#frosted tips doc is one I’m keeping

[luckyreds]

Doc Roe could’ve been rocking this haircut in Bastogne and it would be historically accurate😂

@executethyself35 Thank you for reminding me this pic exists😘

[laiiaaa]

LOVE WILL TEAR US APART — CARMEN BERZATTO (part 1)

summary You come back to Chicago for the first time since Christmas five years ago. Seeing Carmen might just split you wide open.

length 5.4k

contents angst, childhood friends to not friends not lovers but a secret third thing, very deeply requited love and everyone knows it except them, family troubles/fighting (giving y’all the Berzatto special), takes place the year of Mikey’s passing so everything is still fresh n rly painful, reader has the nickname ‘Birdie’, there's some fluff dw, happy endings are overrated we die like men

note this was originally going to be 1 part but seeing as the doc is reaching 13k words…here’s just the beginning :)

Wind comes from the pale gray sky and bites at your cheeks and the tip of your nose. Fingers go stiff, a chill runs from the nape of your neck down your spine. Maybe you should’ve worn more than just your jacket; Chicago’s always been a little colder than New York, anyway. You tend to forget the little things.

The windows of the Berzatto house glow yellow with company, and you can hear the bustle just by standing at the door, frosted glass animated by guests. You can picture it like it was yesterday: white yellow lights around every corner, the table set in full with porcelain and silver, hollow presents under the tree, too much talking to hear yourself think. You can still go home to at least save yourself the trouble. Can’t lose if you don’t try, right?

For once, it’s Richie who greets you—not like Mikey’s around to do it anymore, to pull you into a bear hug and tell you how much you’ve grown up, to ease you into the chaos he struggles to navigate himself. Struggled, you have to remind yourself. Past tense.

“Birdie!” he calls out to you, opening the door wide before you can knock, half-expecting you to walk yourself in before meeting you on the porch instead with a big smile.

You look up at him as he plants his warm hands on your shoulders. He’s taller than you remember, but five years time leaves a lot in the ruins. “Hey, Richie.” You lean into the hug and into his chest to at least try to catch your breath, to try and slow down your heart’s racing.

He rubs your back ever so slightly. “It’s good t’see you, kid. ‘S been a while, I missed you ‘n that smile ‘f yours.” He gives you two pats and pulls back to hold you by your arms as he gives you a good look. His brows twitch, subtle enough to nearly miss it, with a sympathetic curve to his mouth. “You doin’ alright?”

Since Mikey died is what he means to add to the end of the question. Maybe it’s Since you up an’ left us. Or Now that you’re finally free.

You stick with the first one and just nod. “I’m okay.” Your eyes flit back to his face before landing on the front door, unease pooling in your gut. “A little nervous to be back in so long.” You let your voice go quiet, and you look at your hands and with wet eyes while your fingers fidget like a tall child. “And I…I miss him, y’know?…I should’ve—” you’re getting choked up now, throat growing tight— “I should’ve been here, or—”

His brows really furrow this time, head tilting to the side before he looks to the sky to bite back any real sadness that could come through in his voice, to keep you from seeing it. Bringing you into a hug again, he mutters, “Shhh, don’t beat yourself up about it, sweetheart. I know you miss him, I know.” A gentle kiss to the top of your head. “We all do.”

Growing up across the street from the Berzattos led them to be a second family to you—and, by extension, Richie, for how inseparable he and Mikey were. Much of your memories as a kid were the two older boys, already teens by the time you came into the picture: Mikey and Richie taking you out to ice cream, Mikey and Richie pushing you on the swings down at the playground, Mikey and Richie teaching you to ride a bike. They might as well have been your older brothers by blood. They always cherished and doted on you, and while it changed in manner as you grew older—from piggy back rides to intimidating prom dates—it was always there. They always cared. Richie still does. Maybe double as much to make up for what’s been lost.

You don’t cry so much into his chest. A few tears fall, sure, but you use the time to just breathe, to close your eyes, to stall. Sniffling, you pull away, wipe your eyes, and straighten your clothes, smoothing creases. “Okay,” you huff. “I’m okay. I’m ready.”

A knowing look. “You sure?”

You nod. “Yeah, I’m good.” Another sniffle. “Promise.”

Richie turns to face the house with you, opening the door while the other hand stays hovering by your shoulder. With the smallest shift in the hinges, noise spills out the door. Small talk in the living room, clinking of glass against tabletops, boisterous laughter, timers ringing in the kitchen, Donna’s voice rolling in. It’s more than you remember. Heavier. Hotter. Richie motions to take your coat and you happily oblige, left to pick at the hems of your sleeves rather than buttons and pockets.

“So,” Richie starts, and with the way he says it you’d think you look like you’re about to pass out, “How’s New York treatin’ ya lately? You a hot-shot lawyer yet?”

You laugh softly, partly to be nice and partly to stave off the awkwardness you feel, like you’re being watched by the rest of the family. “I just passed the bar this year, Richie, I’m barely an associate—”

“Right, right, right—all that stuff goes over my head. Whatever, you’re a genius in my book.”

You smile sheepishly. “Yeah, well the people I work with are just—they’re incredible, how smart they are. I’m a baby compared to them.”

He waves it off as if to say Fuck ‘em. “How’s the livin’ situation, then? You affordin’ it okay, eatin’ good, all that?” He looks a little more stern, more brotherly when he asks it.

“I’m fine.” You look up at him and smile to let him know you’re honest, that you aren’t just saying it to get him off your back. “I really like it out there. I made decent enough money as a paralegal, and I have a roommate with a cushy job in finance. We’re pretty close, but we don’t see each other often with our hours ‘n stuff. Not the best,” you shrug, “But I’m doing pretty well, all things considered.”

He pauses, looks you over to see you’re genuine. “Alright,” he sighs, pulling you into his side and squeezing you tight because he knows you hate it. “I believe ya.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, fuck you.” You’re laughing a little harder for the first time since arriving in Chicago, and it reminds you that it can be close to normal, coming home. “Where’s Nat? I haven’t talked to her since I got off the plane.”

“She’s upstairs resting.” He lets go and starts drifting to the kitchen absentmindedly—why, you’re not sure. “The baby’s got her in a mood, kickin’ ‘n all that, the little fucker—but Pete ‘n Carm ‘r down here somewhere—”

Your heart stops, and for a moment you can’t hear anything but your own thoughts, fragments of his voice and his laughter from memory. Your chest goes tight, your throat runs dry. You knew from Nat and Richie that he’d come back to Chicago a while ago, after Mikey’s funeral, but never in a million years did you think he’d come to Christmas dinner. Richie doesn’t seem as shocked as you think he should be. “Carmen? He’s here?” You nearly whisper it, afraid to be heard if he’s nearby.

He stops walking. “In the kitchen, yeah, why? You talk to ‘im in a while? Figured he’d’ah told ya, me ‘n Nat had to convince ‘im. A real jagoff about it, by the way.” His tone doesn’t say anything more than his words do. Maybe he’s forgotten about everything, or he’s trying to spare you. Maybe he never knew all that much to begin with.

“No,” you answer, quiet with an ache in your chest you haven’t felt in years. “We don’t…we haven’t really talked since the last time I was here…” And I don’t want to change that at the moment is what you don’t say, bile in your throat at the thought of peeling back scabbed wounds.

Before Richie can comment, a loud voice comes to you from the front room: “Is that my little Birdie?”

Cicero. You missed him, honestly.

He huffs himself out of his seat in the living room and welcomes you in the foyer, bringing your attention away from Richie like you’d been hoping to. “Oh, I missed you,” he says, giving a brief kiss to your cheek.

You hug him in return, but really you’re just hoping to get away from the kitchen. “Missed you too.”

Resting his hands on your shoulders, he smiles and looks at your face. “You’ve only gotten more beautiful since the last time I saw you. Like an angel.” He doesn’t let you protest, he only peeks behind you to look at Richie, who leans against the wall with his arms crossed. “Ain’t she beautiful, Richie?”

“Yeah,” he deadpans, unamused. “A real treat she is.”

Cicero looks back to you and speaks lowly. “Ignore that son ‘f a bitch. He’s just jealous ‘cause you’re my favorite.” He winks, gestures to the living room, and takes a few steps while he brings his voice back to a normal volume. “C’mon, tell this ol’ geezer about New York—can’t even remember the last time I was there, musta been ‘83—”

If the rest of the night is like this, you think, Carmen might not be so much of an issue. He could be nothing at all, like he always wanted to be.

He promises himself that he’ll say something by the end of the night. He has to, he thinks, and if not to avoid being an asshole, then to avoid getting reamed by Richie. Carmen realizes he has the upper hand, too, whether he likes it or not: he at least expected you to be here. That doesn’t make it any less terrifying to hear your name. 

The first time is when he’s cutting onions as Richie opens the door, and he gets lucky enough to hear nothing else but the door shutting afterward. An afterthought, a mirage maybe. 

In between that and the second, his name slips by your lips. You whisper it, of course, because you hate him—you hate him for the way he treated you, and for the way he didn’t, and for the fact that he wasn’t man enough to ever speak to you about any of it, or speak to you at all. And despite the fact you try to hide it when you say it, he hears you; he doesn’t think anything could keep him from doing that much. Especially not when it sounds just like you did years ago on those half-broken steps to the back porch, after everything went to shit and there was a hole in the fucking house and you couldn’t stop crying if you tried. He was there for you like he always was: letting you lean your head on his shoulder as you wept, one arm holding you tight to keep you grounded while the other hand nursed a cigarette to keep himself sane. And his name sounded just like it does tonight when you turned to look at him with bleary eyes so many years ago, whispering Carmen? so sweet he wanted to taste the lip gloss that flavored it. That night he did, for a fleeting moment. Before he ruined it.

So of course, he hears you say his name, and he knows it’s you. He doesn’t think anything could keep him from knowing you.

The second time he hears your name it’s like a confirmation. A confirmation that it’s real, you’re real, and you’re here, and it isn’t his mind playing tricks on him like it does when it’s late at night and he’s walking the streets and thinks he sees a girl that looks like you. The rest of the dialogue after the fact goes blurry, the timers going off turn into a monotone buzz, all he hears is chopchopchop against the cutting board until Uncle Jimmy calls you beautiful. He’s sure you are, but he doesn’t want to see it and believe it even more. Your heels click against the hardwood a few times, and he’s not sure where Ma went, but Richie’s standing behind him saying something he can’t decipher and he wants to tell him to Fuck off but he can’t, not now, not tonight.

“Cousin!” Richie snaps, pushing his shoulder. “Did you hear a word I just said?”

He sighs and looks over his shoulder but stays gripping the knife. “No, sorry, say it again—‘m listenin’.”

“Right. So when���s the last time you talked t’her?”

His hand squeezes a little harder, the knife suffers for it. “Talk t’who?”

A quick bang of a hand to the counter top leaves the onions rattled. “Don’t play stupid with me right now, Cousin—” a harsh finger points in Carmen’s face— “or I swear t’God I will fuck you up once this dinner’s over.”

He pauses. He looks past Richie into the foyer where you once stood but quickly goes back to work. Chop. “Look, I dunno, it—it’s just been a while, I dunno the exact fuckin’ date, alright?” Oh, but how vividly he does.

“Yeah? How’s five years to the fuckin’ day sound? Pretty damn accurate, or what?”

No response. Chop.

“You’re a real piece’ah fuckin’ work, y’know that, right?” Richie sounds about as angry as he’s ever been, but it’s different this time: it’s quiet, it’s controlled, it crawls up Carmen’s spine.

“It’s not—it’s not like I meant to, to, uh—”

“ ‘To, to, uh’ what?” he mocks. “To pull the shit you did then go fuckin’ AWOL on ‘er?”

Another beat of silence. Laughter trails in from the living room, and he starts to wonder if it’s you who made it ring. He shakes his head, scrunches his nose. “H—…” Rethinking whether he wants the answer to his question, he puts the knife down and leans into his hands before looking over Richie’s shoulder again. “How, uh…how is she?” It’s muttered, ashamed, the way he asks it, brows furrowed with regret and slithers of hope. “ ‘S she doin’ alright?” He heard bits and pieces of the conversation from just a minute ago, but part of him needs this: to hear it crystal clear, to have it branded beneath his 773 tattoo you traced with an anxious finger, to have the pain be inadmissible such that he can’t forget it.

Without needing to look him in the eye Richie knows to soften his approach. Carmen’s eyes are wet, he’s got that solemn air to him that he gets when he’s thinking about something that forms lumps in his throat, he swipes his hand by his mouth like the words were bitter to say out loud. 

He turns over his shoulder like he’ll get caught and looks down at the chef. “She’s good, Carm,” he sighs, nodding his head slowly and with raised brows. “Real good…Like Cicero said, she—she’s beautiful, ‘n she’s gotta career lined up for ‘er. But—” he hesitates when Carmen looks up— “The look on ‘er face, man, it—it changed when she found out you’re here.”

Something indescribable flows through his veins. “Wh—what d’ya mean?” He shakes his head in denial. “Like, like, it—what’d she look like?” He waits expectantly, and part of him hopes something hard and fast’ll put him out of his misery.

Richie swallows. He smooths a hand over his hair, lets it fall to the nape of his neck while his eyes dance elsewhere. “Listen, she…she just looked like—” He kisses his teeth, unsure of how to phrase it, weary of the first thing to come to mind and whether the subject was worth mentioning at all. He should lay it to rest.

But Carmen is ever the stubborn boy at heart. “Cousin.” Fingers drum against granite. “Looked like what?”

“...Like I’d just stabbed ‘er in the gut.”

The rest of the family is enthralled by you, though whether it’s because they haven’t seen you in five years and miss you, or because it finally gives them an excuse to make Lee let someone else talk, you’re not sure. But by the time they let you get a breath in it feels like three hours have gone by, though when you peek at your watch, it’s barely been thirty minutes. You’d forgotten how exhausting the family is when they’re all together. Your head hurts. It’s too hot. You could use a nap.

Cicero looks at you a little softer from his chair. “Would you like a drink, hon? I should've asked ya before we sat you down for an interrogation.”

“Oh, well,” you start, pausing to let it seem like you aren’t dying for that opportunity, “I’ll have one. Is there wine?”

“Of course there is. I’ll grab a glass for ya—” he begins rising from his chair, but you stop him.

“It’s alright,” you insist. “I don’t mind getting it—in the kitchen?”

He nods, and you’re on your way. You pass by Richie and the Faks in the foyer and try to hide the deep breaths you’re focusing on, eyes shut and shoulders shrugging as Richie eyes the kitchen before you enter like you’ll be walking into a war zone.

It’s exactly what you’d expect: Donna with a glass in hand, Carmen assisting, an ashtray full nearby. Natalie has joined them, so you must have missed her on her way downstairs, and Pete hovers beside her as she speaks to him with a worried look on her face, disjointed from the other two Berzattos.

You’ve nearly psyched yourself up enough to interrupt when Donna notices you, almost instantly placing her glass on the counter. “Oh, Birdie, I—” She looks happy, you think, but with her it’s never been easy to tell. “C’mere, honey.” She opens her arms to you and gifts you a hug, patting your back as she says, “It’s been so long, my beautiful Bird—” she pulls away to get a better look at you and plants a kiss to your cheek, just like Cicero— “Oh gosh, you’re so beautiful, all grown up.” She smells thickly of tobacco.

“Thank you,” you laugh, dazed by so much affection from her, “Cicero said the same, it’s just been a while.”

“Well—” she picks up her glass promptly after her hands leave you— “It’s true, you’re practically glowing. He knows what he’s talking about.” She takes a hefty sip like she can’t get enough, and quickly looks to her son. “Isn’t that right, Carmen?”

From where he stands nudged into the corner, focused on the countertop with nothing to do but wring his hands, his attention perks up to his mother. “What was that, Ma?”

You can’t ignore the fact that she hasn’t acknowledged Natalie nor Pete since you arrived; you’re stuck, looped in with Donna and Carmen and somehow obligated to stay there until you’ve been dismissed. You know how she is. Carmen won’t look at you, either.

“Look at Birdie,” Donna coos, and she gestures to present you to him. Your stomach turns. “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” She smiles coolly, looks to Natalie only for a brief moment to rub salt in the wound.

Carmen, reluctantly, looks at you. His golden brown curls are disheveled as always, made messier by anxious runs of his fingers every few minutes. His mouth seems caught in a persistent pout that he won’t let up, and if it were years ago, you’d stay by his side until he broke you just to keep someone in his corner. Beneath his eyes rest dark circles, and he wears a forest green sweater you’ve never seen before. There’s a split second of eye contact that has your breath caught in your throat. You haven’t been able to look at him in what feels like a lifetime, let alone hear his voice—not even over the phone. It’s different than you remember, a little huskier, more fatigued. You wish you couldn’t care.

He gives a shallow nod and a shrug to Donna’s question.  “Yeah.” His eyes meet yours accidentally again before looking back to his mother, apathy bordering on distaste. “She looks nice.”

You look nice. You don’t know what you thought he would say. Part of you wished he would’ve said exactly as Donna did, or that he’d use the word beautiful, or stunning, or pretty, even. But he’s never been one for words—his consolation offerings were limited to a shared cigarette and sitting beside you, and you’ve always resented that part of him since your last Christmas together. If he’d been better with words, it would’ve been just that; there wouldn’t have been the hand on your back turning into an arm wrapped around your shoulder, he never would’ve pressed his lips to your temple for the first time since you were in kindergarten, you would’ve never been close enough to smell tobacco on his breath. You never would’ve known what American Spirits taste like off of anxious lips or what it feels like to be worth everything and then nothing at all.

Donna kisses her teeth and gives you a sympathetic look as she cups her hand to your neck. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t listen to him. He’s just in a mood today.” She sips her wine again, which quickly turns into the rest of the glass.

That’s not a mood, you think. That’s just Carmen.

By the Berzatto standards, dinner preparation blows over without a hitch. The house smells divine, nothing is broken, no one has stormed out. Ma sits down with only five glasses of wine in her system. No one mentions the gaping hole in the seating arrangement at one head of the table—not even Lee.

Carmen feels the weight of it on his shoulders, and he thinks you feel it too. You sit for a few minutes as everyone settles with your head in your hands, eyes closed as you breathe. Every time you open your eyes they shoot to Mikey’s seat, only for your hands to cover them again with a sniffle. Richie keeps a good eye on you, even though they’re getting glassy from watching you, and he rests a soothing hand on your back before leaning down and whispering something Carmen doesn’t catch. You shake your head, perking back up again as you dab at your eyes with your sleeves, looking to Richie and mouthing the words I’m okay with a smile plastered on. Carmen’s skeptical.

Uncle Jimmy insists on saying grace as a way to honor both you and Carmen being in Chicago for the holiday, and instinctively he looks to you, looking for something to hold onto to let things feel normal with you, but you keep your eyes closed. Since you walked into the kitchen nearly an hour ago he hasn’t been able to get his mind off of the sweetheart neckline of your dress, or the locket pendant hanging close to your chest. Mikey gifted it to you, he remembers, when you earned your undergraduate degree—presented in a black velvet box when you saw him after the ceremony, you cried. Carmen wasn’t there; he was in Copenhagen, doing other things. He can’t quite remember what.

Grace gives way to a more quiet bustle of the dinner, where talking is more or less limited to passing plates and taking first bites, making sure everyone has said hello to everyone. He sits almost silent, taking a measly bite every few moments to avoid an excuse to talk. He notices you don’t navigate this dinner like you have the countless ones before: you’re engaged tonight, laughing with Richie beside you and looping Sugar and Pete into your banter; you’re no longer the teen you once were, who would sit at the end of the table with him to stay quiet and barely munch on dinner, the two youngest with Mikey to your sides, pestering the both of you to Eat, ‘fore Ma tells you to. And it’s not a bad thing, either. You always had that way about you like Mikey did, where you could make conversation with anyone, make them fall in love with you, make them think you’re their best friend. He’s always thought you were his, anyway. You look happier than he’s ever seen you. Ever since he could remember, he had a feeling you’d outshine him.

It’s like Ma said—you’re glowing.

It’s nearing fifteen minutes since the food being served when Sugar nudges him on his right. “You alright, Bear?” She keeps it quiet, under the radar. “You haven’t eaten much.”

He nods and takes a bite to cover his tracks. “Yeah, yeah—just not that hungry, ‘s all.” He hasn’t eaten today. It’s the nerves, really, of seeing everyone—of seeing Ma, seeing you. Brings him back to New York, where his morning ritual included huddling over the toilet and rinsing his mouth until he couldn’t taste stomach acid anymore. He’s hoping that with being in the kitchen all day, she doesn’t pry. “Thanks, Sug.”

She furrows her brows but drops the subject with a bit of a pout. “…Okay.”

“So,” Stevie starts, at the opposite corner of the table, leaning over his plate to smile at you from down the table. “Birdie—can I call you Birdie? Is that okay?”

You smile that smile you always do when you’re caught off-guard before shrugging lightheartedly and taking a bite. “Uh, sure. I mean, everyone here does.”

Richie makes eyes at you, weirded out, and Carmen tries to follow, but you only link with the older of the two. He’s shut out.

“Great. I’ve been wondering—why does everyone call you that? I mean, I know Sugar here’s got an origin story, so what’s yours?”

“Oh, this is such a sweet one,” Ma chimes in, hands over her heart. “They was so adorable, her ‘n Carmen.” The words have warmth blossoming in his chest and rising to his neck.

“Yeah,” you laugh, “I’m probably not the best person to tell you; I was really little.” You try to stifle a smile at the thought, and Carmen knows it’s the same thought as his: Mikey loved that story. “Richie’s probably man for the job.” You look up to the man on your left and pat him on the back to startle him. “Aren’t ya, Rich?”

“Uh, yeah, fuck that.” He nods to Carmen. “He can tell ya, Stevie, he was the one dancin’ with ‘er like an idiot, not me.” He shoves three bites’ worth of food into his mouth so he won’t have to talk anymore.

Sugar cuts in, “He was also five, he had nothin’ to do with picking that name.”

“Yeah?” he taunts, mouth still full because he can’t help but put up a fight, “Then you were eleven, missy, so you can tell it. You remember.”

The room starts spinning, there’s back and forth between Sugar and Richie, and Neil’s roped into it, and then Michelle’s convincing them to calm down, but Richie’s still going at it, starting to tell the story, but Ma says it’s not right, and Sugar cuts in again, and the room is still spinning and his head won’t stop pounding and there isn’t enough water in the world to clear his throat.

“Alright, alright!” It’s Uncle Jimmy now, almost shouting, waving his hands to simmer the room. Carmen would thank him if he could speak. “I’ll tell the damn story, you all settle down, eh?” He clears his throat, sips on his drink. “Our Birdie here, when she was real young, now she was a singer. All the time, some tune. Didn’t even have t’be a real song, she’d be hummin’ it anyway.”

You’re sheepish as Uncle Jimmy praises you, grinning to yourself and rolling your eyes at the embarrassment. Cute, Carmen thinks. He smiles and takes a bite of his food.

“An’ remember,” Uncle Jimmy continues, “This was late ‘90s, we didn’t have none’ah that YouTube, Spotify music bullshit, whatever’s popular with you people now—so anyway. We had this boombox for the longest time—”

“Yeah,” Richie interrupts, “Was a real piece a shit, that’s for damn sure.”

Cicero points to Richie while looking at Steve. “Correct. So one Christmas, many, many years ago—”

“Don’t make it sound so cryptic,” you giggle, and Carmen has a tiny fire lit in his chest, eyes trapped on your smile. He remembers that night—not so vividly, but enough.

“Right, right. I apologize, sweetheart.” Uncle Jimmy turns back to Stevie. “One Christmas the weather was especially bad—snow storm, crazy winds, Christmas lights flyin’ everywhere—and the power goes out. An’ our boombox ain’t workin’, got jammed or somethin’.” He shrugs, makes a face that’s unassuming. “So whatta ya do for the music, then? Everyone knows you need holiday music, eh?”

With you, Carmen laughs for the first time tonight. He likes it that way, uninterrupted by the noise of the other guests, who are all listening fondly and eating their meals. It’s like that special Christmas all over again. You’re so pretty when you’re laughing, part of him is a little jealous that anyone else gets to see you like this.

“So Mikey comes up with a great idea. We already got a singer, right? So we just need ‘er to do the holiday songs. So we get ‘er, ‘n we ask her to sing for us all—me, Donna, Mikey, Richie, Sugar, ‘n Carmen, that was it ‘cause ‘ah the storm—but she won’t do it.”

“They were tryin’ to force me, Stevie!” You smile up the table and back at Uncle Jimmy. Carmen beams back at you even though you’re not looking. Richie is.

“An’ she’s cryin’,” Uncle Jimmy continues, “An’ she’s all nervous, she can’t do it, whatever. Then our little Carmy Bear over there—” he shoots him a look with a smug and pointing finger, and Carmen flushes, grinning at his plate to hide from you— “Now he’s her knight in shinin’ armor.”

Everyone smiles at that—you, Richie, Sug, Ma, and Carmen, and everyone else—because that’s the truth. At least it was, for a while. You and Carmen keep your smiles downcast, hidden from the other, and Richie and Sugar make eyes at one another, looking between the two of you.

