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iceeckos12 · 4 years ago

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time travel snippet

little time travel au oneshot. season 5 jon travels back in time to season 1. from the perspectives of tim, martin, and sasha. 3.5k.

i dont think i need to tag anything, but please let me know otherwise.

Tim wakes up that morning, and it’s just like any other day.

Well—no, okay, that’s a bit misleading. Today is his first day working as an archival assistant, so he’s one part nervous, one part that breathless, exhilarated feeling you only get when you’re about to do something unfamiliar that may or may not redefine your life for the foreseeable future. When he says “it’s just like any other day”, he means that he wakes up, and he’s a normal person doing normal people things like eating a healthy breakfast and going to work.

(So, no. In short, he doesn’t realize that today is the day when It happens, that big, life-changing event that you think will Never Happen To You.)

He gets out of bed, stumbles into the bathroom. Washes his face of whatever residue that’d built up during the night, tries to scrape away the evidence of his nightmares, smiles big and bright at the mirror to see how successful his efforts were. He’s betrayed by the traitorous bags beneath his eyes, but that’s okay. Sasha taught him how to wield concealer as a shield whenever his past wore down his armor.

He shoots twin finger guns into his reflection, making soft pew, pew! noises that are almost too-loud in the hush of the bathroom. Then he turns on his heel and walks away, sauntering and humming along with the chorus of Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5.

He gets to the Institute twenty minutes before he’s supposed to—not because he’s trying to impress his boss or whatever (he and Jon have known each other long enough that there’s no point). It’s just, Jon will probably want to make some sort of game-plan before the actual workday starts.

The poor man had been relieved to an almost comical degree when Tim had said yes, I’ll come with you to the Archives. It’s painfully obvious how out-of-his-depth Jon is with the whole “Head Archivist” thing. Tim’s honestly baffled as to why Elias had singled him out for the position in the first place, considering his lack of qualifications.

But, whatever. It’s fine! Tim and Sasha will be there to help him—although the third assistant is a bit of a problem, considering that they know absolutely nothing about him. There’s no guarantee that this Martin Blackwood won’t report inadequacies or mistakes back to Elias. If that’s the case, Tim and Sasha will have to be Jon’s safety net, which is partially why Tim is hoping to talk to Jon before anyone else gets there.

He also wants to talk to Jon because he just knows the man is probably working himself up over all of this. Maybe reassurances won’t do away with the source of anxiety entirely, but at least it’ll remind Jon that he’s not alone, and that he can count on Tim and Sasha.

As expected, when Tim gets there he can see a sliver of light pouring out from the cracked door of the Head Archivist’s office. He selects a desk and sets his bag on top of it, noting a set of strange gouges in the fake wood with a raised eyebrow, and then an internal shrug. The Institute issued laptop is near the far edge of his desk, and his collection of pictures are strategically placed so that he can see them all clearly.

His eyes linger over the image of him, his mother, and his brother. Their smiles are almost perfect replicas of each other, like someone took a mold of one of their faces and recreated it twice over.

Briefly, he closes his eyes. Then he shakes himself, releases a slow, steadying breath, and goes to check on Jon.

Tim’s not sure what he’s expecting to see when he goes into Jon’s office.

(That’s misleading too, though. He’s not sure if Jon will be visibly calm or upset, if he’ll be on his laptop, if he’ll be picking at the skin around his fingernails, as he so often does when he’s stressed. He is expecting Jon as he is and always has been—a twenty-some year old going on sixty, who wraps his gruff, grumpy demeanor about himself to protect the soft, vulnerable core he likes to pretend doesn’t exist.)

He comes up to the door, and the soft rectangle of light that emanates from beneath the door paints the tips of his shoes gold. “Jon?” he calls softly, rapping his knuckles against the frame. There’s a soft rustling noise—papers maybe? but no audible response, so he shrugs and pushes the door open. “I’m coming in.”

Tim steps inside, a quip instinctively readying itself on his tongue—but then his gaze lands on Jon, and he freezes dead in his tracks.

Even years later, he still vividly, viscerally remembers the moment he saw Danny standing on the stage underneath the Royal Opera House, the way he’d looked...not quite right. The wrongness had been subtle, so much so that it had been unnoticeable upon first glance, upon second glance. The longer Tim had looked though, the more obvious it had become, exposing all the little faults in that almost-perfect recreation of his brother.

Looking at Jon now, it’s the first and only thing he can think of. Because—yes, there’s the long, silver-streaked black hair, there’s the rich brown eyes, there’s the pair of spectacles that make him look far older than he actually is. But that’s where the similarities between the Jon he knows and this Jon end.

Jon’s always been a small man, but his feigned haughtiness makes him seem much bigger than he actually is. Except—except this Jon looks smaller somehow, his shoulders curved protectively inward, like he’s trying to present less of a target. And there’s something about his face, too—his expression is too sharp, too much—

But the worst of it is his eyes. There’s something very wrong with his eyes.

Who the fuck are you, and what have you done with Jon? He doesn’t say it out loud though, just keeps staring at Jon, a heady mix of terror and horror making any sort of reaction impossible.

After a moment Jon’s lips thin, contorted by some distant cousin of displeasure, and he rises to his feet. Tim stumbles instinctively backward, his breath escaping him in a sharp gasp that’s immediately swallowed up by the apathetic stacks of books and papers surrounding them. He’s struck by the fact that if he dies here, it’s unlikely anyone will notice; he’ll become just another set of marks gouged into the desk, willed away with an uneasy shrug.

Jon freezes, lips parting subtly, as though he were about to speak. Tim feels his breath catch in his chest, unable to shake himself out of the clouded stupor his mind has fallen into.

In the end, Jon says nothing. Just releases a long, slow breath of air and sits back down, pushing his chair close to his desk. The motion looks heavy, tired, as though it takes far more energy than it should.

“You—you should go,” Jon rasps, and there’s something off about his voice too, though Tim can’t put his finger on why. He can’t cobble together enough of a train of thought to make sense of any of this, all he can think of is that clown ripping Danny apart—

He stumbles out of Jon’s office, sits down at his desk. Stares down at the cheap, fake wood, at the gouges that have marred the otherwise pristine surface. Puts his head in his hands, and tries to will his heart to stop pounding in his chest.

-0-

Martin’s heard things about Jonathan Sims.

He’s not usually the type to pay attention or encourage gossip, as the vivid memories of his classmates tittering cruelly whenever he walked by still leaves a sour taste in his mouth.The problem with the Institute is that the employees get bored pretty easily. Though most would consider academic research into the esoteric and the paranormal to be fairly interesting, it’s still academic research. And the subject content can get to be a bit...repetitive. There’s only so many gruesome statements you can read without thinking, oh great, more meat.

So the employees gossip a lot, and while Martin usually tries to keep his head down and avoid it, it’s difficult not to overhear some things. And from what little he’s heard, he’s...a bit concerned. Rude and unsociable has frequently been mentioned, as have arrogant and unnecessarily finicky, and worst of all, a bit of a stuck-up know-it-all.

Normally he tries not to put too much stock in office gossip—he’s well aware that the grapevine tends to exaggerate one’s most undesirable traits—but if any of it is true, then he might just be in trouble. It was hard enough being a library employee when his boss wasn’t even paying attention most of the time. If Jon is as exacting as they say, it might be enough to expose the fact that Martin has no idea what the fuck he’s doing. And if that happens, then he might get fired, and he can’t get fired, he needs this job, he can barely keep up with his mum’s medical bills as it is—

Calm down, Martin tells himself firmly, pressing his hand against his sternum, as though that will be enough to quell the rising panic. It’s only your first day. Maybe he’s nice, and we’ll actually be good friends.

(With his luck? Yeah, right.)

The Institute looms in the distance, growing closer with every terrified, grudging footstep. A shiver runs up his spine at the sight of its imposing presence, a dark, ugly blot of a building against the backdrop of the iron grey clouds.

If there’s one thing he’s good at though, it’s keeping his head down and muddling through until he’s able to figure out what is actually expected of him. He can twist and fold himself into whatever role they need him to fill, as he has done so many times in the past. Not easily perhaps, but he has always managed. The alternative is untenable, after all.

So he takes a deep breath, and shoves his panic down as deep as possible. Lifts his head and forces a smile onto his face, like a good attitude will be enough to protect him from his boss’s wrath.

He could really do with a cup of tea.

Martin trudges down the stairs, giving the blank walls, the old-fashioned carpet, a dubious look as he does. The Archives themselves are as he remembers it—he’s been down here a couple of times when Gertrude made a request for something specific, but—

He pauses when he notices a man sitting at one of the desks, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders aren’t shaking and his breathing is even, so Martin doesn’t think that he’s crying? He’s just….sitting there, his stillness so perfect it’s almost inhuman.

“Hello?” Martin calls softly, cautiously, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet.

The man looks up, revealing a very handsome face and brown eyes so dark they may as well be black. His cheeks are dry but his eyes are bright and a little wild, and his mouth is pressed into a small, tight line. He doesn’t speak, just keeps watching, blinking dazedly in Martin’s direction. Martin gets the feeling that this person isn’t entirely there at the moment, like a house in which every room is lit, but there are no people inside.

He swallows and shifts nervously back and forth, trying to decide whether or not to call for some backup. Eventually he sets his bag on the floor and shuffles a bit closer. “Um—are you—is everything okay?”

The man blinks rapidly, some semblance of awareness creeping back into his gaze. He shakes his head slowly, pushes his short, gelled hair back from his head. His hands are trembling. “I’m...yeah, I’m fine. It’s—everything’s, it’s…”

But then his gaze lands on something over Martin’s shoulder, and all the color drains out of his face, his mouth shutting with a painful sounding click. Martin quickly spins around, searching for whatever could’ve scared him so much—

There’s someone standing in the doorway of Gertrude’s office.

There are so many things that one normally takes in upon first meeting another person: their hair, their skin color, all the little wrinkles and marks that give you the briefest insight into their life. Martin looks at posture first, tends to check if a person is intentionally looming, or if they’re making themself smaller.

But all Martin can see are the eyes.

There’s—two of them he thinks, but two is such an arbitrary number when the thing you’re applying it to doesn’t ascribe to human values (he’s not sure how he knows that—how does he know that—?). That horrible, terrible gaze is an unerring arrow, all-encompassing, all-consuming, piercing the deepest corners of his mind. It hurts in some distant, nebulous way he’s not even sure he comprehends—

Then he blinks, and the sheer terror, that feeling of the horrible, violating exposure of everything that he is, abruptly snuffs out. What’s left is just a person, wispy and small, his slight frame fairly drowning in a chunky, cable-knit jumper. He’s leaning against his doorframe, his eyes—two big brown ones, rich and unfathomably sad and more than that, human—drinking Martin in, his lips parted in a soundless gasp.

“Um—” Martin glances over his shoulder, and almost leaps out of his skin when a land falls heavily on his shoulder. The man who’d been sitting in the chair is standing just behind him, a strained but polite smile on his face.

“Hi Jon,” the man says, an undercurrent of a warning in his voice.

Martin glances between the two, his confusion growing with every passing moment. This is not what he was expecting when he first came into work today, and the uncertainty makes him feel strange and off-kilter.

The person in the door swallows once, twice, then straightens, one hand still gripping the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. When he speaks, his voice is soft, tentative, a little ragged around the edges. “Tim. It’s, um...it’s good to see you.”

“Martin Blackwood, was it?” Tim continues, injecting a bit of cheer into his voice. It takes Martin a moment to realize that he’s being addressed, and he shoots Jon—this is Jonathan Sims?—an uncertain look before nodding slowly. “We’re happy to have you on the team.”

“O-Oh?” Martin squeaks, then grits his teeth and bodily forces his voice back into its normal range. “I’m—um, I’m happy to be here?”

“Good,” Tim says through a grin that looks more like a grimace, giving Martin’s shoulder a friendly pat. The look he shoots Jon is a dark, mistrustful thing. The look Jon gives him back is fragile, vulnerable, that winds the tension in Tim’s shoulders so tight it has to be painful.

Jon’s gaze flickers to Martin, just for a second—and then he disappears into his office, leaving the door cracked behind him.

Tim and Martin stand there for a second, staring at the door. Tim’s still tense as a bowstring, and his grip on Martin’s shoulder is almost uncomfortable. The air in the Archives feels stuffy and too warm, and there’s a strange prickling sensation on the back of Martin’s neck, like he’s being subjected to close scrutiny.

Then Tim sighs and lets go of Martin’s shoulder, a little of the tension bleeding out of him, and without it he looks small, deflated. He goes back to his desk and sits down, booting up his laptop without a word of explanation to Martin.

Martin stares at the back of Tim’s head for a moment, a number of questions clamoring around in his brain—what the fuck was that? What’s wrong with Jon? Why are you so obviously suspicious of him?—but the words won’t come. Breaking the silence feels...sacrilegious, somehow. Every breath of air sticks against the back of his throat.

In the end, he doesn’t say anything either, just sits at his desk and takes out his Institute-issued laptop. Stares blankly at the screen as the machine slowly, laboriously, comes to life.

-0-

Sasha’s not entirely sure how to interpret the tense atmosphere that has descended over the Archives.

The first day she’d arrived a couple of minutes before she was supposed to, prepared to follow Jon’s direction and help him adjust as best she could. (Her feelings about Jon’s promotion...didn’t matter. She didn’t like it, but it wasn’t his fault that Elias was an old-fashioned misogynist.)

But when she’d come down the stairs, Tim and the assistant she didn’t know, Martin, had been seated quietly at their desks. They’d both had the same distant, shell-shocked look on their faces, like they’d received some shattering, horrible news. Sasha had sent Tim a confused look, but he either hadn’t noticed it, or hadn’t wanted to explain.

She hadn’t even seen Jon that first day, just received a polite email asking her to start organizing the statements according to the system which he’d devised.

It’s been almost three days, and nothing has changed. Oh sure, they’ve all started organizing the statements as directed. Tim cracks jokes, Martin tiptoes around them and makes copious amounts of tea. That strange tension that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up, like the world is holding its breath in anticipation, hasn’t faded though. And while she doesn’t know Martin all that well, she knows that something’s still up with Tim. He seems more subdued than usual, keeps sending uncomfortable looks in the direction of Jon’s office—

—which hasn’t been open since that first day. She hasn’t seen Jon at all either, no matter how early she arrives or how late she stays. The only proof she has that he’s still alive is the polite email she periodically receives, detailing some specific task that he wants for them to do.

Even then, his emails are...odd. She’s not sure how she can tell, but they feel...awkward? Stilted? Like he’s only half-aware of what he’s typing, or like he’s only asking them to do things because he feels like he should, not because he has any actual goal in mind.

Normally she’d be frustrated by this, would complain bitterly to Tim about Elias passing over her for someone who obviously doesn’t properly appreciate the position they’ve been given—except that she knows Jon. He’d made a point to explain the situation to her himself, an apologetic twist tucked into the corner of his mouth. More than that, he’d asked her to follow him to the archives, saying that he wanted the two people he trusted most, her and Tim, to come with him.

He respects her too much not to take this job seriously.

The strangeness of the archives is only emphasized by Jon’s complete and utter lack of presence within it, but she doesn’t—she doesn’t buy that. She doesn’t believe that he’d just suddenly decide not to do the job he’d been so anxious to excel at.

More damning than anything is Tim’s complete, utter silence regarding Jon’s strange behavior, but whatever he knows about it, he isn’t saying anything. Martin is willing to talk, but he seems to be as lost as she is.

“I—that first day, Jon…” Martin shrugs, shooting a nervous glance toward the door leading to the archives. He’s been spending a lot of time hovering in the break room making tea, not that she can blame him. “He—I mean obviously I don’t know him very well, but he seemed...upset?”

“Upset,” Sasha repeats dubiously.

Martin lets out an exhausted sigh and turns away, waving a dismissive hand. “Look, I’m not entirely sure how to explain it. He just—okay, so, bear with me for a second, but he reminded me of this guy who used to live in my neighborhood.”

Sasha backs off, folding her arms and leaning against the counter. “Okay?”

“There was this little old couple that used to live in my neighborhood. They were—they were really sweet! The husband used to give candy to us younger kids. But um—sometimes you’d see him sitting in the rocking chair on his porch, and it was like...he wasn’t entirely there? Like, he’d just sit there for hours, rocking and staring at nothing. That’s—that’s what Jon’s expression reminded me of.”

Martin gets more animated the more he talks, Sasha notes; his hands move in broad, sweeping gestures, his expression twisting into an expression of extreme concentration. The moment he finishes he deflates again, tucking his hands into his armpits self-consciously, a hedgehog curling protectively in on itself.

“So, yeah,” he finishes eloquently.

“Huh,” Sasha says thoughtfully.

She gets back to her desk. Looks over at Tim, who’s studiously working through a box of statements, his mouth set in a neutral, concentrated frown. Takes a deep breath, letting the taste of dust and old papers sit heavy on her tongue.

Then she opens her laptop and starts looking through the catalog of cursed items that are currently being held in Artifact Storage.

(She doesn’t think that she’ll find anything, but—but just in case.)

-0-

They all get the call the next Monday morning: Elias Bouchard was found dead in his office.

#tma #iceeckos12 writes #my writing #just a little time travel au #probably wont continue this but i thought it was kinda fun

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brian-in-finance · 3 years ago

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Dame Judi Dench on tattoos, her parrot and why she's no national treasure

Dame Judi Dench has been lighting up our lives with her performances on stage and screen for over 60 years. She talks to Julia Llewellyn Smith about why she hates being labelled a national treasure, the joy of having a pet parrot, and why she won’t be moving in with her boyfriend.

Dame Judi Dench, Nick Knight/Trunk Archive

At 87, there’s still the air of a slightly mischievous child surrounding Dame Judi Dench. Take her hooting uproariously as she recalls how she decided to get a tattoo to mark her 81st birthday. ‘Well, it was my daughter Fint’s [actor Finty Williams] idea. We’d had lunch and were walking up St Martin’s Lane and she said, “Now! Let’s do it!”.’ So Judi had ‘carpe diem’ inked onto her wrist. ‘It didn’t hurt,’ she exclaims, in those deliciously familiar tones – half gravel, half satin. ‘Well, it depends on what your level of pain is – but it didn’t hurt me.’

As such a renegade spirit, she may be one of our most beloved actors, but she loathes being endlessly labelled a ‘national treasure’. ‘I hate it, it’s stuffy!’ she cries, her sapphire-blue eyes flashing contemptuously. ‘It sounds like you’re in a museum with the fossils.’

It wasn’t until her sixties that she conquered Hollywood, winning her first Oscar at 63 for her Queen Elizabeth in Shakespeare in Love. She’s had six more nominations for, among others, Iris, Mrs Brown and Notes on a Scandal. Films such as the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel franchise and her part as M in eight (‘actually nine, because I did a morning’s work on Spectre’) James Bonds made her an international superstar.

Now, she’s added to her lengthy greatest hits list with a star turn in Belfast, directed and written by Kenneth Branagh; a funny and deeply moving fictionalised (but not too fictionalised) account of his boyhood in Northern Ireland, where his close-knit family is torn apart by the Troubles.

After months of lockdown, she was absolutely overjoyed to be back on a film set. ‘It was a real release!’ she exclaims. ‘Ken had organised it, so it was unbelievably carefully done. Every single member of the crew was tested every single day, nobody overlapped with anybody, so you had no fear. But how wonderful seeing people again.’

Yet one subject fills her with gloom: ageing. ‘I don’t recommend it,’ she says vehemently. I had a frightful fall not long ago. I tripped over the carpet and there was nobody in the house, and I was lying on the ground unable to get up for half an hour. I have a wonderful parrot who kept saying, “What are you doing? What are you doing?” This is when you need a very convenient parrot who would phone somebody but she didn’t. After half an hour I just got up.’ It sounds scary. Does she have panic buttons installed? ‘No, no, no! Nothing like that.’

During lockdown, she was diverted by University Challenge and the Channel 5 documentary Our Yorkshire Farm about shepherdess Amanda Owen and her nine children. ‘I just love it!’ It turns out that Judi had hoped to have six children. ‘I wanted a house full of them. I would have loved to have had that. But it didn’t happen, alas. I didn’t get married until I was 36, so I left it a bit late. I wouldn’t have minded not working, not at all.’ Instead, the daughter of a doctor and a stage wardrobe mistress from York ended up creating a different kind of extended family, when they moved in 1995 from their London home to a house near Stratford with her widowed mother and Michael’s parents. ‘My first dream had always been a family community. All our parents jumped at it, so we bought a house and all lived together with Fint as a little girl. We had all our high days and holidays there, both our Mas died there. It was lovely,’ she sighs.

To read more on Judi’s relationship with long term collaborator Kenneth Branagh, boyfriend David Mills, Bond and continuing to work with age related muscular degeneration, subscribe to Saga Magazine.

Belfast is out now.

The full version of this interview is in Saga Magazine, February 2022

https://www.saga.co.uk/magazine/saga-magazine

Remember… this is when you need a very convenient parrot who would phone somebody, but she didn’t. — Dame Judi Dench

#Tait rhymes with hat #Good times #BelfastMovie #Saga Magazine #February 2022 #Belfast #Worldwide 2022 #Twitter

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today-only-happens-once · 3 years ago

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missing from here, missing from me

Fic title: missing from here, missing from me

word count: 3347

summary: Alberto goes missing. Luca manages as best he can, which is not very well at all. Alberto/Luca, Luca and Giulia as close friends, and some dad!Massimo angst in the background.

warnings: angst with a happy ending, crying, tension in friendships and family dynamics at times, missing person, mentions of/allusions to experimentation, reckless decision making. Please let me know if I missed anything.

A/N: First time writing for Luca and it’s an absolute angst fest. Would love to know what you think! Played with structure and style here too, so I hope you enjoy it! <3

Luca knows before Giulia’s mother has hung up the phone that something is very wrong. Alberto is the first thought in his head, and it’s the one that does not let go.

He stands up so fast that he knocks back the chair he’d been sitting in as Giulia’s mother gasps. It clatters against the wooden floor and he should probably pick it up but his feet are rooted to the ground and his hands cannot let go of the edge of the table. Giulia says something, but she sounds like she’s in a faraway tunnel. Her touch on his arm is the only thing that keeps Luca from bolting out the door.

Giulia’s mother says little. “How long ago?” she asks into the reciever, followed by a “We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

Luca’s stomach has a lead weight as Giulia’s mother turns brown eyes onto her daughter, and then to Luca.

“It’s Alberto,” she confirms. “He’s missing.”

The train ride is long. The Italian countryside passes by in a rush of greens and blues and grays. Luca looks out the window and thinks that it would be more beautiful if he was on a Vespa, with Alberto’s chest vibrating beneath his arms as he shouts with eurphoria.

Missing.

Alberto has been missing for 13 hours and Luca feels like there’s a part of him that’s missing too.

His own mother and father, in their human forms, are there at the Marcovaldos’ place when Luca opens the door. Giulia runs straight into her father’s embrace, pressing her tear-stained face to his broad shoulders. His rumbling voice offers words of reassurance that Luca doesn’t hear.

Luca stands in the doorway and feels lost.

His mother takes a step towards him, says his name. Luca cannot bring himself to move.

“Where is Alberto?”

The police had already come, Giulia’s father explains as the adults drink coffee and Giulia drinks water and Luca tries not to throw up. What if he’s dead? Luca thinks and then immediately: Silenzio, Bruno.

There’s a crease between Signor Marcovaldo’s thick brows and a hunch to his shoulders. He is gripping his mug of coffee so tightly Luca wonders briefly it if might break apart in his hand.

“We’ll find him,” Luca’s father says. Luca opens his mouth to respond when he realizes that his father is looking at Signor Marcovaldo. That the words of reassurance were not meant for his son, but for the other father in the room.

Giulia’s dad sets his cup on the table in front of him and walks out of the room without responding. Luca sees the way he about to slam the door before he stops it, and closes it softly.

His parents offer to take him home. Luca uses as few words as possible to explain that he would rather stay here. In case there’s news. Luca expects a fight that is parents don’t give him.

His mother hugs him extra long before they leave. Luca returns it, if only because he knows it will help his mom feel better.

They promise to come back in the morning. Luca nods. He bites his tongue from asking them to stay, too. What if they disappear like Alberto?

Giulia is quiet that night. Luca sleeps out on the hideout and tries not to feel like the weight of Alberto’s absence will send him tumbling through the floor and crashing to the ground. Giulia leaves the window open and for that, Luca is grateful.

“Luca?”

“Hm?”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

“Do you think Alberto… ran away?”

“No.”

“I’m scared for him.”

Luca knows that he should offer some words of reassurance. That’s what friends do. But he cannot speak past the hardening lump in his throat and he stares at the lights above him that Alberto once insisted were anchovies and can feel his chest pulse with an ache he cannot name.

Alberto was always the one to quiet the fear inside of him. Silenzio, Bruno, Luca thinks fiercely, and swallows when he realizes that voice sounds an awful lot like Alberto.

Luca smooths his hand over the poster to adhere it to the wall. His hand does not linger no matter how much he wants it to. Neither does his gaze. If he does either for too long, he will begin to cry.

“C’mon,” Luca tells Giulia when he can feel her worried stare boring into the side of his face. “We have more posters to hang up.”

“Hey,” she says, putting her hand on his shoulder.

He shrugs out from under her grip. “I’m fine.”

He knows that he is a terrible liar. He knows that Giulia can read him better than anyone. He waits for Giulia to call him out on it, unsure of what he will say in response.

