple."

"Right. ‘Cause you're his boss."

"Ah . . . ." Jon blinked. "Yes, that is an issue, isn't it?"

"But really, what're you going to do? Fire him if he says no? Don't think the chain of command really means much at this point. No offense."

"Mmn."

"So. I'm going to get Sasha, and we're going to use peer pressure on him, which we all know he's helpless against. Then the three of us are going to hit the bar, because fuck this place. You joining us?"

He hesitated, conflicted. "I . . . I shouldn't."

Tim shrugged. It was disappointing, but if Jon was determined to crawl back under his desk and hide, that was his choice. He stood and headed for the door.

"Suit yourself," he said. "But don't lean to hard into the whole ‘fearless leader' thing, huh?"

"Wait –"

He paused, hand hovering over the doorknob. Jon stood uncertainly in the middle of the room.

"I, ah . . . come to think of it, I--" he glanced at the clock. "Twenty minutes? I'll meet you there."

Tim smiled. "Sounds good, boss."

#tma fanfic #time travel au #tma #i had to hop in and tweak a few things that were originally in this chapter #as a result of the most recent episode #there's no spoilers mostly i deleted things

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superbadassnatural · 4 years

Text

So Close yet so Far

Summary: Since Y/N and Dean were kids they wanted to join the Men of Letters Organization. Years went by and they trained and studied together. Now it’s finally the time to take the trials. Square filled: Dystopia!Au Pairing: Dean x Reader Word count: 1,873 Warnings: show level of violence, mention of blood, mention of killing A/N: for the sake of this story, Men of Letters are nice and nothing like the ones on the show. Also, Dean and Y/N are in their early twenties. This story was inspired by this prompt (it contains spoilers so I highly recommend you to open it after you’ve read this.) This was written for @spntfwbingo. Hope y’all enjoy.

(x)

Many generations ago, society was divided into three castes: Regulars, Hunters, and Men of Letters. Most of the population belonged to Regulars. They were ordinary people who lived normal lives. Hunters dedicated their lives to kill those who lurked into the shadows. Men of Letters were the elite. The most powerful people belonged there. They were similar to hunters, but they had more resources, more knowledge, and the most important: power. They even had the greatest life insurance. They were rich and most people wanted to become one of them.

Regulars knew about the existence of supernatural creatures, but still, they led their normal lives. They could attend self-defense classes ministered by hunters. Whilst hunters solved cases all over the country, Men of Letters did it world wide.

People were either born or entered into one of the classes. In order to ascend to any of the higher castes, you were supposed to take some tests and if you were qualified you’d become a member.

Your parents were hunters and they taught you everything they knew, but you wanted more. You wanted to ascend.

When you turned sixteen, you had your first official case. You and your parents hit the road to Alabama for a werewolf hunt. Though you had been joining them on quick salt and burns since you were fourteen. At eighteen, you went on your first solo hunt.

Back when you and your best friend Dean were kids, you made a promise to become members of the Men of Letters. Both of you spent your entire childhood and adolescence planning on becoming part of the upper, elite class. You’ve been training together for a long time. Wrestling, sparring around, running in the park. Every now and then you’d go to a shooting range and practice even more. You have learned everything there is to learn about demons, monsters, and entities. You and Dean were ready for the tests.

“If you keep punching like this you’re gonna fail that test, sweetheart,” Dean teased.

It only made you angry. You lunged at him, sweeping him off his feet and his into back. He landed with a loud thud. His eyes clamping at the impact.

“Who’s gonna fail now, huh?” you smirked, pinning him to the ground.

You were only able to grab one of his wrists and before you knew it he hovered over you. Dean pinned you down, holding both of your hands above your head.

“You,” his lips curled into a smirk.

“You’re an ass, you know that?”

“Yeah, but you love me,” he leaned, pecking your lips.

“Argh, we’re disgusting,” you grumbled, wiping the sweat off your forehead.

“We could always go upstairs and take a shower,” he shrugged, sitting beside you.

“Yeah, but I promised my mom I’d be home by seven.”

“We have what? Fifteen, twenty minutes? We could make it quick,” he said, his voice carrying malice only it could carry.

“Since when do we take a quick shower?” you giggled.

“You’re right,” his lips pursed. “But if you go home and shower alone you’ll be wasting more water,” he tried to reason.

“You’re so full of crap,” a chuckle escaped your lips as you stood up, he doing the same.

“I’m worried about the environment,” he raised his hands. “Ya know, save water, shower with me,” he wrapped his arms around your waist.

“I really have to go,” you half-smiled. “Last time I got home really late and now they are making me pay for it. ‘Sides my mom said she wanted to talk to me about something.”

“Okay,” he sighed, walking you to the door and pressing his lips to your temple. “Let me know when you get home. Drive safe.”

“Will do,” you pecked his lips and headed out of his house.

You were taking things a little slower now. The trials were next week and you couldn’t wear yourselves out. You already knew those three days of tests would be exhausting for both of you. You remember when your brother applied to become a member of Men of Letters. He was so tired during those tests. They made it difficult for only the best hunters to be qualified.

You and Dean had registered at the beginning of the year. You were finally old enough to apply. They had very few vacancies for your age range. Only fifteen for women and twelve for men. The trials weren’t easy either.

The first trial was on Monday, you had to race the women your age that had applied to become a member. The second was on Wednesday, you had to attend an exam about lore and all the creatures you hunted. The last one was Saturday, you had to fight against a female member around your age for about five minutes. You were evaluated in each of them. The better your results the more points you get. The ones who surpass their minimum score are in. If more than fifteen girls manage to do that, then the ones with the highests punctuations get to join the organization.

Erstwhile, in the last test you had to kill your opponent — who was competing for a spot in the order too. They decided to change it and now you only had to fight a member and show your abilities. If you get knocked out, you don’t punctuate. Your brother explained to you how this trial works. The more times you manage to hit your opponent, the more you score. The more you get hit, the more points you lose. If you knock out your opponent, you get the highest punctuation. It was, in fact, a violent test, but no one dies because of it anymore.

Days flew by and when you realized you were racing over thirty girls on Monday. You didn’t know exactly your placing, but you were among the first eight at least. On Wednesday, you took the time to finish the exam. You went through all the questions twice and in the end, you were really confident about your answers. Saturday arrived sooner than you were expecting. You were nervous. You knew you weren’t the strongest girl in town so there was a chance of you having to fight a girl stronger than you. It ended up the girl was just as strong as you. You managed to knock her out after three minutes.

“Hey you,” you answered your phone later that day.

“Hey,” Dean smiled. “How’d it go?”

“I did it! I knocked her out,” you beamed.

“That’s awesome,” you could hear how happy he was for you. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, me too,” you admitted. “How’d it go with you?”

“It wasn’t easy, but I think I did well.”

“Dean,” you scolded. “What are you not telling me?”

“The guy was bigger than me,” he sighed. “And stronger. I didn’t knock him out, but I didn’t get knocked out either. Let’s just say we both got out with some bruises.”

“That’s unfair!” you exclaimed. “You shouldn’t have to fight someone bigger than you. That’s not-“

“It’s okay, Y/N,” he interrupted you. “Monsters won’t care if I’m shorter than them or not. It was a fair fight.”

“I don’t like that,” you pouted. “Are you hurt?”

“Nah, I’m okay.”

“Are you sure? Do you want me to stop by and take care of you? You know I love taking care of you.”

“I know you do,” he chuckled. “You don’t have to, sweetheart.”

“Okay,” you yawned. “I’m gonna have to call it a night. I’m really tired.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I love you, Dean.”

“I love you too, sweetheart,” he hung up the phone.

Dean placed his phone on the nightstand before getting up and heading towards the bathroom. He took a look at his face in the mirror. His left cheek had a small cut and the right one had a purple stain. He lifted his shirt over his head, throwing it into the hamper. Purple welts were scattered over his abdomen. Dean didn’t want you to see him like this. He knew he had disappointed you. He was disappointed in himself.

Dean could swear he saw the guy’s eyes full of hatred. The man wanted to hurt him. Dean wasn’t stupid. He fought with the same hostility. Both of them wound up hurt. Whilst Dean spat blood in the ring, the guy had blood coming out of his nose. He wasn’t sure if he had won that fight.

He got rid of his clothes and stepped into the shower in hopes the water would wash away all his shame. In hopes it would heal all his bruises.

Five days passed and you grew nervous with each passing hour. You would get the letter at any given moment. You were trying so hard not to bite your nails or tap your feet but it was nearly impossible.

A knock on the door made you jump from your seat.

“Mail for Y/N Y/L/N,” the man held out an envelope as you opened the door.

“Thanks,” you took it from him and signed where you needed to.

Your trembling hands held the white envelope. An Aquarian Star on the bottom left. Your fingers traced the symbol. Taking a deep breath, you dialed Dean.

“Hey!” You beamed.

“Hey, you.”

“Did you get your letter?”

“Yeah, it came in this morning. D’you get yours?”

“I did,” you nearly exclaimed. “You didn’t open, right?”

“Of course not. I’m waiting for you.”

“Great,” you smiled. “Meet me at our spot in fifteen.”

“Okey-dokey,” he said, hanging up.

You got in your car in no time and drove to yours and Dean’s spot. You haven’t seen him since before the trials. Both of you caught up in hunts and work.

As you parked, you saw him leaned against his beloved impala. His lips curled into a smile once he laid his eyes on you.

“Argh, I’m so nervous,” you said before pecking his lips.

“Me too,” babbled.

“Okay,” you drew a deep breath. “We are doing this.”

He nodded. Both of you with the envelopes in hands. You opened it and unfolded the letter. Eyes searching for the words you were eager to read.

“Dear Ms. Y/L/N,” you read out loud with wide eyes, barely able to hide the excitement in your voice. “We are pleased to inform you that you have been admitted to the Man of Letter Organization,” you squealed, jumping into Dean’s arms. Your legs wrapped around his waist.

Dean held you in his arms as you kept on reading the rest of the letter. He unfolded his with one hand. He stared blankly at the paper, his lips parted open as he read the words to himself.

Dear Mr. Winchester,

We regret to inform you that you were not selected to join the Men of Letters Organization. You came in eighteenth place in the final rank. Thank you for your application. We strongly suggest you reapply next year.

Sincerely, Andrea Thompson. Human Resources Representative.

“Dean?” he could barely hear your voice calling for him. The blood had vanished from his face. Dean didn’t have it in him to tell you the news. “Dean, how’d you do?”

I really enjoyed writing this one! What did you think of it? You can share your thoughts with me via reply, reblog or ask!

Dean Sweethearts:

@maya-craziness @akshi8278 @herfalsegod

#spntfwbingo #supernatural #dean winchester #spn #dean x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #dean fanfiction #dean winchester fanfic #spn fanfiction #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #deanreader #dean x you #dean winchester x you

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malcolmwhitly-bright · 4 years

Note

Brightwell sickfic with a happy ending, please!

I promise I did my best with a happy ending. You can also read the full fic here

I’ll Follow You Into the Dark

Malcolm Bright sits bolt up-right in the bed, his head spinning, and heart racing. His breathing cuts through the room, louder than the soft thrum of the air conditioning in the window by the bed. His body feels disconnected, having no control over his trembling, overheated extremities. He’s sitting in a pool of his own sweat. His shirt plastered to his skin and sticking to his back, drenched. His skin is visibly wet, in the low light glistening. He can feel it cooling across his brow as the air circles through the room.

Feeling his side of the bed shift suddenly Dani rolls over to see what’s the matter. She eyes him in confusion. It’s not rare for him to get up in the middle of the night. The chemo leaves him exhausted but that means he sleeps odd hours and takes naps in the middle of the day. When he does get up, he’s always cautious. Overly careful so that he doesn’t wake her too.

“Are you okay?” She sits up in the bed, pulling the cover up to her exposed chest. The cold air bites at her skin, causing goosebumps to pop up. “Malcolm-”

He throws the bed sheets off of his legs, knees bowing as he rises. Leaning heavily on the nightstand, he takes a tentative step.

“Malcolm-” she moves to help but he’s making quick, shaky progress on his own. As much as she wants to rush off to his aid… she knows it’s important to him that he's able to be mobile on his own. Things are flexible and understood. He asks for help when he needs it and when he doesn’t… she respectfully worries from a distance.

She bites her lip as the sound of his gagging eats through the silent apartment. From a distance, she reminds herself. A glass of water never hurt anybody. She pulls the comforter off her body, padding past the bathroom to the kitchen. She takes her time filling a glass of water, knowing he’s not going to want her hovering while he gags. It’s doesn’t take long, with virtually nothing in his stomach there’s not a lot to throw up.

The dry heaves are worse.

“You okay?” She steps into the bathroom’s doorway, leaning and waiting.

He watches her from the floor, neither inviting her in or asking her to leave. Exhaustion is weighing him down and the pain ebbing in isn’t helping. Mostly, he’s in awe of her. The summer months have darkened her skin and hair, both of which are on display in her pajamas. Her skin is warm and bare in only a sports bra and sleeping shorts.

While he’s sitting on the bathroom floor in the same boxers he’s worn for the better part of four days. There are bruises up and down his side and arms. He gets bruises all the time now. Every day he discovers a new one and from doing nothing. Most days all he can manage is walking from the bed to the couch to the bathroom.

She knows he’s been wearing those boxers since Wednesday. It’s a little disgusting but she doesn’t care. His thighs no longer make heat coil in her stomach, the muscles thick as he walks around their apartment. His clavicles are pronounced with his sickness, his skin stretched impossible taunt but he still holds her hand through scary movies. He orders take out from her favorite restaurant. Text her in the middle of the day about a bird in their window.

He’s still Malcolm.

She hands the water down but he winces. He shakes his head, “I don’t think I can drink that.” His mouth taste awful and his throat is dry but the mint of the toothpaste is going hurt and the water won’t settle in his stomach.

“When was the last time you had something to eat or drink?” She pulls out a clean rag, wetting the cloth before she crouches down in front of him. They share a silent moment before she starts to pull his shirt off of him. Careful as she moves his arms through each hole.

He keeps his eyes pinched shut, afraid that if he opens them he’ll cry. He just keeps losing. Every step forward he stumbles three back. Dying holds no dignity.

The shirt comes free and his flushed chest is able to breathe, to feel the cool air. The touch of the cool rag nearly steals his breath. Gently, she runs the cool rag over his neck and chest. He’s giving in and she’d be lying if she says it doesn't strike fear into her heart. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”

He sinks into himself, letting her press the cool rag to his feverishly hot skin. “No,” he whispers, moving limply along with her. “I just…” He doesn’t want to go to the hospital. He wants to stay home with her. To sleep in their bed and wake up to the sound of Sunshine chirping along as the sun rises. Not to the nurses doing their rounds. “I’m just having a moment.”

A moment. A lapse.

The rag has warmed to the touch of his skin. She rises stiffly, wetting it again with cool water. This time she lays it around the back of his neck, allowing the water to drip down his chest. “Mind if I join your moment?”

He looks up and she’s biting her lip, anxious that he’s going to turn her away. He’s never been able to tell her no. God, she just… she owns his heart. Doesn’t she know that? Her smiles made his day and if she cries… He’d kill for her. Which might not sound a lot but he’s spent his entire life convincing himself and everyone around him he’s not like his father. For her, though, in a heartbeat, he’d put it to the test.

He offers her his hand, “no moment of mine is complete without you.”

