#how can i express the deep fathomless appreciation i have for the people who care about me

[nostroviadrop]

I only taught myself to use pleasantries and like etiquette in public to ensure strangers would think I was normal. A side effect is that I don't use them with people who already know I'm a freak

[ilosttrackofthings]

May I please request simmons and hive with "Can I be of assistance?"

this got soooooo long

A bright lightpierces her eyes. She steps back, twisting her head away from thelight source, only to gasp as white-hot agony lightnings up from herthigh. Her knee slips beneath her and she keels dangerously to oneside.

“Shh. Gentle.”The voice is warm and comfortingly familiar, as is the arm wrappedsuddenly across her back. It holds her steady, providing muchappreciated support while she tries to breathe through the pain.

“I’m sorry. Ididn’t mean-” That’s the man standing in front of her, the one she only barely glimpsed through the light. He’sshort, balding, round about the edges. All together he makes asomewhat humorous picture. Which she might find more humorous of thesight of him didn’t come as such a surprise.

She doesn’t knowhim, has no memory of ever seeing him before. Considering that he wasdirectly in front of her when she opened her eyes, that’s somewhatworrisome.

That first voicespeaks again, a soothing “It’s all right, Ned,” coupled with afaint rumble like laughter in the chest she’s currently leaningrather heavily against.

She looks up warilyand finds her worries both justified and relieved. His face is asfamiliar as his voice, but she can’t put a name to it. That doesn’tseem to matter though, as his smile sets loose butterflies in herstomach and the brush of his fingers over her ear warms her straightto her toes. She may not be able to remember him, but she knowshim.

“It’snot your head that hurts you, is it?” he asks. And, as if to answerhis own question, holds her in place while he moves slightly away tobetter see her leg.

Theattention brings the pain right back to the fore of her mind and allat once the weight of standing is too much.

“You’vedone well,” he says over her head while helping her to a nearbybed. “Send Anastasia as you go.”

“Sir,”Ned says and fairly scampers from the room.

Shehardly notices him, too busy easing into a more comfortable position.

Theother man proves to be of assistance yet again, taking a seat on thebed’s edge and propping her foot in his lap. She studies hisprofile while he examines her leg, using his hands to seek out thesource of her pain without a moment’s hesitation.

Still,she has no idea who he is. Her reactions to him have all beenpositive, but there’s a faint, niggling sense of disquiet in hergut as he continues his exploration of her body. It’s nothingsensual—he’s fairly clinical in his attitude—but with her ownlack of knowledge of him, it feels almost invasive.

“Youare safe with me, Jemma,” he says softly as though he can read herthoughts. His eyes remain on her leg, his hands roving slowly higher,ever closer to the source of her pain. “I promise you that.”

She wants to believe him. But no matter how she strains at her memory, she finds that beyond the moment that lightshone in her eyes her mind is a frustrating blank slate.

“Jemma?”she asks, the word feeling strange on her tongue. Or perhaps that’ssimply the act of speaking at all. Who knows how long she’s beensilent.

Helooks up at her, a mix of surprise and pity in his eyes. “Yes,”he says after long moments, “your name is Jemma.”

“Oh.I didn’t-”

“Know.Yes, that is an effect of what was done to you.”

Sheallows her expression to ask her question for her and it earns heranother smile.

“Alwaysso curious,” he says fondly. “That could never be stolen fromyou.” He seems almost inclined to let that stand and she waits himout, holding his gaze steadily until he sighs. “You were stolenfrom me. By SHIELD. Do you remember them?”

Sheconcentrates on the name and … she doesn’t rememberexactly. It’s more that she knows, in the same way she knows herABC’s, what SHIELD is.

Protectors.Defenders of the Earth.

Or… not. There are other things mixed in beneath the supposed purposeof the organization. Dark secrets, hidden evils.