“He gets ‘er outta her hidin’ spot behind the couch where she was cryin’ an’ he brings ‘er a wooden spoon for a microphone, and he whispers somethin’ to ‘er—to this day I dunno what, coulda been anythin’ for all I care—and all of a sudden she wants to sing again. She sings Rudolph, Jingle Bells, Frosty the Snowman, all the stuff the kids knew, an’ she does it all with this wooden spoon, with our little Bear holdin’ ‘er hand the whole time.”

“An’ he didn’t even do anythin’!” Richie points out. “Just stood there, swingin’ ‘er arm like a jagoff—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Uncle Jimmy waves off, “But he did it for ‘er. And so,” he says, a finality in his tone, looking back at Stevie across the table, “Birdie is born. Our little Christmas song bird protected by the Big Bear. An’ the rest is history.”

Stevie smiles and nods his head. “That was sweet. Really, really sweet.”

“Oh,” Ma laments, “I just love that story. They were such babies then, so cute. It was always Birdie ‘n Carmy doin’ this, Carmy ‘n Birdie doin’ that. Always on their little adventures together. He took her everywhere.”

Carmen smiles to himself, head down as he eats his food. He doesn’t think of his childhood often, more so the teenage years if anything, when he was failing school. Hearing back such a memory brings up a sense of nostalgia—not necessarily for being a kid again, or doing those stupid things, but for how easy it was.

Ma is right: it was you and him together for the ride, up until it wasn’t. He never cared as much after reaching high school. You were in different buildings, and he saw you around but didn’t spend as much time with you anymore. He outgrew you, it seemed. Even in his early twenties when that fire rekindled, he devoted himself to his work. You were still close, closer than you were with anyone else in the family, and nothing would ever change that. But life ran its course.

And it ran pretty damn fast.

[rosemaryreaper]

Dig Seven Graves: A Recon Squad Gladius Fic

Hello, hello, hello! Spontaneously continuing the tradition of posting a new Fallout fic every September, I have a little something for the Gladius fans out there. The first two chapters are out now. I'll aim to post the remaining five over the next few days.

Summary: “When you get to the Commonwealth, dig seven graves. It will only get more difficult later, once the frost sets in.” Proctor Quinlan’s advice was well-intentioned, if morbid. It was fortunate, then, that Haylen’s squad didn’t have to dig their first grave until spring. Here are the five graves Recon Squad Gladius dug—and the two they never got the chance to.

AO3 fic link: Dig Seven Graves

Full Chapter 1 below the cut (800 words)

Note: rated M for heavy themes (gore, death)

* * * *

Chapter 1: BR-122K [Deceased]

“Start recording.”

Start treatment. 

“September 30, 2286.”

Time: 10:48. 

“We’ll keep this informal, Knight Brach. It’s just a conversation between you and me.”

He grinned at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “And the Scrolls.”

“And the Scrolls,” she agreed, amused. 

“For posterity and sanity, eh, Doc? You get to poke around in my head a little, and all future scribes get to dissect my every word. Sounds like a win for everyone.”

“Making history does come with extra homework.” She clicked her pen twice. An unavoidable habit. “On that note, how are you feeling? We set out pretty early tomorrow.”

“Couldn’t be better, Haylen. Couldn’t be better.” He was screaming. A bloody, charred, screaming lump of meat. “It’s been years since I’ve gotten the chance to stretch my legs.” 

“Now you get to stretch them for five hundred miles.”

“I’ve always enjoyed long walks.”

Begin assessment. Catastrophic trauma to left and right legs, severe trauma to… Catastrophic? Gone. His legs were gone.

She chuckled as she ticked a checkbox in her notebook. She was hardly worried about Brach’s sanity. It was questionable, but only in the way any member of the Brotherhood who had surpassed sixty had a right to. At that age, it was practically expected for a knight to not give a damn about appearances. 

She balanced the tip of her pen under the next question on the page. “What made you request to join Recon Squad Gladius?”

“It’s an opportunity I couldn’t miss.”

Catastrophic trauma to left and right legs—jagged bone and shredded flesh below the remnants of his knees. Severe trauma to torso and left arm—elbow barely attached. Major trauma to right arm and chest—embedded shrapnel, twisted and sharp. 

He reclined in his chair. “Now, this may come as a shock, but I’m getting old. My children are all initiates, trailing after their own knights and scribes. My wife has her hands full with her research in the lab. Their paths are set. And mine?”

Rapid response triage: cauterize open wounds to stop bleeding, administer Stimpaks to further stimulate wound closure. Don’t think about the smell. 

“Sure, I could patrol the Capital Wasteland until I take a bullet to the knee and they stick me behind a desk in the Citadel for the rest of my days…”

Blood pooling on the pavement—administer another Stimpak. Administer another two, three, four…

“…or I could make the best of these remaining years in my prime. See new sights, try new food, get chased by new horrors, all the fun things.”

“One last grand adventure,” she said.

“One last grand adventure.”

It was quiet. When had the screaming stopped?

“I like that we’re doing this for posterity,” he said. “I want to bring home some good stories to my children, you know? Give them something to look up to.”

Having a family in the Brotherhood was not unheard of, especially for the members who had been born into it. As long as no fraternization with outsiders was involved, any “activities” that increased recruitment were welcome. What was unusual, though, was Brach’s attention to his family. Parents were expected to take a step back once their squires were accepted into training, but he never had. This familial dedication was half the reason he had never made officer in all his years of service. Seeing as Brach was Brach, he couldn’t care less about a missed promotion. He was too good a soldier for anyone to attempt to convince him otherwise. 

“I think that’s admirable in itself,” she said. “There’s a bright future for the Brotherhood if any of them turn out like you.” No breath on her cheek.

“You flatter me, Haylen. I could say the same of you. We’re all lucky to have you on the team.” No pulse beneath her fingers. 

“I hope I’m of use.” Damage unrecoverable.

“Please, my wife is a scribe. You can’t trust knuckleheaded knights like me to keep a squad in one piece. I know I’m in good hands.”

“Leave him!” Danse ordered. “We’ll retrieve the body later.”

She smiled, as if she didn’t feel her chest tighten. Just a little. Clicking her pen twice, she glanced at her notebook. There were plenty more questions, but they were supposed to keep this brief. “Any closing remarks before I bring in the next knucklehead?”

He raised his arm, wrist loose, like an actor giving a speech from a stage. Like a picture of one, anyway. “Let’s go make history. Ad perpetuam memoriam! How’s that?”

Time of death: 10:51. Approximately 3 minutes after incident.

“Perfect, Brach. Absolutely perfect. Thank you. We’ll end the recording there.”

Rhys and Keane dug the first grave along the outer wall of the station. They would send his holotags back to his family—if their rescue ever came.

[maximwtf]

“The cold winds of Caradhras.”

                                        Legolas x reader

words: 1530

google docs pages: 3

warnings: frostbite, cold weather?? Idk Legolas trying his best to help you.

opening: The winds of Caradhras are cold and strong, and to a human they might even be unbearable. A certain elf wants to help you warm up, but doesn’t really know how to.

AN// reader can be any gender!^^ It was freezing as hell today while I was training my dog, and thought this idea was funny :”D

Not proof read!

                “The cold winds of Caradhras. ”

Your feet went through the surface of the snow as you walked, making the white flakes stick to the fabric of your shoes  when you took another step. The wind had been hard the whole day, but now that the fellowship was on top of the mountain it was even worse. There was no cover from it, and on top of that it was pulling some of the snow up from the ground, and whipping it on your face. The ends of your hair had frozen just like your eyelashes had earlier, making them pure white. The wind had also gone through your clothing, making you shiver every now and then. You envied the elf walking in front of you, he seemed not bothered at all by the deep snow and the cold wind. He wasn’t even falling in the snow, being able to just walk normally on top of it, only leaving behind footprints. 

You heard someone fall, making you turn around to see who it was. Frodo rolled down the hill for a moment, and was pulled up by Aragorn. Seeing that he was fine, you turned back around and kept moving. Standing still for too long in the cold would freeze you even worse, so even if you were tired you had to keep moving. 

Not knowing how much time had passed since that, you tried to keep up with the rest of the group. The snow was seemingly deeper now, but you didn’t complain. Gandalf was the one walking in the front, and he was the one who had to make a path for the rest of you. He had to do most of the work, even if you still had to walk in the deep snow. 

Your whole body was shivering at this point. The winds of Caradhras were unforgiving, pushing through all your clothes and freezing you to your core. The winds brought frozen snowflakes along with it, making them hit your face and melt into cold drops of water. Your breathing had quickened as well, making the air you were letting out turn into clouds of steam. Cursing under your breath caught the attention of Legolas. He had been walking in front of you the whole time, only now and then slowing down a little, so he was walking on top of the snow beside you. 

You pushed your hands further into your pockets, and tried to shuffle more into your coat if that was even possible. Your ears had lost feeling a while back, after first hurting, then burning and lastly going numb. Even with your hand in your pockets, you could feel the tips of your fingers freeze. not to even mention your cheeks, both of them hurt and soon would start to burn just like your ears had. The amount of frost bites you would have after this journey must be insane. 

Legolas slowed down again, but you paid no mind to it since he had done it before. Only this time, he turned his gaze to you. “You seem like you’re freezing.” He said, following the steam as it rose up. You looked up at him while walking. “A good observation, though I assumed your elf eyes could see more.” You replied, then turning to look forward again. 

Legolas’ eyes followed you as he tilted his head a little. He didn’t understand what you had meant. “Whatever do you mean??” The elf asked, speeding up a little to catch up with you. You hummed, amused by his confusion. “Not only am I freezing, but I’m about 50% covered in frost bites. Safe to say, I’m more than freezing.” You explained to him, hugging yourself to keep in some warmth. 

Legolas furrowed his brows, clearly concerned by what you had said but also confused of how you had just brushed it off. He understood how humans could easily even pass out because of the extreme weathers the fellowship was now experiencing, and what you had just described didn’t sound good. He took a couple longer steps and jumped in front of you on the path you were on, blocking you from walking. You watched as Boromir passed you before turning your eyes to Legolas. “Move, I can’t pause.” You shivered, your jaw loosening up enough for your teeth to start chattering. “Look at you, you must warm up.” Legolas said. He might have not understood how cold felt and how it felt to be freezing like this, but he still did understand that it wasn’t safe. 

You felt the cold start to take over you now that you had stopped. Your right leg had started the pain, burning, numb process a while back. You could feel it heating up while looking at Legolas. Before you could reply to him you felt someone else pass you again. This time it was Frodo and after him was Aragorn. He paused as well, not saying anything but by looking at Legolas he must have somehow communicated a ‘what’s going on?’. “They’re freezing.” Legolas said, looking at you. Aragorn stayed quiet for a moment and looked around. his gaze seemed to have locked on something before he spoke up again. “There is a small cave close by. Take a short break there.” He then said and turned to look at Legolas again. He didn’t say anything, but you knew the look he gave Legolas meant that he trusted the elf enough to know Legolas would bring you back just fine and you’d be able to catch up with the group. 

Legolas nodded, letting Aragorn pass the both of you. The elf offered you his hand which you took and even leaned on him a little as the pain slowly started on your left leg. He began to lead you towards the cave, and once you were close enough he kicked some of the snow away from the entrance. You saw how some of it fell into the cave and that caused the rest of the snow to fall down almost like sand, revealing the whole entrance. Legolas then slid into the cave first, his hand poking out for you. Following him, you took his hand and slid down as well. The wind stopped almost instantly after getting in, causing you to sigh. Relieved. 

You backed against the corner of the rocky cave, pushing your knees to your chest to hopefully warm up. The cold walls and ground of the cave took away some of the warmth from you, keeping the shivering apparent. Legolas lowered himself next to you, clearly unsure of how to help you. You turned to look at him, trying hard not to let out a small laugh. He quite clearly wanted to help but didn’t know what would be effective. 

You found it hard to ask for help, but since you were already here and you didn’t want to waste any more time by just sitting here you decided to speak up. “Can I- Would it be okay if I sat closer to you. Your chest holds most of the warmth.” You said, placing your hands in the crook of your neck to warm them up. The cold felt unpleasant against your neck, but on the other hand at least your palms were finally warming up a little. You saw Legolas look away for a moment. Knowing that he wasn’t a huge fan of physical touch, you almost assumed that he’d say no. “Quite alright.” But then again, he was full of surprises.

You got up and placed yourself between his legs, back against his chest. Testing him by leaning your head against his shoulder carefully, but to your surprise he didn’t flinch away or even really tense up. Legolas placed his arms around you to bring more warmth. “We can’t stay here for long.” You stated, feeling the body warmth from the elf start to warm you up quickly. As another surprise, he seemed to be warming you up faster than another human would. But then again, the elves probably were able to change their body temperature in a different way than humans, since Legolas didn’t seem to mind the wind or the snow either. “You have to warm up first. We can catch up then.” The elf said, sharing his warmth. You sighed, letting yourself rest against the prince. 

You pulled your knees closer again, feeling your right leg slowly gaining feel again. That was a small victory and soon you’d be on the move again. This moment you would never allow anyone to speak of though. If anyone from the fellowship saw this, they would never live it down. 

So in the dark of the cave you rested against the elven prince, slowly warming up again.

[oh-no-my-hand-slipped]

A new prompt for you! (Finally :3)

I'm picturing multiple couples or a family group (4+ adults) who share a cottage together in the middle of nowhere, living off the land. Winter is coming, bringing with it its chill winds and early dustings of snow. The people are hard at work every day, chopping wood and putting aside the last of the food for winter.

It's the worst possible time to get sick, yet someone does, coming down with a miserable, streaming cold and high fever. What do they do about it? How do the others respond?

Could have definite cottage core elements, or fantasy (since you're so good at writing that!) or contagion if you choose. Can't wait to see the results :)

It’s been so long since I’ve written a real, honest to god fic, so this will be my debut back into snzfucker favor!

Okay, okay, who to include in this house of contagion?

We need a soft healer boi that takes care of everyone before themselves, of course. A very strong, stoic, hardworking warrior with muscles of steel - but the same can’t be said for his immune system. A hyper comic relief (like if Scout from TF2 was in a fantasy setting) that insists he isn’t sick, but can’t keep back his sneezes long enough to prove his point. And, of course, a tall, thin scholar whose cold heart is only melted by his fever.

Adventurers packing it in for the winter and preparing for journeying in the spring, now only at most a few yards from each other and having shot immune systems from the exhausting work. Illness doesn’t have to travel far to infect…

Oh, this is gonna be good.

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

“Look look look! Otto, you’re not gonna believe this!”

Barlow skidded to a halt, almost tripping over his own two feet before regaining his balance. Otto chuckled.

“Alright, alright, que pasa? What is so exciting?”

Barlow fumbled with his cloak before pulling a shiny coin out of one of the pockets.

“I got this off a path when I was pickin’ berries! Must’ve been a merchant or something…”

Barlow’s eyes suddenly lit up.

“Or maybe a warrior! Ooh, or a knight! Definitely somebody with a cape.”

He flung the back of his cloak behind him and stood tall, crossing his arms with a self-satisfied grin. However, Barlow couldn’t keep the pose long - the frigid air made him close the thin burlap around himself again, shivering. Otto knitted their brow.

“You’re wearing your summer cloak,” they said, looking Barlow up and down. “You must be freezing, chiquito!”

Barlow waved his hand, as if batting away Otto’s concern.

“Don’t worry about it, doc. It’s gonna take more than a little wind to get me down.”

As if to prove a point, he spread out his arms and spun around, laughing at the many leaves he kicked up.

Otto would usually be charmed by the sprite’s antics, but their concern soon outweighed their amusement.

“Just make sure to change into your winter clothes soon, okay? I would hate for you to get sick.”

Barlow stopped spinning, coughing a bit as he caught his breath with chilly autumn air. His hot breath clouded around his face like smoke.

“Okay, okay,” he panted, “I’ll grab it when I go by the cottage. Forgot my basket anyway. See you around, doc.”

With a quick salute, Barlow ran off, cloak billowing behind him, still clenching the coin in a tight fist. Otto shook their head and sighed. They knew that Barlow just didn’t want them to worry - but that only made them worry more. The healer in them couldn’t help but notice red-tipped fingers, congested voices, and pallid complexions. Besides, with a harsh winter underway, a cold could very quickly rear its ugly head, turning into bronchitis, pneumonia, and even infect a person’s magic…

Otto took a deep breath. Their thoughts had run away with them - and now, more than ever, it was important to stay focused.

The doctor gathered up their scrolls, pulled their coat close, and started back to the cottage.

Perhaps a little tea would calm their nerves.

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

“it’CHEW! CHEW!”

“Salud.”

“Ugh…thanks, doc. Snf!”

Otto looked up from his knitting to see Barlow rubbing his long, pointy ears with a pained look on his face.

“Do your ears hurt?”

Barlow put his hands in his lap. “No! Just, uh, a little itchy.”

Severin, who had been reading on the sofa across from Otto, hid a smirk behind the yellowed pages.

“Someone must be talking about you,” he drawled smugly. “Considering the way you conduct yourself, I’m not surprised.”

Instead of snapping back, Barlow still scratched at his ears. Severin slit his eyes and continued to read. He almost seemed disappointed.

“Could be thragweed,” Godric rumbled from a large wooden stool, rubbing his beard in thought, “but they usually shrivel up by the first frost. Didja see any three-leaved plants while you were out foragin’?”

Barlow shrugged, wincing as he rubbed harder. “Um…maybe?”

Otto frowned. “Be careful. You’ll hurt yourself if you keep scratching like that.”

“S-sorry, I…huh-hold on…”

Barlow buried himself in his cloak, with only his mop of red hair showing.

“hit’SHEW! Huh…it’TCHEW!”

The sprite continued to let out sneeze after sneeze, his wrinkled, pink nose only showing when he needed to come up for air. Otto got up from their chair, and they were soon holding him by the shoulders to keep him from knocking himself over.

Barlow finally finished, snuffling into his sleeve. He looked up at Otto with bleary eyes.

“Sorry, doc, I don’d dow whad’s gotten into be…”

Otto hushed him with a gentle pat, using their free hand to feel Barlow’s forehead. They clucked their tongue.

“Oh, mijo, you have a fever...”

Barlow’s breath caught, and he coughed into his shoulder. “Nah, I…I’b okay, Otto, really. I’ll be…snrk…fide in the morning. Just gotta sleep it off…”

Otto smiled gently. “Well, you’re right about one thing. A good night’s sleep is exactly what you need. And maybe a little salve for your poor ears…”

Their hand still on Barlow’s shoulder, Otto guided the sprite to his bedroom, mumbled protests and miserable sneezes trailing behind them.

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

Barlow’s fever never grew very high - his burning ears and nose, however, kept him up for most of the night. By the time morning came, he was too exhausted to even feign health. Otto had to put him back to bed, which was only met with pitiful murmurings.

“‘M fide, doc, I…hetch’CHIIIEW!”

“Pobrecito! You sound even worse than yesterday…”

“C’mon, Otto, I…”

“I don’t want to see you out of bed today, okay, cariño? You need to rest.”

“Nngh…”

Otto and Severin split the foraging work, since their respective jobs were mostly planning and budgeting the winter ahead of them. Godric promised to keep a good eye on the patient, but that didn’t lessen the doctor’s worry any.

“I wonder how Barlow’s doing,” Otto murmured, probably for the umpteenth time since they’d begun their work.

Severin scrutinized his severely pricked thumb. “Children always carry around such nasty things. It’s a wonder he hasn’t caught the plague instead of a simple cold.”

Otto froze mid-pick, and Severin hurried to correct himself.

“Peace, my friend. It is just a cold, after all.

He grimaced.

“One I dearly hope he keeps to himself.”

They both continued to fill their baskets with berries, wiping the frost off their shiny, black skins. However, Otto’s mind continued to race.

I shouldn’t have left him. Godric only knows so much. What happens if his fever spikes? I’m a healer, I’m not supposed to leave the sick behind. Should I go back? I should go back. No, I promised Barlow I’d get his foraging done. But I can’t keep a promise if he’s dead. What if he’s already dead? What if Godric’s on his way right now to tell me? What if I’m already too late? How will we bury him, the ground is too hard. Otto, your friend has died and all you can think about is how to bury him. You must be the most selfish -

“Otto.”

Otto snapped back to reality to see Severin giving him a fierce side-eye.

“It’s only a cold.”

Otto took a deep breath. “Right. Gracias. I…I lost myself, didn’t I?”

The afternoon went by in a quiet fervor, both of them trying to fill their baskets before the sun went down. With Otto’s quick fingers and Severin’s thin ones, it was an easy job, and the managed to get back before it got too dark.

Otto wasn’t two steps through the door before they were at Godric’s heels, wringing their hands and stammering through the worries that had built up through the day.

“Are you sure…how…did he…should I…?”

The warrior just chuckled and put a gigantic, calloused hand on the their head.

“He’s on tha’ mend, doc, on the mend. Sneezin’ his head off, sure, but gettin’ better.”

As if on cue, two loud sneezes interrupted them from one of the bedrooms, followed by a mumbled curse and a few wet sniffles. Godric shook his head.

“Been like that all day, poor tyke. When he wasn’ dozin’ off, tha’ is.”

Severin took a few scrolls out of his dragon-scale satchel.

“I understand you have a more…pressing engagement. Why don’t I take the calculations tonight?”

But Otto was already on their way to Barlow’s bedside, medicine bag in tow. Severin only lifted his eyebrows and turned on his heel, setting up the many notes he had taken and a few quills on the oaken table.

“Besides,” he murmured to himself, “I don’t want to get near whatever affliction that sprite’s come down with.”

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

Barlow was scratching at his drooping ears, which were now covered in a red, peeling rash. Otto gently pushed his hands back under the quilt.

“I know it itches, but you need to try not to scratch.”

The healer took a small glass container out of their bag, dipping two fingers into the greenish-gray ointment inside. They began to apply the salve to Barlow’s ears, taking care not to put on too much.

“Tell me when you need a break,” Otto said.

Barlow nodded, eyes squeezed shut. After a few minutes, his nostrils started to twitch, and he held up a hand.

“G-gudda…huh…!”

He jerked forward into his knees.

“hit’CHEW! hhhit’SHEW! Uh…hut’SHIEW!”

Barlow snuffled into the quilt, and Otto handed him a tissue.

“Salud.”

“Ugh…sorry, doc…”

Otto put the cork back into the glass bottle and set it on the bedside table.

“It’s alright - most sprites have the same reflex.”

“No, I beant…for…”

Barlow bit his lip, his ears drooping even lower.

“For geddin’ sick.”

Otto put a hand on the sprite’s back.

“Oh, mijo…”

“I-I didn’d mean to,” Barlow whimpered. “I…I should’ve god by coat like you told be to…and dow w-we’re - hic - gudda starve…”

Otto hushed him, pulling Barlow into an embrace and rocking him slowly back and forth.

“We will be fine, mijo,” they whispered, their voice soothing Barlow into a sniffle. “We will forage until you are better, and not a day before. That is what friends do. They protect each other, they take care of each other, and they love each other like family. And that is how I love you. Like my family.”

Barlow hiccuped, trying to speak through his tears.

“Shhh, mijo…it’s okay…”

Otto wrapped the quilt tighter around Barlow and laid him down, pushing hair damp with both tears and sweat out of his face. The sobs quieted, then dissolved into shaky breaths. Before Otto even made it through the doorway, they could hear small, congested snores coming from the pile of blankets.

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

Scritch scritch scritch…scriiiitch…

Harried quill scratching filled the air as Otto entered the living room, putting on their tweed coat and wool gloves. They stretched out their arms.

“Buenos días!”

Godric lifted his coffee mug as a greeting, his famous half-smile dancing over his lips.

“Well, aren’tcha bright as tha’ north star this mornin’!”

Otto beamed. Barlow had slept soundly through the night, and he was still fast asleep when they had checked on him. Not a sniffle or a sneeze came from that room.

“Severin, I was thinking we could pick up acorns today,” Otto thought aloud, buttoning their coat. “There is a beautiful place in the forest…”

Silence. The quill scratching only grew more manic. Otto glanced up.

Severin was hunched over the table, writing madly on several open scrolls, only pausing to move a few beads on his abacus. Otto went back to getting ready. Sometimes it took a while for Severin to answer if he was engrossed in his calculations. He would respond when he got to a stopping point.

After about fifteen minutes of fidgeting with their scarf, though, Otto tried again.

“From what I’ve seen, we should be ready for winter in a week, maybe less. All that’s left is the dried vegetables and a few more logs for firewood.”

Again, there was no answer. But now that Otto was a little closer, they could see why.

Severin’s eyes were inflamed and painful, as were his gaunt cheeks. His long, usually well-preened hair was matted against his forehead, with stray hairs sticking up this way and that. Thin shoulder blades came together with each labored breath. Long fingers shivered around a red quill, leaving stray marks on the parchment.

“Mi sombro,” Otto breathed.

The shadowling blinked, raising his head stiffly. Pools of sweat, shaken loose by the movement, streaked down their face.

“I…couldn’t sleep,” Severin croaked. “Have I…have I been awake…?”

Godric looked up from his mug, finally noticing the sorcerer’s state. “Stars above, lad! Ya look like hell frozen over!”

The shadowling stared straight ahead, his breath coming in ragged strains.

“Could someone…please put out the fireplace…?”

