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commonwealthoccurences · 3 years ago

Text

Life Worth Living

Request: "I don’t know if your still taking requests or if your willing to write a part 2 for this since you wrote it so long ago but could you make a part 2 to “X6-88 As A Brother Figure” where sole works with the Railroad and comes back for him."

TW: Mentions of starving and its respective appearance and trauma related effects. Very brief, nondescribed mention of throwing up. Canon typical violence, particularly threats of gun violence. Descriptions of dissociating.

Note: I bullshitted a lot of Institute lore in this for the sake of the story ngl. I hope it’s not too disorienting lol Thanks to @ryleeamberrr for editing and beta reading!

Est word count: ~12,000

Walking away from the Institute, Sole thought, was the hardest thing they had ever done.

The confusion and distress still smarted as much as it did when X6-88 told them they had to leave, that it was time for them to sneak away, but he couldn’t see them again, not in the next few years at the very least. They had just crossed fifteen, and though growing up in the Institute had made them more mature than any Pre-War fifteen year old could claim to be, they felt more like a five year old being betrayed by their older brother.

All but clinging to his clothes, stiff and unwrinkled as they always were when he was within the Institute, Sole protested. Every manner they had learned, any restraint they held proudly due to X6’s almost-parenting went out the window as they argued and nearly cried. And though it was never a question whether or not X6 loved them dearly, he detached them from his clothing, powered up the teleporter, handed them their most important belongings and some rations within a backpack, and sent them on their way without much emotion.

That day marked the worst moment in Sole’s life, and the first and only time X6 cried thus far.

Sole wasn’t particularly proud of their resilience in the Wasteland. They found no pride in white-knuckled survival. The fact that they could pull a bullet out of their arm and patch themself up to keep moving wasn’t some sort of winning story in a tale-telling competition, it was born out of the spite they mustered up to live. Very quickly, they figured out that spite was the one thing they could cling to to keep the Wasteland from drowning them in their own suffering.

The first few years they spent on their own, sleeping amongst the piles of rubble curled into a ball, covered only by a thin blanket riddled with holes and coated in dried, gray mud that blended them into their surroundings. It was cold and lonely, and they often found themself fighting off or huddled with the scavenger dogs. Reflectively, it seemed fitting to them. And how pathetic must they be, for even the most desperate of the Wasteland’s creatures to take pity on them.

At the tail end of those first years, they were found by Mayor John Hancock of Goodneighbor. They’d never stepped foot into Goodneighbor; Diamond City tales of its brutal and harsh nature were enough to keep them giving it a wide berth. It seemed he was great at finding all the trouble left in the Wasteland, and as he would often remind them after they met, they were the most troublesome thing he could’ve found out there.

The walk they took back to Goodneighbor was slow going. There wasn’t much of Sole left at that point, though the scavenger dogs had taken a liking enough to them to bring back bits of what they found to eat. Winter was cruel, and even in the distant future, when the answer to how and where they would survive was reliable, they still trembled at the sight of snow.

Starving bodies weren’t unusual in the Commonwealth, least of all amongst those between settlements, drifting in and out of Goodneighbor, jerked around by the lead of their chem addictions. Still, it was hard for Hancock to look at Sole for the first few weeks. They were bordering emaciated and something about how utterly hollow their eyes looked broke his heart.

Fahrenheit quietly warned him not to collect too many strays when she saw Sole curled up in his bed, piled under blankets and fast asleep. Hancock, resting on the couch across the room looked more haunted than usual. He didn’t move to acknowledge her. And despite her warning, Fahrenheit felt a pang of distress when she saw the cruel lines that emphasized Sole’s bone structure.

Sole didn’t often speak of where they had come from, but it became relatively obvious to Hancock as time crawled forward. They spoke of the Commonwealth in an abstract, scientific sense, and fought hard to bite their tongue to not make some choice negative comments that had obviously been ingrained in them. Hancock didn’t hold a grudge. Being raised in the Institute was the worst fate of all, in his mind.

The subject of family was a notoriously sore spot for them, though. There was a hurricane of emotions that rose in Sole when the topic came up. On one hand, they never wanted to bring it up. On the other hand, X6 was everything to them, all the family they had, and yet they couldn’t shake the bitter taste in their mouth when they thought of what he did to them. Sure, it was probably for the best. But there was resentment all the same.

There had been no choice for them. Maybe it was intentional. The fact that they would’ve chosen to stay with X6 a thousand times over was probably written on their face every time they were separated, in the way they turned into his shadow for a few days after he returned from one of his Courser assignments.

The thought spiraled into more resentment in turn. He knew he was their only family, that they had never been on their own for even a moment in all the years they lived in the Institute, surrounded by bustling scientists and synths alike, and yet he sent them away into a Wasteland he himself expressed disgust for.

Betrayal was a wound that stung fresh every time, and never seemed to heal.

And yet, Sole knew. If they were given the choice at any moment in their journey through the Commonwealth to return to him, wherever he was, they’d agree without hesitation. They could find contentment in starving together, even.

So Hancock didn’t ask except for that once, in the first week since they had arrived at Goodneighbor, his eyes averted from the way they clutched to the bowl of soup he’d given them as if he might take it back at any moment. Even then, the way they shuddered with the weight of whatever tale they were holding back was unmistakable.

Slowly but surely, they filled out and began to heal physically. The muscle and weight they used to back up all the training both the Institute and X6 put them through returned, and they were able to stand on their own two feet. Daisy would throw them a few caps for whatever meat they hunted down, and a few more for what electronic parts they could scavenge from the broken buildings. KL-E-0 helped them keep up to date on their fighting skills.

Sometimes, when they sat on the benches just below the balcony where Hancock made his speeches and the wind whipped past them, it felt like living.

A few more years ticked by at a snail's pace and they started to spend their evenings in the Third Rail, listening to Magnolia’s crooning voice and questioning just how much damage all the smoke in the bar was doing to their lungs. It had been a long six years since they had left the Institute, and the answer was that they simply didn’t care. Their lungs were probably ruined already, anyway.

Life was unremarkable for the most part, and Sole preferred it that way.

It was still hard. In the traditional sense, of fighting tooth and nail to keep the Wasteland from getting its claws back in them, but also in the sense that Sole always felt there was something missing. Six years and they still felt as if X6 was supposed to be returning to their side at any moment.

Sole recalled, with a melancholic bittersweetness, one of the times they had almost died. They had woken up heavy and nauseous with the familiar sickly sweetness in their mouth that came with being dosed with Radaway and nearly hurled overside the cot they were resting on. Rough hands brought them back to rest on the cot and they could feel a cold sweat coating their own skin. Distantly, they felt themself shivering. Hancock leaned a bit to hold them.

Selfishly, they had turned to Hancock to fill the void X6’s absence had left. Part of them felt as if he knew, in the saddened looks he sometimes gave them when he thought they weren’t looking, but it was hard not to cling to the man that pulled them out of the literal gutter amidst an apocalypse and helped them feel like a person again— and so, despite the fact that they were almost notorious for the fact that they hated being touched, Sole leaned into him and clutched at the sleeves of his coat.

Silence drove the time forward, and they eventually stopped wavering in and out of consciousness. When their voice croaked as they asked for water, Hancock jumped up and retrieved it for them without a second thought. They drank greedily and though it still had that same tinny, stale taste it always did, it was the essence of relief in that moment— and then Hancock had to shatter the silence. “Who’s X6?”

They stilled. They couldn’t help but dart their eyes over to him in a panic, almost as if they were flinching at the mention of his name. Somewhere in their subconscious, they were begging to hear it again. It had been so long since they had heard his name. They cleared their throat, “Who?”

Hancock gave them one of his sad smiles they’d grown to resent. “C’mon now. Please don’t try that on me, kiddo,” He sighed, “You were crying out for him when the radiation sickness got real bad. We can drop it if you want.”

It had always been one of Hancock’s little sayings, “Talking about it will help.” The things they went through, their frustrations and defeats. He had always been there to listen. Would talking about it really help?

And so they talked, in spite of themself.

Sole started with the way he had been so cold they had met. An immovable iceberg of the greatest degree in their mind, he was strong and resilient. A weapon. A threat, but never to them. He had seen something in them, maybe something of himself that he held deep down. Something vulnerable.