“Ican see that you do,” he says heavily, allowing her the excuse topull away from such dire thoughts. “I do not know what has passedwhile you have been away from me. I am sorry for that, for all youmust have suffered while in SHIELD’s tender care.” The hand heslips into her hair is a sharp contrast to his dangerous tone. “ButSHIELD was recently driven from their main base and several of theirmore valuable assets were … frozen, so to speak. A bit ofmanipulation arresting physical functions for a brief period of time,likely to make the transport of these assets easier.”

“Sowe wouldn’t fight back,” she says, guessing at both the purposeof such a treatment and that he would only mention it if it had beendone to her.

“Yes.Precisely. Ned was able touse his abilities to release you, but I was warned your mind mighthave suffered.”

She—Jemma—allowsthat to sink in. She was a prisoner, held against her will andtreated as a literal object by those who took her. And then, worse, they tookher from not only this man who warms her with the slightest look but from herself.

Theblankness of her memory seems to morph into a dark maw, simmeringwith emotion. Above the comfort she finds in this man is somethingmore visceral, more real than anything else: she hatesSHIELD.

Thesoft brush of a woman’s fingers against her temple startles her outof her thoughts. Cool relief washes over her, running through thespace between her skull and skin. Immediately her shoulders relax.She hadn’t even realized how tense she was.

Shelooks up to find a pale haired woman standing over her. Brilliantblue eyes blink open after a moment and, without a moment’shesitation, the woman bends to rest her palm flat over Jemma’sthigh.

Againshe feels the rush of cool relief, deeper this time, and when theinitial shock recedes there’s no pain. She points her toes to testthe muscles and feels no strain whatsoever.

“Asyou can see,” the man says, “Anastasia is a gifted healer. Thankyou, Anastasia.”

It’san obvious dismissal but a syllable of protest erupts from Jemmabefore Anastasia can do more than turn away. As such, Jemma is ableto see the strain it puts on her to halt her movements and the wayshe favors her right leg.

Still,she smiles through her discomfort. “Can I be of furtherassistance?”

Jemmadoesn’t know how to ask what she wants but, when she looks to him,the man only regards her curiously.

Shetakes a steadying breath, drawing strength from the idle play of hisfingers over her ankle. “If my memory was damaged…”

“Ah,”he says. He smiles encouragingly at Anastasia, doing away with someof her sudden distress. “Anastasia’s abilities are limited. It ispossible she could undo the damage done if there is some physicalcause, however-”

Hepauses delicately and Jemma already knows what he’s going to say.“There’s a cost,” she says, thinking of Anastasia’s hurtingleg and the discomfort on her face before she turned to Jemma’smore prominent injury. She looks up at thewoman. “Ifyou can heal me, you might lose your own memory in return.”

Shenods in obvious relief. “I’m sorry, but yes.”

“It’snot your fault,” Jemma says. Because it isn’t. It’s the faultof the people who kidnapped her.

Anastasiaslips quietly away and once again it’s only Jemma and the man—hersupport, her rescuer.

“Iam sorry as well,” he says. “If there were any other way…”

Shesits up, the motion easy now that her pains are gone, and takes thehand wrapped around her ankle, pulling it to her lap. She can feelhis pulse pick up while she runs the pads of her thumbs over hisknuckles, examining his large hand. It’s as familiar as the rest ofhim—he’s an island of stability in her sea of confusion, atouchstone she doesn’t understand but one that is beneficial allthe same.

“Tellme your name,” she says softly.

Whenhe doesn’t immediately answer, she looks up. His eyes have turneddeep and fathomless, dark with thoughts she cannot hope to read.“They call me Hive,” he says and she knows by his tone that hemeans SHIELD. “But to you I am Alveus.”

“Alveus,”she says, smiling over the name. She likes it. She likes him. Andwith time, she hopes she will learn again why she loved him.

[izayoi-no-mikoto]

Yuletide treat - Vatican Miracle Examiner

(contains spoilers for the anime.  Set soon after episode 12.)

Roberto is kind, and loyal, and good.