She takes his hand, smiling as she sits down on the floor beside him. “You’re incredibly sexy when you say things like that.” She kisses his cheek and lays her head on his shoulder. She rubs his fingers, examining them. The tremors have gotten worse with chemo, a lot of things have. He’s off of a lot of his regular medicine- no more anti-depressants, for example. Of course, the bonus is that his mother no longer tries to give him barbiturates.

Every coin has two sides.

“Can I ask you something?” It’s the middle of the night, probably about one in the morning and they’re sitting on the bathroom floor. She’s leaning against him, his hand in hers. He knows that she loves him, she reminds him every waking hour. Glasses of water on his nightstand. Sticky notes on the fridge. Blueberry bagels at dinner. “Why don’t you leave?”

But they’ve been together for half a year. Six months wherein three of those have been within his diagnoses.

To her, it sounds like a stupid question. With Malcolm, though, she’s learned there’s no such thing. He’s not testing her or playing with her mind. He’s genuine and scared but she doesn’t have some winded answer for him. No big proclamation but she knows him. “You’d stay for me, wouldn’t you?”

There’s no question about it. “Of course,” he answers.

She sits up. She wants to see his eyes. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced than they were half a year ago- Six months. Six months since he asked her out. How many times have they really said they loved each other? “I love you, that’s why I stay.”

He shakes his head, smiling. His body is weak. His mind sluggish. He needs help showering. She has to drive him to chemotherapy. Wipe vomit off his mouth. Help him in and out of t-shirts. “You have a bad taste in men, you know?”

She considers him for a moment. Her past boyfriends used to get angry when she wanted to spend time with her friends. Some used to bully her into diets. Once, Khalil called her fat. Another used to get drunk and cuss her out every weekend. Only to come back on the weekdays with roses and empty promises.

Malcolm has faults. Every human does but he never shames her and he never seeks out ways to hurt her.

“I do,” she admits. “You are nothing like them though.” She squeezes his hand and blinks away the tears threatening to spill. He’s kind and loving and goofy and handsome and- she could spend all day just sitting with him. Like now. “You’re the best decision I have made in a long time.” She pulls his chin close, kissing him softly.

He doesn’t pull away, leaning in so that their foreheads are touching. “Even with the cancer and the hospitals and the chemo?”

She rolls her eyes and kisses him again. “Easily,” she promises. “Even when you leave the toilet seat up and when you micromanage where I put the dishes in the cabinet.” She wraps an arm around his neck, pulling him close. Their limbs all tangled together. “Always, Malcolm.”

Tears sting his eyes. It seems… impossible. The thought that someone loves him like she does. “You’re-” his voice breaks and he offers her a watery smile. He looks down at their joined hands. “You’re the only reason that I get out of bed.” He laughs as she wipes a tear from his cheek. He finds her eyes again, “the only reason that I keep fighting.”

She has to bite her lip from crying. “Ditto,” she manages, voice thick with emotion. She leans against his chest, smiling as he wraps his arms around her. Holding her close.

They sit in their comfortable silence for a long moment. Simply enjoying having one another. Her mind is wandering, thinking about the muffin she had last week. She’s considering how likely JT is to get it for her when she remembers that at lunch today his mother called. Inquiring about their schedule tomorrow. “Your mother called, we’re invited for brunch in the morning.”

Malcolm groans, leaning his head back on the wall behind them. “Cancer card.”

“What?”

Malcolm shrugs, “I’m calling cancer.”

Dani frowns in confusion, “Malcolm, that makes no sense-”

When she looks up, he’s grinning ear-to-ear. Mischievous and chaotic. “Dani,” he says softly, lovingly. “I have cancer. The big C. I can’t take the medicine that’s supposed to balance out my moods. Every so often, a doctor pumps me full of poison and kicks me to the curb.” He smiles, “so, what I’m saying is. Tell her no.”

Dani is… amazed. She’s created a monster. “You want me to tell your mother… no?”

Malcolm nods, “I want you to call her and say that I don’t want to leave our warm bed to go eat nasty stuffy rich people food.” It seems like a pretty good idea to him. She’s not going to get mad at him. He’s got cancer. “But if she wants to bring bagels or something later… I might be up for that.”

She rolls her eyes. A monster. She’s created a monster. “You would deprive your sweet mother of seeing her sick son?” She lays it on thick, frowning disappointingly up at him but she can only hold it for so long. He cracks a grin and she loses it, chuckling darkly. “You’re awful!”

He is awful but she’s enabled it.

And they both, simultaneously, wonder if the other knows how much they love one another.

That Dani loves to watch him sleep. That soft snores he makes when he sleeps. When he holds her hand and his fingers squeeze around hers, like in his dreams he’s lost her and he’s reassuring himself she’s still there. That everyday she kisses him goodbye and that breaks her heart. That his lunchtime text made her day. When he comes to the precinct in sweatpants with coffee or sandwiches for her, JT, GIl, and Edrisa that her heart swells.

Because he’s thoughtful enough to know each of their orders.

Malcolm needs her to know that he loves the way she crashes around the apartment. The way she tiptoes around the side of the bed, kicking into the chest at the end and knocking over books on the nightstands. How she’s clumsy and loud when she’s comfortable. That she’s comfortable enough to be a mess around him. How when she gets home she kicks her shoes off and crawls into bed beside him. Tucking herself into his side.

And it’s that love- that unfaltering, endlessly love that will get them through.

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justjessame · 4 years

Text

The Deal Chapter One

The day after my dad returned from being “dead”, I was coming out of the forest with one of the few people in our survivors camp that I didn’t find myself screaming with annoyance at daily. Him, my little brother, and sometimes my stepmom. It was a weird day for all of us-not just the part about daddy returning or even the part about me being on a hunting trip-nah, the entire fucking world was upside down.

Here’s How the World Went to Shit by Jessica Grimes

My dad, Rick Grimes met my runaway mother in high school. During what would be the first of many “act before you think” moments, mommy dearest was knocked up with lil ole me. Now, I’m more than certain that if abortions had been easily obtained at that time, I’d have been on the receiving end of that early death. Dad wouldn’t hear of it. He and my grandma and granddaddy bribed the use of the womb in which I grew to birthing maturity in and once I pooped out into existence? That womb and the holy unprepared and unmaternal genetic markers that created me ran the fuck away. Her parents weren’t any more accepting of my appearance than she was, so my 16 year old Dad became both of my parents. Strange isn’t it? That a teenage boy had more maternal instincts than the chick I grew inside of.

Dad didn’t go far for college, but my grandparents wanted him to have a regular experience, so he commuted, then he visited a lot. First it was every weekend, then every single Sunday. Since he was still a teenager, it made sense, plus he never stopped being available for me. If I was sick, he was there. If I had a preschool concert, there he was in the front row. My dad is my hero, and he will be forever. When he met Lori in college, he made it plain who I was and how important I was to him. She took it in stride, and while I never called her “mom”, she became a good one. I was the practice she needed for when my baby brother was born when I was six years old. Carl made us a foursome, and we reveled in our family. Every single activity that first me, then Carl participated in, our parents were right there, front row. In fact, when I wanted to go to summer camp Lori and Dad tried to convince me otherwise. It was the one place they couldn’t visit daily. Luckily I won that round, because it would come in handy later.

By the time the shit started hitting the fan around the world, I was a freshman at Agnes Scott. While sitting in my creative writing class, I felt the coldest chill I ever had. My grandma would have called it “someone walking across my grave”. I left the class and walked over to the administration building. I told the secretary that I had to request some time off, and as I was handed the forms, my cell phone rang. Lori told me that Dad had been shot, he’d need surgery, and he was unconscious. I knew before she’d called that something bad had happened.

That’s why, when the world truly went to shit days later, I had a hard time believing Shane when he told us that Dad was dead. If my dad had died, I would know, but how do you convince your stepmother that you’d FEEL it? I also knew that my dad would be pissed if I didn’t follow Lori and keep Carl in my sights. Besides, everyone knew that any relationship I’d had with Shane had gone sour after I graduated, no one knew WHY, they just knew it did. Telling Lori, when she was clearly distressed about the reports of people being bitten and going crazy that I didn’t believe a word coming out of his monstrous head wouldn’t be taken seriously.

When I looked at Carl, I knew what I had to do. Keeping my baby brother safe, that was all my dad would want me to worry about, well keeping myself safe as well, of course. Sadly, my dad couldn’t imagine that keeping Carl safe, meant that I had to witness Lori fall under the spell of Shane.

It’s why, once we’d found the others and made the camp on the outskirts of the city beside the clearest quarry pool I’d ever seen, I had to find better sleeping arrangements. While Carl sleeps like the dead, I hear every bump and groan. Ignoring Shane and Lori banging beside or God-forbid inside the tent would be impossible. That’s how I came to know the Dixon brothers.

Merle wasn’t necessarily my cup of tea. Daryl, however, wasn’t nearly as horrifying. Once he learned of my proficiency with a bow, he was more than happy to show me how to help him hunt. He even started teaching me how to track. Of course, they both laughed themselves silly when Daryl attempted to show me how to use his crossbow and I gave myself a black eye. It was the two of them who realized that I’d started sleeping under the stars in my sleeping bag, because I was too selfless to ask Glenn to find me my own tent on one of his runs. Since they had their own spot away from the others with two tents, they offered me a spot inside one of them. A choice had to be made, and it wasn’t difficult, I started bunking with Daryl. I had a feeling if I chose Merle, he might get grabby hands inside that tent of his, and it might sour my friendship with Daryl if I crushed his brother’s balls.

Soon my days grew into a routine. I’d wake up in Daryl’s tent, we’d decide if it was a hunting day or foraging day, I’d drop off our laundry to the lady-folk, then go off to do whatever the chore was for that day, eat, bed, rinse, and repeat. It was an added bonus that Shane hated that I got out of the “lady” chores of laundry and dinner prep.

I’d keep my eye on Carl, feeling powerless at the hero worship I could see growing in him over Shane. I tried to teach him archery, but guns were more interesting to him. Shane carried a gun after all. I watched as Shane worked to take my dad’s place, and I wanted to vomit.

As I was preparing for another hunting trip with Daryl, one alone as Merle had chosen to go on a run with the others, Shane cornered me. “Jessica,” he said through gritted teeth. “You know your daddy wouldn’t want you keeping company with the likes of-”

I rolled my eyes and stopped him in his bullshit authority role. “I wouldn’t know that, Shane, since my daddy isn’t here, is he?” I glared up at him and crossed my arms over my chest. “If my daddy were here, I think he’d more than likely want me to be the most productive person I could be. Of course, he’d be VERY interested in how productive you and his WIFE are being.” With a parting shot that I hoped would scorch the earth beneath him, “Just be happy I didn’t tell Dad about your interest in me before I left for school.” I turned and ran to meet Daryl.

No one had witnessed that tense conversation. No one ever did. Shane was quite careful about that, about who could witness the true douche baggery that he was capable of wielding. Lucky me, I thought, witness to every bit of it. After saying goodbye to both of our brothers, and me stopping to hug Lori and promise her I’d be careful, off we went into the glorious silence of the forest.

We’d gone about a mile in before Daryl broke the silence. “Ya alright?” We kept moving and his voice was low enough to not scare any game we might come across.

I snorted lightly and kept my eyes peeled for any tracks or signs of bigger game than squirrels or rabbits. “Great, why do you ask?” I could hear the sarcasm dripping from the words, but I wasn’t feeling up to being sociable after dealing with Shane.

Daryl stopped and I followed suit. The man could scent an animal before anyone, so I thought that’s why we were at a standstill. Looking around I realized there wasn’t anything, other than a fallen tree and a cluster of wildflowers. “Stand down,” he chuckled, taking note of my bow at shooting level with an arrow notched. “We’re far enough from camp that ya can tell me what’s got that stick up your ass.”

I rolled my eyes and lowered my bow. He sat on the tree trunk and patted the place beside him. I sat and considered what he wanted to know. “Maybe I’m just becoming a product of the times.” I shrugged, and thought that the words weren’t lies. This world would change us all.

Daryl shook his head. “Naw, ya only get this uptight after talkin’ to Shane.”

Shit, I kept forgetting how observant the Dixons could be, the one beside me the most of the two. “You know me that well, huh?” He nodded. I watched the bees flit from wildflower to wildflower. “He insinuated that my dad wouldn’t approve of my friendship with you and Merle.” I kept my eyes on the bees.

“Shit, girl, that’s what the whole camp thinks.” He saw, but didn’t fully understand.

“My dad?” I started, needed to tell SOMEONE. “Shane told Lori, Carl, and me that he’s dead. I don’t believe it.” I turned to face him and realized he’d been watching me the entire time. “My dad’s in a coma. When he was shot, I felt it. Not the pain, but I KNEW something bad had happened.” I groaned and ran my hand across my face. “I’d know, Daryl, I’d FEEL it if my dad died.” I felt a tear of frustration roll down my cheek. “We left because Shane convinced Lori. I left because I know Dad would be pissed if I didn’t stay with Carl. He’s trapped back there, completely at the mercy of those undead dickheads, all because of Shane.”

Daryl swiped my tear away with his thumb. “That’s not the only reason ya don’t like him though, is it?”

I shook my head. “Shane’s not the hero everyone wants him to be.” That was all I was willing to say. “We should check those traps you laid last time.” I stood up and brushed off my jeans. Wiping my face clear of the angst that I let out, I started off toward where we had been heading to begin with.

TWO DAYS LATER

“Damn it, Daryl.” I groaned quietly. “That deer is fucking gone.”

He glared back at me and pointed down at the tracks he was following, and had been for MILES. “It ain’t gone, Jess.” His words came out through gritted teeth.

Guess our honeymoon phase was over, I nearly giggled at the thought. The only thing stopping the laughter was a pissed off redneck with a loaded crossbow. “Tree line’s thinning,” I offered quietly. I saw him nod. I was certain we were nearly back at camp. I truly hoped that damn deer was waiting for us.

Daryl crossed into the open first, me being several feet behind him. From his tone, I could tell that sunshine and daisies didn’t await us. I heard fussing and kicking, then I was briefly blinded by the full sunlight as I crossed over from the trees to the clearing.

“It’s gotta be the brain. Don’t y’all know nothing?” He was griping. “Lost the damn deer to this piece of shit, Jess. Can ya believe that?”

I shook my head, trying to blink out the bright light and let my eyes readjust. Then I was engulfed in familiar strong arms and I gasped. “Dad?” I asked, pulling back to look up at him. “Daddy?” I launched myself back against his chest, feeling all of my pent up fear and guilt surrounding his fate go.

“Jessi.” He sighed into my hair. “Oh, baby girl, I got so worried when I got here yesterday and you weren’t here.” He pulled back to run his hands over my sweaty face. “Thank God.” He kissed my forehead. “Thank God you’re all OK.”

I heard Daryl stomping back toward camp, reassuring everyone that even without the deer we’d managed to get a dozen squirrels. He was shouting for Merle when I felt Dad tense up. “What’s wrong, Dad?” I asked, seeing guilt flash across his face. “Dad, did something happen to Merle?”

He sighed and pulled me along with the rest back to camp. The fallout came when they told Daryl. Dad’s decision to handcuff Merle to a roof, then T-Dog losing the key to the cuffs, leaving him behind with a horde running loose was barbaric even for Merle. Soon Daryl was demanding to be let to go find his brother, and my dad, T-Dog, and Glenn were planning a return trip.

Dad came to me to try to explain. He’d noticed my sleeping arrangements, and unlike Shane, he didn’t seem to give much of a damn. He was curious, clearly, but we had plenty more worries that were more demanding. Such as Merle’s condition.