Otto clucked their tongue, putting their hands on either side of Severin’s neck. His dark eyes fluttered shut, as if with great relief.

“Mm…”

“Ay, tu cabeza,” Otto cooed, putting their hand on Severin’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

Severin finally looked down at the doctor. His tense gaze was now dazed, vulnerable - even afraid.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said again, hoarsely.

Otto rubbed their thumb on Severin’s feverish cheek. “I know, cariño. I know.”

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

It took a lot more doing to get Severin to bed than it did Barlow. Not only did he insist he was perfectly well, only warm from the unlit fireplace, but that he had seen terrifying visions outside the window.

“Their eyes, doctor…they stared into my very essence…a…a beast of some kind…we’ll be killed…”

“Shhh, my love. It’s only a nightmare from your fever. You will feel better soon.”

In the end, the only way Otto could leave the cottage was by taking a small talisman Severin had in his cloak. They weren’t superstitious, but Otto wanted to do anything they could to put the sick sorcerer at ease.

Now with one less healthy person in the group, Otto rushed to get the last of the supplies for the cold winter ahead. The first snowflakes were beginning to fall, which made finding acorns that much more difficult. Before the sun reached its peak, the ground was completely covered in a thin layer of snow. But, for once, Otto’s anxiety was an advantage.

They plowed through every task as if their life depended on it. Another of their friends falling ill had kicked their healer instinct into high gear; whenever they were fatigued or sore, all it took was a few words of the healing oath to get them going again.

“From the monsters of the cave, of the sea, of the heart,” they whispered while peeling wild wolf onions, “I shall protect and provide for those who cannot.”

As morning turned to afternoon, the light flurry of the morning became a bitter gale that howled through the trees like a hungry animal. The world was silent except for the frigid wind - all the creatures of the forest knew well enough that the winter ahead would not be kind to them.

But Otto knew nothing of this.

And so they marched forward.

It was quite past dark when Otto returned to the cottage. Much to their delight, a fire was flickering in the fireplace, and a wonderful, familiar smell lingered in the air - a mixture of tender meat and spices.

As Otto had hoped, there was a pot of stew left over the flames. The broth still bubbled with warmth, and the chicken and vegetables gave off a heavenly steam. Their stomach suddenly felt very hollow.

They hadn’t eaten all day, had they?

With raw fingers, the doctor tried their best to use the ladle, which was as big as their entire arm and weighed twice as much. Gripping the handle with both hands, they brought the brew to their lips, taking care not to burn their tongue.

A beautiful, soothing flavor poured down Otto’s throat. They leaned their head back and closed their eyes, making sure to drink up every last tasty morsel. It was a long time before the ladle was empty again.

Once they were finished, the healer felt a heaviness collect around their eyes. Finally, at long last, they could rest. The cottage was fast asleep - and now it was time for Otto to follow suit.

Sleep came upon Otto too quickly for them to retire to their own bed. Like a hound after a successful hunt, they crawled onto the sofa and curled into a ball, dead to the world before their head hit the soft cushions.

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

Otto wasn’t sure how long they slept. They remembered bits and pieces of dreams, of words, or memories - but mostly a comforting darkness that lulled them into a deep drowse.

When they finally awoke, the first thing they saw was the flitting of the fire. The flame had all but burned itself out during the night. Otto rolled over, stretching and sighing with satisfaction. That was the best they had slept in several days.

They indulged themselves in a large yawn and shifted off the sofa, cringing from cold stone against their bare feet.

The cottage was still silent with sleep - not a thing stirred but the creaks and groans of the wooden beams. A frigid wind had picked up outside, and bits of snow swirled in the air.

How cold Godric must be this morning, Otto thought as they padded towards the hallway. The warrior was always up and working by first light - quite before anyone else was awake - but came back inside to drink some hot coffee and see how the preparations were going. Godric made a strong cup of coffee. One could smell it and be ready for a new day; that’s usually all most could stand without sputtering.

Today, however, there was no earthy aroma of it brewing. All Otto could smell was a hint of the stew they had eaten the night before - the husk of a beautiful, delicious dream.

The doctor peeked his head into Barlow’s room. The sprite was laying on his stomach, eyes closed and breath soft. Though they had been feeling better for the past day or so, Barlow’s nose frequently ran away with him, and was still very pink and sensitive. His upright ear twitched ever so slightly, but there was no sign of him stirring any time soon.

Severin, on the other hand, had fared much worse. Despite the many wet rags coating almost every inch of his febrile body, his breathing was still heavy and labored, and his eyes darted under closed eyelids. Bite marks covered cracking lips. Otto made sure they made little noise as they tiptoed from the doorway. Severin needed all the rest he could get.

Otto turned from his patients, a familiar heaviness weighing upon their heart. Such misery in what was supposed to be a warm season of reaping and feasting.

Perhaps it came back with them from market, or from the many travelers that take the nearby road into town. With how hard everyone had been working, and how many nights were left unslept…

Otto massaged the bridge of their nose, dashing from one possibility to the next, feeling more and more ashamed by how little they prepared, how stupid they must have been, how utterly selfish! They had been so busy with preparations that they had barely noticed that their journeymates were wasting away!

They could have done something. This was all their fault, wasn’t it? How could they be a healer if they couldn’t even keep the ones they loved safe?

Otto was roused from their guilt by the sound of harsh coughing. They peeked their head into the past two rooms, fearing that one of them had been awakened by their footsteps. However, both of them were still out cold. Or out warm, in Severin’s case.

No, the coughing wasn’t coming from their rooms, Otto realized. It was coming from the third bedroom - the one that they and Godric shared.

The door creaked open as Otto shuffled inside, already knowing the worst was yet to come.

“Doc? Is tha’ you?”

Godric was sitting up in bed, quilt wrapped around him, his chest heaving with another hacking fit. His cheeks were flushed with effort and fever. Otto went to his bedside, their heart dropping into their stomach.

“Real nice ‘a this cold to leave the healer last, eh?” the warrior joked before laying back down with a quiet groan.

Otto pushed the hair off Godric’s neck and felt his lymph nodes, which were not only hot, but terribly swollen.

“I can chop those few pieces ‘a wood, an’ then I’ll-”

“You are not getting out of this bed,” Otto said sternly. Then, with a kinder tone, “I know you want to finish your work, but you are very sick. You shouldn’t be out in the snow.”

“But how-”

“I will take care of it, cariño. Just rest.”

Godric opened his mouth to say something else, but just coughed and covered himself up with his quilt.

“Take care of yerself, doc,” he said before Otto went to check on the others. “There isn’t anythin’ I can’t do after I’m back on m’feet.”

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

Between taking care of three sick creatures and the final preparations, Otto ran themselves ragged over the next few days. None of their friends were particularly hard to take care of - especially after Severin’s fever broke - but the heaviness of their heart continued to weigh upon them.

With no other options, they threw themselves into work.

If they chopped enough wood for an extra week, they chopped enough wood for two extra weeks. The larder was more than full. Their fingers and hands and back and everything else was sore, but they couldn’t stop for long without feeling their guilt gnaw away at them.

One frigid morning, Otto had taken to the axe, splitting wood and putting them in the shed to keep them dry. They had run out of pre-cut trunks a long time ago, so they started cutting sticks in half for kindling. Out of the corner of their eye, mid-swing, they saw a figure marching through the snow - lifting their foot high before stomping it down again with a crunch.

After a few minutes, Otto could finally see a pair of long ears fluttering in the cold wind.

“Barlow!”

The sprite grinned as he approached Otto, holding up a steaming container of something in his mittened hands.

“I got soup!” he called out, trying to move faster in the deep snow. “Godric felt a lot better today, so he wanted to try somethin’ new. It’s real good! Even Severin ate a whole bowl of it, so you know it’s gotta be great.”

Barlow sat next to the chopping block, and patted a mound of snow next to him. Otto sat down, wincing as their sore muscles twinged.

“Godric says we’re all packed up for winter,” Barlow continued as he handed Otto the food. “And we’ll even have stuff to eat in the spring, too.”

Otto didn’t answer, but tucked into the soup, not even blowing it off before putting the spoon in their mouth. Barlow thought for a little bit, then spoke again.

“Doc, Godric told me that we got more than enough food and wood to last through the winter. If you wanna come inside, we’ve got a checker game goin’…”

Otto didn’t respond, but they had started to shiver from the cold. Barlow took of his coat and draped it around Otto’s shoulders.

“C’mon, let’s get back. Everybody’s waitin’ for us.”

Barlow took Otto by the hand and pulled them up, then led them back towards the cottage. Otto trailed behind like a quivering lamb, both exhausted and numb. They couldn’t think of much else than putting one foot in front of the other.

When the pair finally got back to the cottage, a warm, cozy scene awaited them. Severin was on the couch, doing needlepoint with half-open eyes and content look on his face. Godric was above the stove, stirring a pot and putting one seasoning or another into it. The fire was blazing in a lovely orange hue that painted the scene with a beautiful glow.

While Barlow went right inside and was greeted by the others, Otto stood in the doorway, weary eyes closed, soaking up the light and warmth as much as they could.

“Doctor?”

Severin was up now, his quiet wisdom regained. Before Otto could answer, the sorcerer started to remove their soaked outer layers with quick fingers.

“If Barlow didn’t bring you here,” Severin said, “you would have worked yourself to a frozen skeleton.”

Otto suddenly jerked his head to the side.

“het’TCH! TCH! TCH’UH!”

“Many blessings, doctor.”

Severin smiled and tilted his head.

“Many, many blessings.”

Otto sniffled, rubbing their nose with stiff fingers.

“Nngh…gracias. Just a little…heh…htch’CHU!”

“Aye, I don’ like tha’ sound of that,” Godric rumbled from the kitchen, turning his head to see the sickly healer.

Otto waved their hand. “Just a li-hih-ttle sdiffle…”

“One that is long overdue, I think,” Severin said, putting the last of their wet things away.

Otto was ushered in front of the fire, still at the mercy of his nose. With each sneeze came a chorus of blessings and, if need be, another handkerchief.

“That’s a real nasty cold, huh?” Barlow commented after a particularly forceful fit. “Even I didn’t sneeze that much.”

As the day came to a close, the group all gathered on the couch, listening to the wind howling outside and treating themselves to Godric’s famous roast and sweet apple tea. Otto didn’t eat very much, but the hot tea soothed their sore throat.

“Tank you for taking such good care of be,” Otto snuffled.

Godric chuckled. “Ya care so much about us, doc. It only makes sense that we’s care an awful lot about you, ‘specially when ya aren’t feelin’ well.”

“And after you tended so well to us, may I add,” Severin said, leaning his head back.

“Yeah!” Barlow agreed, not exactly as good with words as the others, but still just as thankful.

Otto, overcome, buried their face in Godric’s side and began to cry, letting out everything that they had felt in the past few days. They wanted to stop, they wanted to explain, but it was lost in desperate sobs and hiccuping. Godric held them closer to him while the others offered quiet support until the doctor quieted.

“There ya go,” Godric said, putting a large hand on Otto’s head. “It’s gonna be alright.”

Filled with comfort and warm food, Otto quickly dozed off, and the others weren’t far behind. The only sounds were the falling of fresh snow, the crackling of the fireplace, and the snores of deep, contented sleep.

And, as winter finally settled into Harbinger Woods, they all settled down for their long winter’s rest.

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

Not only do I want to dedicate this to @perfectpaperbluebirds , who gave me the prompt, but also @sneezytomatosquish , who has been feeling emotionally and physically under the weather lately. That may have changed by the time this fic is finished, but I shall gift it to you anyway. You are one of my favorite creators, but I want to create something for you for a change. You deserve it.

Get well soon!

[oriigami]

good old-fashioned lover boy

[I put off posting this for like, a really long time, but I found it in my docs again and figured I might as well. TW for internalized homophobia/biphobia and a (non-graphic) panic attack. So, here’s my take on Sanji’s Issues, finally. Read it on AO3 here!]

In his defense, Sanji doesn’t actually mean to say it. 

The thing is, it’s something he tells himself on a regular basis, the words running through his mind in pure self-defensive panicky habit. It used to be a weekly or biweekly event, but since coming onboard the ship, it’s become more like daily. So maybe it’s not surprising that the words that are always on his mind eventually slip out of his lips. 

He doesn’t even remember the exact words that prompt it. He’s distracted, putting the finishing touches on the frosting for dessert as the rest of the crew lounge around the galley in playful post-supper sleepiness.  

Luffy and Usopp are joking around, talking about the flower-seller boy on the last island Usopp had struck up a friendship with, and there’s a giggle and a teasing question about love, and on autopilot Sanji rolls his eyes a little without looking up from the cake he’s decorating and says, “Boys don’t like boys, Luffy.” 

Suddenly, the room is very quiet, and everyone is looking at him, and Sanji is just as suddenly eight years old and wants to hide. 

“Oi, cook,” Zoro says, voice sharp and cutting through the sudden silence. “What was that?” 

And he really doesn’t want to defend the words, and he really doesn’t want to explain them, so he doesn’t. He scowls back and says, “Nothing.”

Zoro stares him down for a moment, and most of the time Sanji would glare right back at him and snap out something caustic and maybe try to kick his head in, but-

He looks away, teeth gritted and face too hot. 

“Sanji-kun,” Nami says, her voice too sweet to not be a trap, and it’s almost cruel because she knows there’s no way he’s not going to fall for it, because it’s Nami.

“Yes, Nami-san?” he says, because he can’t not. The frosting in the bowl in his hands is already fluffed to perfection but he keeps mindlessly whisking it anyways, because he needs something to look at that isn’t Zoro’s disapproving glare or Nami’s poison-trap smile. 

“You know I like girls, don’t you?” she asks, even though the answer is obvious- it’s not like she’s ever been all that discreet about her relationships. 

“Of course.” 

He’s still not looking at her, but he can practically see her tip her head to one side. “And do you think there’s something wrong with me because of that?” 

“I- of course not!” he says, jerking around to look at her, honestly appalled at the very concept. Nami’s perfect, of course there’s nothing wrong with her, not like there is with- “Of course not,” he says again, rather than let that thought reach its conclusion. “That’s- different-”

“What about Zoro?” Nami presses, jerking a thumb over at Zoro, who glances over at her for a moment before settling his glare back on Sanji. “Do you think there’s something wrong with him?” 

“That’s not- what I meant, I just-” He’s stuttering, he knows he is, because he can’t find the words, because the logic that makes perfect sense in his head is just refusing to leave his mouth, leaving him standing there, stupid and stammering. He doesn’t want to have this conversation, doesn’t want to be here, trapped between Nami’s merciless judgement and something he doesn’t ever want to drag into the light to examine. 

“Then what did you mean?” Nami asks, as relentless as ever, and-

-and Sanji slams the bowl down on the counter so hard it almost shatters and all but bolts out of the galley because he can’t can’t can’t-

She’s kind enough, at least, to let him go in silence. 

-

It’s Usopp, of all people, who comes and finds him in the crow’s nest. 

Sanji’s already five cigarettes deep into a pack, lighting each fresh one off the stub of the last with unsteady hands, sucking on them like if he can just get enough smoke inside his head it’ll block out the jumble of tangled thoughts and muffle the memory of Nami’s cutting words. The room stinks of nicotine. Usopp makes a face and goes around to open the windows, letting the nighttime breeze start to clear away the smoky air. 

Once that’s done, Usopp sits down against the wall just opposite him, giving him a thoughtful look. Sanji doesn’t meet his eyes, and fishes another cigarette out of the pack. 

“You never met Kaya, right?” Usopp says at length, sounding kind of distant, nostalgic, almost. 

Sanji blinks, glancing up from the floor. “Who?”

“It would’ve been before you joined the crew,” Usopp says, hands dangling between his knees, gaze focused on the stars visible through the open window.  “She was a girl who lived in my hometown. Syrup Village. She was sick, and couldn’t leave her house, so I used to go and tell her stories every day.” He smiles, big and genuine, and adds, “I really loved her. Still do. Sometimes I’d make up stories about the future, about us setting sail and having adventures together once she got well, and we’d be married in some of them.”

Sanji doesn’t know where he’s going with this, but unlike with a lot of Usopp’s stories, this one has the weight of honesty behind it, and so he listens. 

“And then Zoro and Nami and Luffy showed up, and helped me save my town and Kaya, and I joined their crew. And, um, Luffy told me we were already friends, and he smiled at me, and, uh, I realized I had a huge crush on him, too.” 

Sanji bites clean through his cigarette and has to spend a minute or so spitting out loose tobacco before he can say, very eloquently, “You- huh?” 

Usopp laughs a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, stupid, right? I mean, Luffy’s not, you know, he doesn’t do the whole, dating, romance thing, so obviously, uh, nothing ever came of it, which I was kind of sad about for a while. But, I mean, I got over it, cause he’s my best friend, y’know?” 

Sanji’s still staring. Usopp waves a hand. “I just wanted to say, like- it’s okay, you know? Liking both boys and girls. That’s normal. Even if nothing comes of it. You’re not on your own.” 

“Wait,” Sanji says, “Wait. You think I’m- I’m not-” He flounders for a moment. “...I like women,” he finishes, rather pathetically. 

“Yeah, I know,” Usopp says. “Everyone knows. But, like, a week ago I saw you shatter the glass you were holding ‘cause Zoro came in from working out shirtless and really sweaty.” 

Oh. Sanji remembers that, now that Usopp mentions it, and as soon as he does he feels his entire face heat up and swiftly buries it in his hands, digging his fingers into his hair. “Fuck,” he mutters emphatically.

There’s a pause, and then the sound of footsteps crossing the small room. Usopp sits down next to him. Sanji doesn’t look up. “I guess I don’t get it,” Usopp says. “What’s the problem?” 

“There’s no problem,” Sanji says into his hands, and it sounds unconvincing even to him. 

Usopp doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t really have to; even without looking up, Sanji can practically feel the skepticism radiating off of him. 

Sanji sighs, lifts his head, and focuses on shaking another cigarette out of the pack to replace the one he’d ruined, lighting it as he tries to put his thoughts in order. “It’s… there’s rules,” he finally says. 

There’s other things he could say, he means to say- maybe it’s okay for Zoro, for Nami, for you, but it’s not that easy; women make sense, aren’t threatening, can be trusted; I’ve already failed at being everything else I was supposed to be- but the words stick in his throat. He’s still struggling to dislodge them when-

“So?” Usopp just says, and shrugs a little. “We’re pirates. Breaking rules is kind of what we do.” 

…hm. 

Well, that’s a point to think about. Maybe. Sanji takes another drag off of his cigarette and feels something in his chest settle, just a bit, the loosening of a knot that’s been yanked too tight for years and years and years. 

“Maybe,” he concedes around a mouthful of smoke, and sees Usopp grin triumphantly out of the corner of his eye. 

There’s- a lot, in his head right now, and it’ll probably take some time to work though it all, but. For the moment he can breathe again, and Usopp has a point, so even if he’s not fine, he will be, probably. 

“Thanks,” he says, and means it. 

And then, after a moment, “But, Luffy? Really?” 

Usopp elbows him hard, but he’s laughing between the words when he says, “Shut up!”

And Sanji finds he can laugh about it, too. 

[vanchlo]

The Firsts / #6, “The First Festivities”

*not my gifs*

---> NEXT BLURB: Coming soon, I hope! Keep an eye on the series masterlist for updates!

READ THE ASSISTANT, AKA WHAT CAME FIRST

SERIES MASTERLIST    

READ ON WATTPAD

LEGEND:

+ : a break in the story; a time jump.

and i’m too lazy for italics bc tumblr ignores formatting that i do in Docs so sorry i give up 

WARNINGS: Prepare for some angst and sadness, but don’t worry it’ll be ok c:

WORD COUNT: 8.7k

SONG: Wonderful Christmastime by Paul McCartney (click to listen)

                          sneAAAAAAAKY PEEK!

“Because loving somebody means loving them when they’re okay and when they’re not okay. I knew that’s what I was signing up for when I started loving you, so long ago. I knew that you could be a good person, Harry, and you are. I knew that just because you’re okay one day doesn’t mean that you will be the next day and every day after that,” I tell him, lacing the fingers of my other hand with his limp ones. His unblinking eyes fill with tears and then drain of them, staring ahead and disagreeing with mine. “Please let me help, and come home with me. I’ll stay with you.”

“All I can say is that you make me... you make me into someone I couldn't even imagine. You make me happy, even when you're awful. I would rather be with you - even the you that you seem to think is diminished - than with anyone else in the world.”

― Jojo Moyes, Me Before You

*

The tiny tree drowning in miniature lights and ornaments taunts me as I pour the pale creamer into the steaming mug. Clucking my tongue, I drop a spoon into the beige colored abyss. I begin to stir it in never ending circles as my flats carry me down the hallway. 

“You know, the break room looks more like Christmas than your house,” I jest, turning to close the door behind me. 

“If ‘s such a problem t’ you then why dontcha do sumthin’ ‘bout it?” they remark sarcastically, turning to face me with an eyebrow raised in my direction. A corner of his mouth quirks upwards as I shake my head with a bemused smile. 

“What do you call what I’m doing right now, huh?” I reply, handing the mug of coffee to him. 

“I call it bullyin’ me into submission, Ms. Lawyer,” Harry giggles, bringing the hot mug to his lips. 

“All I can say is that I learned from the best,” I shrug and he shakes his head into his mug. “Ugh, I don’t know how you can drink coffee when it’s so hot. You must have no taste buds left, anymore.” 

His laugh tickles the air as he swallows, moving to set it down on a frosted black coaster beside his keyboard. Smiling, he licks his lips before they part, “Reckon I don’t anymo’ then, maybe that’s why I liked yer poppy seed bread befo’ you told me you’d doused it in icing t’ hide tha fact it was burnt,” Harry chuckles, and I press my smiling lips together. Shaking my head, his giggle nudges at my own lips framed by flamed cheeks. 

“Hush,” I say, turning away and walking towards his sofa where my purple knit blanket has found a new home with my Macbook. 

“And what if I don’t?” he teases, taking hold of my waist and stopping behind me where I feel his breath on my ear. 

“Really?” I ask in a titter, moving my body to face him and his ethereal looking smile. A sight I had gone so long without seeing that I wasn’t sure if it could find its home anymore. 

“Really really,” he grins, dipping to leave kisses along my cheeks. My eyes fall shut with a smile accompanying it, and I enjoy the feeling of his lips along my temple, and then my cheek. It still feels so new, all over again, and I won’t let what came before it shadow it. 

“I think you should get a tree, Harry, it’s Christmas next week, babe.” 

“Then come with me t’ tha tree farm t’night,” he murmurs against my skin, followed by my intake of air when his teeth sink into my ear. Our giggles mingle when he releases it and continues his journey down my neck. 

“Wait, really?” I ask excitedly, pulling away to find his lips falling into a frown. “You’re finally agreeing to go all out with me? The real tree, decorating the tree while cookies bake in the oven and-.” 

“Yes,” he answers hurriedly, his lips considerably closer to mine than they were a second ago. 

“Watching Christmas movies together with a fire in the fireplace, exchanging presents on Christmas morning-.” 

“Yes, Becks. Whatever you’d like, love,” he wheezes with that light once again on his face. My favorite kind of sunshine. “Now, would ya stop talkin’ so I can bloody kiss ya already?” and I nod, soon smiling into his lips that press a long kiss to mine. “Think they’ll even have any good ones left?” he asks a moment later, dragging the tip of his finger along my birthmark with a content smile grazing his lips. 

“I dunno, I guess we’ll see but it’s probably picked over rather well,” I shrug, and he does too with an exhale, pulling me against his chest. 

“Hmm, wonder what kinda Christmas traditions we’ll start t’getha this year, bug.”

+

“Well God, I hope this isn’t going to be a lasting tradition,” I muse, crossing my arms over my chest as I hold back a laugh. Turning my head to look at him, his eyes reluctantly make their way over to me after brushing the stray needles off of his coat that he keeps around for things like this. His “manly man coat” as he calls it, as if this tree really required it. 

“I don’t wanna hear anotha word outta you,” Harry remarks, pointing a finger at me while giving me a dirty look. My lips part and he dips his head at me with raised brows. “You said it was cute when we picked it out, and how many times do you tell me ‘ya get what ya get and ya don’t throw a fit?’ Huh?”

“Okay, but, Harry,” I begin until a laugh overcomes my words and he groans in response. 

“Somebody jus’ had t’ have a bloody tree,” he grunts, walking away and over to the closet under the stairs where he hangs his tattered coat. 

“Hey! I like it, but . . “

“But what?” he sighs, and when I tear my eyes from the tree he’s giving me another annoyed look. 

“But I like big things, you know that,” I tease, meeting him by the kitchen island where I slip my way into his arms. But one of mine wanders down his chest and to the front of his jeans that he slipped on for the outing that greet my fingers with cold fabric. 

“Dontchu try t’ butter me up, woman,” he says with a roll of his eyes until it dissolves into the sound that often coasts from his lips lately. I hate when my mind automatically goes to those few weeks where I yearned to hear it around the firm, but I never did. 

“I’m not, and I’m just kidding. I really do love the tree, I think it’s a perfect size, not too big, not too small,” I tell him in a coo and he nods with slight hesitancy to the action. 

“Yer sure?”

“Yes,” I answer, letting my head fall to his chest after my arms wound around his middle. “I like our first Christmas tree, it’s tiny and cute. I like little things too, they’re just so adorable.” 

