#fortunately about half of then will probably be resolved come tomorrow (for better or for worse we shall see)

[thelingering]

aaaa emotions are confusing

[bluejayblueskies]

in the reciprocal

Words: 8.3k

Relationships: Jon & Martin (QPR)

Tags: Season 1, Scottish Safehouse, Light Angst, Queerplatonic Relationships, Gray-Aro Martin, Kiss-Averse Jon, Kiss-Averse Martin

Warnings: internalized arophobia, mild external arophobia, mild internalized homophobia, canon-typical Lonely depression and dissociation, teasing someone about a crush (in a friendly manner), mention of canon character death, Martin briefly pretending like he still has romantic feelings for Jon and participating in a romantic relationship that makes him uncomfortable (this is addressed and resolved)

Ao3 link in source

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Martin’s relationship with romance has always been … complicated.

He has distinct memories of his early teenage years, when the major topic of conversation had shifted abruptly to who had a crush on who and who had kissed who after school and who had asked who on a date. Martin had never really participated in those conversations, though that could be owed more to the fact that he didn’t have many friends than that he wasn’t interested.

Because Martin was interested. The idea of romance had always intrigued him—a fairy-tale thing where there was somebody who would choose you and love you and never let you be alone ever again—and he wanted, more badly than he knew what to do with sometimes, to be in love.

The world, as Martin quickly learned, was not a fairy tale. No matter how much Martin tried to pretend otherwise. In fairy tales, when people got sick, they eventually got better. In fairy tales, parents always loved their children and showered them with affection. (Or were villainous and cruel, locking their children away in towers and treating them like objects to be discarded. Though Martin was never fond of those stories.) And in fairy tales, love was always easy. It wasn’t something that had to be learned or forced. It was instead like breathing—nearly effortless unless you thought about it too much—and, like breathing, it was something that everyone did.

So Martin couldn’t understand why he was so bad at it.

Just before he’d dropped out of school to work full time after his mother couldn’t anymore, he’d been asked on the first and only date of his entire life. Nino had been his friend for nearly a year and a half, and Martin loved spending time with him more than he loved most things in his life back then. School was growing more difficult as Martin had to take on a second part-time job, his mother was growing sicker and shorter with her temper, and he was quickly coming to the realization that he was … different.

After all, he’d never once felt the same kind of affection toward the girls whose names he attempted to doodle in the corners of his notebooks as he felt toward Nino.

Coming to terms with the fact that his first real crush was on his very lovely, very male best friend was … hard. But one day, Nino had bumped his shoulder against Martin’s as they sat in the library and had said something funny that Martin has long since forgotten, and he’d found himself smiling widely. His heart was a stuttering mess in his chest, his stomach twisted up into knots, and … things hadn’t been so bad, then.

Loving Nino had felt safe. Looking back, Martin is sure that Nino had been able to read all of Martin’s stutters and flushed cheeks and clumsy attempts at affection for what they were, but at the time, it had felt like a private indulgence. Just another way for Martin to spend time with the boy who was gradually becoming the most important person in his life. (Behind his mother, that is. She would always come first.)

What was funny about the whole situation, in a way that was actually not very funny at all, was that Martin was even considering asking Nino out. He liked to fantasize about what it would be like—creating clumsy scenarios in his mind where he would slip a note into Nino’s backpack before they parted ways or blurt it out on their way to the tube or whisper it quietly under his breath in the library so that nobody else could hear it but them. He imagined what it would be like if Nino said yes, his face lighting up with a smile and his hand reaching for Martin’s.

He tried to imagine what would happen after that—the date, the kissing (which he could never quite picture without grimacing and pushing the image quickly away), the hand-holding, the…

Well. He actually wasn’t quite sure what was meant to come after.

(Like breathing. It was supposed to be like breathing.)

It was funny, except it wasn’t. Because when Nino pulled Martin aside on their way home one day, face flushed slightly darker than normal, and hesitantly asked if Martin would like to go to a movie with him in a way that was very clearly meant to be a date, Martin expected to feel happy. He expected to feel relieved, that he hadn’t had to muster up the courage to ask Nino himself, or nervous, that he was finally going to be pursuing a romantic relationship with the boy he cared so much about.

Instead, he felt … stiff. Uncomfortable, like his skin was suddenly just a bit too tight. He felt the sudden urge to hide, or maybe to run, or to vanish into thin air so he didn’t have to be standing here anymore, now desperately trying to avoid the eyes of the boy who had just bared such a vulnerable part of himself to Martin.

Confused, Martin tried to look within himself for that warm, stammering affection that had been there a minute ago and found it transformed into something awkward and tense and devoid of all desire for romance. But that didn’t make any sense, he thought as he stared blankly at Nino, who was becoming increasingly nervous, shifting from foot to foot as his mouth pinched into a thin, anxious line. He remembered liking Nino. He remembered the fantasies, remembered coming up with a thousand scenarios just like this one, remembered stammering and stuttering and wanting so badly to take Nino’s hand in his own.

It was like remembering a story he’d been told. Just a fairy tale.

“You … can just say no,” Nino said finally, and Martin felt a curl of guilt in his stomach at the clear upset in Nino’s eyes. “If you have to think this long, it’s … probably not a yes. Is it.”

Yes, Martin tried to say. It’s a yes—of course it’s a yes, I’m just … surprised. Maybe things would make more sense if they actually went on a date. Maybe Martin would just … sort himself out. He was just surprised, or maybe in shock.

He loved Nino. He did; he knew he did. He just … had to figure out how to bring it back.

He didn’t get the chance. (Though, thinking back on it now, Martin knows that even if he’d tried, it wouldn’t have worked.) Nino pulled back slightly, hands going to the straps of his backpack self-consciously. “Right,” he said, sounding terribly embarrassed, and Martin felt himself mirroring the emotion. “S-sorry, I … I guess I was reading things wrong. I—I thought that you … never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Nino forced a smile then, and it lacked all the bright and shining things that Martin liked about it. “S-suppose I’ll … see you in school tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Martin managed to say. And then Nino was gone, and Martin walked home alone.

He dropped out a few months later. Nino said that he would call, but Martin has always been good at lying and even better at telling when somebody else is doing so. And Nino hadn’t been putting much effort into it.

That was … probably for the best. At least Martin didn’t have to feel that dizzying, sickening sensation of guilt and awkwardness every time he looked at Nino anymore.

So, there it was. The world was nothing like a fairy tale. His mother only ever got sicker, her affection for him only ever grew more a thing of the past, and love was…

Well, love clearly wasn’t for him.

That didn’t stop him from falling hopelessly, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love with Jonathan Sims.

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.

.

Martin, as a rule, makes a habit of not talking about his love life. For one, because there is a distinct lack of it (a fact that he much prefers but doesn’t generally feel like explaining in detail). And for two, because Martin just knew it would turn into something like this.

Martin places his head in his hands to hide the flaming red of his cheeks. “Can we not talk about it?”

“I think we’re actually obligated to talk about it now,” Tim says with what Martin is absolutely certain is a cheeky grin. “Given that you’ve just admitted that your not-so-mysterious crush is Jonathan Sims.” He drops his voice to an exaggerated conspiratorial murmur. “Is he the one you’ve been writing poetry about then?”

“I don’t have to say anything,” Martin mumbles into the very clammy palms of his hand.

Tim, fortunately, drops the poetry topic. He unfortunately does not drop the crush topic. “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he continues. “You’ve got good taste. The whole … sweater vest, ‘disgruntled professor’ vibe is attractive, and he’s funny, you know? In his own way.”

Martin lifts his head from his hands and gives Tim an exasperated look that he hopes screams can we please stop talking about this. Tim must misinterpret it as jealousy instead because he holds his hands up in the air placatingly. “Hey, no competition here. We’re just friends, and I’m not really interested in dating anyone at the moment.” A pause. “Though, I suppose if Jon asked, I wouldn’t say—you know what, that’s not helpful.”

“He is pretty hot,” Sasha pipes in from her spot on the break room couch. “I definitely get where you’re coming from.” Then, after Martin turns that same exasperated look onto her: “Just trying to show our support for the cause, Martin.”

“Yeah, well—don’t.” Martin stands, maybe a little bit too abruptly, and crosses the room to where the kettle sits on the counter. He fills it in the sink and then clicks it on, the blue light reflecting off the countertop and faintly illuminating his hands.

“Hey,” Tim says, leaning against the counter next to him and giving him a surprisingly serious look. “I’m sorry. If talking about this makes you uncomfortable, we’ll drop it.” He mimes zipping his lips closed and throwing away the key. “No questions asked.”

“I’m pretty sure talking afterward negates the ‘zipping your lips shut’ thing,” Martin says, which earns him an amused huff of laughter and a gentle elbow in the side. He finds himself smiling, if only briefly before it falls from his lips once again. “And it’s … fine. I’m not upset. It’s just…” He hesitates, considering, and settles on a suitably vague, “It’s complicated.”

Tim makes a noise of understanding. “Say no more, Marto. Consider the subject dropped.”

“Thank you.”

There are a few moments of silence between them, filled only with the gentle hum of the kettle. Martin reaches for the mugs, and as he pulls four from the cabinet, Tim says abruptly, “So wait—is that why you always bring him tea?”

Martin nearly drops the mugs. “Tim.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Tim grimaces at him sheepishly. “I’m dropping it.”

Martin nods and pulls the box of tea from the cupboard. As he gets the mugs ready, however, he can feel Tim’s eyes on him, heavy and curious. Finally, it gets to be too much, and Martin sets the box down with a sigh. “I bring him tea because he never leaves his office and at least this way he’s hydrated. If you absolutely must know.”

“Caffeine is a diuretic, you know,” Sasha says from where she’s still sitting on the couch.

“Yes,” Martin says tersely, grabbing the kettle as it clicks off, “but it’s better than nothing.”

The tea isn’t related to the crush. It really isn’t. But Martin knows that the more he tries to make excuses, the more it’ll seem like he’s deflecting, which will just be counterproductive. So he prepares the tea and passes Tim and Sasha’s mugs to them. Then, fully aware that Tim and Sasha are watching, he grabs Jon’s mug and makes his way to his office.

He doesn’t knock. He found out his first week here that Jon doesn’t like it when people knock and prefers them to verbally announce themselves instead. It wasn’t because Jon had told him; Martin gets the feeling that Jon is too stubborn to admit to that sort of weakness in front of him. It was because of the subtle tension in Jon’s shoulders every time Martin opened the door after rapping three times on the doorframe; the way his voice sounded ever so slightly pinched when he asked what Martin wanted.

So Martin says, just loud enough to penetrate the thick oak door, that he’s coming in, and then, after a moment, he opens it.

Jon is sitting at his desk, mountains of papers and files stacked on either side of him. His laptop is open in front of him, and he’s currently focused intently on something on the screen, the harsh white light of the LCDs reflecting off his glasses. He doesn’t seem to notice when the door opens, but when Martin takes a few steps closer and gently clears his throat, he looks up from the screen, blinking a few times as his eyes adjust to the dimness of his office.

“Ah,” Jon says, his gaze landing on the mug. “Right. You can…” He looks at the disastrously cluttered surface of his desk and, after some consideration, pushes a stack of papers to the side to make a mug-sized gap in the mess. “You can place it there.”

Martin does. He doesn’t mean to linger afterward. Even though things are ... better between them now that Martin is staying in the Archives and Jon seems to have softened slightly toward him, they’re not quite at the ‘hold a casual conversation’ stage of their relationship yet. Still, Martin finds himself standing in front of Jon’s desk long enough for Jon to glance back up from his computer, a small furrow forming between his eyebrows.

“Did you … need something else from me?” he says, sounding more confused than annoyed.

No, Martin means to say. I’ll be going now.

Instead, he says, “How are you doing?”

Jon stares blankly at Martin, like he doesn’t understand the question. Martin briefly curses his complete lack of a verbal filter at the worst times and purses his lips, telling himself that frantically trying to rescind the statement will only make things worse. “I’m … fine,” Jon says with a hint of incredulity in his voice, like he can’t fathom any reason why Martin would want to inquire after his well-being.

Good, Martin opens his mouth to say. Let me know if you need anything else.

Why he says instead, “I just … noticed that you haven’t been going home lately,” he doesn’t know. He hasn’t had a crush in so long—is this what it was like the last time? God, it’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?

Jon still looks bewildered, though there is an edge of irritation to his voice when he says, “There is a lot to do here, Martin. I assure you, I can take care of myself.”

“Right, yeah.” Martin fights the urge to rub his hand along the back of his neck, settling for the inside of his wrist instead. “Just … I know I’ve taken your cot recently, and if you’re not going home at night, I—I would hate to feel like I’m making you sleep at your desk.”

“You are not making me do anything. I can make my own choices.” Jon purses his lips for a moment before saying, more gently, “Besides, you … have more need of the cot than me at the moment.”

Martin can’t help the little shudder that goes through him at the reminder of why, exactly, he is in need of the cot. “Yeah,” he concedes. Then, because it’s only been a week or so and he still feels like he hasn’t said it enough: “Thank you again, for … for letting me stay here.”

Jon’s expression softens into something almost sympathetic, just for a moment, before growing closed-off and shuttered once again. Martin’s traitorous heart thuds in his chest at the sight, just like it had when Jon had listened to his story impassively and then matter-of-factly offered him the cot like it was the only logical thing to do.

(He hadn’t understood why he’d reacted like that—pounding heart, sweaty palms, cottony mouth—until that night, staring at the dark, cracked ceiling of the Archives and running Jon’s words over and over again in his mind. But it wasn’t surprising, was it? Of course Martin would find himself attached to his prickly, no-nonsense boss who kind of hated him the first moment he showed him an ounce of kindness.)

“It’s … really no problem at all,” Jon says, sounding a bit stiff in a way that’s hopelessly endearing, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with Martin’s gratitude. Then, even more stiffly: “You’re … doing all right?”

The tentative concern in Jon’s voice is enough to bring a flush to the tips of Martin’s cheeks that he desperately hopes can’t be seen in the low light of Jon’s office. “Y-yeah. As well as I can be, I—I suppose.”

“Well,” Jon says in a businesslike voice, like he’s delivering a report, “if you need any further accommodations, please let me know. Given that this was a workplace incident and you were investigating the Vittery building on my request, the Institute and I are responsible for ensuring that you remain safe while you’re … displaced from your previous home.”

Martin has always been good at reading people. And for all that Jon wears various masks of professionalism and skepticism and authority, he’s still surprisingly easy to read. It’s easy to control an expression, to control a tone of voice, but Jon’s eyes are always so much more emotive than he probably means them to be. Right now, they’re flitting around the room, from Martin to the floor to his desk to the floor again, like they’re afraid to settle on one place for too long.

It’s easy to identify the emotion as guilt. It takes Martin a few more moments to place what, exactly, Jon is guilty for.

“It’s … not your fault, you know,” Martin says slowly. “What happened with Prentiss. You’re not … responsible for it.”

Martin expects Jon to brush him off—to tell him that he’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t expect him to say, with a voice that leaves no room for argument, “I am not responsible for Jane Prentiss’ presence in the Vittery building, yes, nor for the fact that she followed you home. But I would be remiss not to acknowledge that you encountered her while following up on a statement, per my request, and that I … was not as cautious as I should have been with regards to sending you on dangerous assignments.” Jon’s eyes are sheepish now, and a touch concerned. “I will be sure to take the appropriate precautions in the future, as it would be unacceptable for you to be injured or … otherwise hurt whilst performing your duties as an archival assistant.”

It’s not a heartfelt statement by any measure. Really, it’s just common decency, and definitely what should be expected from one’s superior in a line of work that is (apparently) much more dangerous than it appears to be on paper. But Jon’s eyes when they finally turn to Martin are softer than he’s ever seen them, even as his expression remains carefully neutral and professional, and it feels like Jon has just said something profoundly kind.

Martin’s heart has some stuttering, skipping things to say about that particular fact.

“Um,” Martin says eloquently. “Th-thanks.” He considers mentioning again that Jon really isn’t at fault for sending him into a building that, for all Jon knew, contained nothing more than a few very persistent spiders. But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds the little scrap of kindness he’s been given close to his chest, stammers something about getting back to work, and leaves Jon’s office before he says something embarrassing like I like it when you care or you have kind eyes or we could share the cot if you stay too late.

Tim wiggles his eyebrows at Martin as he takes a seat back at his desk, and Sasha gives him a much more subtle knowing look. Martin ignores both of them and busies himself with the statement sitting on the corner of his desk, diving back into the formatting he’s been struggling with all morning.

Jon is his boss. Jon doesn’t even really like him, when he’s not feeling guilty for almost getting Martin killed. It’s never going to work between them.

A bit of the tension bleeds out of Martin’s shoulders. His eyes drift back toward the door to Jon’s office—the golden nameplate outside it, embossed with Jon’s name, the frosted window, the old, warped wood—and he feels something light and comfortable settle in his chest.

Jon is prickly and lovely and blunt and awkwardly conscientious and completely unattainable. Jon is never going to look at Martin with affection in his eyes and ask Martin to run away with him to pursue a romantic, fairy-tale ending, and Martin is never going to feel that intense, awful discomfort that seeps into the gaps where the love once was. He can blush and stammer and imagine holding Jon’s hand and kissing the inside of his wrist and tangling his foot with Jon’s underneath a table, and nothing will change.

It’s never going to happen between them. And it’s better that way.

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The car ride to Scotland is quiet. Jon keeps sneaking glances at Martin when he thinks Martin isn’t paying attention, as if Martin will vanish if he doesn’t keep a watchful eye on him. It should be irritating, but … maybe he’s right. Martin doesn’t feel fully here yet. He still feels empty and numb, like all of the emotion and life and things that make him him have been cut away, consumed by the salty fog that had filled his lungs and stung his throat as he inhaled.

Peter Lukas is dead. Martin had felt it happen with a sort of empty detachment—the ripples of fog as Peter disintegrated into nothing but mist and static. Jon hasn’t spoken about it since they left the Lonely, but Martin had seen the tension in his shoulders as they’d returned to their flats to pack and taken the keys to the car from Basira and made their way painstakingly through London traffic.

Martin had wanted to tell Jon that it was all right—that everything was going to be okay. But his throat refused to form the words. It took all of his energy to remain present and solid, and he just … couldn’t. So he remained silent and gripped Jon’s hand as tightly as he was able and focused on not giving in to the Loneliness that still lingered underneath the surface of his skin.

Now, both of Jon’s hands are on the wheel of the car, his fingers and elbows rigid and stiff. Generic pop music spills out of the radio, the signal distorted enough that Martin only catches about half of the song, the rest swallowed by static. Better than him, he thinks absently. Right now, he feels as if he’s only static.

He can’t remember if he was like this before the air opened wide in front of him and he was swallowed whole by the fog, the panopticon gone in an instant and replaced with nothing but endless gray. He was … close, he thinks. Every day, things grew dimmer, his own thoughts and feelings more difficult to get a handle on. It grew harder and harder to remember why he was resisting at all. What his goal was, other than to just … be alone. He thinks he would have forgotten entirely, had Jon not been three floors beneath him, alive and breathing and reminding him that he was doing this—all of this—for a reason.

It had been … lovelier than Martin ever could have imagined, falling in love with Jon. It grew within him like a garden, new flowers cropping up every day. Some were white and delicate, blooming in his lungs when he looked at Jon and felt the all-consuming need to bundle him up in a blanket and make him tea and hide him away from the things in the world that wanted to hurt him. Others were purple and angular, blossoming with every lunch they had together and story Jon told him. And some were red and thorny, roses with waxy petals that made Martin’s cheeks grow hot every time Jon said his name like it was special or treated him kindly or smiled.

So when things grew difficult—when the loneliness crept too close, when he grew too comfortable being invisible, when he had to look Jon in the eye and tell him that he didn’t want to see him—Martin retreated to the quiet garden in his soul. He ran his fingers along the petals and stems and leaves and reminded himself that he needed to do this, or he’d lose Jon again and the garden would shrivel and die.

It had been an easy decision, in the end.

There’s a soft crunching noise, and Martin breaks free from his thoughts to see that they’ve transitioned from the smooth asphalt of the motorway to an unpaved gravel road. It’s bracketed on either side by trees, and though the sun has long since set, Martin can still see the gentle swell of hills around them, outlined softly in the moonlight. He thinks, for a moment, that he sees fog, clustering around the bases of the hills and swirling around in tight eddies, but when he blinks, the image is gone.

“We’re almost there,” Jon says quietly. It’s one of the few things he’s said to Martin the entire trip. Then, after a moment: “It’s … rather nice out here.”

Martin supposes it is. The landscape around them had been a vibrant green before twilight had washed it out into deep blues, and there have been cows dotted around the fields, shaggy and brown and grazing contently. It’s a stark change from the grays and browns of central London, with buildings on all sides and people everywhere and no chance to ever really see the stars. If circumstances were different, Martin thinks he would be cooing over the cows and trying to get Jon to stop so he could take pictures and enjoying his first trip outside of England.

Instead, Martin just nods.

Jon seems to understand. He sneaks another glance at Martin—full of something soft that Martin, in his foggy state, doesn’t quite know how to parse—but remains silent for the rest of the trip. It could easily be a stiff, uncomfortable silence, but … it’s not. It feels companionable.

When did being around Jon become so easy?

Daisy’s cabin is small and squat, nestled between two hills and idyllic in a way that doesn’t match the rough-hewn, steel-eyed woman Martin had known. The inside is dusty and cold, and Jon mutters something about central heating before disappearing down the corridor and leaving Martin standing in the living room, staring at the place he’ll be living in for the foreseeable future.

The place he’ll be living in with Jon for the foreseeable future.

Martin feels something in his chest stir at that—a strange, twisting emotion that’s there and gone before he can put a name to it. He shivers, in a way he doesn’t think is from the cold, and goes to find Jon.

He … doesn’t think he should be alone right now.

They find an old, rusted radiator that miraculously still works, pumping out hot air with a groan of metal. Jon digs a set of musty sheets out of the linen closet and begins dressing the bed. Martin notes the lack of a second bedroom, and he thinks he might object to the implication that they’ll be sharing a bed if he weren’t aware of the fact that he might vanish if left alone for too long. (Or if he were himself enough to feel embarrassed. Or to feel anything.)

He doesn’t think anything shows on his face, but Jon’s always been keen, even more so now that knowledge drips into his mind like water from a leaky faucet. Jon’s hands flutter over the sheets for a moment before he says, “I … hope this is all right?”

Martin tries to find his voice to agree, but the energy required to summon it is too much, so he settles for a shallow nod. He doesn’t think it’s a sufficiently enthusiastic agreement, but Jon doesn’t question it. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, then says, “And … you’re all right?”

It’s a bit of a ridiculous question, really. No, Martin isn’t all right. No, there’s nothing Jon can do about it. No, he doesn’t know when things will be better. Or if they’ll ever be better.

Martin just looks at Jon, eyebrows slightly raised. Jon lets out a small, dry laugh. “Right. I … suppose that was a silly question. I—I meant…” Jon hems and haws for a long moment before finally saying, “Do you feel … safe, here? W-with me?”

That question has a much easier answer.

When Martin nods without hesitation, Jon visibly relaxes. “Good,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “That’s … that’s good.”

They stand there for a moment longer, the silence between them thick and heavy but not uncomfortably so. Finally, Jon clears his throat and says, “Well, I—I suppose we should rest then. We can … talk tomorrow?”

Martin nods and tries to smile. He doesn’t quite manage it, but … that’s all right. For now, this is enough.

Jon retreats into the bathroom, and Martin finds himself overcome with exhaustion. He slips into the soft pajama trousers he’d absently stuffed into his duffle bag, climbs under the covers, and is asleep before the sound of running water from the other room abates.

.

.

.

Martin doesn’t remember what happened in the Lonely. Things had been foggy and disjointed, slipping through his grasp when he tried to hold onto them. He barely remembers what came after, when Jon had led him away from the sand and the fog and the waves, his palm a searing heat against Martin’s. His first few days at the safehouse are spent in a similar fog, like each muscle in his body is frozen solid and he’s slowly attempting to warm them with a matchstick flame.

His third day is … better. His fourth, better still. By the end of the first week, Martin feels more himself than he has in months, if still acutely aware of the fog that now lives in his lungs and creeps out of his throat when he thinks too hard about what’s transpired or when Jon is out of sight for too long.

Martin remembers what it’s like to be happy. He feels it when he shuffles sleepily into the kitchen on their eigth morning in the safehouse and sees Jon standing in front of the stove, hair tied up in a neat bun and eggs sizzling in a pan in front of him. He remembers what it’s like to be frightened. He feels it when he wakes at night, shivering and shaking with the lingering memory of dreams of nothing but endless fog and aching loneliness.

And he remembers what it’s like to be in love.

He remembers it just in time to lose it.

The worst thing, Martin thinks, is that he’d almost managed to convince himself that it would be different this time. He knows, logically, that it’s not that simple. He’d done a little bit of research after what happened with Nino, reading through a few web pages on aromanticism before becoming overwhelmed and closing out of every single one of them. He tentatively returned to them a few years later after realizing that this wasn’t something that he was going to grow out of or move on from.

He had difficulties settling on a label, partly because of the sheer number of them and partly because he … didn’t quite know how to categorize his feelings. How could he categorize something that he’d only felt once before? Gray-romantic seemed the safest option, so that was the one he settled on.

(Not that he ever told anyone that he was arospec. It never seemed important, even when Sasha would needle him about his crush and Tim would make too-loud suggestive comments that could surely be heard through the door to Jon’s office.

… Martin misses Tim and Sasha. He thinks, if he’d had the chance—if he’d had more time—they would have been the first people he told.)

Martin knows that his relationship with romantic attraction is complicated. Yet somehow, he’s still found it within himself to hope that this time, things will be different. This time, when he tells Jon that he’s very in love with him and has been for a while, those words will continue to be true even after they’re spoken. (He ignores the fact that the actual thought of saying them aloud makes his stomach twist and his mouth grow chalky.)

But, just like with Nino, Martin doesn’t get the chance to try. Jon beats him to the punch.

“I … I love you,” Jon says quietly. He has Martin’s hand in his, and he’s holding it so gently Martin might cry. There were things Jon said before this moment—a conversation that has led them here—but Martin is having a hard time recalling any of them. All he can think is no, no, not now, not here.

His skin crawls. His hands are clammy, and he’s sure that Jon can feel it. He has the instinctive need to get away, but he’s also frozen in place, the lump in his throat sealing away all of the words that he should be saying.

He should be saying something.

The silence stretches on between them, the vulnerability on Jon’s face slowly morphing into concern. “... Martin?”

He sounds so confused, and Martin … he can’t. He just can’t. He doesn’t think he’ll survive the moment when that confusion turns to hurt.

So Martin swallows sharply and forces his hand to squeeze Jon’s and says, “I love you too.”

And he does, in a way. He wants Jon here, by his side, eating breakfast next to him and rambling to him about whatever latest thing has piqued his interest and listening to Martin describe the cows he’s seen on his walks. The thought of Jon leaving—of losing him, the same way he lost Nino—makes his stomach twist into knots, because Martin loves him.

Just … not in the way that Jon thinks he does. Not anymore.

And Martin can’t help but feel guilty about that fact.

Jon frowns at Martin for a moment more, like he can tell that something’s wrong but he’s not entirely sure what. Martin breathes out slowly and gives Jon as genuine a smile as he can muster, trying to convey that everything is fine. That nothing’s wrong—why would anything be wrong?

It must work, because Jon exhales slowly, his expression softening into one of the gentle smiles that Martin has grown so fond of. He rubs a thumb over the back of Martin’s hand in a motion that should be comforting but only reminds Martin of the fact that Jon is doing it because he loves him.

Martin thinks that Jon is going to kiss him then—isn’t that usually what comes after things like this?—and dread coils in his stomach. But Jon doesn’t. Later, Martin will find out that Jon dislikes kisses just as much as he does (though for different reasons). For now, though, Martin can only feel relief when Jon squeezes his hand once more before letting go and standing. “I’ll go make us some tea,” he says quietly, then retreats to the kitchen.

Thinking back on it, Martin wonders if Jon knew then. That something was wrong. But for now, he just feels relieved that he has the space he needs to breathe.

.

.

.

It’s their second week at the safehouse, just a few days after Jon told Martin that he loves him, that Jon finally sits Martin down after dinner and says softly, “Martin, am I … am I making you uncomfortable?”

“What?” Martin says, like he has no idea what Jon’s talking about. (Like a liar.) “No. What … what makes you think that?”

Jon wrings his hands together. He’s wearing one of Martin’s sweaters, and Martin doesn’t know how he feels about it. The clothes sharing is fine. The fact that Jon is clearly perceiving the clothes sharing as a romantic gesture is … less than fine.

Martin told himself that it would be okay if Jon perceived their relationship as a romantic one and Martin didn’t. He was good at pretending. And besides, how different could things be?

Very different, as it turned out. In all the ways that mattered.