“Dad,” I stopped him before he tried to give his reasoning. “ I know that you had a reason, I do. You need to understand that Daryl ONLY has Merle. While Merle can be TOO much for everyone else, Daryl needs him. Hell, the two of them adopted me while you were-” I stopped and gulped for air at the memory. “Promise me something?”

“Anything, baby girl.” He answered without hesitation.

“Keep him safe.” I saw his eyebrow raise. “Daryl, Dad, the others don’t see it, but he’s a good one.”

Hugging me again, he whispered his promise against my temple as he kissed me goodbye.

“Keep yourself safe, too, Dad. I just got you back.” I felt him chuckle as he released me.

“I’ll do my best, Jessi.” He smiled and we walked back to the truck where the others were waiting. Dad was kissing and assuring Lori and Carl about this dangerous new mission.

Daryl was pacing like a caged animal. “Hey.” I called to him, he glared down at me, but I took no offense. He was glaring at EVERYONE. “Don’t do anything stupid.” I forced him to stop moving by grabbing his hand. Startled by the contact, he stilled. “I mean it, Dixon. Come back safe. Find Merle, give him an ass chewing, and come back safe.” I was glaring up at him. He gave a curt nod and I felt my chest untighten. “Good. Glenn, T-Dog? Stay safe.” They smiled at me, but my hand was still holding Daryl’s. I gave it a squeeze then released him.

The truck had barely left when Shane confronted me by the Dixons’ tents. “You going to tell him?” He asked, hovering over me where I sat checking my arrows’ conditions. “About-”

“About you and Lori?” I asked, ignoring his oppressive presence. “Or about my graduation party?” I glanced up at him and was gratified to see him growing pale. “You and Lori can decide whether or not to tell him. As for the party? TBD.”

He stomped away and I hoped that would be the end of our cozy little chats for a while.

JUNE 2009~ JESSICA’S GRADUATION PARTY

I’d been so excited for the party to celebrate my graduation. Dad was beaming, telling anyone who’d listen about his Valedictorian daughter who got a full ride to college. Lori, who might not be the world’s greatest cook, was a damn fine party planner. And Carl was so excited to see me get my diploma, followed by an abundance of food and cake, plus he was telling everyone how much he was looking forward to visiting me at Agnes Scott. An ALL GIRL’S school he kept telling everyone, like I was going to magic school.

Yet, after the cake and presents, I had started to feel a little let down. It wasn’t my family, our house, or even the guests. I was just getting worried that maybe I’d peaked. Being at the top of the food chain in high school was one thing, but college? I’d never been the new girl before. I was feeling vulnerable and took myself inside to sit at the top of the stairway.

Shane, like a shark can scent blood in the water, picked up on my vulnerability. As the 18 year old daughter of his oldest friend, I should have been an obvious off limits choice. Yet, that night, he’d found me and decided to make a move.

“This is your party, sweetheart.” He had said, as he sat down beside me too close. His jean clad leg rubbing against my bare leg and knee where my dress didn’t cover. “You look insecure up here, that isn’t the Jessica Grimes I know.” His hand moved to cup my knee.

I shifted, trying to dislodge his hold, but he wasn’t taking the hint. “I’m fine.” I answered, thinking that rejoining the party was the best idea I could have. “I needed a break, I should be heading back.” His hand moved up to my neck from my knee.

“Why don’t you let me help you relax a little bit, Jessi.” My family called me Jessi, it felt dirty on his lips. He moved his head forward as he turned my face to his, and I was so shocked I couldn’t stop him. His mouth attacked mine and I moved my hands to push on his chest, trying to get him to release me. He laughed, the bastard, and breathed against my lips, “I like a little fight in a girl.” So I gave him one. Taking a hand away from his chest as his mouth attacked mine again, I punched him in the crotch. I felt him groan and yank away from me. “You little bitch.”

“Fucking pig,” I whispered, only just stopping myself from spitting the taste of him back at him. “I should tell Dad.” I saw him flinch through the pain of his battered manhood to the thought of my dad knowing. “And I will, but not tonight. Stay the fuck away from me, Shane!” I bit out, rushing down the stairs to find something to wash the vile taste of him from my mouth.

#The Walking Dead #daryl dixon x ofc #eventual smut #rick grimes daughter #slight au #angst

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bad-at-names-and-faces · 4 years

Text

[redacted]

Chapter 24

chapter index

On the off chance you’re seeing this post and haven’t read any other chapters, go to the chapter index now and fix that... It’s ok, I’ll wait.

Unredeemable

Queen Elsa approached the tiny house next to the harbor. Kai had told her where she would find it. Gerda had given her a plain cloak that would cover her almost completely, and she left quietly through a side door of the castle and walked into town, unnoticed. She knocked at the door which was barely tall enough for someone her height to enter comfortably. A woman dressed all in black opened it.

"Yes?"

"May I come in?" Elsa pulled down the hood of her cloak just enough for her face to be visible.

"Your Majesty! Please! We have to be quiet." She gestured at the baby sleeping in its cradle.

“Your name is Margit, yes?” Elsa asked.

“Yes, Your Majesty, it is!”

“I… I heard about your husband. I’m so sorry,” the Queen whispered.

“Thank you, but you didn’t need to… Why are you here? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I apologize. I did need to speak to you, though. Gerda, at the castle, I believe you know her at least a little?”

“Yes,” Margit affirmed. “When I was younger, she would hire me for occasional mending work, after my mother died.”

“She told me that you came to her this week looking for work, now that your husband…”

The woman sat down in the chair by the cradle and closed her eyes. “Yes. I told her that I need some work, but I have no one to take care of the baby. He’s almost weaned. The midwife had suggested waiting til he’s at least a year old, but I’ve seen plenty of children do fine younger. I need the money, your Majesty, but I want to work for it. I don’t want to be reduced to begging. Or worse…”

“How old is your child now, Margit?” Elsa asked gently.

Margit looked at the sleeping child with a sad smile. “He’ll be seven months next week.”

Elsa paused, thinking. “His birthday will be in March, correct?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“I… I may have a solution for you.” The Queen somehow looked both relieved and nervous.

“Your Majesty?”

“If… if you find the terms agreeable, you would be well compensated.”

“What terms?”

“Absolute silence and discretion. We… someone…” Elsa thought about her words carefully. “There will be need of a wet nurse.”

***

Anna faced Elsa, who hadn’t answered her question.

“Elsa,” she repeated. “Who is Margit Nilsen? Is that why I got the letter from Corona?”

“I think you know,” her sister sighed. “And you’re the one who asked me not to tell you.”

“You're right, I did…” Anna murmured, sitting down by the window.

“Did Inga say something?” Elsa asked.

“Not exactly, I mean, she did. She was surprised that I didn’t already know Mrs. Nilsen. But it was his birthday. Until then, I think I was in denial. After all, you hadn’t actually told me the baby was a boy.”

***

"Elsa?" Rapunzel knocked at the door of the study. "Is everything okay in there?"

"Are you sure about this?" Anna asked as Elsa walked to the door. "We hardly know her."

"We haven't come up with any other ideas… none that we agree on, anyway. If you're set against the trolls, it can't be here, we have to go abroad… you know that."

"Yes, and I want to know as little as possible. Just not… that way. No magic."

Elsa opened the door.

Rapunzel looked around the room as she walked in. Princess Anna was sitting by the window, eyes red, but otherwise she appeared calm. “What’s the matter?”

“I think I trust you,” Elsa began, “it’s a delicate situation, with… far reaching political implications.”

“Is it that Prince Hans?” Rapunzel guessed. “Is he actually trying to push that marriage claim he made three months ago?”

All the remaining color drained from Anna’s face. Elsa spoke up. “Not exactly, and… we’re hoping that it doesn’t come up. But we need your help. Are there places in Corona that someone could spend a few months and not draw any attention?”

***

“Inga?” Frederick pushed open the door of the study. “Father said I should come help you?”

“Finally, thank you!” Inga exclaimed. “Mother just up and left on some errand, and I have no idea where she is or when she’ll be back. You did well enough answering letters this summer, so I think you can be helpful.”

“Thanks, I guess?” Frederick smirked. “I don’t know if my French tutor would agree.”

“You know I’m not going to tell you something that isn’t true, right?”

“I know,” he assured her, sitting down across from her. “Oh! Did I tell you? I ran into Admiral Sorensen after the reception, and he said that he could take me on a short run around the islands and see if I really know as much about sailing as I say I do.”

“I think he’d be pleasantly surprised,” Inga smiled. “Did you get a chance to ask Mother and Father if it’s okay?”

“No, I’ve hardly had any time since we got back, and it sounds like I won’t be asking them today,” he admitted. “Now, tell me what to do here.”

***

It was officially announced: Queen Elsa of Arendelle and her sister, Princess Anna, would be taking a Grand Tour of nearby friendly nations to establish stronger diplomatic relations, with the help of the Crown Princess Rapunzel of Corona. Everyone knew what this meant: they intended to find a suitable husband for Princess Anna. They would leave before Christmas. There were never official confirmations of this, but the fact that the Queen intended to return to Arendelle by February, leaving her sister in the Kingdom of Corona through the spring, only seemed to confirm this.

***

The baby was asleep when Kristoff returned to the bedroom, so he quickly went to the bathroom to change. He was relieved to see the baby hadn’t woken up when he reemerged, and collapsed on the bed. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep when Anna walked in.

“Kristoff,” she whispered, sitting down next to him on the bed.

“Anna?” he replied groggily. “Is anything wrong?”

“I’ve told Kai to cancel all my meetings tomorrow,” she blurted out quickly as she sat down on the bed.

Kristoff sat up and looked at her. “Huh? Why? You’re not already pregnant again… No, wait, that’s impossible.”

“No, no, of course not,” she laughed weakly. She looked away and started crying.

“Now you really have me worried.” He hugged her tightly.

“I…” Anna took a deep breath to collect herself before continuing. “I went to speak with Elsa… Inga told me something Elsa said about the trip to Corona, and…”

Kristoff looked at her in confusion, waiting for her to continue. Anna looked up at him, her eyes red and wet. “Should I even tell you? What good would it even do?”

“You can tell me,” he insisted. “What did Elsa say that’s so awful?”

“No, it’s not…” Anna struggled to find her words. “It’s not about the trip this year.”

Kristoff looked at her in confusion, trying to remember which trip she could be talking about. It had been years since Elsa had been on a trip abroad, and he had been on nearly every trip with Anna since he’d known her, except for one.

“That trip,” Kristoff replied flatly.

***

Kristoff watched as the ship sailed off. He believed Anna when she told him to wait for her, but there were still whispers around the castle and the town that the trip had another purpose. He had only known her for four months, it was fine, he told himself.

"C'mon, Sven," he called out. He would wait for her, but not at the castle if he could help it.

"Whoa there, I was told to keep an eye on you!” he heard a man call from behind. Kristoff turned around to see the husband of Anna and Elsa’s somewhat distant cousin. He hadn’t learned their names, but the sisters had become very close to their cousin in the last few months, having lots of conversations they wouldn't tell him about.

"Really?” he asked skeptically. “Why?"

"Well, I don't know,” the man admitted. “But those are my instructions. To be perfectly honest, I can't tell you why I'm not on that boat, but I trust there’s a good reason.”

"Fine. I'll stay," Kristoff huffed. Sven snorted in agreement.

"Eugene," he said, sticking out his hand. Kristoff stared at him skeptically. "I mean, I'm kind of stuck here until your queen gets back…"

"Kristoff," he mumbled, reluctantly shaking hands. "So, what am I supposed to do?"

"Actually…” the other man paused. “Do you think you could show me the mountains?"

“Do I look like a tour guide?”

***

Kristoff and Anna had been sitting in silence for what felt like an eternity. Finally, Anna remembered the letter she had received from Corona. She walked over and retrieved it from the back of her top dresser drawer, handing it silently to Kristoff when she returned to the bed.

Corona, August 4th, 1864

To Her Majesty, Queen Anna of Arendelle,

I apologize for never personally writing in all the years since your coronation. I had been in regular correspondence with your sister before her abdication. I would say it was nothing personal, but I realize the time you spent in Corona with me was not something you wished to remember. I respected your wishes to remain in the dark on that matter, and kept your sister informed for two years until her abdication. I kept my promise up to a point regarding the matter, but there has been a change. I have heard that your sister is again visiting, and if you can show her this letter, I’m sure she will understand.

Fondest Regards,

Crown Princess Rapunzel of Corona

Kristoff stared at the letter. “The matter… she means?”

“Yes,” Anna replied weakly.

“What changed?”

“There was supposed to be a job waiting with the Corona Palace Guards,” she began. “That requires taking the Civil Service Examination, purely as a formality. But when someone gets a perfect score, the Diplomatic School is always interested…”

***

“It’s three in the morning, Elsa,” Rapunzel mumbled groggily.

"Sorry, I just woke the midwife. It's time. Is your husband here?"

"Yes, Eugene just arrived a few hours ago, why?"

"We should make sure that Mrs-" she looked around, and continued, "that the wetnurse is awake. You know where she's living now, I don't."

"Why don't I go?"

"I need someone ready to take the baby, and I'll stay here with my sister."

"I suppose you'll be returning home as soon as you can?"

"Yes, I've talked with the midwife about it. She'll let me know when it's safe. Can you make sure a ship is waiting? I don't want any attention."

***

Kristoff sat staring out the window, the letter laying in his lap where he had dropped it minutes before, still trying to process what he had learned.

Anna broke the silence again. “I had convinced myself that I had forgotten about it. Everything was taken care of, and there was nothing to worry about, and no risk involved.”

Kristoff was still looking out the window. “I know, when you first told me about it, you said you didn’t want to know anything… but… you really had no suspicions?”

“Actually, I think I did. There was something about him. I realize that's why I made excuses about the wedding. But I didn't realize that's what I was doing. The name meant nothing to me, and it’s not like we kept pictures around.”

***

Anna and Elsa sat silently in the study. The initial emotions from Anna’s confession had subsided.

"Anna, would you be willing to get married?"

"What?"

"It would be an option. There might be some talk, but… It seems rushed, I know, especially with… with what I said before.” Elsa stammered. “But he seems good. Kristoff, I mean."

Anna stared at her. "But we haven't… it's… I mean, I think I would like to, eventually, but not like this."

“Think about it,” Elsa replied calmly.

Anna sat for a few moments looking at one of the shelves of law books. "Elsa, are you planning to get married?"

"What does that have to do with this… with anything?"

"Because…" Anna took a breath. "If I get married now, any baby born will be legitimate, and unless you get married and… have your own, that means that… that he gets… He already could make a bigamy claim, you know, the law like it is. The timing of the pregnancy might be enough to get their attention down there. I don't want to see him again, any more than you do."

"Oh," Elsa sighed, taking a moment to contemplate. "You've had some time to think this through, I guess."

***

Kristoff sighed, finally looking away from the window and directly at Anna. “So, who knows this?”

“Elsa, of course,” she began. “I think Kai knows, too.”

“Anyone else? Does… does he know?”

“No, only Mrs. Nilsen, and she’s been good to her word about not sharing her guesses about things. Part of the arrangement back then… I would know as little as possible about her, and she would know as little as possible about me. Elsa told her part of the truth now… not all of it.”

They sat silently for a while.

“Well, I can see why your sister was suddenly interested in helping a wedding along this summer,” Kristoff laughed feebly.

“What do you mean?” Anna looked at him blankly, then suddenly got his meaning. “Oh… Oh my, I hadn’t thought of that. You don’t think that was… No, Inga seemed to like Elizabeth well enough. Thank goodness for that.”

They paused for a moment, the room silent except for the baby’s snoring. Years of unspoken topics seemed to hang in the air.