“That’s not what you were jus’ sayin,’” he whispers, squeezing my ass and I almost jump. Now, it’s my turn to roll my eyes as I exhale, admiring the four foot Christmas tree. The tallest one we could find at the farm that wasn’t scrawny or sick. 

“Hush, and go and get the lights and ornaments while I start the cookies and dinner.” 

“‘Kay,” Harry hums, leaving a kiss on my forehead. “Missed you . .  missed this.” 

“Missed you,” I smile with melancholy sticking to its edges, leaning into his touch as a long sigh leaves my lips. In the silence, my hand drifts along his back and to the hole that I know mars the red flannel he wears. I’d told him how many times to get rid of it already, but he can’t give it up. “What do you want to do for Christmas day, for a meal?”

“Was actually gonna ask you t’ come t’ me mum’s, she does a Christmas lunch ev’ry year with Gemma and tha kids.” 

“Yeah, that sounds fun. I’ve really missed Harper and Ollie,” I remark, closing my eyes and inhaling his smell dotted with fresh pine. 

“They’ve missed ya too, bug. Harper hasn’t stopped askin’ when ‘m gonna bring Anty Becky over,” he almost wheezes. I don’t stop myself early enough, because it’s too late, and I hear the sadness clinging to his voice. That hellish month wasn’t contained to just us, and I see it in people’s wandering glances at the firm. Maybe even more now that rumor’s gone around that we’ve gotten back together, only fueled by our public friendliness with each other since, and despite the professionalism we both tried to carry. I’d missed his niece and nephew more than I thought I could, his sister, and his mum too, and when those thoughts appeared in my head it all hurt even more. I didn’t know that my heart could squeeze any more pain out after losing him, and in the way that I did. 

Sometimes, the silence feels unsettling still, and I hate that. I hate the hesitance I see in his actions still when he goes to touch me, or the look on his face at dinner with Myles and Jeanie the other night when the waiter berated him to order a drink too. It’d only continued the next day when it was my first time back at his house and the wine cabinet was starkly empty, and so were all of the spots that held my things. Neither of us had brought up me moving back in yet, and sometimes I thought I was ready to . . sometimes. 

“Yer not goin’ t’ Madley Christmas day are you?” he hums, pulling me away from my thoughts, and I welcome it. “Course, if you are that’s okay.”

“No. Um, I’m going the day after, that’s when we always do it. You’re welcome to come, if you’d like.” 

“Hmmm,” he thinks aloud, warmth spreading across my scalp when his closed mouth rests there. “I dunno, Robbie seemed rather pissed tha other day when he stopped by tha firm and saw me, so I can only imagine how yer dad would act.” 

“Harry-,” I start, moving away so I can look at him, but he doesn’t let me. 

“‘s fine, Becks, okay? I don’t blame ‘em. ‘m gonna go and grab tha decorations befo’ it gets too late. I don’t wanna be up all night cookin’ and decoratin’,” he finishes, leaving my arms. I nod silently to myself, arms cold and empty as I watch him walk away, assuring myself it’s okay and I’m okay because he’s coming back. 

Only a few days after getting back together, and I wish things would go back to normal already. I’ve never gotten my wish for normalcy, now have I?

+

“Stop it, I mean it,” Harry attempts, but the firmness in his voice is lacking as a laugh interrupts it. “We both know that ya know all tha words, but I wanna hear ‘em too, ‘kay?”

“Fine, but for the record, you’re no fun.” 

“Reckon we both know that too,” he answers, feeding buttered popcorn between his bubblegum pink lips. My eyes return to the telly where the other Harry and Marv continue their infiltration into Kevin’s house, but he anticipates their plan, and I giggle at the next booby trap he’s set. 

Looking to my Harry, I find him lost in the bowl of popcorn that sits on his lap where he lies beside me in my bed. Clearing my throat loudly, he looks up and over to me, lifting a brow. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask, repeating the question I’ve asked too many times today, and I know it. 

“Yes, ‘m fine.” 

“You sure? Because Home Alone is a cinematic masterpiece and if it doesn’t make you happy then there something’s wrong with you,” I joke, tossing a Red Vine onto his lap, missing the popcorn bowl that he’s peering into again while sifting around for a chocolate drizzled one. “I’m just kidding, it’s only a film, but you haven’t been yourself today, Harry, or well, yesterday either. For a few days now. Will you please tell me what’s bothering you . . so I can help?”

“There’s plenty o’ things,” he whispers, and my face creases into a question. 

“What’d you say?” I ask slowly and seriously. 

“I said there’s plenty o’ plain popcorn in here, far too many ‘cuz somebody ate all o’ tha chocolate ones,” he says with a shake of his head, picking up the licorice that soon appears between his teeth. He rips at it until he begins to chew and meets my eyes with a forced smile. 

“You snooze, you lose,” I tease and he offers a laugh in between the licorice as my eyes stray to my artificial Christmas tree. I watch the twinkling lights dance along the window, wishing it felt like Christmas and all of its cheeriness. 

I can’t remember the last time that I had a happy Christmas.

+

What wakes me is a creaking sound, and when I look around, the sun isn’t peeking through the windows and the birds aren’t chirping. The multi-colored lights donning the tree are the only light around me, and they shed some on the section of bed next to me. The sheets absent of Harry. Instead, they hold a half folded page which pulls my eyes to my desk where I can just make out my favorite journal from Harry, opened and with a pen sitting in its middle. 

Sitting up, I turn the light on and grab at the paper, immediately opening it. Little did I know that after reading its secrets, that part of me would feel ashamed for wishing that I’d never read it and just gone back to sleep. Ignorant and blissful. The other side of me reads it quick and fast, feeling my heart climb in speed with every word that my eyes can’t believe. 

Becks, 

I’m sorry, love, but I just can’t do this. I can’t do this to you. I’m not enough for you and I don’t know why I ever thought that I could be. You deserve so much better than me, so fucking much. I’ve been going to the meetings and I think that they help, but I had a drink last night and I wanted to keep going and I did. I stopped myself, but I hate myself for not stopping myself earlier than that. I don’t want to do this to you again, and I won’t. Please don’t try to change my mind, because you can’t. I love you, so so much, Rebecca Ann, and that’s why I have to do this. I have to leave, because I don’t want to keep ruining your life. I’ve been doing that for far too long, years now. I love you more than I could ever make you know and I hope that you can forgive me one day. Call that bloke Max that liked you the one time, he seemed like a catch. I dunno. 

Merry Christmas, 

Harry xoxoxo

Tears had already begun their descent down my cheeks, from the very first words, and they only grew stronger as I went further down the page. I didn’t remember that I was holding it as I tore from the bed and into the hallway, searching for him in every corner. In the flat, through the hallways, on the lift, and in the lobby downstairs. I couldn’t find his face, and the fright grew and grew inside of me until I thought I would explode from it. It followed me through the green lights and threatened to topple over at the red ones. It led my feet to his door and to the spare key I know that he hides under the flowerpot on his porch, and guided me blindly through the empty house. The twinkling lights on the tree greeted it and shrunk in its sight, our tree. Our home. The fright sent me out of there with a new sob and it fed another when I got onto the lift and walked through the dark halls. 

It only began to shrink when the door to the firm opened with ease in my hand, and I was met with the emptiness of its walls. My impatient steps echoed loudly in my ears and I couldn’t care if I tried, not even when they stopped in front of the door bearing his name and the words ‘Managing Partner & Attorney’ below it. The fear grew at the lack of light underneath his door, but it was smacked down when the handle twisted in my grip, and I found him before me. If he heard me, he didn’t show it. If he knew I was coming, he didn’t try hard enough to hide. He didn’t lock the doors behind him of his own firm, unoccupied on a Saturday. He didn’t try hard enough, and that’s all that I cared about. 

“You really think that a lousy note is going to make me stay away a-and stop loving you?” I cry, lingering in his doorway, wanting to surround him with myself but not knowing if he’d let me. His head falls where he stands in front of his window, looking nothing like himself in trainers and a hoodie, his makeshift pajamas. “Harry, y-you had a relapse, it’s okay.” 

“But ‘s not, Becks,” he says in a strained voice, his figure soon shaking with a sob. “‘s not gonna be okay when at Christmas yer dad stares at me with disdain in his eyes knowing what I did t’ you- t’ us, and knowin’ deep down that it could happen again ‘cuz I can’t stop,” he insists, vigor in his voice. “‘s not gonna be okay when it creeps up on me down tha road when we have kids, and I pick up tha bottle ‘cuz ‘m stressed out from late nights with a baby.” 

Gulping, my throat feels dry with the absence of words and the onslaught of tears. The wanting to know what to say stirs the verbs and adjectives within me, but they don’t go anywhere. Then again, neither is he right now and that seems to be the only comfort that I can find in this moment. 

“‘s not okay, Becks. ‘m not okay,” Harry says with languid plaguing his voice, refusing to turn around. 

“But I love you even when you’re not okay,” I insist, my clenched fists shaking despite my attempts to calm them, and yet the only thing that could calm me has run away from me. “I do, and I always will, Harry! That’s why I came back, because I love you and I want to help you. Yes, you hurt me, but I forgive you because I love you. I love you because I forgive you,” I sob, wishing that he would say something - that he’s sorry for leaving and that he’ll try again. I just wish for something to come out of his mouth, because his silence is terrifying me. I don’t know how much more I can take. 

I know that I can’t take a world of mine without him in it, and too many years of yearning for him across a room doesn’t count. I can’t do that again, not any of it. That’s what pulls my feet away from the door and towards him. 

“I’m not leaving you, I’m not going anywhere no matter how hard you try to get rid of me. I’m going to stay and help you, please just let me,” I beg, curling my fingers around his forearm, watching a tear collect at the point of his nose. “Can we please just go home and go back to bed? I want to spend Christmas with my best friend this week, even if things aren’t okay.”

“‘m broken, Becks. ‘m a mess, how could you love me still?” he asks quietly, lifting his eyes to peer out onto the sleeping town where only the lights are awake. Lights strewn on trees in the park and alive on the buildings. “I thought ‘d feel okay when we got back t’getha, and I did . . but then I didn’t. I dunno what happened . . what’s happenin’ t’ me. How can you love somebody like that?”

“Because loving somebody means loving them when they’re okay and when they’re not okay. I knew that’s what I was signing up for when I started loving you, so long ago. I knew that you could be a good person, Harry, and you are. I knew that just because you’re okay one day doesn’t mean that you will be the next day and every day after that,” I tell him, lacing the fingers of my other hand with his limp ones. His unblinking eyes fill with tears and then drain of them, staring ahead and disagreeing with mine. “Please let me help, and come home with me. I’ll stay with you, I’ll stay over and make sure-.” 

“Make sure that I don’t have a drink?” he says in a tone that I don’t like. Squeezing his hand doesn’t help, it doesn’t spur life into him or send encouragement to him. “Ya can’t be there ev’ry moment o’ ev’ry day makin’ sure that I don’t drink, Becks, and I don’t want you t’. You deserve such a betta life than what I can give you,” he continues, meeting my eyes for the first time since I stepped into the room. Now, I wish that he hadn’t, because I see it before I stop myself. I see the answer in his eyes, the one that’s probably been there all along and the one that I couldn’t take away. The one that I can’t take away. 

It stays there in front of my eyes, when he walks out of the room and when I fall back into my bed with defeat and my eyes stinging with the arrival of new tears. It stays there as I stare at the tree from under my sheets, and when I unplug it and shove it in the closet. It remains as I toss and turn under the sheets, and when I wake with his smell on the pillowcase, lulling me into a nonexistence that stays until I remember. I wish that I hadn’t.

+

He didn’t answer. His texts or his calls. His doorbell. His emails. He wasn’t there at work, at the team meeting, or at the pre-trial for our client. I was afraid to ask at first, but then I was texting his mum and his sister before I knew it, asking if they’d heard from him. I asked Myles, Rory, and Rose, and they didn’t know either. Nobody did. 

I absently continued to work on our case, despite the worry that climbed in my gut, not knowing where he was or if he was okay. It all hurt too much and suddenly, I hated him again for hurting me like this. The pain only came harder when I thought about how he thought he was saving me from the pain when he was only inflicting it more. 

Wiping a stubborn tear from my cheek, I exhale shakily and close the folder in front of me filled with his handwriting. I gulp and return to Docs on my Macbook, and stare at the blinking cursor, unsure of what to do. He always knew what to do in these lost moments. The next best step for a case, who to interview, where the best place is to find evidence, who to nudge at the courthouse for information, and how to make me feel better. My shoulders sag and I feel the wall inside of me begin to crumble. 

Knock knock!

Whipping my head towards the door, I see a glimpse of him until I blink a tear away and he runs away. Again. 

“Hey,” Myles says softly, hovering in my doorway, unable to meet my eyes. “Is it a bad time? I can come back later.” 

“No no, it’s okay . . Have you heard from him?” 

“Yeah,” he begins, but his voice doesn’t fill with happiness or drench me with relief. The way that his eyes are strangers to mine don’t wick the tears away. “He’s okay, Becky, but he wants to be left alone. He wanted me to tell you that he loves you and that he’s sorry, but he needs some time to himself. He’ll contact you when . . when he’s ready . . I’m sorry, love,” he finishes, at last meeting my eyes, if only for a moment. “Please, let me know if you need anything, anything at all. And, I’ve asked Rory to take over this case, since he’s the only one free at the mo’. So, go home and take it easy, okay? Take care of yourself, and have a merry Christmas.” 

I see it. The way that he corrects himself too late, knowing what he just said by habit. He can’t take it back now, the habitual ‘Merry Christmas,’ and I can’t withdraw the pain that slaps me in the face and leaves me looking at the floor. That’s all that I wanted, a merry Christmas, and he stole away every chance of that. A small ‘thanks’ greets the air around me before his leaving footfall, and I watch the tears fall onto my desk. Onto the keys of my Macbook that he got for me, a purple case and all, and the desk that he picked just for me. There are small puddles littering its surface by the time I pull myself away from it and start my way home, sure a happy Christmas’ doesn’t exist.

+

“You’re sure it’s okay if I go?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine, Ree,” Skye insists with a sigh filled with sorrow. Even the tips of her fingertips against my forehead leave trails of it along my skin. 

“Maybe if I say it enough times, I will be.” 

“Oh, Ree,” she exhales with honey coating her words, and I hate it. 

I hate all of this. Lying in bed like a pathetic mope on Christmas Eve, even denying Robbie to meet his new girlfriend, and Dad to come home early. I told the both of them that I was sick, and although it didn’t feel far off, the guilt ate at me. It was surpassed by the fear and anguish at the prospect of telling them the truth, and how it eradicated the balance that had been restored to my life within the last week. Once again, it had been chucked into the bin, and I didn’t know what to do, or how to do anything. I didn’t know how to be okay again, and somehow, this time hurt worse than when he would get plastered and yell at me. Somehow, him leaving willingly and in the right mind was far worse. 

“I won’t be gone all night . . Ring me if ya need me, alright? I love you, Ree. I wish that there was more I could do,” she exhales, leaving with an awkward kiss to my temple, and then she’s gone. 

An emptiness sings throughout the flat and I watch the twinkling of a star long off in the distance. I wish that I could be there, far and away from all of this, like the Grinch separated from the Whos. But, that’s not what I want and I know that. I just want him, a happy Christmas with him.

+

A creaking awakes me and I sigh, rubbing the back of my hand against my eyes while licking my lips, “I’m fine, Skye, go away. I’m trying to sleep,” I groan with a yawn breaking through my words. Groaning, I shuffle my legs under the covers until I find a good spot again. 

The bed dips underneath me and my annoyed moan follows suit, especially when somebody slips under the covers behind me. Mutterings escape my lips and I yank the covers higher, rejecting their arms that come around me, until I freeze. My eyes fly open and I inhale again, and again. The scratchy feeling against my cheek does it, and I spin around, knocking heads with the person. Him. 

“Ouch!” he exclaims, holding his forehead. A laugh unfolds on his lips as his breath wafts over me, and all of a sudden, he’s real. He’s here and I’m okay. “You okay, love? Ya really hit yer noggin’ hard with mine,” he continues, wheezing between his words. 

“Becks?” he asks and I nod emphatically, and then, I begin to sob suddenly. “Oh, honeybug, c’mere.” 

“Harry,” I sigh shakily into his neck when he surrounds me with his arms, and I find his holey flannel with my hands. 

“‘m so sorry, Becks, ‘m so fookin’ sorry. I thought I could do it without you, but I can’t, baby, I can’t. Please, don’t let me do it without you. Don’t ever lemme leave you again, I was such a bloody idiot. ‘m so sorry, I ruined our first Christmas t’getha, baby,” he rushes from above me, worry sewn into his voice until his tears make their arrival. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s not ruined, just please never leave me again. I can’t- I can’t do any of this without you either, none of it. I can help. I’ll go with to the meetings, if you want Just, tell me what I need to do to help and I will. I just want to help you, Harry, I love you so much,” I confess impatiently, finding warmth in his stubbly neck and his scent that I’ve missed almost as much as him. 

“All I need ‘s t’ be with you, promise. I love you, baby, I love you, I love you, I love you. Ev’rythin’s gonna be okay, we’re gonna be okay, ‘m gonna be okay, and yer gonna be okay,” he coos to me, sponging kisses along my head and forehead until he’s brought my eyes forward and to him. A small smile curves his lips upwards and he touches his finger to my nose. “Can’t tell you enough how sorry I am. I got on a flight, can’t even rememba where. I jus’ had t’ get away from here, but I knew I did tha wrong thing not long afta, and it was a mess tryin’ t’ get back with layovers and all that shit with Christmas.” I nod, watching him lace his hand with mine and give it a squeeze. 

“I’m just glad you’re back and that you’re okay.” 

“Me too, sweetheart,” he echos, dipping to kiss me on the lips. Pulling away, his eyes leave mine, and I turn to follow his to the window behind me. “Looks like I made it in time, 12:05 . . Merry Christmas, Becks,” he hums when I look back to him and the words soon meet the air in my voice, too. 

“Merry Christmas, Harry,” I sigh, laying my head against his chest. He moves to lie on his back and his arms stay surrounding me while his lips find the crown of my head. 

“Sleep, baby, ‘m not goin’ anywhere, not ever again. I know we both need it . . We’ll do presents in tha mornin’ at mine, ‘kay? And finish our Home Alone marathon and cookie decoratin’ too. Promise, promise ‘m never leavin’ you ‘gain, sweet girl.” 

“Okay,” I reply sleepily, feeling myself relax when his fingers start to dance through my hair.

+

“Becks.” 

I hear my name and then feel the kiss that follows it, and the next one. A loud raspberry on my cheek eliminates any chance of falling back to sleep. What sounds obnoxious and loud fills a laugh that graces my ears, and yet, I couldn’t want to wake up to something more than that exact sound. 

“Harry,” I say, joining with his laughter that grows as more raspberries cover my face. “Stop it,” I groan, but I don’t mean it and I think he knows it, because he continues. At last, he stops and I’m left staring up at the man of my dreams, unshaven and with the cutest of bedheads. 

“Merry Christmas, bug,” he coos with a contagious happiness to his lips that spreads to mine when I kiss him. 

“Hey, at least these aren’t burnt,” he remarks as I sit down next to him and try to hide a smile. “Dontchu even gimme that look, ‘m doin’ this fer you, and I swear if you bloody tell anybody.” 

“What? I didn’t say anything,” I giggle and he rolls his eyes as he bites off the snowman’s head from his sugar cookie. “By the way, you’re going to ruin your appetite.” 

“Such a mum you are already,” he sighs, holding the rest of the cookie between his teeth as he sits up on his knees to reach under the tree. “Pickin’ out me clothes fer me and tellin’ me I can’t have cookies befo’ our meal. Tsk tsk,” he groans dramatically as he picks up a giftbag with holiday greetings scrawled on its outside. 

I laugh and watch him set it in front of me, and it only makes me wonder how he pulled this all off. I had had my presents for him wrapped and under the tree for a few days now, before everything went to shit, but somehow under the tree has grown fuller since then. I haven’t dared to ask or even make a joke about it, because I just want to enjoy this, even in all of its silliness and sadness. Even when my smile dims at the memory of waking up to that note and how it flipped my world upside down when I thought he had just placed it rightside up. 

“Hey, ‘m kiddin’ ‘round. Tha pj’s are cozy, and tha cookies are delicious. ‘m sure yer breakfast cookin’ in tha oven will be too,” Harry hums with a strong smile, squeezing my arm. I nod and watch as he looks away to answer a text, having told me that he gave his family a fright too and now they won’t stop bugging him. “C’mere, you, time t’ open yer first present,” he says and he surprises me by lifting me up to place on his lap. Giggles erupt into the air when his fingertips caress my sides and his stubbly lips pepper kisses along my neck. 

I wish I could freeze this moment and stay in it forever.

+

The next few days passed and they were rather normal and that’s all that I could ask for. An unsettling awkwardness passed after a few minutes of being at my dad’s house, and at Harry’s mum’s. Harper and Robbie were to thank for that, whether it was Robbie showing Harry his new guitar or Harper clinging to my leg the second I walked in the door and refusing to ever let me leave. 

Sitting on Harry’s sofa under the glow of the Christmas lights now, I heave a sigh remembering the last few days and how wonderfully ordinary they were. Even with the A.A. meeting over Zoom that we worked in and the way our families went to lengths to leave alcohol out of their glasses and out of the conversation. 

“What took you so long? I want to start the movie before we get too tired,” I moan, falling to lie on my stomach as I peer up at him taking the stairs two at a time. 

“Sorry, I had one mo’ thing t’ wrap,” Harry answers, padding across the wooden floor to me where I wait with rosy cheeks. His own soon dimple with a smile when he falls onto the sofa next to me, once again lifting me onto his lap. He breathes in loudly and then yawns before nuzzling his cheek against mine, brushing his fingers against my side. “Open it,” he says, placing a small box in my hands. 

I oblige and begin to tear the red wrapping paper away from the dainty box until I’m looking at a black matte box with a lid. “Harry,” I say warily, turning to look at him behind me. His smile stays and he nods towards the box. 

“‘s not that, promise. Jus’ open it and you’ll see,” he insists, sponging a peck to my temple. “I know we’re both not ready yet,” he comments and I inhale slowly as I lift the top off to find a shining, silver ring waiting for me. 

“Harry, is this . . ,” I try to say, but my emotions get the best of me as I turn around to face him and his reddening cheeks. 

“‘s a promise ring, a knot ring, they call it . . . It symbolizes a knot that’s not tied quite yet, but I have ev’ry intention of tyin’ it one day, when we’re both ready. This ‘s a promise I swear t’ ya I won’t ever break,” he explains, and his widening smile grows blurry from the happy tears that fill my eyes. “I hope those are happy tears, love . . I love you, Becks, so much and ‘m so sorry for what ‘ve put you thru’ lately. I know that I can’t do life without you in mine, and ‘m done tryin’ to be too strong or noble- or whatever. ‘ve known for awhile that I wanted you in my life fer always . . make you Mrs. Styles one day and have loads o’ babies t’getha . . Will you wear it, bug?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” I answer, swiping at the tears on my cheeks. A nervously happy laugh coats his lips as he lifts the dainty ring from its place and takes my left hand in his. “Wow, you’re really good at this,” I joke and he nods laughing while sliding it onto my ring finger, punctuating it with a kiss. 

“Thanks, hope so.” 

“And what do we tell people when they ask why I have this on my ring finger?” I ask him, watching him close the box and set aside before winding his arms around me. 

“That ‘s a promise ring, ‘course,” he tells me, pressing a kiss below my eye. His smell surrounds me when his forehead comes to rest against mine. I lean against him and glance down to my hand, holding it out in front of me to admire it. “Does it fit alright? I tried t’ rememba what size you are, but we can get it adjusted. I hafta say it looks perfect on you, ‘s just a shame it came in tha mail late.” 

“It’s perfect, Harry,” I answer, not knowing if there are any other words that could do it justice. “God, you have to stop one-upping me on presents all of the time,” I titter and his loud chuckle echoes mine as I relax against him, staring at the ring. 

“Hmm, not sure I could do betta than this next year,” he says, and we both hear it in there. The way he said it with nervousness wicking his words away that maybe next year will follow this tradition with another ring. 

“There’s no need to. This Christmas was so great, Harry.” 

“But it wasn’t perfect, and ‘m sorry fer that,” he comments sadly from above me where he hooks his chin over the top of my head. 

“It was, just getting to spend it with you made it so.” 

“I really dunno what ‘d do without you, bug,” Harry confesses softly as the fireplace crackles away beneath the tv that waits for us. The scratchy feeling of his stubble leaves my head, and when I glance up I find his eyes glassy with tears. “‘ll be makin’ it up t’ you fer tha rest o’ me life that I ever tried t’ test that.” 

“It’s okay, I forgive you . . because I love you,” I tell him, my thumb greeting his warm skin slick from his lingering sadness. 

“I love you mo’.” 

“I love you most,” I say, completing our special saying, something I can’t remember saying since before all of this shit started. 

“I love you mostest,” he follows up, and my jaw soon hangs as I stare at him in disbelief before our lips dissolve into a laugh. 