Jon seemed to take any opportunity he could to touch Martin—a hand brushing against the small of his back when he passed behind him to grab a mug, an ankle nudging against his underneath the table as they ate, a head resting on his shoulder as they sat side-by-side and read. Martin had never been particularly touch-averse or touch-starved; touch was just … touch. He’d liked it when Tim had tousled his hair or when Sasha had thrown her legs across his on the breakroom couch, but he didn’t feel like he was missing out on anything on the days he went without any human contact at all.

Now, it’s all Martin can do not to flinch away from Jon’s touches, knowing that each one is delivered with love and affection that Martin can’t return. Though perhaps he hasn’t been doing as good of a job as he’d thought, judging by the concerned look Jon is giving him now.

There have been other things too—whispered I love yous in the early mornings and soft smiles that seem somehow more and little gestures that are so Jon but also so romantic—and Martin wants so badly to disappear back into the fog in those moments. But that … that wouldn’t be fair to Jon. It’s not his fault that Martin is like this, after all.

(It’s not Martin’s fault either. He knows this, logically. He’d spent a long time hating himself for what happened with Nino, for how he couldn’t just be normal and go on dates and enjoy something that the rest of society seemed to prize above all else. It had taken him years to finally come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t broken, and he couldn’t be changed. That this was just … who he was.

It doesn’t mean that sometimes, he doesn’t wish that he could be someone else. And he’s never wanted it more acutely than when he stares at Jon’s kind brown eyes and soft smile.)

So Martin lied and lied and lied. And he thought he’d been doing so successfully. But here Jon is, frowning at him, a careful distance between them, and Martin feels his chest begin to tighten.

“I just…” Jon begins, then stops. He looks down at the couch, studying the ugly floral pattern with apparent rapt fascination. Martin doesn’t know what to say, so he waits anxiously until Jon finally continues, “It doesn’t feel like you’re … happy. I know that things have been hard, a-and … it’s all right if you still need time after the Lonely, but it…” Jon swallows. “It feels like some of it may be because of me? W-when I touch you, sometimes you get … tense. And sometimes…”

“Jon?” Martin prompts after a moment, the word strangled by the growing lump in his throat.

“Sometimes,” Jon says quietly, “when you tell me that you love me, it … it feels like you’re lying.”

And the way Jon says it—tentative, with wide, hesitant eyes, like he’s the one that’s the problem—makes Martin’s desire to keep up the ruse crumble away in an instant.

It still isn’t easy to come clean. But he forces himself to do it anyway.

“It’s complicated,” he begins, then winces. Not a good start. Sure enough, Jon’s shoulders grow tense, and he shifts slightly further away, like he thinks Martin wants more space. Because he thinks he’s done something wrong. “You haven’t done anything wrong,” Martin adds quickly. It’s not you, it’s me, he thinks wryly. “It’s … not your fault.”

Jon opens his mouth—to say what, Martin doesn’t know. He barrels on before Jon gets the chance to speak, his haste making his words harried and blunt.

“I’m aromantic.”

Jon blinks at him, clearly surprised by the abruptness of the statement. After a long, awkward moment, during which it becomes abundantly clear that Jon is waiting for Martin to make the next move, Martin continues, “My relationship with—well, with relationships—i-is complicated. I-it’s, um … it’s hard to explain? A-and I don’t want you to think that I—I don’t care about you. I want to be here, w-with you, just…”

“Not in a romantic capacity?” Jon finishes softly.

Martin exhales heavily, feeling a bit like a hole has been punched in his chest and he’s slowly deflating. “Yeah.”

Jon is looking at him with soft, kind eyes, and Martin doesn’t know what to do with them. So he buries his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice coming out muffled.

“Hey, hey.” Jon’s hand brushes against Martin’s shoulder before pulling away quickly, and that just makes Martin feel worse. “You haven’t done anything wrong either.”

“Yes, I have,” Martin says into his palms. “I lied. I let you think that I—I was still in love with you, and … Christ, that was shitty of me.”

“I … do wish you had told me sooner,” Jon concedes. “But … only because I care about you, Martin, a-and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around me.” He hesitates. “You … do know that I’m not mad at you, right? Th-that I wouldn’t have been mad, o-or upset, or hurt, if you told me that you didn’t feel the same way about me?”

Martin takes a deep breath, then another. “But I did,” he says raggedly. “For … for so long, I did. Ever since Jane Prentiss locked me in my flat for two weeks and you believed me when I told you about it a-and let me stay in the Archives. A-and I didn’t lie, in the Lonely. I did love you, a-all the way up until…”

Martin trails off. Jon lets the silence linger for a moment before saying gently, “If you don’t want to explain it to me, o-or if it’s hard, you don’t have to. But … if you can, I’d like to understand. For myself, a-and for you.” He wraps his hands tightly around his knees where they’re tucked against his chest. “This is important, and … I want to get this right.”

Martin exhales. He picks at a loose thread on the couch between them, focusing on it so he doesn’t have to meet Jon’s eyes and can pretend like he isn’t so extremely exposed and vulnerable right now. “I … I do want to explain. O-or I want to try. It’s … hard, though. Mostly b-because I’ve never had to explain it to anybody else? But also because … I don’t really understand why I’m like this.”

Jon opens his mouth, and Martin holds up a hand. “I know, I know—you don’t … have to comment on that.”

Jon closes his mouth and tentatively shifts so his knee is pressing against Martin’s. Martin waits for the tingling of his skin, the pins-and-needles discomfort, but it never comes. Maybe it’s because he knows that this is an act of comfort rather than one of affection. It’s … really nice.

He presses back with a sigh, feeling a bit of the tension and nerves drain out of him. “I—I get that love is difficult for me,” he says quietly. “I’ve just … always had trouble with the fact that what makes it difficult is that I’m someone who apparently never actually wants their love … requited. And if it is, I just … can’t anymore. It all goes away, a-and I just … fall out of love?”

Martin can feel Jon’s eyes on him, inquisitive and searching, but Jon doesn’t say anything. There’s a moment of silence between them, during which Martin tries and fails to collect his mess of feelings and thoughts and emotions into something that he can verbalize. Finally, Martin sighs and says, “It’s ironic, isn’t it. I’ve loved you for so long, a-and I still do, but … not in the way you love me. Not anymore. And now you’re the one who—who loves someone w-who doesn’t … who can’t…”

“Oh, no, Martin.” Jon’s hand is covering his then, and it’s warm and gentle and lovely, and Martin could cry. “I’m not…” He hesitates, squeezing Martin’s hand once. “Well. I am still in love with you. In the … romantic sense. I—I don’t want to lie to you about that. B-but I also love you in … so many other ways. Y-you’re my friend, Martin, a-and you’re someone that I can trust. You … you make me feel safe, e-even when there’s … so much in my life that’s dangerous and unpredictable, and I know that you’ll … always be there for me when I need you to be. I want to be here with you, always. I would … be happy in a romantic relationship with you, yes. But I would also be happy to just be with you. In whichever way you will have me.”

Martin’s throat feels very tight. “Oh,” he says faintly. He feels a pressure at the corner of his eyes and realizes, with a flush of embarrassment, that there are actual tears collecting there. He stares hard at the lamp just behind Jon, trying not to let any of them escape.”You, um … you really … mean that?”

“Of course,” Jon says, like there’s no question to be had about the matter. “You are … such an easy person to love, Martin. In all the ways it’s possible to love someone.”

Martin tries—he really does—to keep the tears back. But it’s just … so much, and Jon is so lovely, and this is more than Martin ever thought he was going to be able to have. So he takes a shaky breath in, and on the exhale, a few tears slip free and trail down his cheek. He brings a hand up and scrubs them away, mutters a sorry underneath his breath, but Jon just squeezes his hand tighter.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay, I’m … I’m here. I’m not leaving you.” Jon hesitates. “Provided that that’s … all right with you, of course.”

Martin can’t help the shaky laugh that escapes him. “Yes, it’s all right with me. Of course it is.”

Jon smiles, and Martin aches with it. “Good.” He nudges his knee gently against Martin’s. “Because this cottage would get very dull without you in it. Who would I talk to about all of Daisy’s awful romance novels?”

Martin laughs again, and it chases away most of the lingering tension in his body. “Be careful what you wish for. I’m going to start doing dramatic readings next.”

Jon’s eyes sparkle with humor, but his voice is sincere when he says, “I look forward to it.”

True to his word, over the next week, Martin does increasingly dramatic readings of the worn, water-warped romance novels stacked haphazardly on the safehouse shelves. (Skipping the, quote, ‘unnecessarily erotic’ bits to avoid Jon’s pinched look of discomfort and his own beet-red face as he stares down at words that should really not be used in a sexual context ever.) He bakes cookies, laughing when Jon drops the cup of flour he’s holding and ends up covered in it. He spends the first three walks after their conversation wringing his hands together before finally asking, in a series of nervous stutters, if Jon would like to hold hands while they walk.

“But not in a romantic way!” he hastens to clarify. “You just have very nice hands, a-and I’ve always liked the idea of holding someone else’s hand, but—you know, th-the romantic connotations of it aren’t … great, and … you know, now that I think about it, this was a stupid question, you don’t have to—”

And then Jon takes his hand and squeezes it gently, and Martin feels a warmth spread through him that he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

That’s been happening a lot lately. He … doesn’t think he minds at all.

Then, a few weeks after their conversation, Jon turns over in bed to face him and says, without any preamble, “Have you ever heard of a queerplatonic relationship?”

Martin has, but only in passing, so he shakes his head. Jon explains, sounding very much like he’s reciting the wiki page for the concept, which is … more endearing than it has any right to be, probably.

“Does … does that sound like something you might be interested in?” Jon says nervously. “W-with me, of course. If that wasn’t … clear.”

Martin nods before Jon is finished speaking. “Yeah,” he says, maybe a bit too eagerly. Then, quieter: “Yeah. I’d … I’d like that.”

Jon smiles then, bright and wide and lovely, and it occurs to Martin—not for the first time, and probably not for the last—that he can have this. That he can be with Jon—maybe for the rest of his life, though that’s a … big thought that he definitely isn’t ready to look at head-on yet—without the dates and the kissing and all the other romantic gestures that Martin always thought were necessary for something like this. That they can be happy, together.

That Martin can have his fairy tale ending, and it doesn’t have to look like he’s always been told it should.

Martin smiles back at Jon, reaching across the bed to brush his fingers lightly against Jon’s. And for the first time in a long, long while, he finally feels like he’s home.

[blouisparadise]

hi! just wondering if you know what fics from the abo fest are bl?

We’ve compiled a list below! As always, it can be difficult to check larger collections like this, so if anyone sees a fic here that shouldn’t be or finds one that we missed, please let us know! There are lots of amazing fics here.

Enjoy!

1) Rose’s Fortune | Mature | 5055 words

Omega Louis takes one of his siblings to the doctors (check up, possible broken bone or possibly injections?) and the new Dr is Alpha Harry. Harry is great with kids and Louis is smitten. Harry is smitten too but attempts to act professionally and keep his distance whenever Louis visits the Drs with his siblings or to pick up his prescriptions. But Harry realises there is no reason for him not to make a move as Louis isn't under his care.

2) This Love’s A Luxury | Mature | 5623 words

Omega Louis is a hairdresser. Alpha Harry just wants his hands on him.

3) Take Me To The Stars | Explicit | 5840 words

Note: This fic is locked and can only be read by AO3 users.

Staring at his darling daughter, in the middle of the pasta aisle, Louis found himself on the edge of a neurotic breakdown.

"It’s your birthday tomorrow! And your papa better not do anything to muck it up! Because your dada worked very hard to organise it! And all of your aunties and grannies and granddads and friends will be there!” Louis continued in a sweet sing-song voice that seemed to get increasingly frantic as he continued. “And if your papa is in rut, then what? What’ll we do, honey girl? Your dada will be too busy! And your papa will be too horn-”

“Louis,” Harry interrupted, touching Louis’ arm. “I’ll be okay. It’s probably not even my rut. I can appreciate you… all of you… even when I’m not in rut.”

Louis looked at him skeptically, imagining the shitshow that would be Harry in rut, surrounded by family and friends, at their child’s first birthday party. “I hope you’re right, H.”

4) Dare You To Move | Not Rated | 6060 words

The one where Harry falls in love with the omega who is the brain behind the omega march he joined.

5) I'm Asking You Please, Don't Talk Dirty to Me | Explicit | 9777 words

Prompt #68: Harry’s best friend Louis is a nice, well-mannered omega, at least when it comes to sex talk. He has always been closed off and quiet... until Harry hears how Louis talks during his heat. Now, it's all Harry can think about before his upcoming rut... (Original prompt wording edited for clarity)

6) When Tomorrow Comes | Explicit | 11111 words

When Louis and Niall are partnered up to complete a project on Omega scents and how they effect the nesting behaviours of Alphas, little does Louis know that the course of his life is about to be forever altered.

7) Hint: I Want To Be Yours | Mature | 11157 words

The one where Harry unconsciously starts acting like Louis' alpha after they spend his rut together and Louis finds ways to make sure Harry's affection doesn't end.

8) Smells Like Omega Spirit | Not Rated | 11769 words

Note: There is no smut in this fic, but it is omega Louis/alpha Harry.

Louis is an omega doing a test run on neutralizers for a class project. Every time he talks to Harry he smells completely different.

Harry is an alpha who can't figure out if he's going crazy or his sense of smell is broken, but all he wants to figure out what Louis' real scent is.

Somehow they figure it out.

9) If I'm On Fire, You'll Be Made Of Ashes Too | Explicit | 12518 words

Flawed and romanticised is the notion of perfection. Harry likes to think such a thing as perfection exists.

10) Love, Ever After | Explicit | 20782 words

The one where omega Louis makes love matches, alpha Harry makes cheese, and meddling friends might finally make their dreams of finding their soulmate come true.

11) Promise Me You Won't Run Away | Explicit | 23128 words

The Prince/ Knight AU in which Harry left Louis, but the omega never once gave up on them.

12) Don't Play With Matches | Explicit | 25632 words

Niall sees love everywhere - much to the despair of his friends, old and new (who he tends to treat as his own life-sized game of sims). It leads to complications.

13) I'm Gonna Keep This Love, If You Let Me | Explicit | 26355 words

Louis makes Harry pretend to be his boyfriend one night out. The rest is history.

14) In Your Scent I Thrive | Explicit | 33366 word

Harry’s particular condition has made it impossible for him to enjoy people’s scent, until he meets Louis.

15) We Both Got Nothing to Hide | Explicit | 43811 words

Omega Louis has a secret nest. Alpha Harry keeps losing his clothes.

16) Oubaitori | Explicit | 48822 words

Louis and Harry meet again after years apart and have to learn to live together by detangling their shared past and uncovering old secrets.

17) Maybe You'll Like the Way I Am | Not Rated | 55878 words

Note: There is no smut in this fic, but it is omega Louis/alpha Harry.

When Louis' alpha neighbor asks him to pretend to be his omega for a week, Louis immediately says no. He has too much he's dealing with on his own, and he swore to himself he'd never get that close to an alpha again. Unable to hold to that resolve once guilt sets in, Louis finds that maybe fumbling his way through a fake relationship for a week was exactly what he needed to finally be able to move on.

18) Lunar Waltz | Explicit | 76795 words

Louis has to replace his (missing) twin brother and marry one of the most dangerous alphas of the kingdom.

19) I’m Missing Half Of Me When We’re Apart | Explicit | 83745 words

AU in which OT5 are all in their 30's and a list from 10 years ago dares Harry and Louis to lose their virginity to each other. What happens when two best friends who are not only completely unlike each other but also the complete opposite of their assigned secondary genders find themselves in the position of fulfilling that goal despite Louis hating alphas and everything they represent and Harry being irrevocably and unconditionally in love with his best friend? Will they find to each other or will a stupid piece of paper from their Uni days ruin their friendship?

- BLP 🍑

[omg-imagine]

Forget Me Not (Part 12/15)

Pairing: Keanu Reeves x Reader

Summary: After you wake up from a coma and realize that your memories from the last five years have been erased, Keanu works to bring back what you have lost.

Words: 4.7k

Warnings: Angst, language

A/N: Kinda nervous posting again since it’s been a while, but we’re winding down to the end of this story with only three more parts to go (2 chapters + an epilogue). As always, feedback is appreciated. Thanks for sticking around, and I hope you enjoy!

Part 11

Home.

You are home. It’s supposed to be home.

But it wasn’t. To you, it couldn’t be. 

This place feels too far from home, too foreign. You had no memories of it, no recollection of the safety and security it offers. Not even the faintest remembrance of the laughter, smiles, and tears; the fondness and the sadness these four walls have witnessed over the years. 

You can’t call it home. You don’t know where home is, and you’re not sure you have one anymore. 

Not after leaving him behind.

It’s cold and dark when you first wake, sleep weighing heavily in your eyes. A pair of curtains block out the sun from filtering into the room, leaving you to wonder if you had slept through half the day. With a yawn, you stretch, the bed underneath creaking as your body fully rouses from yet another night of fitful slumber. Almost a month back in New York, and it doesn’t make sense to keep blaming your lack of energy on the time difference.

The ache is still ever-present. The pain caused by the void in your heart remains, sharply throbbing in your chest with its refusal to go away. Two heartbreaks, two betrayals, occurring five years apart, but it feels as though not much time has passed in-between. 

It hurts to ponder about it, that evening when your seemingly perfect little world came crashing down. Hiding behind rose-tinted glasses, you were unknowingly tricked, fully caught up in a well-crafted illusion. His illusion. Love has blinded you to the sad reality, and in the end, it left you a shattered mess, a hollow shell of your former self.

You doubt you’ll ever be whole again.

Forcing yourself out from under the covers, you reach for your phone on the nightstand to check the time before scrolling through your notifications. Nothing was of interest to you, fortunately; you didn’t have the energy to respond to those you suddenly abandoned. Friends who cared about you but realized you were never close to them. Not in the way it used to be.

As you skimmed over the new texts and emails, you then came across his now unsaved number. The moment you stepped on the plane, you deleted his contact from your phone and blocked him. Yet the last messages he sent to you were still there and haven’t been read since, though you already knew what they could entail—

I’m sorry.

It was never my intention to hurt you.

Please give me another chance.

Let me fix this.

Just come back, Y/N. Come back home.

Home. There was that damn word again. You were beginning to loathe it, even more so knowing that whenever you think of home, you wind up thinking of him.

The last time you saw him was the morning after the storm. Booking a one-way ticket back to the east coast, you then spent the early hours packing as many clothes that would fit in a single suitcase. Tears had long since dried up, having none left as you headed down the stairs, ignoring the look he gave you from afar.

He was dressed in the outfit he had on the night prior; his hair disheveled, eyes bloodshot, and it was quite obvious he endured no sleep. Your resolve nearly crumbles as your gazes connect, bodies close enough that he could reach out the slightest bit, and he’d be holding your hand in the palm of his. 

Fighting the urge, you didn’t cave in. You couldn’t allow yourself to fall for it—for him. 

No, never again.

As expected, he followed you out of the house, remaining quiet as he watched the cab driver load your luggage in the trunk. You paid him no attention when he approached the vehicle once you climbed in, wanting nothing more than to escape this nightmare. With nowhere else to go and no one to turn to, you decided it was best to leave California, not that you belonged there anyway.

It played out like a scene from a movie—the taxi pulling out of the driveway slowly as the raindrops started to fall. Hearing him call out your name, his voice cracking with each syllable, made you hesitate for a beat. Perhaps you could forgive him, you had thought in that split-second. Forgive and forget; let what happened in the past stay in the past. 

But even if you did, the pain’s still there, and it was overpowering. This pain resulting from his deception had been too consuming, too unbearable to move on.

You told the driver to hurry as you couldn’t afford to miss your flight.

The atmosphere in the car was fraught with grim silence. As the house sequestered in the hills vanishes in the rearview mirror, you knew you were running away from it all. You couldn’t stand being here in LA, where every turn, every corner, and every street reminds you of a life that wasn’t truly yours. 

As idyllic it once was, you wanted no part of it anymore. Instead, you sought for familiarity, the life you used to have, the one you could only remember. 

What you thought was your real home.

Unable to hold it in any longer, you had broken down in the backseat, never feeling more alone than you did at that moment.

You wish you could forget, but it’s not that easy. It’s never easy. Memories of him linger in your mind, still tragically fresh as they haunt you day in and day out. Closing your eyes, you could see him wearing this smile that used to make your stomach flutter. You came to love his smile the same way you had loved him wholly. 

Now? Seeing it was a stab to the heart—a reminder of how he took advantage of your condition, your vulnerability. Of every lie you were fed. That smile, the one you previously hoped to wake up to for the rest of your life, had been an act, a facade. 

Everything had been a facade.

A sudden knock on the door startles you, and you clicked off the phone screen before announcing to whoever that they could come in. Your mother Nancy enters soon after, her face displaying concern when she realizes you had just woken up. She’s silent as she walks towards the window and then pushes the curtains aside, the sunlight outside immediately washing over the room. 

Briefly, you squint to adjust to the brightness, a confirmation that it was past noon already—another wasted day.

“Hey, darling,” she speaks softly as she moves to sit on the mattress beside you. “How are you doing?”

There’s no point in lying, but as much as you greatly appreciated her caringness, you didn’t want to burden her with your problems. They were yours to deal with and yours alone. 

“Better.” And that, you were. Just a week ago, you finally stopped crying yourself to sleep. “I might even go out tomorrow and look for a job. Can’t keep freeloading under your roof, right?”

You release a half-chuckle, a small attempt to lighten up the mood. It was comforting when your mother cracks a smile in response.

“Oh, hush. You’re always welcome to stay as long as you need to,” she assures, a loving warmth radiating from her tone. 

Lips pressing together, you sense that she has another thing to address. “What’s wrong?”

Nancy pauses to take a breath, shoulders rising and falling. For some reason, you’re on edge, finding yourself bracing for what was to come.

“Have you spoken to Keanu lately?”

Upon hearing his name, you swallowed away the lump in your throat. After telling your parents what had transpired, it stirred up various emotions—mainly anger from your father, sorrow from your mom. Their hearts sank as you recounted the story, tears blurring your eyes that you couldn’t see their faces. It was a good thing, however; you probably wouldn’t have reached the end.

Since then, they’ve refrained from speaking of him and to him. He’s called the house on a few occasions but could never get past the automated answering machine. Pictures of the two of you hanging on the walls were taken down shortly after the revelation, and you were unsure of who had done it. 

Your parents still couldn’t believe he was capable of such a thing. He had played them the same way you were, twisting the truth and omitting facts. Painting himself in a way that made them think allowing you to stay with him was the best decision when just months before he treated you as if you didn’t matter. 

As if he didn’t love you.

“No.” Curt, you had nothing else to say. 

“He’s a persistent one, I’ll tell you that. Left another message last night,” Nancy comments, feeling her stare as you fiddled with the hands in your lap. The next time she speaks, it’s slow and controlled. She’s careful with her words, wary of how you would react to what she has to say. “Hon, the last time you were here, you told me something. Something that I probably should have mentioned the day you woke up in the hospital.”

You tense, eyes flickering up to hers. “What is it?”

She sighs deeply, her smile fleeting and replaced by a taut frown. “I knew you and Keanu were having… problems. Not the full story, but enough that told me you’ve been unhappy for a while.”

“W-Why didn’t you bring this up then?”

“Because the second I saw him in your hospital room, I could see how much he loves you. How scared he was at the thought of nearly losing you—”

“Pfft, sure he was,” you scoff at the statement in disbelief. “What he did—you don’t do that to someone you love. You don’t lie to them, betray them. Hell, if you had given me a heads up earlier, then it would have saved me all this trouble.”

“Y/N—”

“Don’t you get it? He’s an actor. Of course, he’s good at playing pretend. Got us all believing that things were all sunshine and rainbows. He fucked up and fucked up even more by lying. I’ve always had a bad track record in relationships, so I shouldn’t have been too surprised.”

Tension hangs thickly in the air, an apology murmured at the end of a passing second. You didn’t mean to snap at your mother, to let the anger and betrayal consume you that you began taking it out on others although unwillingly. 

But you were just too goddamn hurt. Every day, the memories are suffocating you despite constantly wishing and pleading for them to disappear. That life, the one you had with Keanu, no longer exists, and yet you were still holding onto the frayed remains of it, not ready to move on—to let go. 

You grieve. You grieve and mourn for the recent past, the happiness and love you experienced in the time you were left unaware. Never have you felt so complete, so content, and much at ease. You had turned a blind eye to the signs, to the small inklings of doubt brewing inside because you thought that there was no way you could get something else as close to this.

Perhaps you were both to blame after all.

“I thought he was different,” you whisper, sorrow flowing from your words. “I thought he was the one. The man I’d settle down with, marry, and then maybe someday, be the father of my kids. We’d build an entire life together, a family, a future. The kind of life where I could look back on it fifty years from now when we’re old and gray and not regret a single thing.”

Feeling your mother’s hand come on top of yours with a light squeeze, you fought off the tears forcing their way from your eyes. You swore you would never shed a tear for Keanu ever again, but you are crumbling from within. The weak walls you put up are now tumbling down, leaving you even more vulnerable than before. 

“I want to hate him. I want him to feel my pain and suffer through it, knowing that he’s the reason why. But I can’t. Somehow, I just can’t.”

“It’s because you still love him. No matter how much it hurts, you’re still in love with him,” Nancy adds solemnly, and you nod shakily. “You’re healing, dear. So far, all you’ve done is put on a bandaid, but it doesn’t mean the wound closes up immediately. It’ll burn, it’ll bleed, and it’ll ache, and right now, that’s what you’re feeling; the pain of a fresh open wound.”

“Make the pain stop,” you mumbled incoherently as you lean against your mom’s side, wet cheeks pressed to her shoulder. “It has to stop.”

“And it will,” she promises, listening to your soft and tired cries. “It’ll take time for the wound to heal, but eventually, it will. Until then, life continues, and you would have to as well. You don’t have to go all-in right away, but don’t let this heartbreak hinder you from living, sweetie. You’re strong, and I believe you will feel that same happiness again, in one form or another. But you won’t find it unless you go out and look for it.”

For the first time in what seemed like a while, you felt something other than loss and despair. It creeps into you slowly, half-expecting a cold, crushing weight to fall heavily on your chest rather than the warmth and light it is. But as quickly as it came, the sensation subsides, a wave of loneliness, emptiness filling the vacant space surrounding your heart.

A shuddering breath released, you then reflect upon what your mother said about time and how time heals all wounds. You wonder how much time is needed until you can finally break free from the remnants of the past and breathe again. Could be days, weeks, or even months more, but it’s right there, waiting for you on the horizon. 

You may not have a place to call home, but what you do have is time.

---

Seconds turn into minutes; minutes turn into hours. The sun sets, the moon rises; bright, blues skies bleed into a fiery red before dimming to an inky darkness. The world spins on its axis as people wake, move, then sleep, and the cycle begins all over again.

Two weeks have come and gone, and life pushes onward. You could tell by the scenery outside where the season of fall has taken charge of the Northeast. Days are shorter, with nights stretching out longer as the year fades into winter. Time was flying by at a brisk pace. Very soon, a blanket of snow will cover the ground you walk on, reminding you to take a step back and admire the natural beauty of mid-November.

The crispness of the late afternoon air is refreshing as it fills your lungs, a welcome change from the hazy summer heat. Leaves that were once lively shades of green are now painted in deep hues of amber and burgundy, and they crunch beneath your boots with each leisure step down the earthy path. The nearby lake is as pristine as ever, sparkling freely underneath the rays of the ochre sun as it waits for the impending frost.

Wandering about outdoors for hours now, you were lost in your stream of thoughts. You honestly felt better, not entirely mended, but just enough that you can step out of the house and explore the quaint little town. A picturesque place, it was a perfect settlement for your retired parents where everyone knew everybody; their faces, names, the street they lived on. Boilding down to more personal details such as knowing the pets they owned, which book club they’re a part of, and any recent travels. 

When the townsfolk saw you, you sensed the feeling of familiarity. Those you passed by in the streets waved at you, and though you couldn’t exactly recall your relationship with them, it made you smile. Recently, old friends and family in the area had begun reaching out after hearing you were back. You never gave them the full explanation, only revealing that things in California did not work out, and you figured it was best to leave. 

Was it a permanent decision? Most likely. Life here is simpler, quieter. You enjoyed the peacefulness, favoring the calm atmosphere of this town much over the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles. It gave you space to think, to focus, to breathe. To reacquaint with yourself, rebuild who you are as a person by taking this journey of self-discovery. 

It’s the brand new start you desperately wanted, needed. An opportunity to find your place in this world without the past holding you back. Without the shadow of the woman you once were looming over you. And if your memories don’t ever return, which deep down, you hope they never would, you would be fine with it. 

You were tired of being stuck searching pieces of the past. You had to live.