Kristoff interrupted the quiet. “Now what?”

***

Anna's knuckles turned white as her foot slipped. The rope caught her a foot above Kristoff's head.

"You okay? Do you want to take a break and try again later?" Kristoff asked from below.

"Let me… let me catch my breath. Sorry."

"Did I tie the rope too tight? I thought I was being careful this time."

"No…" she said, still trying to catch her breath, "I think maybe I laced too tight this morning. You probably didn't need to know that, sorry."

Kristoff had lowered himself to the ground and began to help Anna down.

"Why would you even… I'm sorry, I really know nothing about these things…" Kristoff was flustered.

"I guess… to look good… for you?" Anna stammered as Kristoff lifted her down and untied the rope.

"Do you… do you really think you have to?"

"I… want to… I wanted to wear this dress again, for you, but it doesn’t really fit any more."

"I want you to breathe. I think breathing is good for you," he assured her. “And, um, I guess I should be flattered, but…”

"Sorry. It's stupid, I know. You're the one who suggested teaching me how to climb. I don't know what I was thinking… or, well, I know what I was thinking, but I don't know, it's been a year since I got back, and I shouldn't be talking about that, maybe…"

Kristoff held her shoulders and looked straight at her. "It's not stupid," he said with a sigh, "it's just… oh, nevermind…"

He let go and turned around, picking things up and starting to pack the bags.

"Wait…" Anna said nervously.

"What?" Kristoff stopped and turned around.

"I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he told her, pulling her into his arms. “But…” she pushed back a little. “I need to tell you something. Now. Before... anything else."

***

“You sure write quickly,” Frederick told Inga as they sat in the study going through the stacks of correspondence. He glanced absentmindedly at the letter on the top of the stack. “Should I take this one from Corona?”

Inga saw that it was addressed to her.

“Give me that,” Inga said a little too roughly as she grabbed the letter from her brother.

“Fine, have it your way. I’ll take on Luxembourg next,” he sighed. “Do you know when Mother is getting back from whatever it was she needed to do? It’s been two days. I’ve hardly seen Father, either. When is Aunt Elsa leaving? Olaf said he was going with her, too.”

“I really don’t know,” Inga admitted. “Something was off… Everyone seems off right now.” She shook her head. “Thanks for coming to help me this week. Your tutors can wait." She looked again at the address on the letter from Corona, and put it in her pocket unopened. She examined the stack of letters and took the next one.

“What was in the letter from Corona?” Frederick asked.

“What? Oh, no, I’ll read it later,” she demurred. She opened the new letter, quickly scanning it. “I hope Mother doesn’t take too much more time. This one will need the council. Our ambassador to America just resigned. He took an offer of free farmland in… some place out west. The letter isn’t even from him; his butler wrote it.”

"Do you want to tell her, or should I?" Frederick asked.

"You get this one." She handed him the letter.

#my fic #kristanna #chapter 24 #frozen fic #frozen fanfiction #Who is Margit Nilsen?#Is that the question?#Your Majesty? Are you all right?

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ohmightydevviepuu · 4 years

Text

hello love (a silent kiss from a wish) / part two for CS January Joy day 24

hello love (a silent kiss from a wish) part two of two PART ONE | AO3

When Elsa admitted that she had no control over the ice swirling around and seeping into Emma’s bloodstream, Emma knew fear unlike any she’d experienced yet.

She just--she wanted to believe that everything was going to be okay. And that they would all live, happily ever after.

(She was barely conscious and did not see the glow of the wishing star in the ice underneath her.)

or, after the Ice Wall, Emma comes face-to-face with some facts about her future. (time travel/time swap/time slip)

for @shireness-says, who makes very reasonable demands for @distant-rose, wishing you a very merry unbirthday today and all days

for @thisonesatellite and @profdanglaisstuff, always and @optomisticgirl, who needs to answer for the unholy amount of criminal minds i watched while editing this

for the 2020 @csjanuaryjoy, thank you!

@kmomof4 @shardminds @carpedzem @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @mariakov81 @katie-dub @stahlop @winterbaby89 @mahstatins

AO3

ten.

Hook needed a minute before he followed Emma’s voice down the stairs and into the kitchen. The clothing felt different; he was less familiar with the buttons and the buckles and the zips and it was an easier adjustment to make than taking in everything around him.

She had to call for him again before he took a breath and walked downstairs.

Emma’s back was to him while she busied herself at the stove. She still wore her sleeping shirt, offering a tantalizing view of bare legs, and a tattered black dressing gown that looked very much like the one provided him by the Widow Lucas. He’d worn it, he was sure, just yesterday.

It looked better on her.

“That doesn’t seem like yours, love,” Hook said, coming up behind her.

“You know how it is, Hook,” she said, teasing. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, Swan,” he said, “but I’m a pirate. Never been much for laws, meself.”

Emma laughed. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just--you’ll understand someday why that’s funny. I promise.

He chuckled. Emma turned, smiling at him over her shoulder. Her smile was still contagious, and this, this--

If this was his future, his wife teasing him with that smile after he woke up in the bed they shared, he could get used to this. This was a future worth waiting for, worth fighting for; a happy ending.

Hook could feel an answering grin on his face as he said, “Something smells delicious.”

Emma laughed, delighted. “Yeah?” she said. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Why, Swan,” Hook drawled, “I meant the pancakes, of course.”

“They’re from a box,” she said, flipping one in the air. “Ass.” But she was still smiling.

“But you must admit, it’s a very nice ass.”

“Take that ass and go sit in your chair and wait for your breakfast,” she said, pointing at a dining table with her cooking utensil. Hook laughed--there was his Emma Swan: the one he knew, the one with the too-rare smiles, the one who gave as good as she got or even better.

He, Killian Jones, Captain Hook, lived in a house with Emma Swan that had a dining table, where they sat and took meals together. Like a family.

“Don’t get your hopes up too high,” she called from the stove, and Hook tensed. “Because pancakes are literally the only thing I can cook. Henry won’t even let me scramble eggs anymore.”

Hook exhaled. “And where is the lad?”

“He’s with Regina,” Emma said. She carried a plate stacked high with pancakes to the table, and sat down. It was strange, or maybe even impossible, but when she came near him, Hook felt--better.

He didn’t eat the pancakes. He watched her.

“You’re watching me,” she said.

“Aye,” he admitted.

“You know, you still do that,” she said. “Now, I mean. In this time.”

“I can’t imagine I would ever get tired of it,” Hook said, and Emma wrapped her hand around his hook. His hook. “You’re beautiful, love.”

She tried to hide it, but there was a pleased grin on her face as she turned back to her breakfast.

eleven.

They still made a good team.

She finished her pancakes, and he helped her clear the table. She rinsed the dishes, and he set them to dry, and all the while, Hook couldn’t stop himself watching her. She did look different, he decided. There was silver in her hair, and very faint lines about her eyes--perhaps from smiling, Hook realized. Perhaps he had helped put those lines there. Her face, her entire person, seemed fuller, somehow. There was an ease in her posture and she moved differently.

Emma made herself a cup of hot chocolate. “So,” she said, cradling it in her hands as she sat on the couch. “I have a confession to make.”

“Most women--”

“Do not even start that shit with me, Hook.” She batted playfully at his arm. “I know all of your lines.”

“Did any of them work?” he asked, raising his eyebrows dramatically. “That is, aside from the obvious.” Hook held up his hand, and she took it in hers.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “They worked. They maybe, kinda worked too well?”

“Are you asking me?” Hook said.

“I think I know what happened,” she said. “With the whole--time-displacement-thing. Why you woke up here, in the future. I think I might have done something.”

“So we’ll undo it,” Hook said. He was confident.

“God, I love that about you,” she said. “The way you just always--” She gestured, eloquently, but didn’t finish. “And after all of the shit we’ve seen, you still just--”

Emma looked away, seemingly overcome, but this Emma was something Hook knew how to deal with. So he said nothing, letting her gather her thoughts again, letting the silence lengthen as she sipped her beverage.

“I’m a survivor, Swan,” he said, a quiet offering into the stillness. She smiled, a faint thing, but it was there. “And I choose to align my course with yours. It has yet to send me astray.”

“Yeah,” she whispered, the smile fading.

“Though I’m guessing it isn’t always fair winds and sunny skies,” Hook said. “This morning, when you--I take it that’s not the first time it’s happened?”

She shook her head. “Still a perceptive pirate,” she muttered.

“Do I--does it happen often? The nightmares?”

“Sometimes,” Emma admitted. “And then sometimes, it’s my turn. Archie says it’s--” She stopped again, biting her lip.

“You can tell me,” Hook said.

“I can tell you anything,” Emma said, squeezing the hand she still held. “But I shouldn’t tell you this.”

“You and I both know, to our peril, the danger of interfering with a timeline,” Hook agreed. He released her and placed his hand against his stomach. “Something to do with this, I take it?”

It was an ugly scar, as though he had been run through with a blade of some kind, and it occurred to Hook to wonder how he possibly could have survived such a thing.

She nodded. “Not my finest hour.”

Hook stared. Surely she did not mean--

“You did this?”

She shrugged, looking suddenly faint. “You asked me to.” Emma put her hand against her forehead, then dropped it against her mouth. “Excuse me,” she said abruptly. “I think I’m going to--”

He barely had time to take the mug from her hands before she was standing, rushing toward the bathroom.

twelve.

Emma was in the courtyard, outside the diner, and Killian stood on the steps and watched her.

He still loved to watch her. She was frustrated and overwhelmed and pacing, her arms wrapped around herself. She walked back and forth, between the table where she had kissed him for the first time after Neverland--mere days ago, in this time--nearly falling off of her chair in their need to pull themselves closer together; and the table where she had, just a few weeks ago, told him he was going to be--

“This is insane,” Emma said.

The table over there, in the corner, where he and Henry had been caught teaching Neal how to play, and to cheat, at dice before pulling Dave in for a round of poker that had become a regular habit.

Killian and Snow were usually the biggest winners--but then again, both of them cheated. Emma tended to roll her eyes and let them win, except when she was in the mood to prove a point, but Dave got flustered every time, which just added to the fun.

“We should tell someone,” Emma was muttering. “There is an actual metric fuckton of magic in this stinking town and someone here should be able to help us--”

Everywhere he looked, his life was laid bare before his eyes, and the woman who had helped make that life possible was talking to herself in the midst of yet another crisis. Killian could see it on her face as she ran through the possibilities he himself had already considered, discarding each one as useless just as he had done.

But Killian had figured it out, he had remembered.

He stepped down to meet her, grasping her arm with his hook to turn her around. “Swan,” he said, forcing her to look at him. “It’s fine, love, we just--”

“It’s not fine,” she said. “What, exactly, are we going to do about this, Marty McFly? Tell me, since you’ve seen it all before, how we’re going to get him back--and how we’re going to send you back to the future?” Emma exhaled an agitated breath, pushing her hair out of her eyes with her palm. “It’s never fine.”

She wasn’t speaking only of their current predicament, he knew.

“It is,” he insisted. “I know it feels overwhelming, like you haven’t had a breath, and I’m not saying that it gets easier--”

“Then what are you saying?” Her eyes flared. “You standing here is freaking proof of exactly how not-fine it is.”

“On the contrary, Swan--”

“What, then?” She looked so--defeated, and Killian felt his heart constrict in his chest. He needed her to understand, he needed her to realize.

“I’m saying that the best way--the only way--out is always through, Swan,” Killian said. “I’m saying that the only way through is to learn to appreciate the quiet moments.”

“That’s what you always say,” Emma said. “But, Killian, I can’t--”

He knew. I can’t lose you, that’s what she always said.

“I know,” he said. “Swan, I know. But I’m a survivor, just like you.” He pushed her hair off of her shoulder and gave her a small smile.

“How do you do that?” she asked. “Ever since you turned around that stupid boat, you’ve just--you--”

“You and I, love, we always fight for each other,” he said. “That’s what you and I have chosen--not to be together in spite of all that we have endured, but to support and love each other because of it.”

He was pushing her, Killian knew it; he was pushing her too hard and too fast with too much, but he needed her to hear it. When she exhaled, her breathing was unsteady, and Killian braced himself.

This was the part where she ran. This was always the part where she ran. This Emma, in this time--he may just have cost them--both of them, all of them--everything. If she shut down now, if she--

She surprised him.

Emma Swan was always surprising him.

She took a step toward him and rested her head against his shoulder, and he tensed for an instant--the weight of her was so familiar--before Killian put his hand in her hair. “I’m sorry, Swan,” he said. “I didn’t mean to--I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You shouldn’t have,” she whispered into his shoulder. “But I’m glad you did.” Killian held her, feeling the movement of her as she got her breathing back under control, as he matched his rhythm to hers.

“Also,” he said, “it’s a ship. I’m tired of reminding you.” He said it quietly, but lightly, deliberately breaking the mood.

“Can we just--” Emma said, stepping away, pulling her arms around herself again, reasserting her personal space. “Let’s just figure out what happened, okay? So we can fix it?”

“Aye, Swan,” he said. “As it happens, I’m a bit ahead of you there. You see, I know what happened.”

thirteen.

Hook could hear her in the bathroom. She hadn’t closed the door all the way, and she was retching, repeatedly and violently. Hook wondered what he would normally do in this situation, if he should help her in some way, especially when she’d seemed so upset.

He distracted himself by taking in his surroundings, but--

It had been a long time since he had cause to worry about the well-being of anyone else, and he had found that he liked it, on the rare occasions when his Emma allowed it. He knew they shared something, some understanding that let him be the one she could turn to when no one else could get through to her, but to see the physical manifestation of that all around him, in the band on his finger, in the pictures that even in this living area dominated every surface, was an entirely new kind of feeling. There were books on every shelf, histories and biographies, editions in Greek and Latin that he knew were from his collection on the Jolly Roger, a battered copy of something called The Stars, which appeared to have maps of this realm’s constellations and a Storybrooke Public Library stamp on its interior. His journals, bound in leather, so many years’ worth, stacked neatly against reference manuals for what appeared to be criminal investigative procedures, shelved in between large books full of recipes.

A telescope stood in the corner. When Hook looked through it, he could see the harbor, and the familiar masts of the ship that had been his home for more than two centuries; but it had never been home in the way that this place already felt like it was. This was not a life predicated upon survival only--this was about living, about enjoying the moments. This was a life they had clearly chosen and built together, and the home they had chosen to do it in.

Hook knew that it was more than their possessions, gathered and curated. It was Emma. She was his home. He’d known that since the day he’d left her at the town line in her little yellow vessel her with son, and watched her--them--for what he thought would be the last time.

There was a flushing sound, and Hook heard the water running in the sink just as Emma’s talking phone began to ring.

“Swan?” Hook called.

“Yeah, I hear it,” she called back, stepping past him to take up the device and answer it. “Dad?”

Emma rolled her eyes at him, whispering the word sorry, and started to sway back and forth on her feet as she waited for her father to stop for breath. “Dad, it’s fine, we’re fine,” she said. He worries, she whispered.

Hook smiled. That was a fact with which he was intimately familiar.

“No,” she said, “look, yeah, I know we’re late, something came up--”

There was another stream of barely-audible chatter over the phone as Charming got himself going again.

“Dad,” Emma said, her voice firm, “do not come here, or I swear to you I will put another barrier spell up around the door.” There was another pause and more chatter. “Whatever,” she said. “You and mom like tacos--Killian and I like pancakes.”

The prince’s voice was almost loud enough for Hook to make words out now--and even more agitated.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling, “Killian’s fine, I’m fine, I promise, we are all fine.”