They talked about the way he protected them in the most logical of senses, but still let them crawl into his bed when they had nightmares, even if the only way he knew how to help was to explain why their nightmare didn’t make sense. The way he stood between them and the Institute and kept them from getting harshly punished for their antics, and the way they stood between him and the Institute and vowed to take care of his so-called “malfunctions” so scientists wouldn’t have to.

The words came spilling out, slowly at first, then flooding out with the emotions they had been suppressing for six years. It was jumbled and imperfect, but so was Sole, and they didn’t have it in them to hold back anymore. The reality was that X6 was family, and that was a part of them they couldn’t pretend didn’t exist anymore.

After they had said everything that needed to be said, and even the things that didn’t need to be said, they felt winded. Like they had run a marathon. “Can I get some more water?” They asked quietly.

Hancock was staring at them. His sadness had turned to thinly veiled anger and they resisted the urge to flinch in the face of it. He had never been angry at them before. Irritated, sure. They irritated each other quite regularly, bickered for fun— it was never serious— but he had never gotten angry.

He stared down at his lap for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Sorry, kiddo. I just seem to find a new reason to hate the Institute every time I think I’ve run out of ‘em. I’ll getcha that water.”

Sole was slower to drink this time, considering they nearly choked last time and the desperation wasn’t so close to the surface anymore. When they had finished he rested his elbows on the cot and looked at them seriously. “You said he gave you a light? The one where you light yours and it lights his, too?” He asked.

Sole nodded slowly, not wanting to irritate their forming headache. Radaway was nearly a miracle worker, but not quite; the side effects weren’t a walk in the park. “You still have it? Think it still works?”

“In my backpack. I, um, don’t really check to see if it works, though.”

Hancock’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Sorry kid, I don’t understand. You just said how much he meant to you… seems like that’d be a priority.”

They gave a wry smile. “You asked me once what my biggest fear was.”

“Yeah. Distracting you while Daisy pulled that bullet out of your arm. That was a few months ago, why–”

“Mhm. Hancock– what if I turn the light on and he doesn’t respond?”

Hancock blew out a breath and shook his head. “Kiddo, you’re not giving him enough credit.”

“What?”

“That Courser bent the rules of his nature for you, defied the one thing he’d known like the back of his hand before the Institute even thought to let you be born. And he defied the nature you helped give him by letting you go to give you a chance.”

This brought some of that well-known bitterness to the surface in Sole. “A chance. What kind of chance is the Commonwealth?” They practically spat the words out like they were rotted.

“Institute life isn’t living. You know that, Sole.”

No. It wasn’t. But living with the loss of X6 was barely better. Hancock grasped their hand. “Sole, I might have people who can get him out, but we need to test the light. If he doesn’t respond…”

The hitch in their breath was the culmination of the thousands of times they wondered what if. What if he was dead? What if they were too late? What if.

They nodded. “Go get it.”

It felt oddly ceremonial, to be laying on that cot after having barely dodged death in the form of radiation, the essence of the Commonwealth, as Hancock brought them the light. It was a simple light, unremarkable in design, but it shone bright when it was on, enough to illuminate an entire room and then some. They held it stiffly in their hands. The shape had grown unfamiliar in the years that they had left it wrapped up in their backpack, padded with cloth by X6’s own hands when he had prepared their pack for them and sent them on their way. A bolt of panic shocked its way down their spine. “You gotta turn it on at some point, Sunshine.”

Sole’s hands trembled as they dug their fingers into the metal base and reached up with their other hand. A simple tap and the room was lit with a warm, orange glow. It had been meant to mimic sunlight, something Sole had only seen once in their life before they had left the Institute. They shuddered, and tears spilled over to dampen their cheeks.

X6’s version of the light was much more subtle. It was a simple band he wore around his wrist that glowed softly and buzzed when Sole turned their lamp on, and its activation came in the form of a small button on the side of the band. Easily disguised as an odd piece of his armor, it reflected X6 perfectly.

The lamp remained on, light steady and unwavering for several minutes, and with each one that ticked by, Sole felt their heart sinking lower and lower. Maybe they had been too late. Or maybe he hadn’t forgiven them for not contacting him all these years. They only noticed they’d been chewing on their lip when the sting of the salt in their tears met the wound of the torn skin.

Dread came cold, like the snow of that winter when Hancock had found them curled up and discarded. They felt the iciness in their fingertips, where they held the lamp, and it spread through their veins till it reached their feet. It felt wrong, how warm the lamp looked, when they felt so cold. “I’m sorry, Sunshine. I thought–”

The light went out. The pair were left in the patchy daylight that streamed through the dirty windows of the Old State House windows. Then, like the sun showing its face between clouds, the lamp came back on again.

Sole let out a cry that was so unlike themself it startled both them and Hancock, but when they placed the lamp down with care and flung their arms around him, defeated tears turned astonished and hopeful, he caught them with a familiar, rough laugh. Sole was squeezing him tight enough to hurt, but he didn’t care. Hope was a look he hadn’t seen on them enough over the years.

Meeting with the Railroad couldn’t wait, Sole insisted, and when they put their mind to something, nothing could get in their way. Hancock had learned that a long time ago, and had stopped trying. It was hard to get into contact with Deacon; Hancock hadn’t really even tried before. It was like trying to catch flowing water with your bare hands, and when Hancock called him a slippery motherfucker, it was with a tone of admiration and respect. Sometimes it paid to be nobody in the Commonwealth.

Hancock did his best and put out the word that he was looking for contact with the Railroad, knowing that with the way Deacon heard everything that happened in the Wasteland he’d be on their doorstep before long. He told Sole to focus on recovering, that their plan was in motion and they’d be able to stress over what to do to their heart's content soon, but they were restless.

Often, he would come back to the Old State House to find them pacing rather unsteadily, still lightheaded and wavering from the side effects of how much Radaway had been pumped through their system. It had been a few days, but the chem was a nasty thing when it wanted to be. They couldn’t rest until Deacon showed up.

And show he did. He was subtle, and that much was familiar about him, but there was something off-putting about him to Sole. The fact that he could blend in and disappear so easily, change faces like they were masks and accents like they were accessories; he was dangerous. Sole wondered if this is the way the Commonwealth felt when they saw Coursers. Slippery, deadly predators, both Deacon and the Coursers were. They resisted the urge to shudder, even when he gave them a warm smile.

It was easier to let down their guard a little when Hancock greeted him with a clap on his shoulder and a wide grin, asking where Deacon had been for so long, leaving poor ol’ Hancock to deal with their halfway house all on his lonesome. Sole wasn’t sure what they started discussing, but that was alright by them. Hancock and they never discussed his work with the Railroad after they found out it was to do with synths— touchy subject and all.

Impatience was an itch on their skin, biting and angry and familiar. They clenched their jaw and kept quiet, though. They were roughened and bittered by their experiences in the Commonwealth, sure, but their Institute mannerisms were instinct, not completely lost in the years they’d been gone. It’d be counterproductive to make a bad impression on the person that seemed to be X6’s ticket out of the Institute.

Luckily, Hancock knew them well. “We can catch up another time, Deacon. We need your help.”

Sole, in their reckless affection for X6, was ready to break down the doors of the Institute and steal him away that day. Unfortunately for them, Deacon being Deacon meant that he was slow and steady in what he did, especially when it had anything to do with the Railroad, which meant they would not be rushing into the Institute without proper planning.

He listened to their story with a solemn, focused expression that left them a little unnerved in the way his eyes never left theirs. He never interrupted as they spoke and simply took notes that seemed to be coded, because of course they were. When they finished he allowed a moment of silence. “I’ll talk to the boss. I can’t guarantee anything, but… we’ve been looking for an in.”

“An in?” Sole asked.

“To the Institute. To bring it down for good.”

They couldn’t help the discomfort that showed on their face, or the way they pressed their fingertips into their palms to channel their anxiousness somewhere. Deacon, with his eyes like an Institute crow’s, noticed. “I need to know for certain that you’re done with them.”

“I am. It’s… instinct. I’ll get over it.”