Trekking up the gravel road leading to your parents’ home, a black car sits on top of the hill, one that you did not recognize. Perplexed, you approached the house with hesitant steps, dragging your feet through the pile of dead and dry leaves. There was a moment of panic when you noticed a man sitting on the front porch steps, hands clasped on his knees as he hung his head low, a curtain of dark hair masking his identity.

But you don’t need to think twice, for you already know who it is.

“Keanu?”

His name slipping out of your mouth feels different now. Gone is the affectionate tone that it was usually spoken in. It held no meaning, void of any warmth or tenderness. Keanu, the name is bitter on your tongue, a poison that could cause you to spiral down yet again, and saying it out loud brought upon a rage that swirls through your veins.

How dare he show up here unannounced?

As you take your breaths, one… two… three... and out, Keanu straightens his posture and meets your stern glare. Slowly, he gets up, the expression on his face hard to read. But aside from that, he looked worse for wear. The bags underneath his eyes were dark and prominent, the beard on his chin was unruly and untamed. He appears gaunt and exhausted, as if he hasn’t slept a wink ever since you walked out of the door and out of his life.

“What the hell are you doing here?” You’re the first to break the thick silence, a testament of your bravery and strength of some sort. Brows furrowing and teeth gritting in anger, it contrasts with Keanu’s lax demeanor as he steps closer. “No, stay back. You have no right to be here right now.”

“Y/N, please...” He speaks calmly, each and every one of his movements measured. “I’m not here to fight—”

“I have nothing to say to you,” you seethed, shaking your head as you stormed past him and towards the door. Tears brew in your cloudy eyes, a sign of how much he still affected you. Seeing him again after all this time only proved that the wound he had inflicted bleeds to this day.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Keanu quickly trails from behind, his voice dripping with utter desperation. “Please, just… give me a chance to talk. All you have to do is listen, and I promise you won’t ever have to see me again.”

The seriousness in his timbre causes you to halt in your tracks. Swallowing dryly, you turn around, sad, tired eyes reaching his guilt-filled ones. Keanu stands before you with a face written in despair, making him barely recognizable. The way he’s staring at you as if he’s hopeless and in pure anguish is unsettling, and you almost pitied him for it. 

“Y/N…” He pleads softly, defeatedly. “Hear me out, please.”

You wrestled between your options, half apathetic, half curious of what Keanu had to say. Unspoken words on the tip of his tongue, he mutely begs for you to relent, and if this is all it takes for him to leave you alone, leave you for good, then so be it.

“Ten minutes,” you muttered, low enough that he barely catches it at first. Crossing your arms against your chest, the gentle autumn wind rustling through the trees pierces the silent air as you observe Keanu staggering forward, a hand rubbing at the nape of his neck. 

“I’m sorry,” he begins, gazing at you with his searching brown eyes. “I-I know saying it a thousand times won’t make a difference, but I really am sorry. What I did before and after the accident was inexcusable and selfish. I hurt you, and I will never forgive myself that. Don’t expect you to do so, either. You probably hate my guts right now, and flying out here might be a mistake, but I needed to talk to you in person. To say goodbye one last time.”

Brushing his hair back, Keanu then pads over to the trunk of the car, and all you can do is wait for him to come back. It doesn’t take long, but he makes two trips to unload two boxes, setting each of them down in the space separating you two. He instantly notices the confusion etched across your features, burying his hands in his coat pocket with an exhale.

“Are those—”

“All the things you left behind,” Keanu finishes feebly. “Thought you would want them back.”

Stunned, a mirthless chuckle escapes your throat. “You didn’t have to do this. Those aren’t my things anyway.”

“But they are—”

“They’re not mine,” you cut him off with a weary gaze. “Keanu, I’ve said this before; I’m not the woman you fell in love with. Not anymore. Look, throughout those months we spent together, I tried to fit into this life everyone told me I had. A life that’s far from what I was used to. God, it feels like a dream being her. So confident, happy, and successful. Waking up from the coma, of course, I would want that. I had just gotten out of a terrible relationship which left me broken and unworthy of anything and anyone. Then you showed me the love I thought I didn’t deserve, and it kept me from realizing that it was all too good to be true.”

Eyes faltering to the ground, your fingers fumbled with the hem of your sweater, ultimately distracting yourself from the tears threatening to fall. “The truth is, I didn’t know you. You were, are, a stranger to me. You had done things behind my back, hid details that would have been a deal-breaker, but you didn’t care. I’ve thought about it a lot lately; would I have stayed if you told me from the very beginning. I wasn’t sure if I was madder at you kissing someone else, knowing how much it would hurt me, or the fact that you lied to fix this—us.”

There is a moment of silence that weighs over everything. The wind stops blowing; the leaves are motionless. Time seems to slow around you and Keanu as he waits for your next words. Words that you are still searching for since you hadn’t prepared to voice those thoughts out loud. They all came rushing, flooding like a broken dam, too overwhelming to keep at bay. 

“Which one is it?” Keanu probes delicately, equally afraid of which answer you’re going to give.

“Neither,” you revealed, surprisingly. “I’m angrier at myself for falling too fast; for being the naive little girl who let herself be fooled, who refused to listen to her instincts even though she knew they were usually right.”

You see Keanu open his mouth to speak, but you weren’t done. “I always believed this accident was a curse. It erased years worth of memories that, at this point, I’ll never get back. But now, I see the good that came out of it. Our fights, our arguments, they were all signs that our relationship was falling apart, but I couldn’t let go of it—of you. I held onto us thinking the bad will just phase out eventually when in reality, I couldn’t bear giving up on you and this life we shared.”

Another pause. “Huh, funny. Looking at it, the same thing happened all over again.”

With that said, you felt relieved, somewhat lighter. Despite previous inclinations, you didn’t shout or yell at Keanu. Nor did you discuss to the fullest extent of the suffering you’ve endured. Strangely, it was nearly therapeutic admitting all of that to him, to yourself. For months, you had been unable to let go and accept the truth, allowing fear and doubt to control your actions. 

But that was then, and this is now. 

And now, it was time for you to be free.

“Guess this is it,” Keanu sighs dejectedly. He didn’t come here to win you back, knowing there’s nothing that he could do or say to repair the damage. Like you, he’s letting go, letting this be the closure he needs, and you need as well. “I guess this is goodbye.”

“Yeah,” you agreed quietly, “Guess this is goodbye.”

Before you could leave his sight to spare Keanu the awkwardness, he holds up a finger, signaling you to wait a second. Swiftly, he goes to retrieve something that’s lying on the front seat, something that you’ve spent countless hours flipping through. He then reluctantly passes it over to you, and you’re unsure what to do with it.

“Your pictures,” he points out, though you were already aware. “I’m not trying to be an asshole or anything by giving this, but this book is yours. Keep it, burn it, do whatever seems right to you. But I want you to know, to remember, that I did love you. I still do, and these photos are proof of it, even if you can’t bring yourself to believe that I’m telling the truth. You deserve love and to be loved, Y/N. More than anything in the universe. I fucked up my chance to be the one to tell you that every day, but it doesn’t mean the next person you fall for will.”

“Ke…” your voice suddenly breaks with emotion, uncertain of what to add after his statement. It’s because you still love him. No matter how much it hurts, you’re still in love with him, your mother’s earlier words echo in your mind, ringing true in your heart. Even after everything, a piece of you still loved Keanu, and saying goodbye to him more painful than you anticipated.

As you stand frozen, Keanu inches nearer until he’s by your feet, the palm of his hand coming to rest on your cheek. He strokes your face with a tender caress before tilting your chin upwards to meet his gaze, brushing his thumb along your lower lip gently. You allow him to have this moment, to hold you and study you for a final time, commit you to memory as this would be the last. 

Eyes fluttering shut, you feel him press a soft kiss on your forehead, the warmth of it immediately spreading throughout your body before he slowly pulls away.

“Take care of yourself, Y/N,” Keanu says, opening the driver’s side door of his rental. You look at each other once more and see the subtle, hopeful smile he shoots your way. “And don’t be afraid to love again.”

You watch as he starts driving away, opting to wait until the car is finally out of view before releasing the breath you didn’t know you were holding. 

In your hands is a keepsake of your memories. A collection of captured moments that you had cherished so dearly. But things are different now; mistakes were made, words were said, people have grown apart. You found no reason to linger in the past when there’s nothing left to salvage. 

Nothing left to do but heal.

The warmth of Keanu’s kiss eventually disappears, the world around you unpausing, continuing as it was before. You stay standing in place, glancing back and forth between the book you clutched on tightly and the boxes laying on the ground. 

Yet in the quietude, the wind still blows. The leaves still fall, and the earth still spins.

Time resumes, bit by bit; passing for life to move forward— 

For you to move on.

Part 13

Tags: @penwieldingdreamer​ @fanficsrusz​ @toomanystoriessolittletime​ @awessomness @meetmeinthematinee​ @ringa-starr​ @ficsnroses​ @iworshipkeanureeves​ @keandrews​ @greenmanalishi​ @feminine-machinegun​ @thehumanistsdiary​ @lilyette​​ @rdjloverxxx @flaminasteroid @danceoftwowolves @ravenpuff02 @wheretheriversrunintothesea​​ @breakthenight​​ @allie1804-fan​​ @partypoison00​​

[bestintheparsec]

The Same Coin - Part 2

Masterlist

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

A/N: The pace is ~slowly picking up for these two😌 I didn’t allow any pining yet but it shall come soon and I hope you like the mild softness in this part😏 I hope you like this one, and as always thank you so much for any feedback!

Words: 3.0k

Warnings: a hint of angst, slow roast burn?, a crumb of Tender™

You roll your neck and shoulders, trying to relieve some of the aches from the day. As of late, you’ve been sedentary at work, and it’s starting to have an effect on your muscles. You look across the desk at Steve, who’s been in the same boat. This new management is really starting to get on your last nerve. Lately they've been restricting the amount of time you're in the field. Before anything makes it to your desk, it has to first collect dust on the ambassador’s, then the colonel’s, then Messina’s. They’ve claimed all this funneling of information is for “efficiency”—you’re not entirely sure they know what the word means. By the time any intel makes it into your hands, it may as well have never been reported at all. You can imagine the laughs this system has given Escobar as he continues to be a free man from one day to the next.

Steve puts out his cigarette and meets your tired eyes. “You good for the day?” he asks, the same exhaustion in his own voice.

“I’m going to try to get ahead on some of tomorrow’s bullshit before I head out,” you say with a sigh. “Can you take some of Peña’s stuff to him if you get home first? I’ll bring the rest after.”

He nods and stands up, tucking his gun behind his back before grabbing the files and heading out. Your desk lamp is the only thing lighting up the space as you work quickly to get the files sorted. You’re the last one here, but you’re nearly as alone as you are during the day, with only your thoughts and the messy stack of papers keeping you company. 

~

“That’s all we had for today,” you say, dropping the heavy stack of files onto the marble countertop. The large red stamp that says “CLASSIFIED” across the top of each folder is deceiving in its urgency; it’s more than likely just another pile of useless leads that Escobar’s already one step ahead of. But it has to be sorted through nonetheless, much to Javier’s annoyance—another long night of mindless paperwork awaits.

Javier’s off his crutches and back to work now, but only to an extent. He’s still unable to walk fully without a limp, and is currently assigned to working from home unless absolutely necessary—though he’s convinced that this is less about his safety and more about preventing him from going on another undisclosed mission. He’s only been back at the embassy a handful of times since getting shot, but if he can’t be involved in the action out on the field he may as well stay in his own place and let you and Murphy deal with the assholes that hover over everything you do.

He skims the stack of documents before looking up at you. “This is all?” he jeers sarcastically, raising his brows. 

“Hey, you didn’t have to deal with the shit that Steve and I had to look over today,” you remark. “Consider yourself lucky.”

Yeah. Another fucking wasted day. Real lucky, he thinks, huffing quietly as he flips the first folder open.

He observes silently as your eyes dart to the medication bottle on the counter, then to the kitchen. You carry the same tension in your posture every time you come over here—always making sure things are in their place, even off-duty. He almost rolls his eyes, but unconsciously stops himself before you turn back to him.

You don’t say anything, but he knows you’re just itching to mention the excess bottles of liquor, or the lack of any real food on his shelves. He’s been taking his meds and cleaning his wound like he’s supposed to, if only so you would leave him the hell alone about it. Or maybe you were starting to get to him, more than he thought—and certainly more than he’s allowed.

“Do you need anything else?” you ask, tapping your fingers on the counter. It’s all become routine now—you ask if he needs anything, he replies that he’s a functional adult again and therefore should just be left alone. The usual. Though he’s recently noticed you don’t fidget with your hands or the fabric of your clothes as much anymore, for a reason he doesn’t know—why he’s caught on to this, he doesn’t know either. 

Javier shakes his head, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and lighting one.

“Well, then...I’ll leave you to it,” you continue. He watches as you leave his apartment for what has to be the thirtieth time, quietly locking the door behind you—as if he can’t do it himself—the familiar sound of metal clicking into place followed by your footsteps fading away.

~

As you drop off today's documents, you wonder if Peña notices the slight change in your voice, the growing darkness under your eyes. Steve certainly had. “You look like hell,” he'd told you at the office today. Truthfully, you’re just tired. Tired of running in circles and chasing someone who might as well be a ghost; a ghost that leaves chaos in its wake and haunts you at night. Tired of bosses who don't seem to have a sense of urgency about any of it. So you probably do look a bit rough. But you’re too preoccupied to care. 

“Murphy told me it was a long day,” Javier comments, breaking your momentary reverie. You look up at him. 

It's been longer than that.

He takes a sip from his glass and gestures up and down at you with his free hand. Your hair’s a mess and your blouse is untucked and unbuttoned all the way, revealing the tank top you’re wearing underneath. “Have you, uh, slept recently?” he asks with a smirk on his face, his tone laced with teasing. You’re not in the mood for it.

“I don't want to fucking hear it, Peña.” You say it in such a way that it wipes the grin off his face. 

If he’s bothered by your remark, he makes no indication of it. Instead of responding, he leans against the counter, waiting for you to continue.

“Work was work, but the ambassador gave us hell,” you explain, abruptly slamming today’s files down on the counter. “I don’t know what anybody’s problem is anymore—do they want to catch these bastards or not?”

Javier meets your eyes, speculating when the last time you actually got some rest was, if you slept as restlessly as he did. He quickly pushes the thought away—why should he be concerned? But he nods anyways, knowing the feeling well.

“I have access to better CIs than the bullshit we're given,” he remarks. “You're the one who won’t get on board.” 

Your mouth twitches, and you can't resist. “Another informant? Jesus, Peña, doesn’t your leg hurt?”

He glowers at you. "Not that kind of informant," he quips, muttering under his breath.

“Anyways, I don’t know what’s worse, mindless paperwork, or busting our asses while trying not to get killed out there,” you say under your breath, mostly to yourself.

A brief silence passes. “I know,” he finally says with resignation. He rubs the area over his brow bone, seeming to contemplate what else to say. “I know how those assholes are,” he adds, and you’re surprised that it sounds genuine.

The lack of a sarcastic response is unexpected. It’s almost as if a silent but mutual understanding has materialized between you, and you’re not quite sure how to feel about it. For now, at least, it’s a somewhat nice change.

Your lips curve into a reluctant smile. “But I have to deal with those assholes, and you, too,” eliciting an eye roll and soft chuckle from him.

Another few ticks of the clock go by before you both turn to the stack of documents. Peña sighs.

You don’t know what overcomes you when you speak again. “I can help you go through it...if you want,” you offer with a shrug, though it sounds like a question.

He looks at you, a brow raised. “Why?”

You want to answer but you’re not too sure yourself. “The faster we can get this shit done, the sooner we can get back on the field.” Just this once, you think. If Peña’s thrown off by your suggestion, he doesn’t let it show.

Without another word, you each take half of the pile and get to work.

~

There are many things you’ve never noticed about Peña’s apartment before—you ponder this as you sit on his couch, leaning over the coffee table perusing today’s documents. You’ve been here too many times now, but have never paid attention to the smaller things. The frames that line his wall don’t contain photos of other people, but of a few dogs; presumably his, but it makes you wonder if he’s not close enough to anyone to have a picture of them. There’s a lot of books stashed away on some shelves, covered in dust but worn as though they were once well-loved. A month ago you would’ve thought the only books Peña read were those titled How to Be an Asshole 101. But most of all, you realize his apartment is just about as empty as your own; minimal decor and just the essentials. The years have gone by here in Colombia, but you have never bothered to make the place feel more like home. A job is a job. Things may change by the minute when you’re DEA, but somehow the days are all exactly the same. A heavy conscience is all that fills your empty apartment, and that’s more than enough clutter for you. 

You snap out of it when he comes out of the bathroom, having just changed his bandages. The bullet wound has mostly resolved—that's what he tells you, anyways. But he still walks with the limp, and you can tell he hates it; you know he’s not someone who can sit still and do nothing for such long periods of time. Fortunately—or not—he can do some work at home. Somehow you’ve found yourself staying over more often to help get the work done; much more than the one-time occasion you'd convinced yourself it would be. At first it’s just a few spare evenings, quiet nights that would have been dull anyways; a few extra hours after work here and there, slowly making a dent in the piles of busy work you’re given. Steve comes over occasionally, but he actually has someone to go home to so it’s never for too long.

Several times you argue over the correct method to go about hunting down a new lead—conventional versus methodical, straight-forward versus roundabout. You bite the inside of your cheek when he doesn’t agree and he groans with exasperation. But how much of it actually matters? you wonder. At the end of the day, Escobar still walks free. The last time you were on the field together, La Quica slipped from your fingers, and then some.

At some point, you attempt to explain your thought process; the reasoning, the logic. It’s not the first time you’ve tried to, but for some reason, Javier listens. Really listens. And, even stranger to him, he starts to understand. His world doesn’t turn and he won’t change his mind anytime soon, but he slowly figures you out. And somehow, the few hours you spend in his flat have slowly turned into longer evenings that go well past midnight. 

It takes you longer, but down the line you unwittingly start to understand him, too; not a lot, and not completely by any means. But for the first time since working with him, you no longer have this urge to shoot daggers with your eyes when you look at him.

Tonight looks to be another one of those long nights. You rest your chin on your hand, watching as Peña plots out a map of the city, narrowing down the potential hideouts of Escobar’s men. These late nights are getting to you, and you let out a big yawn without noticing. He stops mid-sentence and meets your eyes, and for a second you think you see a hint of amusement; it’s quickly replaced by his usual stoic expression.

You take a moment to stretch your arms and back, and Peña gets up to walk over to the kitchen. You decide to move to the floor for a change, crossing your legs on the cold, hard tile. He comes back with two glasses and a bottle of liquor he didn’t even have to read the label on before grabbing.

“Drink?” he asks, setting the glasses down and joining you on the floor.

You nod and push your hair out of your face, taking a glass as he pours the clear liquid into it.

“Do you think we can find them?” you suddenly ask, swirling the drink around. “Any of them?”

He looks surprised by your question; not because it’s a strange one but because it’s not something that’s ever discussed. Plans are put into place, actions are taken, orders are followed. “We’ll get him”, is the only thing spoken, a motto repeated in the face of defeat. “One way or another.” For a long time you’ve all been running on autopilot, simply chasing down one chance after another. More losses than wins, yet everyone refuses to back down. It’s the sort of thing that starts to wear a person down when they’ve been doing it long enough.

He must be lost in the same train of thought, taking a few seconds longer to realize you’re waiting for an answer.

“I wouldn’t stay here if I didn’t,” is all he says, raising his glass.

It’s nearly the same thing you tell yourself, especially on nights when it’s harder to sleep. You purse your lips and nod, turning your attention back to the files at hand.

~

Javier turns out the lights and pulls himself under the covers, letting out a heavy sigh as he runs his hands over his face. He needs this damn leg to heal itself soon—every day he’s not on the field is another day he can’t go after those assholes. He considers contacting one of his CIs again, but for a second he feels a sensation he can’t explain. Doubt? It’s not guilt—he can’t feel something that’s already made a home in the back of his mind. It’s fleeting, gone before he can think anymore of it. He thinks of you and wonders if it's the same things that keep you up, because it’s obvious that something does. When he finally lets himself close his eyes, he realizes he’s thought of you too often for his own liking. In his defense, you have been at his place more frequently. But so has Murphy, to some extent, and it’s not like he’s been thinking of him in his free time.

He groans and rolls over onto his good leg’s side and moves into the middle of his empty bed,  waiting for the images that fill his thoughts every night to lull him into another restless slumber.

~

You’d come over straight after work tonight, not bothering to drop your stuff off at your own place first. 

Recently the higher-ups passed a new lead into your hands—a good lead, and a usable one, for once. Finally having something interesting to follow, you’ve spent many more hours poring over the details. 

You haven’t even so much as looked up from the pictures on the table for at least an hour. Javier blinks the dryness out of his eyes as he leans back and massages the back of his neck, tempted to have another smoke. The clock reads 2:03. It’s later than he thought.

He stands up, putting the papers down on the table. “I’ll be back. Gotta change this dressing again,” he says quietly.

Somewhere between the complete silence and the sound of Peña shuffling around in his bedroom, you toss your pen down and lean back against the couch. Your back aches and the back of the couch is cool and comfortable. You uncross your legs, trying to relax for just a minute.

It's a while before Javier walks back out into the living room, about to say something when he sees you leaning against the side of the couch with your eyes shut. You’re holding your hands close to your body, as though you didn’t mean to let yourself get comfortable. He initially resists the urge to smile at the sight, but lets out a chuckle when it becomes obvious you won’t catch him. He debates waking you up, assuming you’d rather not stay overnight at his place. But after a few moments he decides against it, turning to go back to his room.

You’ll just be grumpy if he wakes you up. Best to save himself the trouble of dealing with it. Javier tells himself this as he pulls a spare blanket from the closet, then limps back out towards the couch. He gently shakes the thin blanket out and drapes it over you. It smells faintly of mothballs, but it’s clean and serves its function—his other guests usually share his blanket. He’s about to go back to his room when the loud roar of the AC suddenly brings a cool breeze into the room. He looks at you again, readjusting the blanket and pulling it up over your shoulders.

He pauses before turning off the lamp beside the table, his gaze lingering on you. You haven’t moved; it must’ve been a longer day than you let on. You’ve still got those tired lines under your eyes, but when you’re not nagging at him, you almost look peaceful. It’s such a marked disparity from the world outside that, just for a moment, he feels a bit at ease himself.

When he sees you like this, Javier decides that maybe you’re not so bad after all.

~

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[astraeass]

[4] start once again;

[cross-posted in ao3 • fem reader]

previous chapter

pairing: levi ackerman/reader

warnings: cursing, violence

words: 4018

Summary:

Erwin assigned your squad a rare inside-the-walls mission. Ending up being successful, you also try to end up successful on warming up your cold behavior.

You currently stood with Mike besides you in front of your captain's door office, who asked for your and some members of your squad assist's for a 'mission' inside the walls. You had no idea of what it could be about, never being apart of these type of unusual assignments that required the help of the Scouts, probably just some dumb shit the Military Police was either not able to do so or simply were too lazy to care of, at least that was Mike told you since he actually went to help Erwin with a pair of them.

"Hey [L/N], you there?" Mike's fingers snapping mere inches away from your face brought you back to reality. You blinked a few times and then looked up to the blond who was growing impatient "Don’t worry too much, you midget. It’s probably the same as always, a little thief that drunk Garrison members can’t get a touch of" Ignoring his little comment about - his enormous height - your height you sighed and nodded. You weren’t worried about that at all, it was just infuriating that the Scouts, the regiment that already has weight upon their shoulders are assigned for simple but annoying tasks that the two remaining regiments couldn’t take care of.

Mike knocked the door and without receiving a answer at all, he just opened the door and stepped inside with all the comfort as if he was the captain himself, you understood though, Erwin and Mike were almost always seen together attached by the hip and your own experiences with them said that they were pretty close. You didn’t like to include yourself, but you trusted both of them plus the members of your squad with your own life.

"Finally both of you came, we were waiting for you" Erwin said after releasing a sigh when he saw both of your forms coming from the door, he already knew it was Mike when he didn’t even had the time to reply the knock in his door, and knowing Mike, he probably brought you with him since you were still as forgetful as always "Take a seat, you’ll know what we’re about talk about, right?"

"Yeah, that infamous mission inside the walls, huh? Isn’t it [Y/N]?" Said Mike with a teasing smirk adorning his lips while nudging your side with his elbow, you were so close to hit his fucking face. Already tensed thanks to your thoughts before about the incompetent military. Erwin arched one of his physically surreal brows and looked up to your still standing form. Seeing how you looked away, Mike decided to annoy you a little bit more.

"Just this little midget who could make a Titan scurry away with her glare is a bit scared of an insignificant mission" He was starting to hit your more impatient nerve but with a deep breath you answered him "First, I’m pretty sure the mission is not insignificant if Captain didn’t ask for half of his squad's help. Second, you can’t call everyone a midget just because you’re a fucking tree and three, I’m not scared!" Your tone got louder for the more you talked, and your face was getting even more red than before. You could have continued if it wasn’t that Erwin were looking at your bickering with Mike in disappointment, so you limited yourself on sitting on a random chair.

"Now that everything is resolved, I’ll explain what are we doing inside the royal capital" Erwin finally was able to start. Bringing what it looked like three pieces of paper, he spattered them on the table so we were able to have a look at them. On the papers, it was written information of three different persons, their physical description, how the currently lived and a large list of antecedents. But what it caught your attention is that all of them were part of the Underground, the city that surrounded the Royal Capital beneath its floor.

You didn’t knew a lot about the Underground, jus a few things you remembered reading from David's various books. Humanity tried to live underground to escape the deadly threat Titans brought, however the exodus was called off and the ruins of the old attempt of humanity's safety is not populated and formed of criminals and vagrants. The deepest sections were now slums, abandoned by the royal government, David told you that even the Military Police were always hesitant to step inside and now you understood everything.

"Are we really doing the MP's dirty job by catching these thieves? That’s pathetic, we have better things to do Captain!" Your anger coming to get you back again made you complain and stand grabbing the end of the table with force. You weren’t someone’s maid to take their shit off by doing jobs like these. Erwin lifted a hand, palm facing your face, making you frown in confusion and growing irritation "You didn’t let me finish, [L/N]" with that, you just sat down again, looking away in embarrassment.

"Yes, we’re catching them, but not for the Military Police's benefits, but for our own" He pointed the three papers that were situated on the table, the sudden sound making you glare at them "We'll tell them that they’ll have to joint the Surver Corps if they want some type of freedom. If they’re refuse, that I doubt, we will turn them over the MPs, that’s all. So read the information in the papers carefully so we can start and end this assignment as fast as possible"

It was a group of three, two males and a young female. Furlan Church, a medium-sized male with dark dirty blond hair and bright grey eyes. The other male, Levi who was rather short is apparently their leader, has short black hair styled in an undercut curtain, pale grey colored orbs and the only female, Isabel Magnolia a young woman with light green eyes and shaggy auburn locks that were usually styled into two pigtails. For what the reports said, all of them were exceptional using the Maneuver Gear, Levi however stood out the most of the three. So that’s why Erwin wanted a bunch of us then.

"As you all know, Shadis' and my request of changing the expedited formation was approved not long ago. We’re planning to use them for the next expedition, so if we capture them soon, they’ll be able to try it out too"

"We’re going to the Underground tomorrow morning, be ready by then" Erwin moved his own orbs to your, deepening his glare "And I don’t want anyone to be late, got it?" Clicking your tongue, you nodded and stared at the floor when you felt his intense glare on you. Tomorrow's gonna be long day

;;

You currently stood - again - besides Mike, however, this time you weren’t in the usual boring walls of the HQ but walking down the dark streets of the Underground. You knew the journey to find those thugs wouldn’t be easy, but didn’t expect to be this complicated. Firstly, you learn that being woman here is not easy, you hated the disgusting looks filthy men were sending your direction. No, of course their glares didn’t scare a woman part of the Survey Corps, but you couldn’t help but imagine how a defenseless young woman could survive down here, and it send chills down your spine.

Then, there’s children literally starving begging for food or even fighting for it, you never heard that living in the Underground was this hard. Sadly you couldn’t help them at all and this for a reason left a feeling of guilt down the pit of your stomach and it didn’t help that the thieves you were supposed to catch could appear in any moment, right now is a perfect situation, when you’re lost in your thoughts.

Just then, a mysterious harsh breeze of wind made you jump in your spot, aggressively interrupting your thoughts and when you looked for what or who provoked the rush of wind inside a closed space like this your eyes widened when you met your objective "[Y/N], I’m pretty sure it’s them! Let’s just chase them with a low profile like Erwin told us, they probably saw them already" Mike said to you with a low tone and you just nodded and followed no far away from him.