“Harry!” I shriek when his lips soon cover my face in kisses, and his fingers litter tickles along my body. I lie there in his arms, savoring the sound of our laughs mixing together, hoping that it will always be like this. 

I hope that it will always be this easy to love him. 

My buzzing phone brings me back to the present. I find the strength to pull away from Harry and locate my phone in the folds of blankets. A text lights up my home screen once I locate it, and my lips soon fly higher. 

“Hey,” I say slowly, turning my eyes to Harry to find him tracing the ring on my finger. He looks up with a question quirking his brows and my heart squeezes at the sight of him. How can a grown man be so adorable? “Is it okay if we push the movie off until tomorrow?”

“Sure, why d’ya ask?”

“You wanna go to a Christmas party with me?” 

“A Christmas party? On December 28th?” he almost laughs, his greens twinkling underneath his knitted brows. 

“Yeah, it’s- oh, nevermind actually,” I say, embarrassment whisking my eyes away from him and to my lap. God, how can I be so stupid to even ask? 

“Hey, what’s tha matter, bug? I don’t mind goin’, and I might actually wanna if you tell me who’s throwin’ it.” 

“No, it’s okay. I changed my mind, I don’t want to go anymore. Don’t worry, please,” I insist, a nervous laugh marking my words. His fingers had stilled on mine and I take the chance to adjust the piece of jewelry on my finger. “Wow, it’s so pretty and shiny.” 

“Becks, don’t change tha subject,” Harry almost sighs, taking my hand in is and hiding the ring away from sight. “Then let’s go and show off that ring o’ yers, at this party.” 

I remain quiet, growing chilly at the silence that seeps into our conversation and we both know it. The difficulty of saying it steals the words away from me and the gap between us grows larger with every second. 

“Rebecca Ann,” he says with impatience spilling over in his voice. His palm is a welcomed warmth against my cheek with its cradle. “What aren’t you tellin’ me? Y’know you can tell me anythin’ in tha entire world . . ‘s always been that way b’tween us.” 

“I don’t think it would be a good idea, Harry, it’s a party. They . . “

“Oh,” he says, the realization heavy in his tone. 

“I don’t mean it like-,” I begin, finding the nervous sadness in his green eyes that try to stray, but they don’t go far. 

“I know you didn’t mean it like that, Becks,” he remarks with a curve to his lips, leaving a kiss on my forehead. “Thanks fer lookin’ out fer me, bug, but I feel okay. I think I can be ‘round alcohol without losin’ it right now, so why don’t we give that party a shot, huh?”

“Really?” I ask, perking up in my seat beside him. He nods with a happy sound tumbling off his lips. 

“But, first, you hafta tell me whose party this ‘s. ‘m dyin’ t’ find out.”

+

“Bloody hell, I dunno ‘bout this, Becks. Reckon ‘m too old fer shit like this.” 

“Hush, believe it or not, there are people here older than you, Harry,” I tease him, chuckling at the way his jaw hangs loose from his face in disbelief. On my tippy toes, I press my lips to his cheek and pull him forward. 

“Wait, so what ‘s this ‘gain? I don’t understand.” 

“It’s a Christmas party . . for my cohort,” I tell him, leading him through the throngs of people filling the large apartment. Many mingle in groups with drinks in hand, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the sparkling grape juice and sodas claiming the counter, instead of only beers and Whiteclaws. 

“Oh yeah, reckon ‘s been a year since ya graduated. God, already?”

“I know, right?” I say, squeezing his hand when I see that proud glint in his eye. The twinkling Christmas lights donning the space catch my eye as well as the ugly sweater memo that I’m glad I didn’t miss. “Wait, is that- No way, Becky!” 

A shock of red curls turns around to face me, and their face explodes with happiness. Before I know it, they’re crossing the small space and I’m swallowed by their arms in a hug. 

“Hi to you too, Rube,” I laugh into her hair that smells of cherries, just like the last time. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?!” she exclaims after she finally lets me free. 

“Si and I wanted to surprise you.” 

“Well, you did a good job of that,” she comments, and within seconds, I’m forgotten. “Oooo, who’s this?” she teases to me, bumping her shoulder against mine. “Wait, is this-?” Ruby cuts herself off short as realization dawns on her face as her eyes stay pointed on Harry who glances around the room mindlessly. 

“Ruby, this is my boyfriend, Harry. And, Harry, this is my best friend from uni, Ruby Tucker,” I say, suddenly remembering all of the times I wanted to do this, and most important of all, that day in the lecture hall. 

Looking to my side, I watch as Harry comes back to us and his eyes wander to Ruby whose infectious smile affects his own. The dimples soon fall and his eyes come to life as he holds out his other hand to her that she takes. 

“Pleasure t’ meet you, Ruby, ‘ve heard good things ‘bout you,” he says warmly. A laugh sputters in my throat when I watch Ruby’s cheeks turn the same shade as her hair. 

“I bet I’ve got you beat for that,” she says, flitting her eyes to me before briefly winking. 

“Oh, ‘s that right? Care t’ tune me in on this, Becks?” he poses to me, lifting an eyebrow as a question waits in his teasing eyes. 

“Becks?” Ruby coos and I shake my head at the both of them. 

“Just that day in the lecture hall when you came to talk to our class.” 

“Ah, makes sense. What, were you lot droolin’ over me too?” he jokes and Ruby’s loud laugh fills the air around us, interrupting the Christmas jingles. 

“No,” I insist, but Ruby disagrees. Soon, I find that my cheeks could give hers a run for their money as they flame with embarrassment. “Fine, I may have gotten a little lost in the moment.” 

“‘m sure that’s all you did,” Harry teases and I shove at his arm, savoring the sound of his laugh. It falls to an end when he caresses my head with his hand and kisses the top of my head. 

“Hell, you two couldn’t be any cuter,” Ruby comments from beside us, and I feel my cheeks fill with warmth. “I’m really happy for you two. Really, I am. I can’t remember ever seeing you this happy, Becky.” Tears prick at my eyes when she squeezes my arm and smiles at me like she’s never done before. “Lemme go and find that guy of ours, I bet he’s the one behind this plan.” 

“I like her,” Harry wheezes next to me, and I find the full smile that sits on his lips when I look. It shines down on me as his finger coasts along my forehead, moving a lock of hair out of my eyes. “I must agree with her, it makes me so happy t’ see how well yer doin’ now. Reckon I only saw a glimpse o’ yer life back then in uni, but yer happier now, I can tell.” 

“Hmm, I can only wonder why,” I giggle and he tries not to. A Mariah Carey song comes on next and the room erupts in loud cheers. My eyes fall to our intertwined hands and my spare that covers his, tracing the familiar curves of his rings. 

“Well, lookie who it is!” somebody almost shouts. I know the voice without even having to look. “Becky and her main man!” 

“Hi, Si,” I smile as he approaches us in a red and green Fair Isle sweater, considerably dominant to Ruby’s grandma looking one. Harry lucked out with a festive knit sweater with several shades of red, but he could make a hospital gown look good. Meanwhile, the next best thing I could find in Harry’s closet was a blue and white number with a cheery snowman on the front. 

“Hey, and Harry it ‘s, correct?” Si says, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. They both shake hands as Harry nods, and then I’m pulled into Si’s strong arms. Laughing, I make a break for it moments later, remembering I hadn’t seen them since graduation, or sometime around then. 

“I knew it, you know,” he says to Ruby beside him, shaking his head with a glow to his face. 

“Me too,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest as she smiles at me, knowingly. 

“You knew what?” I ask them, finding Harry’s hand again with my own. Mysterious laughs float between them and they spur one on mine, but mine fills with nervousness as I trace the knot on my ring finger. 

“That you’d go and work for Harry, again. Duh,” Si says, as if it’s the easiest secret in the world. 

“I bet Si fifty pounds you’d go back.” 

“I bet Rube seventy that you’d be back in three months,” he jests, straight white teeth showing behind his wide smile as laughs overcome the four of us. 

“You guys are so bad!” I chuckle, looking to Harry who just shrugs his shoulders. 

“What? We both shoulda seen it coming, it was a given, Becks.” 

“Becks, huh? I haven’t heard that one before,” Si comments, bringing a tall stein to his lips. He pulls it away and wipes at the creamy yellow liquid left behind on his lips. 

“Ya, um . . I called her by her last name fer awhile-.” 

“And some last names that weren’t mine,” I interrupt, making everybody laugh, even Harry who seems to remember for the first time in awhile. 

“As I was sayin’,” he continues, raising his eyebrows at me. “I got tired o’ Holte, tha name and tha girl.” Cue the laughing. “Anyways, I dunno, nothin’ else seemed right. Not tha classic Becky, ‘cuz ev’rybody who was anybody called her that. She was never called Rebecca, or Becca, but Becks jus’ fit her somehow,” Harry concludes, and for a few moments, it’s like there aren’t twenty people around us. It’s just us, and his neverending green eyes. 

“Looks like that ring fits rather well too,” Si comments, and my eyes go searching before I realize what he’s saying. 

“Si, you idiot, they’d tell you if they were ready,” Ruby scolds him, swatting at his arm. 

“Um, ow!” Si exclaims, shaking his head at her. “Sorry,” he tells us after Ruby gives him a good glare.

“It’s okay, it’s not an engagement ring. Harry got me a promise ring,” I tell them, and yet, I can’t keep my eyes off of Harry whose sunshine beats down on me. 

“That’s so great, Becky, congrats to you two!” 

“I haven’t even met a bloke who’s cute enough for me, and look at you two,” Si exhales, draining the rest of his drink with a sad smile. 

“Don’t be a party pooper,” Ruby remarks, shoving him away from her when he gives her a goofy look. “Anyways, I want to hear about all of your cases together! I can’t believe you got into Styles and Lawson, Becky- Well, I can now, but tell me about it! You two got that massive Lawton and Williams case, how was that?”

“Yeah, we’ve just been dying over here, dragging our feet through dry civil cases at Xavier’s,” Simon says with a roll of his eyes, but flashes me a smile. 

“Oh, yer at Xave’s? If yer lookin’ fer somethin’ new, my partner and I are hirin’ fer a new position, maybe we could fit one o’ you newbies in. We always love havin’ new graduates- well, yer a year old now, but if you’d be up fer it,” Harry announces, and my heart swells at the emotion on the both of their faces. 

“It’s a bloody miracle one of us is dating a bigshot lawyer innit? Any cute guys work at your firm, Harry?” Simon says, and us two girls bust out laughing as he looks around confused. Harry stays silent and Simon remains serious until his lips coated in eggnog spew a laugh and then we’re all laughing. “Just jokin’, mate!” 

They followed us into every next conversation and between our cups of eggnog and plates of cookies. I certainly wouldn’t have thought this time last year after graduating uni and missing the hell out of him that I’d be here. Sitting next to Harry on a sofa with my two best lawyer friends sharing stories as we all died laughing, and with a promise ring on my finger. 

I slowly started to let myself believe that things could be good again. 

[intotheskamverse]

Catching Snowflakes

After spending so many blissful nights tucked beside Robbe, Sander has started to learn that he never sleeps quite as peacefully as he does when they have their arms around each other, breathing in time with one another. Still, he finds himself waking up far too early each morning, long before Robbe wakes up on the weekends. His body is too used to the hours he spent reveling in the caress of the early morning light and the reprieve it brought to his dark night thoughts, his restless, haunting insomnia, to actually sleep peacefully through these hours.

These days, he usually spends them reveling in Robbe’s softness, chest pressed against his back. He allows Robbe’s slow, steady breaths to lull him into a love drunk daze. Usually he hates being trapped in his own mind, with nothing to do with his body, his hands, but when he is laying with Robbe, unable to move so as not to disturb him, he finds his mind drifting away on the happiest of daydreams, and in these moments, he doesn’t want to be anywhere other than his mind, his body engulfing Robbe’s warmth.

On this particular morning, his eyes drawn to the light seeping in through the windows, he notices that it had started to snow at some point during the night. He’s mesmerized by the leisurely dance the snowflakes make as they drift down from the sky. Slowly, carefully, he slips out from under Robbe’s arm and climbs off the bed, moving slowly towards the window. He picks up his various articles of clothing strewn haphazardly along the floor as he goes, hopping softly as he pulls his skinny jeans on. He would stay in just his boxers, as he usually does, but Robbe’s room is a little too chilly this morning.

The snowflakes are starting to fall in fat clumps, sticking together, finding a friend or three in their freefall. One cluster lands on the window and starts to melt, the crystals turning to droplets of water. Sander loves the way the light makes the snow shimmer on its way down. He stands like this for a while, feeling like he’s nestled in a painting.

Eventually, he hears Robbe start to stir, making grumpy grumbling noises as he rolls over in bed, trying to relocate Sander’s warmth as he pulls himself from his sleep. When he rolls over again without bumping into the body he expects to be there, he bolts awake, sitting up and reaching for where he thinks he left his phone the previous night. Before he can find it, he catches the silhouette standing in front of his window out of the corner of his eye, and he exhales, the deep, heavy sound full of relief. “There you are,” he murmurs with a lazy smile, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Here I am.” Sander, grinning, walks back over to the bed in a few long strides and bends down to give Robbe a good morning kiss, pressing his lips to his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Robbe makes a sweet noise in the back of his throat, and Sander smiles as he finally kisses Robbe properly, cupping his hand around the back of Robbe’s neck and lowering himself onto the bed beside Robbe.

Parting from the kiss a few moments later, lips hovering just a couple inches away from Robbe’s, noses just barely touching, Sander tilts his head back, looking at Robbe through narrowed, mischievous eyes. “Hey,” he says to get Robbe’s attention. He still had his eyes closed, his face relaxed, content, awaiting the next kiss under Sander’s sleepy spell. “It’s snowing.” His words are almost a whisper.

Robbe opens his eyes slowly, looking inquisitively at Sander. “Okay,” he replies, turning the word up at the end as if it’s a question. He can tell Sander has an idea.

Sander grins at Robbe’s hesitation. Their faces are still close, and Sander flicks his gaze from Robbe’s eyes to his lips and back again. “We should go outside.”

“Sander.” Robbe says it on an inhale, the name just a breath, almost inaudible. Like he’s breathing Sander in. Like maybe he just said the name to hear it himself. “But it’s cold outside,” Robbe groans, pouting. He wraps his arms around Sander’s neck and falls back on the bed, pulling Sander with him so they’re both lying down again. “Let’s just stay here, where it’s warm.” Robbe’s words are muffled because he says them with his face buried in Sander’s hair.

Sander struggles to break free from Robbe’s vice-like grip, kicking his legs in the air to get momentum while Robbe giggles madly in his ear. Soon, they’re both laughing, hard, and the more Robbe laughs, the weaker his arms become. Finally, Sander unlocks Robbe’s hands, and as he starts to sit up, Robbe weakly grabs at Sander’s shoulder, his forearm, his fingers, any part of him to pull him back down on the bed. Sander shakes his head as he stands up, smile growing even bigger.

He beams down at Robbe, murmuring “come” as he starts to walk towards Robbe’s bedroom door. He doesn’t break eye contact as he offers another soft “come,” an invitation, not a demand. He opens the door and disappears.

Without any more hesitation, Robbe is up from the bed and bounding across the room before he realizes he’s wearing only his underwear. “Wait, Sander, I have to get dressed,” he calls, sticking his head out of the doorway to try to see how far Sander’s gotten. Sander’s waiting at the top of Robbe’s stairs, arms crossed.

He smirks at Robbe and teases, “Or you could go naked. You know, so we’d be even.” Robbe rolls his eyes and retreats to his room to quickly throw on a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. His shoes and coat are downstairs.

“Okay, let’s go,” he says as he passes Sander atop the stairs and starts to pad down them in his socked feet. Sander grabs him by the hand and pulls him to a halt so he can catch up to him and give him a quick kiss. As Robbe stands, a little bit confused, a little bit smitten, on the stair where Sander stopped him, trying to snap back to reality, Sander bursts ahead, clomping down another four or five stairs. Robbe’s fingertips are still clasped in his hand, so he pulls him along with him until he feels Robbe circle his arms around his neck. Before he knows it, Robbe’s wrapped his legs around his torso, and he descends the final stairs with Robbe on his back, nibbling at his neck and ear as Sander laughs. They’re giddy with the thrill of the snow day, feeling like carefree kids who are so, so in love.

At the door, they both try to wrestle their shoes on in record time. Robbe, used to slipping on his sneakers, struggles with his boots for the snow, and Sander, as always, has to work extra hard to get his Docs on. They use each other for balance, leaning against one another and falling over each other. Neither of them has the patience for their shoelaces. Robbe throws Sander his jacket before putting on his own, and before they duck outside, Sander snags Robbe’s beanie and puts it on Robbe’s head for him, kissing the top of his head through the fabric.

Sander pushes Robbe through the door first and tumbles out after him. Instantly, he wishes they had remembered to grab gloves, but they were too distracted by each other to think about such matters. Now on the sidewalk, Robbe turns around to face Sander, cheeks already tinging red from the cold.

“Now what?” he asks, snowflakes collecting in the brown curls that flop over his forehead.

“I don’t know,” Sander admits with a shrug.

“Sander,” Robbe scolds despite his smile, falling against Sander’s chest so he can tuck his bare hands in the space between them, hoping to keep them warm.

“Did you ever try to catch snowflakes on your tongue when you were young?” Sander asks, wrapping his arms around Robbe and rubbing them up and down his back to heat him up.

Robbe pulls his head back to look Sander in the eyes as he nods his head. “Yeah.”

“I bet I can catch more than you.” Sander looks at Robbe with a smirk.

“No way,” Robbe says as he pushes away from Sander. “I’m great at this,” he says, even though he can’t remember the last time he’s done it.

“Yeah, okay,” Sander replies, voice mocking, full of disbelief. “First one to five wins.” He raises his chin at Robbe, challenging

“Fine. Starting . . . now.” They both turn their eyes to the sky and stick their tongues out as far as they can. Sander sneaks a peak at Robbe out of the corner of his eye, and he’s momentarily caught off guard, taking in the sight of Robbe, giddy, competitive, grinning around his tongue, eyes squinting as he tries to track the snowflakes that fall, maneuvering his head to try to get under the ones that catch his eye. All concentration and determination, mixed with a little bit of glee. Sander lets himself smile, retracting his tongue without even realizing. He breathes a shaky breath around the fluttering feeling just beneath his lungs. He feels lost in this moment, overwhelmed by the way Robbe affects him, takes over him. He loves these moments, but he’s also terrified of them. Pulling himself out of it somehow, he sticks his hand out to shield Robbe’s tongue from the falling snowflakes, trying to throw him off since he lost so much time in the game as he was staring.

“Stop cheating!” Robbe exclaims, garbling the words because his tongue is still out. He swats Sander’s hand away and shoves his shoulder, flicking his eyes to the side to give him a good-natured glare. Sander laughs and focuses on his own snowflakes.

“Got one!” Sander announces, and soon after, calls “Two!” A few more seconds pass, and still nothing from Robbe. “Another!” Sander glances back at Robbe and sees his face pinched in frustration.

“I can’t catch any! What am I doing wrong?” he asks, turning to face Sander.

Sander gives up the competition and turns to Robbe. Laughing, he teases, “I don’t know. Maybe you’re just really bad at catching snowflakes.” With a shrug, he adds, “Or I’m just really good at it.”

“Yeah, okay, Jack Frost.” Robbe rolls his eyes and looks back to the sky.

“You have to find one falling above you with your eyes and track it all the way down to the tip of your tongue,” Sander tries to coach, but just as he does so, one of the bigger clusters of snowflakes drops onto the tip of Robbe’s nose. His mouth falls even farther open in shock before shifting to a pout, and he crosses his eyes to watch as it starts to melt against his skin.

“You got one on the tip of your nose but you can’t catch one in your mouth?” Sander taunts. His eyes soften as he looks at Robbe like this. He knows instantly that this is a moment he’ll draw later, when he’s back in his room with his art supplies. It’ll capture how the cold had kissed his skin pink across his cheeks. How the snow dotted the brown curls around his face. How his eyes crossed and his lips pouted. He knows how he’ll draw the snowflake, right at the tip of his nose, each of its crystals intricately defined, melting like that one on the glass of Robbe’s bedroom window earlier that morning. He can’t wait to cement this memory in grayscale with graphite or charcoal. But for now, he decides to enjoy this moment for what it is. The pencils will be there when he gets home. Robbe is here now. Life is happening now.

Without thinking, just acting, pure instinct and desire, he licks the snowflake from Robbe’s nose, hands cupping either cheek, eyes closed, and when he opens them again, Robbe’s moved his gaze to Sander’s eyes, but the pout is still there.

“Hey, that was my only snowflake,” Robbe complains, moving closer to Sander, toe to toe, chest to chest. “Give it back.”

“Okay.” His voice is soft and deep, and quickly, he closes the distance between them, kissing the pout from Robbe’s mouth, slipping his tongue between Robbe’s parted lips to return the snowflake to its proper owner. They’ve forgotten how cold their bare fingertips are, but it doesn’t matter, because they don’t last much longer outside anyway.

[tarithenurse]

The good Villain - 2

Pairing: Loki x Reader (eventually) Content: Darkness with sadness and some gory details sprinkled with old trauma.  A/N: I’m having a lot of fun with the details in this. Feel free to send an ASK for a tag :D Thanks to those of you who already have <3 and to you darlings that have reblogged! Oh! Please check if you are in fact taggable...

2

…   Reader   …

Infinity holds, as the description hints at, infinite options. Take planets. Somewhere, someone has started counting them all and they will never reach the end just like it is similarly impossible to number the types of biospheres, or dangers. Through the Academy, you’ve studied a number of hostile conditions and how to deal with them, ensuring that you can survive most environments, and all things considered: you have been lucky throughout your career.

Until now.

Consumed by the urge to fulfill your destiny, you have started paying less attention to the “where” of things. Now the bill has come due, meaning you’ve landed yourself in the middle of the worst climate.

“Stop! Fracking! Leaking!”

No amount of screaming at the sky will have an effect other than scare the local critters. Huddling near the half-rusted fuel drum, you wiggle each naked toe carefully, ensuring nothing’s gotten too cold or has melted from the wetness. Rain, you turn the foreign word in the mouth. Someone had shouted at you to watch where you’re going, to not mind this…rain. There’s no word for it in your native language, though plenty of options in Kyrrelian, Sakaarian, yes, even the now dead languages of Morag. Obviously Morag.

A drop from your pants, hanging above the barrel, falls into the makeshift fire and causes it to sputter and hiss. Nothing likes water. Huddled on the splintering pallet with a few rags of tarp, you try to keep yourself warm despite the ominous splatter of wetness from outside.

Focus on the mission. Today has brought two victories and a new target.

First, you had managed to isolate a strong Leech, making an end to its life and those it had already started draining.

Then, which was almost better, you had figured out how commerce works on Terra, using the paper flaps assigned some monetary value which in turn got you plenty of your pure, wonderful sustenance. Never in your life had you seen so much of the Life Crystals. Bag upon bag, all advertising openly what is hidden inside as though people would not plunder the little shop to obtain it…and actually, they didn’t. The Terrans  walked about, paying little attention to the valuable minerals.

Drops sizzle, steam rises from your trousers, reminding you of the discovery as you had to leave the shelter of the store. For a moment, you had thought the reasons for the small hairs rising on your body was that someone might be watching you…but as soon as your gaze swept around the surroundings, you found the real reason: vacant eyes and static movements as the little herd navigated the masses ahead of the Soul Leech they belong to. The Leech is old enough that no one will be concerned it is not handled by one of the adults, yet young enough that people would drop their defenses and get too close if it whimpers or calls out for help.

“Yo-ehmm…” a hoarse voice reaches out to you, “go’ room by ‘a’ drum, eh?”

The Terran at the edge of the light has seen better times. Worn and dirty clothes, holey shoes stuffed with newspapers. His hair is long and unkempt without the lustre of health, promising a set of teeth more lacking than anything else. Harmless. He is swaying, either from fatigue or a kind of stimulant.

“Sure.”

Keeping to the far side of the heat source, he shuffles a bit closer after finding a piece of wood to sit on, clearly relieved to find respite from the so-called rain.

Satisfied with the added security by numbers, you recoil to the safety of planning. Sometimes, you fingers stray to pick a few crystals from the pack, allowing them to roll over the tongue and dissolve. Already, you are feeling the boost it gives your physiology and it will not be long before the ridiculous cast around the arm can be removed. It has become quite practical, though.

As you pull out a colouring tube from your backpack, you set to work repairing the blemishes. Black, rather than the glaring white, it blends into the shadows when you stalk your target, and you have come to appreciate the softness of the wrapping which absorbs blows surprisingly comfortably despite the underlying damage.

“How’d ye ge’ one o’ those?” Although his eyes are not exactly on your cast, you know it is about that.

You wouldn’t believe me, Terran. “Crashed. Shit happened.”

“Hm.” While he ponders the answer, there is nothing but the crackle of the fire to be heard – the leak in the sky must be stopped. “So…” He picks at a nail, long since rusted into the wood he sits on. “The docs didn’ take ou’ last bit, eh? Left somethin’ behind in mah head too…say too dang’rous to remove.” A crooked finger taps at a spot at the back of the head, hidden behind the mass of wiry, greasy hair. “Way I see ’t…better if they tried anyways. Head ain’t been mine since come back from over there.”

