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archetypal-archivist · 4 years ago

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Tommyinnit and Hermitcraft- Heartstone P.2

So, a little while back I wrote piece titled Tommyinnit and Hermitcraft- Heartstone (linked here) which was inspired by the works of @petrichormeraki and @redorich, who popularized the AU of Tommyinnit from the Dream SMP getting dropped into Hermitcraft somehow and summarily getting adopted by the entire server. I, in my infinite wisdom, decided “yes, but also angst” and spat out a solid 1500+ words with a cliffhanger at the end because it was getting ridiculous and I had yet more to write. This is another 1500+ words of continuation.

-----

It's not easy, knowing things. Joe knows more things than most, and oh, how it eats at him sometimes. He jokes with Cleo that between the two of them and their dogs, they are perhaps the leading experts on being chewed on, but she never laughs at that joke. He can't help but wonder why, his thoughts drifting as he lies still and silent in her arms, curled up together on his bed in the winery. Her orange hair tickles his nose as he moves to bury his face in her shoulder a bit more, her cool breath ghosting over the sticky tear tracks that still line his cheeks. All the things that remain unsaid lie between them, but their silent agreement binds them together tighter still. And indeed silence is the name of the game, however much he wishes it wasn't necessary- everything will work out in due time, he knows. But oh, how it aches that he can't say anything more on the matter, not even to her.

"Cleo?" The zombie woman makes a soft inquiring noise, politely ignoring how his voice cracks on the syllables. "Are we doing the right thing?" Her grip tightens again, almost crushingly so, and Joe goes limp at the implied rebuke. Be it right or wrong, his silence must be ensured- he knows so much that if he said anything, it'd all come pouring out. A real modern-day Cassandra, verbal fountain and harbinger of doom in one. No, best to stay cryptic when he can and silent when he can't- and if even his silence fails, Cleo is there, sword in hand, ready to keep him quiet.

He should not take comfort from that. But here, wrapped up in his best friend's embrace, utterly at her mercy and all the safer for it... He does anyway.

-----

Joe and Cleo aren't in a romantic relationship, but it would not be amiss to call them platonic life partners in this universe. Joe has been seeing things for as long as he can remember, the exact mechanics are strange and baffling at best, and if he tries to actually do any Science to figure out how this stuff works, the magic changes to spite him. It's led to a lot of unfortunate visions of peanut butter and how the server generally tends to misuse the stuff (Etho sometimes using it instead of slime in a sticky piston is a milder example), so after enough peanut visions to make him allergic on principle, Joe tends to just let the visions come as they may. The only hard-coded bit that comes with them is that anyone living who hears his prophecies won't believe them and will have something bad happen to them as a result. Cleo, being a zombie, is a special exception to the rule. She's only alive in the most technical of senses, so while bad things still happen to her if she hears Joe speak about his experiences, she at least will believe him.

Which is why she is so determined to not know more about whatever is going on with Tommy. When Joe had rushed in a month ago, tears streaming down his cheeks and glasses barely hanging onto his face, she had merely put down the book she had been reading and had opened her arms wide to him. Convincing him that she would not betray his trust or break his heart had been hard, but she had known it was worth it. How can it be anything but, when Joe had looked at her then as if she was the most precious being on the planet and had immediately thrown himself into her arms, bursting out into troubled tears? He offered to tell her the full story, eyes wet and longing, and her long-dead heart ached at the trust he is giving her- but she is far too selfish to give that up. So she had turned him down, smile on her lips.

Even when he whispered, voice hoarse, that they wouldn't be seeing Tommy for a while. Even when he shuddered and shook in her arms, fragile as glass in her grip. Even when he begged her to ask, just ask, please, it's too much... She did not ask. If she asked, he would tell her, and then she would be hurt and his heart would break because it would be his words that had hurt her. She would not, cannot, will never inflict that upon him, or let him inflict that upon anyone else. (Of all the heads in her collection, the one she has most of is Joe's.)

She simply asks him if there will be a satisfying ending, and when he says yes, she asks no more. Everything will be okay, in the end. So long as there is that much, so long as she has Joe in her arms and the comfortable silence stretches out between them, then she will be content.

(At the foot of their bed, deep in Joe's winery where the barking is muffled and the light cannot touch them, there lies a chest of heads. Inside it, nestled among the many faces of the dead, rests an old iron sword bearing the name Hush. It's blade is rusty from disuse, but if Cleo ever decides that she isn't satisfied, well. There are ways of dealing with that.)

(Things will be okay. She'll make sure of it.)

-----

Philza was no stranger to death. A veteran of a hardcore world, where even the very earth was out to kill him, he had seen his fair share of deaths and had dealt out even more. Usually just to the local mobs and wildlife, but there was still the occasional player dropped into his world by the cruel hands of the Void as a sort of "apology" for leaving him alone, bereft of his sons. As if some random strangers could ever fill the Void in his heart.

Most of them had wandered off upon seeing him, more interested in escape than any companionship he could offer them, and he'd inevitably see their death messages in the otherwise silent chat a few days later. Others would approach him, some curious, some desperate for kindness- he gave them none, was often intentionally cruel just to drive them away. He had the Void in his heart and the Void had him, and he ached and ached for what he could not have. Anything less would be a pale imitation, a mockery of the love he was desperate to return to. He tried not to think about how those kind strangers would also come to meet their ends, often more messily than those that had decided to leave him be to begin with.

Then there were the rare few with... less than gentle intentions. (Blood for the Blood gods, no matter the universe.)

Theirs were the deaths he regretted the least, but the blood still gave him nightmares. For all that he loved his sons, he never understood their love for glory, be it found in conquering other nations or the sticky ooze of a dying foe. Maybe that's why he had spent so much of his time with his elder sons when he returned, the Void finally releasing him from his hardcore prison. Just a father's attempt at understanding, even if it left his youngest at loose ends.

But the problem with loose ends, he had come to find, is that the world had a way of setting them to rights- either by tying them back into the grand narrative, or by cutting them out entirely. For months after Dream had come to him, apology on his lips and charred shoe in hand, he had believed that Tommy's fate had been the latter. He had mourned his son as if such was the case, weeping openly at the news for the first time in years. (He wasn't the only one, though- Technoblade was an only child now and he was not taking it well.) It was only when Tubbo came to him with his compass to ask about its ever-spinning needle that he felt a spark of hope, for a compass that spun was not a compass linked to a dead soul- simply a lost one. Such hope was justified when, six months later, Technoblade burst into his house with a snarl on his lips and a smile in his eyes. Tommy had returned.

And as Phil stood, back straightening and wings spread wide, hope bloomed in his chest like hanahaki, choking him with love right down to his core. Tommy had returned, despite everything.

And Philza would not let him go again.

-----

For all that Tommy might have been... gone for at least a month now on the Hermitcraft server and life has significantly slowed down for all involved, by no means has it stopped entirely. The shops are still stocked, the torches are replaced when the old ones burn out, Hermits still go out and see each other, if less often than before. Xisuma, in fact, instates a series of mandatory meetings every week or so as a way of making sure that everyone is still alive- a bit of reassurance that no one else has died in the time interim. Even the hermits who prefer to keep to themselves show up, such as Tinfoilchef, Joe, and Cleo, although the latter two remain distinctly separate from everyone else on the server during the meetings, their refusal to take a side alienating them from the rest. Grian, broken though he may be, also comes, usually in the arms of Iskall or with a vacant smile on his face depending on the state of his mental health on the given day. His presence is also alienating, as most of the hermits don't quite know what to say around him and thus will give him and Iskall a bubble of space to themselves during the meetings. Mumbo is the only one to cross the divide, standing loomingly tall at Iskall's back, as if daring anyone to say something potentially hurtful to either of his friends.

Frankly, the entire concept of weekly meetings is a bit of a mess. Xisuma stands at the front with Keralis at his back, voice and posture more and more tired with every meeting and Keralis standing just a bit closer, a silent show of support (ready if his admin ever needs some physical support too). The prognosis is usually a mix of dull stuff and hopeless stuff- lag is better than it has been in years, the Chestmonster shop is out again, Tommy still has not been... found. It's not exciting exactly, but the tension during the reporting stage is palpable as everyone waits to hear if something else has gone wrong. It's a bit like being on the front lines- horrible, drawn-out minutes of tedium as everyone holds their breath, waiting to see if another bombshell will drop but knowing that they have to be there, because some warning is infinitely better than seeing a death message in chat one day and not knowing if that person will ever make it back.

In addition to this is the tension that comes from the server being split in three- the believers, the mourners, and those too damaged or too caught up in their own narratives or too neutral to swing to one side or the other.

The meetings are where the most near-fights happen, and Xisuma is so, so tired of having to be the sane one these days. (The benefit of a helmet, he's come to find, is that no one can see you cry.)

(He doesn't take it off much anymore.)

-----

It's after one such meeting that Zedaph finds himself cooped up in his base, eyes burning with unshed tears and feet dangling out into the Void as he sits at the bottom of the hole in his base, the one that goes straight to bedrock and then even further still. The chill is a welcome distraction from his own inner turmoil, and for all that it's dangerous to be sitting so near to the edge of the world, he can't find it in himself to move away form its cold comfort. After all, Tommy can't have died permanently, right? So sitting there is perfectly safe. He has to believe that. He has to.

The meetings are tough on everyone, but sometimes Zedaph wonders if they are a bit worse for him than they are for the rest. It can't be normal that the first thing he does after every meeting is burst into panicked tears as soon as he gets back to his base, as he's certainly never felt such deep fear and relief after the meetings they had before the Incident. And yet, as soon as the iron door of his base sncks shut behind him, he drops down into the Void hole, sits at the edge, and bawls his eyes out. It's kinda funny- he's shed more tears in the last month than he has in his entire life so far. And all for a boy he had known for less than a year.

During this particular day, however, something odd happens. When he sits down for a good cry, it feels like there's the slightest of breezes coming off the Void beneath his feet, chilling him right down to his bones. It's cold, yes, but a welcome relief as he feels a bit like he's burning up from the inside out. Every moment he spends with Tango and Impulse is stifling, as with them he has to shove himself into a hateful mold he never wanted for himself. He doesn't like being angry, and being angry alongside his best friends is hardly any better. If he had it his way, he would have curled up in bed and simply slept the horror away, only waking when the nightmare was over and he could go play mini golf and Among Us with Tango, Impulse, and Tommy again. Instead, his love for his friends demands that he supports them in all their endeavors, even if their goals these days seem to run a little closer to "get them all killed" than is comfortable.

But yes. The breeze. It feels like ice on his skin and sends every nerve in his legs buzzing. It has a distinct smell to it too, like TV static, ozone, and that sensation you get after you brush your teeth and go take a big gulp of cold water. It's... odd. But vaguely comforting. And as the tears finally well up in his eyes and drip down his cheeks, as he lets himself sob for all the friends- both new and old- he's lost, he finds that it's exactly what he needs.

And if Zedaph would only listen a little closer, let himself see beyond his broken heart, perhaps he would hear the whisper on the wind, too.

Everything will be okay. I'll make sure of it.

-----

Evil X has his own troubles to deal with. He had been present when Tommy had died, if watching from the wrong side of their dimension. Lost in the Void with nothing better to do, he had often found himself watching his friend go about his day. With space and time being as screwy as they were in the Void, he could find himself taking three steps and then would be watching Tommy go from sleeping over at BDub's base to having "breakfast" with Rendog. So when Grian and Tommy had gone out End-busting that fateful day, of course he had been watching. And that was all he could do- watch- as he saw his best friend fall to his apparent death, that little line of code that signaled "perma-death" flashing once, twice, and then glowing a deep, ominous red.

But that wasn't the end of it, even as his dull and bruised heart stuttered in his chest at the sight.

Like a redstone pulse lighting up everything around it, that red glow set off a cascading chain reaction that rippled up and down Tommy's code until it eventually trailed out to wherever his code stretched out into the Void. There, it must have severed something because before he could even call for help, his friend's code yanked inwards and away, slingshotting the whole mess into the distant darkness beyond, leaving naught but a vague impression on the inside of his eyelids behind. It was... awful. One of the scariest things he had ever seen, perhaps second only to watching his brother, stern-faced and cold, send him off to the Void once again. But for all that it hurt to see that red glow and watch in mute horror as the server he had once tried to destroy shake itself apart at the seams, there was still hope.

The code was gone, yes, but not unraveled, not destroyed. Merely... transported. Moved. Like a file being sent from one computer to another, or a player teleporting between servers. Tommy's code vanishing like that was cause for alarm, yes, but somewhere out there in the vastness of the Void, it lingered still- and it had left a faint impression of itself in its wake. That meant there was hope.

Evil X- and by proxy, his twin Xisuma- were voidwalkers, beings specifically designed to see, understand, and even modify the world's code. Were he anything else, he surely would have perished by now, his consciousness scattered across the Void as it was. And having been in exile for so long, he had gotten to be adept at seeing the seams between worlds and reading the truths of existence as the Void had intended for her children. If anyone could follow that faint trail, could get Tommy back, it would be him.

For the first time in a long time, Evil X had hope. And hope is a vicious motivator indeed.

-----

TBC :)

#fanfiction #my writing #minecraft #dream smp #hermitcraft #hermit tommy au #heartstone #i'm pretty pleased with this

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jjmaybanksbaby · 3 years ago

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Where It Leads (Rafe Cameron)

Summer IV

Part 07: Crashing Down

series masterlist | previous part

summary: A jarring family emergency forces you to consider the future of your relationship with Rafe Cameron.

a/n: I'm a little bit emotional about this series ending because I've had so much fun writing it! Enjoy the last part and, as always, please come share your reactions with me in my inbox. Okay, that's all from me!

word count: 2.1k words

Rafe Cameron knew how to text. He was somehow witty, charming, and hilarious all in less characters than a single tweet. Texting with most boys was like talking to a brick wall: single-syllable answers, unironic uses of punctuation, asking “What are you wearing?” before even listening to how your day went. Though, to be fair, Rafe had asked that same question a few times, which always earned him a sarcastic answer in return. Well, except for that one time.

You’d been forced to spill the beans about your dreamy summer romance to Alice and Kensie after one of Rafe’s funnier texts almost made you pee yourself laughing at the lunch table.

“Oh, so he’s a stud muffin,” Alice announced, peering over Kenzie’s shoulder at the photo on your phone.

“Please god don’t call anyone a stud muffin ever again Al,” Kenzie replied.

“What? The 80s are like making a comeback.”

“Yeah, not that,” you countered and Alice huffed.

“He’s totally hot though,” Kenzie said, handing the phone back to you. ��And I kinda hate you for not telling us about him.”

You looked down at the picture. Rafe was kissing your check while you grinned up at the camera, the golden hour lighting made the whole thing look rather enchanting. It was your favorite picture of you and him.

“Oh shit,” Kenzie said causing you to look up from the phone. “You’re like in love in love with him.”

“What? No,” you protested. Yes, your brain corrected.

Kenzie glanced over at Alice for backup.

“Besides, I wasn’t hiding him. I just didn’t know if there was anything there to...tell,” you finished.

“I wish I had a handsome summer fling with spectacular cheekbones,” Alice sighed.

“Don’t let your boyfriend hear you saying that.” Kenzie chucked a fry off her tray at Alice who dodged it expertly.

“Oh, please. Matty knows I would dump his ass for someone who looks like a young Chuck Bass any day of the week. Gimme your phone. I wanna see the photos again y/n.”

“I seriously don’t know how you and Matthew have been together for two years,” Kenzie replied.

“Are you kidding? They’re practically made for each other,” you added.

“The phone, please,” Alice interjected. “I wanna thirst over your mans while my boyfriend is sucking up to his English teacher so she doesn’t fail him. Of course, I told him he needed to actually read Wuthering Heights and not just sparknotes it. But did he listen? No. I picked a real winner y’all,” she finished, taking the phone from your outstretched hands. “You sure Rafe doesn’t have any brothers? Not even like a half-step brother?”

So yeah, going great. Against the odds of three thousand miles, the whole thing was somehow working. Long-distance friends with benefits? Check. Well, except for those moments when that nagging feeling in your stomach came back and you’d start overthinking everything. His texts would sit, unread in your phone for days or even a whole week, slowly sinking to the bottom of your messages.

Then came the call from the Kildare Country Hospital in the early hours of a foggy April morning. You should have gone to sleep hours ago but were still up, desperately trying to cram Maria’s lines into your brain while also texting Rafe. The Sound of Music opened in three weeks and your director had already chewed you out twice for not being off-book, something about being an upperclassman and the lead, and what kind of an example were you setting for the rest of the program. Big speeches were kind of your director's thing, you learned to just ride them out.

Around 1 a.m. your phone ran with an incoming FaceTime call from Rafe. You pressed the green acccept button, a smile spread across your face as Rafe’s own filled the screen.

“Hey Broadway Star.”

“Hi Rafe.” The dim lighting of his bedroom made his feature especially striking. “What are you still doing up?”

“Can’t sleep. Plus you’re up too so. How’s the memorizing going?”

“Shitty,” you replied, closing your binder with a sigh. “I’m too tired to do anymore of it tonight anyway.”

“You know, I was thinking I could come to Oregon for your opening night?”

“Really?” The possibility of Rafe sitting in the audience made your heart race.

“Yeah, why not? I’ll ask Ward if I can borrow the plane that weekend and I bet Sarah’ll want to come too. I wanna see my girl kill it. I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Rafe. You know my friends think you’re hot.”

“Oh, do they?” Rafe replied, rolling over onto his back in his bed.

“Don’t let it get to your head, Cameron.”

The home phone ran but you ignored it, much more invested in your conversation with Rafe. The second time the hospital left a message. Your Nonna’s heart had given out. The prognosis wasn’t good. She had barely any time left.

Your heart dropped as the words echoed over the speaker of the answering machine.

“Rafe,” you said, cutting him off momentarily. “I gotta go. I’ll call you back later. I gotta-” you ended the call before Rafe even had the chance to respond. You dropped your phone on the kitchen table, dashing up the stairs to your parents’ bedroom. Your father was booking a flight for your mother back to the Outer Banks minutes later.

The end had come so quickly, so unexpectedly. It was almost like that made it harder. There'd been just enough time for your mom and uncle to get to the Outer Banks, sitting on each side of your Nonna as her final breaths passed through her lungs. Now, everyone was there to say goodbye one last time. Uncle Austin and his fiancé. Your mom and dad. Both your siblings. The entire population of Figure Eight.

☼☼☼

Rain drizzled down from the dark, gray clouds looming overhead. It was as if Mother Nature was mourning your Nonna too, hiding the sunshine away.

Three baby ducks followed their mama into the man-made pond at the edge of the cemetery. You watched their tiny feet kick up small waves disturbing the peaceful water and the tears silently slipped down your face.

The cars were waiting to take you back to your Nonna's house for the wake. The same house with the for-sale sign now stuck in the front yard. The for-sale sign with Rose's patronizing grin that you were starting to really hate. Your dad had handled that. Listing the house. He'd handled most of the funeral arrangement's actually because your mother had been too sunken into her grief to make any decision. Sending out the invitations, picking out your Nonna's casket, choosing the flowers. Your mother clung to him during the entire funeral, weeping into his shoulder.

“Y/n?” Rafe's voice called out from behind you and you turned to see him walked toward you. He’d stood at the back of the church with his family during the funeral. You had longed for him to be sitting in the first pew next to you, to have had his hand to hold onto to ground you, but it hardly would have been appropriate. Your Nonna would have sooner risen from the dead than have had a Cameron front row at her funeral.

As soon as he was close enough, Rafe reached for you, pulling your body tight into him. Your head landed on his chest and the sobs came moments later. God, he always smelled the same. He just let you cry, holding you close, smoothing his hand over your hair.

“I know you’re selling your grandma’s house but I was thinking you could stay with me for the summer," he said as your tears began to slow. It was hard to imagine that you wouldn't return to the Outer Banks once school let out. It was the first week of May already and you could feel the tourist-attracting town waking up. But selling the house just made more sense. Your older sister was already living her life in New York, a real adult life. Next summer, you'd be moving out too, headed to college. The house would sit empty for eight months out of the year, your family couldn't keep it and your uncle certainly didn’t want it. Selling it just had to happen.

You stepped back, slipping out of his embrace. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Rafe.”

“Why not?”

“Cause we’re like Romeo and Juliet.”

“I copied Cleo’s notes for that unit," he joked, trying to lighten to damp mood. “Plus I was never a fan of Leo DiCaprio so I didn’t finish the movie either.”

“It means we’re not supposed to be together, you and me. And whenever we try, the universe rips us apart. We hurt each other.”

Rafe shifted awkwardly on his feet, clearly wanting to reach for you again but stopping himself from doing it. “But I can't lose you.”

You reached your hand out, brushing away a strand of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. “Oh Rafe, don’t you get it? You never really had me.” You stood up onto your tiptoes to kiss him just like you had the first time three years ago. Rafe barely parted his lips, kissing you back gently. Your hand cupped his face, your thump stroking over his cheek. It was a goodbye. Both of you knew it. It was an ending and this was your closure. You pulled away, your hand falling away from his face.

You couldn’t bring yourself to say the actual words. Your eyes fell to the ground. You needed to walk away now. You side-stepped Rafe but he grabbed your waist, turning you back around to face him.

“So that’s it? You’re not even gonna try to fight for us?”