They situated theirselves by attaching their 3DMG on the roof of the city and not far behind, you could see that Erwin was already keeping a track. Following Mike's movements, you regrouped with the rest of your squad. You were sure that the group of three already took notice of all of your squad so you just waited for Erwin's orders. About 50 meters separated your squad and the thugs so you weren’t able to hear if they were talking among themselves or not, but their rushed, annoyed looks and frantic mouths moving confirmed that they were planning something out.

Not long after, the shorter male of the group took the lead and attached his hooks to a bridge nearby and flew forwards the bottom part, passing through it with speed followed by his companions. It was impressive, to say at least, but not hard enough to keep the rest of us behind and actually, we were able to be nearer them this time. Once again, the leader this time decided to double back a rock pillar that was in front of us. You deduced they were trying to confirm if all of you were actually Military Polices, since usually your skill levels suppressed theirs.

Suddenly, the group of three separated themselves. Fortunately, Erwin always had a step towards and already assigned each of you other one of the thugs, with yourself chasing after the taller man, Furlan Church. He gave a sharp turn to your right. Erwin looked back to meet your eyes with determination, knowing what it meant, you just nodded and started to chase after the blond thug.

For the next two minutes, he didn’t seem to have the opportunity to escape at all. There wasn’t any type of obstacle that could slow you down and you already could feel the state of irritation coming from his presence when seeing that you kept coming closer. In desperation, he aimed his piston-shot towards a random house you hoped it was inhabited and fired the grapple hooks. You weren’t far behind so it wasn’t difficult to determine what he was about to do from your camp of vision. For the time you rolled inside the house through the glass-less window, the grey-eyed man was the near the other entrance that would lead to his run out.

However, you had other plans for him, and before he could even lift up his arm, you fired your grapple hook to the wall, mere inches away from his face. That apparently startled him and since he wasn’t far away from the other window, he fell backwards the ground outside. You cursed lowly, and ran towards the window looking down when you heard a loud crash downwards and eyes widening by the sight, a messy Furlan laying on heavy looking wood boxes, eyes tightly closed in pain, it seemed that the rammed into them when he fell down. Not wanting to lose this advantage, you quickly stepped down besides him and grabbed his much taller form by the hood hanging from his neck and ready to tie his hands behind his back.

"Ah.. I never expected to be caught like this" you just scoffed, ignoring his comment. When you were sure that the rope was tightly wrapped around his wrists, you forced him to stand up and began walking towards an uncertain direction. Uncertain until you heard various thuds and more crashes that sounded just like the infamous blades resting on your thighs. It wasn’t far away and by Furlan's irritated look, he seemed to recognize the other sounds as well. You just tugged his tied arms forwards and walked where you thought the sounds came from.

Minutes after, without barely blinking since you were keeping eyes open for any movement Furlan could make, you both finally reached the commotion and no far away another woman part of your squad, Lisa, managed to catch the younger girl, Isabel. You both crossed paths and saw that Mike and Erwin, both cornered Levi "Squad leader, are you alright?" You said with a loud to me once both of you were close enough. Erwin looked at our direction and just nodded "Yes. You both did well"

;;

The three thugs were captured, each of them had their wrists tied up with ropes plus sodden cuffs, to maintain their already blocked way to move and obliged to kneel in front of your squad leader. Erwin looked down, expecting o meet their glares, you stood no far away with Mike, in case any of them tried to do something, which right now seemed like impossible "I have some questions to ask you" He lifted the piston-shot of one of the maneuver gears you were able to detach from their bodies and started his interrogation "Where did you get your hands on this?" Silence.

"Your vertical maneuvering skills were excellent. Who thought you?" Erwin’s words meet even more silence, however, in you opinion their glares were more than sufficient. You sweared that if Levi's glare could kill, he really would have done it... for about six times already. Erwin walked towards the latter mentioned, and you certainly worried a bit about his safety "You are the leader, right? Have you ever received military training?" The deadly state of the grey-eyed man just deepened and that seemed that it was enough silence for Erwin, he looked towards Mike who just nodded in affirmation. You knew what he will do, using force is the only way.

Mike grabbed Levi's hair and yanked him towards the filthy floor slamming his face into a puddle of mud in an aggressive manner. His other two friends gasped in surprise, their already hateful gazes just increasing with worry for their friend. Levi just winced a bit and looked up to Erwin once again "I'll ask again. Where did you learn vertical maneuvering?" Silence just covered the ambience, and you noticed how Erwin was losing some of his massive patience, Levi didn’t seem way too well neither.

"We didn’t learn it form anyone! You think we’re gonna let a civil servant push us around?!" Isabel suddenly said. You jumped in surprise and moved from were you stood to walk near Isabel and Furlan, you would expect anything front those two "We figured it out so we could survive in this dump! Anyone who doesn’t know what sewage tastes like couldn’t understand!" You were keeping a somewhat low likeness towards the three of them, but Furlan's words made you remember how these people lived and growled up, how much of the kids starved to death before even thinking of having a childish dream and you felt compassion invading your body for them. Mentally slapping yourself about how heartless you have been, even if you never voiced out loud the thoughts lingering your mind mere seconds ago.

"My name is Erwin Smith. What are your names?" The blonde, satisfied by their answers, tried to ask Levi again, but he didn’t receive something much different. Mike taking the sign and repeated his last actions, this time you felt bad seeing how the raven struggled to catch his breath and how his ego is being broken in front of his own friends and strangers he didn’t want to know about "I applaud your determination. But keep it up, and we’ll move on to your comrades" you knew what you should do now, but still hesitated a bit. With shaky hands, you grabbed Isabel's shaggy hair softly and neared one of your blades into her small neck. You knew that you wouldn’t kill them, but it still left an uneasy feeling.

"If you’re gonna do it, do it!!" The girl exclaimed in anger, making your eyebrows frown, was your compassion that obvious? Was it that obvious to make Isabel risk her life knowing that she’s actually not doing so? Where is your usual cold behavior towards thugs like them? And Levi’s surprised and worried look that you were able to catch from the corner of your eye didn’t help at all however it lasted seconds since he moved his eyes to Erwin, hatred covering his orbs "You bastard..."

"What’s your name?" Erwin tried again. You still didn’t understand why he asked for it, when you remember he was to one that handled all of you their information papers. You just assumed that he wanted to keep a low profile and brushed the thought aside.

"... It’s Levi" His voice still sounded raspy and you could see how kept struggling when catching his breath.

"Levi, would you make a deal with me?"

The man looked up in surprise, eyes widened and confusion adorned his face. It was nice to see a different expression on his sharp features "Deal...?" Erwin nodded and continued with his proposition "I won’t ask about your crimes. In return, you will lend me your strength, and join the survey corps" Levi's confusion turned into a more incredulous one, and somehow, you understood dumbstruck state "If I refuse...?" He asked lowly, probably knowing what Erwin's answer will be "I turn you over the military police. Considering your crimes, I don’t think you or your comrades can expect decent treatment"

"Choose whichever path you wish"

Levi looked at his side, meeting Isabel's and Furlan's determination. His pupils looked up to you, and you felt your body freeze on the spot. He only growled moving his gaze down the puddle of mud with irritation only to meet Erwin back again.

"Very well, I’ll join the Surver Corps"

;;

Tray in hand, you stood in middle of the room. Eyes searching for a certain brunette and they’re usual companion to sit with, but finding no one instead. Alone, you sat in a random empty table, and waited for Hanji and their squad.

It wasn’t that you weren’t fond of your own squad. But as usual, they weren’t there neither. Erwin passing most of his time inside his office or training. Mike whenever the fuck Erwin is at the moment and the rest had more friends they are bonded with.

Hanji Zoë is an enthusiastic person, it was hard to not know or have talked with them. Is like they have a goal to befriend everyone joining the Survey Corps. And at first, you thought you would have never want to have any type of friendship with them since they’re way too loud for liking but look at you, impatiently waiting for their arrival.

Then there’s Moblit Berner who is a total sweetheart. You suppose that he’s a close friend of Hanji, since they spend most of their time time together and neither of them being here eating dinner with you, reinforces that question.

"They’re probably in that closed library where no sunlight hits and lost their control of time... again" you murmured. It wasn’t unusual that you are sitting alone by yourself, your hard capacity to maintain conversations with anyone is enough to make you give up on that. And the little amount of persons that managed to get on your heart are always occupied with someone or something.

You always stood like a sore thumb in any pair you went and spent your ridiculously large amount of free time with. Erwin & Mike, two tall as fuck blue-eyes blondes and then Hanji & Moblit, their conversations always being about trivial topics you barely knew about. However that didn’t mean you didn’t fully enjoy your time with them. Hanji always tried to make you laugh once a day, since 'you won’t be able to show any expressions if you kept having that resting bitch face' and somehow, they succeed every time.

But you really did want to have a larger comfort bubble with a larger amount of friends. You’ve been a scout for several years already, and haven’t found no one as close as your previous mentioned friendships, mayhap two or three acquaintances and a few talks with your squad companions but that’s all. You urged of human communication.

You waited for Hanji and Moblit with your cold and now empty plate under you for nearly an hour, you were growing impatient of the looks some new cadets were giving you since you literally had no reason to stay in the room if you finished your food or maybe is your R.B.F scarier than usual?

You sighed standing up and walked towards the headroom you shared with most of the women, ready to call it a day but stopped when you heard rushed and low voices down the hall. Moving your head slowly to take a peek, the thieves you captured a week ago were standing in the middle of the narrow hall with irritated expressions.

"I’ll go! You’ll probably make a mess if you even think about entering his office"

"Huh?! You’re saying I’m not capable to do so?!"

"..."

"Levi!! Who do you think will do a better job?"

"We don’t even know if that damn paper is there, but-"

"Levi's opinion doesn’t matter here, he’ll probably just say me anyways"

Paper? Office? Are they talking about the Commander’s office? Why would they enter though...?

"Hey! Of course it matters, if I wasn’t here you two would probably rip your heads off"

A silence with a deep breath.

"Furlan’s going"

"Aw, c'mon! I wanted to see if he used a comb to style his brows!"

Not the Commander’s, but Erwin's office

"If I found something like that, I would have told both you, dumbass"

You heard them walking towards your hiding position, so hurriedly you passed in front of them as if you didn’t heard nothing, just in your way to have a deep sleep in your hard as a rock bed.

They easily got startled by your presence, and you couldn’t stop feeling their sharp gaze on you "Everything okay?" You decided to ask, maybe showing a kinder side helps them feel more comfortable.

"Yeah, we just... just got lost!" Isabel said with a nervous grin, still looking stiff thanks to your surprise appearance second ago.

"Ah, really? I know the headquarters from head to toe, I can help you" You answered with sincerity, waiting for them and if they’re willing to ask you.

"Eh, uhm... yeah of co-"

"No, we'll manage" Levi interrupted Isabel's affirmation, irritation starting to form in his expression, narrowing his eyes in suspicion and cold eyes meeting yours. You would have lied if you said you didn’t feel chill down your spine but you just nodded, waved goodbye at them and restarted you walk to your now changed direction.

;;

Furlan huffed, closing the door behind him in a slow movement "Damnit... there’s nothing"

"Nothing?"

The young man standing in front of Erwin's door office jumped in surprise and for you amusement a high pitched shriek. But his scared expression didn’t last long "W-what around you doing here! Wasn’t it enough to make my caught pathetic?"

You just chuckled and smiled at him, Furlan just scoffed, but you were able to see the little light of confusion adorning his light grey-orbs "Shouldn’t I be asking that? Erwin is my squad leader after all" Furlan limited himself to blush in embarrassment after his realization "I just wanted to talk with him, is that wrong?"

"It is not, but you shouldn’t enter his office without permission" and before he could answer you back, you started to talk again "But it’s okay, this happened my first time too, y’know?" Furlan just laughed awkwardly and nodded "haha.. yeah"

"I gotta go but um, if are here to talk to Erwin you should go back" He said turning around and walking out as fast as he could without looking suspicious.

"They’re so awful at hiding it.. maybe asking Erwin to watch their training tomorrow is a good idea"

Next Chapter

[moonstruckbucky]

Come Over (5/7)

Summary: You’re new to New York City. Fresh out of post-grad and wanting a change of pace, and this change comes in more ways than one.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader. Neighbor AU.

Warnings for Chapter: There’s some fluff and a quick look into Bucky’s head.

Notes: We’re getting into the thick of it here, folks. There’s only two more parts after this and I can’t even believe it. Feedback is always appreciated! Enjoy x

P.S. - I almost forgot the goddamn Read More again.

Series Masterlist //  Main Masterlist 

The rest of October passes by in a chilly blur and in surprising quiet. It’s because, you learn, that Sharon is away again for work. You can’t help but notice the change in Bucky; he smiles more, doesn’t appear to walk on eggshells with anything, and you’re back to your regular coffee dates. You know it should set off alarm bells in your head that he’s so closed off when she’s around, but then you realize Bucky probably doesn’t have a lot of friends due to Sharon’s obvious insecurities and probable control issues. So you ignore it, allow yourself to feel bad that the only time Bucky can be himself is when she’s away.

The tension from the month before is gone, and so you choose not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Bucky’s apologized again and again for obviously upsetting you by being loud, and you find no choice but to accept each one when he looks at you with those goddamn eyes.

It’s during one of your weekend coffee dates that Bucky opens up a little bit more. About himself, his relationship, how Sharon went from being an amazing woman when they first started dating to now, where he barely recognizes her most days. 

“Her jealousy is out of control,” he sighs, shaking his head. He looks off to the window in your kitchen, lost in his head as if he’s trying to pinpoint the exact moment his relationship took a nosedive. Unthinking, you reach across the table and lay your hand on his and his eyes snap to first you and then your joined hands.

“Have you talked to her? See if you can find out why she’s started being like this? There has to be a reason…”

You can see the minute Bucky gets defensive; his jaw locks and he sits up, yanks his hand out from under yours. “I haven’t cheated, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

You hold your hands up innocently. “I wasn’t insinuating anything, Bucky. I was just asking. Sometimes these kinds of issues are deep-seated and stay dormant for a while before coming out. When did you start noticing her jealousy spiking?”

He blows out a breath and shakes his head, his long hair hanging in his face. You have to clench your fist to resist reaching out and brushing it aside. Bucky leans forward on your small table, chin resting on his hands as he thinks. His eyes light up in realization and he seems almost bashful now. Your curiosity piques.

“A-About the time you moved in,” he admits quietly, and then hurries to add, “I-I-I mean, there were other, smaller instances, I guess. But it was just, you know, her arm around my waist or some sudden PDA. Nothing huge. But, god don’t take this the wrong way, but when I told her you’d moved in, it’s like some kind of flip was switched. We ended up fighting about it.”

“I...I heard,” you mutter, twirling your coffee mug. Bucky looks horrified and you hurry to placate him. “I couldn’t hear specifics. Just...just your raised voice, that’s all.”

Groaning, he slides a hand down his face. “Some neighbor I am, huh?”

You smile sadly and shake your head. “Bucky, you’re a great neighbor. People argue. It’s fine.”

He meets your eyes, gratitude shimmering within the blue depths, and his gaze holds you there. Heart beating erratically in your chest, you realize this is a moment. It’s magnetic, the pull between you, and it takes an exorbitant amount of effort to break the stare and shatter the tension. Bucky shifts in his seat and focuses on his coffee cup.

“More coffee?” you ask because you need to fill the silence with something. At his nod, you scoot back from the table and refill both mugs. Take your seat and try to bring back some lightness to the room. “So Thanksgiving is coming up. You and Sharon have any fun plans?”

He scoffs bitterly as he stirs his coffee. Body rigid and an eye roll barely suppressed. “She’s away for work so, I’m on my own.”

“For Thanksgiving? That’s unacceptable. You should come spend it with my family. Clint will be there, and maybe Sam. I’m sure they’d love to have you.”

The invitation is out before you can really think too much on it. It feels natural, asking him to join you. Feels too natural if you let yourself think on it, but you don’t. It’s out there between you and you watch Bucky for his reaction.

He’s surprised. But he wants to say yes, you can see it on his face, but he shakes his head. “I couldn’t intrude on your family like that.”

It saddens your heart to think Bucky would be intruding. For people who aren’t really that close, you’ve shared a lot of personal baggage between you, and the thought of Bucky spending a holiday meant to be spent with family alone hardens your resolve. You won’t accept ‘no’, can’t. Not when Sharon doesn’t seem to care about being home with him.

“You won’t be.” You’re sure of this. Clint loves Bucky, and you’re damn sure the rest of your family will too. “You’re coming with me. No ifs, ands, or buts. Got it?”

Bucky thinks better of arguing with you. Sighs and nods his head like an obedient child but with a quick smile that says he’s grateful for the invitation. The two of you settle back into your chairs, the air between you both light but with a lurking tension that bubbles just beneath the surface.

The weeks leading up to Thanksgiving are hectic, manic, whatever word that describes ultimate bedlam you prefer. Stark Industries is closing on a new deal to allow for human trials of a new “super-suit” Tony has dubbed it, and it’s crucial that all ducks are in their designated rows to minimize liability risks. It’s a tornado of paperwork, phone calls with lawyers and insurance companies, emails back and forth with the physicists assigned to the project.

It’s a mess, and it leaves you haggard, exhausted, and more than a little cranky. You’ve accidentally snapped at Wanda more times than you can count, and if you hadn’t been paying attention, Tony might’ve been at the end of one of your fits as well. Fortunately, you’d just managed to catch yourself after he’d reminded you—again—about the write-up due to the project managers before the holiday.

It’s late the Tuesday before the holiday when you return home—nearly eight o’clock, and you’re about ready to collapse. You feel drunk on exhaustion as you stagger down the hall barefoot, your stupid heels hanging over your index finger. Eyelids heavy, like two lead weights are weighing them down, you stifle a yawn in your elbow. One of your heels goes clattering to the floor.

“Fuck,” you hiss, groaning long and loud as you bend over to retrieve it and your back protests the movement. You don’t realize you’re in front of Bucky’s door until it opens, and your neighbor, in all his pajama-clad muscled glory, frowns down at you.

“Y/N? What the hell happened to you?”

You sigh and close your eyes, lean your head against your knee. “Thanks, Buck. You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

He rolls his eyes before stooping to wrap a hand around your arm. Gently he helps you to your feet, and you can’t help it when you stagger just slightly into his body.

“Whoa, easy there,” he coos, steadying you. His body is unnaturally warm where it presses up against yours and for a second, you let yourself bask in the heat. A moth to a flame. Wings scorched, but you’ll gladly burn.

“Sorry,” you sigh after a few moments, shaking your head, “it’s been a busy past couple of weeks and I’m about ready to collapse.”

“C’mon, gimme your keys. Let’s get you inside.”

He slides your keychain from your hand, opens your door, leads you in. You whine at the sight of your couch, but before you can faceplant into the cushions, Bucky’s steering you away.

“B-But,” you stutter on a whine, reaching out dramatically, childishly, for the piece of furniture.

“Mm, nuh-uh. First, comfy clothes. Then I’m making you something to eat. And then you’re going to bed.”

“Bucky.” You’re still whining, but you’re far too tired to care. Bucky sits you down on your bed, lunges forward when you tip backward in an attempt to climb under your duvet. He keeps you upright, and you pout. “Bucky.”

“Patience. Which drawer is your pajama drawer?” He sighs when he glances over his shoulder, sees you curling up in your blankets in your work attire. Averts his eyes when your skirt rides halfway up your thighs.

“Third from the top,” is your sleepy, mumbled reply paired with a half-assed lift of your arm. The drawer slides open then shut, and you grunt as fabric hits you in the face.

“Get changed and meet me in the kitchen.”

“You’re awful bossy,” you snark as you sit up, but he’s gone, and you can already hear him banging around in the kitchen.

When you’re finished, you step out of your room to see Bucky bent over the stove with a box of pasta in his hand. He dumps the entire contents of the box into the pot, stirs, and then glances up when you appear in his line of vision. He smiles softly. 

“You look exhausted.”

“Yeah,” you sigh as you sit at the island, dig your hands into your eyes as if to ward off said exhaustion. “We’re ready to move onto trials with one of the suits and Tony’s been running me ragged but fortunately he gave me tomorrow off because of the holiday Thursday so…”

“Good. You should rest a lot tomorrow.”

“You’re still coming Thursday, right?” you ask tentatively. You’re trying not to come across too eager, but Bucky’s sly little grin tells you you kind of failed.

“Of course. It’s definitely better than spending it alone.” There’s a bitter undertone in his voice, but he’s moving on before you can press on it.

You eat in the living room; Bucky throws on some true crime documentary that only holds your attention for about ten minutes. Between the comfy clothes, the blanket you’re under, and the warmth of the food in your belly, you’re out like a light, head cocked uncomfortably against the arm of the couch.

Bucky glances over, does a double take and smiles softly. Mouth open, eyelids fluttering. It shouldn’t make his heart race, yet he thinks it might give out with how fast it’s beating, how his chest vibrates with its beat. He gently grabs the nearly-empty bowl from your limp fingers, which curl up and into the blanket, tucking it under your chin as you roll over and shove your face into the back cushion of your couch.

It’s endearing, despite the deep circles Bucky can see even in the dimmed lighting in the room. Setting both bowls on the coffee table, he wipes his hands on his sweatpants; he’s nervous, has never been this close, much less in such a vulnerable situation. Your warm against him as he scoops you up; his conscience would never let him rest if he’d left you to sleep on the couch. He feels his heartbeat stutter when you curl into him like you’d curled into your blanket, nose buried against his chest. He hopes the rapid thudthudthud of his heart doesn’t wake you, prays you stay oblivious to the way you’re making him feel. Your nightshirt slides up and his fingers touch your bare skin. It’s like setting fire to flint—a spark, and then all-consuming flame as it slithers and writhes up his arm and into his belly, his chest. He knows his cheeks are a thousand shades of red; he’s never had such a visceral reaction to touch before, even when he’d met Sharon and still knew who she was. 

He side-steps into your room, avoids bonking your head or your dangling feet against the frame. Blankets pulled back, your soft and pliant body laid underneath. A soft sigh that slides between your parted lips, a content smile as you roll onto your belly, tug your second pillow to your chest, a visible deflate. Bucky’s immobile, feet planted so firmly into your floor he wonders if he’d grown roots there. He knows he should leave, knows he’s a creep for remaining unmoving, but he can’t look away from you.

Your eyelids still flutter, your mind lost in some dream that he’s yearning to hear about. How did he fall so deeply?

Like dragging lead through water, he begins to walk from your room, freezes when your lips mumble out something that sounds oddly like Bucky. He swallows around the lump in his throat, the rising guilt in his belly that burns like acid. He leaves the door open a crack, cleans your empty bowls, and leaves because he can’t bare the gnawing in his gut, the want, the longing, the absolute need for you to destroy him.

Chapter Six

[justaniche]

Never Have I Ever...(accidentally) let someone meet Rebecca

heres the link to chapter 2 on ao3 

let me know what you think and happy reading!

word count: 4,622

His talk with Devi shifted from the forefront of Paxton’s mind soon after he got home. Once he finally got home and was ready to collapse, Rebecca found her way into Paxton’s room knowing of his arrival despite his exhausted attempt to hide it and with her came several and I mean  several  sketches of clothing she had drawn and that meant Paxton had to wake up and fast.

One time, Paxton, following a long day, had fallen asleep an hour into one of Rebecca’s ventures to bounce fashion ideas off of him and he had to work for weeks to make up for it. He loved his sister to death, but he was so tired he couldn’t help it and now he learned to keep energy drinks in their house for moments just like this one. In a movement perfected with repetition, Paxton grabbed a bang energy drink from his side dresser and down it while Rebecca pulled drawing after drawing out of the roll she brought with her.

Paxton hadn’t gotten in as late as he had in the past today so Rebecca had time to show him a good portion of her ideas before they had to start their movie so that they could get some sleep. Rebecca showed him a golden dress with a sequence pattern going down the left side, a take on a plaid skirt, paired with a shirt, she even shows him shoes and accessories to go with each individual outfit among many more. Becca wanted to be a fashion designer and hoped to soon apply to fashion school but she had to complete her portfolio first and did not hesitate to enlist Paxton’s help to do this.

After Becca finished showing Paxton all she wanted for the night, they settled onto the couch to watch the movie that had caught Becca’s eye 2 days prior,  After The Ball . The movie included an identity switch, a ball, and a touch of romance. It's a regular Cinderella tale with a twist, the protagonist was an aspiring fashion designer! Paxton could evidently see why it caught Rebecca’s eye. The movie ended rather quickly with Rebecca and Paxton engulfed deeply into the story although the latter tried to hide it. With the energy drink’s buzz leaving Paxton’s mind, his exhaustion followed and he was yawning despite himself. He and Rebecca exchanged goodnights and went to bed.

The next few days went off like normal, school was still new off of summer’s high and students and teachers alike needing time to bounce back, school work was nonexistent. The classes consisted of syllabi and classroom rules and expectations. This caused widespread boredom but fortunately, on this day, lunch approached rapidly and with lunch starting, Paxton found himself in the center of it all with his group of friends inside what students called  The Hotpocket.

Lunch unfolded as it always did, after they finished whatever lunch they had that day the soft hum of their light discussions broke out into full-fledged banter and laughter. Accompanying that laughter was parts of the aforementioned group messing around and sometimes engaging in ridiculous activities. Today that activity was Trent and Marcus, another close friend of theirs, battling with their lanyards. They were being dramatic as ever holding their IDs like nunchucks and swinging them about. Paxton was entangled in a lighthearted conversation with Devin, stopping on occasion to eye Trent and Marcus and laugh at their behavior.

Paxton was looking away when he heard someone exclaim “Ow. Goddamn it”. The entire Hotpocket looked up to cringe at the scene that was, apparently, a girl getting, accidentally, slapped in the face with a lanyard. Paxton’s jaw dropped slightly.

“Did I just hit you?” Marcus asks tentatively

“It’s cool” The reply from the girl, Devi, came rather fast considering her reaction from just moments ago. She adjusted her grips on her backpack straps, “Hey, Paxton, can I talk to you?”

Paxton turned towards his friend, giving him a pat and chuckling through an ‘i’ll be back’ while shifting up to stand. “Okay,” his face straightened as he followed Devi out of earshot from his friends.

“So I thought I would follow up on our conversation from the other day and ask if you wanted to hang out later?” The sentence was cool leaving her mouth, none of the ever-building anxiety leaked from her words.

Paxton had to think quickly to what Devi was referencing but it came to him milliseconds later and he blinked through his realization, “Oh, oh, you mean, uh, like, have sex?” he gave a soft smile hoping to give off a comforting vibe despite the twinge of uncomfortableness brewing in his gut. “Sure, uh, maybe” he paused to think “after school today at my place?”

Devi’s calm facade seemed to shatter and the word tripped from her mouth, eloquence long forgotten, “Today?” Her mind blanked with panic for a split second and the words  TOO SOON  flooded her brain. She hadn’t expected this.

“Yeah.”

“That’s super soon, which is great.” Devi had a feeling she was more so trying to convince herself than anyone else. “Soon is great, it’s just…” an answer popped into her head, “I have orchestra after school today, so I can’t.” she had to stall, to prepare herself but couldn’t for too long. It was a miracle that Paxton had agreed in the first place. If she messes up he could change his mind so she mindfully finished “But maybe later this week?”

Paxton wanted to laugh but held it in, he opened his mouth to answer but just exhaled. His charming smile ever-present as he answered while backtracking returning once again to the Hotpocket effectively ending the conversation. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He turned, striding away.

“Okay, great” Devi called, “We’ll compare calendars tomorrow or something. We’ll figure it out. Later, skater.”