More chatter, quieter and calmer this time.

“Yeah,” Emma said again. “Yeah, ok. Ok. Talk to you later. Ok. Love you too.”

She ended her conversation and threw the device at the couch. “Right,” she said, directing her focus back at Hook. She smoothed a hand over her hair.

“Swan,” he said, “are you sure you’re well?” He was worried he’d upset her, somehow.

Emma smiled, surprising him, since she still looked rather green about the gills. “Better than I’ve ever been,” she said. “I promise. So, I have a proposition for you. What do you say we get out of here, go for a walk or whatever, enjoy the ‘quiet moments’,” she made an exaggerated gesture with her fingers. “We’ll talk more.”

“Aye, Swan,” he said. “Let’s sail away.”

fourteen.

“Have you ever had a dream,” Killian began, “where it felt so real that you could not be sure if it was actually a memory?” He clenched his hand into a fist and forced himself to relax it again. “Where you felt it, deep inside of you, and it felt true, but you couldn’t make sense of it, so you convinced yourself it was just your imagination?”

They had walked, by silent but mutual accord, to the park, though Killian steered clear of the small lake that should not have been deep enough to accommodate the draught of Charon’s boat. Sometimes, in the light of the full moon, he imagined he could see the ferryman--that he could feel the Darkness pulling at his soul and the Underworld attempting to reassert its claim upon him. It was on those nights that he found himself volunteering to stay up with Dorothy to watch Ruby, unable to stay home and in his bed with his wife when he felt--everything--rushing through him.

Emma’s moods were less predictable, but on her bad nights he always knew where he’d find her: half asleep with her back pressed against the basement door. Those were the mornings when one or both of them would phone the cricket.

Emma, perhaps sensing his discomfort--though not understanding its origin--took him to one of the benches on the far side of the park.

“I guess,” Emma said, shrugging. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

Killian scrubbed his hand down his face, trying to cobble together the details of what she had told him, the other Emma Swan, his wife, his True Love, when she had spent this day with his other self.

“Is that...what this is?”

“Aye,” Killian said. “Only I’ve just realized, it wasn’t a dream at all. It was real.” He repeated it, almost to himself. “It was all real.” His half-forgotten dream was the reality he woke up to every day.

“What are you saying, Hook?”

Perhaps he had not been able to let himself believe in it before now.

“I don’t have any memories of this day, Swan,” he said. “Waking up in the loft, seeing you after your ordeal--none of it. But I do have memories of spending the day with you.”

“In the future?”

“Aye,” Killian said again. What he remembered--it was just a feeling. The rings, on his finger and hers, and around her neck. Warmth and light and love and hope and family.

“Did you happen to make any wishes in the ice cave last night, love?”

“No,” Emma said immediately. “No, of course not--oh.”

Killian snorted.

“Oh, shit,” she said.

“Tell me if this sounds familiar,” he said. “It’s very cold, colder than you’ve ever been, and as you begin to pass out, you--”

“--wished that I knew everything would turn out okay,” Emma finished. She appeared stunned. “That we would all live happily ever after.”

“Exactly so,” he said. “And here I sit.” He bowed his head.

“That’s...heavy,” she said.

“Weight has nothing to do with it,” Killian said, and winked. The itch was back in his fingertips, the need to touch her, and Killian resisted it.

“Netflix and chill, huh?” Emma put her hand on his thigh.

“Your idea, Swan,” he said. “Not mine.” Nights on their couch--so many nights, takeout containers from the diner strewn across the small table--and Henry had started actively avoiding them whenever she opened a conversation with “Wanna go home and see what’s on Netflix?”

He put his hand over hers.

“Do I change my name?” she asked suddenly.

“Your--” Killian blinked. “Your name? Why, love?”

“When we get married,” she said, tracing the ring on his fourth finger. “It’s a custom here, like, in this realm, but I’ve never considered myself to be the type.” She smiled at him, at his bemusement. “You keep fiddling with this, as if it doesn’t fit, or doesn’t belong. But I’ve literally never seen you without it.”

Killian turned his hand so that their fingers laced together. “Aye,” he said. “It’s true, Swan, I have another ring I prefer to wear these days.”

“I’m actually pretty good at my job, you know,” she said with another smile. “Observational skills and all of that.”

“I’ve never doubted it,” he said seriously.

fifteen.

She transported them by magic to the deck of the Jolly Roger, and Hook wasn’t sure which surprised him more: to be on her decks again, or to see Swan so at ease in her abilities.

Emma didn’t want to talk about it.

“It’s just--I learned the hard way, on a really steep curve,” she said, and Hook’s hand went hesitantly back to the scar on his side, her eyes following his movements. Perhaps she had healed him. “Yeah,” she said, apparently understanding his unspoken question. “I mean, not, like, exactly, but--yeah.”

He tried--and failed--to imagine what it would have taken to heal such a wound. Her face revealed nothing. “You’re not the only one with stories you’d prefer to keep buried, love,” Hook said, tracing the symbols he’d carved into the wood of the ship’s helm: P and S, and the marks he’d gouged with his hook after Baelfire had left.

“Did you miss her?” Emma asked, changing the subject. Hook shrugged, noncommittal. It had taken him weeks to re-adjust to being on terra firma, to lose the vague feeling of landsickness after so many years spent out on the water, but he’d spent so long on that ship locked in with his vengeance and his hate. Barracking at the inn with Mrs. Lucas in the little room with its bare walls--it was almost like having a clean slate, and Hook was certain that it was more than he deserved. It had been the right thing, giving up his ship, and he’d never looked back.

“I know what you did,” she said, as if he had answered her. “To Ariel, and to Ursula, and I know how you took back the Jolly Roger--which, by the way, you fucked that up too, a little bit. But you made it right in the end, because that’s you do. That’s kind of man that you are.”

Emma smiled, and for the first time since he had woken up that morning, Hook found himself unable to meet her gaze.

"How is it," he said, "that you--" He paused, pulling at his ear.

"See the best in you?" Emma finished. "I choose to, Hook. Every day. And you've never let me down."

Hook had never been speechless before.

“You said you wanted to talk,” she reminded him. “But you don’t seem to have much to say. You haven’t even asked me any questions.”

“I’m not sure that I intend to,” he said.

“I know,” she said, coming up behind him and putting a hand on his shoulder. She chuckled in response to his raised eyebrow and said, “Oh, yeah--open book definitely goes both ways. You and I, we tell each other everything. It’s kind of like a rule.”

“I’m a pirate, Swan,” he said. “We’ve already discussed my affinity for rules.”

“Call it another thing we had to learn the hard way,” Emma said. Her voice was gentle. “And I know why you’re afraid to ask--about the ship, or, you know, everything. I know what you’re afraid of.”

Hook wasn’t afraid. He was terrified, of losing it, losing all of this, before he even had it.

“I know why you ended up here with me--with this me, in the future,” Emma said. Her head dropped as she settled in against his shoulder. “I made a wish, Killian.”

“You wished for me to be here?”

“In the ice cave,” she said, “It was so cold, you know? Colder than I’ve ever been, and I could hear my dad--I could hear you--and I wanted to know that everything would be ok. That we would all live happily ever after. And I woke up and I found this version of you who was--”

“Devilishly handsome?”

“--so much the man I already knew,” she said, rolling her eyes and talking over him. “I saw that it was real, and that I hadn’t been wrong about you.”

“And I ended up here,” Hook said. It was both a statement and a question.

“I think--” Emma bit her lip. “I think you needed to see it just as much as I did. To see that it could exist, that I could be better--that we could be better, together.”

His conversation with the queen on this very deck still haunted him: Villains don’t get happy endings. Hook stepped away so suddenly that Emma nearly fell. He grasped her bicep and turned her to face him and his breath was unsteady as he said, “How can you possibly know that?”

Emma reached for his forehead, pushing his hair out of his face and combing her fingers through it. “This is True Love,” she said. “You think this happens every day?”

Hook inhaled a shaky breath. He lifted his hand to take hers and leaned his forehead down so that their noses were nearly touching. “Swan,” he said, “you know I can tell when you’re quoting something.”

Emma laughed, and he loved the feel of it, the warmth, against his skin. “And I love that you never know what it is.”

“True Love?” he said, pulling back to look at her. “Emma, I know you care for me, but--”

“True Love,” she insisted. “Capital ‘T’, capital ‘L’, babe.”

They stood like that, locked together, taking comfort from each other as the familiar creak of the old boards against his feet was like a soothing balm against his soul.

True Love. That was the rarest magic of all.

“What now, Swan?” Hook asked.

sixteen.

“So--” Emma asked. “What now?”

“We wait,” Killian said.

“Yeah,” Emma said. “I’m not great with waiting.”

Killian laughed. “A fact which, I assure you, has not escaped my attention,” he said, bumping his leg against hers. “I am, as you are aware, quite perceptive.”

“Didn’t answer my question, though,” Emma said.

He knew. But waiting was the answer, and Killian wanted to enjoy his time with her.

“We have our wits,” Killian said. “Let’s focus on being productive.”

“Ugh.” Emma snorted. “Are you always this cheesy? Like, in the future?”

She was still holding his hand. He squeezed it.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

She squeezed back. “Yeah,” she said. “Maybe I would.” Emma leaned closer, resting her head on his shoulder. Killian lowered his until his cheek just brushed against her hair--and there it was, the smell that was Emma. He inhaled, deeply, and it felt like home.

“So this won’t change anything, will it?” Emma said. “I mean, you’ve told me some things, but--if all of this has already happened, nothing should change, right?”

“I don’t believe so,” he said. Then, after a moment: “I hope not.”

“But we won’t remember,” Emma said. “Not consciously.”

“When I leave,” Killian said, “everything will be just as you remember it; your life will carry on exactly as it did. But this day--it happened, love. And you’ll always know that, deep down, just as I did.”

“So there’s nothing you would change?” Emma asked. “It’s all, what, sunshine and rainbows and everything is perfect?”

“It’s none of those things,” he said quietly. She sat up, and started to pull her hand away, but he held on tightly. “It’s life, Swan. It’s messy and complicated. And some of the things that you--that we--have survived to make it this far are terrible.”

“So why--” she said. “How can you not want to change that? To make it better?”

Killian shook his head. He thought of all of the things he had seen--all of the things yet to come to pass, to be lived, for both of them. The Darkness that had broken them almost beyond repair; breaking them so much that they should never have been able to forgive themselves, or each other, for what had happened, except that they had chosen to--chosen to piece themselves back together, their broken bits that somehow fit perfectly--and for a long moment, or an eternity, Killian had no words.

It wasn’t sunshine and rainbows. It wasn’t perfect. It was messy and complicated and wonderful.

It was--every day, sometimes every moment--a challenge. But after all of these years, and everything he had seen and done and survived, he still loved a challenge.

Especially a challenge like Emma Swan.

“I could never take the risk, don’t you see?” Killian said. “I could never take the risk that I might lose you, or our future. The fact that we make it through everything to come, and we do it together, is worth fighting for.”

They had all the time in the world.

“Killian,” Emma said, tears in her eyes.

“It’s not easy,” he said. “You and I, we were tested very harshly by fate, and by the whims of the gods. But we choose each other, always. That’s what it means to be True Love.”

She started to pull away again, and Killian cursed. He definitely should not have said that. He let her go, watched her stand up, and turn away, and turn back again, before she repeated, disbelief radiating from every syllable: “True Love? Like, capital ‘T’, capital ‘L’ true love?”

“Aye,” he whispered.

seventeen.

Hook felt her words as if they were actually settling onto his heart, imprinting there; her arms braced against his were an anchor in the chaos. He felt unshakable--and so, so shaken. The future was an unknown, something untested and untouchable and for the first time in more years than he cared to count he felt as though he might actually have a future.

Like something within him had shifted.

“I have to send you back,” she said, and there was sadness in her eyes and in her voice. He felt warm everywhere she touched him, but his mind was too full to notice, too full of this world she--he--they lived in. Together. Looking at her, feeling her against him, was like breathing in the sun. Only she wasn’t--this wasn’t--his Emma Swan.

“She loves you already, you know,” Emma said, rubbing his arm with her hand, running her fingers through his hair. “That night, the night in the ice wall, that’s when she knew, and it terrified her.”

His Emma Swan with her mile-high walls and his indefatigable quest to persuade her to lower them, to let him in.

“She’s not a little lost girl anymore,” Emma said. “She finds herself in you. It’s you, Killian. That’s her happy ending, the way you find yourselves in each other.”

He wanted that, he wanted to be the one who helped her break them down, brick by brick, and to meet the woman who lived inside.

“Be patient with her, Killian.”

Hook closed his eyes. “Will I remember any of this?” he asked.

She didn’t answer him. “Do you trust me?” Emma asked instead. She put her hand on his chest, over his heart.

“I trust you,” he said. “Always.” He opened his eyes and looked at her. “To the end of the world. Or time.”

Emma nodded. “I’m going to tell you something, Killian, something I learned a long time ago: you and I, we aren’t together in spite of all of this crazy, fucked-up shit we’ve seen. We’re together because of it. Because we choose to be.” She stood up on her tiptoes and whispered into his ear, “Don’t forget that, okay? Don’t stop fighting for us.”

His entire body was itching now, with the way she was pressed against the full length of him. The moment hung between them and she pulled him in even closer, and he kissed her.

He kissed her.

It was sweet and thankful, determined and resolute, and it felt like both a hello and a goodbye, and Killian felt almost torn between conflicting realities, and he wanted to reach for her. He grasped for more, desperately, sinking into the warmth of the kiss--he was hot, as silver shots of magic pulsed through his veins--

eighteen.

The sun was getting lower in the sky and Killian sensed that their time together was growing short. He knew she would leave to go meet Elsa, to examine the ice wall more properly from the outside--it was the first clear memory he had of this day.

“You’re so much like him,” Emma said finally.

“Devilishly handsome, you mean?”

She bit her lip, as though giving consideration to every syllable she was about to utter. She opened her mouth, changed her mind, closed it, opened it again, and then said: “What about me? Am I--”

Killian stood, pulling her into an embrace. His hand went to the back of her neck and when he pressed his forehead against hers she didn’t shy away. He inhaled the scent of her, almost making himself dizzy from her shampoo and her skin and her touch.

“You’re perfect, Swan,” he whispered.

“No,” she said. “I’m not.”

“No, you’re not,” he agreed. He pictured the boots in the hallway and more sugar than he could possibly imagine; the mess she left every morning in the washroom and her complete inability to cook anything but pancakes. The way she held him when he couldn’t sleep and the way she let him help her when it was her turn for nightmares and how warmth rushed through his body whenever she was near him. “But you’re perfect for me, and that’s what matters.”

“Am I easier to deal with? Can I--am I better--with, just everything? Feelings?” She let out a long breath. “I’m not ready, Killian, for all of this--I want to be, but I’m not there yet--”

“Aye, love, I know.”

“How do I ask him to--”

“He’ll wait, Swan. He’s a very patient man. He’ll--” (it wasn’t funny, but Killian laughed) “--go to hell and back for you.”

It was as if something broke within her at the words. It really was a bad joke, that, and she didn’t even know the punchline yet.

“You listen to me, Killian Jones,” Emma said sharply, her eyes flashing. “If you end up in hell, I am coming in after you and dragging your ass back to Storybrooke.” She brought her head to his shoulder again. “I’m not losing you.”

His entire body was itching now, with the way she was pressed against the entire length of him. The moment hung between them and she pulled him in even closer, and he kissed her.

He kissed her.

nineteen.