“What even is there to fight for, Rafe? I’ve been fighting for us for the past four years. If we were supposed to be together that car wouldn’t have crashed into ours, I wouldn’t have fallen for Evan when I did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation at my Nonna’s funeral. What? Are we supposed to do long distance for all of college? I hardly know who I am right now. I have no idea who I’ll be in the next four years. Our future selves might not even like each other. I’m not gonna wait around for you Rafe and I would never ask you to do that for me.” You twirled the small, star charm between your fingers, a nervous habit you'd developed over the past year. His eyes dropped down to your neck momentarily and his adam's apple visibly bobbing as he swallowed his next weeks.

“You were it for me, you know. I tried to give a fuck about anyone else but I couldn’t get your gorgeous, stupid face out of my mind. I only wanted you.” Rafe paused gauging your reaction “I was falling in love with you.”

Your eyes wandered over his stoic expression. “The feeling was mutual, Rafe Cameron.”

He dropped your wrist but you both stood, not moving or saying anything. “Do you wanna walk me back to the car?”

“Yeah.” He reached for your hand, interlocking your fingers. Your other hand held onto his bicep so you walked together through the graveyard back to the parking lot.

The moment felt precious and delicate, like the fragile china your Nonna used to collect. You wondered what would happen to all that china.

Rafe placed a chaste kiss on your lips before opening the door of the car.

“I’ll miss you,” you said, the words hanging in the air meaning so much.

“Me too,” Rafe agreed.

You wanted one more kiss, one more passionate declaration of how much this all had meant but that would make leaving Rafe so much more impossible.

You climbed into the car, dropping Rafe’s hand in the process.

“See you around Cameron.” You knew it wouldn’t happen but it felt better than a goodbye.

He smiled back. “Maybe so.”

Perhaps Rafe was right and you’d both end up at a small liberal arts college in California taking the same second-year Econ class with a professor who always smelled like weed. Perhaps the stars would align and two of you would realize the universe wasn’t trying to keep you apart. It was just waiting for the right moment to show you that the love you had for each other was the soulmates, forever and ever kind of love. Perhaps you would get married and Sarah would be your maid of honor, of course. You’d buy back your Nonna’s house to raise your troubling-making kids in. Perhaps, you would find your way back and wake up each day and choose each other again and again.

Or perhaps, he'd always be your right-person-wrong-time. And, in the end, the passing days will steal away your memories of the blue-eyed boy from the Outer Banks.

taglist! @oreoenthusiast13

#outer banks #outer banks fanfiction #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron series #obx netflix #obx #obx fanfic #where it leads series #where it leads

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everlarkficexchange · 4 years ago

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Hanging in the Balance

Written by: @ameliaodair

Prompt #29: I want to request a fic where Katniss and Peeta almost lose their first child and it makes their love and relationship even stronger. [submitted by anonymous]

The prompt pretty much says it all. On their way to visit Katniss’s mother, Katniss, Peeta, and their daughter fight for their lives. When Peeta wakes from the devastating crash, his life— and Katniss’s are forever changed as their sweet, baby girl has the fight of her life, with her life hanging in the balance.

Thanks to the amazing @taylerwrites for her magical beta skills!

Rated T for difficult situations

Warnings: (almost) losing a child

Hanging in the Balance

“How long has it been since the last time we saw your mother?” Keeping his eyes focused on the road and his hands firmly gripped on the steering wheel, Peeta glanced over to Katniss, his beautiful wife of six years.

“I don’t know, maybe … Actually, I think the last time we saw her was just after Prim was born; oh my god, I can’t believe it’s been that long. Oh, Peeta, did you rem—” Katniss tensed up, thinking they had forgotten an important item on their checklist.

“Calm down, Katniss. Trust me,” Peeta gave his wife a charming, yet reassuring smile and reached for her hand. “I went over the list three times before we even left the house, and then once more after loading the car up. We didn’t forget a single thing. And if, by chance, there is something we forgot, I’m sure it can be duplicated at the nearest department store.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Katniss murmured, catching a glimpse of the back of their daughter’s head before slowly relaxing into the passenger seat next to her husband.

“In fact, I’m almost certain we brought enough stuff with us to stay for a year,” Peeta gently joked with his wife, in hopes of easing her nerves. He knew the real reason for Katniss’s high-strung demeanor, and her incessant need to be in complete control. She had lost her younger sister when she was just a little girl and it nearly broke her. Peeta still wasn’t convinced she had recovered from that loss.

Katniss and Peeta were childhood sweethearts. While Peeta knew from the moment he entered his kindergarten classroom that he was destined to be with the beautiful girl with the stunning grey eyes, raven-colored braids down either side of her face, and a voice that could bring a stuttering, toothpaste-stained shirt little boy to his knees, it took Katniss a little longer. It required some convincing, but Peeta was persistent and finally, at seven-years-old, Katniss accepted his friendship-invitation. And the lovesick fool that Peeta was decided he would take what he could get. So, for years, they were friends— best friends.

Peeta was there the day Katniss’s sister, Prim, died. He had sat next to Katniss, gripping her hand like a lifeline while they stood vigil by Prim’s bedside, and watched as she took her final breaths. And it broke him too, but not like Katniss. She was devastated beyond belief— for so long. And for so many years after that devastating tragedy, Katniss vowed to never have children … she could not bear to love another person with so much of her heart, only to have them ripped from her life. They dated for five years before she finally agreed to marry him. And then it was another four years before she agreed, and quite apprehensively, to try for a family.

“I think I’m going to get off at the next stop for some gas and we can stretch our legs. It’ll be nighttime soon and I’d rather you guys not wander around in the dark in some backwoods city I don’t know.”

“You worry too much, Peeta,” Katniss chided, taking Peeta’s hand and entwining their fingers. She brought their conjoined hands up to her lips and placed a kiss against the crest of his knuckles. That’s why they were perfect together— because they balanced each other out. When one was overcome with fear and anxiety, the other was always there to level the other one out.

Peeta got off at the next exit and followed the signs to the nearest gas station, which was less than a mile away.

“Don’t go to the Shell, go to SHEETZ,” Katniss pleaded with her husband when she saw the direction he was headed.

“Why? Shell has better gas.”

“SHEETZ has cleaner bathrooms. Please baby,” Katniss whined, knowing the use of the pet name, in addition to giving him the wide, puppy-dog-eyes would be enough to melt his hesitation.

“Okay,” he conceded, “Anything for my girls,” he gave Katniss’s hand another squeeze as he stopped at the four-way intersection and then gently accelerated on the gas when he saw the coast was clear. Ever since their daughter, Prim was born, Peeta drove like an old man instead of a man in his late twenties— precious cargo and all.

“PEETA!!!!!” Katniss screamed when a set of headlights came barreling straight for them.

“Mr. Mellark? Mr. Mellark, can you hear me?” Peeta opened his eyes and tried to sit up. “Mr. Mellark, how many fingers am I holding up?” The uniformed man asked him as he waved his fingers in front of his face and shined a flashlight into his eyes.

“Three. Where’s my wife? Where is Prim?” Peeta responded, shoving the medic’s hand out of his face as he attempted to sit up again. “Where am I?” Peeta demanded, turning his head from side to side, surveying the small space he was in and called for his wife, “Katniss?” But she wasn’t anywhere in sight; as far as he could see, he was alone in the ambulance with these three strangers— medics.

“Sir, please calm down. You were in an accident. My name is Pollux and I am a paramedic. You have sustained some rather severe injuries. We are rushing you and your family to the nearest hospital.”

Adrenaline flooded Peeta’s veins, his heart accelerated until he was fuming, “WHERE is my wife and my daughter? Where are they? Are they okay? Please, you have to tell me,” he demanded, oblivious to the steadily increasing beeping in the background and needing some answers before his anxiety consumed him.

“They were air-lifted from the scene of the accident; we should be arriving at the hospital any moment now. We’ll know more upon arrival,” Pollux offered sympathetically and craned his neck to his shoulder to speak into the microphone attached to his uniform, “Hey Castor, what’s our ETA?”

Peeta didn’t realize there was already an IV connected into his arm, or that the paramedic injected something into it, which was the reason everything went black.

2 days later:

“Well! There are those marvelous blue eyes I have been hearing about! Good morning Mr. Mellark, my name is Dr. Trinket.”

When Peeta opened his eyes, everything was fuzzy at first. He blinked a few times until his vision slowly adjusted, and this Dr. Trinket came into view. She was a beautiful doctor, there was no denying that. Probably in her mid to late thirties with short, curly, blonde hair— so blonde it almost looked pink … and she was in the traditional hospital scrubs you normally see doctors wearing.

‘Seriously, bright pink scrubs?’ Peeta thought, wondering if he could go blind just by looking at her for too long.

“Can you tell me your name and date of birth?” Dr. Trinket asked him, shining a light into his eyes. “Good, good. Pupils are equal and reactive.”

Peeta recited his name and birthday for Dr. Trinket, and she nodded, satisfied with his response. “Do you know where you are?” Dr. Trinket asked, checking his reflexes.

“Um … a hospital?” Peeta thought that seemed obvious.

“And do you recall the circumstances that brought you here?”

Peeta closed his eyes and tried to pull the memory from his mind, only to come up empty.

“Mr. Mellark, you were in an accident,” Dr. Trinket began filling in the blanks for him, “You suffered a slight concussion in addition to a hairline fracture to your femur. After assessment upon your arrival to Tribute Center Regional Medical Facilities, you were rushed into surgery to repair your injuries. You have a splint on your leg and should heal just fine. I foresee a speedy recovery as long as you stay off your legs. Do you have any questions for me?”

Flashes came sputtering back, hitting the back of his eyelids like one of those slow, stop-motion picture films from Dr. Trinket’s words. “M-my w-wife and daughter—” Peeta croaked, his voice still dry and hoarse from days of not using it.

“Nurse, nurse, can we please get Mr. Mellark some form of oral hydration to quench his thirst?” Dr. Trinket pressed the call button on the remote by his bed and spoke into the intercom, “I bet you are just parched, aren’t you Mr. Mellark?” As upbeat and gregarious as the lovely Dr. Trinket appeared to be, he was not fooled by her deflection.

Before he had the opportunity to ask about his family again, a woman with kind eyes entered the room, carrying a styrofoam pitcher of water, a small tower of cups, and a handful of straws. She poured Peeta a cup of water and offered it to him.

“Thank you,” Peeta smiled at the woman, who returned his smile, and then disappeared from the room just as quickly as she entered.

Peeta took a long sip of water through the straw and wasn’t sure anything had ever tasted so good in his life. But then he met Dr. Trinket’s eyes and asked the question that was looming over them once again, “My wife? My daughter? K-Katniss and Primrose Mellark?”

Dr. Trinket’s face fell, and then she looked at him with so much pity, which only compelled Peeta to immediately jump to conclusions.

“No, no, they can’t be!” He cried, covering his face with his hands.

“Oh, no! No, no, my apologies Mr. Mellark. Your wife currently rests in a medically induced coma. She had some minor swelling on her brain, so the doctors felt it was necessary to allow her body adequate time to heal. She should be waking at any moment and her prognosis is optimistic!”

Peeta took another sip of water and braced himself for what came next, “And P-Primrose, m-my daughter?” Peeta faltered, afraid of her response. She was barely two years old; if he and Katniss were injured this badly, what happened to her? She was so tiny, she was—

“Your daughter’s—”

“Prim,” Peeta insisted. If his daughter’s condition was as critical as he feared, he would not allow the staff in this hospital to treat her as another ‘number’. He’d heard of horror stories and patients being neglected because of arrogant doctors. No, they would call her by her name.

“My apologies; Prim is in the pediatric intensive care unit. I do not know much about her case, but your daughter’s doctor will stop by shortly with an update on her status. I shall page him now to inform him that you are finally conscious. His name is Dr. Abernathy.”

“Okay,” Peeta nodded.

“I must warn you Mr. Mellark, Dr. Abernathy may come off a bit abrasive, his bedside manner needs much work, but—"

“Is he good? Will he save my baby?” Peeta implored; he could care less about the doctor’s bedside manner, all he cared about was if the man was good at his job. All he cared about was if he could save his baby girl.

“I may be a bit bias … but yes. He is the best. It is a fact that he is a world-renowned critical care pediatric surgeon. You will not find a more qualified physician in all of Panem.”

“O-okay, that’s good,” Peeta stuttered, feeling more optimistic as Dr. Trinket walked toward the door.

“Um … Dr. Trinket, if you don’t mind me asking, but why are you biased towards this doctor?”

“He is my husband,” Dr. Trinket answered proudly. “Oh, and please call me Effie, ‘Doctor Trinket’ is my mother … and besides, it makes me sound so old!”

“Mr. Mellark, I’m Haymitch,” a man with scruffy blonde hair covering his eyes strutted into the room. He had a white coat just like the other doctors Peeta had seen cruising the hallways, but this man looked far from any doctor he had ever met. Sure, he had the arrogance the other doctors seemed to have in spades, but he did not share the chiseled and clean-shaven faces he had witnessed on some of the other medical staff. He looked up, and above the breast pocket of this man’s jacket, the name, Dr. H. Abernathy, was inscribed in elegant script onto his coat.

So, this was Dr. Abernathy, Peeta thought. “It’s— it’s Peeta. Y-you have news about my daughter?”

“Yes, Primrose Ellis Mellark, twenty-six-month female,” Haymitch began, flipping through his notes. Then he dragged a chair across the room, its legs scraping against the floor, finally planting it next to Peeta’s bed before he took a seat in it— backwards. Dr. Abernathy— Haymitch put his notes away and crossed his arms over the back of the chair to look Peeta in the eye.

Yes, this was unlike any doctor I’ve ever come across before, Peeta thought to himself, but not necessarily in a bad way.

“Mr. Mellark, Peeta, I ain’t gonna lie to ya, yer little girl is in pretty bad shape. Thankfully, she was properly strapped in the car seat, and rear-facing at that— which is what will probably save her life. Most parents don’t follow the PAP guidelines—”

“I’m sorry, what is PAP?”

“Oh, my bad— I mean … sorry. It’s the Panem Academy of Pediatrics— you know, the guidelines— uh, the riff-raff of all the do’s and don'ts pertaining to childcare and whatnot. Anyhow, most parents turn their kids around before it’s time so they can see them … but uh— yeah— she’s beat up pretty bad, we’ve removed all the shards of glass from her skin and stitched up all the residual lacerations.” Peeta cringed at the doctor’s extensive description of his daughter. “She suffered some internal damage to her organs—”

“When c-can I see her?” Peeta stammered, interrupting the doctor and fighting back tears that were threatening to spill over.

“Soon. I’ll have someone page your nurse once she’s stabilized, and then we’ll get someone to bring ya up there. Ya got any other questions?” Haymitch asked Peeta, squirming to get out of the chair.

“Has … has anyone told Katniss— my wife?” Peeta warily asked the doctor. Part of him was hoping that Haymitch had already told her, while deep inside he knew it had to be him to deliver this crushing blow.

“No, not yet. I have to round on a few patients and then I’ll be stoppin’ by her room.”

Peeta gulped, “Would it—”

“Sure kid, it’s all yours. It’ll save me the trouble of havin’ to do it,“ Haymitch gruffed.

Geez, Dr. Trinket wasn’t kidding about his bedside manner, Peeta silently ruminated, all the while, wondering how in the world those two were married.

“Katniss? Katniss, baby, can you hear me?” One of the nurses hunted down a wheelchair and rolled Peeta into Katniss’s room. The sight of her broke his heart. She was lying there, unconscious and connected to an assortment of tubes and wires. As he sat by Katniss’s side, he found comfort in the steady beep, beep of her heart monitor, which he hoped was a good sign. He reached for her hand, holding it in his own, and closed his eyes, silently willing her to wake up.

I … I can’t do this alone; please Katniss, please wake up, with a quivering lip, he silently pleaded to her.

“Shouldn’t she be awake by now?” Peeta looked up and asked the nurse.

“I’m so sorry Mr. Mellark, but it isn’t an exact science. Patients can wake up anywhere between a few hours, to a few days once they’re weaned off the medication.” Katniss’ nurse, Annie informed him with a sympathetic smile.

“It’s okay, I understand.” Although Peeta was frustrated, he knew it wasn’t Annie’s fault and forced a smile to his lips.

Peeta wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he first arrived in Katniss’s room. He had already twice refused to return to his own room; he didn’t care about himself. All they wanted him to do in his room was rest, and he was perfectly capable of doing that from the comfort of his wife’s room, if not better. If he went back to his room all he would do is worry; at least in Katniss’s room, which was just across the hall, he could attempt getting a little rest.

“Mr. Mellark?” Annie slowly crept into the room. Peeta had fallen asleep in the chair next to Katniss’s bed, the cramp in his neck proof of the poor position he was in.

He jerked up when he heard Annie’s voice. “I know you don’t want to leave her side, but Doctor— I mean Haymitch just called and said we could bring you up to see your daughter. Would you like to—”

Peeta jolted up from his chair, forgetting about the injury to his leg for a moment until the pain shot up his spine.

“Oh no, no, no, I will get your wheelchair and take you up there. You wouldn’t make it to the elevators,” Annie smiled.

Annie rolled his wheelchair in from outside the room and wheeled Peeta to the PICU floor.

“So, does everyone call Dr. Abernathy by his first name?” Peeta tried to fill the uncomfortable silence with small talk.

Annie chuckled from behind him. “Yeah. He and Dr. Trinket— Effie; they don’t like formalities. They claim it helps eliminate the doctor/patient barrier; something about trust and bonding.” Peeta nodded and thought, ‘Yeah, I guess that makes sense.’

“Okay, I guess … I can see that. Have you worked here long? Do you know … is he a good doctor?” Peeta hoped he wasn’t being too intrusive, he just needed to know if Haymitch was as qualified to care for his daughter as Effie claimed.

“Haymitch? Oh, yes … he’s the best. If it were my son lying in a hospital bed— no matter where in the world I was, I would want Haymitch as his doctor. Heck, I would gladly pay him whatever he wanted and have him flown to whatever corner of the world I was in.”

“Wow, that’s … impressive. So, you have a son?”

“Yes, Nick is four years old,” Annie stopped and flipped her name badge over, stretching it out in front of Peeta’s line of sight to reveal a picture of a little boy with the greenest eyes, and wavy, sun kissed golden-blonde hair.

“He’s adorable … he’s going to be a heartbreaker when he’s older,” Peeta smiled, his heart aching to hold his own daughter.

“Thank you. His name is Finnick— well, Finnick Junior, after his father, but we just call him Nick. Oh, look! We’re here!”

Annie wheeled him into the PICU and spoke with one of the nurses who helped him to the “Scrub Room.” ‘Johanna’ first demonstrated the process of “scrubbing down,” which meant vigorously washing your hands with a medical scrub brush that contained a special, hospital-grade antiseptic soap. When it was his turn, Peeta “scrubbed” for exactly three minutes while Johanna stood over him, observing with her stopwatch in hand throughout the entire process. On the one hand, it made him feel self-conscious, but on the other hand, he was glad the staff was this precise. Then she checked his temperature, because, under no circumstances was anyone permitted to enter the unit with a temperature above 100.3. The last step was donning a sterile gown, gloves, and a facial mask before finally being allowed to see his daughter.

“So, if someone leaves and comes right back just a few minutes later, they have to do this all over again?” Peeta asked Johanna.

“Every single time—no exceptions. Hospital policy—or, well, Haymitch’s policy,” Johanna chuckled.

Prim looked so tiny in the incubator she was lying in, it reminded him of the ones you see premature babies in. It brought back memories of the day Katniss gave birth to their daughter, Peeta, silently thanking the heavens that his and Katniss’s newborn baby was full-term and healthy. He just hoped luck was on their side this time, too.

Peeta’s entire body quivered with trepidation when his eyes landed on his daughter. Prim was covered in stitches— they stretched across her entire body; on her arms, legs, her chest, and covered a majority of her face and head. It looked like they even had to shave a portion of her hair to place some of the stitches. She had IVs inserted in both her arms, a tube down her throat, and a tiny nasal cannula blowing oxygen into her nostrils. Peeta’s eyes began to sting from the sight of his beautiful Primrose, and the closer he inched toward her, the harder his eyes stung. Until finally, the dam broke, and the tears began pouring from his eyes, followed by uncontrollable sobs escaping his entire body.

“Oh, Primmie baby, I am so sorry. Daddy is so sorry; do you hear me?” Peeta cried to his little girl.

“Is she … will she make it? Do you think— can she— will she survive this?” Peeta looked up, meeting the nurse’s eyes, and wiping his face with the back of his sleeve.

“I honestly cannot give you a definitive answer Mr. Mellark. These little ones tend to have a mind of their own. Right now, it’s kind of touch and go. I would say that if she makes it through the night, then she’s got a standing chance. But I’m going to tell you something, I’ve seen babies much worse than your daughter bounce right back, but— on the flip side, I’ve seen others with barely any injuries—” Her words trailed off, hesitant to complete her sentence, but Peeta knew what she meant.

They didn’t make it. Peeta sucked in a breath, mustering all the courage he had to be strong for his daughter. What would he do if Prim di— if she … he couldn’t even think the word without his chest feeling as if thousand-pound bricks were smothering him.

“Why is that? What makes the difference?” He forced the words out. If Prim was to survive this, he needed to know.

“I think … Now, this is just my opinion, but I truly believe it depends on how hard they’re willing to fight. Their will, their drive to live. Right now, I would say, and perhaps this does nothing to ease your mind, but … hope and pray. As a veteran PICU nurse, I truly believe in the power of prayer. Talk to your daughter and let her know that you are waiting for her; that you are counting on her to survive this.” Peeta nodded, understanding what the nurse meant. “Give that beautiful little girl something to fight for,” Prim’s nurse finished with a kind smile.