She says nothing. She can, after all, read him better than anyone. So she hands him the next poster, and they get back to work.

I’m gonna fix this. That was his promise to Alberto a year ago. He wants that to be his promise now. He wants to say it—wants to scream it—wants it to be true.

Luca doesn’t know if he can. He thinks of the clock at the bottom of the ocean and wonders if it is still counting the seconds. Luca is.

He makes it to noon before he cries.

Signor Marcovaldo starts to make Trenette al Pesto and stops halfway through. Luca watches from the dining room table as his parents and Giulia’s mother have a hushed conversation in the next room over. Signor Marcovaldo’s hand wavers as he reaches for the garlic cloves, then drops to his side.

“Perhaps we should… order something instead,” he says.

“Papa—”

He leaves. Giulia sighs. When she starts chopping the garlic, Luca busies himself by draining the pasta. He pretends he doesn’t see Giulia wipe her eyes on the sleeve of her striped shirt, and he decides to return her watery smile.

“Maybe he ran away,” the police say the next day. Early afternoon sun filters through the open windows, the salty ocean air tickling Luca’s nose.

“He didn’t,” Luca interrupts. He has spent most of his life not knowing things, but he knows this. Alberto didn’t run away.

“Sweetheart,” his mom begins, and Luca’s stomach rolls. He steps back when she reaches for him.

“He didn’t.”

“I know he’s your friend, kid,” one of the officers tells him, “but we found plans and maps at that island you said he used to spend his free time at.”

“That’s different,” Luca says, his throat tightening. “That was before. He wouldn’t run away! The life he has here is important to him. I know it.”

“Luca—”

“No! I know Alberto! He didn’t just run away.” Luca can feel his heartbeat pounding in against his ribs, like it wants to break free of his confines of his chest. As desperate to reach Alberto as the rest of him is. Luca’s eyes flit over the room to settle squarely on Signor Marcovaldo, who stands in the corner and stares at the floor.

“He wouldn’t abandon the people he loves,” Luca insists.

Signor Marcovaldo’s gaze rises and steadfastly meet’s Luca’s own. “And we won’t abandon him.”

“You’re going to collapse if you keep going like this,” Giulia tells him quietly the afternoon of the following day, in the middle of the town square. Luca can feel the rain against his scales and dripping off his fins.

“I’m fine.”

“Luca, you’re not yourself—”

“What do you want from me, Guilia?” Luca snaps. “I’m trying to find Alberto, and I don’t know where to look, and I don’t know who took him or why and I can’t sleep at night because I don’t know that he’s safe and I never got to tell him—”

Luca’s voice fails him when Guilia grabs him and pulls him into a hug. She doesn’t let go for a long time. And when she feels Luca’s shoulders jerk with an aborted sob, she just squeezes tighter.

Luca sleeps for a few hours the third night. He wakes up when the door opens and Signor Marcovaldo’s broad frame is silhouetted against the light form inside the house. He is wearing his hat and has a lamp in his hand. Luca slides down the ladder and calls out to him.

“Luca. You should be asleep.”

“Are you going to look for Alberto?”

There’s a beat, and Luca wonders if he’s going to lie to him. “Yes.”

“I want to come with you.”

“It is late—”

“Please, Signor.”

Luca looks up at him. He can sense, more than see, the way Signor Marcovaldo looks at him. Close and studying, as if trying to parcel something out. Whatever it is, he seems to find it, as he looks in the direction of the town, and then back.

“Alberto cares very much for you, Luca.”

Luca’s heart stutters a little. His lungs squeeze. “And I for him, sir.”

A heavy hand lands in his hair and ruffles it. “I know. Come. Walk with me.”

Luca had learned much in his year at school. He learned about stars, and spelling, and addition.

He did not learn how to deal with this.

He did not learn how to count the hours when the days bleed into sleepless nights and time itself starts to lose meaning. He did not learn how to stop counting the minutes, as if counting to sixty a million times will stave off the way his vision blurs on the edges if he stands in one place for too long.

Luca throws a tarp over the rusting Vespa and wishes that the hole in his heart could be covered as easily.

When Luca becomes too exhausted, he sleeps. When he sleeps, he dreams of Alberto.

The dreams are a patchwork quilt in memories. Alberto’s sun-warmed shoulder brushing against Luca’s, the teasing quirk of his eyebrow, the stretch of his spine when he planned to put himself firmly in the way of danger. Then the echo of take me, gravity as he disappears down the edge of a cliff to dive into the water below.

Luca follows, every time.

Alberto disappears.

Every.

Time.

Luca stares at the anchovies (stars, he knows, hot balls of gas lightyears away from here but Alberto is not here and Luca wants to hold on to the parts of Alberto that he can with both hands) when he hears the phone ring.

Signor Marcovaldo picks up on the first ring. Luca realizes he must have been waiting. He wonders how many nights he spent at the kitchen table, also unable to sleep. Luca glances at the still-open window to Giulia’s room, sees her light immediately click on, and wonders if maybe nobody in this house has slept since Alberto went missing.

Luca sits up when he hears Signor Marcovaldo knock on her door.

They have a lead. Signor Marcovaldo sits on the edge of Giulia’s bed. Looks at Luca through the window. Found some fabric that matched his shirt a few miles north.

Luca slides down the ladder to the ground so fast he feels his palms rubbed raw from the rope burn.

Luca tears the tarp off the Vespa and kicks it into gear. He hears his name being called from the house, the thundering of footsteps down the stairs after him.

“Wait!” Signor Marcovaldo calls to him, but all Luca has done for the past week is wait.

He feels a sudden weight on the back of the Vespa and sees Giulia yanking on a helmet.

“Go!” she shouts in his ear.

He turns the Vespa north and goes as fast as he can.

Luca races the moon. Portorosso gives way to a tree line, thick with the scent of dew and dirt. He thinks he can feel Giulia’s hands shaking around him, but he does not know if that is the thrum of the Vespa beneath them or if her anxiety is an echo of his own.

All he knows is that Alberto is north. So that’s where Luca wants to be.

“STOP!”

Luca sees it at the same time Giulia does and brings the Vespa to a lurching halt against the dirt trail they had been following. Giulia tightens her grip on Luca to keep them both from careening off the vehicle.

Luca blinks at the figure in the road, clearing the spray of dust from his eyes.

The moonlight filters weakly through the leaves of the canopy above them. Luca can barely see, but the headlight from the Vespa offers enough of a glow to make out the form that stands on the path. Just far enough away from the light to be a shadow in the darkness.

Luca tentatively climbs off the Vespa and takes a step forward. It has been over a year, but Luca has seen that same silhouette in his dreams every day for a week.

“Alberto?”

The answering voice is raspy and hoarse, but its familiarity thunders in Luca’s head. “L…Luca?”

And then Alberto collapses.

Luca does not reach him before he hits the ground but it’s a close thing. “Alberto!”

The bottom of Alberto’s tank top is torn, he cheeks gaunt. Parts of him are blue scales. The base of his skull has purple fins that fade up into his soft tower of curly hair. Almost like he had gone for a swim, and not fully dried off.

“He’s bleeding. And I think he has a fever,” Giulia says quietly, and only now does Luca realize that she is kneeling on the other side of him. Luca hears her voice as if he’s underwater. There’s something off about it, he knows, but he cannot place it.

“C’mon, Luca. We have to get him home.”

The trip home is quiet. They sandwich Alberto between them and Luca drives even faster on the way back.

Alberto’s weight and heat against him is a reminder of his presence—heavy and warm and here—but it’s not as comforting as Luca had thought it would be. He’s hurt. He’s sick.

I’m gonna fix this, Luca thinks, and guns it even faster as Portorosso comes into view again.

Luca does not know what he expects when he pulls up to the Marcovaldo’s home. He had not thought about it. Giulia is pulled aside by her mother, hushed and harsh words shading the concern from which they originate.

Signor Marcovaldo says nothing. He pulls Alberto up in his arm and disappears into the house. The churning in Luca’s gut spikes the moment Alberto disappears from his view, so Luca follows.

Giulia’s father takes Alberto back to his room, ducking into the small doorway. Luca lingers at the threshold and watches.

“Never do that again,” Signor Marcovaldo says as he lays Alberto down in his bed. It’s not until he turns to look at Luca in the doorway that Luca realizes he was speaking to him, not Alberto.

It is not a promise Luca can make. Not when he can see the rise and fall of Alberto’s chest for his own eyes.

“I had to, sir.” Luca takes a step into the room. “Is… Alberto going to be okay?”

Signor Marcovaldo turns to him, then sighs. He wordlessly places his hand on top of Luca’s head as he passes by.

“I need to make some phone calls,” he says in lieu of an answer. “Watch him for me, Luca.”

In the hours that follow, Luca does not leave the room.

Giulia’s mother comes in and lectures him about running off. Giulia tries to come to his defense—“we found Alberto, Mamma! Can’t you just leave him alone?”—but Luca shakes his head and apologizes, even though he is not sorry.

Signor Marcovaldo has a doctor attend to Alberto. Infected, the doctor says. But treatable. I believe he will make a full recovery.

Luca pretends he does not hear the relieved tremble to Signor Marcovaldo’s breath in response.

Luca is alone with Alberto and the sun is just barely peeking over the ocean’s horizon line when Alberto wakes up.

Alberto’s hand twitches in Luca’s. His green eyes crack open, and Luca leaps to his feet.

“Luca?” His name falling from Alberto’s mouth—dry and raspy as it sounds in this moment—is nearly enough to make Luca’s knees give out from under him.

“Sì, sì, sì.” Luca fumbles for the glass of water and straw on the table beside the bed. “Here.”

Alberto does not look away from Luca’s face as he drinks the water. Luca knows this because he, also, cannot bring himself to look away. As Luca pulls the cup away and turns to call for Signor Marcovaldo, Alberto’s grip on his hand tightens.

“Wait,” Alberto says.

In this moment, Luca does not believe himself capable of denying Alberto much of anything. So he stops, and turns back.

“You’re really here?”

Alberto has never sounded so small. When he touches Luca’s cheek, Luca goes very still.

“Sì,” Luca whispers.

He watches as Alberto’s green eyes flood with tears, and then hears the creak of the floorboards behind him. When Luca glances over his shoulder, he sees Giulia’s father in the doorway.

“Alberto,” Signor Marcovaldo says, and Alberto breaks.

Luca has to leave the room when the police come to get Alberto’s statement, but he hears whispers of it amongst the adults late at night when he is supposed to be asleep.

Word of sea monsters is spreading, Giulia’s mother says. You said Alberto said they were talking of research? I do wonder if it may have been more about experimentation—

Signor Marcovaldo’s rumble interrupts her. He escaped, Giana, and they raided the warehouse. They are not a threat any longer. That, and Alberto’s forgiveness, is all I care about.

Massimo, it’s not your fault—

It is, came the firm disagreement. Dio mi perdoni, but it is.

Two days later, Alberto sits in the hideout beside Luca and watches the sunlight filter through the leaves above them.

The quiet between them is filled with the sounds of Portorosso around them: children playing soccer in the town square, fishermen calling to one another on passing boats, seagulls squaking as they pass by overhead. Giulia was working on selling what remained of the family’s stock of fish, so her idle chatter is nowhere to be heard. Luca closes his eyes and listens mostly to Alberto drumming his fingers against his own stomach.

Alberto had been quiet in the days since waking up. Luca didn’t press him on it. The sound of the breath passing through his lungs and his footsteps when he walked was enough for Luca.

“Hey,” Alberto says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“I never thanked you for coming to find me. That night, in the woods?”

Luca frowns and looks over at him. Alberto is still staring at the sky. “You don’t have to thank me. Of course I’d come for you.”

“Yeah, I just…” Alberto trails off, then sits up suddenly. Startled, Luca sits up too. Alberto turns to look at him, his green eyes intense. “I… I feel like I knew that. When I was… there. I can’t explain why, I just… I just knew.” He grabs Luca’s face in both of his hands.

Luca swears his heartbeat stops all together, then starts thundering in his chest. “Alberto—"

“I…” Alberto swallows. His eyes search Luca’s face like he might vanish if he so much as blinks. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you again. I fought my way out for you, but even then, I… I wasn’t… I couldn’t be sure, but I kept thinking—”

“Silenzio, Bruno?” Luca supplies, and turns to kiss Alberto’s palm against his face.

Alberto’s answering laugh is watery and thin as he presses his forehead against Luca’s. It is the most beautiful thing Luca has ever heard in his life.

#luca #luca fanfiction #luca/alberto #luca/alberto fanfiction #alberto scorfano #angst #missing person #experimentation cw #crying

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sxvxrxssnape · 4 years ago

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severus' sixty-first birthday

- minerva sends severus a birthday card every year and though she doesn't sign it or return address it, he knows they're from her. they worked together for years, he recognizes her handwriting

- he's not entirely sure how she found his address but maybe owls are just that good at tracking people. still, she never asks to see him or mentions how the rest of the wizarding world has long thought he's dead

- at this point, he opens his kitchen window in the morning and watches the sun peaking over the horizon as it starts to rise, sipping on his coffee, as he waits for the letter to arrive

- he'll read through it, smiling softly (though he wonders about the part where she mentions a gift on the way. shes never sent anything more than a card) before tucking the card away with all the others. he'll get dressed then and then walk into town. it's a quiet place where he's chosen to live and he's made friendly with a number of people and sometimes he misses the vibrancy of the wizarding world and the comaderie of being a hogwarts professor but that atmosphere had long fizzled out and going back would never truly mean going back. he's moved on and he's fine with that

- he prefers early morning to get the shopping done. it's less crowded and the world feels untouched, pure and magical, at this hour. he'll stop at the local bakery, buy himself a pastry and another cup of coffee, savoring sweet almond and blueberry, before continuing to the grocery store and picking up the few things he needs for tonight's dinner

- its his 61st birthday today and though he doesn't want to make a big deal out of his birthday, he's learned that it's okay to celebrate your own existence and indulge in the things that make him happy

- as it stands, a well made shepherds pie with good bread and red wine would make him very happy today

- his grocery tote is charmed to keep cool and feather light, so after gathering what he needs he'll head to the bookshop. this is one of his favorite activities and absolutely not reserved for his birthday. his favorite bookshop is old and quaint, hosting strange books with mysterious origins. a lot of the locals think its all false but severus has a trained eye and can recognize magical tombs when he sees them. the first time he came, he cleared out any that could be considered dangerous to muggles. now he likes to browse through the remains and pick up a new read or two; they're not all magical but they are all interesting. the shopkeeper is a very old woman who looks very out of place in this millennium, but he supposes he does too some days

- she wishes him a happy birthday, eyeing his black coat with a certain kind of scrutiny he's gotten used to from her. he was never able to give up his long coats and now he wears them unbuttoned over black turtlenecks. it makes him look less imposing, he supposes, although enough people have asked what he teaches that it sets him on edge

- he doesn't remember when she learned his birthday, but he pays it no mind. a few of the people he's come across here have learned his birthday by now. its the reason he'll get a free scoop of ice cream on his way home. she always looks at him like he's familiar but just can't place how, and part of him worries she's going barmy and starting to forget he's been coming here for years

- as he's paying for the two new books he's found, she says something that feels like its meant to be a warning but feels more like a threat: the aurors are in town today

- "pardon?" he asks, but she just smiles sweetly and waves him off like nothing was amiss, as if his blood hadn't just turned to ice beneath his skin

- he leaves the shop numbly, thinking it over. she couldnt have meant anything serious by it, although now he's kicking himself for not realizing she was a witch (or perhaps a squib?) he kept up with the wizarding world fairly regularly when he'd first disappeared. he knew potter had cleared his name posthumously and that he was hailed a hero, so whatever the reason for the aurors being in town, it has nothing to do with him. he decides to carry on as normal; too many years have passed for him to be known by this new generation of aurors.

- he does get his free ice cream, a scoop of vanilla caramel with a drizzle of chocolate, and he's sitting in a wrought iron chair outside the shop, under a carefully cast warming charm to keep him comfortable in the january air but with a cooling charm cast over his frozen treat, when he sees them

- there's two of them, fairly young and most likely born during the second war. they're dressed in the muggle version of their uniform he's come to recognize and watches them from his peripheral as they head down the street and wonders what they could be in town for

- he doesn't notice the third, older auror watching him with widening eyes, no longer paranoid enough to check who's standing behind him, as he swirls his spoon through the remnants of melted ice cream and gets lost in his thoughts

- he heads home after that, lights a fire, and makes a tomato and cheese sandwich for lunch. he catches up on a few episodes of his current favorite show (a historical drama this time) and enjoys his quiet afternoon

- when its time to start on dinner, he'll put something on the record player (he's got a soft spot for the record player alright, he's aware of what spotify is, he just enjoys the nostalgia of vinyl), and get to work. he's got a glass of wine and he's singing along to pearl jam as he cuts carrots and potatoes

- he grows wild thyme and rosemary in the front yard, right next to the white chrysanthemums, so he puts his spoon down and goes to fetch some

- he doesn't expect to find potter standing just outside the gate with a pink bakery box in his hands looking simultaneously like a deer in the headlights and like he's just seen a ghost. which he supposes he has

- he ignores him in favor of picking the herbs. once he's done, he glances once in the direction of harry potter before returning inside. he leaves the door open and waits. it isn't until the herbs are washed and finely chopped, being stirred into the stew, that potter finally enters the kitchen. he holds the box tightly and blurts out "i thought you were dead"

- "evidently not." severus responds, spooning the mix into a baking dish and begins to top it with the mashed potatoes. "how did you find me?"

- he mutters some nonsense of working a case involving a local store selling magical wares to muggles (and severus frowns at this information, worried it might be imelda) and seeing him outside the ice cream shop. getting his address wasn't that hard and the cake he brought was simply a social nicety

- perhaps he hasn't been a professor for years now but he can still smell bullshit so he raises an eyebrow at the answer he's gotten. potter has grown in the years since he's seen him, no longer a strong-willed seventeen year old but now a tired looking auror of forty who's still just as bad at lying as he ever was. he thinks how he was around his age when they last spoke and that fact feels a little dizzying

- "you dont seem that surprised." severus muses, putting the pie in the oven and bringing down another glass. he has a feeling potter will be staying and the idea is already giving him headache. he thinks back to minervas letter and wonders if this is what she meant. perhaps its time to finally write back, he thinks, as he pours them each some wine; they have a lot to talk about it seems

#this was meant to be a plotless one shot but i never found the time to write it so have the bullet point version instead #snapedom #pro snape #severus snape #snape lives #current snape #harry potter #minerva mcgonagall

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nycorix · 3 years ago

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Consequences [6/11]

[fic post]

Part 6: Feat. Ayres!! My personal sleeper-favorite side character in nks’s books LOL. This scene was born from my desire to see him and 22 interacting 😂

tw: blood (sorry 22)

Seven minutes into their scheduled training hall time, and 06 is still nowhere to be seen.

22 resists the urge to pace, restless energy crackling up and down his spine. He considers messaging her, but this would put her under the eye of the Director, so he does not.

He considers going to find her, but the same issue applies.

Part of him just wants to leave. The cavernous training hall is oppressive in its emptiness, the rows of unused wooden swords reeking of the ghosts who once wielded them—he’s never liked this room, but being alone in it with just his memories is unsettling. He draws his own sword to sidestep that particular mental rabbit hole. Tugs the whetting cloth from its pouch on his belt, focuses hard on clearing the tiny nicks and scratches from the blade and waits.

In the quiet, his body raises complaints he point-blank refuses to acknowledge. He’s been carefully ignoring the symptoms from this morning, but even as he pushes those down, new ones rise up in their place. His throat aches, now, way back where water can’t touch. His eyes burn, gritty and dry. And, perhaps worst of all, a sluggish sort of haze permeates his whole body, dulling his normally hyperactive senses and weighing his limbs down. If he wanted to be completely honest with himself (he doesn't), it’s probably for the best that 06 isn’t here—for the first time in his adult life, he’s only about sixty-eight percent sure he’s physically equipped to spar with her without danger of severe injury to his person—and any such hypothetical severe injury would be guaranteed to put the both of them under scrutiny.

Scrutiny, of course, being the one thing they absolutely cannot afford. Especially 06.

He sighs, a short half-aborted breath that snags in his throat.

Another two minutes pass. Footsteps approach—for a moment his pulse kicks up, and his eyes dart to the door, expectant; but the person who enters is not 06, and he knows this before they get within ten meters of the entrance.

The hermetically sealed door releases and slides open, and in walks 08.

“Hey, 22,” he says with a feeble little wave, voice cracking from the effort of amiability.

22 raises an eyebrow fractionally, an unasked question hanging in the air as the other operative makes his way over to him. The last time he saw 08, he was curled up on the lounge floor, wracked with coughs and shaking with fever, blood trickling from his mouth and ears and nose.

He’s upright now: thin and hollow-cheeked, still, but the fevered flush is gone and his eyes look alert, his mouth twisted in a familiar little grin.

“Yeah, still kicking, unfortunately,” he says when 22 stays silent, raking a hand up through his hair. 22 doesn’t miss the fine tremor in his arm, or the smart bandages wrapped around his fingers to protect his nail beds, peppered all over his skin where catheters and IV drips have been. “They didn’t expect the new lung tissue to take as well as it did, but.” He spreads his arms out. “Here I am! Ready to get my ass handed to me.”

22 considers him.

Unsaid words stick in his throat, all of them necessary but none of them appropriate: Good to see you, 08. How are you feeling? How are you really feeling. Glad you’re not dead yet.

08 notes the stare, just a few seconds too long, and pulls a face. "C'mon, 22. I got this. Let's go." He coughs, thick and dragging, into his sleeve.

22 sheaths his sword in a single deliberate motion, picks up two training swords, and tosses him one. 08 rolls his eyes but does not toss it back.

“Where’s F—” 08 chokes on the name, censorship array shutting him down. Shakes his head with a self-deprecating smile, tries again as if nothing happened. “Where’s 06?”

22 hesitates, jaw working as he casts about for an acceptable answer. One that A) keeps 06 out of trouble a little longer and B) won’t light up his own censorship array, his head hurts enough as it is. “She’s still…” He pauses. Course corrects. “She’s otherwise engaged,” he grits out finally, grip tightening on the battered wooden sword.

08 seems to accept this, shrugging it off with a weary not-quite-chuckle. “Probably for the best,” he admits, running his fingers along the blunt edge of the training sword. “Kinda rather face just one of you today, I’m feeling better but not that much better.” Something in his eyes belies his words, however—a sea change, a dangerous spark that has 22 pivoting with his sword arm cast up a split second before 08 moves.

08 may be sick, but he is fast.

Not quite as fast as 22, but faster than 06, and that fact alone requires 22 to recalibrate his approach. 08 is on him in a blink, sword crashing down repeatedly and without reservation like 22 is a conduit through which to channel his repressed rage. The Director must be proud, 22 thinks fleetingly, a bitter twist to his lips as he parries and evades with the grace and skill he was designed to possess. 08’s movements are far less elegant, but the power behind his strikes is tremendous, and between that and his speed, 22 can’t afford to drop concentration for so much as a nanosecond.

They carry on like this for several minutes, a frenzied, violent dance that would be nothing but an indistinct blur of swords and limbs to the unaided human eye. 08 fights like he’s in it for the kill, brute strength over strategy—a natural tendency exacerbated by the clearly tenuous state of his health. Still, to his credit, he does not slow down, even when his movements get choppy and pain twists his face, sweat dripping into his eyes.

22 expects this of 08. He does not, in a million years, expect this of himself.

And yet.

Eleven point six minutes into the match, his energy starts to flag, sweat soaking his uniform jacket almost faster than the smart fabric can wick it away. His head swims, full of a sick pressure-pain that concentrates right between his eyes, fucking up his vision. His joints ache, his pulse ratchets higher with every maneuver, and for the first time in as long as he can remember, he is actually out of breath. The sharp stitch in his side is the culprit, as far as he can figure—it snags painfully every time his lungs inflate, keeping him from achieving maximum air flow and cramping violently every time he moves his left arm. He fights through it, ruthlessly tamping the sensation down to a dull ache, to a mild nuisance, to nothing at all; but as the minutes tick away, he begins to feel dizzy.

And then dizzier. Nauseous, on the razor's edge of vertigo and migraine aura. And finally—to his horror—lightheaded.

If he doesn't take the match right now, he's going to pass out.

This latest development throws him so badly that he begins to lose track of 08’s beats, all reflexive predictive calculations evaporating from his overtaxed brain. Suddenly, incredibly, he’s on the defensive—abandoning his strikes, fumbling his blocks, losing ground until finally, when 08 throws all of his weight into a roundhouse kick aimed at 22’s face, 22 takes a fraction of a fraction of a second too long to lift his sword.

08’s boot connects directly between 22’s eyes, and the world explodes in a billion fragments of blinding light, senses swallowed up in the roaring oblivion of pain.

Pain.

His body is electric with it, the ice-fire of it blazing along every nerve.

He’s kneeling on the floor, hands pressed to his face, blood streaming through his fingers. He’s not sure how he got there—he doesn’t even remember dropping the training sword, but it’s there in front of him, until 08 kicks it away.

As his hearing cuts back in, 08 is yelling something, his name probably. Ignoring the kickback from the censorship array, pleading with him to say something, are you okay, I’m so sorry.

22 lowers his hands—to tell him to shut up, it’s fine, I’m fine—and the release of pressure hurts so much that he actually gasps, a pathetic little catch of breath in the back of his throat as he doubles over without meaning to, fingertips digging into the edges of his eye sockets. His implant connection is blowing up his lenses with messages and alerts and stats he can’t fucking see, much less read.