They weren’t fond of the way he looked them over, similar to the way Institute scientists had looked at them like an insect under the microscope. They bit their tongue and raised an eyebrow, a challenge for him to speak. “We’ll see,” He said, with finality in his tone.

Sole nodded. Despite their qualms with the man, it seemed they had passed his test. He rose and seemed to shed the air of formality he held with them, easing back into the joking nature he had with Hancock. They decided to take their leave, not wanting to disturb the mood of the room with their presence.

When they entered their room their lamp, which they’d given a new home on their desk, was on. They flicked it off, then back on again. They felt warm for the first time in years.

Deacon left that night. He’d turned down the drink Hancock had offered him with the easy, inviting mannerisms of someone that’d turned socializing into a science, then mastered it. Sole understood why he was so likable to everyone, but that didn’t mean they trusted it.

The wait for him to get to the Railroad, talk to the “Des’” he spoke so highly of, and return to Goodneighbor to form a plan with Sole was excruciating. They filled their days with busywork just to keep sane. They repacked their backpack, rations and clothing tucked away just in case, though their lamp remained on their desk in the Old State House; it would go in last. They needed the reassurance that X6 was still alive every time they turned the lamp on.

When Deacon did eventually return it was nearly a week later and Sole had started losing hope that he was who Hancock said he was. It seemed the entirety of Goodneighbor was swept up in his presence, with the way people seemed drawn to his effortless charisma and the fact that everything seemed to roll off his back. Sole would follow suit and stop raising their hackles when X6 was safe, they decided.

The plan was relatively simple.

Sole was to spend about a month with the Railroad, proving they were worthy of trust. Desdemona, the leader of the Railroad apparently, and Deacon would try to poke holes in their story, see if they ever slipped up during conversation. All the while Sole would be doing small jobs for them under Deacon’s watchful eyes. Then, they would start in on getting X6 out and burning the Institute to the ground.

The idea was that Sole would be their ticket in. If they signaled to the Institute that they wanted to return, potentially with a captive from the Railroad, and pretended they were still loyal, there was no reason for the Institute to reject them. Once they were in, they’d find a chance to break free, insert a software virus courtesy of Tinker Tom that would keep the teleporters open permanently to give way to Railroad agents, and then they would be given permission to go find X6. It was their responsibility to get him out before the place blew.

That month was one of, if not the, longest of their life.

Sole had never been so disciplined, even in their childhood with the Institute. They listened to every word Des and Deacon said unhesitatingly and did their job with precision and efficiency that would’ve impressed even X6. This was one of the most important moments of their life, and they weren’t going to mess it up for anything.

They missed Hancock terribly, but they would live. They were practically a professional at missing family.

The month went by with Sole counting every moment, down to the second, that they had left before they and the Railroad would go through with the plan. Or, they supposed, the Railroad would go through with the plan. There was no separating them now, with all the work they had done for them; they were part of the Railroad. When they had crossed that line they didn’t know, but they supposed it was somewhere between Deacon giving them a compliment on their skills and Glory demanding they go rest before they passed out standing up on watch. Her tone had been harsh, but her hands had been soft as she’d pushed them away, towards their cot.

Sole grew fond of the little organization and their cause. It seemed perfectly fitting, for them to end up there, and they regretted not talking to Hancock about the work he did with them sooner. If only they hadn’t been so stubborn to keep the pain of X6 locked up, maybe he’d be out already. Maybe they’d be living. Both of them.

It was good to feel like they had a purpose again, but they couldn’t help but mull over the potential outcome of their mission. The fact that it was entirely possible the whole of the Railroad would be wiped out, and it would be Sole’s fault for dragging them there with their mission to bring back their brother. Sure, they had been looking for an in, but Sole was giving it to them.

And the possibility that X6 wasn’t going to go with them. It was one thing for him to respond to the lamp, like he always did. It was another to leave everything he’d ever known to travel a deadly landscape with a kid he hadn’t seen in six years. Hancock’s “Kiddo, you’re not giving him enough credit.” echoed in their head. He was right when he’d first said it and he was right at that moment, too. They weren’t giving X6 enough credit. They had to trust that he’d make the right choice, for the both of them.

They weren’t sure what they’d do if he didn’t, anyway. Die there, among the clean, white walls as they got blown to pieces? Had they starved and struggled for all those years just to return and die in their old home? Sole shook off the thought as Deacon approached.

They found his eyes weren’t so cold and intimidating anymore. “Hey. So, we’ve got the beacon set up so you can contact the Institute. We’ll be ready in about half an hour. Just wanted to see how you were doing.” He plopped himself onto the seat next to them, his eyebrows furrowed with concern as he looked them up and down.

“Alright. Just…” They sighed, and couldn’t find the words to continue.

“Yeah. I get you.”

They sat in the quiet for a few moments, listening to other Railroad members murmur amongst themselves about what was about to occur. Recruiting new faces had gone successfully over the month since Sole had joined, especially with Deacon and Hancock’s combined ease and charisma to ease the process. It turned out once you could offer a solid, but vague, plan to bring down the Commonwealth’s boogeyman, some people were just unhinged enough to join. “Where do you think you’re going after this?” Deacon asked.

“It’s– things are gonna be hard for him, y’know? It was hard for me and he– I dunno. Somewhere quiet, hopefully. Maybe check out that neighborhood up North. Clear it out and get a settlement going. Help him settle into this life, figure things out.”

“That’s a good idea. I’m sure some of the folks here could use a good place to retire, wouldn’t mind helping get things started.” He gave them a lopsided smile, but they weren’t paying much attention anymore.

“...I don’t think I care where we end up. As long as he’s back.”

Their voice was small, the kind of vulnerability only an older loved one could invoke. Deacon placed a hand on their knee. “We’ll get him back, kid. Try not to worry too much.”

They looked at him, the lines around his mouth, the wrinkles that lined his forehead, the way he flexed his fingers to keep them from getting stiff since his joints had gotten worse as winter began setting in. They nodded. Something in the way he spoke with such confidence had them nodding in agreement before they registered it. If he said it like that, it just had to be true. Right?

Sole fought to not get lost in thought after that. Doing so would only make their confidence waver, and they had to cling to what Deacon had said to keep their head above the water. Going into the Institute afraid and quivering would only doom the plan from the start. They had to keep their wits about them, stay cool and collected. They had to get him back, no matter the cost.

It wasn’t long after when Desdemona called them forth to radio in to the Institute signal. They cleared their throat as Tinker Tom adjusted a few knobs, fiddling with things they couldn’t begin to understand the purpose of. He’d tried to explain at some point, but they’d been lost after the first sentence. They never had gotten the knack X6 had wanted them to get for coding and electronics. It seemed such a pity now.

The receiver was lighter in their hand than they expected it to be, and it just added to the feeling Sole had that this was all off. Their hand was shaking, they realized in a manner so disconnected to themself. Like they were watching someone else have to carry the weight. Deacon stepped up beside them and placed a hand over theirs, steadying it. When they met his eyes, he nodded. They could do this.

There was a switch somewhere in them still, they knew. It held everything the Institute had instilled in them when they were younger. All the demands and expectations, the rules and punishments. Mannerisms and restraint all came rushing back as they took a deep breath and set their expression to a steel mask; they weren’t Sole, the survivor, a nickname Hancock had given them that had quickly spread through Goodneighbor. They were Sole. Institute pawn extraordinaire.

Sole eased into a stiffer posture and raised their chin. The receiver crackled violently as it tried to connect to whatever scarce signal they could get ahold of; the Railroad had taken the necessities to the outskirts of the Commonwealth, so the Institute couldn’t track the signal back to one of their bases. The crackle shifted in tone, then cut off. “Speak.”

The wind was knocked out of them and their idle hand reached up to grasp the receiver in a last ditch attempt to get their hand to stop shaking again. They were gasping for breath, praying it couldn’t be heard on the other end of the line, and stared at the ceiling above them as they made a desperate grab to keep hold of the mask they had just assembled. To keep themself together. “Courser X6-88 receiving, speak.” There was a slight impatience in his monotone voice; just a sliver, barely there.

They gritted their teeth. “Organics 111 requesting transport back to Gateway. In possession of a Railroad asset.”