You find it hard to make sense of most of the things Terrans say, but the look in the man’s face is universal. “You served your…country?”

“Wha’ they say, innit?” Yes, he means yes. “Now…I’m on my own.”

He knows you understand in that moment. None of you have to speak any longer, just sit there in the broken darkness haunted by the memories of the past – that is the real damage, a pain you thought you understood when you signed up as recruits. We didn’t. Even if healers could fix the damage to the Terran’s brain, nothing can be done about the wounds crisscrossing his soul, and for a glimmer of a second you wish he could find the kind of piece a Leech provides as it drains its prey. No. You have seen it happen, seen the desperation flare up every time a soul struggles to remain. They always realize too late.

 …   Loki   …

“That’s just nasty!” Stark voices an opinion shared by all.

Treading carefully through the suburban house, Loki can hear the voices of the firefighters discussing how it only is because of the rain that the fire had not spread. Mad luck, they say. Or smart planning. With the exception of a few of the Avengers none of the dimwitted mortals have realized that the charred remains of the family have been staged together with the destructive blaze to hide the real cause of death.

Bending closer while ignoring the red shock of hair nearby, the keen eyes of the Asgardian can see the cuts running deeper than the roasted flesh. “This one appears more brutally attacked,” he observes.

“Yeah,” Romanova nods, pointing to the wrist, “fracture here’s pre-mortem.”

It happens as Loki circumvents the corpse of the child to get a better look. With a sickening, slobbery sound, the skull begins to tilt backwards before letting go of the still tender muscles and falling to the ground with a thud.

“Look.” He ignores the sound of someone in the background throwing up. “That wound.”

Both the Black Widow and Barnes huddle close, inspecting the circular cavity left from a narrow weapon passing through what used to be a chin. Rounded like a rod…or tube. Carefully tipping the fallen piece of head with the tip of his toe, Loki bares the roof of the mouth through which the wound continues.

“Betcha’s the killing blow,” Barnes offer.

“We don’t bet at crime scenes,” the other veteran scolds, “no betting, joking, or giggling.”

…

Scrolling through the data, only one conclusion presents itself although the evidence is incomplete. Captain Danvers and the mercenaries calling themselves the “Guardians of the Galaxy” – a ridiculously pretentious name – have attempted to uncover more evidence from the past crimes scattered across multiple realms, and in the cases where it has been possible to learn anything at all there are signs of the same killing blow to one victim at each location. Always a child.

But why not just any children? As twisted as the mind of a madman must be, there is always a grain of logic to be found. Broken logic, sure, but a flicker of explanation to why a particular pattern has arisen.

“Intergalactic mass-murderer or not,” Loki interjects softly, pausing an argument between Strange and Stark, “if it was simply a matter of killing, then why travel such distances? You both know there must be more to it.”

“C’mon!” Now both men agree, directing their frustrations at Loki. “You can’t be serious? You think something about killing kids can make sense?!”

Killing or leaving to die, what is the difference? “I do not presume to agree or understand…yet we must operate from the assumption that it’s not random…if that had been the case, then all children on any planet would be left dead and burned.”

“The frost faery’s got a point.” On normal occasions, Romanova would have found herself the target of a knife after such a comment, but maybe she can get through to the squabbling men. “We’re missing the pattern. Why those children? Why’n that order?”

[sierracolorstheworldofwords]

A Christmas fic sequel that doesn’t end in angst

An: This is a sequel to a Xmas gift I wrote for @stuff-from-the-void-matron it’s also a part of an art trade we did! So yee! I hope you like it! :3

Grey covered the sky like a dark wash of watery ink, and from the clouds, soft snowflakes fell, covering the graveyard in white. A gathering of people stood, some dressed in black, and a few dressed in light grey, but one dressed in pink.

Wilford clasped his hands in front of him, bouncing on the tips of his toes, wondering what he was doing here— you couldn’t be gone! You simply couldn’t! You were just on vacation, is all, just like Dark said.

So why did he get this feeling in his chest? Like.. like he was one of those games people hit at the carnival? He felt like.. there was just this big mallet, hitting at his heart, breaking the delicate sugar coating that always surrounded it. If he kept thinking about you, that delicate coating would break, and all of his insides, like expired strawberry syrup would leak out of his chest.

You couldn’t be gone, you couldn’t.

Nobody went away forever!

They always came back, always.

Even though.. even though he hadn’t seen.. Damien and Celine in ages, he knew one day they’d come back, and you would be in tow too! Laughing and giggling. He already decided to forgive you! It was just a stupid grudge anyway! He shouldn’t have been so stubborn!

He watched as they lowered a dark wooden box into the ground, covering it with flowers, a bright burst of color against the cold white. Oh, why was everyone just wasting time standing around here? And oh, why were they crying? Why was someone burying all those pretty flowers? Coating dirt all over the delicate petals! It was such a waste! An utter, utter waste!

Wilford looked up at Bing, who stood across from him, on the other side of the square hole. What was wrong with his baby? Why did he look so sad? So alone?

Bing looked back, surrounded by other people he didn’t know, wearing a black suit and an orange tie, his eyes watering. Rage coursed through him like a trail of gasoline on fire, sadness followed like a sadistic kid, fueling it.

He couldn’t help but look away, back to your casket, knowing this would be the last time he’d.. he’d be here. He couldn’t.. he didn’t.. know what to do. He kept hoping this was a bad dream, that he’d wake up and it would be Christmas morning, and he’d find your car, but you’d be alive, barely frozen, and he’d bring you inside the mansion, wrapping you in blankets, turning on his heaters full blast, and holding you close. He’d warm you, he’d bring you hot cocoa, he’d.. he’d get you anything you wanted for Christmas. Anything.

He wished this was a bad dream.

Just a bad dream.

But he knew it wasn't.

Because everytime he went to sleep to recharge, he’d see your body, covered in blue frost and curled tight. Then, you would see him, sitting up and turning to him, eyes hollow and lifeless, and ask him as snowflakes fell from your eyes— why Bing? Why couldn’t you let me in?

He’d hear ice cracking as you uncurled a frozen hand, reaching towards him.. and then he’d wake up.

But this felt worse than the nightmare.

He could still see the image of your body in a black body bag as people started to walk away, leaving your parents by his side. He didn’t give a shit about them. Let them rot. Let him join too. Let him rot in hell too.

He wished he was in that casket instead, wished he was dead, cold under the ground. He didn’t wish this. Didn’t want this anymore.

He could’ve said something. Could’ve done something. Anything. Anything. Even if he stayed out in the cold with you and risk freezing to keep you warm.

He could’ve done so, so much. But he didn’t. And now you were gone.

The android said nothing as the gravediggers continued. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked behind him, finding Doc standing there, whispering that it was time to go. All he could do was nod and let himself be led away.

In the car, he sat in the back, listening to Wilford ramble about what a “strange party that was” he couldn’t say the truth, because that would risk everything. So many people would get hurt— Eric, Yan, Doc, Ed, others he couldn’t even think of. He leaned his head against the window, watching the world become hushed with white silence. Watching the place where you lay fade away from his view, until there was nothing left but the white snow.

When he got home, all he could do was say he was tired and go into his room, closing the door. Laying on his bed, he closed his eyes, ignoring the small alert in his head that his battery was low.

He had a dream.

You were there. Smiling. Giggling.

In the sunshine, you and him, by the pool, legs dipped into the cool refreshing water.

Then, the cold, slowly coming in, ice crystals forming in the blue, growing like dangerous white ferns across its surface, the sun freezing too. He panicked and— and you froze, hollow eyes staring at him and a hand, with black, withered fingers reaching towards him. You asked him in a soft voice, Bing.. why didn’t you try? Why didn’t you care? I cared for you Bing.. and now.. now I’m gone..

Cold tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, before sliding down in rivers of ice.

Your face cracked and ice crystals fell as your eyebrows furrowed in anger, screaming at him— WHY WHY DIDN’T YOU HELP ME, BING?! WHY DIDN’T YOU HELP ME?! WHY?!

All he could do was sit there, legs trapped in the frozen water. He felt his motors shutting down, gears becoming twisted and frozen with ice, his legs becoming covered in frost. He watched it all happen as you yelled at him over and over again, turning a darker shade of blue as you shrieked, saying it was his fault. All his fault. All his fault and that he should pay—

He woke up to someone shaking him.

Prime leaned over him. He heard an alarm in the distance, a soft beeping noise.

“God damn it Bing! God damn it!”

It was so, so nice.. it was almost soothing

“OLIVER GO GET THE DAMN EMERGENCY CORD, NOW!”

What if he just faded too?

He closed his eyes, fading.

Then he woke up again.

Prime had him hooked up to the wall, sat up on a few pillows, and the robot glared at him. Before raising a hand and slapping him straight across the face.

“Don’t you ever do that again.”

Bing looked at him, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He was always such a burden.. he always bothered everyone— he should’ve been more careful.

“You’re lucky I got here on time.”

The older android got up, pushing the other Googles out of the way as he exited the room. They looked back at him for a moment, before Oliver closed the door, giving him one last sad glance before leaving. He sat in the room, alone, and felt the cord plugged into his neck, quickly, he unplugged it, knowing he didn’t deserve it. Now for what he did.

For the next few months, Bing kept doing this. Barely charging himself to fifty percent, and going to sleep, until he got woken up by a nightmare. He stayed in his room, alone, in his bed, nobody could get him out, nobody.

Sometimes, he’d lay in bed, wondering if it was better if he was dead— if maybe, just maybe, he killed himself and.. and everything would be better.

Everything would be better.

Nobody would be sad, if he was gone.

Six months after your death, he couldn’t fight the thought anymore. If he just.. was gone, then.. then everything would be better.

Everything would be okay.

He stared up at the ceiling, unplugging himself as he heard laughter and music outside. Were they really having a party? Wilford probably planned it. Everyone.. didn’t care. Nobody really cared about him. Prime thought he was a burden, Wilford thought he was a dramatic crybaby. Dark just didn’t care at all.

The others— his brothers.. they were better off without him. Eric stopped asking him to come out of his room a month ago, finally gave up, the Jims used to knock on the door, Yan used to being him cookies or food..

He’d been such a burden to them, he still was. He used up electricity, took up space. Annoyed everyone. It would be better if he was gone. If he spent.. maybe if he spent one last time with them all, he wouldn’t feel so guilty about everything.

Sitting up, he struggled as his arms stiffened, the limbs not used to the weight. He let out a groan as he managed to lean against the headboard. Who was he kidding? Spending time with everyone? Like this? He’d be a burden, a nuisance. He was so stupid sometimes. So, so stupid.

He closed his eyes, feeling tired.

His eyes dropped as he listened to all the wonderful noise outside.. he wished he could be apart of it..

Then, he had a dream.

This time, you weren’t there, but a familiar face was. Mori.

Hello Bing.

He said nothing back.

I.. I have noticed you’ve had some rather dark thoughts lately.

Silence.

Especially concerning..death. And (Y/n).

He nodded, and Mori sighed, before swirling his hands, causing a white chair to appear in the even whiter room. He sat down, staring numbly ahead.

Would you really exchange their life for yours?

The android looked up, nodding.

Yeah.. he answered in a scraggly voice, I would. I know I’m not much.. compared to.. to them..but.. well, I’m practically worthless. Everyone thinks it. Everyone knows it. (Y/n) didn’t deserve to die. I did— I still do.

Mori said nothing, only blinking as a swirl appeared behind him.

You can’t know what everyone thinks, Bing. But.. you’ve had this thought for a while, haven’t you?

Yeah, I have.

I’ll give you ten days before you finally decide. Spend time with your family, with your friends, before you make your final decision.

Okay. I will.

Then, he woke up.

The next few days, everyone thought Bing was feeling better, finally accepting (Y/n)‘s death and moving on, but if someone had reached into his head, looked deep within his skull, they would’ve seen that wasn't the case. He started giving things away, cleaning his room, joking with everyone, cooking and cleaning with everyone.

“See Bing a ling! I told ya you were just being a crybaby!” Wilford said as soon as he came out, laughing and patting the android’s back as rage coursed through his wires. He said nothing. If he punched Wilford.. well, everyone would get hurt.

Each night, he had a dream. A dream that counted down the days. Until the last day passed and Mori appeared, asking him if he was ready. Trying to give him reasons to stay, yet always failing to do so.

As every day passed, he grew surer and surer.

He knew Prime would be better without him always around, talking the way he did, always messing up. He also knew that the other Googles wouldn’t have to worry about him either, they wouldn’t have to ask if he charged himself that day, or if he’d been outside to solar charge. That would be a load off their shoulders.

He knew Dark and Doc would be better without him around, they wouldn’t have to worry about the electricity costs as much anymore.

Yan, Eric and the Jims wouldn’t have to worry about their brother anymore, and wouldn’t have to wonder if he was going to isolate himself again. Host wouldn’t have to try and narrate him feeling better, or more confident. Wilford.. even Wilford wouldn’t have to worry about Bing.. or waste air calling him a crybaby or overdramatic.

Then, quicker than he could say “that’s bogus!” the tenth night came. Mori didn’t wait for him to go to sleep. Instead, he stood at the edge of his bed, saying nothing for a moment, before finally asking if Bing was ready.

“Of course I’m ready dude. It’s my time! Now, I won’t bother anyone anymore! And (Y/n) will be back— but can you like.. do me a favor?”

Mori looked at the much younger ego, and nodded, “Yes, what is it?”

“Make them all forget about me, okay? Or like.. get Host too..”

Mori’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “What?”

“Please.. please make them forget.. all about me, if you can— I.. I don’t want them to remember me at all. I know they’d be happier without— heh.. without me,” Bing’s voice wavered, and the tears he’d buried deep inside the frozen snow of his chest emerged, “I just want them to be happy and.. and I know that.. s-since (Y/n) died.. nobody.. everything isn’t the same..! I was.. I was bothering everyone before and now.. well now.. I’m just bothering them more..”

Orange tears slid down his cheeks as he started to sob, whimpering as he collapsed, hating how his heart broke. Hating how he felt so helpless, like a weak puppy left outside in the middle of winter.

“Is that what you really want?” Asked Mori softly, kneeling next to Bing, “Because.. because (Y/n) wouldn’t want this.”

“How do you know? (Y/n) is dead! Gone! All because of me!”

Mori clenched his jaw, “You were protecting your family and friends from getting shot by Wilford. And nobody decided to punish him. Nobody. So you are trying to punish yourself. How can you do that? Say all those mean, hurtful things— that this was your fault; When I hear you say that— I— none, and I mean none of this was your fault. It was Wilford’s, it was the parents! That’s who is to blame!”

Bing’s face crumpled softly, and he leaned on Mori, feeling tears stain his suit as he held him tight, barely able to speak. His arms wrapped around him, clenching the white fabric, letting it all out— all those months alone. Wishing you were here, all those months laying in his bed, wishing he was dead. All those months.. all those months.. hearing his brothers knock on his door, hearing Wilford call him a crybaby, hearing Prime aggressively telling him to get over it, that he was overreacting, like usual.

Sniffing, he tucked his head into the older man’s neck, asking, “Why are you trying so hard for me?”

“Because you’re the only one who.. who.. who cares as much as I do. You want the same thing I want, I want her back. I was always too shy to talk to her, and now, I regret it deeply—“ he sighed, feeling warm tears brim at the corners of his eyes, “She was the only one who didn’t treat me like a freak.”

Bing pulled back, “I’m sorry dude.. that I.. I never really stuck up for you or talked to you when the others shunned you.. or.. wouldn’t talk to you as much.. I just— I just don’t want anyone to get hurt... I..”

“It’s alright, I understand.” He whispered, wiping his tears, “And I forgive you. But.. I also need to apologize as well.”

“You do?”

He nodded, “I’ve seen how.. Prime and his brothers treat you.. and what they've done to you.. and I’m sorry I didn’t say something.”

Bing smiled, “It’s alright— I understand. Thank you. I forgive you.” He reached in for a hug again, and smiled as he got one back.

“Also, I have something to show you. Come.”

He nodded, grabbing Bing’s hand, helping him up, before opening a black and white portal filled with swirls and leading him into it. They walked across a path of white and black cobblestones, before that faded to soft grass, revealing a field of gravestones, lit by the moonlight.

“What.. why are we—“

“Host owes me a favor.”

Bing burrowed his eyes in confusion, looking at him, “What do you mean?”

Mori only smiled, “Host, please come out.”

Host appeared out of nowhere. Practically fading into view.

“Hosts greets the two with a hello, smiling.”

“Host.. informed me of your thoughts, and.. well, it made me realize I wasn’t the only one who wanted her back so.. I decided to cash in a favor.”

“Host is glad you finally did, now he doesn’t have that having over his head anymore.”

The white suited man chuckled in response, before looking at Bing, “He’s going to revive (Y/n) Bing. Turn back the clock— only we will remember what happened. This is the last chance. If she dies—“

“I won’t let her! I’m ready I— please, I’ll do anything to bring her back…”

“The two men smile at Bing before explaining what needs to happen,” says Host, “Bing has to stop Wilford from hurting anyone. Especially (Y/n). Mori and Host will be too exhausted to do it themselves. Host will narrate the turning back of the clock, but Mori will revive (Y/n) as well. It’s a complicated process. Bing must make sure he does his part, is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“Host smiles, asking them to come to her tombstone, to begin the process. They follow. Each hopeful and excited to see their dear friend.”

After a few minutes of walking, they reached your tombstone, Host and Mori stand beside it, and Bing stands in front of it, a few tears dripping from his eyes as Host begins to narrate.

Bing felt his gears stop, and then twist backwards, currents of electricity went back into his heart, and the moon slowly moved from its position, as if pulled by an invisible string. He watched the grass slowly wave, and the noise of crickets and wind reverse into a strange melody. Even his heart, which usually pumped currents, seemed to beat in reverse. Then, everything happened faster.

Soon, it was day, and then night, and then day again, and people came and went passed your grave, passing all the graves, walking backwards to their cars and driving away.

Spring faded into frigid winter, and the flowers that once surrounded the graveyard closed, burrowing underground, as snow covered them. The snow piled up, and soon enough, your grave was open again, and he was moving backwards too, unable to control his legs as he witnessed your funeral again. But this time, all in a blur. All in a flash. He watched the days spin, his insides spinning with it like a broken clock. Everything spinning so fast yet so slow. Spinning and furling, curling— all those tears he cried when he found you—he thought he saw Mori flash by but wasn’t sure—, all the laughter he shared the night before and then— and then— He was there.

Standing in the middle of the party, Host and Mori sat on the couch, clearly exhausted.

Host waved at him, murmuring under his breath as usual, as Mori gave him a weak smile. Bing looked at them, before he heard a soft, gentle knock on the door.

Stepping forward and running past them, he opened it eagerly to see you shivering from the cold.

“Bingy— who’s at the door?”

Wilford walked towards him, but before he could push him out of the way, Bing turned around, punching him in the face. Then, he turned to you,

“Hey dude! Merry Christmas! Wanna come in?”

He could feel everyone staring as Wilford groaned, holding his nose, reaching for his gun. Bing kicked it out of his hand, before telling you to come in again.

“Don’t worry! Everything is gonna be okay my dude! Hold on a minute tho.”

Bing grabbed Wilford by the collar of his Christmas sweater, muttering angry words you couldn’t hear. You heard Wilford try to say something back, but the android wouldn’t hear it. He punched and then dropped Wilford before turning to you again.

“Hey, come in! You’re letting the heat out! And like, you look super cold! You want some hot cocoa?”

You nodded, stepping in and closing the door behind you. Bing smiled as you walked to him, he led you to the kitchen and grabbed Wilford’s gun on the way. Everyone stared in confusion, but gratitude too— they missed you so much! You were always so fun to hang around with but.. well, with Wilford holding his stupid grudge for so long that everyone practically forgot what the hell it was about!

Wilford got up with a groan, holding his bleeding nose, “Aw what the bloody hell—“

Dark rolled his eyes, strolling towards him and trying not to smirk, “You shouldn’t be mean on Christmas, Wilford, isn’t that what you always said?”

Wilford looked down at the much shorter man, before laughing himself, “Shut up you damn gremlin!” He laughed harder, “I can’t believe Bing punched me! And damn, look at my boy, he’s got a good punch!”

Everyone chuckled in response as Bing opened the back door.

You looked at Bing as milk boiled on the stove for your hot cocoa.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting rid of this stupid thing!” He made sure the safety was on before grabbing both ends and snapping it in half. Then, he threw the pieces out into the snow, looking at you with a smile, “The only guns we need are these!” He said, flexing his muscles as you giggled, grabbing the hot cocoa mix and pouring it into the milk. After mixing it around, you served two cups, handing him one.

The party continued after that, and a few people left after a few hours, mostly ones you didn’t know. Then, when everything died down, you turned to Bing (who sat next to you on the couch) and asked to stay the night, he smiled.

“Of course dude. You can stay as long as you want. I hope you don’t mind sharing a room with me though.”

Your lips quivered as you hugged him, practically sobbing in relief, “Of course I don’t mind! Thank you so much! I— my parents kicked me out and.. I was so worried and—“

“Don’t worry! I’ll make sure to take care of you, and maybe we could go get your stuff tomorrow and you can move in!”

You pulled away, smiling, “Thank you so, so much, Bing.”

He smiled at you, “You’re welcome, now let’s go to bed, okay?”

You nodded, following him into his room and falling asleep right next to him.

That night, you had a dream.

It wasn’t anything sad.. in fact, it was the happiest dream you had in a long time— it was you and Bing, laughing and giggling, smiling softly.

Then, you woke to a little chirp, wrapped up in covers right next to the android, who was perfectly warm and snuggling next you, plugged into the wall and fully charged. You leaned over and unplugged him, gently nudging him awake. He groaned, holding you closer before opening his eyes.

“Morning.” You said, smiling.

He smiled back, “Morning.”

Then, the both of you rushed into the living room, noticing you were the last ones awake. The both of you sat at the foot of the Christmas tree, and Bing passed you the few presents he bought you. He originally planned to go over to your house and give them to you but.. now, he could give them to you here!

You opened the gifts, getting a cute cup with a hot cocoa packet and candy canes, and also getting a few things you wanted all year! You hugged him, apologizing for not having any presents, but he just waved you off.

“You’re the only present I need this year my dude, you mean a lot to me.” He whispered, tears pricking in his eyes. “Ahh— I’m getting all sappy!”

You giggled, before hugging him again.

Then, after everyone opened their presents, you and Bing went to your house, your mother opened the door and before she could even say anything, Bing punched her in the face.

“Bing what the hell!”

“Sorry.” He whispered, remembering how your mother and fathers only concern after your death was the funeral costs and what the neighbors thought. They didn’t even think they were wrong about what they did.

Your father rushed over to the front door, helping your mother up, but then Bing punched him in the face too, knocking him out. With both of your parents.. on the floor and unable to get up, Bing went inside your house, and you followed. Feeling a little guilty.

The both of you went to your room, gathered everything you needed, and packed it all into two old backpacks you had, before dragging your parents to the couch and leaving.

After that, you had the best Christmas ever, all the egos (while you were gone) went and bought you presents, even Wilford, who, after he got some sense knocked into him by Bing, released how stupid he was being. You had to admit, that was an unexpected present, but.. the best present had to be Bing, who cared enough to stand up to him, and now you couldn’t be happier.

[burned-to-the-void]

The world is still a blur but your smile shines through - 2

.

Doc calls Montagne in one cold morning.

Doc/Montagne, 1.1K words, G rated, fluff. (Part 1 is on here.)

.

Doc realizes once again that he really isn't built for this kind of climate, as a violent shiver runs through his entire body. He used to think British weather was bad enough as it was, always overcast and chilly, making him miss the sun-bleached beaches of Côte d'Azur like a parched man missing a sip of water, but late November mornings in Nuuk, Greenland are something else entirely.

His phone buzzes once and he gives up on pretending to be asleep, when in reality the freezing air that creeps up on him no matter how thoroughly he buries himself under the cover woke him up at least ten minutes ago. He checks his phone, and the screen that’s too bright for his bleary eyes informs him that it’s barely past five in the morning, and he has two new messages.

One is from Jackal, as expected. Four hours, it says, and while it's not the most satisfying answer, at least it'll allow him to function. He should check with Buck later to see if their words match, though. It's not that he doesn't trust Jackal, rather he knows his tendency to leave certain things out, like an wild animal that hides its wound so it won't get cast out of the pack or viewed as an easy prey. Jackal is aware of the fact that his fitness for the job is constantly being questioned and evaluated, so Doc doesn't blame him for his defensiveness; him agreeing to do this at all is a huge improvement over his former dismissive attitude.

Another one that just came in is from Montagne, and it sobers him up pretty quickly. Call me when you can, it reads, without further information, and suddenly his breath is quickening. Did something happen to him? Or to someone else? As far as he knows they're the only ones who are out on a mission, but then how can he be sure, when he’s thousands of kilometers away from the base?

Just before he almost trips himself in his hurry to call him, another message follows. Don't worry, nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to talk with you.

Doc sighs in relief, little embarrassed that he is this predictable, waits until his heartbeat slows down to reasonable pace and puts on his clothes for a short walk. The walls are thin, and he doesn’t want to wake people up earlier than they have to; it was a long week for all of them.