He’s dizzy, so dizzy.

It’s as if the kick ruptured his sinuses, the pain stabbing all the way through to the back of his skull, forehead and temples and cheekbones all on fire. If he were anyone else, he would probably be sobbing, wrenching breaths involuntary from the pain. Even he comes uncomfortably close, air hissing through his teeth as he forces himself to breathe, just breathe.

He’s choking on all the fucking blood, wiping it on his uniform sleeve, trying to get up even though his legs refuse to obey him, the room tilting and spinning as he lifts his head up.

A steadying hand on his shoulder—Kit, his brain supplies fuzzily, which is ridiculous, an irritating kneejerk thought wedging its way in while his faculties are otherwise occupied—and then 08 is brushing his hands away, placing his fingers on 22’s cheeks. The pain radiating outward from the middle of his face is so great, 22 barely feels the touch.

“I’m sorry,” 08 blurts, and wrenches 22’s nose back into alignment with agonizing, clumsy precision.

The resulting fresh wave of pain drives all other thoughts from his mind, the whole of his consciousness drilled to this single fixed point. Black sparks blight the edges of his vision. If he clenches his jaw even a fraction of a degree harder he will crack it in half, though at this point he'd barely notice.

He’s still reeling when he registers something cold and metal being pressed against his skin, followed by a dreadfully familiar whining buzz as the device spins up. Each pulse it emits bores straight into his skull, wave after wave of grueling agony as his cells and tissues knit back together; but this is a productive kind of pain. A well-known one. Almost satisfying in a way, and he uses it to anchor himself to the present and drag himself back to consciousness hand over hand.

When it tapers off, he can finally breathe again. Or could have, if he wasn't still half-drowning in his own blood.

“Here.” 08 hands him a cloth for his face—one of the smart towels from the cool down rack—and moves back, giving him space as he scrapes together the dregs of his dignity.

22 cleans himself up as best he can, grimacing a little at the sensation of leftover blood pooling somewhere in his battered sinuses. The pain has subsided to a dull throb, but everything in his head feels swollen and thick, like he got a whole wad of synthcotton gauze shoved directly up his nose. The unpleasant feeling oscillates between discomfort and itch, making his eyes water, and for one horrifying moment he’s afraid he will sneeze; but he’s able to suppress the urge, barely, holding his breath until it subsides.

As he slowly dials back in, the barrage of notifications from earlier assaults his visual feed. A message flashes into view that overlays all the others, accompanied by an identical droning intercom announcement before he can properly read it:

STELLAXIS STELTECH SECOPS OPERATIVE 2122-22-C, PLEASE REPORT TO MEDICAL BAY ONE, PRIORITY CODE LK+000

A hand appears in front of his face, and he blinks the message away.

08 helps him up wordlessly, features twisted in a weird mix of sympathy and guilt and suppressed gratification that makes 22 want to punch a wall.

“Guess I won?” he says with a wincing smile, a feeble attempt at a joke.

22 gives him a withering look, turns on his heel, and stalks out to make his way to Medical.

|part 7|

#firebreak book #06/22 #fanfiction #kasey writes #consequences fic #boxcar thing #okay I had a blast writing this and I'm not even sorry #22's troubles begin in earnest lmaooo #I'm posting this at 8:22 WTF LOL

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fallen-gravity · 4 years ago

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Sixty Candles

On June 15th, 1972, Stan Pines celebrates his eighteenth birthday in the back seat of his car.

or, how Stan Pines spent his birthday throughout the years.

Notes: Here is my very loose interpretation for Week 4 of @stanuary!The prompt for this week was Future with the subcategory Old, and I decided to play around with the concept of birthdays! This was a lot of fun to explore and I hope you have a ton a of fun reading! :D

AO3

At exactly midnight on June 15th, 1972, Stan Pines celebrates his eighteenth birthday in the backseat of his car.

It’s not ideal, and nothing like how he thought he had it planned from the moment he turned sixteen, but he supposes he should be thanking his lucky stars he’s able to celebrate at all. His Ma, bless her caring heart, must’ve snuck some emergency funds into his duffle bag the moment she saw Pa reaching for it before he kicked Stan to the curb.

Stan supposes that she probably intended for that money to be spent on emergency rations and gas money, but what she doesn’t know probably won’t kill her. He also supposes that he probably should’ve gotten himself a cake, but cakes are messy and he has no means of cleaning it up, so a bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes will have to suffice.

He pops open the bottle with ease, and takes a large swig.

“Happy birthday, y’ asshole” he says to nobody, slamming the bottle down onto his car dashboard with more force than intended. “Hope you’re livin’ it up at home with your fancy expensive pizza and two layer cake you’ll never be able to finish on your own” He leans back against his chair, propping his arms smugly behind his head. “An’ I hope the guilt is eating you alive” he slams his hand down on one of his armrests, and reaches for the bottle on his dashboard for another swig.

Just six months ago- not even a year, just six months ago, Stan and Ford had been talking about what it’d be like to share their first drink together. They’d talked about getting absolutely wasted at the pub down the block, followed by walking to the boardwalk to ride the coaster until it made them both sick.

It wasn’t much, but it was theirs.

Stan chokes, and he isn’t quite sure if it’s the alcohol or his emotions.

“Fuck,” he coughs, and stumbles out of the car for some fresh air. In between his coughs and splutters, he takes a sharp inhale of the cool nighttime air to steady his breathing. He sighs deeply, and pulls out the pack of cigarettes from his ratty coat pocket.

He lights one up, and leans against his car to lose himself in his thoughts as he wordlessly watches the cigarette smoke dissipate into the starry night sky. Stan gets too distracted by the sight and accidentally burns his first all the way down to his fingertips, and hisses in pain as he stumbles to light a new one.

No matter. He stomps on the burnt remains with his shoe, and grinds his emotions into the ground with them.

~~~~~~~

On June 15th, 1978, Stan Pines celebrates his twenty-fourth birthday in prison.

“Pines!” An officer shouts, whacking at the cell door with his baton. “Wake up. You’ve got a visitor”

Stan sits up in the cheap cot, groggily rubbing at his eyes. “Wassat?”

The officer’s keys jingle as he clicks Stan’s cell door open. “You’ve got a visitor. He insisted it was important, so we’re giving you ten minutes to talk.”

Stan’s been to jail enough times that he knows that when someone says something’s important, it really just means that they bribed their way through security so they can talk to Stan before the designated visitor hours.

But who could possibly be willing to risk getting arrested just to talk to him before eleven in the morning? Every name that comes to mind is either on the run, already in jail, or…much worse. Anybody foolish enough to try is either out of their mind, or…someone who genuinely wants to see him.

But…who could possibly want to see him? After everything he’s done, after everyone he’s stolen from, who could possibly be left that trusts him enough to bribe a police officer for his company? The police officer happens to walk Stan by the surveillance room, and he notices his page-a-day calendar is torn to June 15th.

Stan’s heart nearly stops in his chest.

It-It couldn’t be, could it?

Six years of silence, and Ford wants to break it like this? Is this some kind of joke? What kind of idiot does Ford take him for, thinking that now is an appropriate time to make amends? After all the times Stan tried writing, or calling, or even trying to get a hold of him through Ma, now is the time that Ford finally agreed to reconvening?

Pah. He had his chance the past five times Stan tried to pass on a happy birthday. He doesn’t care if it’ll land him ten more years in prison, the moment he sees his twin brother’s stupid face he’s spitting in it.

As Stan rounds the corner to the visitation room, though, all of his anger disappears into thin air, and if it weren’t for the officer pushing him along, he’d turn heel and sprint the other way.

“My friend!” Rico cheers with a forced smile on his face. He’s holding a large box in his hand. “It’s so good to see you again!” He takes a seat at the small table, rhythmically tapping on the box.

Stan swallows hard, but takes a seat across from him. “It’s, uh…” he squirms uncomfortably, unsure if he’s allowed to address him by name. “…good to see you too, buddy. What, uh, what are you doing here?”

Rico laughs heartily. “What, a man cannot visit his best friend on his birthday?” He flips open the box he brought with him, and Stan flinches when he spins it around towards him. To his surprise, it…looks like a perfectly normal birthday cake.

“Would you mind giving us a moment alone?” Rico flashes a grin towards the police guard behind Stan. “I would like to sing my dear childhood friend happy birthday, but I’ve always been very shy about the sound of my voice. I promise I will be quick”.

Childhood friend?

The officer squints at the birthday cake in the box for a moment. “Fine.” He says. “You get two minutes. And I’m staying right outside the door to prevent anything funny from happening”

“Of course! You have my word,” Rico grins, placing his hand over his heart. The officer says nothing, and for the briefest of moments Stan’s convinced he sees right through Rico’s bullshit and he’ll let Stan slip quietly back into his cell. But after those brief moments pass, the officer shrugs as he closes the door behind him.

Rico’s fake-plastered grin slips from his face the moment the officer is out of sight.

“Alright, listen here, you walking stain upon the Earth,” Rico slips easily into Spanish. “You think you’re safe behind these bars? You think my boys still won’t burn this place to the ground to collect what you rightfully owe us? You’re gravely mistaken. We have eyes everywhere, in every corner of the globe. And don't you dare even think about running off somewhere else under a new name, Stanley Pines, because we’ll find you, one way or another”

Rico stands from his chair and pushes the cake box towards Stan. “As soon as those guards declare you a free man, we’ll be waiting for you on the outside.” He grips Stan’s shoulder as he heads towards the door. “It really is such a shame. I loved you like a brother. But you know what they say, don’t you?” He places his hand on the door, and glances back towards him. “The good ones always die young”

Before Stan has time to respond, Rico slips his fake smile back on and opens the door. “Happy birthday, my friend,” he says, slipping back into English and speaking loud enough for the officer waiting outside to hear. “I hope you enjoy your cake”

Stan swallows, defensively bringing his hands to his throat, before he carefully inspects the cake in front of him. It looks normal, as far as he’s concerned, just a standard chocolate cake with “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, STAN!” inked across its surface in bright red frosting.

He contemplates. On one hand, he hasn’t had any real food outside of the slop they’ve been feeding him here for the past three months, and he’s never been one to turn away free cake.

On the other, knowing Rico…

Stan shutters. He stands to his feet, takes the cake box, and throws the whole thing into the trash can in the corner of the room.

He’d rather starve to death than risk being poisoned.

~~~~~~

Stan stopped keeping track of his age the day he started going by his brother’s name.

Sure, it wasn’t even close to being the first time he had to live under a new name. You do it enough times and you’re able to come up with an entire life story at the drop of a hat. Stetson Pinefield was from Ohio, born in the fifties in late December. Andrew "Eight Ball" Alcatraz, born in Alabama in mid-May, got his nickname from his troubled childhood that resulted from his dad getting locked up when he was only eight. It was something of a specialty, giving life to people that never truly existed.

But suddenly, all at once, Stan was forced to overtake the life of someone he loved, and it’s like he forgot how to so much as breathe. This wasn’t some sob story he could bullshit to people he’d never see again, or a name he pulled out of his ass to keep him in place just a bit longer. This is his twin brother, someone he spent every moment of his childhood with, yet someone he feels as though he doesn’t know a thing about.

Sure, none of the people in this town can tell the difference between himself and Ford, and for that he’s grateful. But a man can only pose as his possibly-dead brother for so long before somebody starts getting suspicious. Ford’s lived in this town for over ten years, he’s bound to have been on good terms with somebody.

Oh well. He’ll burn that bridge when he gets to it. For now, all Stan needs to focus on is scamming enough people out of their wallets so he can pay off the bills and keep working on the portal that swallowed his brother whole, and those seem to be going…well, just about as smoothly as teaching yourself three years-worth of advanced multiverse physics when you never even graduated from high school can go, but at least he’s making process.

Turns out, there’s still one more flaw in Stan’s plan that even he should’ve been able to factor in.

As much of a recluse Ford advertised himself to be to the locals of Gravity Falls, it turns out that he always receives a call from home on his birthday.

The first year Stan spends in Gravity Falls, he debates letting the phone go to voice mail. He has no idea how in or out of character it would be for Ford to answer his phone, nor does he have any idea who could be calling at all.

Eventually, though, he figures it’d probably look even more suspicious if he doesn’t pick up, and Stan isn’t willing to risk anything, even if it means bullshitting his way through a phone call for the rest of the night.

He takes a deep breath, and with a shaky hand he picks up the phone.

“Stanford?” his mother says, and to say he’s overjoyed to hear her voice for the first time in years is a massive understatement.

“Ma?” Stan replies, struggling not to slip into his own voice. “Why are you calling?”

She cackles. “Well hello to you too, birthday boy. I’m starting to think all of that research is getting to your head. Can’t a mother call her son on his birthday?”

Stan blinks. Is it…really June already? “Is that today?”

She laughs again. “See? It is getting to you! Do your poor aging mother a favor and go outside and get some sunshine. It’ll be good for you!” She quips. “Or at the very least, please, take a break and go to bed early tonight, for me”

Stan smiles. “Okay, Ma. I will.”

“Good,” she replies matter-of-factly. “Now, tell me all about what it’s like up there on the West Coast. Is it unbearably hot over there? I can’t seem to find your little town on my map. Must be why it’s so spooky, since you’re the only living soul for miles.” She laughs again. “I’m kidding, dear. I’m sure it’s fantastic. Tell me everything.”

And all at once, it’s like Stan’s a kid again. Stan and his Ma talk on the phone for hours. He figures that Ford must not call very often, so he spews out anything that comes to mind in hopes that she doesn’t see right through him. She buys it, miraculously, and when they hang up at the end of the night Stan promises that he’ll try and call home more often.

It becomes an easy pattern for Stan to slip into as the years go by. Just as long as he calls frequently enough not to raise suspicion, he can always look forward to receiving a call on June 15th every year. Some tiny part of him feels selfish for posing as his brother and lying to his mother for so long, but it’s the most connected he’s felt to any sort of family in years.

Deep down, though, he knows he can’t get too comfortable, and there’s still too many loose ends he needs to tie up before he can let his guard down.

On June 5th, 1987, just before his thirty-third birthday, Stan Pines dies in a fiery car crash.

On June 7th, he just barely misses a call from home as he’s coming up from tinkering with the portal.

“Stanford”, his mother’s voice says, lacking any of the snarky bite it usually contains. “I know that you’re a very busy man with your research, and driving all the way back to New Jersey on such a short notice is…unfair of me to ask of you, but…” She pauses to take a shaky breath, like she’s struggling not to cry. “But something terrible happened to Stanley, and…” she pauses again. “We’re holding a service for him on the fifteenth. I know that things haven’t been great between you two the past few years, and I can’t imagine a funeral would be an ideal way to spend your birthday, but…It was the only date they had available, and it would really mean the world to all of us if you could attend. I’m so sorry you had to find out this way. Call me as soon as you get this, okay? I love you.”

There’s a click, and she’s gone, and Stan contemplates his options.

Would Ford attend his funeral, if things were exactly the way it seemed? Would Ford even consider him worthy of the time? He’d said it himself: I want you to get as far away from me as possible. Would Ford be relieved that he was finally rid of him, like a weight off his shoulders?

Stan doesn’t even realize that he started crying until a tear drop lands on the counter beside the phone. Just how long has Ford been waiting to get rid of him, anyway?

No. Stan shakes those thoughts away. He can’t lose himself in those kinds of thoughts again. Every time he lets those thoughts get to him, bad things happen.

Besides…a funeral for, er, himself, may not be the most ideal way to spend his birthday, but finally being able to spend it at home for the first time in near decades, despite the circumstances, still beats slaving over an indecipherable journal in a dimly lit basement for twelve hours straight.

He takes a deep breath, and dials home.

“Hey, Ma”

~~~~~~~~

Ever since he turned eighteen, Stan found himself unable to celebrate his birthday without a sour taste in his mouth. As a kid, he looked forward to it more than anything. It was the one day a year that Pa would splurge and let him and Ford do whatever they wanted, and having a birthday in mid-June meant that there was only about a week of school left before they were free for the summer.

Most of all, it was about togetherness. Stan and Ford never had that many friends when they were growing up, so their shared birthdays were always about spending time together, because nobody else deserved to come to their party and celebrate with them anyways.

Once he was forced to spend his birthdays on the streets, Stan was starting to think that maybe he didn’t deserve it either. Even when he did have people to celebrate with, whether that be his cellmates in prison or nameless gamblers in Vegas casinos, everything felt empty, and there isn’t enough cake or alcohol in this world that could’ve filled that void.

Those early summers in Gravity Falls were the worst years of his life. The calls from home were nice, sure, but his stomach flipped with nausea every time his mother called him Stanford. To no fault of her own, she made him feel as though her love was conditional, and that he wasn’t meeting any of the requirements.

He knows, of course, that it’s not true in the least, but Stan just wishes that wake-up call hadn’t come from attending his own funeral. Stan had gone in expecting to have a terrible time, but he really had thought that seeing his mother’s face for the first time in a decade would’ve cushioned that fall.

Turns out that it only made him feel worse, and he’d declared sometime later over a bottle of whiskey that his birthday must be cursed, and that he never wanted to celebrate it again.

~~~~~~~~

On June 15th, 2013, Stan wakes to the sound of a seagull screeching its head off outside his window. He groans, and sits up in bed to look out his window, but all that meets his eye is the vast sea. He looks then to his bedside clock, which reads 8:30am.

Grumbling to himself, Stan kicks off his covers and stands to his feet, because he knows if he tries to go back to sleep now he’ll be out cold until mid-afternoon. He ruffles through his clothing drawer and picks one of Mabel’s hand knit sweaters at random, because the Arctic doesn’t care what time of year it is when it comes to the weather.

Ford is already sitting out on a deck chair with a fishing rod when Stan steps out of his bedroom.

“Morning” Stan says as he approaches so as not to sneak up on his brother and spook him.

“Oh, good morning, Stanley” Ford smiles as Stan takes the seat beside him. “Did I wake you?”

“Unless you’re a screaming bird, then no” Stan rubs at his eyes. “How long you been up?”

Ford shrugs. “About an hour, hour and a half, I think? What time is it?”

Stan raises an eyebrow. “You sure you slept at all, Poindexter?” He holds three fingers mere inches from Ford’s face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Ford smacks his hand away. “Very funny, Stanley. I’ll have you know that I got a solid four and a half hours of sleep last night”

Stan cackles. “Woah, looks like we got a new record, folks” He stretches his arms in the air. “You make any coffee yet? I’m still not awake enough to deal with the cold”

“Oh,” Ford replies, like the question caught him off guard. He stands to his feet. “I must’ve completely forgotten” he says.

That reply does catch Stan off-guard. Ford? Forgetting to make coffee? His practical lifeline? There must be something up.

Stan rises from his chair, frowning. “You sure you’re doing okay, Sixer?”

“Of course,” Ford replies, not turning back to look at him. “I’m just…tired, is all”

Okay, Ford knows that Stan can sniff out a lie from hundreds of miles away, so whatever it is that Ford is hiding from him must be really bad, because---

That train of thought leaves his head just as quickly as it had entered it the moment he steps foot into the kitchen. There’s a banner hanging up above the window that reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY, and there are a handful of multicolored balloons scattered across the floor.

And right at the center of their table sits two cupcakes and two steaming cups of coffee.

“It was Mabel’s idea,” Ford finally turns to meet Stan’s eyes, smiling. “She called me last night to try and walk me through her cupcake recipe, but…” he rubs at the back of his head as he takes a seat at the table. “It turns out that baking isn’t quite my forte” He gestures to the seat across from him at the table. “So instead, when we were still docked last night, I snuck off board to hunt down a bakery”

Ford fiddles with the paper wrapper on his cupcake. “I know it’s not much, but…” he raises his cupcake in the air like he was making a toast. “Happy birthday”

Not much?

This is winning the lottery compared to all the other birthdays Stan’s suffered through.

He takes the seat across from Ford, and raises his own cupcake to clink it against Ford’s.

“Happy birthday to you too, Poindexter”

#my writing #gravity falls #stanuary #stan pines

81 notes · View notes

brelione · 4 years ago

Text

Rivers (The Best Boys)

Warnings:Car crashes,mentions of sex,blood.

Im sorry in advance.This shit might hurt.

Series Masterlist

Rafe glanced over to you, obviously knowing what this was about.He gulped and nodded, agreeing to go outside to speak to Topper.You tapped your fingers on the table anxiously as they walked outside of the house and slammed the slider door behind them.

“What do you think thats about?”Kelce asked, setting down his burger.Shit.This was it, Topper was gonna find out what you and Rafe did.It was bad enough that they knew about the kiss but this was even worse.

And it didnt help that you told Topper that you didnt like Rafe like that.Now all you felt was guilt.Guilt for hooking up with Rafe,guilt from even talking to Topper about your problems when you knew that it would probably put stress on him.Now you were screwed,head in your hands.

“You guys did things while we were gone?You kissed her last week, you gave her a hickey tonight.Whats gonna happen next week?Are you gonna get her pregnant?Do you even care about what’s happening in her life?Do you even fucking care about her at all or is she just another one of your toys that you use for sex and then just ditch?Do you not care that we all made a deal?Do you even realize what youve done?”Topper had tried his best not to yell.

Rafe stared at the blonde, eyes wide. “Dont even say that I dont fucking care about her!You’re the one that went along and dated Sarah and wouldnt shut up about it to (Y/N)!I would never-I would fucking never.You dont even know what we did!We didnt even do anything-she was freaking the hell out earlier, punching herself and hitting thins.She probably smacked herself on something before I showed up but no.You didnt even think of that possibility your mind just went straight to me fucking her.Do you know why?Its because you’re jealous.You’ve always been jealous of Kelce and I and we’re fucking tired of it.”Rafe glared, waiting for Topper to throw a punch.

He didn't though,simply staring at Rafe. “You guys didn't do anything?”Topper asked.Rafe nodded, the action barely visible in the dark.This is exactly what Kelce had feared.He was always right about most things.You even accused him of being a prophet once.

“What time is it?”Topper yawned,sitting up on the couch.You shrugged,reaching for your phone and looking between the tired boys. “What time do you guys think it is?”You asked,turning on your phone and checking for yourself. “Umm....I dunno....like 9.”Rafe shrugged.You looked over to Topper,waiting for his answer. “I think its eight.”He answered,still half asleep. “Im gonna bet its 11:47.”Kelce replied,waiting for you to confirm.You glared at him. “Fuck you,propet.”You grumbled.

“But you still kissed her.You knew what you were doing and you did it right after we all made that deal.Do you just not care anymore?”Topper asked, still angry.Rafe stood there, not knowing what the correct response would be. “Right, alright.Im gonna go home, you guys have fun.”Topper went back in the house,slamming the slider door shut behind him.

Rafe opened the door, following him inside and praying to whatever god that would listen that his friend wouldnt throw a fit.Topper simply grabbed his phone, taking another sip of his soda. “Im going home.I’ll see you tomorrow.”He went to rush past you, making your heart drop.

No hug,no forehead kiss and no explanation.Something was seriously wrong. Even when he was in a bad mood he would still give you a hug and peck your forehead before he left.

“Topper-you didnt finish your food!We didnt finish the movie either!”You exclaimed,making him stop near the door and turn around. “I know, I know.I just think I should go home now, i’ll see you tomorrow.”He opened the door, about to leave when you stopped him again.

“Text me when you get home!”You shouted to him, seeing him nod quickly before closing the door behind him, getting into his car and driving off.You looked up at Rafe, the boy still standing by the slider door in a silent shock.

“What happened?”Kelce asked, looking between you and Rafe hoping for an explanation for Topper’s sudden exit.You couldn't say anything, too afraid of what would come out,instead just resting your head in your hands.

Rafe gulped, trying to figure out what to say.He didn't understand why he should have to hold his feelings back because of Topper’s feelings.It wasn't fair to you or him. “Did I miss something?”Kelce asked, still not understanding.

Rafe shrugged,sitting back down next to you at the table,looking at the empty chair that Topper had been sitting in a couple moments ago. “I don't know.Were you guys arguing about something?”You asked Rafe,turning to face him in the chair.He shifted nervously, looking away from you.That little nervous action gave you the exact answer you needed.

“Alright, lets just sleep it off and enjoy our night.It doesn't have to be ruined because Topper decided to go home,okay?”Kelce asked,eating a chicken nugget.You nodded, feeling uneasy.Topper never did this.He always hugged you before he left, he wouldnt just walk out like that.You created a new note in your phone, typing something and showing it to Rafe.

Does he know what we did?

He read the message,quickly shaking his head. “Hey,what are you guys doing?”Kelce asked,leaning across the table in attempts of seeing the phone screen.You quickly placed your phone down,looking up at your confused friend. “Nothing,Kelce.Don't worry about it.”You told him,bouncing your leg up and down.

Something was very wrong.You didnt know why you felt so sick all of a sudden or why you were shaking,snapping out of your thoughts when Rafe reached his hand across,his hand on your leg to get it to stop bouncing. “Lets take our food and finish it in the living room while we watch the movie.”Kelce suggested, already standing up.

Topper drove down the street,approaching the bridge that made him so nervous.There were two bridges on the island,the one that separated Figure Eight from The Cut and the one that was built right over a quickly flowing river that lead from one mainroad to another.

It was the quickest way for Topper to get home from your house, it wasnt his favorite way because it always cause him to be anxious but it was quicker than the twenty minute alternative path.The bridge was old and was a popular spot for drug deals and couples that were looking to write their initials somewhere.