Paxton had already begun to join Marcus and Trent in their makeshift game when he registered Devi’s continued speech, “What?” He asked but she tucked her head, shamefully, and walked away.

~~~

Succeeding lunch, the day sped up considerably. With the commencement of the last class of the day and everyone going to their lockers and then out the door, Paxton was joining them. Today there was no swim practice so Paxton was, thankfully, headed home early. That was his thought until of course his English teacher thought now would be a great time to talk to him about his supposed “lack of participation”. This normally would be something that Paxton would care about and attempt to contemplate but not now, not today when he was getting an early day to relax and who knows what else with this extra time.

It was probably 15 minutes max, but to Paxton, it felt like a lifetime. He was at his car door about to get in as someone called him from his right.

“Hey. I can actually come now. The scheduling conflict I had cleared up.” Devi stated, hands gripping her bookbag’s straps.

Paxton didn’t miss a beat, a split second earlier and he would have cut her off. He found himself buzzed with some semblance of happiness for the company. “Cool. Get in.”

“Okay.” Devi smiled and hurried t0 the passenger side of the car and climbed it as Paxton got settled and they set off.

When they got to Paxton’s house, he got Devi inside before his phone rang and he left the garage to answer the phone. The conversation was rather brief and as it was concluding Paxton re-entered the garage still speaking Japanese into his phone. He hung up.

“Sorry. That was my grandpa,” Paxton clarified, “Can I get you a drink?” he was already making his way over to the mini-fridge he kept in the garage before she could answer. He knew how these matters, if not handled carefully, could easily tip from comfortable to awkward if he didn’t mind sharp, and that was the last thing he wanted with Devi.

“Sure. Do you have any chocolate--” Devi stopped, rather abruptly, when Paxton spun around to face her, beer in hand. She grabbed it despite herself. “Ah. Beer. You read my mind.”

“All right. Well, my mom will be home soon, so...better get to it” Paxton gave a half shrug before stripping off his shirt from the bottom. If there was anything about himself that Paxton was securely confident in, it was his physical appearance. Being that Paxton was a swimmer, he could not afford to think about how others would feel about his appearance at every opportunity. Giving into potential insecure would only throw him off mentally during swim practices and comps, Paxton resolved himself a long time ago that it would help no one. So he tended to, or at least tried to, not think about it every time he showed a part of his body. Plus it’s not like any girl he was interested in who got far enough with him complained, thus taking off his shirt was no big feat and he did so without hesitation.

Devi was sort of freaking out at this point but was doing a great job of not showing it. That was until Paxton’s shirt came off. The beer she was sure she had a good grip on slipped and hit the floor with a thud. Paxton’s eyes followed it, slight confusion on his face but he didn’t comment.

“Oh.” the urge to explain the state of his chest took over, “Just so you know, I have to shave my chest for swimming, so the stubble might, like irritate your skin a little bit.” He lifted her limp hand to his chest for emphasis moving her hand to feel, he looked down following their joined hands, and then looked up making eye contact with Devi. He gave a small smile and she gaped.

“Oh, God”

Her mouth opened and closed for a few moments before her brain reconnected with her mouth. She had just touched the chest of Paxton Hall-Yoshida! Fab and Eleanor were gonna flip! But wait, her mind was now at red alert at the close proximity between her and Paxton that she’s just now processing. And so she did what any normal person would in her situation, she panicked.

“You know what? I just remembered. I have to go home,” She snatched her hand back like it was on fire leaving Paxton surprised and his hand hanging in the air as she patted his shoulders for good measure, “because I have a package coming that I need to sign for.” she nodded trying to regain her composure, it wasn’t working.

Paxton nodded and chuckled as he and Devi switched positions in her attempt to get to the door, he shoved his hands into his pockets, “Word?”

“Yeah, It’s medication for my mom’s...polio.” What the heck Devi? Polio, really?

Paxton could only nod through Devi’s hidden meltdown.

“Yeah, so…” She slowly retreated to the door through her word vomit when she misstepped and a sharp pain spread at the base of her leg, “Ow. Goddamn it!”

“Oh, shit. Are you okay?” Paxton’s stance broke as he rushed forward to the injured girl. She leapt back before he could reach.

“Yep, yep. I’m fine” Devi’s aim to reassure fell short as Paxton’s concerned eyes looked closer.

“Are you sure? You’re...bleeding.” he gestured to her leg

“It’s chill. I’ll see you tomorrow” humiliation ate at Devi’s very being. She had majorly fucked up, in various departments and she was out the door before Paxton could utter another word.

Paxton was extremely bewildered and it showed on his face. With Devi gone the garage fell silent. Paxton stepped back from the door, considered his options. He could go after her or stay home and like she said, see her the following day. He weighed it and decided against trying to catch up to her. She really did seem like she just wanted him to think she was fine and to leave it alone, he wanted to respect that. His gaze swept the floor before it landed on the theorized perpetrator. It was sharpish, in a box on the floor, and sticking out in his direction; one of Paxton’s old swim trophies. He crouched down with a sigh as he picked up the award and rolled it around in his hands examining it. At the very tip was a trace amount of blood, where it had punctured Devi’s cafe. Paxton could not help but think about how strange that was, try as he had to make the whole interaction go as smoothly as possible there was no predicting that and therefore no thwarting it. With the knowledge that there was nothing Paxton could do to help the situation with Devi gone, Paxton shrugged his shirt back on and proceeded with his day.

~~~

Contrary to what Devi said and to what Paxton thought, Paxton did not see Devi the entire school day. He found himself expecting to see her somewhere but always fell short when she was nowhere to be seen. The end of the day came and once again no practice, coach explained it as a new regime he was trying out, sorting out on days and off days and said it would vary until he decided what worked. Paxton was restless after two days and decided on a run after he got home.

He was finishing up his 2-mile run when he saw Devi pacing in front of his house, he ran up behind her. “Sup,” he panted, her response was a scream as he had seemed to startle her. He smirked faintly, “I’m just finishing up a run,” Paxton began. He wanted to get her talking, particularly about why he found her in front of his house talking to herself. He was vaguely relieved to see her but ignored that.

“Okay, cool” she crossed her arms, her demeanor chill. “So do you need to stretch or something, or are you good to just go into your garage and have sex with me?” The words marched from her mouth clear and confident. Let us take a minute to appreciate both the awkwardness of that sentence and applaud the boldness of it.

“Um…” Caught off guard Paxton frowned deeply into his shrug, “I’m good to go to the garage.” She struts passed, her head held high, and as soon as she did Paxton swiftly lifted his shoulder to sniff his armpit, reassuring himself that he did in fact not smell. He pivoted and followed her inside.

Unfortunately, the blind confidence coming from Devi’s words did not translate well into action. That is how they found themselves sitting on Paxton’s couch, Devi’s arm along the back of it, their vicinity too close to not be at least talking and the tension was building. Paxton looked to her for a move and Devi jumped on it.

“So, here we are…” she weirdly stroked from his collarbone down, the tone from outside back on, “about to pleasure each other.”

Paxton did not know if he should be weirded out by her word choice but Devi was proving, with every meeting, to be not like any of the other girls he tends to interact with. He nodded vaguely but when she tapped his nose twice he couldn’t stop his eyebrows from coming together, what exactly was happening?

“But before I can rock your world, I need to freshen up.”

Paxton couldn’t decide if Devi did not see anything wrong with this whole situation or if she was choosing to ignore it, that decision would dictate how he would respond so he needed to figure it out and soon.

“Can you point me in the direction of the ladies’ room? I wouldn’t wanna pee in the middle of doing it.” One point for ignoring the problems, zero for not seeing them. There’s no way she didn’t realize how that sounded coming from her mouth but her face gave no emotion but certainty.

Paxton wasn’t sure if he should respond to the second part but did anyway although the words came slowly full of apprehension, as he lifted his finger in the direction of the bathroom. “Yeah, that’d be bad. First door on the right.”

“Thanks” With that Devi was gone.

Paxton breathed a sigh of relief, he couldn’t think properly with her here. She came back on a new day seemingly ready to have sex despite yesterday’s debacle. The odd opening word choice might have been endearing had it not been followed by a tense silence and more questionable sentence phrasing. It was quickly bordering on uncomfortable but awkwardness was a natural occurrence in sex so this was not a real reason to bail. He just had to wrap his head around her way of speaking and this would be fine. Paxton repeated this in his head, this will be fine.

Several minutes had gone by and Devi had yet to return. Paxton got up from his position on the couch to find her, she really should not have gotten lost. He checked the bathroom to no avail and stopped confused then he continued down the hallway when he heard voices coming from Rebecca’s room.

“I’m Devi. It’s nice to meet you.” Paxton turned glimpsing into Rebecca’s room to see her shaking hands with Devi. Irritation started to build in Paxton’s chest.

“What are you doing?” He directed at Devi but didn’t wait for a response before addressing his sister, “Becca, I thought you were at work.”

Paxton walked deeper into the room, “I switched with Lisa. She gets her braces off tomorrow.” Rebecca explained, satisfied with the answer he received, Paxton turned back to Devi.

“You said you were just going to the bathroom. What the hell?” The irritation was quickly turning to anger at Devi having met his sister. If people knew about Rebecca things could turn ugly, fast.

“Wait. Are you mad at me or something?” The disbelief Devi felt was clear on her face, what was the problem here?

Paxton simply didn’t respond, the budding anger brewing substantially at her attempt to play coy. He walked clear out of Rebecca’s room without a word, his expectation was clear, she was wearing her welcome thin, and she was to go with him outside.

“Why are you sneaking around my house and talking to my sister?” Paxton was comfortable to let his annoyance into his voice with his sister out of earshot.

“Was I not supposed to? I didn’t even know that you had a sister.” Her voice was soft as she tried to get him to understand the genuine misunderstanding but it was far from working and Paxton was too cross to see reason right now. Come on Devi, read the room. Paxton saw this as a jab,

“Oh, you think I’m hiding her now, because I’m embarrassed of her or something?” It was definitely a question but he certainly did not want a response. Seeing someone with his sister sent Paxton into a sort of panic mode. Devi was going to go to school and tell everyone all about his sister and hell if he wasn’t going to get in a lot of fights defending her.

“No, I didn’t say that,” Devi stated, slightly defensive at the attack.

“Okay.” He didn’t believe her for a second as he looked away trying to gather himself, he wanted her out now. He shook his head as the words came out his mouth spiced with venom, “I don’t think this is gonna work. All right, you should probably just go.”

Devi felt the air forced from her lungs leaving her speechless, she knew there was nothing more she could say and honestly couldn’t find the words either way. She gave him one last look before leaving.

Paxton went inside, not stopping to see her go, so many emotions flowed through him but most of all he was scared. Scared of what people would say and all because he didn’t think to make sure Rebecca wasn’t home before he invited Devi inside. He was scared because he loved his sister and could not deal with people and their ignorant words and dumbass opinions but he was helpless. Paxton could not stop people from talking, couldn’t stop Devi from sharing. And Paxton hated feeling this way, the powerlessness ate at him because he was meant to always take care of his sister. So he bundled the emotions up into something he could control, aggravation, and directed it at the person who triggered the emotions, Devi.

~~~

The day passed and Devi and the situation with Becca plagued Paxton’s mind. He was upset, yes but he was also rational enough to know that he couldn’t completely blame his feelings on Devi but he was at a loss. He had accused her and gotten mad entirely too quickly. He now felt stuck between his emotions and the urge to talk to her, to say what? Paxton wasn’t sure as of yet but he couldn’t speak to her, he didn’t know how to.

~~~

Morning classes were a bore especially considering Paxton’s mind was not exactly on task so he found himself once again immensely thankful for lunch’s social reprieve. Paxton was surrounded by his friends and he could almost forget that something was bothering him. That was until the person Paxton was consciously avoiding called to him.

“Paxton, can I talk to you?”

The liveliness among the group died briefly before light laughter spread between them. Paxton’s energy dropped but it did not climb with the rest of his friends’. Paxton looked over, face straight, his eyes met with the expectant Devi. She sort of looked how he felt but he couldn’t compel his body to make a move. His eyes dropped from hers unable to maintain the contact with shame stewing over his behavior. Without a word to Devi, Paxton turned to his friends and continued to converse.

~~~

There was a chance although slight that Paxton held on to that he would not run into Devi during lunch. That did not work out. There was no chance that he could go to their  shared  history class and not be at a close distance seeing as he sat in front of her. He sat in front of her trying to focus but his mind was racing and he was dumbfounded.

He still didn’t know what to say. The reasons to simply ignore her compiled, her meeting Becca, his anger, his reaction, and now him disregarding her at lunch. He was making this worse instead of better, he knew this but he couldn’t figure out how to fix it. He hated being mean to people, he hated to leave things unsettled, but this time was different. He couldn’t get a grasp on the words that would make this better, so he chose not to say anything at all.

~~~

That night Paxton laid down, progressively his pent up energy was coming to a head and it was coming out as restlessness. Once he had gotten home, Paxton ran until he was spent but still he was unable to relax. He had done a series of activities including various workouts, watching movies, and cooking but nothing was untangling the knot he felt in his chest. The complete stress he felt at being a jerk to Devi. Paxton had to do something. He felt okay at first but it has gotten so much worse in such a short span of time.

He had to talk to her, and not tomorrow, no he needed to apologize tonight, right now. So he grabbed his keys and started to walk to Devi’s house. Thinking about it in a way that makes sense, he would have reached her sooner had he driven but Paxton wasn’t thinking. He was going totally on emotion and that was causing him to act rashly. He made it to Devi’s house relatively quickly and he rang the doorbell before processing a thought. When his finger released the doorbell, he took a breath that finally felt like it entered his lungs. Within moments a woman was answering the door,

“Hello?” she began, despite the door being wide open. She appeared suspicious of the unknown young man who stood at her door at this hour. “Can I help you with something?”

“Um...yes I am sorry to bother you but is Devi home?” He realized at that moment the strangeness of his request and how it could be taken considering when he had shown up.

“Hold on” The woman disappeared, leaving her door open and Paxton again was left to wait.

Paxton took a breath to help calm himself then turned to face the door upon hearing the shuffling of footsteps and was relieved to see Devi at the door.

“Hey”

“Hi”

The greeting was short as they both caught sight of Nalini Vishwakumar, Devi’s mom, leaning along the top of the staircase, eavesdropping not so subtly. Devi could not have her mom listening in. Devi did not know what this conversation would entail but given the nature of her past talks with Paxton, her asking him to have sex with her after all, she could not have her mom hearing that. She would very possibly kill her.

“Let’s talk over here” Devi offered, walking outside and shutting the door behind her. Once they were at a safe distance, Paxton let what was bothering his mind spill out.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry for yesterday. I’m just kind of protective of my sister. She used to get bullied pretty bad...even by people I thought were my friends. I guess I’ve always been a little too protective. Like, when my parents first adopted her, I used to sit by her bed every night with a Nerf gun. That’s why our cat only has one eye now.” Paxton finished slowly, slightly embarrassed that a funny story had turned into him admitting to mistakenly hurting their family cat.

Paxton did not know why exactly he was sharing so much with Devi but it felt nice. It started to seem to Paxton that he did not think about every word when it came to Devi. It was weird but it was nice to share this with someone.

“Paxton, I would never make fun of your sister. She’s super fashionable and way cooler than me.” They were sharing a laugh at that blatantly honest remark when Devi’s mom knocking on the window interrupted them.

“No laughing.” She warned

“Mom!”

Paxton had to interject, recalling something Devi had said in his garage, he lifted his hand in greeting. “I’m so sorry about your polio, Doctor Vishwakumar.”

“What?” Nalini shot back but she didn’t care for an answer and that showed when she let the curtain fall.

“Well, thanks for the apology. If we’re cool, should we meet in your garage tomorrow?” Devi’s tone was hopeful but Paxton had other plans. He made a face.

“Actually, I don’t think that’s a good idea anymore. It just got weird, you know?” He felt a lot better and his voice took on a relaxed feel.

Despite the disappointment Devi felt, she played it off, she scoffed “Yeah, sure. I was gonna say the same thing too.”

Paxton smiled and Devi gave a small one back, “Okay.” His words felt final and they knew their conversation was coming to an end. “Well, uh...I’ll see you at school.”

Paxton, pleased with the way the talk went, began his trek home and Devi dejectedly retreated back into her house. Paxton was once again walking away from Devi, but this time there was a difference. This time, Paxton looked back.

[wafflewarriors]

A Rewrite of History

Chapter 3—Dead in the Water (Part 1)

You had read once or twice that drowning was one of the worst ways to die. You couldn’t disagree—it probably was. Which is why you were seriously considering skirting the next hunt.

Not that doomed airplanes were any better.

You were crossing your fingers that it would take the Winchesters at least a day to recoup. It was a feeble wish and you knew it; the most you’d probably given them was a headache, irritated eyes, and a greater desire to kill you.

You were going to have to try and wrap this case up quick, or you would be evading the Winchesters constantly.

Dead in the Water was an episode that didn’t wrap up in a neat little bow like the others did. There was nothing easy about a vengeful ghost without a body to burn, searching for vengeance by drowning the family of its killers. Nothing was really resolved; the Winchesters just shielded Lucas and his mom from suffering due to the sheriff and his friends’ mistakes.

This was going to be an impossible mission.

You thought back to the note that now crinkled in the bottom of your bag. To them, this wasn’t about getting it done right. This was about getting it done differently. And, God, if that didn’t just make you feel sick.

You needed to take a breather.

Fortunately, there was an exit just ahead, where you could take a small break at a gas station, maybe get a new water bottle at a nearby store.

Was your being here the work of angels, or the plot of something darker? More sinister?

Hell if you knew.

Every time you filled up your tank, that already small wad of money became smaller. There was only so long before you ran out—and what then? Would you become more than a car thief? Turn to pickpocketing? Credit card fraud?

Pshh. First of all, you had the grace of a rock, so pickpocketing was definitely off the menu, and second, who were you even kidding? You didn’t have the resources or the assets one needed to pull off credit card fraud. The Winchesters had Bobby Singer, for the love of all that is pure and holy. You had nobody.

You were dependent on the bastards that put you here, and you hated it.

Not five minutes later, you decided you had had enough of a rest. You needed to get to Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin. Preferably before the Winchesters. So you started up the car and took to the road again.

Just seven more hours to go.

///

When you finally arrived, you parked yourself at a local playground. It was vacant. The sun was setting, and it was probably curfew for most children.

You got out, stretching your legs and cracking your tightly wound back. You walked over to the public drinking fountain. Skeptically, you watched it as you filled your water bottle, making sure the water didn’t turn that nasty, haunted brown.

It didn’t. And… why would it? You weren’t the cursed one. The water wasn’t going to assault you. You were just so keyed up that it was making you paranoid.

Scoffing, you walked back to your car, climbed back into the driver’s seat, and grabbed a granola bar from the glove compartment. Then, you got to business. You snatched the notebook and pen.

You were going to need to make a plan.

Most of the episode, Sam and Dean had tried to get a sense of what was going on, what and why it was killing people, and how to stop it. You really only had to enact step three, which would hopefully save a lot of time.

So, with said extra time, you wrote down some proposals.

First off, you could just destroy the dam. It would rid of the obvious problem: the ghost itself. And it was already half done for you, right? If you could just blast the dam, wouldn’t it drain the lake faster?

You’d have to scope out the area and determine the consequences of it. The show never covered the full extent of the dam’s damage. You didn’t want to go and blow it out on impulse, and then destroy the town with flooding. That would be doing more harm than help.

And if you were going all out here, you could save Will from drowning in his sink. Not that you were sure how you’d pull that one off. By then, the Winchesters would already be in town.

The third most obvious idea was to stop Lucas from reaching the lake. If he hadn’t been there to touch the water, then the sheriff wouldn’t have sacrificed himself for the child in the first place.

And… lastly… god, maybe it was a stupid idea, but you could just salt the lake. You weren’t sure how productive that would be or how expensive, though. You’d need a lot of salt. Plus, you didn’t know the consequences of it. Would it affect the natural wildlife in the area? Would it impact drinking water? You weren’t sure.

If you had the time, you’d try and research it. But you weren’t Sam Winchester with a laptop under his pillow and endless wifi at his service. You just didn’t have the time. The Winchesters would be here by late morning, at the very least. That gave you the night to work in peace.

Noting that, you reviewed your list:

A. Destroy the dam.

B. Save Will from drowning in his sink.

C. Stop Lucas from touching the lake.

D. Salt the lake?

It wasn’t much to work with.

///

The dam turned out to be a bust. Figuratively and literally.

The dam was smack dab in the middle of the town. There was no way you could blast it without drawing unwanted attention, nor could you do so without flushing out half the town.

Besides, the floodgates were practically already opened. They were draining the damn thing already, just like the sheriff had said. Six months and there wouldn’t be a lake anymore. Except, you didn’t have six months. You had two days if you were lucky.

You left the dam pretty quick after that, your heart heavy in your chest and your mind battling over what to do. The worst thing? The only option was to wait until daylight. So much for avoiding the Winchesters. You’d have to be extra careful tomorrow.

It was like something was pulling you together.

Shaking your head, you dug out your list again, scribbling out Plan A.

A. Destroy the dam.

B. Save Will from drowning in his sink.

C. Stop Lucas from touching the lake.

D. Salt the lake?

Plan B, save Will.

It came to you then. Tomorrow, you could go and speak with the Carltons yourself. If you could befriend them, maybe you could weasel your way into the house and save them from the inside: something that the Winchesters couldn’t ever quite do.

But first, you needed a damn shower. You smelled of B.O. and smoke, and you’d have to clean up if you wanted to look at least presentable. You knew there was a truck stop on the outskirts of town with some showers.

It didn’t take long to get there. Two miles of dirt road led you to a solitary building with white concrete walls. The facility was quiet and tidy.

And, thank god, it supplied shampoo and conditioner. You had seriously forgotten the luxury of it all. You cleaned up and dried off pretty quick, though, knowing you still had a long night ahead of you.

You were going to need some better clothing, if you wanted to look the part. So to the supermarket it was.

You could feel the stares on you when you walked in, not that there were many shoppers this late at night. Clearance aisle wasn’t horrible. It wasn’t great either, but you found some cheap, acceptable clothing. It felt amazing to get out of those rags.

Your mind kept nagging you with one weird analogy: you to parking lots, was like the Winchesters to motels. Wasn’t that just peachy?

///

The next morning was a rough one. It was late, almost eleven, and your back was crying for you to sleep on a smoother surface. Even with the seat leaned back, it was no match to a bed. Not even close. It was cramped, uncomfortable, and restricting.

Vertigo was a bitch. A dull headache swam through your head and punched a heartbeat into your eardrums. It was probably a result of only eating pbj’s and granola bars, and relying on cheap daily vitamins for nutrients.

When it got to be around four o’clock, you decided to hit the road. Not that you wanted to. You were beginning to dread the sound of the car’s engine. It always meant you were driving yourself into dangerous or unsavory situations.

You missed home. So much that it physically hurt. It was like the world was against you: the bastards that put you here, the monsters, and even the Winchesters. No, especially the Winchesters.

At that moment, you really just wanted to drop the ball and quit. Flip off the angels or whatever the hell placed you here and screw everything. Screw the Winchesters. Just…

No.

Your best friend needed you, damn it. You had no idea what situation they were in, or what they were being put through—or they would be put through if you tried anything. The note had offered you limited information, and you had absolutely no leads on what put you here. Your best hope was the Winchesters.

And how well is that working out?

You drove past the park, which was now stark full of kids skipping and swinging around. You did a double take when you saw the Winchesters. Dean was speaking with Lucas while Sam was speaking with his mother. Well, that told you where you were in the show. Fortunately, that meant they were done talking with Will for the day. You were in the clear.

You pulled up to the Carlton’s a couple minutes later. He answered the door and offered you a halfhearted smile. “Oh, hi,” he said.

“Hi, um, I just wanted to say that I am so sorry for your loss. I heard…” You pointed toward the town, which was general enough to be just about any house. “I live a little while away, but I just wanted to say we’re praying for you and your family.”

“Oh. Um, thank you.” He shuffled in the doorway, a little flustered. “That means a lot to me. Would you… I’m just about to make dinner. Would like to join us?”

Well, that was unexpected. “Oh, no, I couldn’t disturb you like that. I’m sure your father is so torn up… I couldn’t imagine.” You were crossing your fingers that he insisted you come in. A real meal sounded like heaven.

“It’s really no trouble.” Then, he stammered, “I mean, I… I could kind of use a friend right about now, if you don’t mind.”

Your heart hurt. This poor kid. “Oh, sure! I’m not too busy. I can certainly stay if that would make you feel any better.” You fully intended on keeping your word this evening. You knew exactly what it was like to need a friend right about now.

He opened the door wider to let you in, and you shyly entered. “You’re sure this isn’t any trouble?”

“I’m sure,” he said, smiling at you a little. Then, he walked off into the kitchen.

You peeked around to see the living room. His father, Bill, was staring dead into the television screen. The living room was cluttered, and you could tell the family was grieving.

You wandered into the kitchen, sitting at the table.

“Sorry for the mess,” Will sighed, bringing out a fish and a cutting board.

Your heart spiked. “No, no, that’s fine.” You had to say something. “I’m, ah—” he turned to look at you and you choked on the words a little. “I’m allergic to seafood,” you confessed. You bit your cheek, hoping the lie would keep him away from the sink for the night.

“Oh,” he said. He fidgeted with the fish in his hand for a moment. “I guess I could make pizza. Is that cool?”

You relaxed, your shoulders sagging. “Yeah! Yeah, that sounds… that sounds fine.”

///

The pizza was amazing. You’d almost forgotten the taste of comfort food. Although you certainly didn’t forget about it; just entering stores was enough to make your stomach snarl.

You thanked him for his time, wished him well, and made your leave.

You’d done it; you’d saved him. It felt good, too. Your past two ‘hunts’ had been draining and useless: you hadn’t saved Jessica, you hadn’t been the one to save Tommy, either. Not directly. Although you did get some points on Roy. He would have died if you hadn’t been there. And now you had actually saved Will: an innocent young man who nearly suffered because of his father’s past.

When you got to the car, the moonlight was thin and veiny through the trees. Your car was like a mirror of the sky, and you see your silhouette in the reflection of your window as you unlocked the door.

Time to head to the park again. Get some shut-eye.

Honestly, you felt better than you had in awhile. You were well-fed, and you had the light feeling of having saved someone. You, someone who hardly was cut out for any of this, had managed to pull someone out of harm’s way. It felt good. Impossibly good. Too good to be true.

The park wasn’t far from his house. You pulled into the empty lot, shut the car off, and thought in the heavy silence. Today wasn’t half bad. You stretched your shoulders, then pulled yourself into the back seat to lay down. It wasn’t much better than the front, but you had some room for your legs now.

You prayed for the Carltons that night, even if the angels listening probably didn’t care. You cared.

You fell asleep in the back seat with dreams to accompany you. Something in the air shifted. Your dream flashed silvery blue, and your peripheral vision went fuzzy. Your eyes could only focus on what was ahead of you, like a tunnel.

You saw a door open, and in came Sam Winchester. You wanted to recoil, but you had no physical body to move. You were just spectating.

Sam’s lips were moving, but you only heard half of it. “—safely rule out Nessie.”

Your vision lurched as if it was on a bungee cord, snapping back before you could hear the entire sentence.

Dean’s words faded in and out. “—do you mean?” He was just a blur in the corner of your eyes.

“—Carlton house—ambulance there.”

“Will Carlton is dead.”

“He drowned?”

“—the sink.”

The world snaps and twists, hissing as the scenery changes. You see Bill Carlton, grieving his children on the dock.

“Mr.Carton?—few questions—don’t mind.”

“—with the Department—”

Bill has a quiet and sad voice.

“—don’t care—with. I've—enough—questions—”

Trying to piece the words together was making your head swirl, but something was forcing you to watch.

Finally, the words cleared out, and it didn’t feel like you were watching time fly past in fast forward. The narrow window of your vision broke away and you were able to relax and take in what was being said.

Sam was gentle when he pried at Bill. “Did you see anyone? Anything?”

Bill worked his teeth. “He had a girl over. A neighbor. She was gone before anything happened though.” He told them because he just wanted to be alone, and he wanted the men to leave.

The Winchesters stiffened, and if you had a body to move, you would have as well.

“Bill, what did the girl look like?”

Bill’s words were garbled by another hissing sound, but you knew what he was saying anyway. The Winchesters turned and looked you dead in the eyes, and then you woke up.

You flailed, jamming your elbow into the door behind you. Your funny bone gave a sharp tingle. You sat up, your hand pulling at your sweaty shirt collar. Just a dream. Damn awful dream.

You composed yourself. It was five a.m., and you didn’t feel as great as you did last night.

A high pitched wailing could be heard in the distance. You paused, tilting your head. The wailing siren neared, and you saw an ambulance race toward and then past the park.

What? You sat up.

There was a crinkle of paper and you froze there, hands slowly reaching at your lap, where a note lay.

It read:

You still have time.

You glared at the note. What the hell did it mean? Will was already dead. What did it mean—

You shot up, grabbed the front chairs, hauled yourself into the driver’s seat, and buckled in. You couldn’t believe you had forgotten.

Bill was next.

///

The Carltons’ place was crawling with police. There was no way you were getting over there until later, but it confirmed your worst fears: Will was dead.

The only thing you’d accomplished last night was eating his food and having given the police a reasonable argument to arrest you. Great.

You really weren’t cut out for this hunter stuff. It felt like every time you tried to help, you only were setting yourself up to look like the bad guy.

Every. Single. Time.

And as if things couldn’t get worse, you saw Sam Winchester. He was more focused on the light show of red and blue lights, but he glanced around a little, and eventually his eyes lined up with yours. He was too far away to read, but you didn’t need to be a genius to see the hostility in his eyes.

You backed away, about as shocked as he was to see you, and you took off in the opposite direction. Lucky for you, you were used to being invisible.

You were running for your life. Again.

You had a ten yards head-start, weaving behind trees and buildings to disappear from his line of sight. With this tactic, you managed to position yourself behind a dumpster. You were damn lucky he thought you’d gone left and not right. At this point, you’d offered him too many routes to take. He’d lost you.

His nostrils flared before he finally admitted to himself that he lost your trail. He headed back to his motel room looking tense.