Killian came to himself all at once, anchored by the familiar embrace of his wife. His wife. The feeling, the flash of magic, pushed outward, and he felt it all the way down to his toes as he kissed her, kissed her until he couldn’t think straight, kissed her as he pushed her up against the wheel and she gasped and said, “Killian?”

He rested his forehead against hers, catching his breath, pressing his palm against her abdomen. “Aye, love. Did you miss me?”

twenty.

It was dark out, and Emma was furious.

That was a lie.

She wasn’t furious, she was terrified--which was worse, so she focused on her anger, and her target. Hook had settled himself outside of Granny’s, at the same table where she’d kissed him just days ago. He had that same look in his eyes, his fucking blue eyes--all soft and sad and waiting for her to just tell him what she wanted from him, and he would give it to her, and he took a sip of his rum and said, “Swan!”

She started to turn, but no. She was too furious. Too terrified. There was too much happening, and all of it was happening at once, which was pretty much the entire fucking story of her entire fucking life at this point, and she thought she’d gotten used to it, but something about the snow monster--or maybe it was the ice wall, or the woman who seemed to know her, or the way that Hook and David had nearly died today--

“Don’t make a man drink alone,” he said, and she could swear he pouted, and fuck literally all of that.

“Not in the mood for a drink,” she said, which was also a lie. “Or a man.” Another lie. She heard the scraping of his chair against the courtyard pavement as she walked by him and into the street.

Hook followed her. Of course he did. If there was thing she’d learned about Captain Hook--about Killian Jones--

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you today, all right?” he said, calling after her.

--it was that he would follow her past the end of the world.

She needed that, needed him--and he could have fucking died today.

“I know you feel like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders,” Hook said, and thank you, Captain-fucking-Obvious, that’s what it meant to be the Savior, and she almost hadn’t saved him today, and--

“But at some point,” he said, his hook around her arm forcing her to turn and face him, “even though we’re quite different, you’ve got to trust me.”

Emma stopped. That’s--he thought that--? She raised her voice and it was almost an accident. Maybe it would help cover the fear she didn’t want leaching through. “That’s what you think this is about? That I don’t trust you?”

Hook looked at her, confused, his hook still around her arm. “Is that not what this is about?”

Emma wanted to laugh. Or maybe to cry.

Her parents had the baby. Her brother, Neal, and--yeah, that was going to take a lot of getting used to. Henry was worried about Regina. (So was she.) Ruby was gone. Emma had been locked in a wall of ice and the only thing that had started to make her feel warm again--safe--was the feel of his arms around her, so much so that she had made him sleep sitting up on the floor; she had let herself need him. She literally had no one else in her life she trusted as much as she trusted him right now, who she lo--”Of course I trust you!”

“Then why,” he said, his own voice rising in agitation, “do you keep pulling away from me?”

Which was--accurate. But--didn’t he see? She couldn’t--”Because everyone I’ve ever been with is dead,” she said, and Emma felt the sting of tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “Neal--and Graham--even Walsh.” She looked at him, at his eyes, his stupid blue eyes all soft and sad and supportive and said, “I’ve lost everyone. I--”

He waited. Emma lov--hated when he did that. How did he always do that, just--”I can’t lose you, too,” she said.

“Well, love,” he said, “you don’t have to worry about me. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s surviving.”

The moment hung in the air between them.

But I’m a survivor, just like you. The words were like an echo in her head as Killian looked at her, and Emma refused to look away, and she didn’t just see it, she felt it--the moment something changed and he pulled her toward him and kissed her.

He kissed her.

#csjj #csjj2020 #cs january joy 2020 #cs fic

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coeurdastronaute · 5 years

Text

Either/Or: WWC 4

Previously on WWC

Jet lag and time zones made the bed feel like heaven. Body still on the west coast and brain doing its best to keep up with the new place and practice and preparation, the sheets and the pillows were a godsend. Kara laid, face first in the large bed in her hotel room, with only the light still on in the bathroom as the only light in the room. She didn’t care about it at all for the moment though. Her body was still coming down from the workout and then the recovery, pushing herself harder than ever to be better and faster and stronger than ever before thought imaginable. The sun wasn’t close to ready to set, still early in the summer evening, but the curtains were drawn tight and tried to hide the welcoming glow of a beautiful city at the golden hour.

She should take a shower and eat something, but the bed was so comfortable and her body was so tired. Only when she ran out of air did Kara turn her head to the side and push hair out of her face. It took her a few minutes to push herself up and resign herself to exist.

Kara didn’t look at her phone because on it was a picture of her and Lena from some Sunday morning of sleeping in and waking up with messy hair. If she looked at it again with a longing glance, she’d have to admit that she was missing her, and that was a dangerous thing.

She settled into the same routine she’d had for the past week since arriving: shower after moping, order food, and settle in to watch game footage. Kara was preparing, and she had the first game in just eighteen hours.

And though she tried to sleep and prepare, despite being exhausted, sleep evaded her until she was tossing and turning and attempting to find some kind of relief. But it only came in one way.

“Darling, it’s two in the morning.”

Kara smiled sleepily into her pillow as she was greeted with Lena’s lovely, quiet voice from thousands of miles away. She pressed the phone between her head and the pillow.

“I’m very bad at jet lag.”

“It’s been over a week. You should be adjusted.”

“I just miss you I guess.”

“Don’t try to be cute to avoid me scolding you. You need your rest. I expect a hat trick tomorrow.”

Kara smiled in the dark and pulled the covers up higher around her shoulders before stretching her legs and sighing at the comfort. Relatively new to the sport, Lena was studious when it came to learning, and through that, somehow developed into Kara’s number one fan. It was mostly because of the orgasms. But also because she loved watching the joy on the player’s face when she was in the thick of it-- a smile when she got downed, a grin when she battled for the ball, a smirk when she made her move, and the humble joy that came when she scored.

“How was your day?” she tried.

“Long, and still going. I have dinner with the group that came in from Metropolis. They were here all day and I had to entertain them.”

“I doubt you did stand up for a dance for them. You’ve been preparing for this for a month.”

“It’s just so annoying,” Lena began off on a rant.

Kara loved listening to Lena talk. She loved the inflection of her vowels and the way her voice sounded when she was happy or mad or sad or anything. She had a certain way of getting lost with the words, telling a story and remembering something else, always on a tangent. There wasn’t anything else Kara could think of better.

“Just give me access to your stuff and you can have access to mine, but let’s solve this problem, you know?”

“If anyone can solve some of the issues of the climate crisis, it’s you.”

“Well, I’m certainly trying.”

Back home, back in her office, Kara was certain Lena was leaning back in her chair at her desk, twisting a pen around her fingers as she stared absently at the window. She was predictable despite the fact that she woul argue she was an enigma.

“Are you nervous about tomorrow?” Lena asked in the quiet that settled there. “Because you shouldn’t be nervous. You are going to do amazing.”

“Just regular nerves. I’ll recover.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“Are you propositioning me?”

“Yeah, you’re fine,” Lena chuckled to herself as Kara smiled and yawned. “I’m glad I got to talk to you. I was afraid it was too late.”

“I figured you missed me.”

“Very much.”

It made Kara blush, to be wanted by someone like Lena was an accomplishment and it felt like something that would sustain her. It added a certain level of weight to her as a person-- that the CEO of a powerful company wanted her around.

“I should let you sleep,” the CEO remembered. “You’re representing the entire country tomorrow.”

“I nearly forgot.”

“I’ll be watching.”

“And wearing my jersey?”

“Of course. And not much else if that helps motivate you.”

Kara let out a loud groan at the image now seared into her mind. Winning and scoring goals on the biggest stage in the world would only slightly beat out the idea of Lena in her jersey and nothing else. And sometimes, Kara wasn’t certain it did.

“I guess the viewing party you’re hosting for investors will get quite a show them. Those guys from Metropolis will definitely want to work with you.”

“You’re right. I’ll wear clothes and save the other stuff for you.”

“Good,” Kara grinned and yawned again.

“You need to sleep,” Lena reminded her. “And I am going to be late for dinner.”

“Could you give me one of your pep talks before the game?”

“It’s not a pep talk. It’s just facts.”

“List some facts for me then.”

The line was quiet for a moment and Kara closed her eyes to imagine the woman on the other end, leaning back in her chair at her desk as she thought. Kara could see the smile on her face that softened to a thoughtful furrow. She watched her fingers play with the edge of the desk as she stared somewhere in the office but didn’t see anything.

“You are my favorite player. You are so determined and focused, and your team respects you and idolizes you. The entire city here is behind you. There are signs all over the place wishing you luck. Kara, you love this sport, and you are going to have so much fun tomorrow, and you’ll leave it all on the field and win or lose, I know you’ll still be loved and idolized and adored for your heart and kindness and body.”

Kara smiled and felt her cheeks burn slightly.

“Those are not fact, but I’ll allow it.”

“Get some sleep, tiger,” Lena murmured with her smile.

“Thank you.”

“Goodnight, Kara.”

“Night, gorgeous.”

XXXXXXXXXX

It was a long twenty-four hours, but Lena was wide awake anyway.

Before she even hung up the phone with her girlfriend, she planned her trip. While they chatted, while she heard the sleepy voice who refused to sleep on the other end of the line, she chatted her assistant and figured out how quickly she could be gone. It took a lot of weaving and working around, but it was important, and Lena couldn’t believe she was dumb enough to think that she wasn’t going to go.

But she had her dinner and she let Jess make the arrangements, receiving a long list of meetings and things to accomplish while she was in Europe. She packed a bag and decided to be more like Kara, ready to buy what she needed if she truly missed it. And Lena let her driver take her to the airport where she boarded her private jet, the stewardesses and pilots smiling politely.

It would be an easy trip, she promised them. None of them wanted to take her up on the offer, but quickly after take off, Lena settled into the small bedroom in the back of the plane, preparing and attempting to sleep.

When she landed, it was a mad rush to make it to the stadium with less than two hours before kick off. Traffic didn’t want to cooperate, but by kickoff time, she was entering the stadium through the back security gate, the president of the federation and a few others inviting her to their box.

All of it happened before she even stepped foot into her loft.

Somewhere between her dinner meetings with a research group on another continent and the game, Lena traversed an entire ocean just to see Kara play in person. And though she felt slightly tired, she smiled and cheered for her hero.

Even though it seemed impossible, Lena wondered if Kara would find her in the sold-out crowd. Deep down she knew that the soccer star wouldn’t think to look, but also that Kara was inherently focused on the pitch and only the pitch when it was game time.

It was a beautiful game that Lena spent with other owners and fancy fans in a box. She made her small talk and she networked on accident. She didn’t want to, it was just natural, and as much as she wanted to be, she wasn’t just a girlfriend watching and supporting the girl she had a crush on but rather a business woman. She held her breath though, when Kara got a free kick which led to the first goal. The exuberance on her face was so contagious Lena found herself cheering. And toward the end of the game when Kara scored again despite being blocked a few other times, Lena cheered louder than anyone else in the box.

By the time it was all over, Kara did a victory lap with her team and Lena realized she’d been holding her breath for a large portion of the afternoon and the difference in time zones was going to catch up with her. But she made her way back to her condo and sent Jess to leave a note for her girlfriend at her hotel.

XXXXXXXXX

Even as she stood at the door in the ritzy building in the nice end of the city where the oldest money lived and loved, Kara couldn’t believe that Lena was here. It seemed almost like it would turn out to be a cruel joke because surely it was impossible for Lena to travel across the glove just to watch her play, especially with how busy she was. There was no way it was possible.

But the night felt impossible. Kara scored two goals and an assist, and that seemed super unlikely. She did it in front of millions and for entire country, and that seemed downright impossible. That was the theme of the night.

“You’re here?” Kara breathed as Lena opened the door.

“I am quite a fan of the sport. Seemed like the place to--”

It didn’t matter the reason or the super witty thing Kara wa sure Lena was going to say. None of it really did. Instead, she hugged her tightly and smiled into her neck as she earned a giggle at the move.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” she whispered, rocking slightly as she kept hugging.

“I’m sorry it took me a little longer to realize that I should have been here all long. Work be damned.”

Lena adjusted her chin and clutched at the soccer player’s shoulders, inhaling the fresh, shower-clean smell that lingered on her skin.

“Did you make it in time to watch?”

“I was in the owners box the entire time. Some of them didn’t even watch, but I couldn’t look awa--”

Again, it didn’t matter. Kara knew enough to kiss Lena mid-sentence. With the kiss, Lena forgot her words as well. It certainly didn’t matter, just like the rest of it. She was there, and Kara was there, and it was enough.

“Are you going to invite me in?” Kara asked when she came up for air,chests heaving with the exertion.

With a nod, she felt her arms tugged and the door clicked shut behind her.

XXXXXXXXX

“I have to get back for bed check.”

“Do you really?” Lena purre, stretching languidly in the bed. She kissed a black and blue mark on Kara’s thigh and pressed her cheek there, looking up at the naked body in her bed.

“I think an international scandal about a missing soccer player during the World Cup might be something everyone wants to avoid.”

“That’s very true.”

“I didn’t know you had a place in the city.”

Lena shrugged slightly and smiled as she closed her eyes. Kara’ scratched her scalp softly and swore she earned a purr.

“I went to boarding school here. This was the first place I lived on my own when I graduated.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I bought this place myself with my own money,” Lena sighed, adjusting her legs as she smiled at the thought. “I love feeling like I have a home I can run away to.”

“Good thing the Cup was in Paris.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier.”

“I didn’t expect you at all.”

“But you should have,” Lena shook her head and furrowed, sitting up slightly. “I want to be someone that you expect.”

“You are forever unexpected,” Kara smiled.

“You’re a secret, but I do like you a lot.”

“I know.”

“Would you have played harder if you’d known I was there?”

“Oh man, I would have scored a lot more goals,” Kara grinned as Lena moved up her body.

“I knew it.”

“Will you at least get to do some work while you’re here?”

“Of course,” Lena nodded, settling between Kara’s legs as she kissed her. “But I came to watch you play.”

“I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I can’t believe you’re going to leave me all alone in my beautiful loft to go to a lonely hotel room.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Press stuff and you.”

“Amazing To-Do List.”

“Dinner tomorrow?”

“I can do dinner.”

“And after?” Lena wondered, hovering close to Kara’s lips.

“Show me your favorite city.”

Lena grinned and slid her leg so she was straddling her girlfriend. There wasn’t much else she really needed. Perhaps it was the time zones and the tiredness that came. Perhaps it was a naked soccer superstar beneath her. Perhaps it was being in her old loft in her favorite city. Perhaps it was watching Kara play. Perhaps it was just suddenly realizing she was happy, but Lena pressed her palm against Kara’s chest and felt her heartbeat and sighed.

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the-bard-writes · 4 years

Text

1 2 3

“Shall I provide you with a tour of our town, Miss Crow?” Sheriff John inquired as he approached the two.

“In a moment, perhaps,” the sister told him. “First, we would know more of the demographics of the village.”

“The erm… what, Miss Crow?” The sheriff asked.

“Demographics,” the sister repeated. “The statistics pertaining to your population. How many you number, the spread of age and occupation, that sort of thing.”

“Well,” the sheriff started, taking his tricorn off a moment to scratch his head, “we’ve a population numbering some hundred and a few more, most of them hardy working folk, with a few elderly kin about and a good deal of children. We’re a lumbering town, see. You may have noticed the felled trees round about the town.”

“So we did,” the sister nodded. “Whence comes your food and water?”