“What was your name again? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch it, and how long will you be Prim’s nurse?”

“My name is Portia Rose, and I’ll be here all night,” the kind nurse replied, with an equally as kind smile. Peeta wondered if it was fate that brought them together. His daughter, named after Katniss’s lost sister, and this ‘Portia Rose,’ their names having an uncanny similarity.

“Peeta, Peeta what happened?” Katniss croaked, knowing something was wrong the moment her eyes opened and her husband’s tear-streaked face came into focus.

“Katniss, there was an accident. What is the last thing you remember?”

“I remember, we were going to the gas station … you wanted to stop before it got dark. We … we were on our way to see Mom … and then … and then … Peeta, what happened? Where is Prim?” Katniss asked, pushing herself up with her hands to straighten her position in the bed.

Water pooled in Peeta’s eyes and he bit down on the inside of his cheek to stop the flow of tears. He had to be strong for Katniss, he couldn’t show weakness, not yet. Not now.

Peeta poured Katniss a cup of water and handed it to her. “Here sweetie, I bet you’re thirsty.”

Katniss took the cup and pulled the water into her mouth, “Peeta, you’re scaring me. W-what happened?”

“Katniss, we were in an accident; w-we were hit head-on by a drunk driver.”

Katniss felt the heat spread through her face, and then slowly, it radiated to the tips of her fingers and toes. “And Prim?” She asked hesitantly, suddenly feeling nauseous and dizzy.

“She’s okay for right now. The doctors are taking really good care of her.”

“Okay, that’s good. That’s really good,” Katniss smiled. Peeta could see the tears welling up in her eyes and knew she was biting down on the inside of her cheek to quell her tears as she nodded. He instantly knew that something wasn’t right; this was the opposite of how Katniss should have reacted. His Katniss would be screaming, throwing a fit— demanding to get out of the hospital bed, adamant to see her daughter. But this was more like … like denial. He saw this once before … when her father died. Granted, that was years and years ago when they were barely teenagers.

Peeta observed Katniss for a few hours, occasionally leaving to check on his daughter. He knew the staff in the PICU were taking exceptional care of his daughter, and something told him his wife needed him more. After his most recent visit to Prim in the PICU, he made sure that Portia knew how to reach him in case … in case she needed him.

When Katniss was given “out of bed” privileges, she walked around the room, cheerful and full of smiles as she chatted jubilantly with her mother on the phone. She acted as if their daughter’s life wasn’t hanging in the balance just a few floors above them.

“Mom’s on her way Peeta, she should be here tomorrow,” Katniss informed Peeta after placing her phone on the bedside table.

Concerned for his wife’s emotional stability, Peeta spoke with one of Katniss’ nurses to find out when he could take her to their daughter.

“I don’t see why it should be a problem, she does seem to be basking in the river of ‘De Nile’,” Dr. Cinna noted, trying to lighten the mood. “Perhaps seeing Primrose with her own eyes will open her mind to the truth,” Peeta smiled, shaking Dr. Cinna’s hand; he was the first one to refer to their daughter by her name unprompted, and Prim wasn’t even his patient. It was at this time that Peeta decided that he liked Dr. Cinna— that he was perhaps his favorite doctor as of yet. Dr. Cinna provided Peeta with a wheelchair for Katniss, after first making sure Peeta’s legs were strong enough to haul her to the elevator.

“Come on Katniss, let’s go see our girl,” Peeta suggested, rolling the wheelchair up to Katniss’ bedside.

“Okay, sure. Mom’s on her way Peeta, she should be here tomorrow.”

“That’s good Katniss, I’m glad,” Peeta tried to feign enthusiasm. He frowned, wondering if she realized she just told him this only minutes ago.

Peeta wheeled his wife to the elevators and then pushed the “12” button that would deliver them to the PICU unit. He followed the arrows and pressed the button on the intercom, waiting patiently for someone to answer them. Johanna immediately recognized him, and took them through the same procedure from earlier of scrubbing down, a temperature check, and donning the sterile gown, gloves, and mask before Johanna led them to their daughter.

“Peeta, what— what are we doing here? I thought you were taking me to Prim?” Katniss asked, all traces of joy disintegrating as she was wheeled to Prim’s bedside.

“Katniss, honey— this is—”

“Oh, baby! Prim, baby, oh my God, what, how—” Katniss’ eyes filled with tears as she craned her neck up to meet Peeta’s eyes.

“No, no. NO!” Katniss screamed, standing up from her wheelchair, glaring daggers at Peeta. “NO, this is NOT happening!” Katniss shrieked, bolting from the room. Peeta did not follow her, he knew she needed time. The wheelchair was only precautionary, Katniss’s main injury was the concussion, which had healed during her medically induced coma.

He pulled a chair up to his daughter’s bedside, stuck his gloved hand inside the isolette and began to stroke her tiny hand. He needed her to know he was here for her and he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Oh, my sweet, sweet baby girl. My beautiful, beautiful, Primrose; Mommy, and Daddy are here for you and we’re not going anywhere, do you hear me? Mommy is just scared right now, and she will be back really soon. Oh, Primmie— we love you so, so much and we need you to get better. Oh, Prim; I know you probably don’t know this, or understand it, but you are the light of our lives. You have to get better, okay? Please fight, Primrose; you have to fight. I don’t think Mommy would survive if we lost you, I don’t know if I would survive. I know that’s a lot of pressure to put on such a little girl, but … but—” Peeta closed his eyes, held his head down, and did something he hadn’t done since he was a boy.

He prayed.

“If there is anyone out there who can hear me, anyone at all, I—” Peeta began, pleading with the powers that be as he sniffled, wiping his eyes with his free arm. “Please save my girl, she is my world, my everything. And— and my wife— Katniss needs her Primrose. I’ll do anything; if it’s a life you want— or need, take mine instead. Prim is just a baby; she hasn’t had time to live yet. She still needs her first day in kindergarten, her first best friend—a first boyfriend and a first heartbreak. I’ve lived, I’ve had all those things and more. I’ve lived a happy life, but please, just please, don’t take my girl.”

“Prim …” Peeta began after a moment, hoping to reach out to the sister Katniss lost so many years ago, “if you’re out there, and you can hear me, please … please look over our girl. Please, don’t … you can’t take her, it’s not her time,” Peeta sniffed again, his head perking up from the sound of footsteps behind him.

“Mr. Mellark?” It was Dr. Abernathy— Haymitch, looking no worse for the wear.

“Hi, Dr. Aber—”

“Haymitch. Call me Haymitch.”

Peeta nodded and met the man’s eyes, “Peeta.”

“Peeta, we’ve done everything we can for your girl, now it’s up to her.”

“What does that mean?” Peeta asked with a befuddled raise of his brow.

“It means that medically speaking, there is nothing more I can do for your girl. Now, it’s up to her, whether or not she’s willing to fight. If she gains consciousness before the night’s over, I am optimistic that, in time, she’ll make a full recovery.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Peeta asked, trembling with fear as he awaited the doctor’s answer.

“Then it’s not likely she’ll wake up at all, and then … we’ll discuss extraordinary measures. But let’s not cross that bridge until we get to it. In my experience, kids will fight to live if they have somethin’ ta fight for.”

“Thank you, Dr.— Haymitch. I … I need to find my wife— what are visiting hours?”

“I’ve cleared it with the nurses; you and your wife can stay as long as you want.”

“Thank you,” Peeta smiled and shook Haymitch’s hand, eager to find Katniss. As he made his exit from the PICU, he noticed Haymitch taking the seat next to his daughter and cleared his throat. Peeta slowed his pace, straining to hear what the doc had to say.

Haymitch cleared his throat once more and began to speak in a soft and gentle voice that Peeta almost didn’t recognize from the hardened doctor. But it was— without a doubt, him. “Listen, sweetheart, I know you don’t know me and all, but my name’s Haymitch and I’m your doctor. I know you’re little and all and you probably don’t understand how the world works, so, I’m gonna tell ya. You see, doctors give orders and patients are s’pposed ta listen. I’m the doctor, you’re the patient, got it? Alright, well now that that’s settled, I’m ordering you to stay alive, alright kid? That’s all you gotta do; stay alive. I’ll do the rest.”

With that, Peeta went on a quest for his wife, knowing his daughter was in good hands.

After Peeta wheeled Katniss to their daughter’s bed, it all hit Katniss like a ton of bricks. That was her daughter lying in that miniature hospital bed. Her Primrose. She had already lost one Primrose; she wouldn’t survive losing another— she just wouldn’t. Unable to face the truth, she ran from the room and took the elevators to the top floor. Once she exited the elevator, she went to the nearest door, which led to a stairway. She took the steps two at a time and passed through another door that opened up to the roof.

Katniss ran to the edge, leaning against the banister; not to jump, but just to look out into the sky.

For the first hour, she cried. She cried and cried, trying her best to convince herself that wasn’t her Prim lying in that bed, but someone else’s baby. It couldn’t be her daughter, it just couldn’t. The universe couldn’t be that cruel, right? But deep down, she knew it was. And then, she was consumed with guilt—for wishing that fate upon someone else’s child.

During the following hour, she did something she hadn’t done since she was small, since her own parents forced her to do it. She didn’t necessarily believe there wasn’t a God exactly, but she didn’t really believe there was one either. But what if there was? Would he still listen to her after all the years of silence?

Deciding it was worth the risk, on the off chance there was some kind of higher power out there, she begged, she pleaded for them to save her little girl. And then, she resorted to begging, dropping to her knees as she bargained her life away. She didn’t know that at the same exact time, her husband was doing precisely— the same exact thing. She was on her knees sobbing when she heard the door whoosh open, her husband’s beautiful blue eyes piercing into her own grey ones.

“Katniss, are you okay?” Peeta asked her, worry glazing over him from the sight of her on her knees.

She wanted his comfort, needed it even. But then, she was angry at him. No, not angry, but furious, enraged. This was all his fault, after all.

“Go away!” She shouted at him, seething with rage.

“Katniss, what?” Peeta shrunk back, hurt by her rejection.

“This is all your fault Peeta. If you hadn’t— YOU’RE the one who wanted kids, not me. If YOU hadn’t convinced me to have kids, this wouldn’t be happening. We wouldn’t be losing her.” Katniss stood up and inched herself closer to Peeta, sending him a cold, icy, glare.

“You don’t mean that Katniss,” Peeta told her, holding his stance with pain-filled eyes. He knew deep down that she was just hurt and needed to channel her frustrations elsewhere. Lashing out at him was the easiest, and fastest way to achieve that goal.

The closer Katniss got to Peeta, the angrier she became. The tears began streaming down her face until she could no longer hold back the uncontrollable sobs. She began hitting and pounding her fist against his chest, she was so angry. But Peeta didn’t budge. He didn’t try and stop her, he just stood there, taking each hit and allowing her to use him as her own personal punching bag. He knew it wasn’t actually him she was angry at, she just needed somewhere to divert her anger.

Peeta pulled Katniss into his arms and within seconds she ceased pounding his chest. He held her, crying his own silent tears while Katniss sobbed in his arms. Once the tears subsided, Katniss looked up to see the pained expression on her husband’s face, in addition to the tears streaking his cheeks and she felt … guilty.

“I’m sorry Peeta, I’m so sorry. Oh, Peeta, I— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean what I said.”

“Shhh, sshhh. I know, I know,” Peeta whispered into her ear, stroking circles against her back as he tried to comfort her.

“I can’t lose her Peeta, I— I won’t survive if I lose her.”

“I know Katniss, I know. Me too. But … but I won’t survive if I lose you. So, let’s pull ourselves together, go to our baby girl and give her something to fight for,” Katniss sniffled and nodded her head. Together, they walked back to the PICU to be with their daughter.

They re-entered the PICU and headed straight for Prim, only to see a swarm of nurses huddled in a circle; in what looked like them holding vigil at their daughter’s bedside. One look on their faces and Katniss and Peeta knew something was wrong— devastatingly so.

“I’m so sorry Mr. and Mrs. Mellark, her vitals are steadily declining. It won’t be much longer now; would you like to hold her before— before—”

“I … I wasted so much time,” Katniss cried, nodding as the tears streamed down her face. One of the nurses pulled up a rocking chair for one of the parents to sit in. Peeta was adamant that Katniss hold her first— just in case.

They opened the tiny incubator and placed Prim in Katniss’s arms, draping a blanket over them while another nurse made a call to Haymitch.

“Oh, baby girl, momma loves you so much. Mommy and Daddy love you so, so much sweet girl.” Katniss hummed through her tears. “You are so special Prim, so, so very special, my sweet, sweet girl. You are so special and so loved and …” Katniss sobbed through her tears, placing kiss after kiss to her little girl’s forehead. Peeta squatted next to Katniss and with one hand, he linked their fingers, and with the other hand, he stroked his little girl’s foot. The floodgates were open— he didn’t think he could cry any harder until he heard Katniss’s beautiful voice singing the lullaby to their daughter.

Deep in the meadow, under the willow

A bed of grass, a soft green pillow

Lay down your head and close your eyes,

And when they open, the sun will rise;

Peeta’s heart plummeted in his chest as he heard Prim’s heart monitor “flat line.” As difficult as it was with the splint on his leg, he inched closer to his wife and daughter as they both cried and overwhelmed Prim with kisses. They showered her with as much love as they could muster, telling her how much they loved her. They told her how special she was and how they would never forget her. As badly as it hurt Peeta to say the words, he finally told his baby girl that it was okay for her to go. The last thing he wanted in this world was for her to suffer.

The nurse reached up to silence the heart monitor when, suddenly, the steady beeping from the machine resumed all on its own.

“What the—” the nurse exclaimed just as Haymitch burst through the door.

“I thought you said code red?” Haymitch growled, seeing the normal heart rhythm on the monitor.

“She—she flatlined, and then— she just— came back,” Portia stuttered in complete bewilderment.

“Little slugger had something worth fighting for, what’d I tell ya?” Haymitch chuckled, looking at the teary-eyed parents.

One Year Later:

“Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you …” Katniss and Peeta sat on either side of their daughter on her third birthday, slightly less than a year after the devastating car accident that nearly took her life.

“That is one happy little girl,” Effie looked up and smiled at her husband. “Thanks to you,” she added in a whisper.

“Yeah, yeah.” Haymitch pretended like he didn’t care, but Effie knew—she always knew; he cared too much.

“What did you wish for, sweet girl?” Katniss asked her daughter after she blew her candles out.

“A baby brudder,” Prim said, her face smeared with chocolate frosting and a mouthful of chocolate cake.

Simultaneously, Katniss and Peeta’s eyes locked and Katniss inadvertently reached up to palm her belly.

“Should we?” Katniss mouthed to her husband who gave her a slight nod.

“You’re going to be a big sister Prim, but not for a few more months,” Peeta informed their daughter, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Yay! I like wishes, Mommy!” Prim squealed, wrapping her tiny arms around her mother’s neck.

#ameliaodair #prompt 29 #Springtime edition 2021 #submission

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chews-erotically · 4 years ago

Photo

*Waxing Gibbous

Pairing: Ezra + femNurse! Reader

Rating: Hard M / 18+ ONLY

* Warnings: None really, maybe more angst/ comfort

* Summary: You arrive on Central and begin your recoveries.

* Word Count: ~1500

*Part ONE* *Part TWO* *Part THREE* *Part FOUR* *Part FIVE* *Part SIX* *Part SEVEN*

PART EIGHT

If you had fled the Green moon even ten minutes later, Ezra would have died. That was the grim information relayed to you by the sling-back medic after he’d been rushed to a med cot, given high-flow oxygen and sedated. He was critically ill. You’d been told immediately upon arrival and quick assessment that once you reached the Pug you were going to be transferred directly to a teaching hospital on Central.You were faring a bit better, but not by much. Your shoulder had been cleaned and bandaged. As you were conscious, you were given supplemental oxygen through a nasal cannula.

The medic had attempted to press for some detail concerning how you’d both ended up in such states. Exhausted and struck numb, you’d simply shrugged and moved to rearrange the intravenous line of lactated ringer’s solution going into the catheter inserted into the top of your forearm. The machine had started beeping, and the sound was like a hammer to your skull.

Once you reached the Pug things moved quickly indeed. Transport was coordinated in the Pug med bay and a nurse approached you, stating that she would be taking you into an exam room to obtain an updated set of vitals and enter your information into their data system. You had refused.

“I’m not leaving him.”

Clearing his throat, the nurse tried to explain the protocol he had to follow. You held up your hand to still his speech.

“Save it. You won’t change my mind. I’m not leaving him.”

***

Once on the transport you’d been able to keep your eyes open for perhaps twenty minutes. You’d passed out sitting on the hard metal bench with your head slumped forward onto Ezra’s cot, your hand clasping his.

***

Central was cacophonic. After the eerie quiet of the Green the sounds, chatter, colors and thrumming life surrounding you was beating into your brain like a staccato mace. Your head throbbed. You flinched away from the shoulders brushing past you. You were close to panic, overwhelmed by the sensory overload. You took deep, measured breaths. You stayed as close to Ezra’s cot as possible. You had to resist the urge to climb into it with him and throw a blanket over your head.

They were going to have to take Ezra away from you. You knew this logically. He was fragile. Needed intubation, needed close surveillance. He was most likely septic at this point and it was uncertain if the damage he’d suffered to his lung tissue would be permanent. You knew he might still die. You knew this, and you wept openly, pitifully.

“WAIT!” you’d croaked out, shakily grasping the shoulder of the ICU nurse who had begun rushing him down the hallway for STAT bloodwork.

She’d turned to you with sympathy shading her features.

You gazed at her name badge through waterfalls.

“....Mollen. That’s your name?”

A pause. “Yes,” she’d replied softly. You knew you needed to trust her.

“His feet get cold at night. Only at night, otherwise he says they’re like furnaces. He can’t sleep well if his feet aren’t covered. Please cover his feet. Please,” you’d choked.

She had given you a small, sad smile. “Of course.”

“Thank you, Mollen.”

You had stood pathetically twisting your hands together with tears coursing unabashed until Ezra turned a corner and disappeared from you.

***

“Prognosis is precarious,” One of the physicians had pulled you into a private room to go over findings with you. You had since been seen and treated; miraculously you had not needed surgery, though you would most likely have permanent nerve damage to your thumb and two fingers on your left hand. You’d been told that you’d most likely be in the hospital for a week or two; you needed IV antibiotics and respiratory therapy in addition to wound care.

You’d requested a private room as close to the ICU as possible, passing a piece of aurelac to the Intake Administrator. He’d accepted with wide eyes, and you’d gotten your room.

The doctor was solemn as she looked over the rims of her glasses at you.

“Your partner has diffuse opacities in the lower lobes of his lungs. The left is partially collapsed. We’ve intubated him, as you know, to allow his lungs time to rest and strengthen. He is septic, and he’s being treated with an experimental cocktail of three different antibiotics, dexamethasone for inflammation, and vasopressors to maintain his blood pressure.

“Fortunately, his body is strong and his kidney function is improving. He has remained without a fever for the past eight hours, so that is reassuring. If he continues to show improvement I am fairly confident that we can begin planning for extubation within the next two to three days. If he can tolerate extubation and begin breathing on his own, we can start weaning his oxygen and begin to wake him up.”

Though you knew what you were walking into, you steeled yourself.

You entered his room and stood a moment to process the sheer enormity of the amount

of medical equipment keeping Ezra alive. You took in the tubes and wires, the bags of

fluid infusing through catheters, the softly beeping sensors. When you were not in your

room or engaged in your own treatments, you were here. You pulled up the chair that

Mollen had placed especially for you, and you began your silent vigil once again.

Ezra looked so small in that bed, so fragile. He was dwarfed by the machinations

surrounding him. He was pale, wan. As you always did, you grasped his hand and

squeezed, ran your thumb over his knuckles the way he’d once done with you.

you talked to him softly, describing the room, going over what had happened since you

had escaped the Green. You talked about your own treatments and progress. You

described Central, how busy and bustling everything was, how many people flooded the

streets each day. Theatres you’d seen across from your window, coffee shops and

bars you wanted to explore with him. Your favorite activity was reading to him. You had

spent a great deal discussing all manner of art, and Ezra loved to talk about books both

well-loved and those he longed to read but had been unable to find. As you found

yourself in the incomprehensible position of having more credits than you could ever

imagine possessing, you had books delivered to your room.

Ezra was extubated the day you received your last dose of antibiotics. You were due to

be discharged in three days. His organ function had improved at a rate that had exceeded

the expectations of his medical team. His encyclopedic list of medications had shortened reassuringly. He was strong enough to tolerate the extubation and was transitioned to a nasal cannula. You rejoiced in this, though your anxiety spiked as the physicians began the arduous task of bringing him out of sedation. It did not happen all at once as many thought, but gradually and in increments. It happened in sighs and twitches, thrashes and groans. You wondered if he dreamed. You hoped that he could hear you repeat your devotions.

You had secured a lease downtown, finding a loft a block from the hospital. It was spacious, covered in windows that stretched, floor to ceiling, and opened onto a balcony that afforded you a breathless view of Central. You had never had something so nice in your life.

You had been discharged for two days, you had started to plan how to turn your new space into a safe space for both you and Ezra, when you were alerted by the hospital that Ezra had awakened. He was asking for you.