It doesn't particularly surprise Ryouta to discover this; in the course of his short life, he has looked up to two people above all others, Kou for what he has done in life and Josef for what he did in death, and both of them counted Roberto as someone special.  To earn the friendship and admiration of two such people is no small feat, and it says much of Roberto that he has done it.

Ryouta knew this before, but it was more an intellectual exercise than anything else; he hadn't met the man, had never spoken to him, had never witnessed the workings of his mind or the kindness of his spirit or the depth of his loyalty.  Of course Roberto had to be a good person, Ryouta thought, but he thought little deeper than that.

Then his condition takes a turn for the worse, and he sees three specters before him, and--Ah, it's time, he realizes, it must at last be my turn to die.

But it isn't.  Ryouta wakes up again, somehow--miraculously--still alive, and that is when he meets Roberto for the first time.

"That belongs to you," Ryouta says, nodding at the golden bookmark, and a flood of emotion pours over Roberto's face, too vast and too swift for Ryouta to translate, and--Ah, he thinks, I see why you became his friend, Josef.

That should, he thinks, be the end of it.  Kou spends seemingly every waking moment at Ryouta's bedside, but aside from that one time, Roberto doesn't accompany him, doesn't impose on them, doesn't interrupt.  Ryouta isn't particularly affected by this one way or the other, and in all honesty he didn't expect anything different.  Perhaps Roberto makes himself scarce because he's overwhelmed by the discovery of Josef's sacrament, or perhaps he just isn't as invested in Kou's little brother as Kou himself is--either of which would be perfectly understandable, and Ryouta sees no reason to even ponder the question.  But as Ryouta's condition improves from catastrophic to perilous to actually not half bad, Roberto increasingly visits--sometimes with a book under his arm, sometimes bringing nothing but himself and a gentle smile, always sincere--and Ryouta soon wonders if perhaps the reason for Roberto's prior absence was simply that he didn't want to infringe on their brotherly bonding when Ryouta's time might have been running out, or their celebration upon discovering that Ryouta would, at least for now, survive.

Today Roberto announces his arrival with a knock on the door.  At first Ryouta can't guess who it is, but Kou breaks off mid-sentence and glances over at the sound, his face already lighting up.  It's as though he can sense Roberto's presence through the wall, or perhaps can recognize the weight and cadence of his knuckles on wood.  Either way, he clearly knows who it is without asking, and it's the sheer joy in his expression as much as anything else that makes Ryouta call out, "Come in."

Ryouta is strong enough that his voice carries, now.

The door creaks open, and Roberto steps inside.  "Roberto!" Kou exclaims, as thought he can't hold back his excitement.  He so often greets Roberto this way; it tickles Ryouta, just a little, to see his responsible, mature older brother unfold like this.

"Hiraga," Roberto says by way of greeting, and even though using the surname should sound distant, impersonal, he manages to imbue it with a fathomless fondness that fills every syllable.  Then he looks over at Ryouta.  "Hello, Ryouta," he says pleasantly, and though the depth of emotion has slipped away, the warmth is very real.  "How are you feeling?"

"Quite well, thank you," Ryouta replies. "In fact, I feel better than I have in... quite a long time."

Roberto and Kou exchange a glance, one of those looks that speaks to implicit understanding of things left unsaid and a bond extending beyond the capacities of human explanation.  It's at times like this that Ryouta wishes he were inside their circle, wishes that he could understand exactly what they do, how they live, the things they've seen and experienced together, because there is obviously something here that he doesn't understand, something involving him, and--

But at the same time, he wants no part of it.  He knows that there are some places he is not meant to intrude.

"I'm glad to hear that," Roberto says, and he pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside Kou.  "I was just thinking that if your doctors okay it, you might appreciate something other than hospital food.  I'm pretty good in the kitchen, you know."