You released a breath. You needed to talk with Bill before the Winchesters did. You knew what he was going to do, and this is time, you couldn’t afford to mess it up. Not with the Winchesters around.

///

Tag: @rosaren2498​ , @pillowjj​ , @busy-bee-angel-misska​ , @elle-r​ , @dagnylokisdottir​

[comicgeekscomicgeek]

Their Hero Academia - Chapter 73: Summer Shorts Part 2

Presenting the next installment of my on-going, nextgen, MHA fic! Earlier chapters can be found here

Mika Mineta in A Breath of Fresh Air

Mika was in a good mood. Of course, she was usually in a good mood, but today was cause for an extra good mood.  There were multiple reasons for this.  The first reason was the string of texts she’d gotten yesterday, from Chihiro and Shiro.  Apparently things had gotten very threat-mantic when the two of them had met at the playground near their houses and Shiro had ended up asking Chihiro out on a date, after passionately kissing her (Whether this was on purpose or on accident depended upon who was telling the story.).  Or possibly tricked Chihiro into asking him out.  The two accounts conflicted and she wasn’t sure which one of them she believed.

Okay, that was a lie. She believed Chihiro.  Shiro was honest, but would absolutely take the opportunity to spin any interpretation to his advantage, given half a chance.  But he was well intentioned no matter what he did, even if he was occasionally misguided.

She’d spent the better part of yesterday dealing with competing texts between the two.  She’d come dangerously close to responding to the “wrong” person a couple of times as she offered advice.  That would have been a total disaster.  Funny, but also a total disaster.

And she truly was happy for the two of them.  Shiro was finally snapping back from his crisis of faith and for all his other faults, Shiro was a master at supporting his friends, something that Chihiro desperately needed after the Final Exam.  It would probably loosen them both of up.  Chi was a lot of fun and she could usually be roped into Mika’s plans, but both of them dipped into “why are you like this?” territory.

Lots of people around here did, truth be told.  Weird.

Of course, it wasn’t the only reason she was happy.  As glad as she was to see two of her friends maybe getting together, it paled in comparison to the advancement of her own love life.  After two months, Shinji was finally ungrounded!  And he was coming to see her! They’d texted plenty, talked on the phone a bunch, and even video-chatted a little (and she’d sent him several scandalous pictures of her in her bikini from the island trip), but none of that compared to actually getting to see him in person again!

She never thought she’d be the long distance relationship type, but she’d found she really, truly liked Shinji.  He was boisterous and had pecs you could crack a walnut on, and genuinely fun to be around.  Plus he was nearly as into everyone as she was, so he made for great people watching.  But he was also thoughtful and funny and one of the few guys who weren’t put off by how aggressive she was.  And sure, she flirted with people like there was no tomorrow.  But almost no one ever flirted back.  She got cat-called sometimes, which was a confidence booster, sure, but Shinji actually acknowledged her hotness while also respecting the smart and sophisticated lady she was!  He liked who she was and didn’t try to tell her to tone it down.  

It was really a shame he went to school all the way on the other side of Japan, with the grounding on top of that.

Now she just needed to get out of the apartment.

Carefully, and mindful of her horns, Mika poked her head out her bedroom door.  She looked left and right down the hall, before finally looking down.  Looking down was an important part of scouting around.  Daddy was short and could easily hide in blind spots, not to mention he was deceptively sneaky when he wanted to be.

Mika let out a sigh of relief when she saw that the hallway was empty.  Mom and Daddy were both home, so she needed to be careful.  Mom was taking a midday shift at her Agency and Daddy had a rare day off.  Since his Agency with Uncle Denki was a small one, they put in a lot of hours collectively, but traded off on every other weekend.  

Fortunately, the only occupant of the hallway was Hot Dog, the family dachshund.  He gave her a doggy-grin from his basket, tail wagging. Mika pressed a finger to her lips. He seemed to get the hint.  

Hooves weren’t made for silence, and Mika was deadly aware of the sound of hers on their wood floors as she stepped into the hallway.  Carefully and oh so slowly, she started to make her way to the door.

“And just where you are going, young lady?”

Shit!

“Oh!” she said, looking to where he was standing in the living room, arms crossed.  “Hi, Daddy.”

***

“Don’t “Hi Daddy,” me,” Daddy said.  “Where do you think you’re going, dressed like that? Don’t you know you’re going to give people the wrong idea?!”

Honestly, her white and blue t-shirt with SUGOI DEKAI stretched across the chest was one of the more conservative things in her closet.  Not that Daddy knew about that.   No, all the really exciting stuff was hidden on the top shelf, where he could neither see nor reach.  She’d somehow managed to avoid having him see her in her Hero costume, which was probably going to be a problem one day, but that was a future-Mika problem.  It wasn’t significantly worse than Granny’s first costume, so maybe she could argue her case that way…

“What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?” she asked, giving him her best innocent look.  It had taken a lot of practice to get it exactly right. He was the only person that look actually worked on, but he was also the only person it actually needed to work on, so that was all right.

“Aw, Princess,” Daddy said, his resolve already starting to crack.  He smiled a wobbly smile.  “I’m just worried about you!  All those nasty, perverted boys out there, they see that and they’re just going to think…”

“Yes, Daddy?” she asked, as though she had no idea what the slogan on her shirt was referring to or how it was supposed to draw the eye.  She batted her own eyelashes at him.  “What’re they going to think?”

Daddy’s resolve was cracking even further.  “They’re going to think…”   He made vague gestures in the air.  “And I know you’re not like that, but they’re still going to just think they can…”   His hand dropped to his side.   “Aw, don’t make me say it, Princess!  I’m just worried about you!  Boys are awful!  They’ll do anything if they think they have half a chance with a girl!  It’s a nasty world out there for my little girl!”

“I’m taller than you, Daddy,” she told him, her voice all sing-song.  It was an old refrain, long practiced and useful for disarming him.  

“Aw, you know what I mean…”

Mika giggled and smiled. Sometimes, Daddy was just too easy to manipulate.  He just couldn’t help but still see her as this innocent little girl.  She wasn’t exactly sure how anyone could possibly be that blind, but as long as she could keep using it to get away with things, she wasn’t exactly going to complain about it.

“Where are you going, though?” came a voice from the kitchen. Mom gave her a “don’t take advantage of Dad like that” look as she entered the room and Mika instantly stood up a little straighter.  Mom was a lot sharper than Daddy when it came to her shenanigans.  She was going to have to be careful here.

She looked between Mom and Daddy. Both were expectantly looking at her, waiting for an answer.  Nope, there was no getting out of this one.  “I was going downtown,” she said.  “To meet a friend.”  There wasn’t a lie in there.  She was still on safe footing.

“Oh?” Daddy asked, seeming to relax a little. As far as he knew, Shinji was still grounded. “Chihiro again?”

Mika could start to feel herself sweating nervously.  She really didn’t want to outright lie to Daddy…  “Oh, well, you see…”

Mom seemed to pick up on her nervousness, fortunately.  Her expression changed quickly, passing through surprise to understanding very quickly. “Oh!” she said, “would you look at the time!”  She gave Daddy a wink.  “You know, Minny, I bet we’ve got just enough time before I have to leave for work…”

People always thought Mom was so innocent, but she certainly had her wilder side.

Daddy’s eyes went a little wide and then he smiled.  “Have a good day, Princess!  Say hi to Chihiro!”  And then he grabbed Mom’s hand and the both of them were sprinting to the back of the house.”

Mika just laughed to herself as she headed out the door.

***

“Shinji!” Before Mika could blink, Shinji scooped her up into a big hug, spinning her around.  It was an impressive feat, given that between horns, hooves, and denser than average musculature, she was actually a good bit heavier than she looked (Chihiro would probably roll her eyes at that and make a sarcastic comment about most of her weight being in her bra). For at least a moment, they both ignored the stares of everyone around them, including an old woman who sniffed disdainfully at the public display of affection.

“Oh, I’ve missed you, Mika!” Shinji said, laughing as he set her down.  She really wanted just to hug him again, to be pressed up against his muscular chest.  Maybe they’d moved a bit quickly, but they had a lot of fun.  And if people had a problem with the PDAs, well, that was their issue, not hers.  She was who she was, completely unapologetically.  

“Missed you too,” she told him, stretching up to give him a peck on the cheek.  It was rare for guys to be taller than her, even if you discounted the horns, but Shiji managed it almost as gloriously as Shoji did.  “You get even more hunky while you were grounded? Or is this just one of those spouses in prison things?”

Shinji laughed again. Even in his casual clothing, he still wore his Shiketsu cap.  She did love a man in uniform.  “I don’t know about that, but I know you are even hotter than the last time I saw you!”

Mika was used to compliments.  But she was also sure that Shinji genuinely meant them.  There wasn’t an ounce of duplicity in his big, beautiful body.  

“I still can’t believe your mom grounded you for two months,” she said, as they walked down the street.  He held her hand and it made her giddier than the entirety of the stack of magazines that definitely weren’t hidden under her mattress.  “I thought I was never going to see you again!  Do you know how awful that was?!”

Shinji looked away awkwardly.  “Yeah, well, she was kind of right.  I really could have gotten in a lot more trouble!  I left school, used my Quirk in action without a license, if there hadn’t been everything going on, who knows what could have happened!”

Definitely not fair! Shinji had just been worried about her and his other friends, like Shinso, Todoroki, and Kirishima-Bakugo. Sure, he’d been incredibly lucky to have found Kirishima-Bakugo by flying around randomly.  And sure, the Nomu possibly could have killed him if he’d engaged it directly…  But his heart had been in the right place!  And he’d helped Kirishima-Bakugo save Uravity!

What good were the rules if a guy got in trouble for that?

He looked back over and threw his head back and laughed.  It was a huge, booming sound.  “I actually got off easy!  She wanted to ground me for a year, but Dad talked her out of it!”

Mika felt her heart drop. “A year?!”  She shook her head.  “I’ve have waited for you, Babe.  I mean, I’d probably also have seen other people, but I’d also have waited for you.”  Their relationship didn’t have many rules.  But the biggest one was that if they saw an opportunity, they should take it. Both of them were far too much for any one person.

She was far more than a snack.  She was a party platter that served six to eight.

“Aw, that’s so sweet!” Shinji’s expression shifted rapidly though, back to awkward again.  “Speaking of Mom…”  

“What?” she asked.

“She would like to meet you,” Shinji said.  He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.  “Sooner rather than later, actually.”

Wait, what?  Mika lost her footing, her hoof hitting the ground awkwardly and nearly sending her tumbling to the ground.  Fortunately, Shinji still had her hand, and he used his grip to pull her close to him, putting his other arm around her in the process.  

“Mika!”  Shinji shouted worriedly.  “Are you all right?”

“F…fine,” she told him. She looked up into his eyes and felt herself blush.  How was it that this guy could make her heart melt like that?  She looked down for a moment.  “And not that I mind, but your hand is really close to my…”

“Holy hurricanes!” he said, quickly moving the offending appendage.  He stared at his hand like it had betrayed him.  “Babe, I am so sorry, I would never…”

“You would and you know it,” she teased.  “You’d just ask me first.”

Still, her boyfriend’s mom wanting to meet her was worrisome.  She’d already met Shinji’s dad, back at the Sports Festival, and he seemed to like her well enough, but dads… dads were easy.  It was moms where things got complicated.  They were usually a lot more on the ball.  If Shinji’s mom wanted to meet her… was that a good sign?

Her own parents seemed to like Shinji.  Mom found both him and his dad delightful.  And Daddy had tried to put the fear of him into Shinji.  Shinji had been a perfect gentleman and insisted that he wouldn’t do anything she wasn’t comfortable with.  It wasn’t her fault if Daddy thought she was more innocent than she was.

But what if Shinji’s mom didn’t like her?  What if she thought she was a trollop after her only son?!  What if she made a bad impression and she couldn’t see Shinji anymore?!  The only other mom she’d ever had to impress was Shiro’s, and there probably wasn’t anyone out there Tsukushi didn’t like!  This was entirely too much pressure!  

“Why’s your mom want to meet me?” she asked.  “Didn’t your dad give a glowing report after the Sports Festival?”

Shinji looked uncomfortable again.  “Yes, well,” he said, rubbing the buzzed side of his head, “even though Dad likes you, she really just, ah, wants to see what kind of person you are.  You were going pretty full out during the Sports Festival and all and she just wants to see how much of that was all psychological tactics…”  He frowned. “There’s more… but I’m really not allowed to say.  I am so sorry, Babe!”

“Oh,” she said.  She’d made considerable in-roads during the Sports Festival by running her mouth non-stop and basically being herself.  As Shiro always liked to say, her real talent was provocation.  She couldn’t help it if people found her natural personality irritating!  On the other hand, openly flirting with just about everything that moved probably didn’t exactly engrain you to your boyfriend’s mom either…

The “not allowed to say” bit was also concerning.  

“I know she’ll love you!” Shinji said, smiling again.  A small amount of the optimism appeared forced, but it largely looked like it was genuine.

“You’re not afraid she’s going to think I’m too much?” she asked.  Mika had almost never worried about what other people thought of her before, other than in the broadest sense when she was hitting on somebody and hoping they’re reciprocate. But she absolutely, one hundred percent, desperately wanted Shinji’s mom to like her.  

“Even if she somehow doesn’t,” he said, “even if I have to sneak out every time I want to see you, even if she forbids me from every laying eyes upon your heavenly hotness, I will find a way!  I’ll… I’ll even learn to lie, if I have to!” He had let go of her hand and his hands were on his hips now, posing dramatically.  She was pretty sure the small wind that had kicked up was also him.

Mika’s jaw dropped open. “Babe, you are so hot right now.”

Shinji just grinned at that. “I mean it.  Every word!”

Damn, if she didn’t just want to do all kinds of things to him…

***

As they continued to walk, again holding hands, Shinji spoke up once more.  “You know, with all the craziness, you never did get to tell me how flirting with Flash-Step worked out.”

Mika rolled her eyes, thinking back on her Internship with Ingenium and his plethora of lesser Heroes, Sidekicks, and Work Study participants.  “Not good.  She called me kid.  Even though she’s only two years older than me!”

“Suffering Cyclones!” Shinji wailed.  “That’s terrible!”

“Turns out she’s dating Nejire Togata anyway,” Mika went on.  “And as much as I’d love to be in the middle of that hotness sandwich, it doesn’t look like they’re interested in sharing.”

“Aw, man!” he said. “I’m so sorry, Babe!”

She waved it off. “Hey, you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.  Sooner or later, it works out.”  

She went on. “Speaking of working out… how’d your Sports Festival work out?”  Shiketsu did theirs later in the first term than U.A. did, nearly right before their final exams, and like most other Hero Schools, it wasn’t broadcast.  Mika didn’t really get why that was, but she wasn’t going to question it.

Shinji let go to pose again. There was definitely a dramatic wind.  “Second Place!  I would have gotten first, but Tatsuma’s dragon power was simply too much to overcome! I may as well have been trying to blow down a mountain!”

Mika clapped happily. “That is awesome, Shinji!  We’re both second placers!  It’s kismet, I know.”   She wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug, then bounced up to kiss him again.  

“You know, you never did tell me where we were going.”

Shinji laughed again. “We’re actually already there!” He pointed in front of them.  A large arch stood there, with a sign that read Pasaana Air Park.   As she looked up, she could see all sorts of people flying through the air via all kinds of Quirks.

“Huh?” she asked.

“It’s a place where people with Quirks that let them fly can practice or play!” Shinji explained. Mika knew there were special “air lanes” used by civilians in bigger cities, for commuting via flight, and they could file a flight path for special occasions, but she hadn’t realized there were recreational facilities too.

“Mika,” Shinji said, with an expansive gesture, “how would you like to fly?”

Best boyfriend ever.

***

Koharu Kocho in Perilous Partying

“Mom, I’m back!” Koharu called out, as she opened the door to her apartment. She swung her wings forward so they wouldn’t get caught in the door as it shut behind her. “I got the fruit juices!”  Mom had insisted they needed more fruit juices in the house and had dispatched her on an errand to the corner store to go get some.  They did go through a lot of it, truthfully, considering that she, her mom, and little brother, Hiroto, all required either a liquid or semi-liquid diet. Dad and her older sister, Okimi, did not.  

“Thanks, sweetie,” Mom called out from the living room.  “Can you put them away and then come in here please?”  That was... suspicious.  That was the same tone of voice she used whenever she was going to spring a new chore on her.  

After stashing the juices in the fridge, Koharu headed into the living room.

“SURPRISE!” a chorus of voices rang out, startling her.  Her eyes widened in shock as she looked around the room.   There were her parents and siblings, her uncle who worked for Deku and aunt, her grandfather, and even Mogura and Tokuda.  There were drinks laid out and a cake and a banner on the wall reading “Congratulations, Hero!”

“What?” she said. “What’s all this?”

Mom smiled, her large compound eyes glittering, smallish wings carefully folded behind her.    “You didn’t think we were going to let you go off to Hero training without a party, did you?”

“But we already did that,” she protested. Her antennae flipped up in confusion, trying to sense if anything else was hidden somewhere.  “Back before I did my Internship.”

Dad laughed at that.  He was extremely normal looking, the Moth Quirks all coming from Mom’s side of the family.  His own Quirk was a simple one that made him immune to all toxins and poisons. Useful in a house full of people that sometimes shed paralytic, soporific, or poisonous scales.  “You’re right, we did. But that was just our little family. And with the term over and you having passed your exams…”

“We had to have a party!” Hiroto declared, flapping his own wings hard and fluttering around head height. His Quirk was basically identical to hers.  And ever since she’d made it into the Hero Course, he’d been talking non-stop about being a Hero himself someday.  She’d had to remind him he was only six and had plenty of time to decide what he wanted to be.  But if he did choose that path, she’d support him however she could.

“Down, kiddo,” Okimi said, grabbing his ankle and pulling their brother back down to floor level. She had the same kind of multicolored hair that Koharu did, but other than her own set of feathery antennae, had no other moth-like features or abilities.  “He is right though,” she said.  “We’re all proud of you, Fluters.”

Koharu smiled, despite the childish nickname.  Becoming a Hero had been her dream ever since she was a little girl.  She remembered how devastated she’d felt when she gotten knocked out during the Entrance Exam and how proud she’d felt when she’d taken Third Place during the Sports Festival.  Then there’d been the Internship (With Deku and the Voice, no less! What was her life?), even if that had ended pretty scarily, and getting to observe Class 1-A’s Final Exam.  She’d moved all her things out of her General Education dorm and they’d just finished shopping for her supply list for the Training Camp just a couple of days ago.  She’d be leaving for the Training Camp on Monday.

It was all so close she could practically taste it.  And yet it still also had an unreal quality to it, as though it could all fade back into the mist of just being a dream at any moment.

Yet having her family and friends here also made in strangely real.  There were real people who believed her.  It was both sobering and buoying at the same time.

“Thank you,” she said. “All of you.”

***

“Koharu,” Grandfather said, his voice wispy and wheezy, “I am very proud of you.”

She looked up from her smoothie, which had been made with the same flavors as the cake, slowly retracting her proboscis.  Her grandfather had a number of moth-like mutations, with very little human about his appearance at all; he looked more like a giant-sized moth that had learned to walk upright.  His body and fuzz were dark black, his eyes blazing red.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re going to make a fine Hero,” he said.  He’d said that once before, and she believed him.  Despite the numerous and significant inherited mutations, Granfather’s actual Quirk was called Prophesy, which let him see unspecified distances into the future at random intervals.  He always complained that it was more trouble than it was worth, though he tried to report what he could to the authorities when he thought it necessary.  

“Is this one of your visions?” she asked.  She knew he didn’t have control over his visions or what or who they showed him, but it was still possible he’d seen something about her.    

Grandfather chuckled at that, shaking his large head.  “Nothing quite so spectacular,” he said.  “No, this Quirk of mine rarely shows me good things.  But you’re a strong, determined young woman.  I’d expect nothing less of you.”

His face wasn’t really built for expressions, but there was a certain degree of sadness to his body language now.  “You’re very lucky, you know,” he went on.  “When I was a young man, Mutant-type Quirks weren’t looked on as kindly as they are now.  Groups like the Creature Rejection Clan were everywhere.  I had many friends who were struck down far too young, simply for appearing “monstrous” to others’ eyes.”  She knew his early life had been hard.  He’d already been an adult by the time All Might had made his debut.  Every history book she’d ever read had suggested those had been dark and often lawless times.  Grandfather’s body sagged for a moment before his head snapped up. “To know that one of my family is going to prove all those bastards wrong…  It does bring joy to this old man’s heart.”

She nodded solemnly. “I’ll do my best. I hope I can be worthy of your pride.”

Grandfather’s large eyes seemed to shine brightly for a moment and he reached out to gently brush her cheek with his forelimb.  “I know you will.”  

***

“Your grandfather’s right,” Tokuda said, her large, singular eye blinking slowly.  She brushed a strand of purple hair back.  “We’re all super-proud of you!  

Mogura frowned, pushing her glasses back up her mole-like snout.  “It’s really happening, isn’t it?  You’re leaving us.”  She tapped her clawed fingers against each other.  “I knew it was going to happen but... I’m going to miss you so much!”

Mogura and Tokuda were her best friends in her class, but she cared for all of her 1-F classmates. She’d miss seeing them regularly. There was the way Uzaki was constantly teasing Sakurai over his loner tendencies, how Asai was constantly “shipping” everyone (Koharu made a mental note to introduce her to Ojiro sometime), and the way Tomoatsu was constantly looking out for everyone’s health by trying to get them to exercise more.  She’d miss Miku’s anime obsession. She’d even miss Kurusu’s accident-proneness and how he somehow missed getting injured due to his regenerative Quirk.  And yeah, if forced to admit it, she would miss their overly cautious Class Representative, Satome.

“Tell you what,” she said, “I’ll be moving into the 1-A dorm a couple days before the new term starts. Why don’t both of you come by and help me unpack and get stuff set up?  I’ll introduce you to everybody.  I think you’ll like them.  Pretty sure they’ll like you too.”  

She gave that a little thought.  “Well, maybe not Kirishima-Bakugo.  But I’m not sure she likes that many people to begin with.”  The explosive girl seemed to like Todoroki and Midoriya, but only seemed to tolerate the rest of 1-A.  

“You mean it?” Mogura asked, her eyes wide behind her glasses.  “The Hero Courses don’t usually mix with Gen Ed.”

Koharu nodded firmly. “They’re over with the Support Course kids all the time.  And they start meeting with the Business and Management Course in their second year.  It’s about damn time they started hanging out with us too.  Not just the ones who transfer.”

“You said “us,’” Tokuda said.  “You’re a Hero student now.  You’re a ‘them.’”

Koharu shook her head, setting her antennae swaying.  She brought a hand up to steady them before she made herself dizzy. How could Tokuda say something like that?  She wasn’t just going to give up on her friends like that!  “I’m not,” she insisted.  “I’m still one of us.  I’m still your friend.”

“We wouldn’t be here if you weren’t,” Tokuda said.  She’d been enthusiastic before, hearing that Koharu had gotten to work with Deku and the Voice.  But she seemed more depressed about the whole thing now that it was so close and a little more real.  “But your life is going to change, in a big way.  Hero Course students train more and work harder than any of the other courses. We all know that.  You’ll be around them all the time, whatever free time you have left.  I’m happy for you, we all are, but you know it’s true.”

Mogura looked between the two of them anxiously.  “But…”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Koharu said again.  “I mean, yes, I’m moving dorms and classes.  But we’ve got friends in the other classes and courses already, right? Like Magatsuchi over in the Business Course, or Nishino over in the Support Course?  Well, I’m going to be your friend in the Hero Course, and you’re going make to make more too!  We’ve still got the same lunch and everything still too.  I’ll find you.  Lunchroom’s not that big.”

Her promise, at least, got a smile out of Mogura.  “You mean it?”

“Absolutely.”

Even Tokuda started to smile.  Koharu could see her large pupil widening.  “Okay,” she said.  “I believe you.  You passed.”

“That was a test?” Koharu snapped, annoyance rising up. Tokuda was supposed to be one of her friends.  And she was pushing her like that?  Doubting her friendship?  “What the hell, Tokuda?”

“My mom was in the same General Education class as the Voice,” Tokuda explained.  She held up her hands.  “She always said he wasn’t especially close with any of them to start with.  And training with Eraserhead ate up a lot of his time.  Then when he did join the Hero Course, he barely had any time to see them again.  And sure, some of that was because he got caught up in everything that happened to that class, but not all of it.  You’re a lot friendlier than he was… but things happen.”

Tokuda sighed.  “I just wanted to be sure that wasn’t going to happen with you.”

She frowned at that.  It made sense.  She’d had plenty of meetings with Vice-Principal Midnight and All Might, outlining the expectations of her, and a few with Mister Aizawa as well. She knew it was going to be though, that much was asked of Heroes and Hero-trainees.  But this also wasn’t the old days.  Standards were still high, but the fact that Heroes were people too, and allowed to have lives, was acknowledged.  It could be done.  But that chasm was still going to be stretching out, diving one course to the other.  

It was a good thing she could fly.

“I’m not going to forget you,” she repeated.  “And you better believe it.  And if I do, you have my permission to come find me and smack me upside the head.”

“Oh,” Mogura said, “I could never do that…”

“Yeah, well, I can,” Tokuda replied.  “I’m going to hold you to that, Kocho.”

“You better,” Koharu said. Both of her friends got up to hug her, and the happily slung her arms around them, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. It was going to be tricky, but she’d figure it out.  Friends like this were too good to let go.

***

Sometimes, Koharu liked to just come up to the roof of her apartment building and watch the night sky. True, the light pollution from the city meant that it was harder to see the stars, but it was late and a clear night besides, so there was less than there would have been earlier in the evening. Some mothy part of her saw some of the distant city lights and demanded that she fly towards them, but that was an instinct that was easy enough to push down.  She liked the nighttime regardless and her Moth-powers meant that her night vision was surprisingly good.

Absently, she switched on her phone.  She’d turned it off for the party and never bothered to turn it back on afterwards.  Her dark eyes went wide as she saw how many texts she had.  There were quite a few from her General Education classmates and then…

Kimiko Ojiro: Can’t wait to see you again!  Camp besties!  

Takuma Sero: Big day’s almost here!  Don’t be surprised if Aizawa pulls some kind of logical ruse on the trip up though…

Kenta Sato: Congrats again on getting in!  See you on Monday!

Toshi Midoriya: Training Camp is on Monday!  Bus leaves at 0700.  Better get there early.  Mister Aizawa REALLY likes to be punctual!  Welcome to the class!

Asuka Tokoyami:  I am sure Toshi has already reminded you of this, but the bus leaves early on Monday. Looking forward to seeing you there.

Isamu Haimawari: Hey, Internship-buddy!  Hope your summer’s going good! Mine’s been pretty crazy. Tell you all about it on Monday!

Shiro Monoma:  As much as I dislike that you’re joining 1-A, I do wish you all the success.

She shouldn’t have been surprised (though she’d forgotten she’d exchanged numbers with Monoma after beating him during the Sports Festival).  Haimawari and Midoriya had been nothing but friendly and welcoming to her during the Internship, and she’d already become friends with Ojiro, Sero, and Sato by the time the Sports Festival was over.  In fact, everyone in her new class had been very welcoming.  

She was an outsider, both in that most of them had pre-existing bonds and in that they’d already been a class together for several months.  She’d come into their space and they’d welcomed her with open arms.  It would still take her time to learn their rhythms and personalities, both in and out of training, but it all meant she was off to a good start.

But the rest of the texts made her gasp.

Deku: Training Camp in a couple of days!   You’re going to be amazing, Kocho.  Don’t let Aizawa pull any “logical ruses” on you!  Really looking forward to seeing you become a great Hero!

Lemillion: Congrats again, Kocho!  Rock that Training Camp!

Shinso: Tried to get Aizawa’s plans for the Training Camp.  He told me to “mind my own business.”  I’m afraid you’re on your own.  Good luck.  You’ll need it.   Also, Camie says to say “Have a mad lit time, yo.”  If you know what that actually means, you’re smarter than I am.

Koharu smiled as she put her phone away.  She had texts from the Number One and Number Two Heroes on her phone!  She’d seen it in interviews, but it was amazing how normal and friendly Deku and Lemillion really were.  And she treasured the text from the Voice even more.  Shinso was and remained a Hero to everyone in the General Education classes with Hero-aspirations.  

She spread her wings out to their fullest and flapped hard, lifting straight up into the air.  It didn’t take long for her to rise up high, where she could feel the wind whipping around her body.  She had to concentrate not to get knocked around like an insect in a hurricane. Below, she saw the city spread out before her.  It was a truly amazing view, one that few were privileged enough to share.   She liked to imagine that every one of the pinpricks of light was a person, someone with their own hopes and dreams and wishes, someone she might one day be called upon to protect.

It was both sobering and awe-inspiring at the same time.