It had been built sometime back in the sixties before the river started to rise and the current became strong.He drove slowly,his heart pounding quick.He wished that he had taken the other way but it was far too late to leave now,already half way down the bridge.

He must’ve been shaking more than he realized,everything happening quick as he lost control of the steering wheel,sending himself right through the rusting metal bars of the bridge.

Time slowed down as the car fell from the structure,hitting the cold,quick moving water.He was forced forward as the front of the car hit a large rock,smacking his head off the steering wheel,the seatbelt locking a moment after.The cold water was filling the car quick,the whole vehicle submerged,Topper trapped by his seatbelt,unconscious.

“Topper hasnt texted me.”You frowned,checking you phone for the upteenth time within that half hour.Kelce’s eyebrows furrowed,leaning his head against your shoulder. “Im sure he’s fine,maybe he’s just tired and fell asleep when he got home or something.”That was probably a very logical explanation to a normal person but to you it seemed absolutely ridiculous.

Topper would always text you when he got home.Rafe nodded,agreeing with Kelce. “I wouldnt worry to much,its Topper.What’s the worst thing that could’ve happened?”Rafe asked,none of you paying attention to the movie.

Pennywise killing and manipulating people definitely was not helping with the situation. “Im serious.I think I should call him.”You mumbled,pressing the call icon,holding the phone to your ear.No answer. “He didnt answer, something has to be wrong.”You insisted.

Kelce took out his own phone, deciding that maybe Topper was just ignoring you and Rafe for now.His thoughts were proved wrong when Topper ignored him too. “Yeah, hes probably just asleep.”Kelce put his phone away, pulling you close to him in attempts to calm you down. “Should we go to his house?”You asked,looking over at Rafe.

He decided to just pause the movie, figuring this would be a long conversation. “He’s asleep, (Y/N).If we go there we’ll have to throw rocks at his window so he’ll wake up, its not like any of us can drive there.”He reminded you.You shrugged, feeling Kelce’s hand grip yours,his thumb rubbing circles. “Do you think he’s mad at me?”You asked, hoping that that wasnt the case.

Rafe shook his head, throwing the thought of that out the window. “He has no reason to be.He might be mad at me-he’s definitely mad at me but he’ll be over it by tomorrow.He’ll probably call in the morning, it’ll be fine.”Rafe forced a smile on his face.

You just had to hope he was right, leaning into Kelce,your arms around his torso.You noticed a look of jealousy on Rafe’s face, understanding why but choosing to ignore it.The way Kelce was shaped made him very easy to hug and cuddle with,his sweatshirt smelling like McDonalds and cologne.

“Lets watch something that’s not scary.”Kelce grabbed the tv remote,exiting out of the movie before either you or Rafe could fight him. “I vote that we watch Victorious.”You looked up at Kelce as he flipped through different options.He looked over to Rafe, silently asking for his opinion.

Rafe gave him a nod,watching as Kelce’s fingers twirled your hair,grazing over your temple and cheek as he pushed it past your shoulder,beginning to braid it.The first episode of Victorious was playing.You were sure by now that you had seen the entirety of the show at least twenty times.

You had listened to the soundtrack even more than that, Kelce being the one who insisted that you listen to it. “What time are you guys leaving tomorrow?”You asked,eyes glued to the tv.Kelce sighed, not wanting to think about the fact that he had to spend the whole day with three of his cousins.

“Maybe like….10.”Kelce answered, knowing that you probably wouldnt be awake at that time.You looked over to Rafe,waiting for his answer. “I dunno….I should probably be there early so Ward isnt waiting for me at the door.He’s gonna be up my ass all day.”He had seen all the texts from both Ward and Rose on his phone.

They were furious.It didnt really matter though, the worst they would do is yell at him.They couldnt really ground him, he was an adult anyways. “Sorry.”You muttered.Rafe grinned,shaking his head. “Dont worry about it,that party was stupid anyways.I swear to god I thought there was gonna be a fight between Mavis and Eleanor.”He chuckled,earning a smile from Kelce.

“Imagine that, the two of them just hitting each other with their canes.What would they fight about?Like,how dare you take my pie recipe and claim it as yours you old rat!”Kelce tried to sound old,his voice squeaky like he had a bad cold.

You laughed,messing up the braids Kelce was trying to do in your hair. “Or like, my grandson is prettier than yours and they have the same father!”He continued,glad he could make you laugh when you had been so stressed.Your eyes widened,sitting up.

“Wait,do their grandsons actually have the same dad or are you fucking with me?”You asked, unable to tell if he was joking or not.Kelce shrugged. “I mean, Im just saying that they look similar.Rafe,stop laughing and listen.Im just saying ive never seen Owen’s dad in the same room with Joshua’s dad.Have you?”He asked, his tone becoming serious.

You thought back to all the parties and events you had been forced to go to,trying to think if you had ever noticed either of the boys.They were two years younger than you and your boys meaning that you had never really had to pay attention to them at all, always caught up trying to beat Topper in virtual cup pong.It was one of the few virtual games that he was actually good at.

“You know,I dont think I have.”You admitted, giving into his theory.Rafe rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “There’s no way, doesnt Joshua’s dad live with him?”He asked, trying his best to remember.Kelce bit the inside of his cheek, about to answer when you spoke up. “He could be living a double life!People do that sometimes.”You reminded him.Kelce shrugged, trying to think of more ways to prove his theory.

Topper’s eyes opened again when the water was up to his knees.All he could see was black,his legs feeling numb from the cold,his left arm hurting like it had never hurt before.He cursed,trying to unbuckle his seatbelt but to no avail,the material digging into his neck and the car swaying from the tough current.

He reached for his phone that had ended up in the cupholder, only then noticing the blood coming from his sore arm.He chose to ignore it,dialing 911 as fast as he could,tears streaming down his face.If only he had taken the other way home.

“911,whats the emergency?”A feminine voice asked,hearing his shallow breaths from the other end of the phone. “My car- I drove into Crescent River-The water is in my car.”His voice sounded like he was drunk,probably because he had bit through the tip of his tongue when he crashed. “What’s your name?”The woman asked, sending everyone to the river to search for the car.

“Topper-please tell Rafe that im sorry!Tell (Y/N) that I love her!Please-fuck im gonna die.”He began sobbing, knowing that he’d never see you or Rafe or Kelce ever again.He wouldnt be able to apologize for all the dumb shit he had done over the years.

He was going to die because he and Rafe got into an argument about you.He couldve laughed.It was funny how the universe worked. “Topper, you’re gonna be just fine.Help is on the way.Can you break the window?”The dispatch asked.Topper tried to move,everything blurry.The rush of water filling the car was loud,the cold liquid now up to his chest.

“Somethings wrong with the seatbelt!Im stuck-I cant move.I cant fucking move and the water is so cold and I cant move….god please just tell my friends that im sorry.”He cried, lifting his head up so he was staring at the ceiling of the car,getting as much air as he could before the car would be completely full.

“Topper, you can tell them yourself.Help is on the way, please stay on the call.”She waited for Topper to say something else, for any sign that he hadnt drowned only to hear the sound of static before the call cut out.

“Are you guys tired yet?”You asked the boys,pulling a blanket up to your chest,still in Kelce’s lap. “No, im not going to bed until this dumbass admits that he’s wrong.”Kelce insisted, annoyed by Rafe. “Im just saying the I never saw JFK’s son when he was younger and Matt Dillon in the same room.”Rafe repeated it for the third time,still not being helpful.

“Because they werent friends!”You shouted at him, Rafe flicking your forehead. “You cant be friends with yourself!Now listen.13 bloodlines of the illuminati,right?Right.So they discover time travel so JFK’s son assassinates his dad because he couldnt support his passion for acting,right?So then he goes back in time in a different time line to become an actor and change his name to Matt Dillon.Its just like Spiderverse!”Rafe exclaimed, trying to get you guys to believe him.

You shook your head,looking back up to the tv. “Rafe, did you even pay attention to Spiderverse?”You asked, making him finally shut up. “Wait, I want to watch conspiracy theories now.”Kelce mumbled,his fingertips now tapping against your hip.You handed him the remote, letting him put on top ten craziest conspiracy theories.

When the ambulances,cop cars, fire trucks and rescue trucks showed up Topper had been without air for nearly two minutes.The lights of his car were dim but they were luckily able to spot it,sending the divers down.They were in full gear,helmet and radio included.

There were two divers,seeing that the glass had given out and smashed,some of the glass causing small cuts over Toppers body.The were able to get the car door open,cutting off the seatbelt,telling Schoope through the radio that they had gotten him,fire fighters waiting for them to bring his body up,handing him into the arms of the fire captain who then got him onto a stretcher,letting the EMT’s take him.His arm was bent in all sorts of ways,a large cut at his hairline,blood still flowing from his mouth.

“You guys believe in the moon landing, right?”You asked,moving in Kelce’s lap so you could see both him and Rafe.Kelce was hesitant to answer, not knowing what to think after watching that last theory.Rafe bit the inside of his cheek, making you groan.

“Really?”You asked, checking the time to see that it was already two in the morning. “Hey, im gonna go upstairs to sleep.Will you guys stay in the guest rooms?”You asked,sitting up with the blanket around your shoulders, cold despite the fact that you were wearing Topper’s hoodie.

“Why?”Kelce asked, letting out a loud,dramatic yawn. “Because the door is right there and so is the window...at least in the other rooms it’ll take longer for them to kill us.”You explained, grabbing your phone off the table.

“Alright, im setting alarms for 8,8:30,9 and 9:30.”Kelce announced,setting them in his clock app.You sighed,knowing that his alarms would probably wake you up as well. “For why?”You asked,already at the end of the staircase. “So I can make you guys breakfast.”He answered in a tone that made you feel dumb, almost like the answer was so obvious.

“You dont have to.”You replied, knowing that that wouldnt change anything.He shrugged,not really caring.Rafe turned off the tv,standing up and stretching out his limbs,almost touching the ceiling.You laid down in your bed after saying goodnight to them, your eyes wandering to the closet,to the window,to under the bed.

The fact that somebody had probably been in your room without you even knowing freaked you out.You turned on the flashlight on your phone,keeping it on as you scrolled through tik tok.That was probably an even worse idea since your entire for you page consisted of serial killer facts because of you liking too many Criminal Minds videos.

Eventually you decided to just go and sit in the bathroom,just so you could be anywhere else but your bedroom.You sat on the toilet,checking if Topper had been active on Snapchat,Instagram or Tumblr.Nothing.That was very unlike him even if he had been tired and fallen asleep as soon as he got home.

After twenty minutes of sitting on your toilet you decided that you couldnt go back to your bedroom.It was too creepy.So here you were,tiptoeing across the floor of your own house to one of the guest rooms at the end of the hall,knowing that’s where Rafe was.

You let out a soft sigh,carefully opening the door. “Rafe.”You called out to him softly.You could barely make out his figure on the bed,arms and legs spread out like a starfish.You sighed,deciding not to bother him.

You used your flashlight as you made your way down the hall,opening Kelce’s door. “Hey,Kelce.”You whispered,seeing him move,eventually sitting up and squinting,trying to figure out what was going on.

“(Y/N)?”He asked,trying to make sure that you were you and not some imposter.You let out a quiet sigh of relief,entering the room and closing the door behind you. “Hi.”You answered,sitting at the end of the bed. “Are you okay?”He asked,turning on his own flashlight,flipping his phone so the screen was against the mattress,the small light making it so he could see you.

“Yeah,cant sleep in my room.Can I sleep in here?”You asked.He tried to hide how happy he was,nodding. “Yeah,yeah thats fine.”he patted the spot next to him,grinning as you slid under the covers,your arm falling over his torso,head against his back as you closed your eyes.He eventually turned on his side so he could face you and you could get more comfortable,holding him like a koala,your head resting on his shoulder.

You couldnt remember anything after that which meant that you had fallen asleep clinging to your friend.You woke up when Kelce got off the bed,leaving a frown on your face. “Go back to sleep.”He whispered to you.

When they got Topper ot the hospital they were still trying to find out how bad his injuries were.He was still knocked out,eyes twitching every few moments as he was rushed down the hall and into surgery to fix his mangled arm,removing the glass that had been lodged deep inside his leg.They were glad to find that none of his injuries were fatal despite him being technically dead for 15 seconds when they had first got him out of the river.

It was determined that he had a pretty nasty concussion that would take a good couple of months until it was completely healed.The surgeon had to stitch the long cut on his hairline shut,bringing it forward ever so slightly.They had noticed his medical records,calling his mother to tell her about the horrible accident.

“Is the car okay?”She had asked,making the nurse who had called frown and tell her no,the car was definitely not okay. “Unfortunately im in California so I cant be there.Maybe just give his little girlfriend a call.”She suggested carelessly,not even bothering to ask about the condition her son was in.

Something about the way she said it sounded like she was disgusted by the idea of you.Almost like a child talking about vegetables.The nurse had asked for the number of his girlfriend,his mother reading off yours that she had stashed in her phone just in case of emergency.

When you woke up you were warm and comfortable,seeing two texts.One was from Kelce to let you know that he had left and that eggs and bacon were on the stove.The other was from Rafe telling you that he had left and got home safely.

He probably only texted you that because he had seen how worried you were when Topper hadnt.You checked your snapchat notifications,seeing that you had lost your 785 day streak with him.That really made you upset,knowing that it would take two years to get it to that point again.

You sent out your streaks,getting up with a loud yawn,stumbling as you made your way downstairs and into the kitchen,a shiver running up your spine from the cold tile.A glass plate sat on the stove,a layer of tinfoil covering it.

You peeled off the foil,placing the plate in the microwave when your phone rang.Your heartbeat picked up,hoping that it was Topper calling to tell you that he was sorry for nto calling you last night and that he was perfectly fine,frowning when you saw that it was an unknown number.

“Hello?”You asked,hoping that it wasnt gonna be ghost face on the other end. “Um...is this Topper Thornton’s girlfriend?”the voice asked.You frowned,looking around your kitchen.You had no idea who it could be or why they would think your were Topper’s girlfriend but you decided to go with it anyways,saying yes.

There was a pause before the woman spoke again. “Im sorry to inform you but your boyfriend drove into Crescent River last night.He’s got an awful concussion and a severely broken arm as well as 12 stitches.He’s currently at Kildare Hospital if you’d like to come see him.”The woman explained.

And just then everything was over.You were always terrified of getting a call like this.That Rafe had overdosed at a party or that Kelce had been hit with a golf club to the head.But you never thought it would happen.

You felt like you couldnt breath,your hand gripping the phone so hard that you thought it might crack.You didnt know how you would get to the hospital.Rafe was at home and would take too long to get to your house,Kelce was at his cousin’s house on the complete opposite side of the island.

You knew what you had to do,grabbing your keys that had stayed in the junk drawer for the past two years,a layer of dust covering the metal.You rushed out of your house with nothing but your keys and phone,not bothering to slip on pants or even grab your bag,going into your garage in a rush.

You couldnt even remember turning on the car engine,speeding out of your driveway and leaving a trail of black marks,driving straight to the hospital.The car smelt like stale doritos for a reason that you couldnt understand.

The last time you had used this car or even drove was back when you were seventeen and nearly passed out while you were driving,too scared to try it again.It didnt matter now,your foot not leaving the gas pedal,hands gripping the steering wheel so hard that your fingers hurt,pulling into a random parking spot at the hospital,not even checking your parking job.

You held your phone and your keys in the same hand,sprinting and nearly getting hit by another car in the process,gasping for air when you reached the front desk. “I-I need to see Topper Thornton.”You spoke quickly,almost coughing.

The nurse’s eyes widened,realizing that you were the girl she had spoken to on the phone. “(Y/N)?”She asked,wanting to be sure before she told you what was important.You nodded,wanting this to be over so she’d tell you what room you needed to go to.

“He said on the 911 call that he wanted you to know that he loved you and that he wanted Rafe to know thay he was sorry,I thought you should know.He’s up in room 234,2nd floor just two doors down.”She told you,a sympathetic look in her eyes.

You didnt think too much about it,running up the staircases because taking the elevator would waste time.You glanced at the rooms,trying to remember if she had said if the room was on the left or on the right.You found the room after a few seconds,preparing yourself before opening the door.

The lights were dim,the tv off.And then there was Topper,looking like he was dead.His left arm was put in a cast from his mid bicep to his hand,bent so the it was at a ninety degree angle and wresting on his stomach.

A few pieces of hair had fallen over the dark blue stitches that kept his skull from being visible,his eyes closed.An oxygen tube settled at his nose,multiple IV’s in his right arm,the heart monitor keeping a steady beat.

You were grateful for that,watching the lines move up and down,memorizing the sound of the beeping.You sent Rafe and Kelce text messages,telling them what had happened,deciding to keep the words that Topper had said to the dispatch to yourself for now.

After a long twenty minutes of sitting there a nurse came in,surprised to see you. “He should be waking up soon.Are you his spouse?”She asked,writing down something on a clipboard.You nodded,still keeping up with the lie figuring that it was the only way you’d be allowed to stay in the room with him.

“Alright,he should wake up any moment,hun.”She smiled at you before leaving the room,closing the door quietly behind her.You rolled your eyes,figuring that she had spoken that sentence five other times today and that she didnt actually care about you or Topper.

You found yourself scooting your seat closer to the hospital bed,running your fingertips along the palm of his good arm.His eyes slowly opened,shutting again for a moment,slowly adjusting.

@sweetlittlegingy @nicolefarley603 @ilikealotofpeople-younotsomuch @newsies-yeet @butgilinsky @jjjmaybank @gracelovesbroadway @one-stella @outerbongs @copper-boom @httpstarkey @teenwaywardasgardian @drewswannabegirl @simonsbluee @jiaraendgame @khiaraaa-in-spacee @on-socks-off @spn-marvel-nerd @lovelyelinor @chinamolina602 @sexytholland @28cnn @popcrone818 @fttayla @cherryobx @n1ghtsh4d3-67 @drewstarkeyobx @poguestyleskye @judayyyw @jjtheangel @jj-iz-bae@sunwardsss @meaganjm @sarcasticsagittarius1998 @natalie-kate-98 @nxsmss @broken-jj @joshy-obx @classygirlything @prejudic3

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hogwartsmarvelmommy · 4 years ago

Text

Fallout of the century 🌑💔

Part 5

Read part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | Here.

Warnings: None this is like pure fluffy goodness.

Word count: 2.8k

masterlist

This is the end. I hope you enjoyed this, i know i did.

I stood smoothing out the front of the dress in the full length mirror. Nikki was behind me adjusting the strings on the corset. “Is it too tight darling?” she asked me.

“It's perfect,” I told her, a smile on my face that had not faded at all since I woke up that morning.

“You look so pretty mummy,” Rosie exclaimed running towards me in her little gold dress.

“Thank you baby. Can I fix this?” I asked her, gesturing to the back of her dresses that she had sloppily tried to tie up. She nodded and turned around for me to fix it.

“Grandma, doesn't mummy look pretty?” she asked Nikki.

“She looks gorgeous, she does,” Nikki said, kissing her on the top of her head, and giving me a smile.

“We're ready,” my coworker and close friend Lindsey told me. I looked myself over in the mirror once more before heading to the garden.

We had chosen to have a small ceremony, just our families and our closest friends, which somehow still ended up being sixty plus people. The Hollands had gone out of there way decorating the outside of their house, transforming the garden into a fairy tale like scene, it looked straight out of a movie.

I watched as the bridesmaids and groomsmen made their way down the aisle. I looked up to see Tuwaine waiting for me, his arm ready to take mine as he led me down the aisle to the man I was about to marry.

“Thank you for doing this,” I whispered.

“Are you kidding? I am honored,” and with that we began to walk to the slightly crowded garden.

As soon as I stepped out of the door, my eyes met his. He stood tall, his hair freshly cut, but still curly on top of his head. The sun was shining just right, making his hair shine an even more vibrant hue of red than usual. He looked stunning in the black suite that he wore with the pop of a gold tie. He smiled at me, a smile I had seen so many times before, but it felt as though I was seeing it for the first time ever. The closer I got the more his features came into focus, his warm brown eyes held a shimmer of gold and his freckles that were scattered on his face seemed to make him look even more handsome. I glanced at his birthmark on the corner of his mouth that I had fallen in love with. I stopped about four feet away from him, My heart nearly stopping as I saw him, having to catch his breath as he looked me over.

He stepped forward grabbing my hand as I joined him on the little step the boys had built for today.

With my hand in his we stood side by side as Sam stood in front of us ready to officiate the special day.

“Hi,” Sam spoke, grabbing his little leather notebook from his pocket. “I'm a little nervous, so bare with me,” He mumbled. He glanced up to me and I gave him a comforting smile.

“Are you ready for this? Mrs.Holland?” Harry whispered in my ear while his twin scrambled to start the ceremony.

“As ready as I was the first time Mr.Holland,” I whispered back Squeezing his hand tightly.

“OK, We have gathered her today, well i mean i think we all know why we're here, am i right?” he asked lightheartedly.

There was a wave of laughs from behind where Harry and I stood and I could instantly see Sam relax.

“So when my brother and y/n asked me to do this, I was excited, until I started looking into it. Way too much effort, but regardless I did all that I had to, to make sure at the end of the day these to actually get married,” he winked at me, knowing something all the others didn't, before continuing. “Harry and Y/N are the kind of people who just clicked upon meeting, everything between them happened nearly effortlessly, and though there was a time when we were not sure we'd see this day, i think i speak for everyone when i say, i'm glad it's finally here,” Sam looked over to Tom who reached into his pocket, grabbing a folded up paper and handed it to Harry. “I'm going to let them share their vows, and then we will get to it,” Sam stepped back as Harry turned to face me. He unfolded the paper in his hand and looked up to my face, giving me one last smile.

“Y/N Y/L/N, I’m standing here today, in front of you not knowing what tomorrow holds, not knowing where we will end up in the years to come, but knowing whatever and wherever it is, i want to be by your side.” he took a deep breath as he crumpled the page and shoved it into his pocket, flashing me his boyish smile. “I've always known this day would come, nothing we ever went through made me think otherwise. In the end it would always be us, I'm just glad it was sooner than later, I'll love you everyday for the rest of my life, the good and bad days. And I can't wait forever with you,” He grabbed my hands, lifting one to his mouth and kissing it. I turned to look at Harrison who was standing directly behind me. He handed me the note cards and I turned back to Harry.

“Harry Robert Holland, where to begin? I feel Like I've loved you all my life. I've known we were made for each other since that day in the pub when you bought me a drink. I've always admired you, the love you give, the care you offer, the way you are with Rosie. I'm not entirely sure how I became so lucky to have you in my life, but here we are. Today, tomorrow, forever.” I turned back to Harrison giving him back the cards and then nodding at Sam, who quickly stepped back up.

“Alright, are you guys ready for this?” He asked us. We both nodded. “OK, Harry, are you ready to spend the rest of your days with Y/N?”

“I am,” Harry responded.

“And are you ready to spend the rest of your days putting up with my brother?” Harry swatted at Sam who jumped back laughing.

“Every day of my life,” I said, squeezing Harry's other hand.

“OK, then by the power vested in me, by a sketchy website I found on the internet, I now pronounce you married. You can kiss now.” And neither of us needed to be told twice. Harry pulled me into his arms, pushing our lips together in a deep passionate kiss. There were cheers from behind us that the intensity of the kiss drowned out. It was like no one was there, nothing mastered, except for us, and this moment.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We sat at the table, enjoying watching everyone have a good time when Harrison stood up and started to clink his spoon to his glass.

“I'd like everyone's attention,” He started smiling at Harry and I “As the Man of Honor, I have prepared a rather lengthy and emotional speech. So, sit down and get the tissues ready,” there was a rumbling of laughter from everyone as he pulled out some note cards. “So, about ten years ago. A girl met a boy in a pub, and slowly they fell in love. The kind of love that changes you, and teaches you. The kind of love that is hard, and dirty, and not always beautiful. These two kids met at the young age of 18, never experiencing life before, and decided then and there, to experience it together. And it was a journey. These two, they absolutely destroyed each other,” Harrison glanced at us, to see us both shocked at his speech. “But it was a necessary destruction. There were mistakes made, secrets kept, and lives that had not been lived. They spent a total of two and half years apart before finding their way back to each other. Y/N traveled for a year, tending to the less fortunate, and living out a lifelong dream. While Harry became a dad to little Rosie Holland, and became one of the best men i have ever met. These two went through the fallout of the century, just to become even stronger in the end. I am blessed to be a part of their story. To have been there from the beginning, and seeing it through to, not the end, but the newest chapter. I love you both, and I wish you a lifetime of love and happiness, Y/N (peanut) Holland, and Harry Holland, congratulations.” The crowd erupted in cheers and applause as Harrison raised his glass before downing his glass of champagne. There was barely any time before Tom stood up, clinking his knife to his glass.

“I did not prepare a long emotional speech, but I do have a few things to say,” He patted Harry on the shoulder before pulling out a page, with a speech obviously written on it, causing me to erupt in a fit of laughter. “Okay, okay. Settle down everyone. I met y/n about a month before Harry. Sorry buddy,” He winked at his brother, who just groaned and shook his head. “And I knew there was something about her, and looking back, I realized how much she reminded me of my younger brother here. So it was no surprise when I started seeing her more, on my brother's arm out at the pubs. Which soon became family dinners, and game nights, and soon she became a part of our group, even went as far to steal my best friend Harrison from me, Not cool nutty, not cool. But things seemed to go so easily, and then after they broke up, it felt like a piece of our group chipped away, neither of them made any of us choose sides, but with such an ugly break up it became a little ugly. So when I tell you how relieved I was when these two got back together, I'm not exaggerating. I'm so glad to call you my sister, and I'm so glad for my brother to call you his wife. You two were made for each other, and I love you both.” The crowd started to cheer again at the close of Tom's speech, and it was time for Harry and I to speak.