Silence. Their eyes ached from how hard they were squeezing them shut, trying to picture X6’s face on the other end of the line and willing themself not to cry. They braced their hand on the table in front of them and could feel the wood start to give way to their nails as they dug them in. Splinters be damned. “Repeat.”

There was something else in his voice, something they hadn’t really heard from him before. It wavered. Of course, not enough for it to be noticeable, even to the scientists that were undoubtedly listening in, but enough for Sole to notice. Enough for it to break their heart a little more. “Organics 111 requesting transport to Gateway. In possession of a Railroad asset.”

A pause. “Request received. Allow thirty minutes for response.” And then the channel clicked dead.

Sole felt their legs nearly give way underneath them. Deacon was there to catch them, thank God, and haul them into a chair beside the table as they covered their face with their arms. “Clear the room, please.” He meant business with his tone, so different from the usual lightness in his voice.

They heard the shuffling of bodies, curiosity stalling the Railroad member’s movements, but eventually it stopped. They were alone. Still, they refused to lift their head. Stubbornness would be the death of them one day, even if at that moment they were just hiding the fact that they were crying. Not very well, considering their shoulders shook. “Sole, I’m going to step out. Hancock’s here. I’ll leave you two to talk. We’ll be back at ten minutes till the call.”

More shuffling, and quiet, deep murmurs from Deacon as he left the room, undoubtedly explaining what had happened to Hancock. When the door closed behind him, Sole lifted their head.

They looked absolutely wrecked. Their face was red and blotchy, their eyes already swollen from the tears they couldn’t hold back. It was the vulnerability of a child in their eyes, something that had Hancock swallowing in shock. “Oh, Sunshine.”

Two words and they couldn’t hold back their sobs anymore, their entire body shaking with what felt like the weight of the world. Hancock knelt in front of them and wrapped them in a bone-crushing hug, an earnest attempt to carry some of the burden. If they were half a mind steadier, they might’ve been conscious of the whimper that left their throat, but they couldn’t care. “John, he’s– I heard him.”

“I know, Sunshine. S’alright. You’re gonna be just fine.”

They let themself indulge in a few more moments of something so rare to them; being held, and allowing themself to be visibly hurt. When they pulled away and quickly swiped their hand over their face, Hancock prepared himself to be the bad guy. “You know normally I’d be grateful you’re not being such a stubborn ass about your emotions,” this brought a weak, but affectionate scoff from Sole, “but… you have to brace yourself.”

Sole looked at him, eyes shining with the few tears they hadn’t shed. “You have to pretend you’re not phased. When you see him you can’t–”

“I know,” They swiped at their face again, eyes averted from his as they pulled themself back together. “I know. I can do it.”

“I never doubted that for a second, kid.”

The Institute, just as greedy as they were intelligent, were eager to receive such a valuable asset. Sole found themself reigning back anger, acidic in their throat, at their ego. The Institute was cautious, sure, cautious enough to set terms for their transport and demand they and their hostage be checked by Coursers before they were transported back, but not cautious enough to suspect that their brainwashing wasn’t flawless. They didn’t suspect that Sole wasn’t on their side.

It felt familiar to let the anger override their sadness, pushing the tears to the back of their mind as they let their fury towards the Institute take over. As they thought about everything that had happened, they were blinded by realization. It was all the Institute’s fault.

All these years they had been foolish enough to blame X6 for sending them away, when in reality it was the Institute at the root of it all. Sure, they had always hated them after they’d left, especially once they saw the effect they’d had on the Commonwealth and its people, but they’d never thought that X6’s actions were born out of necessity. So they wouldn’t end up in his position.

After that, it was easy. Easy to suit up in the protective clothing Tinker Tom had made them, woven with threads that were armored. Not bulletproof, but definitely better than regular cloth. It was easy to bask in the anger and let it fuel their determination to get this right. Even if they saw X6 before it was time to run, they would not fuck this up. Out of anger. Out of spite.

Hancock saw the shift and so did Deacon when he finally reentered. Hancock moved to hug them before they’d left, but that switch had finally been flipped inside them. They would keep the mask on no matter what, even in front of him, in order to survive. Because that’s what they were good at, deep down. Surviving. And so they simply sidestepped his open arms and nodded, and when he nodded back, they both knew.

They were to rendezvous near the old C.I.T. building and wait for Institute Coursers to teleport down to grab them. Once they were deemed safe for transport, Sole and Deacon would be teleported in and go their separate ways. Deacon with the Coursers, who no doubt couldn’t wait to get him alone to get information from him, and Sole to rig the main teleporter, the Gateway. What could go wrong?

For once, Sole refused to let themself dwell on that. Nothing would go wrong, because they wouldn’t let it. Everything they’d done and been through over the last six years, everything X6 had done and been through over the last six years, was for this. Nothing would go wrong.

The trip out to the C.I.T. ruins was completed in silence. It was Deacon, Sole, and a merc Hancock had hired to protect them on their way and not ask questions named MacCready. Hancock had wanted to go himself, but Sole had talked sense into him in the same realistic, logical way X6 had always done for them and he couldn’t deny they made sense.

What would Goodneighbor do without him? What explanation would they give as to why a ghoul mayor was so involved in Sole’s business if they were supposedly still completely loyal, considering the Institute thought so lowly of the ghouls of the Commonwealth? Sole never brought up their fear of a potential inability for them to protect him. If X6 acted on his nature and they were forced to choose between him and Hancock, what would they do?

There were few answers they didn’t seek out, but that was certainly one of them.

Sole said their goodbyes to the members of the Railroad, albeit stiff and somewhat formal. They didn’t protest. It seemed everyone knew the odds of them returning, all of them. Even if they weren’t warm and charismatic like Deacon was in everyone’s eyes, they were useful, and they would be missed.

The ruins looked daunting, wire supports bent with the weight of the crumbled stone, soil rocky underneath their thick boots. Sole took careful steps; the last thing they needed was to twist their ankle just before something so important. They couldn’t help the mechanical way they scanned the horizon and the buildings, searching for anything that would stick out. They knew that if the Coursers were coming, they wouldn’t see them. There would be no warning.

So they sat. Back stiff, eyes fixed on one spot on the horizon, awaiting whatever was to come. The air bit with the promise of winter and they couldn’t help but shiver, though it wasn’t that cold. Deacon chose to keep moving, to keep watch on their surroundings despite Sole’s ominous declaration of, “Don’t bother. You won’t see them coming.”

MacCready had scouted and chosen a vantage point as soon as they’d arrived, not one for sticking around to talk. He was good at what he did, Sole could admit. It’d taken them several looks over the landscape to figure out where he was. At the top of one of the buildings, laid out and camouflaged with the barrel of his sniper barely visible. God knows how he’d gotten up there, though they figured that was just another layer of protection between him and the Coursers.

Deacon returned to their side and sat. They pulled out the measly pistol they figured they could get away with bringing.

The harsh wooshing of air, a sort of snapping as everything shifted back into place, was all the warning Sole got. They could feel someone standing behind them. Silent. Daunting. They took a deep breath, not bracing themself, but easing their posture slightly, finding some relief from the ache of how stiffly they’d been sitting. They kept their eyes on the horizon and clenched their jaw.

When Sole turned and met eyes with X6, they felt the world start spinning. There was no telling which way was up, no grasp on the rocky ground beneath them. They searched X6’s eyes for anything. Anger, disgust, affection, warmth, anything. They didn’t care what it was, as long as it wasn’t a blank slate.

It wasn’t. They could see every ounce of restraint he was using in his eyes and something about it reassured them. They weren’t the only one struggling with their hold on the standard-issue Institute regulation mask. They held his gaze for a moment and he nodded. A fraction of a movement, hardly noticeable. They nodded back, just as subtle. “Courser X6-88 responding to Organics 111 transport request.”

He shifted his gaze to Deacon, who stood behind them. If the Coursers were well versed in body language, they would notice that Deacon’s stance was more protective than threatened. Not exactly the poster child for a hostage, but good enough to deceive. That prickling feeling they got when they first assessed Deacon as a predator, rather than the potential prey the Institute insisted the Railroad were, came back. This time it felt reassuring. “I have a single pistol in my possession for protection and direction of the hostage. The hostage has nothing on him.”