Carefully, Koharu began her decent.  Down was always harder than up, a bit of controlled falling really.  She wasn’t sure what to expect the future to bring, not the Training Camp in the immediate future or the Hero Course in general, but she felt good about it.  It would be challenging, she knew.  It would likely push her to the breaking point and then ask her to go beyond.  But this was what she had dreamed of since she was a little girl.

It was a dream that had very nearly been crushed.  Hard work and a little bit of luck had gotten her a second chance.

It was time to make that dream a reality.

[rainbhrts94writes]

Honey

Wrote this for a friend of a friend! I hope it brightens your day!

Jooheon x Reader

Warnings: teeny tiny baby angst, alcohol, its so sweet your teeth may rot. 

Honey

You had spent the better part of the evening getting ready; it wasn’t every day Jooheon was in town, and you wanted to make sure you looked good. Sure, you’d know him forever, being friends with his sister and all, but that just meant looking on point was even more critical. You did not need to get made fun of at the bar again, especially by someone as good looking as Joo.

After nearly two hours of ransacking your closet, you had decided on something simple. The winning number was a pair of light wash denim jeans, an oversized black knit sweater, your favorite pair of keds, and the most fun hoop earrings you owned. 

With a spring in your step, you headed out of the house towards the uber waiting for you. You smiled and greeted the woman as you carefully tucked yourself into the back of the car and buckle your seatbelt. It wasn’t a long drive, you could honestly have walked there, but just because you can, doesn’t mean you should. 

Upon arrival, you gave yourself a quick once over in the bar window, fixing your hair and lipstick before you headed for the door. This was your favorite spot in town, the music was never too loud, the drinks were just potent enough, and when the weather was nice, you could sit out back on the swings under the stars and string lights. 

Standing on your toes you scanned the crowd, Jooheon had sent you a message about ten minutes ago saying he’d gotten a seat. It was dimples for days when you finally made eye contact, doing everything in your power not to wave like an excited thirteen year old and run over. You had to play it sort of cool right? Though you may have jogged a little bit, if anyone asks, you’d tell them you were just enjoying the beat to whatever song was playing. 

“Long time, no see!” You exclaimed, parking yourself on the stool beside Jooheon. 

“Who’s fault is that?” His face was indignant as he smiled and leaned closer. 

“Yours.” You poked his shoulder, ignoring the heat you felt rushing to your cheeks, “Totally yours, Mr., I live in a totally different country and never have time to see my friends.”

“I see my friends all the time.” Joo shrugged, and you balked, doing your best to stifle the laughter that threatened to bubble up. 

“Are you saying we’re not friends?” Your hand flew to your chest in mock offense as you continued. “And here I was ready to buy you a drink.”

“You were going to buy me a drink?” His eyebrows raised and you ignored the little flip your heart did. “That’s nice of you, noona, but I think I should be treating you.”

“Noona!? You’ve never called me that before.” You felt your eyes close as you leaned into your laugh. “Does this mean I’ve finally earned respect as your elder!”

“Uh,” He paused for a moment too long before smiling again. “you’ve always had my respect, which is why you should let me buy you a drink.” Joo’s dimples were showing again as he casually wrapped an arm around your shoulder. 

“Fine, we each buy a round?” You suggested, as you settled against him, fighting another laugh when you noticed his ears turn a deep red. At least you weren’t the only one. Maybe it was just warm in here.

“Sure, sure.” Jooheon nodded vigorously before he lifted a hand and flagged down the bartender. 

“ID.” The young man asked as he gave you much too long once over. 

You had gotten into the bar, hadn’t you? Why was he trying to card you again? With the roll of your eyes you slide your card his way and watched as he scrutinized your photo. It was almost comical the way his gaze switched between you and the tiny picture on the card. You said almost because the last time you went to a bar with Jooheon, the bartender thought it was a fake and refused to give you your license back. You had to call the cops to have them come retrieve it and prove your innocence. By the time the whole ordeal had been resolved, you didn’t even want to drink anymore. You had given the man a sour look before leaving with your friend in tow. 

Fortunately, this particular encounter didn’t take more than three looks and an eye roll. It was clear he didn’t believe you, but that wasn’t going to stop him from serving you tonight. Besides, it wasn’t your fault you had such a babyface. With an animated wiggle, you swiped your card off the bar top and whipped your head around to look back at Jooheon. 

“Wait, why didn’t he card you?” Your jaw dropped slightly as you poked at his face. “You’re younger than I am!”

“My dashing good looks come in handy at times like this.” Jooheon’s eyebrows wiggled moving  his elbows onto the bar to wait for your drinks. 

---

Four margaritas in and definitely more than two rounds later, the room had an unexplainable shimmer to it. Perhaps that was because of the company you were in? Or it could be the drinks. Eyeing your empty glass, you stood up with a bright smile and pulled your friend through the throng of people onto the dance floor. Jooheon blinked and smiled, those damn dimples showing again. Not wasting any more time, he grabbed your hand and joined your happy bounce across the floor. 

The words of the next song were unintelligible, and you weren’t sure if that was because your brain was stuck thinking in Korean, the alcohol, or a mixture of both. Either way, you were happy with the softer rhythm and a chance to slow down. 

This wasn’t your first time dancing like this, head resting perfectly in the squishy part of Joo’s shoulder just beside his armpit. He smelled like himself, a content hum escaping your lips before you could stop it. With eyes half-lidded Jooheon looked down at you, and your heart would have nearly jumped out your chest. if it hadn’t gotten stuck in your throat. With a heavy swallow, his eyes held yours. 

“Need some air?” He asked, his breath hot against your ear. 

With a squeak, you nodded your head and pulled away, stumbling towards the door. An arm wrapped around your waist to steady you, and you were ready to say something stupid until you saw the concerned look on his face. 

“I’m okay, justa little warmm~” Your words slurred, and those ridiculously cute dimples warmed you from the inside. Or was that the liquor?

It was cool and crisp, and you closed our eyes as you inhaled the refreshing bit of air you so desperately needed. Relaxing against the cold brick wall, you couldn’t help the smile on your face when the entire left side of you warmed. 

“Jooheon-ah?” You asked, eyes bright as you leaned into his warmth. 

“Noona?” He snickered, arm snaking behind you again as you tettered, gluing you to his side. 

“Aish- it’s like you’re trying to get me fired up!” You exclaimed, grabbing a fistful of Jooheon’s shirt as you swayed a little too far to the right. 

“Careful!” When he pulled you forward he closed the gap, your chest flush against his own as his hands held you carefully around the waist. “You’re gonna fall if you keep doing that, Noona.”

“What’s it matter if you always catch me?” You pouted, and his expression softened. 

“I’m more worried about when I’m not here to catch you.” Joo’s voice was soft, his face so close you could see your breath mingling. 

“Then how about you always keep your noona close?” Eyes closed, you stood on your toes until your lips met. 

It was the briefest of kisses, soft and sweet, but the shocked look on his face was enough to make you want to throw up. Had you miscalculated? You were drunk, so probably. 

“Shit! I’m so sorry! Oh, gods!” You pushed away from him, stumbling a little as you run your hands through your hair. Trying to find the best way to get out of there as fast as you could. 

You booked it towards the street, fiddling with the clasp on your purse to try and get your phone out. Uber, you needed an uber. Shit. Why was this so difficult? Walk, you were just going to walk. There was no way you would be able to get your purse open right now, and even if you could, there was no guarantee you wouldn’t throw up the moment that car started moving. 

Before you could make it to the corner, a warm hand gripped your wrist, stopping you dead in your tracks. Trying your best not to cry, you looked down at your feet and started to mumble out an apology, only to be interrupted by the gentle hands on your cheeks. 

“Say that again.” His eyes were wild, but Jooheon’s hands were steady. “Please.”

“Then, how about you always keep your noona close?” Your earlier question came out a whisper as you swallowed nervously. Your heart pounded against your chest, but you didn’t have time to think before Jooheon’s lips came crashing down against yours. 

“I thought you’d never ask.” Happy laughter now coming in waves between kisses as Joo picked you up and spun you around. 

He walked you home. Both of you stopped at your door, waiting, awkward, neither of you wanting to be the first to say goodnight, at least until you started to shiver. 

“Go inside, yeah? You’ll catch your death out here.” he snickered, gingerly placing his jacket around your shoulders. 

“Too late for that. I brought you home with me, didn’t I?” You smiled up at him, begrudgingly pulling out your keys. “You can come in, you know?”

“I know.” A hand slipped through your hair and you leaned into the touch. Happy when you felt his lips against your forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Breakfast?”

“That sounds good. I’m going to need something greasy to soak up all this alcohol.” You blurted out, trying to feed the key through the lock. Why did they make these holes so tiny?

“Same.” Jooheon leaned in, giving you one last flurry of kisses before he stood up straight and winked. “Goodnight, Noona.”

[beccarooni]

Wash it away

(A.N: will I stop hurting thor in my fics? no. is his bf Bruce gonna be there to cuddle him? YOU BET. Here's some post infinity war drabble)

Over the arms, between the fingers, across the torso, the back of the neck. End on the hands.

Over and over again he went through the routine, dipping the cloth into the water and dragging it roughly across his body.

It was his ritual, after all. A warrior must clean himself after a battle. Wipe the dirt and blood away and start anew, even if the next fight would just ruin the work.

It had been a lot easier on Asgard, with their royal baths that meant he could use any number of herbs to scent the water how he liked. But Midgard was different, as he well knew, and so he had to make do with what he had.

He knew he should be taking Banner's advice, and do what all the others were probably doing. Resting. The fight with Thanos had taken...too much. Too much from all of them. It might have even taken the Man of Iron, but none of them had heard from Tony since his disappearance crossed the television screen.

Thor found himself unconsciously skipping steps, and soon he was just running the cloth over his hands. Again, and again, and again.

Thinking maybe if he scrubbed hard enough, the blood of half the universe would wash away from his hands.

Bruce ventured into the room in the avengers compound that had been set aside for Thor after a long hour of pacing and contemplation. He was exhausted - doing the Hulk's job was a lot harder than he thought. Who knew 'smash' was such a tiring battle strategy?

He'd attempted to sleep, but the universe wasn't going to be that merciful. Things had been looking up for almost a week now, after all. It was about time things plummeted back to misery again.

He'd stared at the ceiling instead, eyes burning but unwilling to shut.

A clap of thunder sounded outside, and he resisted the urge to count Mississippi's.

He knew where the storm was coming from.

And he didn't need 7 PhDs to figure out why it was happening.

With a soft sigh, he slipped out of the bed, flinching at the feeling of bare feet against cold floor.

Padding down the corridor, towards Thor's room, he saw way too many empty beds. Wing prototypes propped up against one corner. Old photos of the Maximoffs pinned up to a board.

With no one there to look at them.

He increased his pace without really noticing as his panic spiked, ever so slightly. Because if he was hurting this bad, Thor...

Oh God, Thor.

After what seemed like an eternity, he finally reached Thor's room, and was oddly relieved by the light of the moon shining through from under the door.

Lights off might even mean the big guy was asleep. Something he felt they all sorely needed, but that no one seemed to be able to do.

He lifted his hand, moving to knock on the door quietly to see if Thor was even awake. But the door creaked open when his knuckles brushed against them, revealing a bed that was still perfectly made, obviously untouched.

A small sniffing sound grabbed his attention, and he caught the soft glow of the bathroom light shining through from the ensuite.

"Thor?" He called out quietly as he shut the door behind him, taking small steps into the room. "You okay in there?"

Muttering followed, although nothing directed at him. Snatches of Asgardian phrases mumbled in a voice that seemed half asleep reached his ears, and that alone was enough to make his brow crease in worry.

His hand hovered momentarily against the bathroom door handle, nibbling his bottom lip anxiously.

"Thor, buddy, I'm gonna come in. So just, uh..." Ah, what the hell. Thor had already seen the Hulk naked (a fact that horrified Bruce to this day, and one he resolved that Tony would never find out about), and he'd helped him kill his sister. He'd thought the guy was dead up until he'd landed in Wakanda. If Thor wanted him out of his bathroom, he could tell him so himself.

The door gently opened to his touch, and he drew a sharp breath in at what he saw.

Thor, bent over a sink, scrubbing his hands raw with what appeared to be discarded material from his cape. Silent tears ran down his face, cutting lines in whatever dirt he hadn't managed to clear away.

Bruce didn't need to know Asgardian to feel what Thor was saying.

"It's all my fault." Thor's voice was barely above a whisper, low and cracking with emotion when he finally registered Bruce's presence.

Or, maybe he didn't. There wasn't really any recognition in his eyes. No semblance that made Bruce think Thor knew who he was talking to, if he was talking to anybody.

Thor was a drowning man, grabbing onto the nearest lifeboat.

"Come on, Thor." Bruce shook his head, keeping his movements slow and cautious. He didn't fancy being electrocuted today- flying sparks from the hulkbuster armour had already gotten him way too close for that.

His calloused fingers wrapped around Thor's wrist tentatively, trying to direct him towards the door of the bathroom rather than outright pull him.

A saving grace was that he seemed to be complying. Maybe he was too out of it to protest, or maybe he just didn't care. Either one was equally frightening to Bruce, who just tried to keep his friend afloat.

Shushing claims of responsibility for the Snap, murmuring uncertain promises of a better tomorrow, and assuring Thor of his presence. That was all he could do, for now.

He sat Thor down on the edge of the bed, and had been about to pull away to get some water when Thor had grabbed his wrist with a renewed intensity.

"I should have aimed for the head, Banner." Tremors in his voice rose and fell with the storm outside, mismatched eyes finally looking up at Bruce and seeing him. "It's...it's my fault."

"No." He eased himself onto the mattress next to him, pulling Thor's hand off his wrist with a little too much ease. "You tried your best, Thor. I know that's a corny line but you did everything you could."

"I didn't. Banner, I didn't. I could've aimed for the head. Or the arm. Or something, I just-"

"Hey." Bruce drew his hand up, clenching around the muscle of Thor's shoulder.

"You didn't snap that gauntlet, Thor. No one blames you." He punctuated every syllable with a small shake, because he needed Thor to hear this.

From him, from Steve, from the whole damn world. Because he could see the seeds of doubt beginning to grow. He knew how quickly this kind of thing could destroy a person, and he wasn't going to let it happen to his friend. He couldn't.

Thor nodded his head slowly, his eyes turning away from Bruce and focusing on some part of the wall in front of him. The shuddering took a little longer to stop, and the tears even more so. It took about an hour of Bruce's hand rubbing Thor's back for the storm outside to calm to a light drizzle, which was fortunate because by then Bruce's fingers had almost gone numb.

In a move that sent a jolt of electricity into his arm, Thor slumped to the side, pressing his forehead into the crook of Bruce's shoulder.

"I'm sorry." He sniffed, wiping his eye with the back of his hand. "You should be resting as well, Banner. Not spending the night here, comforting some sentimental fool-"

"Don't." Bruce twisted in his position, wrapping his arm around the gods huge shoulders. "It's alright, Thor. You'd do the same for me, for any of us. Thats kind of the point of having a team."

He felt Thor nod again into his shoulder, and a couple more comfortable moments of silence followed. No sobbing, no shuddering. Just the gentle sound of the rain pattering against the windows, and soon the soft sound of Thor breathing deeply, slumped across Bruce's lap. A small smile crossed Bruce's face at that. The God of Thunder. One of the strongest Avengers. A man who had taken the force of a dying star, according to a talking racoon (which, after Korg and Meik, he really wasn't going to question).

That same man was asleep in his lap, fingers still holding a light grip on Bruce's shirt sleeve.

It took a great deal of tactical manoeuvres to shift the gods weight off of his lap without waking him up, and even more emotional strength to bother to get up in the first place.

But Thor was right, to his credit.

Bruce was exhausted.

He brought up the bedsheet further around Thor's shoulders, taking a moment to let his mind settle after the events of the evening. It wasn't over. Not by a long shot. He was Bruce Banner. He'd held the God of thunder in his lap, God damnit. If he could do, that, then chances are him and the team would come up with a way to beat... whatever this was.

"This isn't the end, Thor." Bruce paused at the door, taking one last glance at the sleeping demigod before he went back to his room. "You just...hang in there."

And if the team didn't find something, it was half the universe that had been lost. That was bound to cause a fuss. A big enough fuss that someone out there, among the stars, word have something to say about it.

As he settled into bed that night (night? Morning? Whenever), his eyes slipped shut, but his brain was buzzing.

Someone find a plan.

One way or another, Thanos was going to pay.

[parkernotes]

sleepless nights

also available on ao3

post-endgame / fix-it / hurt/comfort / irondad

word count: 1827

It starts like this: it’s one a.m. – he put Morgan to bed hours ago, and Pepper’s reading something on the couch in the living room; Tony plans on finishing some work in the lab and then coming back up to spend some time with her before she gets tired of waiting and goes to bed, but then his phone buzzes in his pocket. When he fishes it out and reads it's a call from Karen, his heartbeat instantly picks up; after all, it took Tony only a handful of weeks after meeting the kid to learn that when it comes to him and calls in the middle of the night, most of the time it's a wise thing to expect the worst.

“Karen, cancel call! Cancel call! Cancel–”

There it is.

“What the hell is going on?”

“ca– oh heeey, Mr. Stark!”

“Karen, run his vitals for me,” he says without a beat of hesitation, not even bothering to ask Peter directly – he knows the kid will just try to avoid the question.

"Peter's vitals are currently normal and stable," Karen supplies helpfully. "However, you've been called since it is past his curfew, and the Bedtime Protocol has been activated."

"Seriously?" comes Peter offended voice from the background, and it becomes louder as Karen's voice drowns out. "It's not that late-"

"It's almost two in the morning, you have to be up at seven and you have a quiz tomorrow," Tony scolds, wishing the kid was able to see his glare through the phone call. "What are you doing in the suit at this hour?"

There's a beat of silence, but then Peter admits quietly, "I couldn't sleep."

Tony sighs. "Are you at least at home?"

"...Kinda? I'm on the roof."

"You couldn't sleep for real or are you just coming back from patrol? Because I can check the footage right-"

"I'm serious!" Peter exclaims. "It was, like, ten o'clock when I went to bed. I was exhausted, seriously. But then I- well, it took me a while to fall asleep and then when I did I had this really, um, weird dream and now I can't-"

"Pete," Tony interrupts, but gently. "Are you having nightmares?"

The other line goes silent for a few moments again, but Tony lets him have his time. He looks around when there's a sudden noise coming from the door, but when he turns around it's just Pepper coming in, carrying her closed book on one of her hands. He mouths Peter and she instantly smiles and nods knowingly, but frowns slightly when she checks the time on her wrist watch.

"Yeah," Peter finally admits, and Tony hears a tiny sigh. "It's mostly about the battle - you know. The loud noises of the explosions and - and stuff."

Tony's heart clenches in sympathy - sometimes he forgets that Peter is only sixteen despite the time that has passed for him and the ones who remained after The Snap; he forgets that Peter was in the middle of that mess when the guy's intergalactical army starting shooting down at them with the intention to kill, and that Peter had been caught in the middle of it all and could've easily ended up among their deceased fighters even though he had just came back-

"What's the last time you've slept properly?" he asks, quickly shaking the thoughts away before they can start spiralling. Peter is here and alive, so there isn't use dwelling with the past - he only has to fix what's wrong in the present, and right now, it seems like what he needs to do is get to his kid and reassure him that everything is fine despite what his head is telling him.

Pepper, as always, catches up on the situation soon enough. She approaches Tony to stand right in front of him and run a gentle hand from the top of his head down to his nape. You should go to him, she whispers. He nods.

"Probably sometime last week?" Peter says, then quickly regrets, "But it- it's getting better, I swear! There's no need to worry, I'll be fine, I'll try to go to bed now and sleep, I'm sorry Karen had to bother you when you must've been getting ready to sleep-"

"You're not fooling anyone, kiddo," Tony sighs, only half fond - the kid is a bad liar to the point of being concerning.

He kisses Pepper on the cheek and chastely promises to be back soon as he moves quickly around the lab; soon enough the suit is spawning for his chest to enclose his body, and he's exiting through the back door of the house and into the chilly night sky.

"Mr. Stark?" comes Peter's quiet voice from the still connected call. "You still there?"

"Yeah, sorry," he says, setting the course straight to Queens right away. "I'll be there soon, yeah? Hold on tight."

"W-Wait, what? You're coming? You really don't need-"

"I don't want you to go through this alone, Pete, and I know you haven't been telling May," he says, but it's not an accusation. He just wants Pete to know that even if he's not ready to share with his Aunt what he went through just yet, Tony will be there to make sure he's fine until then.

“It’s just–” Peter starts, then interrupts himself. A few more seconds of silence, and then, “How long?” he asks quietly.

Tony smiles a bit to himself, then quickly checks the stats on his display. “Thirteen minutes. You good until then?”

“Yeah,” Peter mumbles. “Thank you, Mr. Stark. You– you really didn’t have to–”

“Don’t mention it, kiddo,” he replies, urging the suit to move faster. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

xx

Peter's indeed sitting on the roof by the time Tony arrives - the place is completely deserted and quite dirty, but the kid is sitting near the edge, arms wrapped around his legs and face resting on top of his knees. He looks up when Tony lands besides him but doesn't move, only offers him a timid smile in greeting.

"Hey," he says quietly.

"Hey yourself," Tony replies, lowering himself down to sit besides Peter with a small groan. Damn, he's really getting old. "Any progress?"

"I'm still exhausted," Peter shrugs, looking away. "Still kinda scared of going to sleep, though."

Tony sighs, taking a moment to really look at Peter; the boy has deep and dark eyebags, which definitely weren't there - or weren't as bad, at least - the last time they saw each other in person. His eyes are also a bit puffy and red - he's been crying.

"What are we working with here?" Tony asks, voice lowered down almost to a whisper as if to not disturb the quiet atmosphere that has been settled ever since he arrived. "You... said it was something to do with explosions?"

Peter nods reluctantly. "Yeah, you- you know. When they started shooting down at us," he starts, focusing on the suit's mask on his hands rather than Tony's face. "I- I had the gauntlet with me when it started and- and, um, I think most of those things were aiming at me. I thought- I w-was sure they were going to get me then."

"But they didn't," Tony says, wrapping a hand around Peter's shoulders - the boy is shaking under his hold. "I know it's something hard to digest. When- well, after New York, after I got through that hole and came back, I kept dreaming about it. I was pretty sure I was going to die then; I even tried calling Pepper, but she didn't pick up at that time."

Peter finally turns to look at him, eyes shining under the city's lights. He stays quiet, knowing that the story doesn't end there.

"I thought it was going to resolve itself eventually, if I kept avoiding the memories," he continues, giving Peter a pointed look. "Like you probably do right now. And you might be right - but you also might not, and it might get worse. That's what happened to me."

"What- What did you do?" Peter inquires softly.

"I started therapy," he says. "Believe me, that wasn't an easy decision. It took Pepper and Rhodes a really long time to convince me, because I thought that wouldn't change anything. I couldn't see how talking to a stranger would make me feel better about these- fucked up things I had gone through."

Peter nods, looking away again quietly. Fortunately, he looks thoughtful, and is not flinching away from the idea right away like Tony thought he would do.

"D-Do you think it'd work? For- for me?" he finally asks, turning around to stare at Tony with teary eyes.

"Oh, Pete," Tony breathes, reaching up to run through a hand through Peter's head before landing it on his shoulder again. "If you're willing to try, of course it will. Talking about it with those around you, like we're doing right now, will also make it better, but I think professional help is never too much. I can set you up with the one who helped me back then, what you say? She still helps me even now and then, when I need it."

Peter nods at the suggestion, almost frenetically. "P-Please," he says, raising a fist to wipe away a tear that manages to escape and run down his cheek. "If- If you're saying it helps, then I will- I will talk to May first, 'c-cause I don't know if we can-"

"I'll cover the expenses, kiddo," Tony reassures him. "Don't worry your Aunt about that, I'll have a chat with her. Okay?"

Tony knows Peter would usually complain about it, but the kid only nods which is just another indicator of how exhausted he is. He opens and closes his mouth a few times as if to say something else, but his face ends up scrunching up and he all at once breaks down in tears.

"Hey, hey, it's alright," Tony pulls him in for a hug as soon as he starts sobbing, the sound being muffled against his jacket. "You will get better, hm? I promise."

"I-I'm just s-so tired," Peter manages to say in between sobs while barely managing to breathe.

"I know, Pete. Trust me, I know," Tony soothes him, feeling his heart break at the sound of the kid's devastated sobs. He would do anything to take the pain away, to make Peter forget everything he's been through - the countless night he himself spent awake, trying everything to forget all that trauma, are still vivid in his memories and he would never wish something similar to the boy. "I'll help you make it better. You- you can count on me, buddy."

Peter keeps on sobbing but manages to nod against Tony's jacket, looping his arms around the man's torso, a silent plea for him not to let go.

He doesn't even need to ask - Tony isn't planning on doing so anytime soon.

[blackberrywidow]

Stay

Paring: Bucky x reader

Summary: With your life being threatened by a megalomaniac with a murderous streak, Bucky takes it upon himself to keep you safe. Even at the cost of some slight cuddling.

Prompt: “I’m staying with you.”

Warnings: Fluff, slight language.

Words: 1.8k

A/N: Written for @jewelswrites-ish‘s 1k writing challenge. Yes, I did just sigh up for this three hours ago and yes I did drop two other wips to do this, but when inspiration strikes… I know this is short, but I hope everyone likes it.

---

“Thanks for walking me home,” you sighed as you came upon the brightly painted red door of your apartment. It was a bit ostentatious for your tastes, but at least it was easy to find when you were drunk out of your mind. Or exhausted and on the run from a murderer, as was the case now. “It wasn’t really necessary, but I appreciate it all the same.”

“Of course,” Bucky responded, appearing to all the world completely at ease. You knew better though—his eyes scanned the perimeter of your building vigilantly as you fumbled for your keys. His hands were resting casually in his pockets, purposefully near the gun at his waist. He stood only a few inches away from you, blocking your body from the street, and you could feel the heat radiating off of him in the cold winter air. It was distracting, to say the least.

Shaking yourself from your poorly timed thoughts of what it would be like to seek out his warmth a bit more intimately, you finally managed to place your key in the lock and turn it—only to be stopped by a hand to your wrist.

“Let me go in first,” Bucky ordered, blue eyes flashing with intensity in the low light.

You considered protesting—you were a trained S.H.I.E.L.D. agent yourself, and you knew how to clear a room. But Bucky had been asked to get you to your apartment safely, and he was taking that job veryseriously. Any such protests would be swiftly ignored.

You moved out of the way, gesturing grandly with your hands for him to lead the way. He offered you a brief smirk in response before pulling out his gun and nudging the door open with the toe of his boot.

You drew your own weapon, holding it up and ready as you moved in silently behind Bucky and closed the door, ready to cover him if need be. Fortunately, it wasn’t necessary. Your apartment was blessedly tiny, so the two of you were able to check every inch of it for any potential threat within two minutes. Completely empty, save a pair of trained spies that were too exhausted to be dealing with this shit.

You breathed a sigh of relief as you finished the search back in your living room, holstering your gun securely at your hip. “Great. One hundred percent clear of any assassins lurking about, ready to kill me. Which means I’m going to bed,” you dismissed him, heading back to your bedroom on heavy feet. It had been a long day, and you were hoping to still catch a few hours of sleep before you had to head back to the tower at eight o’clock. “Just lock the door behind you. I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

“Wait,” Bucky protested, turning with you and grabbing your wrist in his cool, metal hand. “You can’t be serious.”

You blinked down at the hand that was wrapped gently, yet still firmly around your wrist before moving your gaze up to his. His eyes were still doing that strange, intensely serious thing that they had been since Tony had given you the news, and you were growing more and more confused by the second. “I am serious, Bucky. I only got like, 4 hours of sleep last night and I’m completely drained. So… yeah. Bed. Goodnight.”  

You tried to extract your arm from his grip, but his hold only tightened as he shook his head. “Wilson Fisk—one of the biggest crime bosses in the country—wants you dead, and you’re just going to go to bed like nothing’s wrong? Are you insane?”

“Yes,” you said easily, though a frown was now tugging at your lips. He was treating you like you were stupid, a major pet peeve of yours. “I can’t stay awake forever, and the rest of the Avengers are out there right now looking for Fisk and his goons. I’m as safe right now as I’ll ever be, with or without a hit out on me. That’s part of the job.”

“This is different, and you know it,” he shot back, abruptly letting go of your wrist to run his fingers through his hair. “It’s like… you’re a sitting duck here, (Y/N). You’re just waiting for someone to show up and put a bullet in your head, and you’re acting like everything is just fine.”

“We put our lives on the line every day, Buck,” you sighed, running a hand down your face as your eyes started to droop. You were waytoo tired to be having this conversation. “And honestly, I am kind of freaking out. But it’s the nature of the job, and I don’t have the time or willpower to stay vigilant for the next few days while we track him down. So yeah, I’m going to bed, and I wish anyone who tries to break into my home and kill me luck. I’m a light sleeper and an even better shot.”