Montagne picks up his call in less than five seconds. Hearing his voice for the first time in days feels like the sweet taste of the air taken in gulps after diving too deep, for too long.

“Did I wake you?” he asks apologetically, but Doc is too busy relishing in his presence, basking in it, and almost misses his cue to answer.

“No, you didn’t. I blame the weather for that. It’s cold enough to get frost bites in bed, I’m willing to call this a medical crisis.”

“Are you?” Usually he isn’t this much of a complainer, so Montagne’s amused tone isn’t really surprising. Doc frowns to no one in particular. Six, maybe.

“Yes, I mean it. And what annoys me even more is that I’m the only one who’s bothered. Frost keeps saying it’s unusually warm here this year and Tachanka is even worse, I swear he sleeps only in his underwear, when I’m considering sleeping with my coat on.”

Montagne laughs good-naturedly at his faux indignation, and the sound of it thaws him out, a little. He looks up at the sky that’s still a shade too dark to be called blue. His breath comes out in puffs, like small clouds.

“But enough talking about Tachanka’s sleeping attire. How are things there?”

“Nothing’s out of ordinary. It doesn’t mean everything is peaceful, but you already know it.”

Doc snorts. "I do. Has anyone maimed anyone?"

"No, but there was a close call."

"Let me guess. Someone provoked Caveira again."

"Smoke made a bet with Mozzie and dared him to switch her face paint with mayonnaise," he confirms, and Doc briefly wonders if Montagne can somehow sense how scandalized his facial expression is because he sounds like he's enjoying being the one who's telling him this, behind his serious tone. "She wanted to make a necklace out of his fingers. Both of theirs, actually."

"But she didn't?"

"Gridlock intervened."

Doc fights back a desire to pinch his nose dramatically but the situation definitely calls for it.

"God, why do I work with those idiots. Can't we get Six officially ban Smoke from making bets?"

"Not if Thatcher has any say in it. He'd prefer him being idiotic off the missions rather than on them."

Doc sighs because he has to agree. Also, his hand has started to get numb and he is fiercely lamenting his past decision not to bring any gloves. He switches the hand holding the phone to stick it into the pocket of his coat, doubting it would be of much help.

“How about you, Gilles? Is everything alright? You said you wanted to talk with me.”

“Yes, and I was quite literal about it,” replies Montagne, with a hint of smile in his voice. “Everything is fine, I just needed this. Listening to you talk. The base isn’t same without you.”

His words hold more sincerity than Doc is ready to face at this obscene hour, and it is just so him Doc has to take a deep breath to ensure that he’s getting enough air; he feels light-headed, from being so fond of him, from missing him really, although as a medical expert he should know it’s an imaginary symptom. The tips of his ears go from frozen to warm with enough speed to break a thermometer, the cold long forgotten.

“I’ll be back in three days, sooner if I can help it. And I promise, if anyone tries to stop me or slow me down, I’ll show them why they shouldn’t mess with a guy holding a scalpel,” he tells him gravely, like he means it, because of fucking course he means it. Montagne chuckles.

“Calm down, Gustave. I can survive a day or two more if I have to, but you rushing things won’t help.” And Doc has to wonder how he does it, sounding like he’s smiling warmly and dead serious at the same time. “Don’t worry about me, or the others, because I won’t let anything bad to happen. Just focus on finishing your job and come back home safe.”

Home, he says, so naturally, and who is he to disagree when it feels like his heart has never left the place, like it’s the only place he’ll ever dream of returning? So for once he stops fantasizing about sunny beaches with breathtaking views in favor of that bleak, miserable piece of land with the love of his life waiting for him, and just nods, translates the motion into a soft okay when he realizes Montagne can’t see it, and Montagne hums once, satisfied.

.

.

[iamthegaysmurf]

SMURF!!! Hi :) Prompt: “I’m seriously not that drunk.”

Both of these prompts were pretty similar, so I worked them into the same story together.

So, uh…  This one sort of got away from me.  It’s…  a lot longer than these little prompt fills are supposed to be.  >.>

Also, I know this probably isn’t what @haught0pocket and anon might have originally had in mind when they gave me these prompts, but I hope it’s still okay…  : /  

And, uh…  there might accidentally be some Feelings™ involved.  #whoops

((Set roughly a month after the events of 3x03, but before the beginning of 3x04.))

———-

Dolls has been gone for almost a month.  Alice has been gone for nearly six.  They haven’t seen hide nor hair of Bulshar since that day up on the cliff.  Everyone is on edge, and they’re all dealing with it in their own ways.

Some of them more predictably than others.

“Can you get that for me, Nic?” Waverly mumbles when her phone rings, not even looking up from the dusty tome she’s been squinting at for the past three hours.

“Sure, baby.”  Nicole rubs at the back of her neck as she pushes away from the table where she’s finishing up the day’s reports, rolling it until it cracks.  “Waverly’s phone,” she answers, unable to keep the weariness out of her voice.

“…Officer Haught?”  Doc sounds confused on the other end of the line.  “I was not expecting to speak with you this evening.”

“I’m here with Waverly, Doc,” Nicole says, slightly amused at how the new technology still trips him up sometimes.  “Is everything okay?” she asks, concern slipping back into her voice.

“Ahhh…  Well… I believe that might depend on your definition of ‘okay’.”

“What did she do now?”  Nicole groans and pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to fight off the migraine that’s been building all day.

“I am afraid to say that it might be time for Miss Waverly to come and collect her sister.”

Nicole glances over at Waverly, who’s still hunched over the grimoire, scribbling furiously in her notebook every few seconds.  Looks like she just drew the short straw for the babysitting tonight.

“Gimme ten minutes, Doc.”

“Officer Haught?”  Doc pauses, and Nicole can hear shouting in the background.  “I think it would be best if you made that five.”

Nicole ends the call and slumps back against the table.  It’s been a long fucking day and this is definitely not what she had in mind for tonight, but after watching Waverly for another minute, it’s pretty clear they won’t be heading home any time soon anyway, so she guesses a rowdy Wynonna it is.

“Hey, baby,” she says quietly, not wanting to startle Waverly.  She leans forward and presses a kiss to her temple, waiting for any indication that Waverly has heard her.  After rubbing a few soothing circles along her back, Waverly finally turns, fully focusing on Nicole for the first time in over an hour.

“Hey,” she says, almost like she forgot Nicole was even there.  Her eyes crinkle up around the edges as she smiles and leans into another kiss.  “What did I miss?” she asks, rubbing at her tired eyes.

“That was Doc on the phone,” Nicole says, rolling her eyes.  “Looks like I’ve gotta go and pour your sister into my backseat before she ends up in my holding cell again.”

“Oh…”  She glances back at the book and her notes, chewing on the end of her pencil for a moment.  “I guess I can work on this again later…”

“No, baby.  Don’t worry about it,” Nicole says, rubbing her back again.  “You keep doing…  whatever it is you’re doing.  I’ve got this.”

“Are you sure?” Waverly asks, plainly feeling guilty that Nicole is shouldering the burden of Wynonna for her.

“Of course,” Nicole answers simply.  “We all have our parts to play in this thing together, and this is something I can do.”  She leans forward and kisses Waverly’s forehead.  “Maybe I can stop by Mama Lou’s on my way back and pick us up something for Dark Lunch.  How does that sound?”

Waverly giggles at their nickname for middle-of-the-night meals when they can’t afford to sleep, but her eyes go wide when her stomach growls loudly enough to echo in the empty office.

“Uhh… yeah.  I guess that sounds pretty good,” she admits sheepishly.

“Done.”  Nicole grins and steals a proper kiss this time, then gathers up her jacket and gloves and secures the door behind her, locking Waverly safely in and the rest of the world out.

There’s no snow at the moment, but a thick layer of frost covers the ground, normally undisturbed at an hour like this, and it crunches loudly under Nicole’s boots as she makes her way across to her cruiser.  She knows that this is hitting Wynonna the hardest out of any of them, but watching her sink back into the whiskey-soaked recklessness from before, after having been sober for so long, makes the piece of her heart that’s now permanently reserved for her reluctant new sister ache like someone’s squeezing it just a little too tightly.

She wishes there was something more she could do.  But if routinely picking her up from the various local bars and making sure she gets home safe is what she needs right now, then that’s what Nicole will do.  Anything to prove that she’s here for her, and that she’s not going anywhere.

The commotion is already spilling out into the parking lot when Nicole pulls up outside Shorty’s.  Luckily, the regulars don’t seem to be in the mood for much trouble tonight, and the majority of them scatter as soon as she steps out of the cruiser and they catch sight of her uniform.  She shakes her head and rolls her eyes as she heads for the door.  In a small town like this, some things will never change.

“Ossifer Haughtie!” Wynonna slurs from atop one of the tables in the corner the second Nicole sets foot inside the saloon.  “Getchyer Haughtpants up here an’ help me show ‘em how it’s done!”

Oh, boy.  So it’s gonna be like that tonight.

Nicole glances over at Doc, who raises an eyebrow and shrugs a shoulder and tips his hat like she’s your problem now.  Nicole massages her temples against the inbound migraine, but nods at him and starts shuffling toward Wynonna’s makeshift stage.

“Time to go, Wynonna,” she says calmly, holding out a hand to help Wynonna down off the table.  Wynonna bats it away and continues to dance with her whiskey bottle in hand.  She keeps going until she stumbles, nearly toppling off the table altogether if Nicole hadn’t been there to catch her.

“I might be slightly drunk…” she admits with a snort as Nicole takes the whiskey bottle from her hand and throws Wynonna’s arm around her own shoulders so she can hold Wynonna up.  Her other arm goes around Wynonna’s waist, trying to keep her on her feet.

“Understatement of the year,” Nicole mumbles as she begins half-dragging Wynonna toward the door.

“It’s gettin’ Haught in herre…  so take off all your clothes!” Wynonna starts singing at the top of her lungs, drawing forth a round of cheers from the patrons still remaining in the bar.

Nicole looks back over her shoulder and nods at Doc as she pulls Wynonna out into the street.  The rabble from earlier has completely cleared out, and they have the entire sidewalk to themselves now.

“I am gettin’ so Haught,” Wynonna continues singing, her voice ringing out through the empty streets.  “I wanna take my clothes off!”  She starts trying to shed her leather jacket.

“If you do that,” Nicole interrupts, grabbing the jacket and sliding it back up over Wynonna’s shoulders, “you’re just going to give yourself pneumonia.”

“So what?” Wynonna mutters darkly, pulling free from Nicole’s grasp.  “It already hurts to breathe.”

That hits Nicole like a knife to the ribs, and Wynonna stomps away a few paces into the alley next to Shorty’s, suddenly much more steady on her feet.  She takes out her frustration on the nearby dumpster and then leans back against the cold bricks that line the side of the building.

“Come on, Wynonna,” Nicole says, her brow furrowed as she follows after her.  “You’re drunk.  Let’s get you out of here.”

“I’m not drunk!” Wynonna bites back, punching the dumpster again, and Nicole is surprised to see a slight dent left behind in the metal from the impact.

“Wynonna…” Nicole admonishes.  “You smell like a distillery.”

“I’m not saying I didn’t have a few drinks, Officer Fun Police.”  She lays the sarcasm on thicker than usual, but Nicole notes that the slur is completely gone from her speech.  “But most of that,” she gestures at herself, “is from Cecil Wright spilling a bottle of Varmint all over me when I was trying to get to the jukebox.”

Nicole folds her arms, raising a skeptical eyebrow.  To her credit, Wynonna doesn’t flinch under the inspection.

“I’m seriously not that drunk, Nicole,” she says, her tone serious as she straightens up.

The use of her first name rather than another Haught pun drops some of the tension out of Nicole’s stance.  She thinks Wynonna might be telling the truth.  Which makes this whole thing even more confusing.

“Then…  then why?” she asks, waving her hand and gesturing from Wynonna to the bar and back.  “Why the big show?”

Wynonna’s shoulders drop and she slumps back against the bricks.  She’s silent for a moment, but then she looks back up at Nicole, and Nicole can see the cracks spreading across Wynonna’s carefully constructed façade.

“Sometimes it’s just easier that way,” Wynonna shrugs.  “If people think I’m shitfaced, then they don’t try to talk to me about…  about…”

She can visibly see the lump forming in Wynonna’s throat.  Wynonna wipes hastily at her eyes and turns away, picking at the cut on the back of her knuckles from when she punched the dumpster a minute ago.

Nicole reaches out and takes Wynonna’s hand in her own.  Wynonna starts to jerk away, but Nicole doesn’t let her.  She turns her hand over and examines the cut and the bruise that’s quickly forming around it.  Reaching into one of the cargo pockets of her uniform pants, Nicole pulls out an antiseptic wipe and some gauze and begins cleaning up the laceration.

Wynonna hisses at the sting, but she doesn’t pull away, and together they stand there in silence, alone in the alley while Nicole shows off her first-aid skills.  It’s the way their friendship has always been.  A little unorthodox, but it works for them, and Nicole would never give up this strange bond they share.

“I’m still giving you a ride home,” Nicole finally says when she finishes, tossing the used gauze in the dumpster.  “I believe you,” she adds quickly, before Wynonna can argue again.  “But you still don’t need to be driving tonight.  Especially on your bike.”

“I don’t want to go home,” Wynonna protests.

“Wynonna…” Nicole sighs.  “You can’t go back in there.”

“I didn’t say that,” Wynonna snaps.  It comes out a bit sharper than perhaps shemeant for it to.  “I just…”  She kicks an empty beer bottle and they both watch as it skitters down the alleyway before shattering against the far wall.  “I just don’t want to go home.”

“Did something happen, Wynonna?” Nicole frowns, wondering if she needs to gather up the crew for some demon ass-kicking.

“No…” Wynonna mutters, looking anywhere but at Nicole.

“Hey.”  She reaches out and places a hand on Wynonna’s shoulder.  “Talk to me, Earp,” she adds softly, with a gentle squeeze.

“The ghosts,” is all Wynonna says.  

It’s non-sequitur, to say the least, but it’s the thread that Wynonna has chosen to pick up, and Nicole is patient enough to wait and see where it will lead them.

“Sometimes they’re louder than the voices in my own head.”  She looks down at her boots awkwardly.  “Sometimes even the whiskey can’t drown them out.   Daddy and Willa.  Curtis and Shorty.  Fish.  …Dolls.”  She nearly chokes on a sob, and Nicole feels the pieces of her heart shattering, the shards slicing into her lungs and stealing her breath.  “Alice.”

“Oh, Wynonna…”  Nicole can’t help but pull Wynonna into a hug, and to her surprise, Wynonna doesn’t fight it.  Instead she collapses into her arms, here in this dirty alley with no one else around to see her.  “Alice isn’t…  She’s safe, Wynonna.”

“She isn’t dead, Nicole.  But she’s gone.  And it’s all my fault.  Just like the rest of them.”

Nicole doesn’t know what to say, so she just stands there, holding Wynonna in her moment of vulnerability, until the sobs die out into sniffles and she suddenly pulls away like she’s just been burnt.

“Haught, I swear to god if you—”

“I know nothing,” Nicole cuts her off, holding up her hands in mock surrender.  Wynonna narrows her eyes, but Nicole doesn’t shrink away from the scrutiny.  “You can trust me,” she says, pouring every ounce of earnesty she has into the simple statement.  She’s surprised when Wynonna nods once in her direction.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”  That was not the response she was expecting.

“Okay.”

“So, uh…”  Nicole clears her throat as they both start pretending like none of that ever happened.  “Why don’t you stay with us at my place tonight?  The guest bedroom is already made up.  You’re welcome to it.”

She’s half expecting an argument, but Wynonna seems to mull it over for a few seconds and then shrugs.

“Probably wouldn’t hurt to have someone keep an eye on you two.”  She pats Peacemaker where it’s nestled against her hip and dares Nicole to tease her about any of this.

Nicole snorts, but slings an arm around Wynonna’s shoulder anyway.

“Sure, Earp.  Whatever you say.”

They head back to the cruiser, the banter flowing freely between them now, and Nicole is rather relieved that she can open the front passenger-side door for Wynonna rather than having to wrestle her into the back seat.

“Oh.  I, uh…  I promised Waverly some Dark Lunch from Mama Lou’s before I left to come and get you,” she says as she climbs into the driver’s seat.  “That alright with you?”

“Shit, Haughtshot.  I could murder a stack of pancakes right now.”

[kclenhartnovels]

Episode Three

[One] [Two]

“Wait!”

DeWitt held up their hands in a T shape, and took a few steps forward. Frosticle startled, and the ice obediently cuddled against her palm instead. “Wait, please. Ms. Jackson, can you kindly explain to me your evil twin sister?”

Kate tucked the blanket around her shoulders, crossing her legs comfortably. Flashback panels littered behind her while she spoke, and Frosticle waited patiently for the explanation to finish. “When we were babies, my mother knew that there was something wrong with Vanessa, but she could never tell what it was. My parents raised us until we were nine, and then there was a terrible accident, and they were both killed.” The flashback panels politely showed a young Vanessa freezing the steering wheel, sending a car and the entire family into oncoming headlights. “My grandparents adopted and raised me, but they knew that Vanessa was evil. So she went to live with the Villa family.”

“They loved me for who I really am,” Frosticle snarled, curling her fist and sending cracks of frost across the floor. “Evil.”

DeWitt scrubbed at their face for a moment. “Ms. Villa, I have reason to believe that you are in great danger as well.”

“Great danger?” she repeated, and laughed. “Darling, I am the danger. And I’m here to kill my sister.”

“Why?” DeWitt asked, already digging out a business card.

The question seemed to throw her for a moment, and she looked between Kate and DeWitt. It snowed thoughtfully. “Because Power Surge loves her, and I must destroy everything that he loves.” She clenched her fist. A wind swirled the snow, waving her hair dramatically.

“Why didn’t you kill your sister when you killed your parents?” DeWitt pressed. “You had the opportunity then. Why wait all these years until she happened to fall in love with your enemy?”

“I love my sister,” Frosticle snarled. “But I hate men. She fell in love with a man, and the worst kind of man! She betrayed me!”

DeWitt held out the business card between two fingers. “Luckily for you, I am not a man. Let me help you, too.”

The wind snatched the card out of their hand, and obediently wafted it into Frosticle’s. She inspected it with a sneer. “Secondary Character Protection Agency. I am not secondary.”

“You wouldn’t be, if this was your story. But listen to your dialogue, Ms. Villa. You’re an antagonist, and one that the writers will gleefully kill. But not until they make you kill your sister, who you love.” DeWitt spread their hands pleadingly. Their coat fluttered in the same wind that buffeted Frosticle’s hair. Somehow, it didn’t touch DeWitt’s hat. “Ms. Villa, you are the perfect villain for them to kill. You are beautiful, strong, black, and a lesbian. There is no way you’re getting out of this story alive without my help.”

Kate stood at last, holding the blanket around her shoulders like a cape. Snow kissed her hair. Her lips were too blue. “Nessa, please.”

Frosticle tucked the card into her cleavage. “There is one other way I can get out of this story alive. I just have to kill Power Surge.” The wind whirled, tossing snow and scattered shards around the room, and then Frosticle disappeared back out the broken window.

DeWitt rushed to the window, and swore quietly.

“We’re eight stories up,” Kate protested, not daring to move for all the broken glass. “Where did she go? Ice powers wouldn’t allow her to fly.”

“Villain physics,” DeWitt explained. “It allows for dramatic entrances and exits, regardless of powers. She’ll be fine.” They turned enough to offer Kate an exhausted smile. “Superheroes have their own set of physics, too. It’s why they can always stick the landing.”

“Trent never complains that his knees hurt,” Kate agreed with a frown. “But I have weak ankles. I’m always falling into his arms.”

“Of course you are.” DeWitt rubbed at their face for a moment, then took off their hat and raked fingers through their hair. They wanted nothing more than a shower and a half dozen shots of whiskey, but there was no time for that, and they doubted the writers were ready for a drunken interlude. Not when the stakes had just risen. Maybe another dozen chapters, and there would be a comedic break, but they weren’t counting on it. “I doubt we’ll be able to catch up to Frosticle right now--we need to find another way to get to her to help.”

“Do you think she’ll let us help?”

“No, but maybe we can stop her from killing Trent.” They looked around the apartment, still strewn with shards of glass and scattered with snow.

“Do we need to clean up?” Kate asked with a frown. “Your windows are missing.”

“I’m not worried about it,” they said with a flippant motion, and put their hat back on. “This mess is too much for the artist to draw over and over. It will be cleaned up on its own by the time we get back.”

“Get back from where?”

“I think it’s time we have a talk with that barista again. Get some clothes on, Miss Jackson.”

“Where do you expect to find him? It’s the middle of the night,” Kate pointed out, pulling a shirt on anyway. The front of it read Drop Dead Gorgeous. DeWitt didn’t like the sadistic foreshadowing.

DeWitt gestured towards the broken windows. Dawn began to peek over the horizon, glimmering off the high rises around them, and sending light across Kate’s cheekbones. “Story progression is more important than the continuity of time. You’ll get used to it eventually.”

She tugged on a pair of jeans that hugged her thighs too closely. “But I thought we were trying to intentionally break the narrative. How can we do that if even time is broken?”

They offered Kate an overcoat. “There are some things we will never have control over, Miss Jackson. This world is written and drawn for viewers that we will never see. In order to have our own agency, we have to find a way to move in the peripherals of their vision. You were never aware of the way time moved before. Now that you know, you can use it to your advantage. Which is why we’re going to get coffee.”

Kate slid into the coat. It was too big on her, and for once covered her skin without immediately sticking to her curves. DeWitt counted it as a small victory. “Do you think my cream will mix this time?” she asked hopefully.

DeWitt doubted it, but offered her a noncommittal shrug instead. Just as before, Sugar Honey Ice & Tea had a nominal line, just long enough for Kate to lean up on her toes and peer over the heads of strangers. She wasn’t wearing heels for a change, and DeWitt wished they had been keeping a notepad just to tally the minor changes, before they became part of the conscious rendering.

“You gave Joe Steve your business card, right?” Kate asked with a frown. “Did he ever go by your office?”

They shrugged helplessly again. “I don’t know; the plot curved away when Frosticle appeared, and I think the writer forgot about the scene. I guess we’ll find out when we talk to him if he remembers me or not.”

She rubbed at her nose. “Agent DeWitt, this is very complicated. How can everyone just forget or remember things that may or may not have ever happened? How am I supposed to know what’s real and what’s--?”

“What’s been redacted, edited, or canonly changed?” They smiled, and put an arm around Kate’s shoulders. A saxophone solo blared from the overhead speakers. DeWitt chose to ignore it. “I’ll get you signed up to receive THE CANON CHRONICLE. It will help you keep track of any changes.”

“Good morning, what do you want?” Demeter greeted from behind the counter. A brightly-colored pin promised SERVICE WITH A SMILE!, but her pierced lips refused to even make the attempt.

DeWitt pulled a folded wallet out of their coat, flashing it open to reveal a badge. “I need to talk with your barista for a few moments, please.”

“And two coffees,” Kate added brightly.

“Please,” DeWitt agreed, handing over cash as well, leaving some of it in the tip jar.

Demeter barely blinked. “That’s not a city police badge, not FBI or CIA, not even the secret government agency’s.”

“How would you know what the secret government agency’s badge looks like?”

“Duh. Everyone knows it. What good would a secret agency be without marketing?” She handed them a receipt with a look of faint scathing. “So what is that badge?”

“SCPA, ma’am. I gave him my business card yesterday.”

Demeter glanced down to the barista, who was sporting a black eye from his last fight with Power Surge, but seemed otherwise unscathed. “Yo, Frappachino, take your fifteen, huh?”

Kate sat at a table at the far end of the cafe, and stirred her coffee with more force than necessary, but the cream still did no more than make an artistic whorl in the center. The overcoat slipped off her shoulders to pool around her elbows.

“So,” DeWitt began, steepling their fingers as the barista joined them at the table. “Do you prefer Joe or Steve?”

“I prefer Dr. Thomson,” he corrected, his shoulders nearly double the width of the chair he leaned back against. “I have two doctorates and four masters’ degrees.”

Kate’s eyes widened, and small shock scribbles appeared around her mouth. “What are you doing working at a cafe, then?”

His massive shoulders shrugged. “I’m the right size for a henchman, so it’s how I got cast. There was already an oversized doctor villain in town, and Doc Tom doesn’t sound as intimidating.”

DeWitt sighed through their nose. “And let me guess, your doctorates aren’t medical, so there was no other way for you to be cast?”

“No, they’re in philosophy and literature, specializing in romanticism poetry.” He adopted a wistful expression. “Byronic poetry in particular just speaks to me.”

Kate’s smile was wistful. “Trent gets confused when a word has more than three syllables.”

“So,” DeWitt redirected, taking a sip of their coffee at last, “you work for Frosticle?”

“Yes, I am a criminal assistant.”

“Don’t you mean accomplice?” Kate asked.

Dr. Tom shook his head. “If anything, it’s more like criminal intern. I’m not getting paid, which is why I work here. That, and it allows me to spy on superheroes for her.”

“I thought Frosticle hated men. Why do you work for her?” DeWitt already had another business card in hand.

“I have no idea,” he admitted. “I think it’s an inconsistent writer.”

“We did talk yesterday,” DeWitt decided.

“I was in your office for three hours. Your Chief handed me a stack of inspirational cards on my way out.”