You doubt if your feet touched the ground as you rushed to the hospital, stopping only to catch your breath.

You entered his room panting, vibrating.

Ezra was sitting upright, the first time you’d seen him not supine in weeks. He was pale, he sported dark and sunken circles under his eyes. His hair was wildly curling, his blond streak sticking straight out. He was sipping gingerly on a cup of water with a shaking hand.

Your Ezra. Beautiful Ezra.

“.....Ez?”

He looked upon you as if you were an apparition. He went to move shakily to his feet, and you were there before he could stand. Enveloping him in your arms, kissing his face, feeling him and inhaling whatever you could of him, of his vibrant life.

Alive.

You realized you were both weeping, you chuckled as you took turns wiping the wetness from one another’s face. When he spoke, his voice was rough, you knew it would take time for Ezra to regain his mellifluous cadence.

“Beautiful star, our souls cannot escape one another, universe try as it might to tear us asunder.”

“I missed you, Ezra. Sweet love, I’m never letting you out of my sight ever again. Ever.”

“I wish you luck trying to part from me at this point, Dove.”

You knew you’d done something right, standing against him.

You knew you were home.

#chews-erotically writes #ezra prospect #ezra x reader #ezra #ezra fics

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brucewayneargento-moved · 3 years ago

Text

To All My Fathers (Chapter 1)

Summary: Damian Wayne, a fourteen year old with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, goes onto a road trip with the four men who shaped him as a person before his bone marrow transplant.

Fic also avaliable on FF.net

Damian had definitely decided he would not wear a fanny pack.

It didn't matter that it was the most convenient and comfortable way to take a chemo pump iv from place to place. He'll much rather attract attention with a backpack connected to a pump than to regress back to the eighties in the most horrendous fashion. Sure he might pick up unwanted attention from strangers but A) He could always stare at them back; B) He was past the time to care and C) He already didn't have eyebrows so that was kind of a moot point.

The boy was currently seated at the med bed of the 666 room. (Drake had made several jokes about it, which Damian didn't mind and in fact encouraged, because with his diagnosis came a morbid sense of humor and he was also glad at least one person still treated him like a human being). He was practicing violin while he could still hold it and also enjoying the fact that he was wearing actual comfortable clothes and not a paper robe that made his autism completely and utterly fucking lose it.

Some kids from the other rooms had come to see him perform and Damian loved to have an audience. Because he had an ego, not as much and not as evil as people usually thought, but still. Most of them were children younger than ten who just needed some entertainment that wasn't a superhero.

"This was Ode To Joy by Bethoveen," Damian explained. The three children around him applauded. When they stopped he could still hear hands clapping, he looked up and his eyes met his father's.

Bruce came closer to him and the kids left after being called by a nurse. Boy and man looked at each other for a few seconds.

"Are you ready?" Bruce finally asked

Damian might have sounded insane if he said it outloud, but his father and Jon were very similar.

The blue eyes, the black hair and the fact that they both cried before or after entering a room with Damian in it, bonus points if he was being stabbed with a needle right at that moment, then you could see their eyes getting crystalized almost in slow motion.

And it's not like Damian was annoyed by their emotions as one might have thought, it was more of a...sting, (man being stabbed with a needle on a daily basis was really taking a toll on him, wasn't it?) like, something that hurt but it wasn't enough for him to do anything about it more than to grit his teeth and power through it.

Numbness was apparently a common thing among patients. But Damian thought of himself as many stuff, but common wasn't one of them

And perhaps his ego was the only thing keeping him optimistic, perhaps thinking that he was too special to die alone in a hospital room was what made him stronger against the whole GvHD thing.

Leslie had told him that he was lucky to find a donor that was relatively near, in Kansas nonetheless, home of Superman and. So now he had just to keep up with the program: L-asparaginase,dexamethasone and vincristine several times a day and wait.

Or at least that was the original plan.

"Yes." he finally answered, standing up.

When all you receive in your life is gaslighting, you don't even notice the medical gaslighting.

Maybe it was the whole "being indoctrinated since birth by an ecoterrorist death cult" thing but his ability to exercise his free will hadn't been particularly developed.

The bruises? Vigilante stuff. The fever? Probably the flu. Weight loss? Maybe he had gotten a growth spurt that just made him seem thinner…He had to throw up blood to even be admitted into a hospital.

The Wayne-Head name allowed him the finest care probably ever known to man. "Nepotism: where you can die comfortably" that was an actual thing he had said while high on sedatives. He could only imagine his mother's face upon hearing it.

When he woke up both his parents were there. Damian could immediately tell something was wrong. His father was crying and his mother was stoic.

"Oh, ok, so I'm dying" He said, grabbing their attention. Both Talia and Bruce turn to look at him. Damian tried to sit and noticed his arm was cranked to an IV. "Oh, I'm actually dying."

"Do not speak like that." His mother warned him with a threatening voice. Bruce kept quiet but still with a face wet with tears.

Next to them there was a third person. She was an older woman with gray hair and glasses. Doctor Thompkins, his father's godmother. She went over to the medbed and sat on the foot. Damian crossed his arms. She was a smart woman but had the annoying habit of treating him like a perpetual child. Probably the closest thing he had to an actual grandmother.

"Damian," she fixed her glasses and looked at the clipboard she was holding. "Your blood count is in the 200.000 white cells."

Damian's eyes slightly widened, which covertly hid how much of a gut punch he just received.

"I can't have leukemia," he simply stated. There was a slight pained sound coming from his father's mouth which made Damian look him in the eye…that's how he knew it was true.

He started to grin which turned into a giggle which turned into a laugh.

Bruce and Talia looked at him with worry.

"Denial is very common," Leslie stated, trying to remain calm and also sooth Damian up. The teen kept laughing and then stopped to talk.

He had tears in his eyes. "I mean... so much for being an eugenics frankenstein monster, I've failed at even that."

The rest of that afternoon was a blur for him. Except for the being stabbed with needles on his spine parts, that one he remembered very well. Since he had such a high tolerance for pain, the fact that he was casually hurt was news to him.

Of course Dick had been the first one to enter the room.

Damian had hoped that he wasn't but after all it made sense that he did, he was his Robin. He could imagine him punching a wall and screaming when he heard the news. That mental image didn't upset him at all, clearly.

Damian was pretending to watch TV where his oldest brother entered the scene. He had prepared what he was going to say. How he was okay and how he was too stubborn to die anyways. But all of that went to hell when Dick entered the room and immediately ran up to hug him.

All of the walls he had been building up until now feel down hard. Damian just had to press his head against Dick's shoulder for the tears to start running.

"I want a falafel."

They were in the hospital room after a particularly hard session of chemo. His brother was on a chair in front of him reading a book and not looking at him.

"You just threw up on my shoe," he reminded Damian.

"I'm here for a good time, not a long time"

Dick rolled his eyes, now accustomed to the fact that his sibling had developed a morbid sense of humor because of his condition. Right at that moment the door opened and Doctor Thompkins entered the room.

"How are we?" She asked.

"Great." Both responded almost robotically. Damian gagged.

"I wanted to talk to you, Dick, about the bone marrow transplant."

"Why not talk to me?" Damian intervened. "I'm the one whose blood isn't working."

"Because you're still a child," Dick answered as a matter of fact. And despite everything he was glad his older brother at least now had the courtesy of treating him like he had always done. "What's the prognosis, doc?"

"We're considering the umbilical cord transfusion." Leslie explained. "But you will have to ask my godson first.

"Why would he need to...wait...Selina's pregnant?!" Damian asked but then he threw up again. "That wasn't meant to signify my feelings on the matter."

Leslie continued. "But that will still take a few months and...I'm afraid we don't have that much time."

Damian pretended to gag and looked down at the bucket, all to avoid looking at Dick's face.

"But the good news is that we found a match."

Damian hadn't even had time to think about that sentence before he blurted it out, but now it was there, out in the open. For everyone to hear.

"I want to have children."

Everyone being an hyperbole since Alfred was the one who was actually there. His father had to go to patrol so the butler had the night shift to take care of Damian while at the hospital to which the boy was appreciative of. Except for this moment when he was mentally slapping himself for letting on too much. Side effects of being raised to be a killing machine.

"I...did not know that." Alfred admitted. Up to twelve seconds ago he had been standing up listing the symptoms of chemo at Damian's request since he didn't trust Leslie to do it without sugarcoating it and his father might burst into tears in an attempt to do so. Damian had been listening attentively before Alfred mentioned that it was possible that he might wind up being infertile.

The boy simply turned around to the other side of the bed and sighed as tears left his eyes.

Dear Damian

I could not be more content that you are receiving the transplant that you so much need. I wish I could accompany you on the journey to Kansas, but sadly Lady Talia needs me to look out after Bialya...I wish you nothing but a rapid recovery. I implore you to remember that you are not alone in this, to remember that there is a plethora of people that adore you with all of their souls and that you will always have their help. Even when you do not want it.

Best Wishes

Ravi.

Damian looked at Alfred who glanced at him for a nanosecond in the mirror of the car. He knew he was the most active ally he had in this game. Since he not only advocated to his father for this trip to be possible but he also was the only person to always show his compassion in spite of if he actually deserved it or not. Bruce was next to him while Richard sat next to Damian and assesed his condition.

They stayed in comfortable silence in the car with only the sound of "dad music" on the radio for background noise. Damian allowed himself to close his eyes and to feel the soothing bounce of the car against the pavement on his skin...

They stopped suddenly after a while and Damian opened his eyes, he frowned in confusion as Alfred parked the car in front of the airport.

"What are we doing here?" he asked curiously.

Alfred turned around to look at him. "Your father , Master Richard and I thought It'll be a good idea to fly in a friend of yours."

Damian's frown deepened. "A friend?"

Suddenly a tap was heard on the window. They both turned around to look at the front window. It was being slightly knocked on it by a man with a white cane and a bald head who was smiling at them.

"Ravi?" Damian rubbed his eyes and felt them watering up.

Damian knew that he could never make up to Ravi for being responsible for losing his vision. And he also knew that in spite of that the man would still love him unconditionally.

That could be proven easily by the letters that he had written to him when he found out about his diagnosis…

All his father figures were here, suddenly he felt an internal strength he hadn't felt in a while.

#tw: cancer #tw // cancer #tw cancer #damian wayne #bruce wayne #dick grayson #alfred pennyworth #ravi #robin #batman #nightwing

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radiantroope · 4 years ago

Text

Lonely Heart || Rafe Cameron

Chapter Two – Coming Home

chapter summary: You return to Kildare and find out just how sick your mother is. You visit a friend who’s harboring a damning secret.

warnings: familial cancer, mentions of familial death, swearing, a teeny bit of alcohol consumption

word count: 2.6k+

author’s note: another filler chapter lol. i want to make the chapters longer but i don’t want to rush the story. they’ll probably get longer after this one. chapter three is gonna be a doozy y’all, i hope you’re ready. as always, feedback is greatly appreciated. i write for myself but if no one’s interested what’s the point in posting? i hope you like it!🥰

read chapter one here!

series playlist | series masterlist | main masterlist

You didn’t think twice about catching the first flight to the Outer Banks. Your father’s haunting, solemn voice echoed in your head. He sounded distraught and you knew he needed you. He didn’t want to discuss your mother’s condition over the phone so he bid you goodbye and promised to be waiting at the airport for you. You packed every bag you had — the three Louis Vitton suitcases displayed on the top shelf in your closet and the two large duffel bags stuffed under your queen sized bed. As much of your belongings as you could fit were haphazardly stuffed to the brim in each of them.

You didn’t sleep that night, it was no use since you booked your flight for five in the morning. Your stomach bubbled nervously as you watched the hours tick by, finally deciding to head for the airport at three. Your Uber pulled up outside your building and the driver kindly helped you get your bags into the trunk. The highway was almost completely empty in the early hours of the morning. You arrived at LAX in record time, thankful you didn’t have to deal with the dreaded California traffic.

After making your way through security and checking your bags, you found a chair at your gate in the corner away from others. You sat numbly, staring out the window as other planes took off and landed. You were preparing yourself for the worst. Your father wouldn’t have told you to come home if your mother’s condition wasn’t serious. For a fleeting moment you let yourself worry about classes and what you were going to do about school, but you quickly shoved those thoughts away. School would still be there in the end, your mother might not.

The five hour flight felt like an eternity. You tried your best to get even an ounce of sleep, but you could hear the hum of the aircraft over your music and a baby sitting a few rows behind you was crying every fifteen minutes. You ordered a rum and coke from the flight attendant to numb you a little bit more, take some of the edge off. One turned into three and finally you were landing in the Outer Banks, patting yourself on the back for not snapping at the poor mother who couldn’t console her child the whole flight.

You exited the plane, grasping your carryon tightly as you scanned the people bustling about. Your eyes landed on your father and a grin spread across both of your faces. You walked to him quickly, arms wrapping tightly around his waist as you embraced each other.

“Hi, princess,” he whispered into your hair.

Tears sprang to your eyes and a shaky sigh left your lips as you responded, “Hi, daddy.”

The two of you walked to baggage claim and collected them, your father lightly teasing you for how many you’d brought. You simply rolled your eyes and followed him out to the car. The sweltering North Carolina heat had sweat collecting along your hairline in an instant. The humid air made you regret wearing joggers and a sweater on the plane ride. You would have rather froze on the plane than be overheating at that moment.

“How’s momma?” you asked once you were in the car, blasting the air conditioning in your face and rolling up your sleeves.

Your father hesitated, letting out a heavy sigh. He reached over the center console and took your hand, giving it a squeeze as he replied, “She’s tired, but you know her. She acts like she’s fine but I know this is taking its toll on her.”

You nodded and settled back in the seat, staring out the window as your father drove home. The island still looked the same as you remembered. It looked like they’d added a new hotel and expanded on Figure Eight, a few larger, newer houses standing out against the rest.

Your house came into view and you breathed a sigh of relief. You smiled as the car pulled into the driveway and you saw your mother’s figure sitting on the wrap around porch. You jumped out of the vehicle, making your way up the cobblestone path quickly. The older woman pushed herself to her feet and wrapped her arms around your neck once you were close enough. The floodgates in your eyes opened as your arms wrapped around your mother’s fragile body, quiet sobs muffled against her shoulder as you embraced.

“Hey, hey,” your mother shushed your cries, pulling back enough to hold both sides of your face and get a good look at you. She swiped the tears off your cheeks with her thumbs and gave you a warm smile, “No crying, you hear me?”

You nodded slightly, small sniffles escaping you as you blinked away the burning sensation in your eyes. Your mother pulled you to sit in the chair beside her as your father took your bags inside the house. She waited until you’d composed yourself a bit better before speaking, “Why don’t I go grab us some tea so we can talk?”

A brain tumor, a Glioblastoma multiforme, to be more specific. It had been growing and spreading for some time now within your mother’s head. She played down her symptoms to your father, not wanting to worry him, until she had a seizure at the Cameron’s the previous Sunday. They rushed her to the hospital via ambulance and spent hours doing scans and bloodwork. The prognosis wasn’t good, since the tumor had already grown so large. Even through chemotherapy and radiation they were giving her a year at most.

You stared at the mug in front of you, watching the steam rise into the air and dissipate in front of you. You had tried to argue surgery, insisting it would at least give her more time. Your father had joined the two of you and gently told you it wasn’t an option. She likely wouldn’t survive the surgery and if she did, she could be in a coma for the rest of her life.

“This can’t be happening,” you whispered, voice breaking as you put your head in your hands. “I should have come home more. I should have gone on those vacations. I should have been here with you.”

“Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N, you look at me,” your mother’s voice was stern as she reached across the table and grabbed your wrist gently. You lifted your head and met her gaze through blurry eyes.

“Now is not the time to blame ourselves. This is out of our hands, pumpkin. You can’t waste your time wishing to change the past. You need to be here, live here, in the present. We’re together and you’re here now, that’s what matters.”

Your father rested a strong hand on your shoulder from where he stood beside you, giving it a gentle squeeze. You slipped your hand into your mother’s, holding onto tightly as you choked out, “I love you so much. Both of you.”

You spent the afternoon unpacking your bags in your old bedroom. It was the same as you had left it, walls painted your favorite color and bed neatly made with the crisp white sheets. Some of your old posters still hung on the walls and your eyes drifted to the photo album you’d left last time you visited. The contents inside used to make you smile as you basked in the memories the pictures held, now they brought you heartache every time you looked at the smiling faces inside.

With a sigh, you forced yourself to take a long shower. You were drained emotionally and physically, having gotten no sleep the night before and the amount of crying you’d done took everything out of you. You skipped dinner and passed out early in the evening.

—

The next morning you woke up to the smell of bacon wafting through the house. You pulled yourself out of bed and trudged down the stairs with heavy steps. You’d gotten almost twelve hours of sleep but felt as though you could sleep twelve more, rubbing your eyes as you entered the bright kitchen. You greeted your parents with a soft ‘Good morning’, making a beeline for the coffee machine.

Your father plated bacon and eggs for you and your mother, setting them at the table in front of you. You hummed as warm coffee settled in your veins before digging into your breakfast. Back in California you didn’t cook for yourself much, opting to eat toast or pre-prepared meals. You missed the home cooked meals provided by your parents almost everyday.

“I spoke to Topper’s mother this morning,” your mother interrupted the comfortable silence, eyes trained on you. Your attention turned to her at the mention of your friend’s name. “You should swing by their place today. I’m sure he’d love to see you.”

You and Topper had grown closer since Rafe stopped speaking to you. When you’d visit, the two of you often ran around the island together. He’d take you to the Boneyard ‘For old time’s sake’ or out on his boat with Kelce. The two of them never brought up Rafe to you, unlike Janelle. You didn’t see her much visiting home either, as she chose to stay in South Carolina most of the time. If you weren’t with Sarah or your parents, you were often with Topper. He filled that void inside of you with some warmth, but it was never full. There was still an emptiness there.

“Are you sure?” you asked, feeling reluctant to leave your parents.

Your mother scoffed slightly and waved her hand with a smile, “You can’t spend every second with us. You need to see your friends.”

As much as your mother would love to spend every second with you, she knew how important your friendships were. They were the people who would be there for you when she no longer could. It brought her comfort knowing you had people close to you to confide in. It made her proud that you developed such close relationships. Though, there was a storm on the horizon, and she wasn’t the only one who felt it.

“If you insist,” you hummed and stood from the table, placing your plate in the sink then pressing a kiss to your parent’s heads. “But you better call me if you need anything!” you called as you ascended the stairs to get ready.

You threw on a green bikini, in case you found yourself at the beach. You put on a pair of cut off shorts and a loose crop top then slipped some sandals on your feet. You grabbed the keys to your father’s car and made your way through Figure Eight to the Thornton house. A soft smile graced your face as you pulled up and saw the woman of the house stepping out the front door.

You climbed out of the car and the older woman’s face lit up as she spotted you. The two of you met in the middle of the driveway and she wrapped her arms around you tightly, “Y/N, honey, it’s so good to see you. How’s your mother?”

“She’s in good spirits. She’s as good as she can be,” you replied, pulling back and giving Mrs. Thornton a smile.

“That’s good to hear,” she gave your upper arms a squeeze before pulling away and moving to her car, “I’ve gotta run. Topper’s out by the pool. Don’t be a stranger!”

You walked around the large modern looking house and went through the gate. You rounded the corner and saw Topper standing at the bar built into the patio, presumably putting together a drink. There was music playing softly from the outdoor speakers and you couldn’t help but smile. He must have heard the gentle pat of your sandals against the cement because he looked up and audibly gasped when he saw you.

“My God, Topper, could your outfit be any brighter?” you giggled as he set whatever was in his hands on the counter and raced over to you. His orange polo was almost neon in the sun and his swim trunks were a similar shade.

“Shut up, come here,” he laughed as he reached you and scooped you up under the waist. You stood on your toes, arms wrapped tightly around his neck as your eyes slipped closed, basking in the warm and inviting hug.

Topper pulled back and looked down at you, taking in the dark circles under your eyes and the noticeable flush to your skin. He smiled softly and took you by the hand, pulling you into the shade where he had been previously, “How are you?”

You sat down at one of the bar stools and sighed heavily, putting your elbow on the counter and resting your chin in your hand. You tapped your cheek with your index finger as you pretended to think deeply before spewing, “I just up and left California a week before classes were supposed to start, I found out my mom has cancer and I came back to an island that I had no intention of ever returning to.” You paused and painted a wide smile on your lips, “I’m great, Top!”

Topper laughed softly and shook his head, grabbing a glass to make you a drink as well. “Dumb question, got it. You hate it here that bad?” he asked, staring at you as he passed the glass across the bar to you.

You took a sip of the drink and grimaced slightly at the amount of spiced rum the boy had used, overpowering the orange juice mixed in. You sighed again and played with the straw, avoiding his eyes, “Don’t get me wrong, I miss my parents and Sarah and you guys.. There’s just a lot of things I’d rather forget. People I’d rather not see.”

“How long has it been?” Topper questioned, the look on his face telling you exactly what he was talking about. He didn’t want to outright say it. He didn’t know how deep those wounds still ran. It took him over a year to get over Sarah’s infidelity and they weren’t even together all that long. He couldn’t imagine losing a friend of almost twenty years.

“Five years,” you said through a dry laugh. “Can you believe that? Five fucking years.”

“I’m sorry,” he responded genuinely. It was a lame response and he knew it, but there was nothing else he could have said. Nothing could change how the last five years of your life had played out.