You gave him a small, teasing smile which he reluctantly returned, which immediately made you forgive any previous irritation. You chalked it up as a win and began inching your way back to your room. But the next words out of his mouth made you freeze.

“I’m staying with you.”

Your eyes, half-closed and clouded with sleep moments before, snapped wide open in shock. “What?”

His mouth twitched up a bit at your stupid question, but he remained entirely professional as he crossed his arms and stared you down. “I said that I’m staying, (Y/N). You’re in no condition to properly defend yourself if someone does come for you here, and it’s my job to protect you. So, I’m staying. Go to bed, I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Your lips pressed together in a thin line, and you cocked a brow at him. “Really? It’s your job to protect me now? Steve just said to get me home—mission accomplished. Now go to your own apartment and get some rest. I know you’ve been up just as long as I have, if not longer. I don’t need you to babysit me.”

“No,” Bucky insisted, his voice harsher than you had ever heard it. “I’m not leaving you alone. I know that you’re more than capable of defending yourself—hell, I’ve seen you destroy men twice your size firsthand. But that doesn’t make you invulnerable, and until such a feat occurs, I’m staying.” His tone was firm, resolute, and he dropped down on your couch to demonstrate his point.

“…Why?” you asked, the question coming out more hesitant and breathier than you wanted in the still quiet of the room.

Bucky took a deep breath, seeming to consider your question seriously as you waited in the doorway of your room…for what you weren’t really sure. Until he spoke, that is.

“It’s my job to protect you. Not because Stark or Steve told me to, but because I… becauseI want to. Because the thought of you in danger makes me sick, and the thought of you dead makes me furious.” He finally brought his eyes back up to yours, and the ferocity and sincerity that shown in their azure depths took your breath away. “I’m staying because I have no choice, (Y/N). Not really. So, I suggest you just get used to it.”

You smiled—the slope of your lips slight, but more genuine and brighter than it had been since this Fisk business had started. Something seemed to click into place with his words, and it didn’t matter that he couldn’t bring himself to say what you both felt. This was enough.

“Come on then,” you sighed, holding out a hand to him. “There’s room for both of us in my bed, and there’s no reason either of us should miss out on sleep. We both know no one is going to sneak up on you, even when unconscious. Besides,” you teased, your grin becoming the slightest bit wicked as he stared at you with wide eyes, “there’s safety in numbers, right?”

He considered you for only a moment longer before seeming to resolve himself. He reached out, placing a warm, calloused hand in yours and allowed you to lead him to your bed.

You went through your normal bedtime routine—washing your face, brushing your teeth and hair, stripping down to your underwear (though this time you were considerate enough to throw on a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top as well). By the time you were finished, Bucky had divested himself of his weapons and gear, and was sitting awkwardly on your bed in only his t-shirt and jeans.

Your briefly considered telling him he could take off his pants if he were uncomfortable, but you knew that would have the opposite effect. Bucky was still readjusting to life in the 21stcentury—life in control of his own actions. Being here and being honest with you was probably hard enough as it was.

You crossed the room and threw yourself down on the other side of the bed without a word, causing Bucky to release a chuckle and relax a bit, inkling back on your head board. You wormed your way under the covers and over to him.

“Do you normally sleep sitting up like that?” you asked groggily, eyes peeking up at him from just above the comforter.

He smiled down at you, shaking his head. “I told you, doll. I’m n—”

“Oh, shut up,” you sighed irritably, one hand snapping out from under the blanket to grip his bicep and yank him down until he had half-fallen on top of you.

As okay as you were with the position, he righted himself with a sigh. He did remain laying though, only shifting so he was beside you rather than on top of you, so you let it side. Well, sort of.

Once he had found a comfortable position, lying above the covers, completely straight with his hands behind his head, you wiggled your way back over to him and curled into his side. He let out a surprised exhale, which you resolutely ignored to burrow your head into the crook of his shoulder.

“Mmmm,” you sighed dazedly. “So warm.”

He had tensed the moment your skin made contact with his, but he gradually let it drain from him as he chuckled. “Goodnight, (Y/N). Sweet dreams.”

You couldn’t be sure, but you thought you felt him hesitate a moment before he leaned down and pressed his lips tenderly against your forehead.

You sighed contentedly, all thoughts of mob bosses and assassination attempts fleeing from your mind. In Bucky’s arms, it was impossible to feel anything other than safe and content. “I’m already having the sweetest dream, Buck.”

It was a delirious, sleep-deprived thought that you would surely regret in the morning. But the ensuing sound of Bucky’s deep chuckle and the feel of it rumbling in his chest sent you off to the deepest sleep you had had in years, so maybe it was worth it.

Taglist: @sugarplumparker, @desir-ae, @everythingbooknerd

[okimargarvez]

FEW HOURS IN LUKE ALVEZ’S MIND - 1

Original title: Few hours in Luke Alvez’s mind.

Prompt: Luke’ POV, memory of war.

Warning: quote of 12x1.

Genre: comedy, family, angst, friendship.

Characters: Luke Alvez, Penelope Garcia, BAU team.

Pairing: Garvez.

Note: oneshot.

Legend: 🔦🐶.

Song mentioned: none.

Few hours in Luke Alvez’s mind- Masterlist

GARVEZ STORIES

Part 1-

I spend the whole evening thinking about what Rossi has told me. I was happy to receive that call. Being among the first to know that Daniel Cullen, aka the Crimson King, had participated in the great escape, was very positive. From that cursed day I couldn't take the image out of my head of that monster while was quartering my partner, and, what I never say when I tell the story of his capture, even my best friend. It's something that will haunt me for a lifetime. And of bad things, with the work I do, it's not that I have no way of seeing them.

Is not even to be discussed if I'll collaborate with the BAU, the answer is obviously yes. I want to capture Cullen as much as, but what I’m saying, far more than them. The only thing that kept me going in this period was knowing him right behind bars. But I don't want to definitively join the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I'm not a profiler. I don't see myself trying to penetrate the perverse minds of people like Cullen, or worse. And what I do now, I like it. I can't say I adore it, no, but I feel good and in the end, it's not that you can always expect the best.

Roxy enters the room, in all her splendor. As usual, she manages to make me stop thinking about work and tear me a smile. -Come here.- I say, making a sign her to sit on the couch next to me. And she does it, in a rather stormy way. A pillow falls on her head. I stroke her, and she reciprocates me with a kiss.

-What do you say, let's go to bed?- she seems to nod and so we get up, heading towards the bedroom, one next to the other. Another of the things for which I didn't completely lose my mind is her. She stayed near me, during this period. I love her more than my life.

I don't think I will be able to rest seriously, but I must at least try. Tomorrow will be a long day. Wake up early and go to Washington. Roxy certainly will not like the idea of ​​moving. She adores the landscapes of this area, the long tree-lined avenues, the fragrant bushes. But at least until Daniel Cullen goes back where he has to stay permanently (on the other side of the bars), I'll have to go to Quantico very often, so I think it's better that we have a place to stay, so we don't have to come back and forth. And surely, I couldn't leave her here alone, I miss her terribly.

 The alarm rings while I'm finishing to get dress. I anticipated it for a full fifteen minutes. As I had imagined, I could hardly close my eyes. I've traveled through several mini dreams, I don't even know if I can define them, I don't remember most of them, but I seem to remember the atmosphere, dark, absurd, properly dreamlike. Some of those were vaguely related about a sort of interview to be hired as a profiler, although it isn't something I want, in reality. Some people all the same, both as clothes and as a physical appearance, indistinguishable between men and women, they asked me quickfire questions, not even I was under questioning or they were making me the test of polygraph. And my answers were always wrong or inaccurate. Only the fact of returning to the real world, panting, sweating and with an extra weight on my heart, convinced me that I had slept at least one or two hours altogether.

Fortunately, the plane lands without a minute's delay, ignoring the fact that, predicting the worst, I booked to get to Quantico an hour earlier. Here I am in front of the headquarters of the Bureau: immense, very high, reminds me of certain buildings filmed in the poetic documentaries of the avant-garde (the influence of my brother is felt). It certainly helps to instill in those who are about to enter, a certain sense of authority and smallness by contrast. But I'm only here as a collaborator, what tormented me is just a dream and it doesn't come close to reality.

As soon as I set foot inside, I am shocked by the number of stairs that branch out in every direction and the counters with beautiful secretaries, apparently available. But I don't need to ask for any information, Rossi has already told me what I needed to know. And so, I take the elevator (normally I wouldn't do it, but I don't want to get sweaty right the day I get to know the other members of the unit, with whom I'll have to spend some time anyway...). I arrive in a flash, too quickly, and I'm immediately punished for this lazy choice: my head is now turning, and a certain sense of nausea is rising... Reminder for the future: don't take the elevator any more.

I risk of bumping into a blonde woman, busy carrying a lot of cards. It'll be my gaze, which despite my efforts is still disoriented, or it'll be her precarious position, the fact is that she raises her eyes to mine a moment before our bodies are likely to collide and this is enough to recognize me as the newcomer, the exterior.

-Hey, you are Luke Alvez, the man of the task force?- her voice isn't exactly as I guessed, it's decided and transmits a great determination. Apparently, she looks like a pretty, sweet woman, but I think she'll reserve more surprises. I nod.

-Exactly, I must have right a lost air, for being caught on the first shot...- I throw one of my friendly smiles. She gives me her right hand, I squeeze it. From the corner of my eye I notice a beautiful wedding ring in the ring finger of the other hand.

-Jennifer Jareau, but you can call me JJ.- it sounds good, it sounds good for her. -I imagine you're here for the case of the Crimson King...- just hearing that nickname make me nervous, but if her notice it, she doesn't seem to give it much weight. -Wait that I place these folder, then I'll show you the way.- she starts heading to a door, I follow her. -We were just about to make a meeting to talk about the progress made so far. Thanks to you, less than half of the escapees came back inside.- in saying the last sentence, she turns to me and gives me a very warm and sincere smile.

-I only did my job...- a lines that seems extrapolated from a classic Hollywood police film. JJ giggles anyway. She opens a locker, throws inside everything she has in her hands, then she closes it.

-Well, we can go.- I nod, without saying anything and I follow her, looking around intrigued, hoping that at least it won't be notice, everything: it is very different from the place where I work, is full of desks, each "decked out" personal way, higher up there must be the offices of the "big bosses". We arrive at the door, this is transparent but so that those on the other side can see us, but not us him. It turns out to be a fairly small room, in the center a round table, chairs, a screen, a blackboard directly attached to one of the glass walls. Sitting on one of them there is just Rossi, next to him a dark-haired man, completely focused on the documents he is reading, but even so it seems to convey a shady air. The Italian-American looks up at the sound of someone entering and realizes that besides JJ there is also someone new, me.

-Luke!- he stands up and reaches us. -I'm glad you managed to get there on time. I see you've met JJ...- we both nod. Even the other man, who should be the boss, is approaching. -Hotch, this is the boy- this term makes me feel extremely young -that helped us to take those criminals...- I feel a certain embarrassment or perhaps it is more awe, when I meet the gaze of the boss.

-Well, it's a pleasure to meet you. Aaron Hotcher.- the tone in this case fits perfectly to his person, but also reveals that behind that armor in one piece there is a man loyal to duty but that puts the whole heart in everything he does. Maybe I should really do the profiler, I do nothing but shoot judgments on anyone starting from nuances of the voice and ways of doing, as I have set foot in Quantico. He holds out his hand and for the umpteenth time, certainly not the last, I find myself doing this formal ritual.

-Luke Alvez.- at the same time a tall, slender, professional-looking brunette woman comes.

-Excuse the delay, the damn coffee machine has decided not to cooperate...- she notices me early enough, not that it is a very complex operation. Probably they didn’t explain to all members of the team the possibility of a collaboration on my part, because she appears confusing. I don’t know whether to resolve the problem directly or if I have to wait for the boss to introduce me. In the end, luckily, Rossi thinks about it.

-Tara, remember that we asked for someone who could help us to capture the escapees?- after a few seconds, she nods. For a moment she seems lost in who knows what memory. -Here, he is our trump card- if he continues like this, he will make me blush -Luke Alvez , task force.- I approach her, shake her hand, her is a very delicate hold, perfectly matched with the tone of her velvety voice.

-Tara Lewis.- I hope that for now the pleasantries are over, but it is a rather utopian desire. I seemed to remember that they were more, of course, a few months ago they lost one of their member, some voices have come in my house, he was kidnapped him and then someone had shot his pregnant wife... logical that he decided to move on. However, they still seem to me too few.

-Unfortunately we can’t begin, we must wait for our computer technician.- Hotchner explains, probably turning more to me than to others. I nod, everyone sits down, so I do too. A few minutes later the door opens (apparently for the last time) and, stumbling, hidden by a pile of yellow folders that remind me of the years in the police, and a computer, enters a woman, a spot of various shades of pink and yellow, the color of her hair. Of course, when the boss told "our computer technician", I thought he was referring to a man, but it was a masculine thought, the result of a legacy still present in our society, however much we would deny it and affirm the opposite. Resting the material on the table, finally she reveals her figure, even if for a few seconds. She quickly distributes the folders, one in front of me and I can’t help but notice the amount of bracelets and the variety of shapes that adorn her arm, as well as the colored nails in a very creative way. OK, the nerds are pretty eccentric, but I could never have expected a similar computer scientist. Rossi tries to get her attention, but she clearly ignores him, preferring to dedicate herself to the screen, which suddenly comes on.

-We can start.- Hotchner says solemnly. Nobody replies anything, only the blond woman, the only one left standing, who nods and handling what looks like a common remote control, starts the presentation of the case.

-As you all know, not the all evaded have yet been captured. Last night, in Durham, a man was sighted whose description corresponded exactly to that of the wanted number one: Peter Lewis, aka Mister Scratch.- first a map appears to locate exactly the detection area, next to a picture that I remember, one of the worst serial killers that America has known. Yet a part of me is distracted by the thought of how much the analyst's voice is sweet. Sweet, I can’t think of another adjective that can describe it well. -...unfortunately there are no cameras in that area, so we have only the testimony of a woman who was walking with her dog.- I try to go back to concentrating on serious things, even if it is a complex matter, because the gaze is attracted , willy-nilly, towards those bright colors that completely contrast with the things we are talking about in this room, with the photographs projected on the screen behind her (many victims of Scratch, almost used as a reminder to have one more reason to find him) and with the atmosphere in general.

-We have any kind of identikit?- Tara asks, sitting next to me. The woman, of whom I don’t even know the name, nods and here appears what is required. There is no doubt that there are significant similarities with the killer who enjoys not killing, preferring to push others to do so, prey to nightmares and dark visions.

-Unfortunately the situation remains virtually unchanged.- the comment seems to close the question, it’s the oldest in the room who has talking.

-Dave is right.- the boss is in agreement. -We can move on to the second topic of the day, the main reason why agent Alvez is among us.- I feel the lights of the spotlight on me. Without having to add anything else, every data about Lewis disappears and in its place, peeks out the seemingly normal face, perhaps even more frightening, of the criminal that I more hate, of the man who has ruined Phil's life and by reflex also mine, ripping off whole nights of sleep and serenity, that I will not get back...

-Daniel Cullen, also known as the Crimson King.- I realize after a few seconds that my hand is tigh in a fist. I try to relax, with poor results. -There is no news from the escape, but an anonymous source, a call from a telephone booth, to be exact. He told Durham police he had seen Cullen with Mister Scratch. This is the only thread we can follow to get out of the maze.- the joke rips out a few laughs to the colleagues, but not to Hotcher, who remains serious.

-If there are no other comments- he even says, almost scolding the blonde, who raises her eyes to the sky (probably they are used to it, among them will be a kind of game or ritual) -I would say that for today we can conclude. Agent Alvez, do you feel like joining us in the search?- is the simplest question someone could ask me. -We do not know exactly when the track on Cullen will open again.- he adds, but I have already made a decision.

-Sure.- he nods, satisfied.

-Ok, then if there isn’t other news, we will update tomorrow morning.- and repeated what looks like a formula now standardized, the meeting is dissolved, all stand up, JJ reaches the other blonde and exchange a few words with her, I can’t distinguish enough to understand the logical sense. And it should not interest me. I see Rossi and Tara coming out and, in a moment, we are left alone. It seems to me the right moment to conclude the presentations and finally to give a name to her too, which launches an almost painful and desperate look in the direction where her colleague has disappeared. Then I'll stop calling her just the blonde or computer technician.

-Hey, we haven’t be introduced yet, I'm the agent of the task force, Luke Alvez.- she seems to hardly direct the eyes in my direction and takes much longer than normal to allow them to cross with mine. Her are brown, but not dark, of various shades of hazelnut, framed beautifully by a pair of pink glasses (rightly matched to the clothes) and long and refined eyelashes.

-Penelope Garcia.- the tone is very different from the one she used during the meeting, absurdly it seems darker at this moment, than when she was intent on commenting horrible images. The name is interesting, certainly not really common, yet truly mythical or mythological. And the surname makes me think of a background that is closer to mine, and yet her appearance does not seem that of a Latin, American or not. We exchange a hasty close, which gives me the time to just guess the freshness of her skin. Even her ring finger, like that of JJ, is occupied by a ring, but unlike the other blonde, is in good company. You don’t need to be a profiler to say that she likes all kinds of wearable accessories. -Now I'm sorry, but I'm very busy.- said this, she takes her computer and virtually without even looking at me, leaves the room. That's why I could never be a good profiler: from the way she is dressed, she has talked and even from her tone of voice, I would have imagined anything but a woman as cold and detached as she seems now.

As I mull over, I look up and find myself in front of a tall, very young man, definitely more than me, lightly long and long brown hair, a particular look and a briefcase in one hand.

-Luke Alvez?- he asks and I wonder if by chance I don’t have an ID sticker printed on the front. I nod. -I’m Spencer Reid.- that name reminds me of some detail provided by Rossi (of course).

-Ah! No handshaking, right? Your reputation precedes you.- the other is pleasantly impressed and smiles.

-I just came back and we already have a case.- he goes to a desk, collects something, some sheets, a book, then closes his bag with a click. He turns in my direction and seems to be about to say something but is interrupted by the entrance of the three ladies of the BAU, two blondes and a brunette. The smallest accelerates the pace and reaches us.

-Spencer!- she exclaims with great joy, and then hugs him with a lot of transport. I move away a few inches, partly embarrassed to be unwittingly the third wheel in what seems like a private moment. Here comes the other two, Tara greets the young man with a smile, while Penelope takes the place of JJ, hugging him with a lot of tenderness.

-How are you, my boy wonder?- the voice takes with more force those sweet nuances that I had guessed while she was explaining the case and that has not had only with me. She doesn’t give him the time to answer. -And how is your mother?- but maternal is the adjective that I would use to describe her attitude, in general, towards Spencer. The way she scrutinizes him, apprehensively, her gestures, precise and delicate.

-She is much better.- he exclaims, opening his serious face in a big smile.

-JJ, where can I find your archive? I would like to see all the material you have about... Daniel Cullen.- the blonde nods, but glances at the computer technician.

-If you are looking for information, of any kind, she is the woman to whom you must address.- this phrase comes out with an almost complacent tone, even if I don’t understand the reasons. The other realizes that she has been called into question and turns towards us. -Garcia, could you help Luke find the complete file on the Crimson King?- she asks, before I can do it, leaving me a bit confused. I don’t understand why she seems to want to be an intermediary between us. Garcia nods, snorting and throwing a look that I would call homicidal, just directed to JJ, who smiles strangely once again. Something is happening that I'm completely unaware of. But for now, I decided to pretend nothing happened.

-Follow me.- says Penelope, without even looking at me, start to walking regardless of whether I'm behind her or not. I quickly greet the others and reach out to her. It makes me feel strange, that she is the only one that uses this formal tone. Even Hotch immediately talked to me in another tone and practically demanded the same from me. And after have seen her interact with Spencer, I don’t think she is a super formal type, but... maybe it's better to refrain from judging, for today. We enter a room surrounded by lockers, like those in the libraries where the old catalogs were kept. The rest is made up of files and rows of tables, each equipped with a computer that doesn’t seem to last generation at all. She approaches one, turning it on, typing in a password (even if I don’t have time to follow her fingers flickering on the keys) and the screen lights up. -Here, it is enough that you type the name you need in this space and you will see a list of everything you need. In part it will be directly present in the system in electronic format and if you want you can print a copy. Otherwise, an acronym will appear that corresponds to the location of the document you are looking for. At this point you will have to turn to one of the archivists.- she explains in a calm voice, totally devoid of those pretty inflexions she had just a moment ago. -Good work.- and she goes away.

-Thank you.- I reply, too late.

TAGS:  @arses21434 @kathy5654 @martinab26 @reidskitty13 @jenf42 @gracieeelizabeth27 @silviajajaja @smalliemichelle99 @charchampagne14 @thinitta   @myhollyhanna23 @garvezz @mercedes-maldonado  @shyladystudentfan @cosmicmelaninflower @kiki-krakatoa  @pegasus-scifichick  @ leftlamphumanfestival 

[odogaronfang]

Ember, elegant, and danger.

[[i’ll do these as separates, just cuz, but i guess i’ll keep em along the same span of timeline in the botw au]]

ember;

Going on adventures alone is difficult and, though she’d be loath to admit it, really not so enjoyable. They’d agreed about a week ago to split up, to get some information on the behaviors of the divine beasts, and she’d been tasked with traveling to Gerudo Town- they only let women in, after all, and Zelda would be busy in Hebra, so she was the immediate choice. She’d agreed, because the climate of the desert was more like her hometown than Hebra’s, or the Eldin region’s, and she’d been vetoed for the zoras’ domain because Green had “called it”. At least it wouldn’t be cold, she’d said, and in the vast emptiness of the desert she laughs, then.

“Yeah, at least it isn’t cold.” She snorts, gives two middle fingers to the cool, implacable moon and pulls the thin blanket tighter around her. As soon as dusk had fallen she’d begun to notice the temperature drop, and now, halfway through the night, it’s near-freezing and miserable.

She has no wood, why would anyone bring firewood into a desert after all, so she’d gathered as much nearby foliage as she could and settled with her back to a boulder, knocked a rock against the head of her spear until a spark had caught, and she’d managed to kindle a little fire. It had lasted, for a little while, and she savored every second of its warmth.

But it’s out, now, little more than embers, blown to tiny fluttering red-orange bits by the vicious winds, and she’s near-freezing and growing desperate for something hot. She resolves to beat Green into the ground for not warning her once she gets back, if she survives this night.

(She does, and she’s welcomed, shivering and angry, into Gerudo Town just before dawn, by a group of laughing eight-foot tall women; she isn’t sure whether to feel dwarfed and insignificant or grateful and, perhaps, smug.)

elegant;

The zoras’ domain is one of the most beautiful places Green has ever seen in his life. He’d been astounded even at the simple grace of the towers posted just along their borders, and the bridges that spanned the paths across rivers were no less stunning, but neither fully prepared him for the heart of the domain. It’s breathtaking, awe-inspiring, gorgeous- he’s seen a wonderful handcrafted rendering of Hyrule Castle in its heyday, and it can’t hold a candle to the wrought silver and sapphires of the soul of the zoras’ homeland, small though it is.

His zora guide seems amused and proud at his expression.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Tula, as she’d introduced herself as, says, and pats him on the shoulder. “It’s the pride of our people, right here.”

“It’s incredible,” He agrees, and tries not to stop to admire every little arch of the bridge as they walk by. Vio is the one with words, not him, but… “It’s… elegant, if I had to put it in a word.”

“It’s elegant and more- there isn’t any single word that can really capture it. Which is why calming Vah Ruta is so important to us. Or one of the reasons, anyway. If Ruta floods the domain… centuries of work of our skilled artisans, gone just like that. King Dorephan has worked himself into a terrible worry over it.”

Green can’t help but cast a nervous glance at the waterspout looming behind them, a beacon to the raging beast. “Especially if it killed Champion Mipha…”

“Rest her soul, we don’t think that’s what happened, exactly,” Tula says, hastily, “Princess Mipha’s control over Ruta was absolute, and their bond was unshakable. Nothing could have changed that save interference by another being. Of course, we have to prove that theory- which is why we need Hylians, like you, to get in there and find out.”

“It’s a lucky coincidence, I guess. A few friends and I have been looking for information on them, the divine beasts I mean, trying to see if we can do anything about them.”

That seems to excite her, and her pace quickens (though it isn’t difficult to adjust, their legs are so short). “Friends, you say? Hylians as well, these?”

“Well, some. One’s a sheikah, and another half sheikah, and I’m half gerudo actually so I don’t know if I count, really.”

“That’s wonderful news!” She tugs insistently at his wrist, past the smooth silver of the memorial of Champion Mipha and to the stairs that lead to the king’s chamber. “To think- sheikah, and one of gerudo blood, this will be even better than just hylian. Tell me, are any of you skilled with a bow?”

“Uh, the half sheikah is, his name’s Vio-”

“Come, come, save the details for the king, he’ll be just ecstatic to hear this, this is better news than we could have hoped for!”

He’s rushed with all haste into Dorephan’s audience chamber, and is met with a king the size of a house, and a prince hardly up to his waist (both of whom he bows to, unsure of how to handle himself in presence of another’s royalty). He introduces himself and, at Tula’s prodding, offers details on himself and his friends, and that goes into strategy discussion and something that sounds suspiciously like an agreement of some sort, and he leaves to his special luxury guest suite in the domain wondering what he’s just gotten himself into.

danger;

Vio is very aware of the dangers of Hebra, mundane and otherwise. Zelda makes sure to remind him- mind thin ice, check for solid footholds, hollow a space in the snow in the event of an avalanche, check your hands and feet every hour or so for frostbite, if you hear a howl get somewhere inaccessible to quadrupeds.

She’s known Hebra half a lifetime, and she’s wary, so he’s wary; it’s all in good sense, of course.

“Do monsters run as rampant here as they do in the warmer regions?”

“Yes, but in a different way, I guess. The camps aren’t as frequent, but they come in bigger groups.”

As they discover hardly an hour later.

It surprises Zelda- “I’d never seen an encampment here before”- and it puts him off a little. Bigger groups is no exaggeration: it’s a dozen of them, at least, but probably more, bokoblins and moblins and pale blue lizals clumped around a fire comically small for their group.

“We will find another way,” Vio murmurs, takes her arm and pulls gently, and she goes to turn, and her foot cracks a crust of ice and all eyes are on them.

It’s chaos from there, too many against too few, a seven to one ratio at the least, and Vio is ill-suited to the terrain and Zelda’s too outnumbered to be effective with her small quick weapons. Quickly she takes the role as diversion, gives Vio time to pick them off, it’s the safest option, or it is in theory.

“Get back,” He calls to her, when no more than half have fallen, dead or otherwise incapacitated, “Far back, go down the slope if you must!”

She’s not sure why he says it but she does it anyway, favoring the probability of surviving a slide downhill over melee against six monsters twice her size. She takes one with her as she goes, knocks it off balance and sends it careening down, locks her feet in the straps of her shield and follows it. Just as she reaches the bottom she hears a crackle, and then a loud noise that sounds almost like a parachute catching the wind, and a burst of heat sears her face even at that distance.

A fire arrow, she thinks, clever, at least against the lizals, and drives her knife into the moblin’s head when it tries to rise. It’s a little while before she chances to move, because it’s too quiet for her liking, not a word from Vio since he’d let the arrow fly. She picks her way up the hill- it’s easier now, with some of the snow melted to reveal footholds.

“Vio?”

“I am alive.”

It takes a moment of looking around, but she finds him, sitting against a log the moblins had been resting on, checking his bow for burns. She’s wary, as she crosses the snow, but no ice chus burst from the drifts, so she sits beside him, sighs and slumps against the damp wood.

“Hell of a fight,” She says, and scrubs at a spatter of bokoblin blood on her leg with a handful of snow.

“Hell of a fight,” He agrees. Satisfied with his bow’s condition, he frees it of its string and stores it for the time being, takes out the first aid kit he keeps tucked in his pack. “Need anything?”

She agrees to a bandage; she’d missed a good dodge by a fraction of a second, and the little slice on her stomach stings against her undershirt. It’s only when she’s handing back the roll when she notices Vio’s got one hand shoved into the snow, the surrounding sleeve alarmingly blackened, and when he pulls it out the ice is stained pale red.

“Vio, what happened?”

“I was careless with the fire arrow is all. Not enough time to take proper precaution.”

“That’s a bad burn.”

“It looks worse than it is, fortunately.”

She’s skeptical, watches as he smears some bitter-smelling salve on it and wraps it in bandages and eases his glove over it. “That didn’t burn?”

“I suspected this might happen. I took it off before I got the arrow.”

“We need to get that checked out by a healer. There’s a stable not too far from here we can go to.”

“Tomorrow, maybe. We ought to get our rest while we can. The danger is past, for now.”