Harry stood up and lifted his arms for everyone to be quiet. “I want to thank you all for coming today, um it is true, that this day has been a long time coming and the journey here was a long one. But it was worth every sleepless night, every fight, every little thing it took to get here, it was all worth it. I've known since the day I met this girl, I wanted to be her husband, and despite everything, that never changed. We were kids when we met, and we quickly became young and dumb in love, not realizing what forever meant, and now sitting here today, i wouldn't change a thing, because at the end of the day, i still got to marry her, no matter what stupid things i may have done, or not done. I love you so much, Peanut, and I'll never stop loving you, as long as I live.” I stood up, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him into a kiss, in front of all our friends and families.

I let go of him and gave him a smile before turning to everyone in front of us, “I, um, we have a confession to make,” I looked to Harry who nodded, looking at me in awe. “We did not get married today, this was all a show that we put on, for us and for you,” There was a wave of gasps and ‘whats?’ from everyone. “I know, I know. I do have a very good explanation though,” I took a deep breath before continuing, “So as many of you know, or all of you, Harry has a little girl, Little Rosie. She's the sweetest little peanut I've ever laid my eyes on, and I've known her since the day she was born, and for the past three years, I have stepped up and into the role of her mom, since the biological one walked away and sighed her away. I have been there for every little thing since then, making sure she knew that she had me forever. I have kissed every boo boo, mended every broken heart over the silly things her five year old self gets upset over, and I have become so much more than just her dad's girlfriend. She knows that I didn't give birth to her, and she knows that she does have a mom out there somewhere, we have never hid that from her, and about seven months ago she had asked if I would be her mom. Which was an emotional thing for me, I was wrecked, like a blubbering, sobbing, snotty mess. So Harry and I started to talk about me potentially adopting her, and there were a few hoops we had to jump through before being able to do it. One of which was to be married. So about five and a half months ago we went to the court house and got married, and then started the adoption process. Which is also what influenced us to buy the house. So we have been married for almost six months.” I looked around at all the shocked faces, some seemed to be more accepting of the news than others. I had known that this was probably going to be the reaction to this news, so I wasn't surprised.

“You look nervous,” Harry said as we stood in the hallway of the courthouse.

“What if they don’t think I'm good enough to be her mom?” I blurted out, causing Harry to smile at me.

“Lovie, i don't care what the court says, you are Rosie’s mom, More so than Olivia ever was. You stepped up after Olivia left, before we had even considered getting back together, you taught me how to do her hair, and how to make her favorite foods, you babysat her countless times while I was at work late or had to run errands, with no expectation. Just because you loved her enough to be there, for her, for us.” he leaned in and placed a soft kiss on my nose as the courtroom door opened.

“Case of Rosie Holland,” The man said. You stood straight up adjusting your skirt looking at Harry.

“Lets go get your name on that birth certificate, yeah?” He whispered as he led me into the room.

“We're sorry for misleading any of you,” Harry said, squeezing my side. “But we still wanted the ceremony, despite us already being married, and we wanted all of you here for the announcement,” He stopped and looked at me, raising his brows waiting for me to speak.

“As of three weeks ago, I am Officially Rosie Holland's mom,” I grabbed the amended birth certificate that had my name in the space where it said mother and handed it to Tom to hand to his mother.

“Well i think we could cheers to that,” Harrison announced “Let's get the bride and new mom a glass of champagne,”

“That's actually not the end of the announcement,” Harry spoke up. Causing everyone to grow quiet again. Harry reached over, placing one hand on your belly before continuing. “We thought Rosie could use a sibling.” There was an almost in sync gasp from everyone around us before the cheering began again. “Little Stanley Holland will be here in about six months,” I watched Tom as Harry said that, his eyes grew wide before glossing over.

“Really?” He choked out.

“Really, really,” I told him.

The night went on, everyone partied and enjoyed the food, ushering the two of you off at the end of the night to your honeymoon. we arrived home grabbing your pre-packed bags and heading for the airport to board your flight. The flight itself was fine, and by the time we landed in Hawaii I had been asleep most of the flight.

“Lovie, we're here,” Harry whispered, bringing me out of my sleep, it seemed with life growing inside my belly all i ever wanted to do was eat and sleep.

“I'm hungry,” I groaned as I got up from the seat. He led me from the plane and into the airport.

“What do you want to eat?” He asked me.

I stared at him for a minute before answering “A peanut butter sandwich,”

“Of course you do,” He laughed rubbing my barely swollen belly.

#harry holland #harrison osterfield #tom holland #harry holland fluff #Q

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tsauergrass · 5 years ago

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A while ago, @scaredpotta asked me for a prompt from the prompt list I reblogged. I’ve been working on it for the past few days and now I’ve finished, but then I discovered that they’ve de-activated their account :( I am so sad and so sorry that I’m late. I’m still going to post it and, @scaredpotta, even though I know you won’t see this, I hope you’re having a wonderful day wherever you are.

29. Slowly, the words dripping from your tongue like honey

***

“60 dollars,” Draco says. “What can I get?”

Harry ruffles through the buckets of flowers in the cooler. “What are you looking for?”

“Something special. It is a note.”

Harry pauses. For days Draco has visited his flower shop, but not once has he ordered anything with a message. Usually it is four different shades of purple, or something classically romantic, or something simple but elegant, fragrant—hyacinths, roses, lily-of-the-valleys. Dahlias, accompanied with white-button poms and greens.

Harry turns to face him. Draco looks away, flushed, shifting back and forth on his feet.

“Well,” Harry asks, “What is it you want to say?”

“Let’s elope.”

Harry blushes crimson. Silly, because Draco is not saying the words to him—but to his lover, for whom he has come and visited Harry’s shop for days on end, arriving early to avoid the morning rush and bring them the flowers before the day starts. The flowers are always the freshest, the leaves still wet with dew, and Harry picks the best of them for Draco because Draco’s lover deserves the best. Because Draco deserves the best.

And it is harder and harder to fool himself every day, to tell himself that they’ve had history, that Draco already belongs to someone else—to watch Draco come in every day with a faint smile, the bell tinkling as he greets Harry good morning with two cups of coffee. His hair is soft in the morning light, white-gold amidst the exuberant flowers as he looks around—Harry wrapping his bouquet, trying to steal a glance or two—footsteps slow, bending as he sniffs at the buckets of flowers from the lower shelves. A laugh escapes and Harry pretends it is a cough when Draco turns, narrowing his eyes.

But there is no malice. There is only banter, witty and fast and sending a rush down Harry’s spine.

“Well,” Harry says, turning around. His face burns in the cool, moist air of the cooler. “The cleomes just came in today. I’ll pair them with some baby’s-breaths, if you’d like.”

“That would be prefect.”

And this is new, too—for Harry to hear the smile in Draco’s voice, a secret victory at every one of them, knowing they are there because of him. He picks out the cleomes with the most vibrant purples, the ones with their petals spread the fullest—cuts off the excess leaves, the motion familiar with ease. Spreads out the wrapping paper on the working table, smooths its edges.

“So,” he coughs, “you’re leaving.”

Draco pauses his sniffing at a hanging pot of petunias and looks at him.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Or so I hope. I am going to ask them today, whether they will come with me.”

“Oh.” Harry focuses on cutting the paper so he doesn’t have to meet Draco’s eyes. “So the bouquet. It’s a question.”

“It is.”

“Well, it’s not like you need to ask,” Harry laughs, dry, “of course they’ll come with you.”

“How do you know?”

Briefly, Harry lifts his gaze. Draco has tilted his head. Against the sunlight, Harry cannot quite make out his face, but it seems like his cheeks have flushed—a tinge of pink in the shadows.

“Well,” Harry looks back down again, swallowing, “it’s you. Who wouldn’t want to go with you?”

Silence. A while later, Harry raises his head. Draco is watching him still, his head tilted.

Harry finishes the bouquet in silence. Wraps it carefully, makes a couple last adjustments so the cleomes are shown to their fullest, the baby’s-breaths a lovely white. He hands the bouquet to Draco. “Sixty dollars.”

Draco takes the bouquet.

The last bouquet Harry would ever make for him. He wants to say goodbye, in a way however small: a hug, a handshake, a squeeze on the shoulder. Some proof that all these mornings weren’t nothing, hadn’t simply existed in his half-baked dreams—that Draco had enjoyed them, too, had enjoyed his little shop and the flowers and, perhaps, his company.

He might never see Draco again.

“Are you busy?” Draco asks.

Harry blinks.

“Do you have anything to do this moment?”

Harry blinks again. “I’m working.”

“Right,” Draco rolls his eyes, “and this is your shop. You are your own boss. Are you busy at the moment?”

“Well…I mean, no—”

“Great,” Draco says, turning to walk towards the door, “there’s something I need to show you. Just to get an opinion. Very convenient, won’t take long, my flat is a five-minute walk from here so we won’t even need to Apparate—”

“Wait, what—” Harry struggles to untie his apron as he stumbles over the register, “Draco, wait—”

“We can chat on our way. Have I told you about this person I’ve been buying flowers for? An idiot, let me tell you. An absolute idiot.”

The walk was brisk, the morning air crisp. Harry cannot keep up with Draco’s long legs. Draco walks rapidly, as though he has an appointment, the heels of his shoes clicking against the pavement as he rattles on without losing his breath. Harry stumbles along, bumps into Draco when he turns a corner—and there they were, in front of the doors of Draco’s flat.

“I haven’t tidied it,” Draco says, working the keys, flushed. “But I don’t think you need to close your eyes—”

A loud clack. The doors open.

Harry toes off his shoes and, gingerly, follows Draco past the parlor. The air smells of a soft fragrance, smells faintly of something familiar…

He stops, shocked, at the edge of the living room.

Vases and vases full of flowers. Familiar arrangements, all having come from his hands: the hydrangeas, the gerberas, the lilacs. The hyacinths draping from a tall vase, the dahlias in full bloom in a small pot on the windowsill. The roses, sitting in a tiny vase on the coffee table beside the armchair, a brimming array of red.

Beside him, Draco has flushed down his neck.

“But I don’t…” Harry trails off, looking at the room full of flowers again. “I don’t—”

“I preserved them. I learned the cooling charms.”

“But—”

“Harry James Potter. I buy you coffee every morning.”

Harry stares incredulously at him. “Friends buy each other coffee!”

“Oh my god,” Draco says, and kisses him.

Harry startles at it—then sinks into it, his eyes fluttering shut and his mouth falling open. Draco kisses him slowly, deeply, his hands coming around Harry’s waist—helpless, helpless in the heat of Harry’s mouth, wanting to pull away but unable to—Harry’s arms coming around his, pulling him close. He tastes like the coffee they’d had this morning, faintly bitter and sweet with too much sugar. The coffee Draco had bought for both of them.

Draco’s breath is cool on his lips. Harry hadn’t even noticed them parting, his eyes still shut, their mouths still close. He could feel Draco’s lips. He wanted to lean back in.

“What do you say?” Draco murmurs. Something rustles between them; Harry looks down, and there is the bouquet of cleomes he’d wrapped this morning, a lovely purple.

Draco laughs, breathless. “Elope with me?”

Three years later

They still come back every year. On the same day, to the same cliffs; they walk along the same rocky path near the ocean, laughing as they pull each other on, the waves crashing into the rocks and bursting into sprays, into the salty air.

At the bottom of the cliffs blooms a field of wild sea thrifts.

Harry can see it, now, from the balcony of their tiny hotel room: a hint of pink from behind the rocks, appearing and disappearing behind the relentless waves. It is barely visible in the dusk. The sky is darkening, into the color of a ripened plum.

Draco sneaks an arm around his waist, pulls him close. Harry leans into his touch. Noses at the hollow of Draco’s throat, the soft skin, the intimate warmth.

Murmurs, “What are you looking at?”

Draco hums. “Take a guess.”

“I don’t need to.”

Draco laughs. “Why did you ask, then?”

“I want to hear you say it.”

Draco laughs again and turns Harry around. Three years later Harry still does not tire of it, watching Draco smile, the lines at the corner of his eyes crinkling as his cheeks fold—his face blossoming into the happiness. His pale eyes glint in the dusk. In the quietness of the moments before night there is only the sea, waves crashing ashore and breaking into thin foams.

Slowly, gently, in a low voice, Draco says, “I love you.”

The words glow warm and golden in the dark. Leaning in, Harry catches his lips; they are soft and sweet, just as three years ago when they first kissed.

On the nightstand by the bed, the vase of cleomes blooms in the young night.

#hp #harry potter #draco malfoy #drarry #fanfic #my fic #flowershop au #my first!

758 notes · View notes

daisybeewrites · 3 years ago

Text

Academy Blues

avoi-dance!

word count: 3.7k

warnings: nightmares

ship: dousy (daisy johnson/daniel sousa)

ahahaha dousy is becoming a spark

Shaking.

Quaking.

Rubble falling.

Bones snapping.

Something dark on the floor.

He’s gone.

Daisy bolted upright, ribs expanding and contracting rapidly. The bed was shaking. A small cacti was on the floor, sand and pebbles thrown across the rug, pieces of the decorative pot shattered. She looked over at her clock.

2:14am. Great.

Daisy quickly rose, gathering her rug in one hand and a sweatshirt in the other. She walked down the hall, quiet as a mouse, still shaky.

Breathe, Daisy, She told herself.

She reached the bathroom without encountering anyone. She set the rug on the counter, gathering the tiny cactus and shaking it out of the soil.

“Ouch,” She inhaled sharply. Cacti are prickly.

The mirror rattled a bit as Daisy shook the sand and pebbles into the trash. She held back tears, the aftershocks of her nightmare hitting her.

A presence in the doorway caught her attention.

“Daisy? What’re you doin’?”

Jemma sounded like she had just woken up, her accented voice thick and scratchy with sleep.

Daisy opened her mouth to respond, but her voice cracked on the first syllable. Jemma’s eyes widened, registering the sight before her. She rushed over, enveloping Daisy in a tight hug. Jemma could feel Daisy’s chest racking with sobs. At least she could comfort her now, like she wasn’t allowed to before.

Jemma slowly pulled away as Daisy’s cries became quieter and less frequent. The small cacti was still resting on the counter, the rug discarded on the tiled floor.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jemma asked gently.

Daisy looked up, the rattling of the mirror lessening as she exhaled.

“I broke my cactus,” She sniffled, a few tears escaping as she stared at the broken succulent. She was really looking forward to watching this one grow.

Daisy shook her head, wiping her eyes with her sweatshirt sleeve. Silently, the pair picked up the rug and walked back to Daisy’s room. Daisy saved the small cacti, not quite able to just throw it in the trash. Jemma surveyed the furniture, making sure that nothing else had fallen. Her room was in its usual messy yet organized array. It made Jemma’s skin itch, but at least Daisy knew where everything was. Daisy collapsed onto her bed, pulling a fuzzy blanket around her shoulders.

“Do you want me to stay?”

Daisy thought for a moment, watching Jemma fidget with her fingers and rub her neck, noting her under eye circles and the sluggish way she smiled.

“I’m good,” Daisy said.

Jemma raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. “Are you sure? I don’t mind, really,” She offered.

Daisy nodded. “I promise, I’m good.”

Jemma hesitantly nodded, then left, softly closing the door behind her.

Daisy flopped backwards onto her pillows. She wasn't sleeping anytime soon.

Daisy woke at 9:36 later that day, her alarm buzzing softly and her phone screen lit with several missed calls from Elena and May.

7:04–May

Are you otw?

7:10–Yo-yo

daisy, you’re late

7:15–Missed call from May (2)

8:02–Yo-yo

may is pissed

get your best sorry ready

Daisy sighed. Fuck nightmares.

She had already missed half of second period, not that it wasn’t anything she didn’t already know how to do. Might as well take advantage of the empty canteen.

After speedily brushing her teeth and getting dressed, Daisy grabbed her backpack and headed out.

True to routine, the canteen was void of people, save for a group of fifth-years chatting in the corner. Daisy grabbed her usual cinnamon raisin bagel and coffee and found a spot near the back doors. If May came in, she would run. It was too early and Daisy was too tired to deal with May’s concern.

Daisy glanced up as the doors across the large hall opened again, almost spitting out her coffee at who walked in.

Ohmygodhe’scomingoverhere, don’t be an idiot!

“Hey, Danny Boy,” Daisy greeted. Smooth, very good start.

“Hey, Dais,” He said, morning voice rough and low. Daisy ignored the rising number on her biometer watch and quickly hid her hand under the table, resting on her bouncing knee.

She cocked an eyebrow. “Just getting up, are we?”

Daniel shrugged, “My alarm clock is broken, and I’m ahead in all my classes anyway. Missing one to trade for sleep won’t hurt me.”

“Aren’t you in May’s class, though? She hates when people skip,” Daisy asked.

Daniel thought this over for a second before responding, demeanor a tad sheepish. “I might have already asked for the notes for this week, everything she’s teaching today I’ve already been studying.”

Daisy smiled. Nerd.

“Well, in that case, would you care to join me in my avoidance of classes?”

Daniel checked his analog watch, second period was almost over. “Sure. My third is calculus, and all we do in there is textbook work anyway.”

Daisy stood up, stretching a bit. Daniel followed her out of the canteen, across the grounds, and around the girls’ dorms.

“Uh, Daisy, where exactly are we going?”

Daisy grinned. “Ever been on the roof, Sousa?”

Sousa looked up at the top of the building. “Are we allowed up there?”

Daisy furrowed her brows, responding with a noncommittal hum. Did he not want to go up there?

“To master the art of avoidance, you must be unpredictable. Go where no one will find you. Dance along the edge of expectations,” Daisy exclaimed dramatically. “That’s why it’s called avoi-dance. We don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

Daniel laughed, eyes smiling. “Ladies first,” He offered.

Daisy clambered onto the iron fire escape, waiting for Daniel on the first landing and giving him a hand. They started up the stairs together, wind blowing softly over their faces.

“So,” Daisy started when they reached the top, “This is it.”

Daniel watched as Daisy made a grand gesture, crouching down near an outlet to plug in the lights.

Putting on her best realtor voice, Daisy led Daniel around the space.

“In this corner we have a lovely, absolutely gorgeous three-hundred-sixty degree view of campus. Look! There are students in their natural habitat!

“And over here, we have a wonderful assortment of plants, both alive and barely clinging to life, just like most of the human inhabitants of the building!”

Daniel chuckled, nodding sagely. “Now, let’s talk money. What is the price per square foot, and how much are you suggesting as a down payment?”

Daisy’s grin faltered, not sure exactly what Sousa was talking about. Daniel’s smile grew wider at the slightly confused, completely adorable look on her face.

“Were you planning on getting work done?” Daniel asked.

Daisy shrugged, setting her backpack down and leaning against the low wall surrounding the edge of the roof. He joined her, sitting with one leg out and the other bent at his knee.

“It won’t take me long to finish this,” Daisy said, opening her laptop.

Daniel watched on as Daisy coded, taking mental notes of how her fingers glided over the keys, typing at a speed he could barely comprehend. She bit her bottom lip in concentration, pausing for a moment to assess her work, then continuing to circumvent the little red error messages that appeared at the top of her screen.

“How do you know what all that means?” Daniel asked. Daisy stopped typing for a moment to look over at him, tilting her head a bit.

“I guess I just picked it up pretty quick. When I was still living in my van, before Coulson found me, I had to make money somehow, so I started building codes and programs for people who needed it. They were definitely shady, and it got me into a couple tough spots, but I could always just move my van away, drive somewhere else.”

Daniel didn’t press for more information. Daisy seemed not to want to talk about it, as she turned back to her computer and let her hair fall into her face. A few minutes later, she pressed enter, and threw her hands up.

“Yes! Finally!”

Daniel peeked at her screen. Instead of a red error message, there was a small check at the top of her screen.

“So what exactly did you just do with the numbers and the symbol things?”

Daisy laughed lightly. “Sometimes SHIELD creates programs specifically for Academy students to hack into, so we can practice getting around firewalls and beating different layers of protection. At the end is usually some redacted file or just a blank document. Sometimes the Professors let the advanced students hack into companies and emails if they need help. It gives us ‘a wide range of practical experience.’”

Daniel scrunched his eyebrows, checking his watch. “So does it normally only take you fifteen minutes to complete assignments like this?”

Daisy smirked, “I don’t mean to brag, but yes. Most kids in my class can do it in forty-five, but I like to challenge myself.”

Daniel’s jaw dropped, amazed. “Wow. So in a couple years I’ll be doing that? I can keep up with CS 1, but that is…” He trailed off, not sure exactly how to describe it.

Daisy nodded, “It takes awhile to get used to, to understand. It’s like learning any other language, it helps if you start young, and I practically depended on coding for survival when I was in my teens. It gave me a huge leg up.”

Daniel let his gaze wander over Daisy’s face. She had a lot more to her than meets the eye. He looked into her eyes, finding her already staring at him, an intent look on her face. She opened her mouth to say somethi—

Briiiiiiiiiiing.

The bell cut her off. Daisy looked away quickly, cheeks tinted pink. Daniel made no move to get up, and neither did Daisy. They waited until it was over to speak again.

“I guess we should probably get going?”

Daisy agreed, standing up and reaching out a hand for Sousa to take. They walked back to campus together, parting ways to get to their classes.

Daisy passed by May’s room on her way to Physics, walking quickly and staring straight ahead.

“Daisy!”

Daisy stopped, walking backwards to stand in the open door of May’s classroom. No one was there but May.

Daisy slowly approached May down the rows of desks, smiling rather guiltily.

“Hey, May! How are you?” Daisy asked, voice an octave higher than normal. May had on her ‘Mom Face’, as Daisy called it, eyebrows slightly raised and lips pursed in a straight line.

“You know, leather jackets look great on you!” Daisy tried, picking at her nails, unable to maintain eye-contact without her chest constricting. May stayed silent.

Daisy dropped the cheery façade, sighing. This would get her nowhere.

“I’m sorry. I had a rough night and slept through my alarm. If it makes you feel better, I also missed my first three periods,” Daisy rushed out, exhaling sharply.

May sat back onto her desk, patting the space beside her.

“Call me next time,” May said, voice soft. “Asking for help isn’t weak, Daisy, and I don’t know how to help if you don’t tell me. I don’t have a class next period.”

Daisy nodded, a slight sting in her eyes. May continued, “You’ve had a rough year. I get it. But Daisy, running from those you love, who love you? It doesn’t work. Trust me, I’ve tried. The only thing that will work is facing your fears head-on, and keep running at them until eventually they’re powerless. You need closure.”

Daisy rested her head on May’s shoulder, unable to look her in the eye.

“I’m sorry, May,” Daisy apologized, voice small.

May wrapped an arm around her in a side hug.

“You don’t need to apologize. Let’s go work out some problems, my way.”

In the canteen, Jemma and Fitz sat in their usual spot by the back windows, both munching on spaghetti and rolls.

“Fitz! Tell me you didn’t!”

Fitz looked up from where he was tinkering with a piece of tech that looked suspiciously like an ICER with a small cloaking device attached to the side.

“I didn’t,” He replied. He kept tinkering with the small gun until it made a loud pop! and shocked him.

“Ouch!” Fitz winced, promptly dropping the modified ICER on the table, empty cartridge bouncing onto the floor. He bent to pick it up, reassembling the tech and taking another bite of pasta.

“Have you figured out the problem?” Jemma asked.

Fitz rolled his eyes. “It’s not a problem, Jemma, it’s just that I, uh, I can’t get the…” Fitz paused, waggling his hands in the air as if he was grasping for the right word.

“The concentration? Weight? Bullets?” Jemma supplied.

“The bullets work! Non-lethal, heavy stopping power, break up under the subcutaneous tissue. Same ones from when we were working on The Bus. No, it’s the, um, the safety. It keeps going off without my permission,” Fitz finished.

Jemma took a bite of her roll. “Are you using one-hundred nano-liters of dendrotoxin like I suggested?”

Fitz nodded. “That’s in the bullets. This is just the design. I can’t figure out the balance, with the addition of cloaking, it’s thrown my whole design off.”

“Maybe Daisy has an idea? She’s listened to us ramble on for years, she’s actually used them.”

Fitz and Jemma looked around for Daisy. It was 6, dinner started at 5, and they always ate together.

“Usually she’s here by now,” Jemma frowned. The three of them had fallen into a comfortable routine, meeting at lunch and dinner and making plans to study after.

“There’s that guy she’s been hanging out with, er,” Fitz paused, snapping his fingers, “Sousa! Maybe he knows something,” Fitz pointed to where Sousa was eating a plate of chicken and rice near the entrance to the canteen.

“Are you going to go talk to him?”

Fitz looked back at Daniel, considering his options. On one hand, he had never talked to the guy. What if he said something wrong and made a bad first impression? On the other hand, Fitz needed to make sure Daisy was okay. They had a routine they had agreed to stick to, and if she was off routine, it meant something was wrong.

“Let’s go together,” Fitz half-suggested, half-asked.

Jemma nodded, getting up and walking with Fitz across the cafeteria to stand in front of Daniel.