You shook your head and leaned back in the chair, running your fingers through your hair, “I don’t even want to think about it. When I think about it I get angry, and I’m so fucking tired of being angry.”

Topper dropped the subject after that. The two of you finished your drinks and he took you to the island club for lunch, knowing you loved the food even though you talked shit about how prestigious the organization was. After that he took you to the beach and you watched the sunset from your favorite lookout. It was near a cliff but you preferred to sit down below, atop the large and cracked rocks where the waves crashed. The ocean spray cooled off your warm skin and the blinding sunlight reflecting off the water was your favorite. You felt at peace there. The roaring sound of the ocean drowned out even your darkest thoughts.

Topper watched you, the way your mouth would twitch as you thought of something subconsciously. He watched you close your eyes when a particularly large wave would crash and water splashed at your feet. He felt a pit growing in his stomach because he knew you wouldn’t be like this for long — so at peace. You were unknowingly a ticking time bomb, ready to blow everything and everyone close to you to pieces.

tag list (to be added, shoot me an ask or a message!): @pink-meringues @k-k0129 @solllaris @taiter-tots @kindahavefeelingskindaheartless @jjmbanks @fttayla @ilovejjmaybank @jjmaybcnks @drewswannabegirl @diverdcwn @royalmerchant @sortagaysortahigh @queenk00k @ims0golden @girlsru1eboysdroo1 @obxmermaid @anxietyspacetart-15 @butgilinsky @teenwaywardasgardian @bricksatanakinswindow @fangirlvoice @juliarose21 @skiesofthesketchy @daughterofaphrodite @dontjinx-it @outerbanksbro @sportygal55 @nqbmf @xenagzb @sweetlysilent @loverofmineluke @aaleksmorozova @meltame17 if you want to be removed please let me know!

#obx #outer banks #obx fic #outer banks fic #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron series #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron imagine #rafe x reader #rafe x y/n #rafe x you #rafe cameron oneshot #lonely heart #chyna writes

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colonel-insomniac · 4 years ago

Text

Wait

@my-blood-is-maple-syrup @pawsomelybuggy ive done it again, don’t be mad at me though :D. potential sorry in advance for what im about to do. OH listen to this playlist but only if you want

After landing on earth, Kai and Pon were instantaneously dazzled by the dizzying brightness. It was such a stark difference to the darkness of Azurelle that for a moment, everything seemed perfectly balanced, like a piece of glass saved from teetering off the edge of a table.

But of course, as is the case, glass fragments and shatters. Ezra fell to the dirt, gasping for air, though he couldn’t be choking, because he wasn’t eating anything. He wrapped his hands around his neck, trying to convey his need for help. Kai didn’t realize at first, his mind dark and empty in response to the dazzling light, blinded by the beauty of it all.

He turned his head at the continued sound of coughing, dropping to his knees when the situation registered. Pon had been kneeling by Ezra’s side, trying to help the boy, and Kai checked for breath exiting Ezra’s body, trying to narrow down what might be happening as he tried to push the rising panic and fear down, if only for Ezra’s sake. Unfortunately, no air was entering or exiting from Ezra, and Kai looked at Pon, frozen with horror. With Ezra rapidly turning a pale blue-purple shade, Pon began attempting to physically insert air into the other boy’s body through mouth-to-mouth resuscitation methods.

Kai thinks it works for a bit, but doesn’t know how to contact emergency services. Does Earth have emergency services?

Abandoning all care, he pats down Ezra in case he happens to have a phone on him, and thankfully finds one, which he flashes to Ezra, who grabs his hand and traces the following numbers: nine, one, and one. Kai dials and is bombarded with questions that he does his best to answer, eventually giving up when they ask for his location, opting to ask if they can instead trace the call, as he isn’t too sure of where he is at the moment.

The lady on the other end of the line asks for him to stay on the line, and after a couple minutes tells him an ambulance, police officer, and fire truck being sent over. Kai pleads with them to hurry, unable to hide the fear in his voice anymore.

It seems they’re too late, though. By the time the medics arrive, Pon has reported the worst news that Kai thinks he could ever hear. There’s no breath, no pulse.

Kai felt that his own breath and pulse were completely gone, his world shattered. It feels like it doesn’t matter whether he were on Azurelle or on Earth. What was the point of life if your lover was dead, taken by some unknown force? He found himself unable to convey the overwhelming sorrow, eyes dry and mouth glued shut.

Kai watched as the medics loaded Ezra into an ambulance and had to be dragged by Pon to said vehicle. He felt stuck, like he would forever be rooted to this very spot, his heart shattered.

But later, it seems all is not necessarily lost, because somehow the doctor’s are able to locate the faintest of heartbeats with their fancy medical technology, and Kai desperately holds on to that sliver of hope. They are not allowed to visit Ezra, his condition to unstable and unique that they must put him in an intensive care unit to closely monitor him. Without any reason to be there, Pon throws an arm around Kai in nearly matched misery, and guides a still numb Kai out of said care facility, despite a nurse calling attention to Kai’s various wounds.

He genuinely had forgotten about that, had been too consumed that his brain allowed him to bypass the cruel pain that was gradually settling back into his bones. Kai thought of both nothing and everything, his mind searching for answers, because something told him that Ezra wasn’t choking because of some typical medical thing. All he could think of was what if they had done something wrong, and Ezra was still somehow tethered to Azurelle? What if this was the Azurellian government metaphorically pulling the leash, reminding Pon and Kai that they won’t ever escape, not when they have this venomous grip on Ezra.

The pair slowly make their way back to the spot they had landed on, now filled with memories of horrific events that had just taken place. Looking off into the distance, Kai can just barely make out a trail, for some reason, before the war, Ezra had wandered off the beaten path and ventured into raw nature instead.

There had to be something poetic about that, but Kai’s mind didn’t have the capacity to consider that at the moment, still could barely form a coherent thought. The pair make their way back to the path, and looked both ways. One side led further into the forest, further into a mystery promising adventure, and the other back to society. They go back to society, not willing to embark on another journey after the hurt had still been so fresh.

Kai kept a firm hold on Pon’s hand the whole time, fearing that the moment he let go, his best friend would disappear too. As they approach the cross section between nature and society, a couple that looks oddly familiar run up to the two boys.

The woman, her voice watery asks if either of them have seen a boy “...named Ezra Watts.” A thousand memories flash in Kai’s mind in less than a second. “It’s hard to explain,” The man adds, “but he was supposed to be back today and we aren’t sure what’s happening.” Kai looks wide and watery eyed at Pon, who thinks for a moment, not sure how to order his words.

“This is going to seem crazy, but we know your son. The rest would be easier if we were away from prying eyes and ears.” The man who Kai now assumes to be Ezra’s father nods, and wraps an arm around his wife, gesturing for Kai and Pon to follow.

They have a nice house. That’s all Kai can get through his brain, which is a slight improvement, tracing patterns on the couch he’s currently sitting on. He lets Pon do most of the explaining, but can’t miss the curious glances at him.

“...from Azurelle,” He picks up on the spark of fear at the name of their home planet. “I’m Pon, and this is Kai. We managed to escape, but only thanks to the kindness of your son. He saw something in us that convinced him to help us out. If he hadn’t, execution is what we would have faced.” Pon places his hands in his lap, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

They nod, but look over to Kai, because the look of distraught that has been etched onto his face is a tad bit more concerning to them. Something more is going on there and he knows they know. Pon places a hand on Kai’s shoulder, “Kai and your son, they—well, that is to say that they mutually appreciate each other in the way that you guys do.” Pon then nods, happy with being able to dance around outright saying it, and despite his negative emotions, Kai can’t help snorting at his friend’s ridiculousness.

Ezra’s mom blankly regards Kai, before nodding and smiling at him, and Kai can feel the heat rise in his cheeks. With a shaky breath, Kai opens his mouth, knowing that if he loves Ezra, he has to say something. “When we arrived here, your son began choking, we don’t know exactly why that happened, but we managed to get hiim to a hospital, and they put him in this thing called an intensive care unit. They found he was still alive so they’re monitoring him right now.” Kai inspects his hands, eyes stinging.

The mom nods, standing and offering a hand that Kai takes. The dad gestures for Pon to follow, and remains seated himself, face sad and staring out a window into a sunny lawn. She opens a door, leading to a bedroom that’s decorated with foreign posters and objects. Kai realizes at once that this has to be Ezra’s room, and presses his hands to his face. Ezra’s mom tells them to take as long as they need before backing out and leaving them. Kai glances around the room, landing on the bed, with a blanket patterned with some sports ball.

There’s a childlike air to his room, a messiness that comes from never resting and being in a rush. There’s a small squeak, and Kai finds Pon opening Ezra’s closet doors, peering at the different items stored within. He hesitantly walks over, fingers catching on a soft cotton material. He pulls it off its hanger and finds it to be a hoodie. He glances at Pon, cheeks burning when Pon smiles and nods, sliding the garment on.

At once, he’s overwhelmed with the scent of Ezra, and he stumbles over to the bed, head in his hands and just cries. All this buildup, but it feels so good to let it all out, and Kai knows he needs to let himself just feel this pain and anger and sorrow. Pon sits beside him and hugs Kai, doesn’t move until Kai wipes his eyes and hugs his friend back.

When he’s ready, they leave the room, Kai still wearing Ezra’s hoodie, and join Ezra’s parents, who don’t comment on the apparel change or his puffy eyes. They do, however, express a desire to see their son, even through glass windows, so they pile up in a car and drive around until Pon points out the building they had gone to.

The doctor’s deliver a grim prognosis: there’s hope for Ezra, but due to the amount of time without oxygen, he’s in a coma. They aren’t too sure when—or if —he’ll wake up, or what his brain activity would look like.

Exhausted and out of tears, Kai puts a shaky hand on the window, the cool glass serving as the barrier between them. Ezra’s mom cries quietly, turned with her face pressed into her husband’s shoulder. Pon’s quiet, as he typically is during times of grief and sorrow, and with his other hand, Kai grabs a hold of Pon’s hand.

A month goes by, and Ezra still hasn’t woken, doctor’s determined to not give up on him. Kai visits every day, walking to the hospital on his own sometimes, and always asks for any updates from the doctor’s. They’ve begun to give him cookies when he visits, silently fearing that he isn’t eating. Which he is, but his appetite isn’t really there.

But soon after that one month mark, Ezra has stabilized enough to be let out of the ICU, where they let Kai in to visit him. After a while the receptionist stops asking for information and lets him find his way to Ezra, for which he’s grateful. When he’s alone in the room with Ezra, he can almost pretend the wires aren’t there and their in a home all their own, with Pon, of course.

And he just talks. About anything and everything. He discusses his found love for classical music, specifically a composer named Bach, he talks about the weather, he tells him how much he misses Ezra, how much he wishes that Ezra were awake so he could say all the things he didn’t realize he should have said back on Azurelle.

Another two months pass, with Kai still visiting, Ezra still improving but not responsive. He still talks, or sits in silence, holding Ezra’s hand, sometimes places it against his cheek to feel the miniscule warmth. Today he just sits, nervous for some reason, his fingers at first fussing with the hem of his own shirt before moving to frantically comb through Ezra’s hair in an attempt to comb through it. It’s gotten longer than it had been when he first arrived on Azurelle, and something tells Kai that Ezra wouldn’t like it like that. Not that it’s extremely long or anything, but it’s something that he just feels within his heart of hearts.

He misses the furrowing of Ezra’s brows, overtaken by an urge to do something. But when Ezra moves his head, Kai freezes, his eyes widening as he looks down at Ezra’s face. He holds his breath, heart beating frantically with hope. And then Ezra opens his eyes, looking slightly confused before turning his gaze to look at Kai, who’s pressing the button he was told to push if—when— Ezra woke up. Two nurses walk in, and after a minute of poking, prodding, and taking notes, they finally begin to remove the breathing tube. Ezra never takes his eyes off Kai, swimming with an unreadable emotion. He briefly looks away when the nurses ask him questions to assess any brain damage, but shortly after, the nurses leave, reminding the two boys they’re just outside, one of them intending to let Ezra’s parents—and by proxy, Pon— know.

Ezra slides his gaze back to Kai, squinting as though he were thinking hard about something. After a moment, he whispers “Kai?”

The shorter boy nods, and throws his arms around Ezra, sobbing with relief. Ezra pats his back, returning the embrace. “What happened?” He asks after a moment. Kai pulls away but doesn’t let go of Ezra.

“When we got to Earth, you began to...choke, and we couldn’t figure out why or how to help, and you lost consciousness. I thought— you... it’s been three months and I’ve been so scared.” Ezra looks away, something like fear floating in his eyes. But he shakes his head and when he looks back to Kai, any sign of that is gone.

“So, Bach? Not a Mozart fan?” Kai’s mouth falls open, and he’s not sure what Ezra’s getting at, at first.

Then everything clicks when Ezra laughs at Kai’s stunned face. “Are you seriously talking to me about music right now?” Ezra shrugs in response.

Kai can’t help feeling overwhelmed, so he blames what happens next solely on that. He places his hands one either side of Ezra’s face and closes his eyes, pressing his mouth to Ezra’s. His stomach churns in fear of being rejected, but then Ezra pushes back slightly, and Kai relaxes, his hands still on Ezra’s cheeks.

When they pull away, Ezra’s quiet for a moment, looking closely at Kai’s red face. “Honestly,” he begins, “I have been wanting that to happen for a while now.” And Kai snorts, resisting the urge to be sarcastic.

Not knowing when to stop, Ezra adds “Who knew it took me almost dying for that to happen.” And abandoning his morals, Kai slaps his arm, not lightly, but not hard.

“You need to shut up.” Is all he responds with, grabbing Ezra’s hand, placing it on his cheek. Outside, the sun glows golden, as though she is positively pleased, and Kai has to agree with her.

#the other planet #pon #kai #ezra #for once ezra's parents #:D #oops #dont be mad at me its really not my fault tbh

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werezmastarbucks · 4 years ago

Text

more like honeymoon [3]

previous part

word count: 2279

warnings: idk why I keep making Damon the butt of the joke

music: in the text

SMITHEREENS by twenty one pilots segment

You were exhausted beyond belief as you sped down the road. Soon, there’s a very familiar turn that leads towards the Salvatore mansion. And from there, the exit into the normal, moving world. You couldn’t believe you’d see them again. Even Damon, whose guts you came to hate over time, even before he threw you into prison. That’s what isolation does to a person. That’s what the illusion of freedom does to a human. Prison was prison after all.

You nearly crashed into the tree that stood lonely on the turn, the landmark Salvatore oak. It would’ve killed you, and that was unnecessary now.

There were three shadows on the lawn as you left the car. It was almost midnight. You limped across the yard, feeling ribs poke your lungs. Kai must have cracked at least one from how hard he punched back. He never held back, in anything, and for that, you respected him. Because he respected you enough to inflict real pain, like you were equal. Although you clearly weren’t.

Elena didn’t stand the tension and ran towards you, got you in her arms, and you suffocated on her Elena smell. The smell of home. You couldn’t believe you were going back now. Damon was the same. Why wouldn’t he be? Dark and ironic, a little concerned, he evaluated you with his careful glance.

“How did you get away from him?”

“I killed the motherfucker”, you grumbled. The wounds were fresh, both physical and mental. Realizing that you’ve technically been his prisoner all this time... That is something yet to digest. Here you had the honors to finally be the last of Kai’s archtypes: the victim. You had been a lover, a friend and an ally already. Like an invisible hand was dealing Tarot cards, now you had to get a mouthful of bitterness. You brushed it aside.

“So I had some time ahead”.

“How have you been?” Elena asked, without letting go of you. You eyed the third silhouette, almost blending in with the night darkness. The witch, to do the spell. It was somebody you didn’t know: a tall, dark guy, a little menacing. Who knows what changed in nine months.

“Does he know where you went?” Damon asked.

“Of course he does. But he’s there, and I’m here. Can I go sleep now? We have to do it tomorrow, or he’s going to catch up with us”.

Damon narrowed one eye. The prick didn’t trust you. Perhaps the memories of you opposing him were too fresh.

“You sure you’re ready to leave your boyfriend here?” he asked. Elena shot him a warning glance.

You lifted your shirt, wincing painfully, to show the blue bruising on your ribs. You could swear it was the shape of Kai’s loving kiss.

In the house, you were turning your head right and left as if something could change here. Virtually everything was the same, except three (!) new people inside. The witch boy was quiet. He looked like he was cautious, and you thought, he should be, in case Kai catches him.

Elena brought you a cup of coffee. You noticed a hip of winter coats in the corner of the room, piled up on the couch. The fireplace was blazing as if it was cold outside, too.

“What month is it?” you asked, dizzy with exhaustion and pain.

“It’s Christmas”, Elena said.

“Are you going to be okay? Do you need... blood?”

“I’ll be fine at midnight. The day starts again, and my body is the same as when I first came here... well, you know”.

You looked at Damon, tried to picture him here, when he was stuck here with Bonnie and Kai. He must have been going crazy in this cage with two people he found hard to tolerate. His eyes were flickering thoughtfully with the flames from the fireplace.

“Hey”, you looked at the witch guy. You realized you didn’t know his name. You reached out to him, and he accepted your hand.

“I’m Frank”, he said gloomily. Elena looked at her wristwatch.

“Oh”.

“What?”

“That’s a funny name for a witch”, you said, “all the witches I know have extra names”.

Frank shrugged like it was a punch at him.

“Frank, I’m scared Kai will come. He knows I’m going back, and he doesn’t want to let me go”.

“Yeah, what are we going to do if he comes?” Elena asked, fear in her eyes. She really was afraid of Kai. That still impressed you. You still felt like a child, amazed at something. He scared somebody like this. So that they look out the window, small shivers on the back of their necks, their eyes darting from side to side. He creeped someone out so hard their lips went dry as they sucked the air in, listening hard, listening for his steps approaching. Your Kai.

“Don’t worry, I’ll put a signal spell. It will shield the territory around the house. If someone approaches - anybody at all - we’ll know”.

The three of you looked at Frank. He looked grave, like he was taking this whole thing too seriously. You wondered how long he’s been in this Mystic Falls mess. How little he meant for the rest of them that they decided he’d be fit to go here and face you and Kai Parker.

You blinked tiredly.

“I’m blacking out. I need some sleep”, you muttered. Coffee did not energize you; quite the opposite. The soft warm liquid made you want to sleep badly. Your mortal yesterday’s body was almost collapsing.

Elena helped you come upstairs into Stefan’s room, and you nested on his bed.

This whole rapid trip over the whole country almost got you dead. It was crazy. In the morning, you were back in Hawaii, in your spacious, beautiful house on the North Shore of Oahu, and now you were back here on the edge of Virginia, trying to fight your way back into the usual world where living and traveling cost, where there were rules and people ready to stop you when you get too carried away with having fun... You wondered what you loved so much about that outer world, and it was your last thought before you fell asleep.

In the morning, everybody looked much better and more relaxed. You stretched your back, hearing the bones crack healthily, and the only pain you felt from yesterday was ghostly. It would pass soon, just like hurt from being deceived by the person you loved the most in the world. Once you get out...

The time of eclipse was coming. You felt weird, hollow as you sat at the breakfast table, and thought of all the breakfasts Kai made you. He was so inventive. Nine months is thirty days nine times. Not once you had the same breakfast. He had all the ways to cook food in his head, and it horrified you. He had spent so much time alone he has learnt literally everything one can learn. It was wrong.

You packed your bag and brought it downstairs. Damon eyed it judgingly. You reckoned he was being so cold because he felt extremely guilty. You could bet your own life that the moment they did the spell he was sorry about being harsh. He wished he could get you back. Inside, Damon was soft, but outside, he had this thick, hard skin that was almost like scar tissue.

“What’s this?”

“These are my things”.

Damon’s eyes narrowed, and he was about to say something sarcastic, but Frank rushed in between you, pushing you away and out of the house.

“We gotta go”, he said shortly. And nodded at the bag.

“Damon, you’ll get it? Let’s go”.

Elena was carrying the coats in her hands as disgruntled Damon walked side by side with her with your bag.

“The witch boy is getting too bold”, he thought out loud.

“I just want to get away from here before this guy comes here and kills us all”, Frank replied without changing the pace. He was walking through the forest, leading the way.

“We won’t get out of here before eclipse either way”, you reminded him.

“Uh-huh”.

“Is it cold there?” you asked Elena. She shook her head to throw the hair away from her face.

“This winter is very cold. Just like when we were little kids”.

You could feel excitement rise in you. Christmas. Snow. Changing days. It was good before, and was about to get even better. You almost shone from the inside.

The witch observed the forest. He was very quiet. You looked through the trees too, bringing the last look on this strange world that became not what it was supposed to be to you.

You descended into the well of the cave, Damon threw your bag on the ground right into the circle of the sun.

“What’s inside anyway?”

“Clothes”.

“Clothes?” he repeated, apalled.

“Listen, there’s things you can’t get back in 2010s. Rare things. And expensive jewelry, okay? I got diamonds there, Damon, I’m not throwing them away”.

Damon was silent for some time. He was trying to figure out, inside his brain, what life has been like for you, for the last nine months. He would never guess right, even though he must have been pretty close.

Everybody looked up at the sky and the dark ring coming to consume the sun. Palpable nervousness filled the air. You stepped towards each other. Elena pursed her lips like she was pondering something.

“Isn’t it bad we’re leaving him again?” she asked.

They all looked at you like you could give them a prognosis on Kai.