X6-88 stared at them for a moment longer, then turned every so slightly. Sole watched his eyes flicker to the exact spot where MacCready lay in wait for their signal that something had gone wrong. Their heart jumped into their throat, but it only lasted a moment. He looked away and turned to the other Coursers. “Conduct a thorough examination.”

And then he distanced himself from Sole.

They stood stock still as another Courser, one they didn’t recognize, ran her hands down Sole’s sides. They met eyes with Deacon as he was also patted down and let their eyebrows crease just a fraction. You alright? their expression asked.

Deacon simply blinked. It was the only signal he could give. Sole understood. It wasn’t long before the Coursers finished up their assessment and reported back to X6-88 that they, in fact, were telling the truth. There was no mention of the pair of eyes watching them from the building above them.

Teleporting was a sickly, disorienting feeling. If Sole felt turned upside down before, they imagined this was what it felt like to be in the eye of a hurricane. Their stomach jolted as the air seemingly collapsed around them, X6’s hold on their arm the only reassurance that they hadn’t simply vanished from reality all by themself; it always had been, when they teleported. Part of them, the kid version of themself deep in their subconscious, was grateful he was there even now for this bout in the teleporter. They had never gotten over their fear of it, even with all the times they had used it.

Coming through the Gateway felt poetic. It still smelled the same as it had when they left. Antiseptic and metallic, strong in the way that it stung at Sole’s nose and eyes, but it seemed they were still used to it considering they didn’t flinch. Deacon did. They watched as he screwed up his nose, the same way he had when they’d waded through the sewers on the hunt for the parts they’d needed for the receiver.

They let the stench sting their lungs as they inhaled and squared their shoulders. X6-88 placed a hand on their shoulder– to anyone looking in, it would seem like he was just making sure they weren’t going to try anything. But he squeezed and Sole knew he had their back.

The walk through the Institute halls was shorter than they wanted it to be. If they kept walking, they wouldn’t have to move to the next phase of the plan. Of course, the world wasn’t so merciful, and they found themself at the lab in the blink of an eye. “We’ll take it from here with him,” one of the scientists spoke up. Also new. Sole was grateful not to run into any more familiar faces. “X6-88, please escort Organics– 111, was it? Please escort them to Father’s office.”

Father. God. Even growing up in the Institute, they’d only seen Father once. Whatever the reason, he’d grown curious of how they were aging and called them up to his office so he could ask whatever questions came to mind. They’d still been young, and hadn’t really understood that they were one of the first children born from the Institute’s creation program, so they’d only thought of the interview as boring.

They hadn’t been taught the lesson that they were meant to fear and respect Father, yet. The Institute was still working on that one.

Sole knew better now, knew that he was an old man bravened by the fact that he was defying nature and the ego-stroking the Institute did for him, but still. If the Institute was the Commonwealth’s boogeyman, Father was Sole’s. They swallowed harshly and hoped it went unnoticed as they followed X6’s guiding hand.

Once they were on one of the many intertwining pathways that led throughout the Institute and out of sight from the lab, X6 veered suddenly. He pressed them forward to what had been an old meeting room when Sole left, but now appeared to be out of use if the dust on the handle was anything to go by. The room was dark when they stepped in and X6 made no move to change it as he shut the door behind them.

They were wrapped up in his arms before they could even blink and they were grateful they’d spent their time before leaving for the C.I.T. ruins crying; they were out of tears. Still, they knew their nails were digging into X6’s armor as they clutched at him, clinging for dear life as he practically crushed them.

His breath was coming in short gasps, something they’d never heard from him before, even on the rare occasions he’d been injured. Sole held on even tighter and hid their face in the collar of his jacket. Never had they been more grateful to feel cool, faux leather against their cheek. X6 rested his chin on the top of their head in return, and they could feel his jaw digging into their scalp, but they didn’t care.

They were home. He was alive.

“I thought you died, Little Light.” His voice cracked.

X6’s voice never cracked. A choked laugh, watered down by the tears they were holding back, escaped them at the nickname. They never thought they’d hear it again. “I’m sorry. I– a lot happened, and I swear I’ll explain it all, but we have to– I have to–” they shook their head, trying to gather their thoughts.

He released them from his hold and the cold returned, though not as harsh as before. Sole squeezed their eyes shut for a moment and gathered themself. When they opened them, X6 had returned to how he’d always been, though there was a stray tear track on his cheek. The one thing out of place on a perfect Institute weapon. Sole dabbed it away with the sleeve of their shirt and gave him a weak smile. “Lead the way, Little Light.”

Sole was astonished at how easy it was. There was a new determination in their step, a leveled confidence in their eyes as they stepped through the halls to the Gateway. X6 mentioned no resistance to what he had to know was their plan. How he knew, they weren’t sure, but he always seemed to be one step ahead of them. They didn’t know why they were surprised. It seemed that hatred for the Institute had been building in him over the years just as it had in them.

X6-88 stood watch in the doorway as Sole inserted the chip Tinker Tom had given them into the control panel of the Gateway. They stepped back to observe as it crackled to life, undoubtedly sending a signal to every person of importance in the Institute, including Father, that an unauthorized transport was taking place. They were sure that a second signal would go out once they checked and realized the Gateway was, in fact, not closing.

They clasped their hands behind their back and observed as members of the Railroad and Goodneighbor residents alike stepped through the teleporter into the pristine room. They looked out of place, wonderfully so, and Sole grinned. They were looking at the inevitable downfall of the Institute, and they’d never been more pleased.

There wasn’t much need to talk amongst themselves after everyone started flooding in. The plans had been discussed a thousand times already, and there was no time for anyone to second guess themselves. It was time to plant the explosives.

X6-88 followed dutifully behind them as they separated from everyone else, headed to the lower levels to plant the riskiest explosives. Sure, if they were spotted they’d definitely still be suspected for the sudden invasion of such an untouchable location, but they had a better foothold than anyone else would. X6 could pretend like he had captured them, too, though they weren’t sure that he’d be able to slip back into that role now that he’d seen the promise of freedom.

Sole supposed they should’ve hesitated as they planted the bombs amongst the interworkings of the Institute. Down in the tunnels, with only the pipes and wires that provided so many essentials to the underground monolith, Sole had everything they needed: X6 and the tools to get vengeance. They’d never been happier.

Once the explosives were set up according to the meticulous— though verbally scattered— instructions Tinker Tom had given them, they made their way out of the tunnels again. X6 had taken to gripping their wrist instead of their shoulder; the fear of letting them out of his sight and losing them again was one he might never escape from.

The twists and turns were easy to get through, though running face first into someone as they came around a bend made their stomach drop. “Oof.” Thank God it was a familiar voice.

Deacon stood just around the bend, his hands on their biceps as he turned them upright for the second time that day. He looked like a ghost, so distinctly out of place down in the tunnels Sole used to hide in to get away from the pressures of the Institute. “It’s time to go, kid. Now.” Sole nodded.

Their hand flailed a bit as they shook off X6’s grip on them and instead grasped his hand, pulling him along the twists and turns just behind Deacon. It was a moment of much-needed relief to stand upright at the end of the tunnels and to take a breath, though it still stung when they did. “Lead the way, Boss,” Sole announced.

The center of the Institute was utter chaos. Sometime when they had been down below, the alarm had been sounded. Code red. Utterly catastrophic. Something they were sure the Institute members assumed they’d only ever hear during drills. Sole had thought the same thing, too, when they were younger.

There was a near equal sea of scrapped together Wasteland garments and too-clean Institute garb mixing in the center of the underground monolith. Sole had been informed that as soon as they were in they were going to put out the word that the Railroad needed as many armed Wastelanders to take down their boogeyman as they could get, but they didn’t think there would be so many. It was incredible what could happen when the Commonwealth had a common enemy, which was something the Institute failed to account for.

A fatal mistake.

They stood for just a moment, the trio, and watched and listened to the chaos below. Gunshots and lasers alike deafening, scientists who foolishly turned down the offer for combat training dodging away from the swarming threat. After that pause to catch their breath, they started moving again.