“Hello,” Jemma started, “Have you seen Daisy lately? We’ve noticed the two of you together recently.”

Fitz stood slightly behind Jemma, fingers weaving themselves together.

Daniel took in the two of them, noticing Jemma’s thumb swiping nervously across her palm.

“Would you like to sit down?” Daniel offered.

“No, thank you, we’d really just like to find Daisy,” Fitz rushed out, looking slightly above Daniel’s eyes as he talked.

Daniel nodded. “Are you guys Fitzsimmons? Daisy talks about you a lot, I’m glad to finally meet you. But to answer your question, I haven’t seen her since third period. Is something wrong?”

Jemma sighed. “She had a bad nightmare last night, but when I left she said she was fine. I went to check on her this morning but she didn’t answer, I assumed she was out for a run.”

Daniel furrowed his brows. Daisy hadn’t mentioned a nightmare. “Is that why she was missing her morning classes?”

“She’s sleep deprived and has a tendency to entirely abandon routines if she doesn’t get off on the right foot. I bet she’s with May,” Jemma said, looking to Fitz for confirmation.

Fitz just nodded, staring at Jemma.

“Great,” Jemma clapped her hands, “Should we go find her?”

It took Daniel a moment to realize the question was directed at him. “Oh, uh, yes, sure,” He stammered, getting up and jogging a bit to catch up to Fitz and Jemma.

“Oof!” Daisy exclaimed. She and May had been sparring for the past couple hours. Hours. Daisy was absolutely exhausted. May was feeling fine.

From the mat, Daisy reached a hand up so May could pull her up. Instead of getting up, though, Daisy pulled hard, flipping May over. May rolled rather chunkily, ending in a position that was half-squatting, half-sitting.

Maybe she was a little more tired than she let on.

“Good one. Next time, roll with the flip, too. If your attacker is faster than you, you could’ve just given them a free shot.”

Daisy got up slowly, dusting herself off and extending a hand out to May.

“Truce?”

May nodded. Then Daisy’s world spun, and she was flat on her back.

“Ughh. I deserved that,” Daisy panted.

May smirked, staying on the floor with Daisy.

“Feel any better?”

Daisy shrugged. “I’ll at least sleep hard,” She said, still catching her breath.

“There you are! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Daisy lifted her head off the mat to see Jemma and Fitz walking into the gym. Daniel was behind them.

Daisy sat fully up, allowing Jemma to help her to her feet.

“Sorry guys. I should have called,” Daisy grimaced.

Fitz shrugged, “It’s okay, Dais, we got Daniel to, er, tag along with us. He was a good ‘replacement you’ for a while.”

Daisy looked over to Daniel, who was trying to hide a blush by clearing his throat and looking anywhere but Daisy.

Oh, right. She was wearing nothing but a sports bra and spandex training shorts.

Daisy walked over to the edge of the mat, stretching out her arms and grabbing her SHIELD sweatshirt, tugging it on.

“Thank you, guys, I appreciate the concern,” Daisy checked her watch, “You already ate dinner?��

Jemma and Fitz nodded.

“Okay, I’ll grab something with May and see you at the dorms?”

Fitz gave her a thumbs up and left, Jemma right behind him. May grabbed her water bottle, letting Daisy know that she’d be in the canteen.

“And then there were two,” Daisy laughed nervously, threading her fingers together and shifting from side to side.

Daniel smiled, “And then there were two.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over them.

“Thanks for hanging out with me this morning. You didn’t have to,” Daisy blurted.

Daniel shrugged, frowning, “I wanted to.”

Daisy turned away from Daniel, face heating up. He wanted to hang out with her?

Daisy bent to grab her gym bag. When she turned back around, Daniel was waiting for her.

“You can tell me, you know, if you’re having a rough go of it. I won’t judge,” He stated, calm and collected.

Daisy nodded, unsure how to respond. She rose up onto her tiptoes and rocked back, once, twice, three times before letting out a slow exhale.

“Have you eaten dinner?” She asked.

“Sorta. I was about to eat before I left with Fitz and Simmons,” He said.

“Well, you’re welcome to eat with me and May,” Daisy offered.

Daniel grinned.

“I’ll take your bag.”

They arrived a number of minutes later at the canteen, Daisy offering to take her bag every couple minutes and Daniel readjusting the black duffel on his shoulder, refusing.

May thought they were exceptionally cute.

“Took you long enough,” The short woman said, amusement lacing her words.

Daisy plopped into a seat before Daniel could pull one out.

“I’m gonna go get some grub, I’ll leave you ladies to it,” Daniel announced.

May raised an eyebrow at Daisy, whose face promptly went pink.

“He’s a dork,” She said, “He was awed by my CS homework.”

“Was it the homework, or was it you?”

May shot Daisy a very pointed look, to which Daisy rolled her eyes.

“Whatever.”

“He’s very square” May observed, watching him over Daisy’s shoulder.

Daniel came up behind her, holding a plate with a cinnamon raisin bagel in one hand and a plate of chicken and rice in the other.

“I didn’t know what else you’d like, but I felt bad for not grabbing you anything.”

May hid a laugh by clearing her throat. Daisy reached out to accept the bagel, avoiding eye contact with May.

After dinner, back at the dorm, Jemma and Daisy were sprawled out on Daisy’s bed. Jemma held her flashcards in her hand, quizzing herself while Daisy talked.

“May says I need ‘closure’, whatever that means. I thought I had closure. I went to his funeral. I hugged his sister!”

Jemma set her cards down, accepting that she wasn’t going to get any more studying done.

“But you don’t know what happened. You were being controlled, you weren’t here. Daisy, you’ve always needed answers. You’ve never been able to leave a problem alone if you didn’t have the full story.”

Daisy sighed. Jemma was right.

“Well… On to happier subjects. Tell me about the new marine bio elective. How’s that going?”

Daisy smiled softly as Jemma’s face lit up and her hands came up to flap excitedly. Jemma went off on several different tangents about the professor’s experiences as a wildlife photographer and the different coral reefs they were studying in class. Daisy tried to listen, really, she did, but she found herself stuck in her head, responding with passive hums and ‘yeah’s.

Eventually, Jemma seemed to run out of steam, her smile still wide and face slightly flushed from how she had been ranting about climate change’s effects on the world’s reefs.

“It’s 10. I’m going to head up to bed.”

Daisy nodded. She had a plan.

She walked with Jemma back down the hall to her room, bidding her a good night. Daisy got back to her room, breathing in the quiet, then settled onto her rug against her bed, laptop sat in front of her. Lines of code danced on the screen, the light from the computer highlighting her face.

“You have to do this. You need closure,” Daisy murmured.

Daisy sat up, stretching. She changed positions several times, finally landing upside down on her bed. She craned her neck to read her clock, 11:23. Last chance to turn back, you know the consequences. You could get kicked out of SHIELD. They won’t trust you anymore.

Daisy pressed enter.

#daisy johnson #agents of s.h.i.e.l.d.#dousy #daniel sousa #jemma simmons #leo fitz #fitzsimmons #philindaisy #aos fic #mama may #marvel #melinda may #phil coulson #ash writes

15 notes · View notes

thecomposerofstories · 3 years ago

Text

Information on Amy.

(Be warned it's a ~little bit~ long, any other pieces of information you want to know I'll gladly answer if you ask.)

~General Information~

Fandom: Toy Story.

Name: Amy the Ragdoll.

Nickname, if any: Amy, Ames, and Doll-Face(usually by more villainous characters or used in a joking manner).

Gender: Female.

Sexuality: ??? (I mean I know the gender of who she has a crush on, but I'm unsure on what her actual sexuality should be tbh)

Age: Mentally, mid-twenties in the first story second movie, thirties to forties in the third and fourth. Physically, she doesn’t have an age, but in regards to when she was made (the 1950’s) makes her fifty to sixty.

City they currently live in: San Francisco, apparently that’s where Toy Story takes place.

Any pets: Would Rex count? He just follows her around like a nervous puppy.

Current occupation: I mean she’s practically a therapist, but she’s a toy and she only treats Rex so it probably doesn’t count lol

~Physical Appearance~

Height: 10 inches.

Body type: Stocky, but a bit gangly too, similar to Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas.

Eye colour: Black.

Skin tone: Light.

Clothing style: Pale green/turquoise shirt with short puffed sleeves, with a denim dungaree dress with a daisy print in the centre over it. She wears yellow rain boots.

Hairstyle: No style, it’s just there. It’s messy and gets in her face easily and is made out of dark brown thin string.

~Speech/Language/Communication~

Amy speaks quietly and politely, rambles a bit if left without a reply or under pressure, very nervous in front of intimidating characters.

First language: English.

Learned languages: A bit of Spanish (Ya’ll remember Toy Story 3!)

Accent: American.

Pitch of voice: High, but soft, not quite annoying, unless she’s stressed, then it gets very pitchy and shrill.

~Behaviour/Habits~

Amy tends to just stand there when she can’t find anything to do, and will immediately try to find Rex, Hamm, Buzz or Jessie if surrounded by strangers (Though she’s not sure if it’s for their comfort or her own) Amy is very polite.

Spending habits: She doesn’t like to be made a fuss of at all, the very fact of someone giving something to her is unnerving (even if the thing never costed anything at all) and she feels compelled to give the giver something in return.

Morning routine: She gets up same time as the others, but wishes she could stay in bed a bit longer though. Before she came to Andy’s room, her sleep pattern was all over the place.

Bedtime routine: Similar to above, now she goes to bed the same time as the others, but before she just slept and got up willy-nilly.

Nervous habits: Amy will try to find Rex if she’s nervous, and she’ll pretend it’s because she’s worried for him, which is quite true, but she also just feels most safe with him. Speaking of, Amy will let Rex hold her hand and squish it whenever he or Amy is nervous, it’s calming to the both of them.

Bad habits: Not a very good exerciser, but then again, she’s spend basically half her life in a small attic, so I’ll give her a break.

Skills/talents: She’ very logical, mind-over-matter, (mostly, very good at calming others down and/or convincing them. She’s very good at spelling and knows quite a lot of words, some of which others haven’t even heard of.

Hobbies: Reading, talking (especially with Rex, Jessie or Hamm), and generally just lazing about or walking around somewhere, on her own or with a friend.

~The Past~

Amy’s first owner was a little girl called Alice. Alice loved nothing more than to read Amy stories (Mostly fairy tales), but of course, Alice grew up like all kids do, and she left Amy in the attic for someone else to have her.

Amy waited for many years, and all that time she’d never given up that someone would find her.

She thought she’s hit the jackpot when Andy and his family move into Alice’s old house, but they don’t go up into the attic to collect her. Some weeks later, though, Andy’s mother brings a set of boxes filled with junk into the attic and leaves. Woody, Buzz, Slinky, and Rex were trapped in one of the boxes (Call me a cheater but this part was actually inspired by a Toy Story comic, where those four toys get stuck in the attic that way and have to escape. It struck me odd that they never met at least one new friend there, so I made one. It was also my first story, I needed some inspiration!)

Amy, in a fit of panic, goes and hides.

But then she’s found by Rex as he and the others try to find a way out.

They then decide to let the strange, dust-covered ragdoll come back to Andy’s rom with them. (well, Rex did, anyway.)

Home town: Would Alice’s old room count? But it’s now Andy’s Room, so it won’t count will it?

Happy or sad childhood: Pretty normal to be honest, as normal a life as a toy could have anyway. And as for sadness, having spent all that time on her own for all those years, having missed out on so much, is a little sad. But Amy made sure she never became bitter over it or used it as an excuse for anything.

Earliest memory: Waking up in her toy store, with a friend of hers for company (a ragdoll Prospector, a much as she remembers) and as she gets bought by Alice’s Auntie, she says she hopes he gets picked up by a kid. (Unbeknownst to her, she would meet him again in a while to find out he never got to experience it)

Saddest memory: One, being left by Alice, yet being so happy for her and how much she’s grown up, if she could cry tears of joy for her owner, she would. Two, some (or most) of the days she spent waiting for a new owner to arrive. And three, watching Rex have a mental breakdown of anxiety.

Happiest memory: One, the time she and Alice went to the park, (Amy absolutely adores nature) Two after sliding down a drainpipe to get to Andy’s room, and three, having known she’d helped her friend out.

Significant events: Being bought, being left in an attic, being rescued from the attic, while gaining some new friends.

~Family~

The entirety of Andy’s room, whether they like it or not, they’re all in this together and are some kind of mish-mash, found family in a sense.

Siblings: I’ve been thinking of giving Amy a brother (since I based her on Raggedy Ann, a matching bootleg Raggedy Andy seems reasonable) bur I’m unsure about it, since I’ve already mapped out Amy’s entire series of stories (Around six or seven all together, so far I’m currently writing only the third) and I can only fit him in the fifth or sixth if I can.

~Relationships~

Romantically? I’d like to say she has a crush on Rex, I don’t know why I thought of it, I was contemplating it one day as I sketched a rough (and terrible) sketch of her, and I drew Rex too because he’s just so fun to draw and I wanted to make a scale for Amy’s size, and one of my friends (who had been watching me) immediately said “I ship it!” and well, the rest is history, I made the decision to ship it too.

Friends: Jessie, Hamm, Buzz, and Rex are her closet friends, but she’d like to say that all the Gang are her friends. Later on she becomes good friends with Mr. Prickle Pants, Buttercup, Trixie and Totoro, and she absolutely loves the peas and Forky.

Best friend(s): Hamm, Mr. Prickle Pants, Jessie, and Rex.

What do people like about them? Amy’s pretty easy to talk to, she’s polite and attentive and will sit in companionable silence with someone if they need it. But she won’t hesitate to give hard truths and advice if it’s needed.

What do people dislike about them? Amy is quite a doormat, if someone is rude to her or breaches anything she just lets it happen, and sometimes she’s too indecisive about her own stuff, unsure whether she’s going to offend others or not over the smallest things, which annoys others quite a bit.

~Mentality/Personal Beliefs~

Amy is a toy of logic, and though she believes others can do it if they set their minds to it, she doesn’t quite believe in herself. She believes she must follow the rules of being a toy at all times, no matter what.

Phobias: Dust. She hates it. It took a good five weeks to brush all the dust out her hair and clothes, and even so there’s still some in her pockets and places she can’t reach. And being alone, too. Now she can’t be alone for more than an hour before she starts to get antsy and nervous. And for a short time books gave her a strange tiredness, after reading them for so long and for so many years she couldn’t even stand the sight of them.

But of course, not for long, since Amy found out Andy had a copy of Red’s Dream by a Mr. William Reeves.

Optimist or pessimist: Depends on the situation really, if her mind can’t come up with a solution, then there’s no point in trying anymore. Unless someone else can think of something, that is.

Personal philosophies: “You are here to make good things happen. No person here is made for one reason only, or even only one. There’s no point in pretending to be someone you’re not just for the attention of others, no matter how cool they are. We should find are own meaning, as we’re the only ones who have control of it.

It’ll take a while, but I swear, it’ll be worth it.”

Biggest dream/wish: Amy wants nothing more than to find meaning for herself, but finds it rather hard to do so. Of course, that doesn’t mean she’ll settle for someone else’s meaning. As cheesy as it sounds, she just wants an adventure. She doesn’t necessarily want to be the hero, though, she’s just happy to go along with the ride so long as it gets her out the house for a few hours. She also, above all else, wants Rex to find meaning too, even if she never does, it would be nice to know that he had.

Greatest strength(s): Persuasion, story-telling, logic, and good grammar.

Biggest flaw: Despite being a ragdoll, Amy can’t sew because of her fingerless hands, which are just soft mittens in shape. Amy is also quite a doormat, as I said before, so if her calm persuasion and reasoning doesn’t work, she’s left to be walked all over.

Regrets: Staying in that dratted attic too long, the window was open, she could’ve just climbed out, but no, she had to stay there for some mind-rotting decades. But if she had just escaped, she would never have met her new friends. Amy just wishes she had met them a lot sooner.

Achievements: Escaped the attic, slid down a drainpipe, leapt onto the windowsill (though nearly knocking Woody and Buzz over in the process) stopped her friend from having a panic attack, and managed to remember the entire Dictionary and is able to recite it down from A to Z, and even Z to A.

Secrets: Not much, just strange feelings for one of her friends, but it’s not much of a secret, Bo knows, and Mr. Potato Head and Hamm could see it from a mile away, and the others have their suspicions.

Goals: Read the entirety of Andy’s (and later Bonnie’s) bookshelves, become more confident in herself, have her own book-worthy adventure, and figure out what those strange feelings for her friend is.

~Likes/Favourites~

Favourite colour: Even before meeting Rex, Amy’s favourite colour was always green. Every time Alice had taken her to the park, Amy adored watching the sunlight pour through the leaves with a golden-green glow.

Favourite book(s): Because it’s sentimental to her, being her owner’s favourites, she loves Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Peter Pan, and The Wizard of Oz. They all hold similar plots (a little girl in a blue dress goes to a fantasy land, has a few adventures, and then leaves said fantasy land to go home to her family and responsibilities) but it reminds Amy of her old owner Alice (who was actually named after Alice from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland) and their playtimes together.

Favourite Book Quotation(s):

“Green is the prime color of the world, and that from which its loveliness arises.”

“There is no living thing that is not afraid when it faces danger. The true courage is facing danger when you are afraid.”

Favourite movie: Amy does much prefer books, since they allow her to imagine the setting and characters in her own way, but doesn’t mind movies, and isn’t picky on what they watch, though she does quite like horror films.

Favourite song: Amy likes any kind of music, new or old.

Favourite game: Amy never really cared for games, the competitiveness always bothered her and stressed her out. But she’s more than happy to watch Rex play his video games and cheer him on.

~Relationships with other characters~

~Rex~

- Hit it off pretty quickly.

- Amy helps him with his anxiety, and helps him find confidence in himself, she acts as a certain therapist to him.

- Both become very stressed without the other around.

- Rex will hold and knead at Amy’s hands sometimes; it calms him down.

- Rex will let Amy ride on his back if she’s tired or needs to see something (Because she’s so short).

- One of them can basically be talking about the most boring-est things ever, yet still the other will hang on to their every word.

~Jessie~

- Became friends pretty quickly.

- Will drag Amy along anywhere.

- Get along fairly well.

- Jessie does the talking and Amy does the planning.

- Jessie always pranks the other toys and makes Amy tag along (along with Hamm).

- Introvert/Extrovert dynamic for sure.

- Both were left in alone for years so like to find solace in each other.

~Hamm~

- Hamm begrudgingly warmed up to the timorous ragdoll.

- Surprisingly good pals.

- Have full conversations without saying anything.

- Like to sit and look out of the window together.

- Hamm makes Amy laugh when she really shouldn’t (mainly when he makes fun of the other toys, mainly Woody).

- Hamm makes fun of Amy having a crush on Rex every once in a while, though he doesn’t mean any harm.

~The Potato Heads~

- Mr. doesn’t really interact with Amy much, but finds her surprisingly tolerable, if a bit high-strung and annoying.

- Like Hamm, Mr. makes Amy laugh at the most wrong moments.

- She and Mrs. Are quite good friends, and she sometimes lets Amy take care of the aliens if she and her husband are busy.

~Woody~

- Are aquianteces.

- Don’t exactly interact much, even though the whole room practically revolves around him, in Amy’s opinion, though she would never say it to his face.

~Buzz~

- Amy thinks he’s super cool (then again, he is Buzz Lightyear, he practically invented coolness)

- Both are just as clueless as one another when it comes to social cues and interactions.

- Amy helps him with vocabulary and spelling every once in a while.

~Mr. Prickle Pants~

- Are absolute BFF’s.

- Go back and forth with book quotes to the point of driving the other toys insane.

~Bo Peep~

- Amy's not exactly sure if Bo has befriended her or not.

- (She has)

- They later become good friends.

- Amy misses their talks, Bo was one of the only toys she could talk to that could keep a secret.

#amy the ragdoll #toy story #oc #toy story oc #character information #original character #oc's #ocs #character development #fan character

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years ago

Text

crayons & caresses

summary: you know it’s wrong, that pining after your student’s father is wildly inappropriate, but gosh if john deacon isn’t the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.

word count: 12k+

warnings: pining to the extreme!, slight angst, discussions of parental death, health scare + medical response, alcohol, language, innuendo, suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful)

a/n: mechanic/singledad!john is everything i didn’t know i needed in my life. also: WOW this took me a long ass time because i find john the hardest to write, but i love him so. much. so hopefully it’s worth the wait.

(photo: originally from @davidgayhan i think?? ugh look at him. i drool. yes i did set this during the brief short-perm-montreal moment. sue me)

september, 1981.

you love all of your students equally. each one is like a fingerprint on your heart: unique in their own way, made up of patterns and histories you will never be able to appreciate in full before they are whisked away to their next year. it is safe to say you adore the collection of twenty-four seven year olds who walk into your classroom each morning. their bright faces, some still chubby with baby fat, fill the lonely parts of your soul, and you leave your flat each morning with a sense of purpose and duty. you are their teacher, their guide through some of the most crucial parts of learning. it is an honor and a privilege to teach them—each and every one. but there is one student who sticks out among the rest.

his name is beau deacon.

beau is remarkably quiet. he’s small for his age, both in height and in weight. at times, he appears frail, what with the way he sits by himself in the corner during reading hour, flipping through a picture book with glazed over eyes, never really concentrating on what’s before him. he walks slowly during recess, preferring to stay by himself and drag a stick along the blacktop than play a game of kickball with the other boys. he whispers when he speaks and avoids meeting the eyes of those who do try and pry a few words from him.

you try to engage him—really, you do—but nothing seems to stick. not the participation reward system you build just for him, but use for the entire class. not moving his desk closer to yours. not even coercing your best friend ami to bring in her therapy dogs one afternoon early in the year. despite your best efforts, beau remains decidedly uninterested and removed.

it bothers and worries you to the point of questioning your colleague on the matter. martha is sixty, but spry as ever. she’s been your confidant this last year. you’re new to teaching, green as ever, but she has welcomed you with open arms and a plethora of advice. you feel comfortable sidling up next to her in the car-line one friday afternoon. it’s hot outside, summer not yet allowing autumn to take root, so you hold a hand over your eyes to shade yourself from the sun.

“can i ask you something?” you say, keeping your eyes trained on the children who filter out of the school and into their parent’s waiting vehicles.

“as long as it’s not about sex,” martha mutters. “haven’t had a good romp in so long i don’t even know if it still works the same way.”

you swallow a laugh as a trio of students pass you by. their mother waves over her shoulder, shouting her thanks, before shoving the children in the backseat of a tan mini-van. you watch the van pull away, another car rolling forward to take its place, before asking your question.

“beau deacon,” you start, hoping that, if you simply say his name, martha will fill in the gaps herself.

blessedly, martha twists and nods with a knowing smile. “i know that tyke well. had him last year.”

you release a huff of air in relief. “oh thank goodness. i’m almost beside myself. i don’t know what to do with him.” you frown as you attempt to speak as diplomatically about your student as possible. “he’s awful quiet. he doesn’t play with any of the children and barely looks at me when i speak to him. how’d you manage?”

to your dismay, the older woman just shrugs. “i didn’t really. his mum died all sudden like about halfway through the year, and he clammed up. no matter what i did, what tricks i tried to pull, he stayed completely unmovable.”

“oh.” your shoulders drop in defeat. “i didn’t know.” truthfully, your heart tugs for the child. to lose one’s mother at such a tender age? you can’t imagine the world of hurt he lives in. it’s no wonder he sticks to himself.

“you didn’t speak with his father?”

“no. was i have supposed to?”

“no, not necessarily. mr. deacon was helpful on a few occasions last year. we were sort of a united front, i’d say, when things were particularly bad in the beginning. perhaps give him a call. at least to let him know you’re in his corner.” she smiles and squeezes your bicep. “and you can always come to me, love. i may not have all the answers but i do have some.”

“thank you, martha. i think giving mr. deacon a call might be smart—” you turn at the tell-tale sound of feet dragging against the ground. in the few weeks since classes have started, you’ve grown to know the sound of beau deacon’s footsteps better than your own. he’s always on your mind, the sullen little boy with glasses, so it’s hard not to pounce on him with love when you turn around to see him in the school doorway. “oh! beau! we were just talking about you.”

beau stops walking, and his grip tightens on the straps of his backpack. he doesn��t look up at you, doesn’t say anything. he simply stands there, as if he’s listening but doesn’t know how to respond, so you soldier forward.

“do you have any big plans for the weekend, beau?” you ask.

he shakes his head.

“none with your father?”

another shake of the head.

“well, perhaps you’ll do something fun and you can tell us about it on monday, yeah?”

to your surprise, he nods, which is more than he does most days. you can’t help the smile that claims your lips and the way your arm waves a little too hard to his retreating form. he walks to a faded old corvette and opens the passenger door with ease. you can hear a muffled voice—his father’s no doubt—and see the man stretch his arm out to take beau’s backpack.

but then the car door is shut, and the chevy pulls out of the parking lot with too much speed to be safe when a child is in the front.

you glance at martha. she rolls her eyes and mouths men. you can’t help but agree.

a week passes before you finally find the time to phone beau’s father. you find his name—john richard deacon—and a telephone number in beau’s emergency contact form, shoved amongst a stack of other hastily filled-out parent paperwork. there’s no secondary number listed—not even a distant relative or family friend—so if the call doesn’t work, you aren’t sure what your next move will be. even so, after all the children have left and the other teachers are beginning to close their classrooms for the day, you slouch at your desk and punch the numbers into the phone. it rings three times before someone picks up.