“Fuck that guy”, you said gloomily. Frank shook his hands like a surgeon before the operation. Damon was eyeing you with dark satisfaction.

“He wasn’t what you expected?”

You kept silent.

“Did he hurt you?”

You thought of all the times Kai accidentally slapped you on the head while he was cooking. His damn hands always flying all over the kitchen. After being slapped around like a junior dish girl, you learnt to stay away when he’s busy with the pans and plates. The only thing you did was chopping.

“A lot”, you replied.

Elena squeezed your hand.

“Isn’t he going to be much worse once he gets out?” Frank asked suddenly, “If you said he was that mad before... now that we’re taking away Y/N and leaving him behind. And if he has the spell and the ascendant, that means he’s going to get out on his own, and he’ll be vengeful”.

His words echoed in the cave like hammer.

“Bonnie’s destroying this world as soon as we get out”, Damon said. Your head snapped to him.

“What?”

“He won’t have time to get out. He’ll need to wait until tomorrow, and by that time, this prison world will be gone. And Parker will be gone, too”.

There wasn’t much more time for talking; the eclipse was almost full. You took the witch’s elbow as he chanted and lifted the new ascendant, letting it levitate. Elena held your hand on the other side. As Frank’s hand got free, he took your palm and squeezed it, too, and you finally realized you’re going home.

The white light shone upon you, carrying you and your bag away.

The forest was white, too. Your ankles slowly got cold and, as you looked down, you saw snow. It was closing to evening in the woods in Mystic Falls, and the light was slowly draining from the sky. From the first look it seemed like the real universe wasn’t as brilliant as the magical prison world.

You couldn’t believe you made it. You sighed to see the foggy air leaving your mouth. And saw Damon and Elena’s mutilated smiles turning into gaping mouths of anguish. The traveling spell wore out almost all magic from Kai, and he turned back into his usual self, dropping Frank skin. In the last blast of remaining magic, he threw his hand forward and sent the vampires away. The leaped through the air, Damon further and higher than Elena. She must have bought him the last second when she regretted leaving Kai behind. You told yourself once again, he was changing. There was a twisted type of rationality in him now. You stood on one leg as the cold snow pierced your feet through your Converse sneakers.

Damon was impaled on the thick outstanding branch on a tree, groaing in pain. Elena was thrown against another tree, twisting in the air, and collided with the shaft with her back, breaking her spine in half. They didn’t manage to utter a word.

Damon was now hanging there, cursing like a sailor he might have been once, many years ago.

“Cold?” Kai asked. You shrugged.

“Should’ve gotten some warm shoes, too”.

“Ah, you weakling. It’s just snow!”

“I’m just going to get sick, Kai”.

He looked at you and smiled. You knew everything would go well, and you were still happy to see him, like it was a crazy stunt he was supposed to pull. Although you knew that by the time you went to bed last night Frank had already been dead.

“Hop on”, he gave up, picking up your bag. You pushed on his shoulders and jumped on his back, clutching his sides with your knees. You pressed your face to the back of his head for a second. Soft, slightly curly hair. Your Kai.

The last things Damon heard from the tree were,

“Let’s nick his car”.

“No”.

“Why not?!”

“Because we’re not scoundrels, Kai! It’s not the magical world anymore, you can’t steal people’s cars!”

“Oh my god...”

#kai parker #kai parker imagine #kai parker x reader #damon salvatore #tvd imagine #vampire diaries imagine

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faofinn · 4 years ago

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Febuwhump Day 4 - “I can’t lose you too” (Alt Prompt 2)

@febuwhump

Part 1 // Part 2

Sheila was working when the call came through, her phone buzzing uselessly in her locker. By the time her break came round, it was a long while later, her battery nearly dead and several missed calls from a number she didn’t recognise. Food in the microwave, she perched against the bench and pressed play.

“Sheila? Sheila ‘m sorry. They asked me who I wanted to call an’ -and I didn’t know who else. ‘m really scared and I’m in hospital and you always said I could call.” Her heart sank, fear taking over. “I’m sorry. I lost my phone an’ I couldn’t remember your number. I don’t even know if this is your number still. I fucked up and I’m sorry. You an’ Fred were the best family an’ you did so much for me an-and I’ve done this. I didn’t have time to do anything and then I was here. You were a mum to me, and Fred was the best … best dad I had...I’m sorry. I don’t wanna be alone, Sheila. I know you’re busy and you’ve probably forgotten me and I’m sorry, I’m just scared.”

The beep sounded and she didn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. It had been a few months since she’d heard from him, and even then it was just a passing text to tell her happy birthday. He was still her child, one of her first fosters, and still family. He sounded in a bad way and she could hear the flurry of activity in the hospital around the panic in his voice. It took no time to make her mind up, briefly telling a colleague she was going before disappearing, her lunch still in the microwave.

She tried Fred on the way, to no avail, leaving him a slightly more composed voicemail than had been left on hers. The hospital was no luck either, stuck on hold until the dialing rang out.

The car was left abandoned in the carpark as she rushed through to the ED, pushing past the queue at the desk. “Hi, sorry, my son was brought in earlier - Jason Hardy - I got a phone call from him.”

“Just a second ma’am, there’s a queue.”

“Yeah, it’ll take two seconds. Jason Hardy. Can you tell me where he is?”

With an irritated sigh, the receptionist tapped away on the computer, face falling slightly. “I’m just going to get a nurse.”

Sheila knew it was bad, she’d heard the panic and desperation in his voice, and seeing the look on the receptionist’s face...it only made it worse.

A nurse arrived to greet Sheila quite quickly, a forced smile on her face. “Sheila Daniels?”

“Is he still alive?”

“He is. He’s in a bad way, but he’s alive. We’re gonna take you through now.”

She followed her through. “How bad is he? I got the phone call…”

“It’s touch and go, I’m afraid.”

She swallowed thickly. “What happened?”

“There was a car accident.”

“No.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“But he’s going to be okay, right?”

“We’re doing our best.”

She knew what that meant. “So, no.”

“You know we can’t make any promises. But we’re doing our absolute best to give him the best shot.”

“I’ve been through it before with my other two. You don’t need to lie to me.”

“I'm not lying to you, I promise. We're doing our best for him.”

"I don't doubt you are, but I know what it means, when you say that. The look you all have…"

“I’m sorry. It’s a difficult situation.”

"He was one of my first fosters." Sheila said quietly. "Stayed with me a long while, and then would come and stay for reprieve occasionally."

“That’s very admirable of you. Foster parents are such a lifeline. I’m sure he’ll appreciate you being here.” The nurse said, letting herself into the ICU.

"He said he couldn't remember my number. I should have been here."

“You’re here now, that’s what counts. No use dwelling on the ‘should haves’.”

She shook her head. "That doesn't make it better."

“I know it’s difficult, but we can’t change the past. You’re here now, and he’ll appreciate you being here.”

Sheila hesitated. "How bad is he?"

“Critical, but he’s been improving gradually.”

"Surgery?"

“Hopefully later, if he’s stable enough.”

"If."

“With the way things are going, he’ll be in surgery later this afternoon. But it’s the surgeon’s decision when they see him.”

She nodded. "Okay. Thank you."

“His bed is just down here.” She said, leading her down the ward.

Sheila thanked her again, stood outside Jason's bay. He'd grown since she'd last seen him, a beard growing on his face and his blond hair a mess. She couldn't help but frown; it was parted wrong, and he'd always hated that.

"Jason?" She took his hand. "I'm sorry it took so long, but I'm here now. I've got you, yeah?"

The nurses gave Sheila as much space as they could, giving her time to sit with her old foster. He was in and out of consciousness, and definitely very, very poorly, but there was no doubt he knew she was there. His obs even improved a little.

She sorted his hair, adjusted the specs on his nose, and then waited. She'd get the occasional response from him as she chatted away, promising him they'd have a room for him to get him back on his feet.

After a while, the surgeon arrived, startled by Sheila in the bay. “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't think there was family with him.”

"I've not long been here, sorry."

“Well, I'm glad he has someone. I'm Dr Knight, one of the senior surgical registrars on his case. I'm happy to have a chat with you?”

She nodded. "Do you need to go somewhere else? Or can we stay here?"

“No, absolutely fine to stay here.” He said, taking a seat. “Are you his mother?”

"Uh, I guess. I was his foster mum for a long, long time."

“Well, that's good enough in my books. Unfortunately, as I'm sure you've been told already, he's very unwell. We've been trying to get him stable enough for surgery for a while now, I've just come to do some final checks before we make our decision.”

"If you don't take him to surgery, what's the prognosis?"

“Not good, I'm afraid. He had a procedure after he was admitted to control his internal bleeding, but unfortunately it's not worked as well as we'd hoped it would. He's very weak.”

"And if you wait a few days, let him get some strength up?"

“We think it's more likely he'll deteriorate in that time. We have a small window of opportunity here.”

"And this surgery, how...how likely is it to succeed?" She barely dared to ask.

“It's a hail mary, I'm afraid. But it's better than doing nothing. His best shot at recovery.” He reached out to rest a hand on her knee in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. “I understand this is incredibly difficult to hear. This isn't a decision we're taking lightly. But he's young and he deserves the best possible chance, even if the odds are slim.”

She shook her head. "It isn't fair on him."

“You don't agree with our decision to do this surgery?”

"Oh, no, no. Not that. All of this. He shouldn't be here. He was meant to have his life sorted and be living. Not stuck in limbo." She sniffed, trying to stop the tears.

“Ah. I understand this is upsetting - nobody deserves to be in this situation. We're going to do our absolute best for him. We have been doing our absolute best for him from the start. None of us would be considering this surgery if we didn't believe it was in his best interests.” He handed her a tissue, neatly folded in his pocket. “I know I said we have a window of opportunity, but there's time for you to spend with him now. We're not going to rush in just yet.”

"If he needs it, if it's his best chance, then he should go now though, right? So he can come out sooner, and start to recover?"

“We still have some preparations to do first. I'm just here to assess his condition. He seems to have improved since you've arrived.” He said gently. “We'll take him as soon as we're ready for him. But I just wanted to make sure you knew that you have time to spend with him now.”

She forced a smile. "Thank you. For everything."

“Not a problem. I know how difficult this is. Please don't hesitate to grab the nurses if you need anything at all. Can I get someone to bring you food? Something to drink?”

"No, thank you. I'm okay. I'll just stay with him for the time being."

He nodded. “That's absolutely fine. But we can provide you with food, tea, anything. This is probably harder for you than it is for him.”

"Yeah. He'd tell me off for crying, sorry. It was just a bit of a shock."

“Of course, of course. Don't apologise, please. In your position I'd be a sobbing mess.”

"I've had a bit of practice over the years." She laughed slightly. "Normally always the boys, too."

“Other fosters?”

She nodded. "Quite a few. Some of the scraps they'd get themselves into...I'm just being a pain, don't let me keep you."

“Not a pain in the slightest. I just need to do a few checks, yeah?”

"Go ahead. Don't let me get in the way."

He nodded and stood up, though rested a gentle hand on her shoulder before he moved to check Jason over. Thankfully he had improved, and he was happy they were making the right decision.

“I ought to go now, and make sure things are being sorted. But you're more than welcome to ask the nurses for me, or any of his team. We'd be happy to come down and speak with you again if you need.”

"Thank you." She glanced at him with a small smile before turning back to face Jason. He was her priority.

The surgeon left her alone again, save for the occasional nurse popping in to check on him. She apologised again, in his brief moment of consciousness, smoothing his hair back down. Fred still didn’t answer his phone, leaving her alone, dealing with the mess herself.

They gave Sheila as much time as they could. It wasn't ideal, but she needed all the time she could get. Eventually they had no choice, though, and they had to go ahead with the surgery. They sent in a nurse with a porter, as much as Chris wanted to be there, he couldn't. He had too much to do.

Sheila held her tears in as she said her goodbyes, promising him she’d be there when he came round. She held his hand as long as she could, pressing a kiss to his forehead as she was forced to leave.

“I love you, yeah? It won’t be long and then it’ll be okay. I love you.”

They took him after that, the nurse sending Sheila a sad smile.

The surgery was difficult, and unfortunately it didn't get easier as they went on. He was just too unstable, they couldn't do what they wanted to do. They were thwarted by low blood pressure and arrests looming before the inevitable occurred. They tried and tried, but his body just wasn't strong enough. They had to call it a day, in the end. It wasn't fair to try and keep going when his body had had enough.

It was Fao who called time of death, and so it was him who took the responsibility of speaking to next of kin. He headed out of theatres, heart heavy, and round to the relatives room to find them.

He couldn't help the way his heart dropped when he saw who was sitting waiting. Sheila. He stumbled slightly, pain flaring in his knee, and he forced himself to keep going.

“I'm looking for family of Jason Hardy?” He said, trying his best to stay sounding professional.

Sheila raised her head, she knew that voice, knew that tone. "No."

He cleared his throat. “Would you mind coming with me?”

"Fao this isn't real, he's still okay, right? You just had to stop it early for a different reason."

“I'm sorry. Come with me? We can go somewhere quiet to talk.”

She swallowed thickly, standing on shaking legs. It was all just a dream. He was fine, he had to be.

He led her into a small, private room, shutting the door quietly behind him. He took a deep breath, and sat down opposite her.

“We did our very best. We made some good progress, but unfortunately he was just too weak. Despite our best efforts to try and stabilise him, he went into cardiac arrest. We tried for some time to resuscitate him, but unfortunately we were,” he paused to clear his throat, “unfortunately we were unsuccessful. He passed away. I'm so sorry.”

She already knew, could tell from the look on his face, the tone in his voice. It was still something else to be told it outright, and worse further that it was her own son telling her. She wrapped her arms around herself, forcing herself to breathe past the lump in her throat.

Fao cleared his throat again. “I know this is difficult to hear, and I'm sorry I don't have better news for you. I assure you that we did everything we could for him.”

"Are you sure it was him?" Her voice cracked.

“I’m sure. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

"You're lying."

“I know this is difficult to process. I promise you, I’ve told you the truth.”

“You’re wrong. You’re lying. You’re wrong.”

“I understand this is hard to hear. If you’d like, you’re welcome to go and see him?”

“You don’t understand.” She frowned at him. “You don’t understand anything.”

“Can you help me understand? I’m willing to explain everything, if that would help?”

“He’s gone.”

“I’m afraid so.”

She shook her head. “He’s gone.”

“I can assure you, he wasn’t in any pain.”

“But he was.”

“We did our best to keep his pain well managed.”

“He was in pain and terrified.”

Fao swallowed thickly. “My colleagues did our best to reassure him and ensure his pain was well controlled. He was under anaesthesia, I can assure you he wouldn’t have been in pain when he passed.”

“You didn’t hear the voicemail.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t. If you want to take the matter further, I can give you the number for the hospital PALS department? But I can assure you we did our best to make him comfortable.”

"You don't mean any of that." She frowned at him. "You're just reading off a script. You don't care."

“I care about every patient I treat.” His voice wobbled. “I did everything I could for him, as did my colleagues.” He forced himself to take another deep breath. “I know I’m not the person you want giving you this news. But I would never do any procedure if I didn’t think it was in the patient’s best interests. I wouldn’t have suggested this option for Jason if I didn’t think he could benefit from it.”

Sheila rubbed her eyes, trying to wipe away the tears. The wobble in Fao's voice broke her and she reached out for him.

He handed her a tissue. “Here, it’s alright. I know this is hard to hear.” He said, moving closer to her.

She pushed the tissue away, choosing instead to grab onto Fao and pull him close. Her fingers tightened around his scrubs and she buried her face in Fao's shoulder.

Instinctively he held her close, rubbing her back. “It’s alright. I know this is hard, I know. It’s okay.”

“He’s gone.”

“I’m sorry, he’s gone.”

Her legs buckled as she sobbed, the pain completely overtaking her.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you.” He soothed.

She gripped onto him tighter. “I should have been there for him.”

“You were. You were right there with him. Chris and the nurses said the whole time you were there, his obs improved.”

“But he didn’t make it.”

“His odds were slim the minute he came through our doors. We all knew that - he knew that. We gave it our best shot, but…” Fao had to clear his throat again, “but his body told us that he’d had enough. Sometimes despite everything, there’s nothing more we can do.”

She was quiet a moment. “I’m glad it was you.”

“If I’d have known…”

“But I know you’d have done everything.”

“Of course. We all did.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry there wasn’t a better outcome.”

“Can I see him?”

“Of course.”

“Can...Can you stay with me?”

“Absolutely.”

“Fred wouldn’t answer and I dont know what Finn’s up to.” She sniffed. “They need to know..”

“Do you want me to try Fred?”

Sheila nodded. “Please.”

“Alright. Can I get you anything? Tea? Water?” He offered, digging in his pockets for his phone.

“Just you.”

“I’m right here. Not going anywhere.” He said, finding his phone and quickly calling Fred.

She leant into him, tears still falling and her chest aching. She couldn't quite believe it, he was gone and there was nothing she could do.

“It’s alright, it’s okay.” He murmured gently, praying Fred picked up the phone.

The phone rang through, like it had so many times with Sheila. She shook her head as she heard the voicemail, pressing closer to Fao. Deep down, she knew that she should be there for him, not the other way around. He shouldn't be having to tell her that her son was dead.

“I bet he’s left it somewhere.” Fao said, trying to make his tone light. “You know what he’s like. Come on, why don’t we go and get some fresh air? And then I can take you to see Jason when they’re ready.”

"You're still working."

“I’d say I was due a break, wouldn’t you?”

She nodded with a shaky breath. "Okay."

He stood, and offered her his hand. “Here.”

“Thanks.” She took it, gripping him tight. “I’m sorry.”

“God, why are you sorry?”

“You had to work on him.” Her voice cracked and wobbled. “I know that’s hard.”

“I didn’t know him, Mum. I didn’t even know you were here.”

“I know you beat yourself up over these things.”

He hummed. “We all did our best. I’m sorry there wasn’t a better outcome.”

She bit her lip to stop her sob, bringing a hand up to cover her mouth. The grief was overwhelming, stirring up so many more unwanted emotions.

“Hey, it’s alright.”

She shook her head, dropping Fao’s hand in favor of hugging him. “Promise me you won’t leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere, máthair. Promise.”

“I can’t lose you too.”

Fao made a noise in the back of his throat. “I’m here. You’re not going to lose me.”

She pulled back to look at him, tears flooding her face. “I can’t lose you. You’re my son.”

Fao pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’m not going anywhere. I love you, yeah?”

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goldeneyedgirl · 4 years ago

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JaliceWeek2020 Bonus Day

JaliceWeek2020 Bonus Day: Quarantine

Also Untitled We’ll Worry About That Later

Notes: Under 3k, woohoo! This barely fits the prompt, but I’ve decided to go rogue. The real question now is... can I get another one posted today?

The phone rings at 11:27 p.m. on a Tuesday night.

It’s not Carlisle’s night on call, but everyone is being a bit more flexible at the moment. He expects a summons, that the hospital is short-handed again. It’s to be expected once Forks got its own outbreak - of the fifteen people hospitalised, eight of them were doctors or nurses.

Edward hits a sour note as he overhears the the phone call, trying to temper his reaction so not to signal that anything is wrong.

Carlisle is utterly professional during the call, but when he hangs up, he is left with the hideous duty of walking upstairs and telling his youngest - and oldest - son that one Mary-Alice Brandon has just been placed on a respirator.

—

They’ve put the infected in the old wing of Forks Hospital, where they can be properly quarantined. There’s no blood in the wing yet, and so Carlisle sees no risk allowing Jasper in to see Alice through the window; it’s the closest anyone can get to these patients.

And Jasper was not doing well. Telling him had been so much worse than Carlisle had ever envisaged. Esme was still repairing the damage to his study, and Jasper had gotten himself worked up, his terror at a point where he was infecting the rest of the family - Edward was almost permanently camped out at Bella’s, unable to tolerate another second of that bone-deep fear that Jasper pushing out.

But the second they arrive, and Jasper gets to see her, Carlisle fears that he just made things much, much worse.

Alice is tiny in the hospital bed, pale as the sheets tucked around her. The respirator is strapped to her face, obscuring most of her features. Tubes and wires run out of both her arms, the machines surrounding her beeping routinely. She’s completely unconscious, the dark circles under her eyes the only spot of colour on her entire face.

The whole scene is devastating, and Carlisle is quite sure that he’s watching his son’s heart break into a million pieces as he stares at his human mate, slowly dying alone, not a single person allowed to hold her hand.

Carlisle is not cruel, and hasn’t told Jasper the full details of Alice’s prognosis, but Jasper is no fool. Alice was already so fragile, with existing health issues, and she’s just so very, very sick.

“Jasper…” Carlisle begins in a low voice, reaching out to put his hand on his shoulder, but Jasper jerks away, storming out of the hospital in such a rage that Carlisle’s just relieved the door stays on its hinges as his son disappears into the night.

—

He is furious. He is rage. He has never, ever been so angry in his entire life. He wants to destroy, to fucking decimate something because it never, ever should have been her.

He thinks of going to the Brandon house, and crushing her selfish father into pulp. To bestow upon Alice’s father, who could not resist his trips to his mistress in Seattle, the slow, lingering death he passed on to his eldest daughter.

But he doesn’t. The man is sick - the whole family is sick, though not nearly bad enough to require hospitalisation, that particular honour had been given solely to Alice - but he tries to comfort himself with the fact that the man is at least suffering.