X6 led the way this time, all ideas of pretending to be under the Institute’s influence dead and gone. They had missed everything about his sharp, precise movements and the way he moved as if he knew anyone would be terrified to go up against him. It was a well-earned confidence, and they couldn’t deny it, not that they would ever think to.

It was turning past a doorway that proved to be their downfall. Distracted by making sure Deacon was still behind them, they didn’t see the scientist who was brave enough to yank them into the doorway until there was a gun pressed to their temple. X6-88 stopped so quickly Sole thought he might’ve burned the rubber of his boot soles, Deacon and him both raising their guns and pointing at the culprit. “Take me with you.” The man demanded, though his voice obviously wavered with fear.

Sole bit back their nature to put up a struggle. The last thing they needed was a bullet to the brain after coming this far, and they were sure X6-88 and Deacon both were thinking up plans as they stood there, trapped in his clammy grip. “Take me with you and I won’t shoot them. I want out of this mess.”

“Listen, buddy. You’re gonna have to put the gun down. We can be your ticket out, but it’s kind of a bad first impression to point your gun at Sole.”

The man scoffed. “Yeah, right. I put the gun down and you’ll shoot me.”

At least he was a little smart. Sole rolled their eyes. If they tried to break away he’d probably pull the trigger, not necessarily out of some sort of fantastic reflex, but out of fear at the sudden moment. No dice there. If they used their weight to collide into him backwards the gun still might go off, but it’d probably end up pointing towards either Deacon or X6 due to their momentum, so no luck there either.

Their train of thought was cut off with the sound of a gunshot. They flinched, dropping to the floor in the perfect imitation of X6-88 when he had taught them to do so as a child. When they turned towards their captor, he was on the floor. Dead.

Standing over him was what Sole would come to realize was the perfect picture summary of the Commonwealth. A man in a brown hat, pinned up on one side, and a blue scarf stood over the scientist, gun practically smoking. Sole opened their mouth to say something, to thank him, when he stepped forward and held out his hand. They took it. “Preston Garvey. Temporary leader of the Minutemen.”

Their stunned expression finally settled. “Impeccable timing.” They commented with a laugh.

Preston gave them a grin. Sole turned and gestured behind them. “Deacon. And X6-88, he’s with us.”

“I was told. Nice to meet the man who sparked this revolution.”

Maybe it was from being around Deacon so much, but the banter came easy to them, despite the situation. “Hey, where’s my credit?”

“He’s the spark. You’re the gasoline.” They shook their head at how fitting that seemed. “And if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not be here when it all goes up in flames.”

The trio definitely agreed with that. Now four, they broke out in a run. The Gateway was within reach now, and just in time, too, as they were starting to smell smoke. There were other Railroad members piling into the teleporter, too. Apparently everyone had gotten the signal that it was time to get out before the Institute became their grave, too.

They were all getting closer to stepping through when a small voice piped up. “Excuse me– what’s going on?”

They turned and were met with the sight of a confused, young brunet, probably somewhere around eleven. Sole’s eyes met Preston’s over the head of the young boy, and they found themself kneeling down. “We’ve gotta leave the Institute now. You’re going to come with us, okay?”

“But it’s dangerous out there, Father–”

“It’s more dangerous in here, right now. I promise you. I grew up here, too. You’ve seen X6-88, right?”

The child turned and looked up at X6, who’s expression was one of extreme conflict. Sole knew the logical part of his brain was telling him that the child would be dead weight, one more factor to consider in a Wasteland so unfamiliar to him. They also knew that the part of him that’d taken Sole under his wing as a younger sibling was still alive and well, and there was no way he’d leave the child behind. It seemed everyone was in silent agreement on that. “Yeah. Father says he’s the best of the best.”

There was an odd silence at that. X6 glanced away and Deacon was obviously suppressing a chuckle at the irony. Preston was the one who kneeled. “Yeah, he is the best of the best. And that’s why he’s getting us out of here. He’s protecting everyone.” The half-lie left his mouth so smoothly Sole almost wondered if he and Deacon were somehow related. There was no prickle of instinctual alarm when he did it, though. Only relief that they had backup in this strange conversation. “...alright.” The child agreed.

“What’s your name, kiddo?”

“Shaun.”

“Okay. It’s time to leave, Shaun. Let’s go.”

Stepping out of the teleporter and into broad daylight was just as jarring as it had been the first time. The chill in the air felt harsher than it had been when they left, and without thinking they shed their coat and wrapped it around Shaun. He looked so tiny, out in the Wasteland landscape, drowning in their jacket. Something in their chest stung.

The quintet were on the top of one of the few standing skyscrapers in the Commonwealth, though rickety and filled with holes where the paneling had fallen victim to the environment. The height nearly made them dizzy and they reached for Shaun’s hand, which he clutched willingly. They both seemed equally concerned about him tripping and falling.

Desdemona was waiting expectantly a few feet away, and though she tilted her head at the sight of Shaun, she said nothing. “The button is yours to push, Sole.”

They moved forward, Shaun pressed to their side. “No, it’s not.” They turned and looked at X6-88, the emotion of six years on both of their faces.

He stared at them for a moment, but they had no idea what was going through his head. He moved to stand next to them and everyone held their breath as he reached forward towards the button. A few seconds ticked by. “I–I can’t.” He shook his head, teeth gritted, as if he were angry with himself.

“Together?” Sole asked, their free hand on his arm.

He sucked in a deep breath and steadied himself. “Yes. Together.”

They both reached out, Sole covering his hand on the button with their own, the other clutched tight around Shaun’s. Preston watched with his chin raised, a relieved smile on his face. Deacon stood with his sunglasses pushed up onto the top of his head, his arms crossed, equally as pleased-looking.

They pressed the button.

The explosion surprised them. Not because of its size, though Sole wondered if this was what the pre-War people had seen when the bombs went off that fateful day, but because it was a stunning white-blue at first. Maybe it was something in the bombs themselves, or the the fire was burning white hot, but Sole was nearly knocked off their feet when the shockwave hit.

They nearly lost their footing, but four hands reached out to catch them. Deacon’s, on one arm. Hancock’s on the other; when he’d climbed up, they didn’t know, but later he’d admonish them for thinking he’d “miss the show.” X6-88’s hand landed on their shoulder, a familiar weight that was more than welcomed, more than relieving. Preston’s was placed on their back, and he gave a smile, full of respect, when they turned to look at him.

Shaun clutched at their shirt, eyes squeezed shut, their coat pulled tight around him as he shivered.

True to their word to Deacon, Sole traveled North to Sanctuary after the Institute had gone up in smoke. They were sure the Railroad could’ve used their help, even in menial ways, to deal with what had happened, but they didn’t have it in them. After everyone showed up and volunteered to go in, those who made it out alive stuck around for the most part. They had the manpower now, and less of a need to operate underground.

Deacon had given them a warm hug goodbye and wished them well. He didn’t protest their announcement. Sole had an inkling he understood.

Preston Garvey was another who hadn’t stuck around, which surprised them. He seemed like the type that lived for any good cause he could get his hands on, but apparently there had been plenty of volunteers for the Minutemen, as well. When they informed him they were headed to Sanctuary, to start a safe settlement, a little bit away from all the chaos and hopefully somewhere where people could seek refuge, his eyes lit up.

It seemed they were his new “good-cause,” and he offered them the General position a few seconds after.

Sole had told him to wait a few months and they’d give him an answer. They weren’t ready for another mission yet, not so soon after everything seemed to go to ashes. The choice was a good one, because after the first week in Sanctuary, X6-88 fell apart.

It was subtle. To the outside eye, he probably didn’t seem too different. In the few days after the explosion, he was quiet, stiff. Only spoke when spoken too, constantly stayed out of the way and observed.

Sole watched the pieces of his mask start to crumble.

X6 stayed inside. He didn’t talk, just sat and stared out the window at the landscape of the Wasteland. Sole remembered doing the same thing, at first. They’d sit on a hill and just stare, trying to make the landscape seem real. So they gave him time.

There were plenty of volunteers fixing up Sanctuary with Preston Garvey, the unwavering leader, at the helm. The holes in the walls were slowly patched, window panes replaced, soil tilled, lampposts scrapped, nature tamed. Weeks went by with X6-88 staring out that same window as the neighborhood was repaired around him.