“taylor auto-repair. this is rog.”

the voice on the other end is high and scratchy. you’re taken aback, both by the man on the phone and the blaring rock n roll music in the background. you aren’t an expert, but it sounds like zeppelin. not what you’d expected.

“hello?”

you shake yourself free of surprise, and the wheels beneath your chair scrape against the linoleum floor as you sit forward. “oh, sorry. i thought i was calling the deacon residence?”

“deacon? like john deacon?”

“yes, i’m beau’s schoolteacher. i thought—well, this was the number on the contact form.”

there’s a sigh, and the phone brushes against something rough before rog says anything more. “hold on.” when he speaks next, his voice is distant yet poorly muffled. “deaky! there’s some bird on the phone for you! what have i told ya about putting the shop’s number down instead of the house’s? fuckin’ hell, mate.”

you frown, pressing your fingers to your lips as you wait for... deaky... to take the phone from his co-worker. when a new voice does appear on the line, you again find yourself surprised.

“hello? this is john deacon.” john’s voice is almost lilting, like a song. it’s soft, comforting—though how you determine this from four simple words is beyond your understanding.

“mr. deacon, hi! my name is [y/n] [y/l/n]. i’m beau’s teacher. i thought we might have an over-due chat, if you have the time?”

“oh, hello.” there’s a pause on the other end, as if he’s considering whether or not he’ll entertain your out-of-the-blue phone call. “has beau done something wrong?”

you laugh despite the worried edge to his tone. “no, absolutely not! beau is a delight. he’s practically a model student. however, i do have a few concerns... do you have a moment?”

“yes, i can have. just give me a second.” the line goes muffled again, the only sound a fading rolling stone’s song before all goes quiet. you hear a door shut and the squeak of a chair before john speaks again. “i suppose this is about beau’s shyness?”

you choose your next words carefully, uncertain if john simply cannot accept his son’s retreat into himself or if he does not see it. you’d rather not jump to conclusions and alienate him on your first phone call, but you must admit your unease at hearing the word shyness. beau is far more than shy. despite the frown puckering your brow, you hold your concerns close to your chest for the moment.

“shyness is a word one could use, yes.”

“he’s been that way since his mum died last year.”

rolling your lower lip between your teeth, you nod. “i heard. i’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

john makes a noise somewhere between a huff and a grunt and does not acknowledge your paltry offer of condolence. “if you’re calling to ask how you can fix ‘im, i don’t have any answers for you.”

“i don’t want to fix him, mr. deacon,” you say. “i simply want to help.”

“i’m sure you’ve spoken with mrs. cooper then.” he sighs, and the sound seems to rattle the receiver pressed against your ear. “look, i appreciate what you both are trying to do for beau. but he’s young, and the pain of losing his mum— i just don’t want him to rush into moving on.”

“oh, mr. deacon, that’s not my intention at all!” you wince at the high-pitch of your voice and clear your throat. good lord, this was not going as you’d planned. “i just want him to feel comfortable in the classroom, that’s all.”

“that’s kind of you, but i think it might be easier if you just let beau work it out for himself.”

you fall silent and glance down at the hem of your blouse. there’s a blue thread dangling from the article of clothing, and you pull on it, watching the thread unravel until it falls free from the shirt itself.

in all honesty, you’re puzzled by john’s hesitance to so much as entertain your concern. anyone—student, teacher, classroom parent—who comes across beau knows he’s more than shy. it’s written in his face, in the way he holds himself, in the way he shuffles aimlessly to and fro. god, he breaks your heart. you want to wrap him in a blanket and protect him from the cruel world.

but you’re not his mother. you’re merely his teacher, and you must respect john’s wishes despite how wrong you think they are. perhaps, in time, he will come around, see the need for a little concerted effort in helping beau work through his obvious grief-stricken state.

“is there anything more i can do for you, ms. [y/l/n]?”

clearing your throat again, you sit straighter in your chair and fiddle with a pen on your desk. you click the depressor up and down, up and down. “no, there’s not. i’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

“you didn’t,” john says—and his voice has that indescribable soft quality you noted the moment he first spoke. “really, it does mean something to me that you even thought to call.”

“i care for my students a great deal.” you aren’t sure what brings the words to your lips, but the second they fall past your tongue, a flush crawls up the back of your neck. you’re sure you sound like a petulant child, whining at the mere inconvenience of a rejected idea.

“i can tell.” his tone is anything but salty. in fact, the truth dripping from each word leaves you decidedly flustered. you click the pen faster, your leg bouncing beneath the desk.

“yes—well—i’ll leave you to it.” though you add, “if ever there’s something i can do for beau, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“i’ll be sure to.”

after a rushed goodbye, you drop the phone to its base. the hard-plastic clatters, the coiled wire dropping in a pile on the desk. you press your fingers to your eyelids and groan. both deacon boys, it seems, have the power to infuriate and melt you at the precisely the same moment.

this, you think, does not bode well for the rest of the year.

if you’re being honest, you have to admit that you think of john deacon often as the school year falls into a comfortable rhythm. no matter how hard you try to forget the phone call, forget the way his voice lulled you into a strange sense of serenity, he’s like a specter in the back of your mind: always there and definitely uninvited.

still...

when the children work silently at their desks, you sit behind yours and struggle to keep your mind from wandering to either of the deacon boys. when you greet beau as he walks through the door each morning, you resist the urge to drop a question about his father’s well-being. when the faded red corvette pulls to the curb each afternoon, you bite your tongue and fist your hands at your sides to keep from introducing yourself properly through the open window.

it’s embarrassing, really, how much the phone call with john deacon has affected you. it’s embarrassing how... interested you are in his life. you’re a schoolgirl with a crush—a crush on a man you’ve never even seen! if you were to admit your undue fascination with the deacon household to your best friend ami she would laugh in your face and remind you how desperately you need to get out more. you keep your wonderings and your daydreams to yourself to save her the trouble of telling you what you already know.

come mid-november, when the students are well-adjusted to their daily routine and you’ve learned how to juggle so many personalities at once, you finally pause to take a breath. the breath comes at the end of a school-day. it’s drizzling outside—not raining, but not dry either. the sky is a wash of gray and a deep purple. there’s a storm coming, a bad one too from the looks of it. humming to yourself and contemplating whether or not you should stop by the grocery on your way home, you tug on your jacket and step outside the school into the chilled autumn air.

you’re about to cross the parking lot to your car when you hear a harsh sniffle come from your left. you pause, keys in hand, and twist to see a huddled form on the curb. it’s clearly a student and a young one at that. knees drawn to their chest, backpack large over their back, fingers interlaced on their knees, they are the picture of a frightened schoolchild. the hood of their blue raincoat obscures any defining features, so you hustle to their side and kneel down, but not before glancing at your watch.

nearly four. someone’s been forgotten.

“hey?” you tilt your head to try and catch a glimpse of the face beneath the shade of the jacket hood. “did mum not come through the car line?”

you barely stifle your gasp when the slick raincoat crinkles as the student turns to meet your gaze.

it’s beau deacon.

his eyes are puffy, tears still clinging to his blotchy cheeks. beneath the wide frames of his glasses, fear swims across his gaze. he draws in his lower lip and rubs his hand under his nose. his eyes flicker to the ground, his toes tilting inward.

you press a hand to his shoulder. he feels so small beneath your palm, like a fragile piece of clay, molded by tragedy and loss in such a short span of time. “where’s your father, beau?”

he shrugs. “dunno.”

“i guess he’s running late.” you look at your watch. very late. “should we give him a call?”

beau nods, and you stretch to your full height, offering your hand to help him from the curb. beau does not take it as he stands. he pushes his glasses up his nose and follows you inside the school office where he hesitates in the doorway as you borrow the receptionist’s phone to call the auto-shop.

no one answers.

lowering the phone to its base, you look over your shoulder. through the venetian blinds you can see the sky darkening as you hem-and-haw. in the distance there’s a flash of lightening, and fat raindrops dot the tan sidewalk.

you could leave beau with the receptionist. it’s not uncommon for parents to run late or completely forget about their child. normally, betty calls the child’s guardian and gives the waiting student a granola bar and coloring page or picture book to flip through as they wait for the mortified adult to speed to school. there’s nothing obligating you to stay.

just as there’s nothing obligating you to offer to drive beau home.

you look at betty and calculate the words of your offer. “would it be wrong of me to drive beau home? he lives on my way ‘s all.” boldfaced lie—at least, you think—but what betty doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

betty doesn’t stop clacking on her electronic typewriter. “i don’t think so.” she peers over her glasses at the clock hanging over the door, still typing. “i’ve got a dentist appointment in half an hour, so i don’t have time to wait around today. you’d be doing me a favor, love.”

“alright, it’s settled then.” you slip the thin strap of your purse over your shoulder and turn to beau with a toothy grin. “i’ll drive you home. maybe your father just isn’t feeling well today and overslept?”

beau frowns, and inwardly, you cringe, your smile faltering. beau’s mother died of an illness, so it likely disconcerts him to think of his father in a similar state. in a piss poor attempt at an apology, you grab a piece of chocolate from the bowl near betty’s desk and slip it in beau’s hand as you make your way to the parking lot. the faintest flicker of a grin crosses his face as he methodically unwraps the candy. you take that as a sign of forgiveness.

once beau is snug in the backseat of your station wagon, you pull into traffic with a bubble of giddiness in your stomach. what you’re doing is ridiculous. though you feel horrid beau was left behind, there’s a sick park of you that is glad for it. it’s unlikely you’ll ever meet john deacon unless fate throws you together. he did not attend back to school night, and as a single father, you doubt he has time for any of the other parent-student events on schedule for the rest of the year. in all honesty, you’re taking this opportunity to put a face to the man behind the phone call that’s plagued you with daydreams since it occurred.

if you can just see his face, just learn what he looks like, perhaps the fascination with fade. unless, of course, he turns out to be as attractive as your mind has made him out to be and then you’ll be in even hotter water than you are now.

adjusting yourself in your seat, you glance in the rearview mirror. beau has his head pressed against the foggy glass of the window, his eyes scanning back and forth as he takes in the surrounding scenery. rain droplets create dark shadows over his face, and you wonder if that’s what he feels like on the inside: foggy and rainy and shadowy. you shake the thought free; you read too many melodramatic novels.

“so, beau, what’s your address?” you ask, your tone obnoxiously chipper. he tells you, and you shrug as you tighten your grip on the steering wheel. “gotta give me more than that, hun. do you remember how to get home? do you think you could tell me?”

beau nods and scoots away from the window, leaning nearer the space between the driver and passenger seats. there a gleam in his eye. you catch sight of it as you turn right at his instruction and see him hovering near your shoulder. it seems that with each turn you make his voice inches a decibel louder until you can hear every word with a clarity previously unknown. he’s confident when he’s instructing you, when he knows what he’s supposed to do.

he’s confident when he’s helping.

you tuck the bit of knowledge away for later as you pull into the cracked driveway of a red-brick bungalow. the house is small and unadorned, the homes on opposite sides just as plain and simple. a single spruce tree, like something out of a holiday catalog, is the only foliage in the yard. gauzy curtains are drawn to block the sunlight coming through the two bay windows framing the white front door.

you turn the car off as beau slides across the bench to open the car door. grabbing your handbag, you all but tumble after him, hastening up the sidewalk.

“wait a minute! beau!” you punctuate your call with a breathy laugh and smooth the sides of your hair back as you approach the front door. the bubble of giddiness from moments before has turned to a bubble of nerves, and once again, you realize this moment is entirely ridiculous. still, you adjust your blouse and straighten the crooked edge of your collar.

beau’s left the front door open, his shoes and backpack already tossed on the living room floor. you hesitate at the threshold. you haven’t been properly invited in, but the open door might just be beau’s way of telling you it’s alright to invade his home. at least, that’s the message you decide to take.

crossing the threshold, you hold tight to the strap of your purse and glance around the cramped front living area. beau’s nowhere to be seen, and the home is silent as the grave. you bite the tip of your tongue when your gaze falls over a photograph of a woman holding a baby. it’s beau and his mother; has to be.

maybe... maybe you’ve overstepped your—

“beau, is that you?” the sound of heavy footfalls on stairs snaps your attention away from the photograph. before you can slip away and forget you ever had the silly notion of meeting your student’s father with the intent of something other than a professional hello, a man rounds the corner.

your eyebrows shoot up your forehead. it’s not the john deacon you’d imagined.

he’s shorter than you pictured, only several inches taller than yourself. his jaw is sharp, peppered with a five o’clock shadow, and a thick mustache almost covers his upper lip. a white wife-beater tucked into green trousers completes the ensemble, and his bare feet pad across the floor as he sticks his hand out in greeting.

“you must be the teacher!” he pumps your hand up and down, his grip crushing but his smile wide. his voice is friendly and welcoming, though you can’t be sure it was the voice you heard over the phone. so many days have passed since then, perhaps you just forgot, though it’s highly unlikely.

“i’ve been trying to call deaky ever since i got here, but the damn fool just won’t pick up. i don’t even know where beau’s school is so i couldn’t come and get him myself. the ship we run here isn’t very tight.” he rolls his eyes with a grin. “thanks for bringing him home, darling.”

your head swims as you struggle to keep up with the man’s fast pace. so, he isn’t john deacon? and john deacon isn’t here? you open your mouth to ask the first of several questions but he beats you to it.

“hell, you look positively confused. shut the door, won’t you? the rain’s getting in, and molly was always worried about the the hardwood. i’ll put on the kettle.”

“oh, i don’t—”

he bumps your hip toward the door. “nonsense! deaky will want to thank you for driving beau home.” he’s around the corner before you can refuse, so you shut the front door against the steady rain and slip off your shoes, leaving them beside the two pairs already against the baseboard.

you’re quick to follow him to the kitchen. the walls are a muted yellow, the countertops clear but the sink full of unwashed dishes. the refrigerator in the corner is bare save for the back to school letter you gave to each student to bring home to their parents. that—and a photograph of four men in a basement. it appears to be a homegrown band of sorts, and the man behind the drumkit is shouting at the man who looks like an overgrown string bean. you’re not sure which one is john, so you turn away, feeling rather out of place when the man at the stovetop says:

“beau’s probably in his room. he always holes himself away as soon as he gets back. doesn’t come out until supper. that’s when deaky gets home.” a pair of mugs clatter against each other as he pulls them from a cupboard. “brian says it’s just a phase, that he’ll grow out of it once he processes molly’s death, but i’m not certain.” the man’s eyes flicker to you, and he laughs, loud and short. “oh dear, i’ve done it again! i forgot you’re not in the loop. i’m freddie,” he explains. “part-time nanny, full-time diva.”

you accept the mug of tea as freddie passes it to you, a smile lifting your tight mouth. “[y/n] [y/l/n]. so you’re beau’s... nanny?”

freddie drops to the round kitchen table shoved in the space between the kitchen counter and the wall. you follow suit and stir a drop of sugar in your tea. “you could call it that. i just watch him in the afternoons, between school and deaky getting home.” he sighs. “since molly... well, things have been hard to juggle.”

“i thought mr. deacon picked beau up from school? unless that was you in the car i saw?”

“heavens no! i don’t drive!” freddie laughs again. “that was deaky you saw. he takes his break at the garage long enough to pick beau up and bring him here. i guess he and rog were overrun today. bet beau was terrified. poor dear...”

you glance over your shoulder, down the dim hallway leading to, you assume, beau’s bedroom. there’s a half-full laundry basket deposited outside another open door, perhaps the bathroom. a few mislaid toys litter the carpet. it’s reassuring, knowing that beau has a few good men in his life, willing and ready to raise him. still, there’s a pervading sense of loneliness throughout the bungalow. you saw it in the photos on the living room wall, but it’s here too: in the dead roses, brittle to the touch, in the table vase; in the index-card note tucked on a notch in the cupboard, the feminine handwriting unreadable from your spot at the table.

freddie’s voice is somber when its breaks through the thick air. “complications of pneumonia,” he says, following your gaze to a wedding photo on the hallway wall. “it came on quick but didn’t last long, thank heaven.”

unbidden, tears prick the corners of your eyes. you’ve never felt more like an intruder—and you know why.

your crush on john deacon is misplaced. you see that now. realizing what you’ve done in coming here—twist a child’s terrified moment of abandonment for your gain—makes you sick to your stomach. what kind of person are you? assuming a recently widowed father would be at all interested in his son’s pesky teacher? the thought brings a flush to your cheeks, and you rise from the table all too fast. the mugs of tea wobble when your knee connects with the underside of the table.

freddie frowns at you. “you okay, love?”

“i—” how to explain yourself without sounding a total fool or heartless woman? “i think i’ve overstayed my welcome” is all that comes to mind, and you aren’t surprised when freddie uses his foot to push your chair back out from under the table.

“sit down. john will be home soon. let him thank you then you can go.”

from where you stand, you look to your right. the front door practically screams for you to politely decline freddie’s insistence and high-tail it to your car, to get out while you still have the chance. but he’s making it too easy to stay for what you’ve come for: a peek at the illusive john deacon. you know you should go, that you should leave well enough alone, but despite your best intentions, you find yourself sitting down again and allowing freddie to bombard you with questions about teaching life.

half an hour later, when your sides hurt from laughing while freddie regales you with the dramatic story of beau’s birth, the door to the garage opens and closes with a loud click. you twist in your seat, arm draped over the back, and bite your lip hard to keep from drawing in a sharp breath.

by god, he’s a stone-cold looker. better than you could have imagined.

john deacon stands in front of the garage door, his head of tight curls wet from the rain. he’s tall but not towering, his shoulders made broad by the leather jacket across his back. he hasn’t noticed you or freddie as he’s too preoccupied with wiping the grease on his fingers across a piece of soiled cloth. he turns, not towards you, but towards the hallway when beau tumbles out of his room with a shout of joy. beau races down the hall, his arms extended, and jumps into his father’s waiting embrace. john mumbles something in his son’s ear, ruffling his hair, before dropping him back to the ground. the sullen little boy jumps around his father’s feet, chattering in great detail about his day at school, though he forgoes mentioning his father’s absence in the car-line.

you exhale, a wash of new tears covering your eyes as you stare at beau. he can be happy. you’d thought it impossible.

you must have exhaled louder than you thought because john looks over at the sound. his brow tightens in a frown of confusion, his eyes flicking back and forth between yourself and freddie, but freddie is quick to explain. he stands from the table and takes your hand, pulling you to your feet.

“deaky, this is [y/n] [y/l/n], beau’s teacher. remember you spoke to her on the phone?”

your cheeks heat at the thought of him mentioning the phone call beyond the walls of the auto-shop. warmth spreads over your face even further when he gives you a tight-lipped smile and extends his hand. you slip your fingers over his palm, and he shakes your hand.

for a moment, your hands linger as john glances at beau, who is tucked behind his leg. he cringes, groaning. “please tell me you didn’t go out of your way to bring beau home today?”

you drop your hand from his and clasp your fingers before your waist. scrunching your nose, you tilt your head to the side. “well...”

“bloody hell,” john murmurs. he screws his eyes shut and runs a palm down his face. “i’m sorry,” he says. “you shouldn’t have had to do that.”

“it was no trouble, really. in fact, you live on my way home.” the comment isn’t a falsehood. you’d realized as beau pointed his way home that your flat lie only a minutes down the road. just as it had then, the realization sends a nervous clench to your stomach now. the thought of the deacons so close...

“you must think me a horrible father.” as he says this, john reaches around to smooth his hand across beau’s back. the gesture, done mindlessly, almost makes you laugh. how could anyone find him a horrible father?

“absolutely not, mr. deacon.”

the corner of his mouth twitches upward in something close to a smile. “john, please.”

you roll your lips together and blink rapidly to keep your eyes from going wide. john. “lots of people miss the car-line. it happens more often than you think.”

“well, let me give you something for your trouble.” he slides past you, the scent of cologne and car oil in his wake. his movements are stiff, hampered by beau who insists on clinging to his father’s leg, his ankles crossed over john’s foot.

“i don’t want anything, john.” you almost trip over his name. it tastes good, strong and steady. god, you’ve got it bad. “it wasn’t a hassle.”

john ignores you as he slides open a kitchen drawer. unsatisfied with its contents, he reaches for another before meeting your eyes with a wry smile. “all we’ve got is take-out menus anyway.” he shuffles nearer, beau still heavy on his leg. “thank you, ms. [y/l/n], for bringing him home. i got sidetracked at the shop and—” he sighs. “anyway, just... thanks.”

“again, you’re welcome—and call me [y/n].”

there’s a moment where you’re simply staring at one another, the room around you lulled to a comfortable silence. john is handsome, of this there is no doubt. perhaps he’s not striking in a classical way but you’re sure someone would have killed to chisel a bust of his face during the sixteenth century. it’s regal and sure in all the right places, but soft where it counts: around the eyes. when he chuckles at something freddie says, his eyes fold around the edges, and your heart all but gives out.

“what do you say, [y/n]?”

“sorry?” hopeful no one caught you ogling, you bring your attention front and center, turning to freddie. his proposal dawns on you a second too late to be anything but obvious. “stay for dinner? no, i can’t do that.”

“why not?” freddie reaches out to pinch your forearm. “it’s our way of saying thanks, and neither of us will try to poison you with our cooking. we’ll just have brian bring something ‘round.”

you shake your head and scoot around freddie to lift the handbag hanging from a kitchen chair. “i’d like to, but i’ve stayed too long already. perhaps another time.”

prying beau from his leg, john trails behind freddie as you make your way to the front door. freddie wishes you well, reminding you to drop by any time, and john simply lifts his hand in a motionless wave. on the front stoop, hair tangled around your face by a sharp wind, you lean your torso across the threshold.

“mr. deacon—i mean, john,” you say quickly, willing your voice to sound stronger than you feel. “if you’d like, i can drive beau home in the afternoons. i live not five minutes from here, and it wouldn’t be any trouble.”

john hesitates. beau stands in the kitchen, his head poked around the corner. john looks over at his son then back at you. “that’s a kind offer, but i like coming to the school.”

your eyes flick to beau, to his round, soft face and intelligent eyes. yes, if you were his mother you’d enjoy coming to pick him up too.

with a nod, you retreat into the wind. “well, the offer still stands.”

as you slide into your car and pull out of the driveway, waving to beau who now stands in the doorway, you hope against hope that john will accept the offer one day—just so long as it means you get to see him again.

he calls during the middle of show-and-tell. you nearly forgo the call as abby sinclair insists on lifting her pet toad for all to see and you’re worried she’ll drop it, but you’re waiting for a message from the front desk—missing package again—so you pick up on the last ring.

“hello?”

“hi, ms. [y/l/n]. it’s john deacon. is this a bad time?”

“oh, mr. deacon!” you wince at the delight coloring your voice and tear your eyes away from abby, who has handed her toad off to max. “i was expecting a call from the front office.”

he snorts out a rushed laugh. “sorry to disappoint.”

you brush a lock of hair behind your ear. “no, not at all.” out of the corner of your eye you catch max squeezing abby’s toad between his palms, and you push the phone away from your ear. “oy! max, knock it off! abby, please put the toad back, dear?”

john is chuckling on the other end of the line when you return to the call. “sorry,” you say. “show-and-tell.”

“i know. beau was excited this morning.”

with a smile, you glance at the boy in question. “he did very well. everyone was impressed with what he brought.”

“brian made that for him as a birthday gift, so he can’t take any of the credit.”

“he didn’t! he explained who made the planets, but he did want to be clear about who painted the stars.” you hesitate, the sound of laughter over your shoulder reminding you not to get too entangled by the sound of john’s voice. “is there something i can do for you, mr. deacon?”

“right, yes. well, it’s a bit awkward... do you remember a few weeks ago when you drove beau home?”

you nod, the memory lifting from your heart with ease. how could you forget? you only replay the evening like a film every night before you fall asleep. “of course”

“do you remember offering to drive him home again?”

“yes.”

“i’m in a jam at the shop and can’t leave this afternoon. would you mind? taking him home, that is.”

you answer without hesitation. “i can do that. it’s not a problem.”

“you’re a life-saver. it’s just with freddie not driving... i guess what i mean to say is thanks. it helps me out a lot.”

“i’m happy to do it, john.”

“i promise i’ll make it worth your while this time. proper take-out and all.”

“you really don’t have to do that,” you say, hoping he does anyway.

“no, freddie will insist. i’ll let you get back to class for now. thanks, [y/n].”

“don’t mention it. good luck with your jam at the shop. i hope it’s cleared up soon.”