He steals into Alice’s bedroom, how many times had he climbed into this room and found Alice sitting crosslegged on her bed with her laptop or with her sketchbook, her face lighting up at his appearance. How the fairy lights strung around her bed would be lit, as well as the lamp shaped like a rabbit, and half a dozen novelty lights scattered around the room. It made the room look like magic, like home.

But now, it is cold and still. The bed is unmade, her quilt crumpled on the floor. The lights are off, the hamper is full, and he wants to destroy it all.

He lets himself have one moment, one little weakness, as he picks up the sweater tossed over the back of her desk chair and buries his face in it. It still smells like her, before she got sick - like raspberries and rainwater, her floral shampoo and rose perfume, of a million different little things that made up her human life. It is a comfort, yes, but it is also hurts in a sharp, new way that makes him want to weep. She’s not here, she’s not coming back, not going to walk in and tease him for being ‘weird’, as she wraps her arms around his waist and presses against him.

And he puts the sweater back, swallowing hard against the rising grief. He’s here for a reason. And so he goes hunting.

For her sketchbooks, and her diary, and her little worn out plush rabbit that always sat on her pillow. Her Polaroid camera, her very favourite purple top, and the ‘Alice’ necklace she wore every day, and the little photo-book that she kept by her bed.

It has to be things that won’t be missed, will be easily overlooked, but things that are precious to her, and thus precious to him.

Whatever happens next, he needs to keep them safe for her. Let her know that the things she treasured above everything else won’t end up at a garage sale or a thrift shop, won’t be boxed up and forgotten, won’t be thrown away. No, they’ll either find their way back to her hands, or they’ll be his shrine, his holy objects, for the rest of this cursed existence.

He goes back for the sweater.

—

Her heart stops twice. The first time, Carlisle hears about it second-hand and by the time he gets to her, she’s back.

The second time, people talk. That Dr Cullen was like a monster, forcing that girl back to life without compromise. That he short of reached into her chest and squeezed life back into her heart by hand.

It’s not going to help, the staff whisper. The Brandon girl is going to die, the youngest fatality in the state so far, before she even graduates high school. It would take some kind of miracle for her to come back from this, no matter how long Dr Cullen insists on delaying ‘time of death’.

—

The question needs to be asked, but he can’t form the words because it changes everything. It’s turning reality upside down and inside out. He’s never been good with change, and he was happy like this, for the first time in a long time.

Asking the question admits that he failed her.

He wishes he’d asked her before now, but it was one of those things they never talked about. And not in a tense, unspoken way. He can’t think of any moments with her that weren’t comfortable; love and affection and appreciation dipping and swirling between them.

They were going to be together forever, they both knew that. They were going to go to college and go travelling and get married. But neither of them ever specified if her eyes would be green or if they would be gold, and now he can’t ask her and he doesn’t know what would be worse - letting her go, or having her hate him for it, for the rest of their lives.

Why hadn’t he asked her?

—

Carlisle takes Edward to the hospital, to see if he can get a read on Alice’s thoughts; Edward looks grim and shakes his head minutely - whatever physical state she’s in, her thoughts are nothing decipherable now. There is no awareness of anything around her, and if her organs weren’t slowly failing, maybe they could wait.

They sit in Carlisle’s study, Edward feeling every year of his life, as they discuss Alice.

“Is it wrong that every single day, I’m grateful that it’s not Bella?” Edward says finally. “That the dice was rolled it was Alice, not Bella?”

Carlisle is quick to reassure Edward that anyone would feel the same, and he shouldn’t feel guilty. Except, Jasper overhears that statement and smashes the piano into kindling.

Bella was healthy. Bella probably wouldn’t have needed a hospital, let alone wasted away with broken ribs, and a machine breathing for her.

—

In the end, he doesn’t have to ask.

Carlisle offers.

He accepts and hates himself for it.

—

Mary-Alice Brandon dies at 1:57 a.m. on Saturday morning. Dr Cullen is more restrained this time, following procedure precisely before he calls it.

Alice’s family are still quarantined at home, and Mrs Brandon’s voice is quiet and shaky when Carlisle calls to give her the news. She doesn’t ask any questions, just thanks him and hangs up.

Her daughter died alone, with only a doctor, an intern, and two nurses clad in PPE with her. That’s what Mrs Brandon has to live with.

Carlisle comforts himself that he was with Alice when she died. That he already loves her like a father, and he watched over her as he prepared her for what came next. She wasn’t alone, and she was loved. That she would have felt no pain, no fear.

If this doesn’t work, he hopes that that offers Jasper some kind of peace.

—

The Brandons have Mary-Alice cremated, and interned at the local church as soon as they are allowed out of a quarantine. They have the funeral over the little hole in the ground where they will place the box of ashes; just the Brandons, all pale and solemn, Minister Weber, Angela Weber, Bella and Charlie Swan, and the Cullens.

It’s very short, with Minister Weber praying over the box, and then the box is placed into the hole, a tile with her name and the dates is settled into the dirt, and it’s over. Seventeen years of life, and that’s the final page in the book. There’s no reception, not during the current crisis, with the Brandons still so tired and weak. Cynthia puts a small wreath of daisies over the plaque, and Mr Brandon scowls when the bouquet of pink and yellow roses that Esme bestows upon the grave, from her own garden, is so much finer.

No one lingers in the rain, and Cynthia is quick to comment on how distant and cold Jasper Hale was, that he didn’t put any flowers on her grave, even though he claimed to love her.

“Teenage boys, Cece,” Mrs Brandon sighs, as they get in the car. “He’s probably already gotten over her. It was nice of him to come today, with his whole family.”

And then they drive away.

—

The basement of the Cullen house isn’t exactly the ideal place to undergo the transformation, but it is utterly sound proof, and they’ve made it as comfortable as they can. The plan is that, as soon as Alice awakens, Jasper will take her to Alaska for her newborn year - there’s too much risk, staying close to Forks.

Assuming she doesn’t pull him to pieces for changing her in the first place. It was supposed to be Carlisle who changed her, but in the moment, he’d just done it. It seemed like the natural response to seeing his mate in such a state, to lean into her throat and sink his teeth and venom into her whilst the others were fussing around, preparing for something so simple.

Everyone had been shocked he had the control, the self-restraint, to do such a thing but he didn’t bother to explain. He had done what needed to be done, and her wrath would be his to bear alone.

The sickness left her wasted and weak, and it is the quietest, stillest transformation he has ever been witness to. He sits with her, holding her hand like he wasn’t able to do in the hospital, watching as her body is healed from illness, from pain, from every little imperfection. She’s going to be lovely, of course, but in truth she’s no more or less beautiful to him after the venom than she was before.

She whimpers and cries and moves around a little, but mostly she is still.

Carlisle checks on him regularly, assuring him that she’s doing fine. Esme checks on him, and reassures him he made the right choice. Rosalie checks on him and tells him she’ll totally support Alice if she decides to dismember him for the next decade. Emmett checks on him and promises that he’ll keep Alice under control for the next year if Rosalie’s prediction is true.

Edward does not check on him, and instead plays his new piano loudly, still the indignant victim of the original’s destruction, agitated that this sudden change of plans has inconvenienced his own plans with Bella.

One day.

Two days.

She doesn’t wake up on the third day, and whilst he starts pacing, Carlisle tries to be reassuring. A longer transformation means nothing, not when her body was so completely damaged from illness. It’s going to be fine.

It’s the middle of the fourth day when her heart is racing, and there’s nothing left for the venom to do; Esme and Rose have washed and dressed her in a clean dress, brushed her hair out of her eyes, and now it’s just waiting.

Waiting for that moment when her heart

just

stops.

And she opens her eyes.

—

The first thing Alice is aware of is love. Adoration. It’s wrapped around her, warm and sweet, and so when she opens her eyes, she is already smiling. No one could do anything less, not when they are so certain of their worth.

Everything is quite strange, sharp, and clear, like a veil has been lifted over her eyes. She can’t quite remember what came before this little bed, this room, - was she sick? - but it doesn’t really seem that important. She’s looking around for something… no, someone.

He’s crouched about four feet away, golden eyes fixed on her with a look of clear desperation. He looks like he’s holding his breath, like he’s waiting for something.

Jasper. Her Jasper. A million little thoughts, memories, erupt in her mind - laughter, stolen kisses, plans and hopes and dreams, and that feeling of perfect love that she’s still wrapped up in, only she’s not sure if that’s her love for him or his love for her. She decides that it doesn’t matter.

“Jasper?” her voice sounds a little different to her own ears. She thinks about getting up, and suddenly she is standing, only a foot away from him.

“Alice,” his voice practically caresses her name, and he straightens up, towering over her (still?). “How are you feeling? Do you remember what hap-”

Before he can finish his sentence, her arms are around him, and she’s clinging to him like she’ll never let go.

“You did it, you did it. I was so, so worried you’d change your mind or be chivalrous or something ridiculous,” she babbles into his shirt, and he gently pulls back to look at her eyes (perfectly red, framed in black eyelashes, and oh, he’s falling in love all over again).

“I never asked you if you wanted this,” he says hoarsely, smoothing her hair from her face.

Her laugh is like … delight, the bubbles in champagne, perfect happiness.

“Oh, Jas,” she smiles at him. “There was never any question to ask.”

(He kisses her then, not like high school sweethearts; he kisses her like she’s his beautiful, perfect, newborn mate and he’s not even a little bit sure how she’s managing to tolerate the burn her throat and the thirst this long because the only reason they don’t put her little cot to another use is because Carlisle comes down to check on them, his relief like a cool spring breeze when he sees the smile on Alice’s face and the matching one on Jasper’s.)

—

They leave Forks two weeks after she dies and rises again, with a smile on her face. They leave hand-in-hand, vanishing into the forest towards Alaska. A year there, and then as much time as she needs to maintain control around humans.

And then… they have so many plans. She wants to go to college, study fashion or maybe painting or maybe photography… and they want to go travelling, to all those places on the list in her diary. She wants to help Esme restore a house, and have Rosalie teach her to drive. She wants to meet every single one of their friends, and he can’t wait to introduce her to Peter and Charlotte.

And he wants to marry her, in a white dress, with a preacher. He wants to watch her marvel at the Northern Lights, and create havoc at Milan Fashion Week, and dance with her to the old records in his study. He wants to make sure that there is never a single moment, a single thought, where she ever regrets what she lost. Anything she wants, he’ll bring it to her.

She looks up him, sensing his worry, and lifts his hand to her lips.

“It’s okay, Jas. It’s all going to be amazing,” she murmurs to him, leaning against him as they walk. “You don’t have to worry - we’ve got all the time in the world.”

They leave Forks at 11:28 p.m on a Tuesday, hand-in-hand, and neither of them looks back.

#jaliceweek20 #alice cullen #jasper hale #Alice/Jasper #jalice #guess which twit posted this to the wrong blog #my fic: untitled quarantine

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unstoppableforcce · 5 years ago

Text

a new dawn

—CHAPTER 2: to fall asleep

pairing: Poe Dameron x reader (modern au)

previous part | next part | masterlist

a/n: aw I feel bad when I write this stuff but it’s a solid story and I really feel it when I’m writing it. more cute moments, flashbacks and growth to come !

What was he doing?

A phone call at 4 a.m. was one thing, showing up at your apartment after a night out that you said you couldn’t make? That was another thing entirely and what was he doing?

It was exactly what Finn told him not to do when he helped him into the lyft, and yet here he was. He was at your door, he was more than a little tipsy and mad at himself for being there at all. This was such a bad idea. You didn’t deserve this.

And he wasn’t going to knock. That made it okay.

He was just going to stand there, staring at your foot mat, and definitely not knocking or using the key that he still had to head straight in.

He definitely wasn’t going to knock—

“Just a second…” You called from within your apartment and it was only then that he realized he had knocked, his hand acting against his better judgement.

He could still just walk away. He could turn away and pretend he was never there. It would make it less weird and desperate. You wouldn’t know and he wouldn’t seem like he was, drunk and showing up at your door beyond any reasonable hour.

He could still leave. Taking a step back, he put his hands back like heavy weights into his pockets and almost fully pulled back into the hall by the time you made it to the door.

There was no running away now.

Stars, you looked tired. And the cash in your hand, clearly you were expecting someone else.

“Poe?”

He snapped back to himself, rubbing over his face and realizing all at once that he needed to shave and that you looked worried. That look was all it took to sober him the rest of the way up.

“I shouldn’t be here…” He pinched at the bridge of his nose, “I’m sorry I—”

“No, no it’s okay…”

“It’s not, I’m sorry I—”

“Poe—”

“Did one of you order from Thai Classic?”

Both of you turned immediately to the poor delivery man standing in your hall who had approached quietly enough that neither of you seemed to notice.

Poe flinched away, turning his back as he sniffled and tried to compose himself. He shouldn’t be there. He kept repeating it in his head. He shouldn’t be there. But at the same time, he could still hear the echoing downpour in his head.

By the time he turned back, you had already accepted the food and tipped the delivery man, sending him on his way. Now, you were just stood in the doorway with your bag of food in hand, watching Poe with a carefully scanning stare.

“Do you want to come inside?” You asked lowly, leaning back against the doorway. “I bought plenty of food, I got so used to sharing food with you… I still buy your order, so if you want—”

“I think I should go…” He fought with a voice much more hoarse than it was thirty seconds before.

“I think you came over for a reason.”

Did he? He was drinking, he was sad, it was raining, he missed you and having a conversation with you, no matter how brief this morning, made it all so much worse. But was that reason enough?

“Poe, come inside.”

He nodded, following in behind you as you turned back into your apartment and carefully shutting the door behind him, locking the locks with an ease of familiarity. You set the food on your counter and he silently followed behind, within seconds, settling back into a system he knew all too well.

He grabbed the plates, you grabbed the utensils and pulled the food from the bag, laying it all out. All of it was silent, but perfectly in sync, even if he was further from sober than he was used to.

It was painfully familiar. A pain that sank his heart immediately.

He could see the rain right out the window above your sink, it was dark and it was late but he could still see droplets hitting the window, illuminated by the streetlights down below. It sent a chill up his spine, shuddering him from his skin almost—

“How was Finn’s thing?” You muttered, snapping him from his thoughts again and lessening the sound of rain he could hear. You took the plate when he passed it to you and he felt he was almost settling back into routine with you.

“It was fine…” He sighed, looking at the array of food, exactly what you used to order when you were together. He wanted to think it was some kind of sign, tapping into something in your psyche or something, but he also knew you liked stealing off his plate and that using the app meant you could just re-order your previous orders easily.

He knew he couldn’t think so deeply into it.

This was just normal for you. A new normal. One that didn’t include him.

He could hear the rain again when he began to think like that, it was better to change the subject.

“How was work?”

You shrugged, loading up your plate and settling back against the counter and taking your first bite. “Lots of accidents, couple of DOAs…”

“I’m sorry…”

You shrugged again, continuing to eat. That meant it was worse than you were letting on. If things were normal, things were ‘fine’, but if things were bad, you wouldn’t talk about it, you would just get silent. He figured that was why you couldn’t make it tonight, he just hated seeing it confirmed with your quiet disposition, he hated seeing you like this.

But what could he do? Hug you? Comfort you? Where was the line of friendship drawn when he had your key on his key ring and had taken you right there on the counter before?

He dug around and found a piece of chicken, trying to distract himself by chewing, but with you only a few feet away at the opposite side of kitchen, it was impossible.

“What are you doing here, Poe?”

Didn’t you get it? He had no idea what he was doing there, absolutely no idea.

“Did you ever go back to sleep?” You muttered again; your mouth full of rice still.

“No, I couldn’t, went to the gym instead…” He said, sighing out. “I’m sorry I called so early—”

“Poe, you don’t have to apologize to me…”

“I know I shouldn’t be here—”

“Poe…” You sat your plate down, taking the few steps to close the space between the two of you, forcing him to set his plate down too so you could grab his hand. “You don’t have to apologize to me.”

He nodded, but he wasn’t holding your stare anymore, he couldn’t. All he could do was trace the details of your hand with his, the crest of your knuckles, the soft feel of your skin, remembering it all in a flash.

“So, what’s the prognosis doc?” He had mocked as he watched you skim your hands along his bruised wrist. “Tell me it’s not broken.”

“It’s probably not broken.”

He blew out a breath, a sigh of relief as he watched you survey his new injury. “A bad sprain?”

“I don’t exactly have an X-ray here.” You laughed back, “You come in to work with me tomorrow and I can tell you for sure.”

You reached around where he leaned against the bathroom counter, grabbing a tube from the drawer and beginning to rub the cream along the tender skin. He flinched back and sucked in a sharp breath, but you just kept going.

“Nah, doesn’t even hurt.” He joked, groaning out as you continued to rub in the cream.

“I’ll bring you a splint.” You sighed, recapping the cream but still holding his hand.

It was the same soft grip you were giving him now.

A grip he so desperately missed; he didn’t even know what to do now that he had it.

“When was the last time you went to a meeting?” You asked softly, waiting for his eyes to meet yours but they didn’t, they stayed directed to the small strip of floor between the two of you.

“It’s uh… It’s not normally this bad—”

“That wasn’t what I asked you, Poe.”

He kept his eyes down but nodded, he knew what you were asking, he just didn’t have an answer you would like.

“It’s been a little while.”

“You can’t just will away PTSD—”

He ripped his hand from yours and instead crossed both of his arms over his chest. “I’m fine—”

“There are some good therapists who work at the hospital if you don’t like the VA—”

“I’m fine.” He repeated, his voice finally wading out of the hoarseness, finding a strange stern quality that didn’t suit him. “It’s just worse when it’s raining, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“You didn’t sleep at all last night—”

“How would you know; you weren’t exactly in bed with me.”

He didn’t mean to snap, he hated raising his voice to anyone, much less you, but it ripped through him so fast, he had no chance of stopping it. And finally looking up at you, he could tell it wasn’t worth it to try and back track either, the words had already settled over you.

You were biting your lip to keep your mouth shut and stepping away. As far as body language went for you, that was basically broadcasting the end of the conversation in flashing neon lights.

“I didn’t—”

“I don’t want your apology, Poe,” you turned back to grab your plate, shaking your head humorlessly. “I just want you to get better.”

And with that, you took your meal into your bedroom, not telling him to leave, but certainly not inviting him to stay.

But it was still pouring outside, he was going to delay heading back into it for as long as possible.

He packed up the food, putting the leftovers in the fridge and washing his plate, his appetite was gone anyways. But he couldn’t stop there, his hands just wouldn’t let him. He began washing all the dishes in the sink, he couldn’t help himself.

By the time you came back out with your empty plate, expecting to find him gone, you found him asleep on your couch, your entire kitchen scrubbed clean.

You placed your plate in the sink and wandered over to the couch, sitting against the back of it and just watching him for a moment. He really looked like crap. You might have been the one coming off a twelve-hour shift but he hadn’t slept in weeks, you could tell by the bags under his eyes. And with the slight uptake in his breathing the second you sat along the back of the couch, you could tell he wasn’t doing much more than feigning sleep now.

Reaching for his hand, you gently grasped it, waiting for him to hold it back. By the time he reluctantly took hold if it, his eyes were already fluttering back open.

“Come to bed with me, Poe.”

“Do you work tomorrow?” He asked back, rolling over to face you better where you sat.

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to keep you up.”

You gave him a sweet smile. “You need real sleep, on a real bed, not the couch.”

Against his better judgement, he got up, following you to the back bedroom and after stripping his jacket and jeans, slotted in beside you in the plush bed that seemed to remember the curve of his body as if he slept in it the night before, as if it hadn’t been much, much longer than that.

He didn’t know what he was doing there. He didn’t know what any of this meant for the two of you. All he knew was that being able to feel you depressing the bed next to him, being able to feel the heat of your body even if the two of you were keeping your distance... All he knew was that he couldn’t hear the rain anymore.

And that was the little push he needed to fall straight into the deep end and drown in his own sleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow beside you.

#star wars #star wars imagine #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron #poe dameron imagine #angst #poe x reader #tw: ptsd #tw: injury #tw: anxiety #a new dawn

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maximit3 · 4 years ago

Text

Caregiver Pt 3

Warnings: Mentions of blood, Bodily harm, and Bodily Trauma. Its all mild. Author’s Note: I know you guys have been waiting on this and I know its shorter, but its setting up for the next chapter. I want you guys to enjoy the story and I promise the next one will be longer! I hope you guys enjoy!

[Previous] | [Next]

The knock on the door jarred you out of your sleep and nearly caused you to fall out of bed. For a second there was silence, and you figured that perhaps the knocking had been merely a dream, but then the banging continued, this time more urgently. The bat by your bed was heavy in your hand as you made your way to the front door of your apartment.

Your heart was pumping and the darkness did nothing to settle your nerves, turning your familiar living area into a surreal landscape. As you neared the door, the knocking became slower and heavier and your body began to buzz as another wave of adrenaline surged through you.

Finally, after a moment to build up courage, you looked through the peephole of your front door preparing to defend yourself from the would-be intruder on the other side. The figure outside was slumped against your door and all you could see was mass of black hair and a pair of yellow goggles.

“Oh,” you muttered as you dropped the bat and scrambled to open the door.

Aizawa stumbled forward and you had just enough time to move the door as he fell to the floor of your entryway. A low groan indicated that he was still cognitive and breathing, but you could tell by his clothes he was hurt severely. You had to move him out of the entryway and get the door closed, but you had to be sure the movement wouldn’t cause any further injury.