Kou beams.  "Oh, will you cook for him, Roberto?" he asks, excited, then turns to Ryouta with bright eyes.  "Roberto is a fantastic cook, Ryouta, I promise you that you've never tasted anything nearly so delicious--he can make positively anything, one time we were in North America and he made us bison--"

And so begins a cascade of gushing descriptions of pancetta-wrapped beef tenderloin, and cranberry-gorgonzola-pecan spinach salad, and braised soy-apple pork chops, and all matter of cuisine that Kou without exception praises rapturously, his hands clasped and stars in his eyes.  Roberto doesn't even try to cut in; he just watches and listens with his cheek propped up in one hand, wearing an expression that is equal parts bemused, flattered and hopelessly fond.  And if he won't stop Kou, well, then Ryouta can't find it in himself to stop him, either.

"--and if you have the opportunity to eat Roberto's cooking, you simply cannot pass it up!" Kou concludes at last with a decisive nod.

Ryouta blinks, dazed.  "I look forward to it," he says faintly, because it seems like a safer option than mentioning any specific details that might get Kou started again, and also because it's true--after all, he trusts his brother's judgment implicitly, in all things.

"You're exaggerating, Hiraga," Roberto says with a roll of his eyes.  "If you talk up my cooking that much, he'll only be disappointed.  It's better not to give him false hope."

Kou gapes as though Roberto's self-effacement is a personal insult.  "Disappointed?  I have never once been disappointed by your cooking, Roberto!  If anything--"

Kou's renewed fervor is cut short by the ringing of his cell phone.  He breaks off to fish his phone out of his pocket and glance at the screen.  Then his face goes blank.  "I apologize, but I have to take this," he says, his eyes flitting to Roberto.  Roberto gazes back, then nods.  Vatican business, then.  Kou excuses himself from the room, leaving Roberto and Ryouta to their own devices.

Roberto waits until the door softly clicks shut, and then he turns to Ryouta.  "I wish it could have happened without you almost dying, but I'm glad I finally got to meet you," he says.  The bluntness is painful, but refreshing--everyone knew Ryouta's life had hung in the balance, but no one else has dared speak the words aloud in his presence, as though giving voice to the thought might bring the reaper back to finish the job.  Roberto, it seems, has no such qualms.  "Your brother speaks well of you."

Ryouta's cheeks go hot.  "My brother is too kind," he says, enfeebled.

Roberto chuckles softly.  "That's true," he allows.  "But that doesn't mean he's wrong."

Ryouta's cheeks must be bright red by now, he's sure of it.  Of course his brother speaks well of him; a good older brother cares for his younger brother, and Kou is nothing if not good in every way.  But hearing someone else say it is completely different.

"I've always looked up to him," Ryouta admits.  "I know I can't do everything he does, especially when I've been in the hospital so much. But I try to live up to his ideals."

"Not many people can live up to Hiraga's ideals," Roberto says, unexpectedly frank.  "Believe me, I've tried."

Ryouta studies him, not bothering to try to hide it.  He's pretty sure Roberto would see through him anyway.  Roberto meets his gaze, then leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.  "You must miss him," he says, gently.  "What with him being gone on missions for the Vatican all the time."

"I do miss him," Ryouta says.  No point denying it.  "But I know he's doing what's important to him."

Roberto's pursed lips soften, just a bit.  "When he got the phone call saying your condition had worsened, he dropped everything to fly to Germany to be here with you," he says.  "You're important to him, too.  Don't forget that."

Ryouta flashes back to that moment.  The three specters he'd seen so often, too often, except now they loomed over him and he realized, Ah, this time they're here for me--and then, that tiny voice of weakness, the one he'd spent so long trying to crush out of existence, raised its head and whispered, faint and defeated:  I just wish I could have seen my brother one more time.

"Father Roberto," Ryouta says, "can I tell you something?"

Roberto's eyebrows rise.  He reclines in his chair, crosses his legs, folds his hands in his lap.  "What is it?"

"I don't know if you'll believe me," Ryouta says.