“Why, we’ve some farmers that come in to town to bring us their yields in exchange for our smithy’s labor and some lumber and firewood,” the sheriff told her. “We’ve all mostly got ourselves some little gardens here and there for greens, and the town’s got a small little orchard for fruits, but meats and grains we get over the harvest season and store up for the winter.”

“The harvest is some weeks away yet,” the sister remarked. “You are surviving off of the remains in your granaries, then?”

“We are,” the sheriff said. “Folks get grain delivered by the week, and if they bake it all up, then they’ll have to get by on their own.”

“Do they still tend their gardens?”

“Only if they do it sneakily, where my watch-men don’t see them.”

“You forbid them their gardens?”

“I forbid them to step out into miasma, for certain.”

“The town, then, is dependent upon you for their food,” the sister concluded. “What of water?”

“We’ve some wells around the village, and we deliver two buckets to each household per day.”

“Two buckets?” The sister repeated. “For an entire household?”

“We mustn’t overdraw the wells, Miss Crow,” the sheriff explained.

“Is that a concern outside of quarantine?” She asked.

“At times,” the sheriff said flatly. The sister nodded and looked to her brother, who did not look at her, but she could tell he had glanced at her behind his mask. She looked back to the sheriff.

“And firewood?”

“All supplies, Miss Crow, are rationed and delivered by my deputies,” the sheriff told her. “You’ll find that everyone receives all they need for their daily living, and if they’re sparse on it, it’s because they overuse it.”

“Is that a recurring problem?” the sister inquired.

“Becoming less so,” the sheriff smiled, “as folk learn thrift better and better each week.”

The sister did not like the sheriff’s smile.

“Then all the town’s stores are rationed cautiously,” the sister contemplated. “You must be going through significantly fewer supplies than usual, for this time of the year.”

The sheriff shrugged. “Can’t see how that pertains to the plague, but it’s as you say.”

“Everything can pertain to plague, good sheriff,” the sister said, taking a few steps further into the village.

“Might I ask a question of the two of you?” The sheriff asked, looking first at the raven-brother and then at the crow-sister.

“You may,” the sister turned back to address him.

“What’s it look like?” The sheriff asked, his voice lowered. “I’ve always been curious, see. What plague-birds see when they look at plague.”

The sister glanced at her brother behind her mask. Once more, his head did not move, but she knew their eyes met behind their goggles for a brief moment. She returned her gaze to the sheriff.

“It is impossible to describe,” she answered diplomatically. “Could you, as a law-man, tell me what law looks like?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Contemplate what justice looks like to you, good sheriff,” the sister said, “and you will have an idea of what this plague of yours looks like to us.”

“I… can’t rightly say I know what you mean by that, good sister,” the sheriff admitted, scratching his head once more. The sister stared at him for a moment, fidgeting with her hands for a brief second, then shook her head.

“Never mind it. We would now like to see more of this village of yours, starting with wherever you keep the sick.”

“The sick are kept in the village hall,” the sheriff said. “Where we normally gather for meetings and dances and such.”

“Then we would like to be taken there,” the sister told him. “We will investigate the patients and begin our diagnosis. We may take time to query about your village more, but first, the patients.”

“I must turn to my regular duties, but you’ll find the village hall down that street there,” the sheriff pointed. “Past the market, you’ll go down three rows of houses, then it’ll be the building across the path from the smithy, which you’ll find by its forge.”

“You keep the forge alight?” The sister asked.

“No, but a forge is a forge, even when cold,” the sheriff said.

“How many patients should we expect to find within the hall?” The sister inquired.

“Some few dozen,” the sheriff answered. “I believe we had near forty ill shacked up in there.”

“Near forty ill?” The sister repeated. “In a village of a hundred and some?”

“It’s a large some,” the sheriff said. “Several dozen in that some.”

“All the same,” the sister said, “you’ve near four dozen ill, in a village of perhaps a gross?”

“More than a gross, to be sure,” the sheriff excused.

“And have you rendered any treatment of any sort already?”

“We’ve shacked them up, and brought them hearty meals of meat and such, but other than that, we’ve no apothecary, and therefore no remedies.”

The sister shook her head. “We will proceed with our investigations and begin treatment if we are able, or otherwise advance our work. Where can we find you if needed?”

“Tell Edgar, the fellow on the tower, or whoever is on the watch, to ring for me, otherwise I’ll be doing all manner of errands and impossible to find in any one place.”

“Very well,” the sister bowed. She and her brother walked down the street together as the sheriff went on his way. Once they had privacy, she looked to him.

“No plague in the air,” she said, “and yet a third of the village is shacked up.”

The brother turned his head slightly towards her.

“That, too,” she agreed. “A third shacked, and the other two-thirds utterly at the sheriff’s mercy. It’s all the makings of some manner of coup.”

The brother reached a hand to where his chin would be on his mask, and thought for a moment, before angling his head to glance at her a bit more.

“I don’t know,” the sister admitted. “He thinks we’re either charlatans—that we’re mere pretenders to the vows, or that we’re truly members of our orders but our senses are mere myth—or he, himself, believes in this false corruption.”

The brother shook his head.

“We shall have to see what these patients are like,” the sister said. “I will say that I no longer believe it is either drunkard’s boils or zirovula.”

The two of them traveled together down the streets. Both of them tried once or twice to catch some scent of corruption, some wisp of plague, but to no avail. They could see people peering at them from behind windows, proving that there were, indeed, families within the houses. Some houses had garden plots along their fronts, and these were weedy, and in need of tending, with some of them bearing yields that hung heavy and awaited harvest. This was the most baffling to the sister—there was scarcely harm, except in severe cases, in allowing people out of doors to tend to private gardens, especially for the gathering of food. There was no reason for a ban on it, she concluded, but to render them helpless and subjugate them. But the motivation for such a thing in such a small place eluded her.

At last, they arrived at the village hall, across from the forge, as promised. The hall was not very tall, but it was very wide; it was perhaps two stories all told, but nearly a hundred yards across, or so. Before its door were four guards, each of which had some simple armament—two had bows with sparsely equipped quivers, one had a large cudgel, and the other an ax—and their armor was comprised of some bracers on their forearms and mail hauberks on their chests. All told, it was evident they were village militia, and their equipment served more to frighten off others than to actually engage in combat.

“Plague-birds?” One of them gasped. “What’s a pair of plague-birds doing among us?”

“Your sheriff granted us passage into the town,” the sister declared. “We have come to render service.”

“I’ll be damned if I let a plague-bird near my sister!” One of them vowed. “Let alone a pair!”

“We intend to render aid to your people,” the sister explained. “We cannot cure or treat them without examining them.”

“You’re worse bloodsuckers than your leeches!” One spat. “Taking gold for life!”

“We do not use leeches,” the sister patiently explained. “And we are not taking gold for this service.”

“Bundle of lies, it is,” the first one accused. “Every bird’s got leeches in their stomach that they feed by putting them on sick folk, that’s how they live forever!”

“And no bird ever does anything without taking your coin!”

“We can fetch the sheriff to explain his permissions granted to us,” the sister offered. “If you will not believe us, surely you will believe him.”

“You’ve bewitched him!” The second militiaman concluded. “Bewitched Sheriff John with your plague-magics!”

The sister sighed deeply and looked downwards, but said nothing. She knew this dance, and knew what the next step was. She chose to wait for it.

“We’ll put the birds down, we will!” One of the militiamen said. “We’ll put them down and be rid of them.”

The sister looked up and saw the four of them had begun to approach, brandishing their weapons. She took two steps back, not in fear or retreat, but to give her brother some space.

Once she did so, he lifted his plague-staff from the ground, give it two or three spins, and fell into a practiced stance, the pike of his staff pointed towards the militia, with the traverse nearly perpendicular to the ground. The ribbons affixed to the traverse flapped with the motion, and floated now to a new resting position while the raven-brother took in a deep breath. The militia paused at this sudden movement, and became acutely aware of how much more threatening the raven-brother was with his armor and plague-staff and far more learned technique. The sister allowed this pause of shock to sink in for a moment, then took one step forward.

“We are healers, good sirs,” the sister said. “We are sworn to do all we can to heal the sick, and my brother here is very stringent about his vows.”

“You’ll not kill us,” a militiaman challenged, his voice not matching the bluster of his words.

“No, we will not,” the sister said. “Instead, you will leave us to our work, and give us no further trouble.”

The militia looked at each other. In the silence of their broken conviction, the sister walked forward. None of them reacted to her, except, as she came upon them, to step out of her way wordlessly. When they did so, the raven-brother spun his plague staff again, and stood straight, and planted the staff on the ground with a firm and final thud. The quick movement startled the militia, but the brother simply walked by them, following his sister’s footsteps as they approached the village hall. He listened for the militia to approach, but they did not; instead, he heard a sigh of relief or two, when they thought he could not hear them.

The sister arrived at the door to the hall, and paused until her brother arrived next to her. She looked to him, and sighed, and saw him nod ever so slightly in concurrence. They shared that moment of mutual frustration, before turning to the door. The sister pushed it open, and they entered.

What they saw gave pause. People strewn around, spaced evenly, laying on the floor upon makeshift beds made of straw and linen blankets. Their skin had red marks dotted across them, and each of them had stained blindfolds over their eyes. All of them seemed so still, but the brother and sister could both see them breathing shallowly. Walking about the hall, they could see plainly that the patients were all almost equally afflicted, and no discrimination could be found among the afflicted: young, old, man, woman, hale, frail.

It was all the markings of a zirovula outbreak, except that, even now, in the heart of the outbreak, neither could sense the faintest element of plague.

There was, however, one element that distinguished it further from zirovula: the sheriff said no treatment had been rendered, but zirovula did not render the victim unconscious. It was a painful disease that brought on cries of agony for hours at a time as it flared, and constant moans of pain as it remitted.

Why, then, the two wondered, did the victims sleep so soundly?

#writeblr #short stories #quarantine fiction #plague doctors #cw disease #yep this is a series now #series: raven and crow

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kissmejae · 5 years

Text

Habits

PAIRING: Jung Jaehyun × Reader

GENRE: fluff, neighbours!AU (I guess?)

SUMMARY: Y/N has a bad habit of spying on the people living across the street, and when someone new moves in, everything changes.

WORD COUNT: 2.6k words

A/N: This is based on the prompt “a note, a cup of coffee, a new home” and where I live. Sadly there’s no Jaehyun or cute café, but the fat cat is there!! Also, I have no fucking clue how to use comma in English, sorry.

WARNINGS: Stalking if you squint really hard

You had a bad habit of looking through the windows on the other side of your lane. You lived on the third floor in a flat in the central part of town, and the old buildings stood so close that it was nearly impossible not to spy a little on the lives of all the people across the street. Just a little. You knew how the chubby red cat on the first floor liked to jump out the window at times, wandering the street and sneaking into the basement. The girl in the penthouse with the sloping walls would open the windows on sunny days and water her plants, standing for a while, taking in the view. The guys in the flat next to the red cat, who were probably your age, would always sit in the couch at night and watch football.

The middle aged man living directly across from your flat would always stand in the kitchen late at night and cook dinner, the antique lamp in the windowsill shining in a dusty orange hue. But today the lamp and its owner were gone. All of a sudden. You knew nothing about him, honestly – his name, his job and everything else was foreign to you. And still it hit you with a weird sense of melancholia that you’d never see him cook spaghetti again with his shirt unbuttoned, as you had so many times. The place was empty, but not for long.

It was the first day of the month, a busy time for people moving out of their old homes and into new ones. The neighbourhood you lived in housed many different types of people; college students saving money by living together, young couples that were amidst the milestone of having their first child, single adults that probably worked overtime too often, and the occasional retired citizens that had lived here for decades, never growing tired of city life.

You belonged to the first category, and it seemed that the new inhabitants of the empty flat were just the same. It was difficult to tell, but the guy unloading boxes upon boxes from a trailer was hardly a year older than you. You see, looking down at the street from the third floor, you could mostly see his brown hair and his strong shoulders, so it was more of a calculated guess. You had to admit that it excited you to have someone new to observe – mind you, you weren’t a creepy stalker at all, you just enjoyed picking up on people’s habits. And for that exact reason you stepped away to give him some privacy, even if he had no idea he was being watched.

Days had passed, and you had come to learn that two guys had moved in; the one you saw on the first day, and this taller friend. As with many young men, they didn’t seem to be experts at interior decorating, the place looked quite… minimalistic in it’s style as far as you were concerned. The thing is that you could only see through their kitchen window, as the other rooms faced away from your street, so maybe it was only the shared kitchen that was boring. Something that on the other hand wasn’t boring at all, actually rather amusing, was that the “first” boy had a lot of the same habits as the former renter, especially the part about cooking dinner late at night. He stood in the same position, body facing 90 degrees away from the window, concentrating on frying an egg, making noodles or boiling water for tea.

It was kind of relaxing to watch him stand there, but at some point he began cooking while being shirtless, which made it rather awkward for you. You had to admit to yourself that he had, shall we say.. good genes. It made your innocent act of watching seem very wrong and weird, especially because it made it even more tempting for you, and that annoyed you endlessly. Besides, you felt that it wasn’t simply his bare torso that drew you in, it was something more, something you couldn’t quite put a finger on. Sometimes, you’d turn the lights off in your room, roll down the curtains and look just for a moment, promising yourself that this had to end soon. Heck, you didn’t even know his name.

One of the best, if not the best part about living in an urban area was the Parisian style café at the street level of your complex. Everything they served was utterly delicious, and because you were a regular, they’d occasionally treat you to a coffee on the house. You didn’t always have time, but on the weekends you loved taking a seat in the sun, reading a good book while eating breakfast. Taking your time. And (you guessed it) doing a teeny tiny bit of people watching. Sometimes you’d even dress up for the event, wearing a flowy dress or some gorgeous sunglasses, pretending you were in an old movie. When you weren’t reading anything interesting, you’d bring your trusted old notebook and scribble whatever came to mind. Write a poem that you’d cross out immediately because it was too cheesy or too dull, make a caricature of the old man with the silver moustache that sits at the same café table every day, or maybe just make your grocery list.

This day, as you sat at your small round table with your orange juice and croissant, you saw him outside of the apartment for the first time. Well, the first time since the day he moved in. The whole scene that played out was so strange to you at first – as soon as he came out of the front door he crossed the street, walking straight in your direction. As if time slowed down, you reasoned that he had seen you staring through your window all this time, and now he was about to call you out for it in public. Your heart was beating so fast, you felt so, so stupid. As he was only a few meters away from, you made eye contact and you truly felt an imaginary ceiling crash down on you.

“Fuck” you whispered almost inaudibly.

But the impossible happened – he walked right past you, and you just sat there on the rattan chair completely confused. Did your life just flash before your eyes for nothing? Apparently it did, because when you turned your head slightly towards the bar, he was ordering a coffee to go, oblivious to you and your internal crisis. As you saw him leave and disappear at the street corner, you decided that you were so over your stupid curiosity. It shouldn’t be you that felt paranoid, right?

–

And so you turned back into a normal person that didn’t deliberately daydream over your neighbours. Of course you couldn’t help noticing the lit windows at night and so on, but nobody could. And frankly, besides thinking about him occasionally, you didn’t miss your habit much.

You still enjoyed staying at the café downstairs as much as your schedule and the weather allowed, and the unwritten rule was that it was okay to look at the people passing by here. It was always a mix of familiar faces and the faces you’d never seen before nor ever would again. You loved drawing inspiration from them; what they wore, what words they used when speaking on the phone with friends, how they walked… There was something comforting about how unique they all were. Maybe we didn’t all need to fit into some imaginary box to please others… Maybe it was okay to be yourself with being judged.