“Well, that makes this easier.” DeWitt tilted their hat, and leaned forward conspiratorially. “We need to stop your boss before she tries to kill Power Surge. We need your help to be able to get into her lair and talk with her.”

“Talk to her?” Dr. Tom repeated. “You’ll never get past Lesbeam. She kills anyone that even gets close to the warehouse. And she doesn’t accept solicitors, either, so I don’t think your business cards will help.”

“What warehouse?” DeWitt pressed. “Just tell us where we need to go, and we’ll figure it out from there.”

“We?” Kate repeated. Even halfway empty, her coffee and cream remained a perfect swirl. “I get to go with you? Not just stay behind and stare wistfully out the window in my underwear?”

“Well, of course. We’re partners, Miss Jackson. I need you with me.”

Dr. Tom scribbled an address on a piece of paper. Based on his handwriting, DeWitt had no doubt that he had multiple doctorates; it was barely legible. “I have to get back to work,” he said, standing and blocking out the overhead lights for a moment with his girth. “Good luck.”

Demeter leaned against the counter to call over to them. “Yo, Blended Machiatto, your break’s over.”

“Before we go to the warehouse,” DeWitt whispered, tucking the slip of paper into their coat. “I think we need to swing by the office, Miss Jackson, and help you look the part.”

“Look the part of what?”

Kate didn’t remember walking from the coffee shop to the office; she didn’t remember seeing a pair of disappointed teenagers walking out of the door when they realized there were no puppies up for adoption; she didn’t remember Chief Special Agent greeting them with his booming voice, or handing her a stack of paperwork to fill out; she didn’t remember looking through a closet full of clothing, or anything else that happened over the next few hours. None of it mattered to the viewer, and none of it was as impressive as cutting right to her walking through the Agency’s door.

Clad in a fitted black suit, Kate tipped down the brim of her hat, and gave DeWitt a bright smile. “Agent DeWitt, I am ready for my first assignment.”

“Well then, Agent Jackson. Let’s get to work.”

As always, patrons get first chance to read plus other goodies, and my ko-fi tip jar is always open. Also available to read on Wattpad!

Tag list below. Let me know if you want to be added or removed!

@gingerly-writing @rrrawrf-writes @thewinedarksea @writerofwritings @hechiceria @knightedwriter @kaypier @panhasablog @writevevo @janicelikeswriting @the-jennster

@awakeingdreamer @starspangledscarf @dino-and-coffee @thedreamsofthesky @suckerforcryptids @mcubed35 @seadrianwrites @reality-s @emb3rash @beckaboi

@spontaneoustornadoes @fandom-child-4life @power-in-plain-sight @timetravelingpigeon @eblisfiction @mercy-is-alive @anayaleelee@fryingpanbouquet @erinoddly @indigobadger @westywrites @i-am-probably-procrastinating @princessbutterknife @soupopoireau @avi-burton-writing @purpleshadows1989

[magiciaa]

Welcome to Magicia chapter 11: oh shit, Magicia is actually relevant now?

((I should probably mention that not all of the characters will actually appear in the story, I can already barely keep track of everyone as is))

“Fine, if that’s what it takes” Bronze agreed as Sock picked up Vanessa by the back of her jacket “restore”

Sock’s antennae popped back into existence on the top of her head, and the rest of the magical girls’ animal features returned as well

Meanwhile, Rapid Sprinkles was going for a walk, fidgeting with Nightmare’s transformation device shards in her pocket “why did you have to protect me, Lynn?” Sprinkles spoke to nobody in particular as she wandered into an empty and run-down subway station. “Maybe I’ll find something around here that will help, if not, I can just jump in front of a train or something”

Sprinkles walked down the tracks until coming across a beautiful underground city she didn’t even know existed. Purple lights decorated the many small shops lined up in rows as monsters walked between them, from large werewolves to tiny fairies, seemingly without a care.

“What is this place?” Sprinkles asked a young gryphon walking past “I’ve never heard of a monster city underneath the town”

“You’re in Magicia” the gryphon replied “and that’s strange, I thought all monsters knew about this place”

“Thanks” Sprinkles replied, walking away towards the shops. She stopped in front of a candy store with an old-looking sphinx running it.

“Hello, child” the sphinx said “something seems to be troubling you, why don’t you tell me over some tea”

“I don’t have any money, I’m sorry” Sprinkles apologized

“No need, child” the sphinx replied “monsters help each other out, you know”

“But I’m not a monster” Sprinkles corrected “just a useless magical girl”

“A magical girl, huh?” the sphinx replied “haven’t seen one of them down here in a long time”

“Well, most magical girls nowadays are cold-blooded murderers” Sprinkles lamented “including me”

“Did you get your friend caught by monster hunters?” the sphinx asked “I did that a fair few times in my youth”

“No, my girlfriend was killed by this piece of shit magical girl named Kitten, she was only trying to protect me” Sprinkles began crying “and it’s all my fault”

“There there, it wasn’t your fault” the sphinx pat Sprinkles on the head “what is this made of? Frosting?”

“It’s slime, don’t eat it, it’s poisonous” Sprinkles answered

“Interesting, it smells very sweet” the sphinx sniffed her paw “this could make a good candy if I could figure out how to remove the poison”

“Wait, I have an idea, how about making a box of magical girl blood candies” Sprinkles grinned “I need some serious revenge on someone, and this would be perfect”

“You aren’t planning to poison them, are you?” the sphinx asked

“Nah, they’re immune to the poison in magical girl blood, it just tastes absolutely horrible” Sprinkles answered “and I want to see the looks on their faces”

“Alright, do you mind collecting the blood for me?” the sphinx replied “if I have extras, I might have a new product for the shop”

“Like those jelly beans with the weird flavors mixed with normal ones that the humans have?” Sprinkles asked “and no problem, I can do that

“That’s a good idea” the sphinx replied “I almost forgot to introduce myself, I am Mina”

“Rapid Sprinkles” Sprinkles replied “but Alice is fine too”

“Before you go, put the blood in these” Mina handed Sprinkles a basket full of small glass jars

“Thanks” Sprinkles grabbed the basket and dashed off with inhuman speed

Sprinkles ran into the city not far from town, where she knew a lot of powerful magical girls lived. It was a large city, but super speed really comes in handy at times like this.

“Rapid Sprinkles, it’s unusual to see you without Nightmare, heard she died or something” a mad scientist looking magical girl said

“Yeah, she did…” Sprinkles sighed “but anyway, I’m here to collect some magical girl blood”

“Oh, what for?” the magical girl asked “trying to poison someone?”

“A little revenge on MG-348, that’s all” Sprinkles answered

“Hell yeah” the magical girl replied, summoning a small spear and stabbing her hand with it as Sprinkles held a jar underneath to catch the yellow-green blood

Sprinkles continued running around the city, collecting magical girl blood in the jars, organized by color, until her transformation device started ringing.

“Hello?” Sprinkles took the heart-shaped compact out of her belt and opened it to see a hologram image of Sock

“I don’t have a lot of time, but the boss is planning something, something big, and I don’t like the sound of it” Sock explained “you’ve gotta stop it, and fast, or we’re all dead, meet me at Alistair’s circus tent at midnight, I’ll explain everything there- gotta go, Sapphire found me-” The transmission cut off

“What was that about?” Sprinkles asked, going back to collecting magical girl blood

Sock leaned against a tree in the park, waiting for the idiot squad to arrive, the only light coming from her eyes and the tips of her antennae.

“Yo, I thought you were on Bronze’s side, what’s up with you still helping us?” Ace asked

“I thought it would be a good idea to have a spy” Sock answered “and it turns out I was right”

“What’s up? I brought candy!” Sprinkles walked up holding a box of magical girl blood candies

“You seem happy” Sock replied “can I have one?”

“Sure” Sprinkles grinned smugly and tossed Sock a round red candy “but this is meant as a little surprise for Bronze”

Sock popped the candy in her mouth, and her face immediately turned green “bleh, it’s spicy, what’s in this thing?”

“Magical girl blood” Sprinkles replied “a really nice sphinx lady in Magicia made them for me”

“These would be perfect to give to you-know-who” Doc added “seeing their faces would be priceless”

“That was the plan” Sprinkles replied

“Did someone say blood candies?” Alistair poked his head out of a circus tent

“You can have one, but you might regret it” Sprinkles tossed Alistair a green candy and Alistair popped it in his mouth immediately

“Oh god, why is it so sour?” Alistair spat out what was left of the candy into a nearby trash can

“It’s magical girl blood” Sprinkles laughed

“How did you even get enough blood to make this many?” Doc asked

“The city. Most of the magical girls willingly gave it when I said it was for revenge on MG-348” Sprinkles answered “seems like they hate them too”

“So what was the big thing that you called everyone here for?” PJ asked Sock

“Oh, yeah, that.” Sock answered “Bronze is trying to figure out how to upgrade transformation devices, and if she does, she’ll be invincible”

“That won’t work” Sora added “they’ll probably just end up as weird half Soul Beast things”

“A couple of the experiments have been at least semi-corrupted from it,” Sock replied “but they’re getting close, they’ve figured out how to fuse animal features and elements already”

“That’s not good” Sora replied “really not good”

“You can say that again” Doc added “but I’ve got an idea, and this time it’ll work”

[madamescarlette]

OMG I love your poetry! I'm so impressed! I really want to learn to write poetry myself, but I don't know where to begin. Any tips?

Hi sweet anonymous friend!!! 💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

So just to start, I will say this: in my experience, the best way to write poetry is just- to write it. I know that's the horrible advice that everyone gives, but for my life at least, poetry is one of the few things I am reliably able to do at pretty much any time. That being said, I definitely understand the feeling of having all of those words bottled up in you, without necessarily having the skill to sit down and write them out, so here is a few things that helped me in my own personal writing life:

In all honesty, writing poetry has as much to do with what you read and consume as your own creativity. One of the best ways of finding your own voice/style is figuring out your own taste- so this part is as open-ended as you want it to be. I think for anyone's happiness, having as many different poets' voices in your life that you can rely upon is essential for your own happiness. Getting an ear for different styles and viewpoints is something you can draw upon if you're struggling to stand upon your own legs- so read plenty! I'm sure you know plenty of these, but- the world is your erster. You can always follow @ihaveonlymydreams for some good daily poems every now and then, but some of my favorites are dear Rob Frost, Rainer Maria Rilke (for the good angst), Emily Dickinson, and even Edward Lear (lol)(it's that whimsy).

Keeping a record of song lyrics that you like is weirdly helpful in my own life. There's plenty of times that I can hear/read something for the first time and get slapped around the face with a couplet. I've heard that sometimes beginning songwriters use chord progressions from familiar songs and write their own lyrics to that so as to feel comfortable when starting out- so in a way, think of it like that. If there's a particular verse or poem that you admire, keep it in mind, and try to rewrite it as YOU would write it. It's a little like a safety trampoline- you get the practice of writing, without some of the stress of making It Sound Just Like You Can See It In Your Head.

Save as much as you can, especially when you're starting out. When I was getting my sea legs as a poem-writer, I had one gigantic Google doc where I would write everything poetry-ish that came to mind. It might feel embarrassing to save what you feel is non-recyclable traSH right now, but the more and more you write, the more you remember what you wrote like two months ago, and suddenly you need to stick that line in here. You would be surprised how much of your writing life is about writing completely different thoughts down at different times, and then later on stitching them together.

Somewhat in that same vein- if you can, get a physical notebook that you can write in. I don't know what it is, but sometimes you have to think in ink.

Don't be afraid to write in non-rhyming form. I know we like to cringe a little at the over-saturation in the poetry world with thingsthat arespaced needlessly like thisbut it IS actually a great way to get a feel for a thought you can't necessarily do if you're trying to make it "sound good". Sometimes it's not really about how something is technically conveyed, but more about the particular emotion is conveys. When you don't have the technical skill, or even if you do, the freedom of writing in free-verse is personally VERY satisfying, and another fun way of having a safety trampoline.

This might sound a bit silly but- one of the hallmarks of my style that I picked up along the way is using rhyming lines that don't necessarily rhyme; they just match the amount of syllables or sound, which can be helpful if you're like me and sometimes you just don't....want to straight up abab rhyme it out (the example I always think of is Angelica's line in Hamilton: I'm the oldest and the wittiest/and the gossip in New York City is/insidious)

Sometimes, writing something based around a single word can be incredibly enlightening- that's honestly what I've been doing of late in my personal work.

also, mix up your rhyming scheme as often as possible- sometimes I like to start settling into patterns with mine, but in my experience becoming formulaic with my poetry often brings me to a block very quickly. (How do people write entire books in verse? I'm so envious!)

best of luck, my dear. writing poetry is great company for oneself, if you can do enough of it that it feels comfortable, and I'm so happy if you're about to embark on your own journey with it. :))))

[chants-de-lune]

Warmth

~a 2.4k Thunderblink fic 

Clarice hated the cold.  Cold meant she was huddled in an underpass, shivering in a rain-soaked hoodie and too weak to portal anywhere else.  

Cold was the opposite of warmth, of the heat steaming from Aunt Denise’s oven whenever Clarice peeked at the cookies baking. 

She was a ‘south of the Mason-Dixon Line’ kind of gal. Her powers thrived on heat, on high entropy.  

But here? 

Here was the coldest place she had ever been. 

Locked in another goddamn Sentinel Services cell. 

Clarice yanked at the manacles holding her arms spread-eagled. Nothing gave, and the cold metal bit into her skin. 

Adamantium. Fan-fucking-tastic. 

She curled her fingers but no sparks flew from the tips, not with the specialized clamps on her knuckles.  

Clarice had lost track of the hours. Her feet ached from standing up for so long.  A shiver ran down her spine, goosebumps spiking on her shoulders.  The space was barely larger than a coatroom, but the wall at her back was frigid. She looked at the gauge in the closest corner. 

250 kelvins and dropping. 

She gulped as her eyes darted to the absolute zero at the bottom of the meter.

This room was a torture chamber.  They were going to freeze her to death.  

Have scientists been able to hit absolute zero yet? 

She desperately tried to pull memories from the one science class she remembered.  

220 kelvins.

Clarice’s breath exhaled in clouds. 

Shit.  This is going past a snow-day-in-Wisconsin kind of cold. 

She shivered violently, cursing the sneering SS agent who had only hours ago stripped her of all but a sports bra and leggings.  She tried to flex her fingers again, but the bands were bruising around her knuckles.  

I swear every inch of this tiny hellhole was made for me personally.   

This was how they were going to break her, by sapping her of the heat she needed to thrive.  

No, no I can’t give them the Underground, he’s lost too much already... 

Frost was coating the pipes, cold air streaming in from several vents. 

200 kelvins 

Clarice shut her eyes.  She would be dead long before that meter neared zero. Her powers did not include generating her own heat.  She would die with the secrets safe in her head and heart.  

The numb feeling in her toes spread through her arches, making her raw, bluish feet feel like lead blocks.   

It’s alright, I’ll just fall asleep.  There’s a thousand worse ways to die. 

Her teeth had stopped chattering ages ago, her jaw felt frozen shut. Her chapped lips would have stung if she had any feeling left. 

I hope they find someone to replace me.  A teleporter, maybe. 

185 kelvins 

They’ll be okay.  They’re strong.  

180 kelvins 

He’ll be alright, I know he will.  He’s the strongest of them all. 

170 kelvins 

160

150

Clarice could not keep her eyes open if she tried.  She felt her consciousness slipping deeper towards a darkness. Her weary shoulders hung loosely in the shackles. 

130

120....

I’m going to miss so many things... Lorna’s sass, Marcos’s smile, Zingo’s bark... John’s eyes... 

Vaguely she heard a loud thud, as if the door had been kicked in. The hiss of a broken pipe soon followed, but she could not raise her consciousness back to the surface.  

A beam of light quickly flashed in front of her eyelids.  She heard an odd crackling sound.  One of her arms fell away from the shackles, but her motor neurons were shot.  The beam of light flashed across her face again.  Same crackling noise.  Her other arm fell, and she pitched forward, still three-quarters unconscious. 

Before she hit the ground, she collided with something.  Her nerves were too numb to discern anything, but then she felt something warm press around her waist.  She felt vibrations under her cheek. 

“Clarice, Clarice, come back to me.”  

That voice, warm and rugged, pulling her up like a lifeline.  Images flashed through her mind; crying twice in a strong embrace, a stolen kiss, tawny hands and midnight eyes.

John...

“I’ve got you, Clarice.  Please come back.”

Clarice tried to twitch her fingers, but to no avail, settling for a groan that she hoped sounded like his name.   She felt herself hoisted up, and then they were in motion.  She would have protested had any of her muscles been in working order.  

The hallway was much brighter and hotter than the chamber.  Clarice pressed closer to John’s chest, his heartbeat pounding thunderously under her cheek. She heard a faint clamor of voices - Lorna and Marcos - then a rumbling response from John. 

The shock of the hallway atmosphere made Clarice’s extremities ache with tiny pricks of pain.  She whimpered softly, barely flexing her fingers against the harsh metal still attached to her knuckles.  John heard her and his arms tensed. 

“It’s gonna be alright,” he murmured, chest rumbling again.  The sounds of their footsteps changed as their feet hit cement.  Clarice shut her eyes harder against the glaring intrusion of sunlight.  Shouts echoed from behind her, and she jolted as a gun went off.  John suddenly stepped up, landed with a soft bounce, and another door slammed shut. Clarice felt the familiar push-tug of a moving vehicle.  

They got me out. Is this a dream?  

“You’re not dreaming,” John murmured, pushing hair away from her face. “Look at me, Clarice.  You’re safe.”  

She winces as she slowly forced her eyes open.  John’s gaze sank into hers, smiling against the tears in his eyes.  

“You’d you find me?” she mumbled. John’s smile grew.  

“I’m always going to find you.”  He let his thumb rest on the corner of her mouth. “They could never stop me from finding you.”  

 Clarice closed her eyes, feeling the motion of the van. “Do you need a portal? I can try-” she flexed her fingers against the bands.  A couple sparks flew out, but a stabbing pain shot up her wrist.  

“No, we’re fine. We’re getting you to a safe zone in an hour.  You need to rest.” 

“But.. Sent’nel….” she winced. 

“Lorna’s handing it,” John’s tone was gentle but firm.  Voice of a leader. 

Clarice curled closer to him.  The cold air from the overhead vent was easing the shock, but she needed warmth, needed to feel the renewed energy coursing through her veins again.   Her teeth chattered without control.  John draped his jacket over her frame and lifted his shirt.  Clarice’s heart pounded as her bare midriff made contact with his, sharing core body heat.  

“God you’re still cold as ice,” he muttered, holding her hand tightly, the other hand rubbing her foot.  He tried to loosen the bands on her knuckles and cursed under his breath when they refused to budge. Clarice made another soft sound of discomfort, resting her head against his bicep. 

“Don’t fall asleep yet,” he said.  “Caitlin has to take a look at you.”

“Will you talk to me?” asked Clarice, voice muffled by his arm.  “Tell me about your life.”  

John sighed.  “Sweetheart, my childhood wasn’t great, and the Marines weren’t much better.”  

Clarice relaxed further in his arms, cheek now resting against his stomach. “It couldn’t have been all bad.”  

He sighed, tugging her closer.  The story of him discovering his powers came easily, then he told her about thunderbirds, why he chose one as his codename, the fables his mother told him as she tucked him in at night.  

Clarice sighed, squeezing his hand whenever his thumb tapped against her palm.  Wrapped in the jacket and pressed against his skin, she was overwhelmed with his scent: forest, leather, and something deeper, something purely him that she wanted to immerse herself in forever.  

When the pain eased, whether from time, her powers, or his seeming-aura of heat, Clarice let herself slip back into sleep.   

She awoke on a stiff cot, covered with a blanket and with John’s leather jacket folded underneath her head.  Someone with small, soft, knowing hands was feeling the pulse on her wrist.  Clarice opened her eyes. 

“Hey sweetie,” Caitlin said with a gentle smile, tucking the blanket snug.  “You’ve had a hell of a couple days.”  Clarice’s brow furrowed as her gaze dropped to her hand.  The bands were gone from her fingers, leaving behind several pink scars in and around her knuckles.  

“How long was I gone?  My memory’s a little fuzzy,” she said hoarsely, twitching her thumb for a minuscule spark.  Caitlin sighed. 

“Well, you were in an administrative building, and you created a portal for everyone to escape, but Sentinel grabbed you before you made it out,” she said as she applied a salve to Clarice’s hands.  “That was two days ago.  Yesterday, John and Sage were able to track down one of the men who transported you, and ...” she put a bandage around her hand, “they found you. A few miles away in that cell.”

Clarice shivered at the memory. “Do you think I’ll be alright?” 

“They had you in a deep freeze, Clarice,” said Caitlin. “If you were human, I don’t know if we could have revived you.” Her gaze dropped to the meager sparks flicking from Clarice’s open hand.  “My theory is that your powers kicked in to prevent nerve damage while you were in shock.” 

Clarice knitted her brow. “How long will it take for them to heal?” 

Caitlin shrugged, giving her an apologetic smile.  “Mutant cell regeneration wasn’t on my NCLEX, but I wish it was.”  

Clarice’s gaze softened as she stared into space. “Hey,” Caitlin rubbed her hand, making Clarice look back at her. “rest is all you need right now.”  She stood up as Lorna came over to tap her shoulder. 

“I’ll stay with her, Doc.”  

Clarice let out a frustrated huff as Caitlin left.  Lorna sat down with a wince, hand resting on her visible baby bump.  “You're looking better,” she said, smiling.  “You were pretty blue when we pulled you out of that cell.” 

“Caitlin thinks I strained my powers,”  Clarice sighed. Lorna raised her eyebrows.  

“I’m glad I ruined those bastards’ vans.” 

“If I can’t portal,” Clarice grimaced and dropped her head, “I’m no use to the team.” 

“Hey,” Lorna leaned forward and touched her forearm. “You shush, alright? You’re one of us.” At Clarice’s slight smile, she continued, dropping her voice. 

“Besides,” John nearly strained his powers too, trying to find you.” 

“What?” Clarice raised her brows.  

Lorna nodded. 

“Oh, yeah. He was at it for ages, I think he gave himself a nosebleed.” 

She leaned in closer to the cot.  “And between you and me, he was downright terrifying when we found the SS guy who knew your location.”   

Clarice shook her head.  “He’d do that for any of us.” 

Lorna flashed her a knowing smile.  “He would, but not that recklessly.” 

She rubbed Clarice’s leg comfortingly, then sat up, stretching with a sigh.  “I’d love to stay longer, but you need your rest, and I have a craving to appease.”  

Clarice curled up under the blanket.  In truth, she was terrified of letting herself go, possibly falling into a nightmare and waking up back in that cell.  She pressed her thumb to her fingertips; there was still missing sensation.  She huffed, turning her face into the jacket and letting its scent  calm her nerves.  

Clarice opened her eyes a few hours later to see John sitting in the chair next to her.  His expression softened as their eyes made contact.  

“How are you feeling?” he asked, leaning closer.  

“Better,” she said, reaching for his hand as a couple sparks danced across her fingers.  He took it, smiling gently as he rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. 

“I may never recover,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady, “and I’m sorry.”  He looked up from their joined hands, brow furrowed.

“Why are you apologizing?” 

Clarice bit her lip. “Because you need me in the field, and if I can’t port-“ 

“Clarice,” his voice cut her off as he looked at her with wide eyes. “I need you alive.” then he added in a whisper. “powers or not.”  

Lorna’s words came back to Clarice, and a question flew from her mouth before she could stop it.  

“Did you hurt yourself trying to tracking me?” 

John clenched his jaw.  

“Whatever they were using to transport you was… cloaking you somehow.”  He shook his head, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear.  “It…. yeah it messed me up, and all I could think about finding something leading me to you.” 

“John…” Clarice took a breath before asking, “Did you hurt anyone else trying to find me.” 

His face was stoic as he nodded.  

“Yeah,” he said, withholding details.  “And all you need to know is that I’d do it a hundred times again.”  

Clarice’s heart was racing.  “Lorna thought you were being reckless. For me.” 

 John’s expression turned raw as his voice dropped back to a raspy whisper.  “You were all I could think about, God I wasn’t using my head until Marcos gave me a plan.“ 

She squeezed his hand, deciding to take a leap. 

“Maybe you were using your heart, John.”  

He was stunned for a moment, and she decided to sit up.  

“You have such a big heart, it makes you a great leader,” she pressed her hands against his chest.  John stared at her for a few moments, then he cupped her cheeks and pressed his lips against hers. 

Clarice felt warmth spread down her chest into her core, unable to hold back a gentle sigh.  More sparks shot from her fingers, making her chuckle as they slowly pulled apart. 

“I can’t promise you anything,” John said in a shaky breath, ”but Clarice, I love you,” he buried his face in the crook of her neck. “I almost lost you before I said it.”  

Clarice hugged him back, toying his hair with her hand.  “Don’t worry about promises, John.” she whispered, ”all I want is you.”   

  “Want to stay in my room? Might be quieter than in here,” he said softly, letting his fingers trail down her arm.  She shivered slightly at his touch and nodded.  

The war had their days numbered.   But that night when she fell asleep again to the sound of his heartbeat, she let herself hope that they would both survive this, together.