Roberto's somber expression doesn't even twitch.  "My job is quite literally to try to disprove miracles," he says.  "I have to be skeptical about everything.  So no, I can't promise I'll believe you.  But I can promise that I'll hear you out."

So Ryouta tells him.

Ryouta tells him about the three hooded specters.  Ryouta tells him about Danny, and his mother, and all the sick and ailing children he'd seen swept away in their wake.  Ryouta tells him about praying for the dying, believing it was all he could do, believing it was the reason he was put on this earth.  Ryouta tells him about the sacrament.

Ryouta tells him about seeing the three specters once again and realizing, deep in his gut and with chilling certainty, Ah, it's my turn.

He falls quiet at last, and Roberto sits beside him and lets the silence stretch.  It grows deeper and heavier, and Ryouta fidgets, second-guessing his decision.  He doesn't believe me, he thinks, suddenly doubting himself, he doesn't believe me, I've ruined everything, I--

"I'll be honest," Roberto says abruptly.  "I don't know if you can actually see, I don't know, the agents of Death or whatever you'd like to call them.  I don't know if they actually exist or if you're just hallucinating them or if you're making them up out of whole cloth.  I don't even know how I would prove or disprove it.  But I do believe you."

Ryouta's breath escapes him in a relieved rush.  His head suddenly feels too light.  "You believe me?"

"You're an honest kid," Roberto says.  "Like I said, I don't know if what you see is real or not.  But this isn't an investigation. It's real enough to you, and that's all that matters to me."

Ryouta swallows, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to cry.  He manages to control himself and settles for sniffling a bit instead.

"But Ryouta," Roberto continues, leaning forward again, and now his face and his voice are so grave that Ryouta feels his heart drop, "you have to promise me one thing."

Ryouta gulps.  His hands clench into nervous fists beneath the sheets.  "What is it?" he asks, his voice small.

What could Roberto want of him?  Was he going to demand that Ryouta never breathe a word of this again?  Never speak of this to Kou?  Or--

"Promise me," Roberto says, "that if you ever see them come for your brother, you'll tell me."

Ryouta's anxiously churning mind screeches to a halt.  He stares at Roberto, perplexed.  "Why?" he blurts.  "It's not--" and then his voice falters, and he has to gather himself up again before he can resume speaking.  "It's not something I'd wish upon anyone else," he mumbles at last, the words dragged almost unwilling out of him.  "To know that someone will die, and not be able to save them--"

"I'll save him."

Ryouta had been saying something, but the sheer ferocity in Roberto's voice makes him forget all words.

Roberto takes a deep breath.  "I'll save him," he repeats, more restrained this time, but without losing an ounce of steel.  "No matter what, I'll save him."  He stares at Ryouta as though willing him to understand something that cannot be put into mere words.  "I'd go through Hell to save him," he says, quiet and strained but utterly unyielding.  "I'd do anything to save him.  So you have to promise me.  Please."

Unable to speak, Ryouta nods his agreement.  A promise.  Roberto leans back, as though he is only now satisfied.

The door swings open.  "My apologies," Kou says, sliding his phone back into his pocket as he reenters the room.  "I couldn't--" he breaks off, glancing between the two of them as though he can sense the heaviness of what has in his absence passed between them.  "Did I interrupt something?" he asks.

"No, no," Roberto says, leaning his chair back on two legs and waving a lazy hand in dismissal.  "Ryouta and I were just chatting while you were gone.  Your brother's a good kid, you know?"

Kou's hesitation instantly evaporates.  "I know he is," he says, casting an affectionate look Ryouta's way, and so he misses the painfully soft expression that sweeps over Roberto's face.

He misses it, but Ryouta doesn't.  I'd do anything for him, Roberto had said, and Ryouta suddenly knows, with more certainty than he thinks he's ever felt in his life, that Roberto's words are the truth.  And Kou might not know it yet, might not yet realize it, but--

Ah, Ryouta realizes, now I know why my brother loves you.