“me too. all the sooner to get back to beau—and you.”

he hangs up before you can respond, and you’re left with your jaw scraping the floor and your heart in your throat.

all the sooner to get back to you.

the words circle your head like a drug for the remainder of the day. you can barely focus as you teach, stumbling over your words and through math equations and spelling tests.

surely he didn’t mean it like that. he probably just tacked you on at the end of the sentence in his haste to get back to work. he probably wasn’t thinking when he spoke.

but, by god, you were listening.

you’ve never been so head-over-heels for a man in your life. each day when you wake up with john at the forefront of your mind, you wish for a morning where you can stay in bed and dream of him all day—his voice, his smile, his gentle way with beau. it all makes you crazy. ami calls your fascination puppy love and claims it will fade with time, but you wonder if it’s gone deeper. you’re interested in more than john deacon’s looks. you’re interested in what makes him tick and whether or not he’s in a band with the three other men who constantly appear in every conversation you share and whether or not he misses his wife and what his hair looks like when he wakes up in the morning. you what to know him and be known by him.

all the sooner to get back to you.

perhaps it’s wishful thinking—a dreamy idea on the part of a lovesick woman—but part of you wonders if he feels the same way about you.

driving beau home becomes part of an unspoken routine. after sharing dinner at the deacon household that second evening, john admits when walking you to your car how overwhelmed he can feel between his job at the auto-shop and his responsibilities with beau. with a tentative hand on his forearm, you promise you’ll help lighten the load. he thanks you by squeezing your fingers with his, and then he’s gone.

it begins by driving beau home every monday, wednesday, and friday. you enjoy your time with him. as soon as he settles in the back seat of your station wagon, he comes alive. the protective shell he wears in the classroom is replaced by the bright and earnest eyes of a seven year old boy, curious about the world and all it has to hold. he asks you questions and tells you stories, and you laugh as you watch the light dance in his eyes. he’s a sweet child, and you truly treasure the afternoons you spend with him.

one friday, you drop him off and find the cozy bungalow empty. beau has stopped retreating to his room once returning from school—at least, this is what freddie tells you—so you’re not completely surprised when beau invites you in for an afternoon snack. you are surprised by the empty house, however. freddie is nowhere to be seen and neither is john. what concerns you even further is when beau opens the refrigerator and slams it shut with a huff.

“nothin’,” he mutters, slumping to the table with a groan.

“what?”

“there’s nothing in the fridge.”

“what do you mean by that?” you cross the floor and open the fridge, hoping beau’s comment is nothing more than a hungry child displeased with the array of choice and nothing to his liking, but you find his statement to be true. the fridge is woefully stocked—naught but a half-filled carton of orange juice, three apples, and a sandwich wrapped in tinfoil. you glance over your shoulder. “is it always like this?”

“no.” beau circles about on his chair. “but it’s happened a few times since dad and uncle rog got more busy at the shop.”

“well, that won’t do. grab your shoes, beau, we’re going to the market.”

once returned from your grocery run, you teach beau how to make spaghetti. he stands beside you on a stool, pushed up on his toes as he watches you prepare the boiling water and pasta. as you wait for the pasta to soften, you set about crafting a homemade pasta sauce. it’s your mother’s recipe, and it’s easy to make. easy enough that you allow beau to carefully slice the tomatoes under your supervision and dice the onions and sprinkle the spices.

the kitchen smells like your childhood: fragrant yet simple, sweet and comforting. somewhere in the waiting for the sauce to simmer, beau turns on a radio and draws you to the center of the kitchen. he holds your hand tight and kicks his feet to the music. you laugh and mirror his movements. he grabs your other hand and steps on his stool, forcing you to bend in an awkward twirl around his finger. you struggle but complete the movement, though he attaches himself to your shoulders like a barnacle. you whirl around on your socked feet in attempt to toss him off, but he holds tight, his fingernails digging into the skin of your collarbone. he squeals in your ear, a mixture of laughter and gasping breath and shrieks.

“mama, mama, stop!”

he says it without thinking, his head lolling against your shoulder as you stop short at the sound of his breathless voice. he giggles against your back then releases himself and slides to the floor. you stare at him, feel his words in the back of your throat like an uncomfortable burn, and then you hear the garage door shut.

you swallow hard and force your eyes from the yellow-and-white linoleum floor. beau hops from his stool, sauce-covered spoon in hand, and rushes to his father’s side.

“daddy, look, we made dinner! miss [y/l/n] and me!” he tugs on john’s shirtsleeve, but john’s just staring at you, his face unreadable. beau turns to one of the other three men crowding the hall behind john. “uncle roggie, taste it!” he forces the spoon in the face of a mulleted blond.

eager to break the thick tension, you motion to the spaghetti. “i—there wasn’t anyone home so...” your sentence trails off, and you bite the inside of your cheek.

so many eyes on you. you feel exposed against them all, caught in a domestic moment with a child that’s not your own in a home that’s not your own.

john looks over his shoulder, eyes flashing in anger. “fred?”

freddie winces. “about that, deak.” he rubs the back of his neck and glances at beau. “i can explain later.”

“you’d better,” john mutters.

“i should go,” you say at once, hastily grabbing your things from the table. your keys jingle in your hand with the force of your anxiety, and you stub your toe against the floor in your hurry to put your shoes back on.

john’s hand on your arm stops you. you look up, stooped as you try to slip the back of your sandal over your heel. he looks down at you, face still remarkably unreadable. “no, please stay,” he says. “you made supper.”

you shake your head and rise to your full height. “i’ve intruded enough already.”

you’re embarrassed, too. the gaggle of men heard beau’s slip up; they heard him mistake you for his mother—and certainly they saw the immediate flush of happiness rise over your cheeks at the sound.

mama. you’d always hoped, always wished, someone would call you that one day. you just didn’t think you’d hear it from a student with a deceased mother and a father you pined after first.

“[y/n], stay.” john’s voice is soft, breathy, and his eyes flit back and forth between yours with a startling amount of intensity.

how can you say no?

once the dinner has been divided, you sit beside john on the couch in the living room. the kitchen table is too small to host the gathering, so the living room was deemed appropriate just this once, to beau’s great delight. he sits on the floor at the coffee table, a tall glass of milk beside his plate of pasta, his eyes bouncing over everyone in the room with unrestrained joy.

“beau, why don’t you introduce everyone for miss [y/l/n]? she doesn’t know all your uncles.” john nods to his son in encouragement, and beau is only happy to take the job.

standing, beau crosses first to the impressively tall and curly-haired man sat beside him on the floor. “this is uncle brian. he likes space and teaches all the big kids at uni.”

he moves to freddie, who sits on a plush armchair. “this is uncle freddie, but you already know him.”

the last man leans against the foyer table, his ankles crossed and sunglasses still perched on his nose. beau pats his arm. “this is uncle roger and he works with daddy.” in a stage whisper, he adds, “he thinks he’s a lot cooler than he really is.”

roger guffaws and lightly pushes beau’s head to the side. “oy, you twerp, take that back!”

glancing about the room, you nod in greeting. “it’s nice to meet you all. i’ve heard quite a bit.”

brian smiles at you from the floor. his legs are bent awkwardly beneath the coffee table, and you’ve noticed the way he helps beau cut his side salad and keep sauce from dripping to the area rug. “all good things i hope?”

“oh yes, of course.”

“[y/n], dear, you really must tell brian what that student of yours did last week,” freddie pipes up. “it had me laughing well into the night. i’m sure some of his twenty-year olds are much the same.”

“i shouldn’t, fred.” you look at beau, who is watching you in interest.

freddie nods in understanding and tugs on his earlobe. “little ears, yes. maybe another time.” he pushes brian’s shoulder with his foot. “really is a riot of a story.”

as supper progresses, conversation twists and turns down different avenues. you explain how you came to teach in the area and find you used to work with one of brian’s newer colleagues. freddie tells the group about his recent run-in with an angry bird watcher in the park. his gestures are so grandiose he whacks roger in the chest, who has come to sit on the arm of fred’s chair. there’s more laughter than there is silence, and you settle back in the couch. at one point, john drapes his arm over the back of the couch—not around your shoulders, but close enough to send your heart into overdrive. it’s all you can focus on—the proximity of his muscular arm behind your head—as brian explains to beau the difference between the big and little dippers. even as roger describes the ramshackle band they four participate in on the weekends, you barely register the words because you swear to the high heavens you feel john’s pointer finger purposefully brush against your shoulder.

beau begins to yawn sometime near the eight o’clock hour, and you jump from the couch when you realize you’ve stayed so late.

“good lord, i’ve got to go!” you shuffle about the room, gathering your belongings, as john rises behind you. “i didn’t know it was so late!”

his hands are in his pockets, and he studies you as you put your shoes on. “got a big date tomorrow?”

you frown. “no,” you say on a laugh. “i’ve actually got breakfast with my mum.”

he looks away for a moment, but you can’t help but note the edge of a smile.

he grabs his jacket from the coat-stand when you’re ready. “i’ll walk you out.”

at the door you wave to the others. “good night, all! it was nice to meet you.”

roger tips an imaginary hat. “i’m sure we’ll meet again, [y/n], if deaky has anything to say about it.”

freddie kicks the back of roger’s leg, and the injured man doubles over in a yelp of pain. “you fucker!” freddie mutters. “you know that—”

john ushers you out the door before you can see or hear any more.

the night air is chilly, and you warm your arms around yourself. you reach for your keys in the depths of your purse and slide them into the lock on the driver’s side of your car. it’s dark out. you can barely make out john’s features beneath the light of the moon, but when he shuffles to the side, an automatic flood light turns on above the garage. you blink against the sudden light and smile, chuckling beneath your breath as your vision adjusts. you’re not eager to leave quite yet, and he doesn’t seem eager to send you away, so you both stand, looking at one another in the darkness of the drive.

“your friends are nice,” you say.

he hums in agreement. “m’yes, they are. we just started as a screw-around band a few years back, but when molly got sick...” he pauses, clasps his hand on the back of his neck, and shrugs. “they’ve been my lifeline, y’know?”

“i can’t imagine what that was like, losing her. i’m glad you had them around.” you suck in a deep breath. “about earlier... i didn’t know beau was going to say that, and i’m sorry it happened. i realize that my... involvement might appear to be me wheedling my way into your family, but that’s not it, really! i mean, i like you and beau—as friends—but i’m not trying to...” you sigh, shaking your head. “i’m sorry it happened ‘s all. i don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

before you know what’s happening, john’s reaching out to cup your cheek. his smile is soft in the glow of the moon and the floodlight, and your heart stops in your chest.

his thumb brushes over your cheekbone. “i haven’t seen beau that happy in a long time. you’ve brought a lot of joy back into the house, [y/n].”

you’re sure you’re sweating despite the chill of night. you shake your head, but his hand holds fast against your face. “no,” you whisper. your voice sounds heady, even to your own ears. “beau’s just a good kid.”

“yes, and you’re a good teacher.”

is his face inching closer? you’ve suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

“a good teacher and a good person.”

if it weren’t for your firm hold on the car door handle, you think you might slip to the ground in a puddle of goo.

his lips are on yours, then, and you fall into his arms as he holds you against himself. you have dreamt of this moment far too many times to count, but you never thought it would happen. really, you thought you would finish the year without ever knowing the taste of john’s deacons lips.

but there he is, and there you are, and he tastes like the wine he drank during supper. he is more eager than you thought he would be, and soon he has your back pressed against the door of your car. you huff into his mouth and feel your eyes roll back into your head when he drags his lips across your jaw, inching closer to that spot behind your ear. your arms practically quiver around his shoulders, and you open your eyes long enough to catch a glimpse of a particularly bright star winking down at you.

he catches your lips again, and you feel hot and delicious all over.

“john,” you mumble against his mouth. “john.”

loathe as you are to stop the moment, you do, pushing his shoulders until he pulls himself away. his hand still cradles your hip, and he looks flushed in the moonlight. you’re sure you look equally as rumpled.

you grin. “well.”

he matches your smile, though it’s fleeting. “call you, yeah?”

unlocking your car door, you nod. “please do, mr. deacon.”

he shakes his head on a chuckle and shuts the door, waving gently as you pull out of the drive. when you’re several homes away, out of eyesight, you drift to the side of the road and blast the air conditioner. then you pound your fists against the steering wheel and let out a muffled squeal of delight.

he doesn’t call you.

when you sit down to think about it, it’s not that great of a surprise. you’ve been around him only a handful of times, and though you’ve both been comfortable in those moments, you don’t blame him for resisting whatever it is he feels for you. there’s beau to think about. you’re his teacher; surely there’s some line you shouldn’t be crossing? there’s molly too, and her memory and the years they spent together and the child they had together.

if anything, you figure he’s using you to test the waters of romance again. those stolen touches and deep stares and that kiss in the drive—it’s all just experimentation. the conclusion drawn from those experiments? he’s not ready.

you sigh, take another sip of wine. maybe you should stop driving beau. you like john; you like him a lot. and after that kiss, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. you thought about him before, but never this much. he threatens to consume your every waking moment, and it scares you because he’s not interested. desperately pining after a disinterested man means one thing: ruin. if you stop driving beau home, put some distance between yourself and the deacons, the puppy love and infatuation will fade over time.

it has to or you’ll go crazy.

it’s early evening, and your stomach grumbles. your flat is quiet as you putter around the kitchen in search of a suitable supper. there’s not much in the cupboards and even less in the fridge. you desperately need to go to the grocery store. take-out it is. withdrawing a handful of menus, you spread them out on the counter and flip through them mindlessly.

your thoughts are elsewhere. always on john.

you wonder what compelled him to kiss you. he’s an enigma, john deacon. you’ve seen him in moments of great levity—when he’s around beau or his friends or recounting a story from his youth. he has an infectious laugh, delightful crinkles around his eyes, and a quick wit. but he can be hard, too, like an immovable stone. he’s quick to toss a glare at anyone in his way in those moments of weakness, and his biting wit can turn sour at the drop of a hat. you chalk it up to weariness, those moments. weariness, loneliness, frustration. it doesn’t phase you, though perhaps it should.

with a groan, you drop your forehead to the cool counter and shut your eyes. the kiss lingers on your lips; it has the entire week since. you want him badly—in more ways than one.

the telephone rings, and you startle, clutching a paper menu to your chest. “fuck,” you whisper. you need to get a hobby other than daydreaming. pressing the phone to your ear, you barely get out a word of greeting before someone’s shouting at you on the other end.

“[y/n]? it’s fred! we’ve got a fuckin’ problem over here.”

you frown. “freddie? what’s going on? why are you are john’s? it’s a saturday.”

“no time for that! how fast can you get here?”

“well, i don’t know. i’ve got to—”

“beau’s sick! he’s on the bathroom floor, moaning and groaning and—shit!—[y/n], i don’t know what to do!”

“i’m sure it’s just a tummy ache, fred,” you say. “i see it all the time in my class. give him some pepto and he’ll be fighting fit in the morning.”

“no, [y/n]!” something in fred’s tone—a raw, animal fear—has you standing straight, your heart stuttering in your chest. “he said he feels like he’s gonna die just like molly did!”

“okay, okay.” you begin to move toward your bedroom, but are yanked back by the phone chord attached to the wall. you stumble backwards with a grunt. “okay, i’m coming, fred. just hold tight.”

“fucking hurry!”

you slam the phone down, rush to your bedroom to change from your nightclothes, and jump in the car without a pair of shoes. as quickly as you can you race to the deacon household. the sun dips low, casting an orange glow over the suburban streets lined with family cars. you grip the steering wheel tight, your heart thumping a prayer of protection for beau.

the driveway of the bungalow is empty, the garage door thrown open. the old convertible john toys with in the evenings is parked inside, but his everyday vehicle is gone. cutting the engine of your car, you run through the garage and into the house. fred stands in the hallway, pressed against the bathroom door. he looks ridiculous, clad in a bright yellow bathroom and bunny slippers, but he pounds his fist against the door, pleading for beau to unlock it and let him in. he turns at the sound of your bag dropping on the carpet.

“oh, thank god,” he breathes. he grabs your arm and wrenches you to his side. “beau, miss [y/l/n] is here. why do you talk with her, huh?”

before you say anything to beau, you frown at freddie. “where’s john?” your whisper sound harsh in the dim lighting of the hallway.

“at the shop. overtime. i can’t reach him.”

you jerk your head to the phone sitting on a side-table in the living room. “go try again and i’ll stick with beau here.” when he’s gone, you slide to a sitting position on the floor and press your ear to the thin wood of the door. “beau? beau, honey, it’s me.”

beau only groans in response.

“beau, can you please open the door? i want to help you. that’s it; just help.”

there’s a pause then you hear: “no. go away.”

“it’s okay if you’re embarrassed, beau. we all get sick sometimes. fred and i just want to help you feel better.”

there’s the sound of water sloshing and then a hard sniff. “i want my mommy.”

“oh, baby, i know.” you clear your throat to work past the lump rising to the surface. “come on, just let me in. i promise it’ll be okay.”

“but... what if i die like her too?”

“that’s not gonna happen, beau. i promise.” he doesn’t respond, so you plead once more. “please let me in.”

he shuffles to the door, unclicks the lock, and cracks it open. through the opening, you can see his pale face gleaming with sweat. gently, you push the door open further.

beau’s curled on the floor, his head bent toward his knees. his arms tighten around his stomach, and a spasm ripples through his body. he’s dripping with sweat, his star wars pajamas soaked through. hot air clogs the room, and you switch on the overhead fan. pressing your fingers to his forehead, you cringe and draw back. he’s burning up.

“beau, baby, what hurts?” you finger some of the sweat-matted hair away from his forehead.

“my tummy.”

“what’s your tummy feel like?”

beau shakes his head into the floor. “bad.”

“do you feel like you’re gonna be sick?”

“already did. on my floor.” he opens his eyes long enough to stare at you through thick lashes. “i’m sorry.”

“don’t apologize about that. we’ll get it cleaned up later. i’m just gonna go get you some water, okay?”

he groans, shifting against another spasm of pain. “okay.”

stepping back into the hall, you grab freddie’s arm before he can slip into the bathroom. you tug him to the safety of the kitchen. his eyes dance between yours, expectant.

“well?”

“did you get ahold of john?”

“no, the fucker.”

“we’ll have to go pick him up then.”

fred’s brow twitches. “what? why? what’s wrong with him?”

you throw a glance down the hall when beau whines. “i think it might be his appendix. my dad’s burst last summer and he looked a lot like beau does now.”

“fuckin’ hell.” freddie runs a hand across his mouth. “just what deaky needs.”

you nod in agreement. “i know. we’ve got to take beau to a hospital, though, before it gets any worse.”

“yeah, yeah, i know. go get the car started and i’ll meet you in a minute.”

several minutes later, you’re en route to the auto-shop, freddie cradling beau in the backseat of your station wagon. the drive is tense, your bare foot hard on the gas pedal. beau wrestles and whines against freddie’s hold, continuously asking for his parents and where you’re taking him.

no one wants to say the word hospital, so his cries go unanswered.

freddie directs you to the auto-shop, his phrases terse, and you pull into the drive with a sharp squeal of tires on gravel. with the car still running, you hurry across the parking lot, loose pebbles catching on your feet. music blasts from a stereo within the garage. it’s loud and obnoxious and keeps you from locating john fast enough.

“can i help ya, miss?” a lithe man steps out of a side office, his hairline receding and face near gaunt.

“yes—i’m looking for john deacon.”

the man continuously wipes his hands on a dirty rag. none of the oil and grease on his fingers budges. “he’s down there.”

dirt and grime covers the bottoms of your feet as you race down the shop. cars of all varieties line the wall to your left, some stationary on the ground, others lifted towards the vaulted ceiling. there’s a handful of men at work, but you don’t recognize any of them as john. you’re prepared to start shouting his name when a familiar voice stops you.

“[y/n]?” it’s roger. “can’t get enough of our deaky, can you?” he’s chuckling as he steps out from behind a truck. “what are you doing here?”

“it’s beau,” you say, and his face falls.

“over here.” roger wastes no time in finding john beneath a volkswagon beetle. only john’s legs are visible, his knees bent and leather boots firm on the floor. he curses when roger hooks the toes of his shoes around a curve in the sliding plate on the floor and drags john out from under the car.

“what the fuck, rog? i—” john stills when his eyes land on you. his muscle tee is loose over his chest, and a line of grease mars his forehead. he swallows. “[y/n]... i...” he sits up. “i’ve been meaning to—”

though you’re curious about the end of his sentence, you cut him off. “beau’s sick. we’ve got to take him to hospital.”

the blood drains from john’s face in an instant. the wrench in his hand clatters to the cement ground, and he’s grabbing your elbow, pulling you toward the exit, before you can say anything more.

“crystal, i’m gone!” he shouts, practically shoving you in the direction of the car.

there’s either no reply or you don’t hear it because john shouts for freddie to move the fuck over and give him beau. you slide behind the wheel and pause, twisting to catch a look at the scene in the back.

beau looks like a newborn swaddled in his father’s arms. his face is wet with tears and sweat, and he sobs in his father’s grasp. john feels beau’s forehead and frowns, muttering an oath under his breath. then his eyes flick to yours.

“what are you waiting for? go!”

you don’t need to be told twice.

it’s another fifteen minutes before you reach the hospital. your head throbs under the stress of it all: beau’s pitiful moans for help, john urging you to go faster, freddie barking directions as he slaps the headrest behind you. before you’ve pulled to a complete stop, john is out, beau in his arms. you shoo freddie after him.

“go! i’ll park the car.”

by the time you’ve found a parking space and picked your way across the parking lot, beau’s been admitted for emergency surgery. his appendix, as you suspected. it’s a routine procedure, and he’ll be fine within the next hour. relief floods your system at the news, and you find john and freddie sitting beneath a large fish tank in the waiting room. you take the open spot beside john and cross your ankles.

“your feet are disgusting,” fred says. he points to the bottoms of your feet, dark with dust, dirt, and grime.

you shrug. “forgot shoes.”

the quiet of the waiting room is both a comfort and annoyance. a clock on the wall ticks loudly, and the fish tank bubbles at an uneven rate. every breath you take feels too loud, and the antiseptic smells cling to the inside of your nose.

still, the quiet gives you a moment of rest. you catch your breath. you let the knowledge of skilled and capable doctors working on beau ease your heart-rate. it will all be okay; he’s going to be okay.

you glance at john. his fist is pressed against his mouth, his eyes shut. his leg bounces, and you dare to reach over and lay your hand against his knee. he stills, his eyes flashing to you.

“he’s going to be okay, john.”

on the other side of john, freddie jumps to his feet. “i’m going bananas just sitting here.” he rubs the side of his head. “might burst. i’m gonna give brian a call.” he stalks away, his bunny slippers slapping against the linoleum floor.

you shake your head, biting back the urge to smile.

but then john’s fingers curl around yours, and you can’t help but give into the grin.

you look up, meet his eyes.

“i didn’t call you,” he says.

“no, you didn’t.”

he shifts in seat and looks to the floor. “you should be wearing shoes.”

at the turn of conversation, you frown then follow his gaze. “yes, i suppose.”

“take mine.” he releases your hand to bend down and undo his laces.

“no, john, don’t be silly. i’m fine.”

“please, [y/n], take the shoes.” he slides the boots toward you, and you begrudgingly slip your feet into the warmth of his shoes.

you look silly, the pair of you—your ill-fit mtv t-shirt, loose jeans, and oversized leather boots; his muscle tee with the aptly faded word muscle scrawled across the chest, his faded jeans, and socked feet. one of his toes pokes through the end of his sock, and his exposed arms look cold in the frigid air of the waiting room. you laugh.

“we look like a pair of bikers or something.”

the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “not much of a biker. that’s crystal’s territory.” he doesn’t look at you when he continues speaking. “i’m sorry i didn’t call.”

on a sigh, you drag the boots across the carpet. though it pains you to do so, you let him off the hook. “it’s not a big deal, john. it was just a kiss. no promises.”

“i know.” his head tilts to the side. “but i wanted to call you. nearly did twice, but i chickened out.” he turns, then, and meets your eye. “i like you, [y/n].”

you smile, but know it doesn’t reach your eyes. still, you reach for his hand again. “i like you too, john. i’ve enjoyed getting to know you and your family.”

he shakes his head, and when he speaks, his voice is firm. “no, i like you. that’s why i kissed you and that’s why i didn’t call. because you make me so bloody nervous.”

your shoulders drop, as does your jaw.

“ever since you dropped beau off that first time, i’ve been thinking about you and about you and him together and then he called you mum and i saw the way you acted with him and—” he pauses for a breath. “molly was different with beau. i mean, she loved him, but she was always so fragile and worried and—and that’s not the point! the point is that you make beau happy and you make me happy. and i want to be happy again.”

“john...”

his grip on your hand tightens as he leans closer. “make me happy, yeah? i’m stubborn as a mule and shy, too, but i want you—badly.”

the fire in your heart spreads at his words. it spreads throughout your body until you feel like you could burst and shine a light into even the darkest corners of the earth. a laugh bubbles forth from between your lips. you lift a hand to stifle it.

“you want to know something?” you ask.

“what?”

“i’ve been pining after you, john deacon, ever since i heard your voice over the phone. i was content to just wallow in my daydreams, but this seems better.” you lift your fingers to brush his chin. “a lot better.”

“i can’t promise i’ll make a good boyfriend. i’m pretty rusty.”

“me too. we can be rusty together.”

he grins, leans forward further, his nose brushing yours. “can’t promise there won’t be hiccups. i’ve got baggage.”

“i can carry it.”

he kisses you, his hand on the back of your head, keeping you firm against his mouth. you grin, your teeth knocking his as you laugh. his curls are soft against your fingertips, and you hold on for dear life when he chuckles into your smile.

“mr. deacon?”

john kisses you once, twice more, before pulling away to look at the doctor. “yeah?” he doesn’t sound the least bit embarrassed to be caught in such a position in the middle of a hospital waiting room, but you hide your face against his neck. your cheeks hurt your smile is so wide.

“beau’s ready to see you now.”

john stands and extends at hand. “comin’, dove?”

your footfalls are hard against the ground, the boots heavy around your ankles, as you walk with him hand-in-hand to beau’s hospital room. you lean against his side, breathe the comfort of him in, and smile.

yes, this is much better than your daydreams—baggage, boots, beau, and all.

#john deacon #john deacon x reader #john deacon fic #queen #queen fic #j writes

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