Sole would sit with him for at least a few hours every day. Sometimes they’d read, sometimes they’d ask Shaun to come sit with them and ask him questions about his day, the things he was doing around Sanctuary to help out Preston. Shaun had taken to the man like a shadow, asking all sorts of questions that would’ve driven Sole mad. Preston had patience they didn’t, though, and was more than happy to watch the kid. Everyone had taken to calling him “Little Shadow,” though it was a nickname he protested.

After the first couple of weeks, when everyone had settled in and the excitement of a new settlement had worn off, Sole started to tell X6 about their time in the Wasteland, even though he didn’t really respond. They had reached the start of December and the winter had dug its claws into the Wasteland. Even for the Commonwealth, which was infamous for its harsh cold spells, it was unusually cruel.

Sole took shelter from the freezing weather by stoking a fire and settling onto their couch next to X6-88, watching him as he watched the snow. And they told him everything.

The way they’d been confused and distressed when they’d first landed their feet in the Commonwealth. Astonished something could be so destroyed and still be alive. The fact that the wasteland had nearly killed them, leaving them with scavenger dogs amongst piles of rubble, starving to death.

They told him of Hancock finding them, barely alive, and the way Goodneighbor breathed new life into them.

After the first couple of tales, X6-88 stopped looking out the window and turned to look at them as he listened. They begged for it to be a sign that he was coming out of the shock of what had happened, that he was finding some sort of comfort in what they were saying. Because even though so far he’d only heard stories of their suffering, he was looking directly at evidence that they had prevailed. That survival was possible, even when the rug was ripped out from underneath your feet and almost everything you knew was gone.

Though they hesitated at first, they explained how they’d felt. That betrayal had run through them until they felt like they were barely a person anymore, how from their point of view they’d felt discarded and abandoned. And then they told him how Hancock had convinced them to have hope.

Sole untangled their legs from where they had been resting on the couch and got up. The floor was so cold it stung, despite the efforts of their roaring fireplace. They were glad Shaun was curled up in bed, piled under so many blankets he could barely toss and turn. In their room, on a makeshift desk Preston replicated from Hancock’s description of the one in their room at the Old State House (which was still untouched. Hancock wanted to make sure they could always return if they ever needed to,) was the lamp.

They brought it out with them and settled back into the couch under X6-88’s watchful eye. With a light, sad smile, they tapped the top of it. It still lit up, despite all it had been through. Seconds later, the band around X6-88’s wrist lit up, as well.

X6 collapsed into sobs.

Sole did their best to hold onto him, suppressing tears at the way he was practically wailing. Having been in the same position before themself, they wished more than anything they could’ve protected X6 from what he was going through. It was too late, though, and instead, they held him as the last piece of the mask fell away.

He clung to the sleeves of their thick sweater, head on their chest as his shoulders heaved with the weight of his cries. They were unsurprised when Shaun stepped out of his room, poking his head into the hallway, his expression fearful. They gave him what little smile they could, though they were sure it wasn’t very convincing, and shook their head. “Is he okay?” Shaun mouthed.

Sole nodded. Shaun had had his own moment like that, similar to Sole and now X6. It was less violent and loud; Sole wasn’t sure if the kid was just better at bouncing back than they were, or if he hadn’t fully processed what happened, but after about half an hour he was done with Sole’s hug and ready to go outside and help Preston with his patrol.

The night crawled forward until the sun rose, the low light slowly bringing some ease to X6’s heartbreak. Slowly but surely, his crying trailed off into labored breathing, and then his breathing leveled out. He had fallen asleep.

They smoothed their hand over his back, much like he had when they’d had a nightmare and couldn’t stop crying. Shaun crept out of his room sometime after eight, the time he usually rose, and examined the scene before him. Sole didn’t hear him at first.

He was an unusually calm kid, and they weren’t sure if that was due to the way he was programmed, or just in his nature. On a normal day, Sole would’ve been up to cook him breakfast to convince him to eat before he took off to run around for the day. Even in the dead of winter, he was happy to brave the elements and explore the settlement.

When he stepped around the couch into Sole’s line of sight, they jumped slightly. “Sorry.” He whispered.

“It’s alright, kiddo. I’m afraid you’re gonna have to ask Mama Murphy for some breakfast.”

He nodded, but his eyes were on X6 sleeping fitfully. “He’s gonna be okay, Little Shadow. It’s just been hard for him, lately.”

Shaun nodded again. “Preston says everyone has a hard time with change.”

Sole smiled despite themself. “Preston’s right.”

Shaun started to step away, but Sole reached out to stop him. “Hey, make sure you bundle out tight. And don’t stay outside too long, you’ll catch your death.”

“And make sure to eat all three meals, and make sure you wash your hands before you eat, and make sure you don’t walk too close behind the Brahmin, and make sure…” His voice trailed off as he walked down the hall and closed the door to his room behind him.

“Who turned him into a smartass?” Sole muttered to themself, though they were grinning.

“You.” X6-88 answered.

Sole sucked in a startled breath and looked down at him. His eyes were open, and he was looking out the window, swollen eyelids blinking slowly. Not wanting to bring up the previous night, they laughed. “Great. I’m the irresponsible middle sibling and you’re the wondrous older brother. Wonder what he’s gonna be like when he’s older.”

X6 sat up slowly, flinching at his headache; an unwanted prize from all the crying he’d done from the night before. His feet landed on the floor and he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He was still looking outside, though his eyes weren’t distant and hollow like they had been before.

Shaun came barreling out of his room, swaddled under layers and layers of coats, his scarf, and hats that “Mrs. Long” had knitted him. He knew that it wasn’t just Sole that would get on his case if he didn’t look like he was drowning in fabric, it was everyone in the settlement; they’d all taken a liking to the kid and his curiosity. The sight of X6-88, now awake and looking back at him for once, must’ve shocked him, because he stopped in front of him.

After a momentous pause, Shawn patted X6-88 on the shoulder, and in a tone far too sober for an eleven-year-old, said, “It’s gonna be okay.”

Shaun was off again, barreling out the door, and neither Sole nor X6 could help the tears that escaped after he’d shut the door behind him.

After the dam broke that night and the following morning, X6 had eventually gotten up and gone into the room Sole had made up for him whenever he decided to stop spending all his time on the couch. After everything, he needed good sleep, and Sole had made sure he was just as bundled up as Shaun had been before leaving him alone with their light on the nightstand beside him.

There was a quiet knock on the door just an hour later. Preston stood on the other side, visibly concerned, but relieved at the sight of them. “Hey. I just wanted to come by and check on you. Everything alright?”

Sole sighed, “Did Shaun tell you?”

Preston shook his head. “Didn’t have to. I hate to say it, but I think the whole settlement heard.”

“Damn. Do me a favor, don’t bring that up to X6, okay?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Mind if I come in? I have a few minutes before watch. Shaun’s over at Mama Murphy’s.” “Yeah– yeah, of course. X6 is just sleeping. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

“Where is that kid?” Sole asked, twisting around.

They were sat on an old log. A couple of the trees around the riverbank had fallen during the winter; they’d gotten a record amount of snow, according to Detective Nick Valentine, who’d come up to visit as soon as spring broke. Apparently Diamond City had also struggled with the weight of winter, but everything was turning upright now that they were out of the thick of it.

The river that ran underneath the bridge to Sanctuary was roaring with all the melted snow, but the sun was beating down on the settlement, and everyone seemed to have that newly-spring-energy. Shaun had been sitting between Six— as they’d taken to calling him— and Sole as they’d watched the river, but Trashcan Carla had come into town and shouted that they had a treat for him and he was off like a bullet.

Sole turned back towards the river, shaking their head. “I thought the same thing more times than I can count when you were younger.” Six commented, a smile making itself known at the corners of his mouth.

Sole rolled their eyes. “I didn’t have that much energy as a kid. I don’t know where he gets it.”

Six didn’t respond to that, but tilted his head thoughtfully. He still didn’t talk as much as the other settlers, choosing to pick his words carefully when he spoke, but Sole supposed that was just who he was and not the shock of everything anymore. Getting out of the house was doing him good, anyway.