Springing into action, you grabbed your first aid kit from the kitchen and began assessing his wound. There were lacerations on his hands, and most of his capture weapon was stained with blood. Gently, you touched various parts of his body, trying to determine where the greatest amount of pain was and after determining that it must be an upper body wound, you flipped him over.

The top part of his jumpsuit was ripped, exposing his chest which had blood dripping from three wounds. There were two going across his right side down to his left and one long one that followed the length of his left side - this one was the one bleeding the most. Quickly, you pulled him in a few inches into the apartment, just enough to close the door and began to patch his wounds.

Slowly, you started to cut what was left of the top off of his chest, hoping there weren’t anymore wounds. Thankfully, most of the wounds weren’t too deep and could be cleaned, lined with gauze, then bandaged. But the one on his left side was going to need stitches, and you weren’t certain he could be moved again to get to a hospital.

“I’m really sorry about this,” you said mournfully, and went to grab your medical bag that contained a sterilized needle and medical thread.

You cleaned the wound first, and then for good measure dipped your needle in the alcohol and began to work. Occasionally, pained grunts would escape from the pro-hero’s lips, but for the most part he was subdued, probably trying to block out all the pain he was in.

“What happened to you?” you whispered, watching your hands carefully as they pulled the flesh together.

You worked on the wound for the next twenty minutes, periodically checking Aizawa’s vitals. Eventually the wound was sutured, and with the bleeding under control you could dress the wound properly. The adrenaline that had been keeping you going this whole time was slowly receding, and you could feel your whole body crashing. Aizawa would have to stay where he was for tonight, you didn’t have the energy or strength to move him.

“You sure know how to scare a girl,” you said breathlessly, letting yourself lean against the wall.

A strained laugh came from Aizawa, followed by a groan of pain. His fingers twitched like he was trying to reach for something, maybe his wounds. For a second, you thought about reaching out and placing your hand in his, as a comfort, but thought better of it.

“I think I’d take the stab wounds over stitches,” you heard him mutter softly and you found yourself breathing a sigh of relief.

You smiled, “Next time don’t get stabbed and I won't have to use stitches.”

“A fair point,” he responded, a ghost of a smirk on his lips.

“You’re going to have to go to a hospital tomorrow, get those wounds properly dressed,” you said sternly.

“Mmm,” was all Aizawa said in response.

Some time later, you heard the low and soft sounds of sleep coming from the injured hero on your floor. For good measure, you checked his pulse and note that it had slowed and was steady, reassuring you that he would heal. Reassured that Aizawa was stable, you let yourself fall into a light sleep against the wall.

A twinge in your neck woke you up a few hours later, and you groaned as you stretched out the sore muscles that were not used to sleeping in such a position. You noticed Aizawa was still asleep, and decided he could be left alone for a moment as you made your way to the bathroom.

There were bags under your eyes, that was to be expected, but there were also flecks of blood dotting your face. A shower was in order then and, after grabbing clothes from your room, you ran the hot water and let the stress from the night wash off of you.

The steaming water was a relief and you sighed contentedly as you felt muscles relax and you washed the grime from your body. Your thoughts drifted back to man on your floor and your brow furrowed, wondering why he had come here and not called for backup or gone to a hospital.

It was a weekday, so you assumed his injuries happened while he was out on patrol and you knew, mostly from gossip around the hospital, that Aizawa often worked alone. Still, his injuries were bad enough they would have warranted some sort of help. You bit your lip in contemplation, letting the thoughts roam through your head as you finished your shower.

With your hair wrapped up, you quickly dressed and headed back out the front room. The sight that greeted you was a wide awake Aizawa, sitting up against the wall by the door and examining his bandages.

He looked up when he saw you a small smile on his lips, “You did good with these bandages.”

You pressed your lips together as you made your way forward, “Yes, well, I am a trained nurse, I should be able to bandage well enough. Here, move your hands.”

Aizawa obliged, letting his hands fall to either side of him as you kneeled and examined your work from last night. Most of the smaller wounds had already started to scab over and the bandages over the larger wounds had held through the night. Except for the bandage which covered the wound that had been stitched up last night, those would need to be changed.

“What’s the prognosis doctor?” Aizawa joked, watching as you pulled more gauze from the discarded medical kit by the door.

You smiled, avoiding eye contact, intimately more aware now that you were treating a pro-hero in your front entryway, and he was shirtless.

“I think you’ll live, although you do need to go to a hospital.” You tried to keep your voice light as you worked.

“Like you said, I’ll li-” A grunt escaped from Aizawa as you pulled the bandages away from his wound and began cleaning.

“Some warning would be nice,” he managed through gritted teeth.

You clicked your tongue, “Said the man who collapsed in my entryway in the middle of the night, bleeding all over my apartment.”

Just for a moment, you let your eyes meet his, hoping he could hear the teasing tone in your voice. There was some gleam in his eyes you couldn’t quite place and a smirk on his lips that made your stomach somersault. Quickly, you looked back to your hands as a blush crept across your face.

“I am sorry about that, but you were close and I wasn’t exactly in a position to do much else,” he muttered, and to his credit he did look a little sheepish.

“And you know my address how?” You applied some ointment to the wound, attempting to be nonchalant in your questioning.

“Hospital told me. I had to have information on everyone who would be around Eri.” His voice was flat, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

It made sense, with how high a security risk Eri was, but you couldn’t help the uncomfortable feeling that arose in knowing how easy it was for you to be found. You stayed quiet, concentrating on your work, kneading at your bottom lip.

Aizawa must have noticed something was wrong, as a few minutes into the silence he said, “I am sorry for scaring you.”

You shook your head, “What exactly happened to you last night?”

“There’s a group of villains that was spotted in the area that I was asked to gather intel on. I’m not entirely sure what happened next, but one moment I was in the city and the next I was in a field and it was bright and sunny. Next thing I knew, I was in an alley fighting to get free of the same group of villains I had been tracking.” He paused and there was this distant look in his eyes, as if he was truly reliving the moment.

“We don’t know much about the group except that they call themselves Societatis Magnae. It means the G-”

“The Great Society,” you finished, your face turning white as a wave terror washed over you.

“You know them?” Aizawa asked warily.

You braced yourself against the wall feeling faint, “The Societatis Magnae is a gang whose goal is to create an even bigger divide between those with quirks and those without. They think those that are quirkless are beneath them, and should serve those with quirks. Their leader is a ruthless man known as Delirium.”

“How do you know all of this?” Aizawa asked, his eyes urgent for the information you were giving, but also concerned.

You stood up, swaying as you did so, and stumbled toward the sink turning on the cold water and letting it run over your hands. You heard Aizawa stand using the wall to slowly straighten, but his eyes bored into you and there was no use avoiding his questions anymore.

You took a deep breath and turned to face him, “Delirium is also known as Tamika (L/N) and he is my brother.”

Thank you guys so much! I hope you enjoyed it!

Tag List: @mirakeul, @dykeragee, @veryrealunicorn, @mindninjax, @vic-toryoftheaces, @bullrunpicnicker, @dokidokibunni

#aizawa x reader #my hero academia #my hero academia fanfiction #bnha #bnha fanfiction #mha #aizawa #shouta aizawa #fuck guys i did it #max explodes

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sneezehq · 4 years ago

Text

Insidious

Ruby wakes up burning.

I am once again ignoring how implausible this actually is in canon because this idea won't leave me alone. This is set in the early part of volume 4. Content warning for mentions of hospitals. Enjoy!

It starts, innocently enough, with a scrape.

It's the end of a long day and Ruby's aura is running low after their latest set of fights. So, when she notices the scrape on her side she just sighs and makes sure to clean it out thoroughly before bandaging it and collapsing into her sleeping bag. It's been a series of exhausting days since they fought the geist and Ruby discovered what Jaune was doing at night. Her mind has been whirling with what she should say to Jaune about what she knows (or if she should say anything) and the worry and guilt about her sister that refuses to go away no matter how much time passes and how much she shoves it down.

Oh, and then there's the nightmares of the Fall of Beacon, of Penny and Pyrrha dying. So yeah, Ruby could really stand to catch a break.

Unfortunately, that doesn't seem like it's going to happen anytime soon. The next morning Ruby wakes up groggy and sore, and walking all day in the muggy heat only seems to make things worse. By the time they make camp for the night (half a day's walk from the nearest village, which is frustrating, but none of them want to risk making the journey in the dark) Ruby has barely enough energy to finish help setting up their arrangements before collapsing into bed.

Right before she's about to drift off, she belatedly realizes that she really should clean and redress the scrape on her side again. But she's so tired. Surely it can wait until morning, right?

Apparently not.

Ruby wakes up burning.

Gasping, she flings the top of her sleeping bag away from her, trying in vain to escape the overwhelming heat. When that has no effect, she pushes herself clumsily to her feet, staggering in the direction of the spring she remembers being nearby, with the hope of submerging herself in the water until she cools down some.

Her side throbs angrily as she moves, but she ignores it. The heat is unbearable.

"Ruby? What are you doing?"

Jaune is proud of himself for his reaction when he finds a delirious Ruby stumbling around the camp in the middle of the night: he takes a minute to panic, then forces himself to pull it together. He gently stops Ruby from wandering too far and wakes Ren and Nora, urging them to pack up camp and get a move on. Ruby is obviously sick, too sick for them to treat on their own, and the next village is large enough that it should have a doctor on site. It's their best chance.

He's proud of how quickly his team gets it together. Within minutes they've got everything packed up and they're on the move, Ren doing his best to mask their emotions and hide them from any Grimm that might be lurking nearby.

Team JNRR—no, team RNJR—has really come a long way.

The sun is rising on the horizon by the time they arrive in the village. Practically as soon as they set foot inside the town—and the few people that happen to be awake spot the obviously sick Ruby—their little group is ushered over to the building where the doctor works. Actually, this village is large enough that it's more like a proper hospital.

Ruby is whisked away from them and they're left to wait for what seems like an eternity in the small waiting room. Next to Jaune, Nora bounces anxiously, while on her other side Ren looks as stoic as ever. Jaune can feel the tension radiating off him, though.

"Do you think she'll be okay?" Nora asks, uncharacteristically quiet, her green eyes wide with worry.

"I don't know," Jaune admits, not wanting to give her false hope. "I hope so. I'm sure that the doctors are doing everything they can." They've lost too many people already.

Just when Jaune is about to finally give in and ask if they can see their friend, a nurse appears at the door and gestures to him. He almost trips over his chair in his eagerness to comply, blushing as he rights himself before making his way over more cautiously.

"Your friend has an infected wound," the nurse tells him. "Her prognosis is looking good and she should recover fine with treatment, but at the moment she is refusing to calm down, which is putting unnecessary strain on her body. We don't want to sedate her, as that would also be too hard on her system while she is ill."

"I'll talk to her, try to get her to settle down somewhat," Jaune promises. Normally he would ask Ren to help him with Ruby, but his friend is already exhausted from shielding them from nocturnal Grimm. Jaune will have to take care of this one on his own.

He relays Ruby's diagnosis to Nora and Ren, asking them to try to find a place to stay while he goes to see Ruby, since the doctor is only allowing one visitor at a time right now. They agree, reluctantly exiting the clinic with only a few glances over their shoulders at him. Jaune sighs. The sun has only been up for an hour or so and he's already exhausted.

But there's no time to rest. With the rest of his team taken care of, he rolls his shoulders and goes to see Ruby. She looks too small against the stark white of her hospital bed, wrapped up in wires and tubes. Her face is pinched with pain and deathly pale under the flush from the fever. As soon as he steps into the room, glazed silver eyes lock onto his face.

"Jaune!" she mumbles urgently, slurring her words slightly. "You have to, have to warn Pyrrha! And Penny! They're, they're in danger!'

"I will," he promises quietly. He's not going to remind her of what actually happened when she's this out of it. "Why don't you get some rest? It'll make you feel better."

She shakes her head violently. "No, I can't," she insists weakly. "Yang. I have to—I need to tell her I'm sorry. For everything."

"Ruby, it's okay. I'm sure that Yang understands. Just please, get some sleep."

Again, she just shakes her head, mumbling incoherently under her breath about her sister. She's not settling down at all, and Jaune feels like a failure. How can he calm Ruby down when she's this worked up?

A sudden idea strikes him, and he digs through his pocket until he finds his scroll. Without thinking too much about what he's doing (because if he does, he'll realize that there's no way this could work), he scrolls through his contacts until he gets to Yang's number and dials it. Miraculously, the call connects and Yang's voice filters through the tinny speakers of his scroll. "Hello?"

Jaune quickly switches his scroll to speaker mode. "Hey, Ruby, it's Yang."

At the mention of his sister, Ruby goes rigid. "Yang?" she asks quietly.

"Yeah, it's me. What's going on, Ruby?"

"Yang, 'm so sorry," Ruby sobs. "For everything." She trails off, continuing to mumble about how sorry she is.

Yang sighs. "It's okay, Ruby. I forgive you. I'm sorry for what I said too. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Ruby sniffles loudly, but already she's becoming calmer. "Thank'you, Yang."

"No problem, sis," Yang replies. "Now, Rubes, you're not sounding so good. Why don't you try to get some rest?"

Ruby's eyes are already half shut, but she still bobs her head in a tiny nod. "M'kay. Love you, Yang."

"I love you too."

By the time Yang finishes talking to Jaune, the sun is high in the sky. He tells her about what happened, about waking up in the middle of the night to find Ruby sick from an infected wound and rushing her to the hospital, how she'd been treated but wouldn't calm down, so he'd called her as a last resort and miraculously gotten through.

Or, more accurately, the hospital had a scroll signal extender that had allowed him to reach her. In the end, the result is the same. It's a relief to hear her sister's voice, but after the call Yang finds herself more worried than ever. Jaune promises to keep looking after her sister before he hangs up, leaving Yang alone in her room with just her thoughts for company.

She sighs heavily. So much for her seething jealousy and resentment at Ruby for going out on her adventures and leaving Yang behind. Her sister is out there risking her life, constantly in danger, and Yang isn't there to protect her and have her back.

Well. Yang looks over at the prosthetic arm that her father had presented to her so excitedly, waiting eagerly to be tried out. She can keep moving forwards. It's all up to her to decide what to do.

She's got work to do.

#rwby #ruby rose #yang xiao long #strawberry sunrise #jaune arc #volume 4 #sickfic #fanfic #my writing #fever

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beyondtheciouds · 4 years ago

Text

.20.

A dream. It was. Wasn't it?

Sweat trickles and tickles like the blood dripping down the handle of her axe. It pools into her lap, spreading across her nightgown like a slow disease.

Lucie's knees are drawn up to her chest; the nightgown ripped and torn at the collar and shoulders where hands were grabbing her. The gold locket clings to her skin and is smeared with crimson; the blood of thorns. The gold still hangs around her neck like a noose, tying her to this awful, awful world.

Her throat feels tight; the ghost of his hands strangling her even though he is dead. She can't speak, her actions are horrifying her practical side.

Lucie stands, unable to make sense of her unspoken crime. Her hair is knotted and she absently tugs on it, commanding herself to use logic.

Who did I kill? Lucie thinks, but can't remember. Her hand aches, the knuckles bone white and swelling beneath the veil of blood. Her chest heaves; deep breaths in, shallow exhales as her heart pounds in her ears. Panic. Blue eyes close and then open wide.

What happened?

Jesse's body is hazardly spread out on the ground like a broken doll. Pools of blood glisten like water beneath him in the solitary glimpse of the moon as it peaks out behind the trees. His arms and hands are covered in defensive wounds; cuts and scratches deep enough to introduce bone to the outside world. His bare torso is open to the insects, buzzing at her feet. A feast for the wildlife, his body deceased for the second time.

Tatiana appears like a puff of smoke. The woman claimes no remastered remorse as she slashes Lucie without warning.

Lucie tries to move forward out of her reach, but it is too late. Tatiana is already dragging her blade clean and clear across Lucie's side.

For a long, agonizing minute Lucie believes she is sobbing, not bleeding.

Double screams pierce the air as Lucie drops to the ground like a rock. She is quickly losing consciousness. Bright blood flows like water from the glistening gash in her right side and down her legs like its her monthly time.

Sickened with the shock and alive because of adrenaline, Lucie jolts awake. She drops her weapon and creeps on her hands and knees on the ground to get out of the smokey air.

The inferno around her is still burning.

Flesh tears on her knees and elbows split and scrape against the rockiness of the terrain. Lucie wants to stop, but she ignores the intense pain and keeps pulling herself until she is breathless.

Hiding behind a tree, out of Tatiana's sight, Lucie's hands cover the oozing wound on a secondary instinct. She rolls onto her back, blue eyes dazed, gazing into the smoke engulfed sky thinking of her mother.

Above her, the murder collects and calls themselves to order. The court settles unsettlingly in the crooked branches of the tilted trees.

Six. Six. Six.

Three branches. Three murders.

Lucie coughs, her breathing shallower. I am the first, she thinks as her eyelids get heavy and her breathing slows. Her blank eyes are staring at the winged spectators to her death. She desperately cries out for her brother in-between coughing fits.

Tatiana laughs wickedly in the distance and squares herself away in the shadows without glancing at the mutilated body of her son.

Beady eyes look conspiratorially at Lucie as she rolls onto her stomach. She drags herself forward, determined to find the real Jesse.

All Lucie can do is think of the blood moon as she stops, nearly dead in tracks. As if she has a tracking rune, her eyes catch movement in the shadows. Nate whirls, blue eyes discolored as he watches Lucie as she watches him. A square off.

Suddenly he vanishes in a cloud of incense singed smoke like a bad magic act.

Lucie can't move.

Frozen, she looses consciousness for the third time.

****

A damp cloth rubs the skin between her closed eyes; the unexpected gesture causing her mind to spin with shooting pain. Lucie struggles to stay connected, but it is only seconds before she blacks out, thinking of that black-haired boy on the ground again.

Matthew insistantly presses the damp cloth to her forehead; his hand careful and confident as it dabs her hot skin. His face is a hollowed place that is set up to dissuade polite conversation. His typical grassy green eyes are dark and unusually strained; the grimness in his wild irises apparent.

Matthew's work of art mouth is pressed into an intense line. Several bruises color the rose flush of his cheeks in a rainbow of yellow, purple and green.

Melancholy, Matthew sighs, his free hand on the bed beside her. His finger twitch and move; the light reflects off the numerous rings like shiny kisses. Casually, he glances at the robed figure standing beside the bedside. The Silent Brother's old, bleached hands have Lucie's hand in his. Two of his fingers are lightly pressed to the soft spot on the inside of her wrist.

Matthew frowns, wringing out the wrinkled cloth in the basin on the bedside table. The fire in the fireplace reflectes his mood; the flames shifting high to low like in a far away wind. He dips the cloth in another basin filled with warm water and looks over at Jem who is examining the deep slice on Lucie's side, just under her ribs. Mmm. Lucky.

"Will she be alright?" Matthew asks. He looks dubious as James draws another rune on Lucie's leg with his stele.

Cordelia glances around Matthew's messy bedroom in his flat. Clothes are strewn on chairs and on the floor. Poetry books and paintings were tossed in corners among other things. Dishes are piled like pillows on the numerous small tables and fabric chairs. "Maybe I should do that and you should clean up."

Matthew grunts his disapproval. He isn't moving.

Cordelia sighs, moving the to chaise lounge.

Lucie hears a murmur calling to her. The voice is shaking her. It is soft and sweet in nature but indecipherable in tone. The voice is familiar in her head, one she has known since before birth. Please Lucie. Wake up.

Her body is badly dehydrated and burned-out. Her limbs are limp like a doll's; held by both familar and unfamilar hands with their fingers stiff and cold like the dead.

Lucie's mind; troubled by weakness relents. Her subconscious has trapped all her thoughts in a cave unaccounted for in the space of time. Memories fall adrift like snowflakes against the thick, London fogged windows of the present.

What was yesterday is now today.

Tense shadows are tossing and turning all around her. Mistakes cloud her vision closely behind the lids of her eyes.

The heat of a hot stele burning runes into her flesh briefly awakens her; the scent of leathery licorice drowning the stench of burnt flesh.

James frowns and sits back. He glances at Jem expectant of a prognosis. Lucie doesn't open her eyes or move. "Uncle Jem?"

We are not involved anymore than we already are, James. Jem says, his voice stern. The other Silent Brother doesn't agree or disagree.

Familiar voices invade the room; chaos amid peace like unwanted visitors. Sleep controls her body and the lullaby of bleak conversation threatens to lull her sleep.

A jumble of sounds that make no sense briefly shifts her attention to the bed, where Matthew sits beside her. Something to focus on, to stay awake. To listen. Pay attention Lucie.

Lucie absently tugs the sheets. She knows without looking they are Egyptian cotton; the color sunset crimson. Made soft as silk and 600 thread count fine.

The warm blankets go against her and soothe her like a secret skin; aloe against her battered body. Despite her efforts, Lucie falls into a deep sleep.

Anna sighs, her expression sad as she sips her cup of gin. Her blue eyes are like thick glass as she watches Kit over the rim. He is pacing unsteadily back and forth, clearly drunk.

Anna stares at him with the context of concern on her face only an older sister is able to have. "I so do not appreciate being the oldest one."

Kit stops and turns to his sister. A lopsided grin expands his mouth. "But that makes you the wisest."

Anna rolls her eyes and Kit resumes pacing.

Thomas frowns at Anna, his expression pensive as he asks the question on everyone's mind.

"What should we do?"

#cassandra clare #the last hours #lucie herondale #matthew fairchild #the shadowhunter chronicles #fanfiction

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