At one instance the unnamed boy came down for coffee again, but this time you were free of worry as your conscience was sparkly clean. You didn’t spy on him anymore. Eye contact was made once again as he walked by, and this time around he even flashed you a small polite smile of recognition. Needless to say you returned it, though he was almost past you already, but for the first time you got a full-frontal look at his face, and it made your heart flutter more than it should. It was acceptable to find a stranger attractive, but it was nothing but a bad idea to have feelings for someone you didn’t know. He made it very difficult not to.

Yet again you reminded yourself to stay in your own god damn lane.

–

Time passed, and by now you were both very much regulars at the café, the difference being that you always stayed while he always had his coffee to go. Always leaving and turning at the corner, lord knows where he went. You didn’t pay much attention to him anymore, but it all changed when he one day nonchalantly left a handwritten note on a torn piece of paper, as he walked by your favourite table. You felt completely frozen in your seat, as if he had broken a contract that neither of you had actually signed. You had done your best to keep to yourself for so long, and he had the audacity to acknowledge your presence? You were riddled as to what the content of the folded note could be. Your inner romanticist hoped for a phone number, but that was ridiculous. With slightly numb and shaking hands you unfolded the paper.

“We have the same taste in music, but you should close the windows next time if you don’t want the whole street to hear :~)”

You had to read it twice and process it all. Shit. You couldn’t help but to snigger a little, your face turning baby pink in embarrassment. You covered your face with your hands – all this time you’d been watching everyone else’s habits oblivious to the fact that someone was watching yours. Yes, sometimes you just had to bellow your favourite tunes, and the highest notes weren’t always easy to hit no matter how hard you tried. You really were a first class fool. And worst of all he knew you were a fool. The scribbled note had so much meaning to unpack; Was he mocking you? Was he flirting? What were you supposed to do now?? Knock on his door? Ignore him?

It was all too much for you at once, but you decided that it was a good thing that you had the same taste, and that he included the smiley at the end. You couldn’t answer the perhaps most important question though – why did he not write his name?

That night your thoughts kept you up for a bit. Regarding his name, it was of course possible to cross the street and check the name list on intercom, but 1) maybe there wasn’t even an intercom, 2) there would probably be two names since he had a roomie and 3) (most important of all) it was too desperate. The whole situation was so strange to you, you had truly never experienced something like it before.

It sparked a tiny flame of anxiety within you. You felt scared to go to your café again in case you ran in to each other again, because you truly wouldn’t know what to do. Yet again you had lived here much longer than him, so what was his business making you embarrassed to be in your very own neighbourhood? You also felt cautious about doing anything out of the ordinary in your bedroom, because what if someone saw you? It really troubled you because on one hand, you didn’t want to be the butt of someone’s joke for singing with open windows, and on the other hand, whenever you had been watching people through their windows, you only found their habits and lives endearing, so why were you so afraid? You decided that it was only reasonable to keep doing you fearlessly, and that overthinking it all led to no good.

And so you did. On one of the last Sunday mornings before autumn took the warm weather away from you, you were sat at your table downstairs. Everything was as usual. As expected, your brown-haired neighbour bust out the door, crossing the quiet street to get the same coffee as he always got. You busied yourself with reading a novel, you couldn’t stand to look him in the eyes as you’d only fall harder and deeper. You were so engulfed in the book that you didn’t notice him coming towards you instead of leaving the same way he always did.

“Can I sit?” his caramel voice spoke from behind you.

You jumped a little in your seat from the shock and turned your head instantly.

You looked at him for a second before replying with a “Yes” in the most unaffected way you could muster. You were not about to be a fool again. It took everything in you to seem normal. Internally all alarm were going off and you could feel the heat rush to your face.

“I don’t think you read my note” he broke the silence.

You looked at him with a puzzled expression.

“I did read it?”

He couldn’t hide his smile, as if he knew something you didn’t.

“Really? Because I still hear you sing at full force from time to time.” He took a sip of his paper cup.

“How can you be sure it’s me,” you retorted in an unamused voice, trying to be innocent.

“Oh, there’s this great invention called windows, you can see right through them!” he nudged you with his elbow.

You help but to warm up at his kind and funny nature, laughing a little at his words.

“Ok you got me. But don’t pretend that I’m the only human on earth doing that!”

“I’m just messing with you,” he smiled, “but it is kind of hilarious to watch you sometimes… You and all your habits.”

“My habits?” you asked, mortified.

“Yeah, you have so many, but I swear I’m not a stalker!”

You couldn’t really blame him could you.

“You just… Sometimes you take aaaall the clothes out of your wardrobe and try everything on, posing for the mirror, it’s honestly endearing. I’ve also seen you practice your dance moves in front of that mirror, and I know you hate to hear this, but I think you should keep that mess inside of your room for now,” he chuckled. “But I really like hearing you sing so I’m glad you didn’t shut your windows.”

You were completely speechless. It was a lot to take in right now, but the smile on your face didn’t lie. It was super weird to hear these things you never even noticed yourself, but it wasn’t as bad as you feared it could be – after all he seemed smitten by your goofiness, not judgmental. Part of you wanted to hit back with all the weird things you’d seen him do, but you opted for something simpler.

“This is so weird right?” you began, “I’ve seen you stand over there in your kitchen cooking at the weirdest hours of the day, blaming myself for creeping on you, and all this time you did the same? And we don’t even know each other’s names?” You were sort of astonished with your own honesty, but his company made you feel oddly safe.

“You like people watching too?” he asked.

“Who doesn’t,” you answered.

“I’m Jaehyun,” he finally admitted, offering his hand.

“I’m Y/N,” you replied, shaking his soft hand.

He studied you for a moment, and took the chance to ask: “Can I take you out some time? Maybe go people watching?”

Your heart was beating rapidly as you immediately accepted his offer, and he smiled as he told you a secret.

“I know that you read my note. I made sure that my roomie Johnny watched you from the kitchen window, he said that your face went red as a tomato.”

#jaehyun fic #jaehyun fan fic #jaehyun fluff #nct fic #nct fan fic #jaehyun fanfic #nct fanfic #nct fluff #jaehyun #jung jaehyun #yoonoh #fluff #nct #wow i haven't posted a pic in YEARS #pls lmk if you liked it

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kylo-ren-writes · 5 years

Text

Scare

Pairing: Kylo Ren x Reader

Request: Anon requested:

“Ooooh pregnancy scare with Kylo and while they wait for the results they try to see the negatives and positives of having a child. Thanks love ❤️”

Warnings: Pregnancy scare, mentions of menstruation, contraception, sex. Little bit of fluff if you squint.

A/N: Not as fluffy as I was intending to write it, but I hope that’s alright! Thanks for the request, anon! Also, it’s been a while since I’ve written anything, so, I hope this doesn’t suck...

The waiting has to be the scariest part of this whole thing.

You’re sitting, on a hard bench in a waiting room in the medbay of the Finalizer, wringing your hands together as you wait for the results.

The results.

Maker, you never thought you would ever be in this situation. It was almost nauseating, really. You had always been so careful in your past relationships, using the right kind of protection and taking the necessary precautions. You can even hear your mothers voice in your head, giving you the “talk” when you were younger and on the brink of adolescence.

None of it had seemed real then, or at least none of it had been of interest to you. Sex was “icky” and something you had promised never to do. Then, of course, when you had gotten older, you quickly understood why it in fact was not “icky,” but rather enjoyable. Or it could be enjoyable, it wasn’t necessarily spectacular every single time. But, your mothers talk had been in your head throughout and even still, and you were careful. Were careful.

You cursed yourself for not being more careful now.

It was easy to mess around when you were a kid and get into trouble with only minor consequences that ultimately wouldn’t ruin your life. For the most part.

You couldn’t quite get away with that in adulthood, and you were quickly learning that now.

The room you were seated in was small and dim, meant to stitch up a stormtrooper or examine a healing injury, with the patient quickly being sent on their way. The room was private. Privacy is what you needed now, especially with who your partner was.

Oh how you wished you were here for only a small scrape or gash. How much easier it would be to only need a small wound treated. Much easier than this.

Kylo paced the length of the room, back and forth, his long legs taking long strides that swallowed up the space within seconds, at each step.

He was distracting, dressed in his black attire: boots, pants, tunic, gloves, but missing the cape. He didn’t need that here. The large, gloved hands at his sides were balled up into tight fists, the odd features of his face drawn into a signature scowl. Kylo looked distant, stressed, and anxious. But so did you.

Nearly two weeks ago you had realized that you had missed one of your normally regular periods. It wouldn’t have been so alarming to you, after all, it was normal to have late cycles and to even miss one once in a while.

It had been easy to shrug it off and hope that it would come. You had been late in the past before and your period always came. However, after another week with no movement below, you grew worried. Paranoid, even.

You and Kylo were always usually careful... Usually. Sometimes you were careless and only relied on other methods of contraception that didn’t involve condoms. The time that lead up to the present now being one of them.

Watching Kylo pace back and forth was slowly driving you crazy. It was making you feel more anxious, and even claustrophobic with how much he was taking over the small room. You needed to ease his anxiety so you could ease your own.

“Kylo,” you muttered, quietly.

Kylo wasn’t listening, or he was too lost in his head and the motion of pacing that he wasn’t registering your voice.

“Kylo,” you tried again, louder this time and more confident. Commanding, like you used when ordering around your officers.

With a falter in his step, Kylo’s head turned, snapping over in your direction, down. His pacing stopped and he raised a quizzical eyebrow. You didn’t miss the nervous energy he exuded and the clench and unclench of his large fists.

You swallowed, offering him a tight lipped smile. “Why don’t you sit down?” You suggested, patting the empty spot on the bench beside you.

Kylo glanced at it and furrowed his dark eyebrows, scowling. “Why?”

He had a lot of energy when he was anxious, upset, angry, that he needed to work off. You understood that, but you were about to lose your fucking mind on him if he didn’t sit his ass down right away.

“Comfort?” You suggested, adding “for me,” afterwards so he would give in without a fuss. And Kylo did, give in that is.

Expelling a dramatic sigh, because he was always such a dramatic man, Kylo stepped towards you, sitting down.

The affect was instantaneous. Your anxiety eased at having him beside you, rather than pacing relentlessly in front of you. You leaned the side of your head onto his arm, nuzzling into it as you let out a sigh of content. The fabric of his sleeves was rough on your skin, but you didn’t mind. It was him.

Kylo sat stiffly, back straight and fists still tightly clenched. Tense.

You looped an arm around his bicep, squeezing it as you ran your other down his forearm, over his gloved fist. You massaged it gently, trying to ease it out of the fist. His hand felt hard at first, the muscles and tendons flexed and strained, but it slowly, very slowly, grew soft, easing out of the fist.

Smiling a little, you held his hand, stroking your thumb over the smooth leather. His hands dwarfed your own, making you feel even more relaxed at the protection they promised.

Kylo was quiet the whole time, but you could feel him relax. The muscles in his body relaxed first, followed by his posture. He leaned his back against the wall, squeezing your hand in his. For a moment it was quiet, a nervous, but still comfortable silence between the two of you.

The two of you could be having a baby. The thought wasn’t so shocking now. It gave you a warm feeling in your chest at the thought of having children with Kylo. You had talked to him about it before, of course. But it had always been a conversation talked about for the far future, not for now or any time soon. Yet...

“Kylo?” You asked suddenly, bending your neck a bit to glance up at him. You were slouched beside him still, resting against his large frame.

Kylo glanced down at you, not uttering a thing. His gaze and silence was enough of an invitation to keep going.

“What if...” You worried your bottom lip between your teeth, suddenly nervous about uttering a word. “What if we did... have a... baby?”

Kylo’s face was expressionless at first, absorbing your words before he furrowed his eyebrows, working his jaw. But there was no anger. He looked like he was genuinely thinking about it as his gaze went past you, lost inside the minefield of his head.

You knew how Kylo felt about the idea of fatherhood and the anxiety it gave him. He didn’t have the greatest example of one growing up nor did he think he could be a good one himself. He hadn’t exactly been the greatest son either.

He thought about it for a short while until finally, “I think it would be... bad timing.” He frowned, slipping back into his head as he unconsciously chewed on the inside of his cheek.

You thought about it, too, gaze pointed at a durasteel wall past him. “Well, not planned, obviously, but...” You paused. “Not entirely... unexpected.” You glanced up at him again, looking for any form of reaction.

Kylo was thinking again, you could see the far away look on his face.

“Perhaps,” he finally said after careful contemplation. “But... with the war...” he trailed off, finally glancing down at you.

Nodding, you pressed your mouth into a line. “Yes, you’re right. The war.” Having a baby during the ensuing war was not ideal, but not impossible either. “But, I know it could—we could—make it work.”

It was true, you very well could make it work, with the positions you both had. With Kylo as the Supreme Leader, he could provide as much protection as your child could need as well as all the exceptional resources. And you were a very high ranking officer that had the respect of your subordinates. It could relatively work.

Kylo blinked at you and nodded slowly, frowning. “There are so many reasons why having a child would not be ideal right now,” he deadpanned. He was always so negative

Despite Kylo’s negativity, he was right. The war was one thing, his own personal issues were another, and there had to be a long list of others, like, maybe you weren’t ready to have a baby yet.

Yet still, it made you feel... warm to think about it. Even if it wasn’t realistic.

“You would be the cutest father,” you said out loud, grinning, trying to lighten the mood a bit with happy thoughts.

Kylo huffed, unbelieving. “Hardly.”

You squeezed his hand. “It’s true, you would be!” You insisted. “Such an anxious and adorable father.” You pictured Kylo, all anxious and protective over his baby in your head, and giggled. He would always be worried for the baby’s safety and your own. You could see it. The thought of Kylo as a parent was a sweet one.

“I wouldn’t get an ounce of sleep,” Kylo huffed.

Smiling, you laughed. “You don’t sleep anyway,” you teased him. Being the Supreme Leader of the First Order required a lot of his time and often left him sleep deprived.

Kylo raised a brow. “Exactly. With a baby, I really would get no sleep.”

You understood how he felt of course. Your position left you exhausted at the end of the day. No matter how much sleep you tried to get, it always felt like it was never enough. You woke up early, but you were not a morning person.

Nuzzling into his arm, you smiled softly. “It would be worth it though... if it meant having a baby with you.”

Kylo stiffened beside you for a minute, then relaxed. You glanced up at him, seeing the corner of his mouth turned up the slightest in a smile—or a smirk.

But before Kylo could reply, a med droid rolled into the room with your results.

Kylo instantly tensed, all the anxiety and nervous energy returning back to him and you.

“The results of the pregnancy test are negative,” it informed, not wasting any time in relaying the results.

The droid rolled back out, leaving you both alone.

A wave of relief ran through you, followed by an unexpected wave of disappointment for what could have been.

You chewed on your bottom lip, silence filling the space around you and between you. Kylo was silent, too.

Leaning away from Kylo, you looked at him, squeezing his hand. “Well that’s a relief.”

Kylo nodded, quiet for a moment longer. “We will,” he muttered.

You furrowed your eyebrows, confused. “Will, what?”

Kylo turned his head, looking at you with the faintest smile. “Have a child.” He squeezed your hand, angling his body towards yours. “Not now, but--”

Cutting him off, you threw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I know, Kylo, I know...” You were smiling, hugging him tightly to you.

Kylo wrapped his strong arms around you, burying his face into your neck. He did want to have a baby with you, but he wanted it to be at the right time, or at a decent time, when there wasn’t so much threat looming around. He wanted it.

“I love you, Kylo,” you breathed, relieved about the results, but hopeful for the future.

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