The other settlers were still cautious around him, not because he was a synth, but because they knew he had struggled and didn’t want to say the wrong thing. It annoyed Sole a bit, they couldn’t deny, that they treated him as if he was fragile, but he didn’t seem to mind. He was left alone, and that he was fine with.

Heavy footsteps announced a new presence and Sole shielded their eyes from the sun as they looked up at Preston. “Six. Sole,” He nodded, “mind if I join you two?”

“Seats free. Shaun’s disappeared, probably raiding Trashcan Carla for everything she’s worth.”

Preston laughed, hearty and warm in the spring air and Sole couldn’t help but laugh, too. “She and Mama Murphy are enablers,” Preston agreed.

Six was smiling on the other side of Preston, too. The three basked in the sunlight, grateful for even the sting of the wind that still carried a chill, the last tendrils of winter in the air. They tilted their head back and closed their eyes. “You know what?” Sole announced.

“Hm?” Preston responded.

“I think this is living.”

Preston opened his mouth, curiosity evident on his face, but was swiftly interrupted by a whooping shout from Shaun. All three of them turned to see him racing around the corner of one of the houses, something clutched in his hand. “Slow down, Little Shadow! Watch the river!” Sole shouted. “God, he’s gonna give me a heart attack one day.”

Shaun came to a stop in front of them and nearly tripped over his feet. Preston, well-accustomed to his antics, caught him easily and set him upright. “Look what Carla gave me! She said I could pick anything from her stash!”

He held out a figurine that looked quite identical to the settlement’s resident Mr. Handy, Codsworth, and speak of the devil, the robot wasn’t far behind Shaun. He floated up with a pleased clicking of machinery, “A wonderful choice if I do say so myself, sir!”

Yeah. With all the chaos and everything, this is what Sole would call living.

#Fallout 4 #Fo4 #Fanfiction #Oneshot #Imagine #Angst #Found family #Fluff #Hurt comfort #Mayor Hancock #RJ MacCready #X6-88 #gn Sole Survivor

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wisteriashouse · 4 years ago

Note

Can you write hcs for Gyomei and Sanemi with a fem reader if they had a family.

characters: himejima gyomei, shinazugawa sanemi

genre: fluff, family;

a/n: the idea of sanemi having a kid makes me cry i apologise because his was so long i’m lowkey tempted to turn it into a fic

himejima gyomei

big gentle giant would be the perfect dad

he’s had experience taking care at the kids at the orphanage when he was younger, so he has a soft, tender spot for young children

*except kaigaku fuck that kid*

when he found out that you were pregnant with his child, he cries (of course), but in a different way

it’s not just the usual tears streaming down his face, his huge chest heaves quietly with emotion and you tear up yourself at the sight, wrapping your arms around him

as a pillar of the demon slayer corps, gyomei has lived life knowing that he might not make it to the next day

so the fact that you’re building a family together with him makes him think about the future, and it’s this fact that really hits him - that muzan has truly been defeated, and that he can finally live in peace now

would be extremely cautious the first time he holds his child in his arms, asking you to help place his fingertips on the baby’s cheeks so that he can feel their features without hurting their delicate eyes

it’s like he’s holding porcelain - he’s so cautious

so small. so delicate. it’s like he’s holding a treasure in his hands, he thinks.

cries again (of course)

“he/she looks like you, gyomei,” you whisper, and gyomei’s breath catches in his chest, emotion stifling his words in his throat

“is that so?” he whispers back, as if afraid that he will disturb the baby if he’s too loud. his huge hand gently clasps the baby’s tiny hand in his own

probably wants a large family - about five kids or more

helps a lot with housework and general child rearing

insane dad reflexes/paternal instincts

petty squabble ongoing? gyomei knows. temari ball in the lake? gyomei’s already rising to his feet to get it. baby trying to eat a lizard? gyomei’s reaching for it before you can scream at the sight.

his kids love his amazing strength - it’s not uncommon to see them clambering over him and hanging from his arms like he’s a tree in the backyard

his children become excellent climbers

generally a gentle, soft spoken but stern father, his voice carries authority even though he never raises it

dedicated to instilling moral values, being compassionate and kind in every one of his children

he’s an amazing role model for his kids

a shoulder that they can cry and rely on

shinazugawa sanemi

desperately wants a family of his own

for so many years, sanemi has fought tooth and claw to bury this quiet desire in his chest with the excuse that he has no time to think about starting a family, not when demons run amok killing innocents, not when he might die any day, any second

but after the war, when seasons gradually pass and fresh wisteria begin to bloom at the ubuyashiki estate once more, covering the ashes from the explosion on the night of the final battle, sanemi can’t help but begin to think about the future

with you, he dares to hope for happiness

he doesn’t actively try for a child, part of him is still reluctant in so many ways. most of the time he beds you, sanemi tries not to think too much about it

so he’s shocked when he finds out that you’re with his child

when he hears the news, sanemi doesn’t know quite how to feel - all he knows is that his hands are trembling and cold sweat dots his brow - he hasn’t felt this afraid in a long, long time

he has a child. it’s his child, his flesh and blood, a gift from the heavens from your union

and he’s terrified

what if something happens during the pregnancy stage? what if something happens to the child? what if something happens to you? sanemi has already lost so many people - he cannot lose you and this unborn child of his that he hasn’t even seen with his own eyes

it would destroy him

this man has a severe case of emotional constipation so he tries to keep mum about it after a while, but you notice, of course

you work out what’s going on after a bit and have a serious talk with him about it, telling his to believe in your future together

extremely protective over you during the pregnancy, flat out refusing that you do anything strenuous during this critical period - you have to fight to get the broom back from him so that you can actually do something around the house

will throw hands with someone who so much as breathes wrong in your direction

sanemi pls calm down

during the actual childbirth, he’s forced to wait outside while you birth the child

tomioka - tomioka, of all people - is the one who sits by his side without a word, and for once, sanemi appreciates his presence

he prays desperately to any god out there, please, let your childbirth be a safe one, please, let your child come out alright, please-

it goes fine

when sanemi holds the baby in his scarred arms for the first time, he’s completely wordless, tracing his fingers delicately over the baby’s little forehead, brow, nose, lips

you’re a little worried if you broke something in him, but when the newborn grasps sanemi’s finger in their hand tightly, you see sanemi’s back shudder

five second later he’s trembling with the force of his sobs, fighting to keep them down but fat tears are falling down his cheeks as emotion washes and crashes over him

you laugh tiredly in the bed at the sight, and all sanemi manages to choke out is “... they’re ugly as fuck...”

“they look like you, that’s why”

after the childbirth sanemi relaxes significantly, but he’s still very worried about you and the child

contrary to what he says sanemi doesn’t think he’s seen a more beautiful sight

a strict dad, but would have very soft spots for daughters

10/10 overprotective dad

would encourage his kids to throw hands with whichever asshole dares to mess with them, teaches them to throw hands since the day they’re toddlers

“sanemi they can barely walk!!”

“hah? if they can walk they can swing-”

sneaks them treats when he thinks you’re not watching

his kids grow up a little rough, but with a strong sense of justice they get from watching their father

god he’s such a grumpy man but they see the way he treats the weak, elderly and children, with awkward gentleness and fierce protectiveness

they definitely get a family dog!! maybe a shiba inu or a golden retriever

when they’re younger, sanemi finds it a little difficult to connect with them due to his crude tongue, which can lead to conflict and arguments about him seeming unsympathetic

in this aspect, you’ll have to step in to bridge the gap

his children love him dearly, because no matter how barbed his tongue or how rough his personality, it’s difficult to deny just how much he cares about them, even if they want to

his kids love teasing him once they’re a little more grown up, trying to make him admit how soft he actually is

he loves them to bits and would do anything for them

the one thing he hates about them though is how much they like their uncle tomioka too

#demon slayer #demon slayer fanfic #kimetsu no yaiba #kimetsu no yaiba fanfic #kimetsu sanemi #kimetsu himejima #himejima x reader #gyomei #kny gyomei #gyomei x reader #kimetsu no yaiba gyomei #gyomei himejima #sanemi fanart #demon slayer shinazugawa #shinazugawa x reader #sanemi #kny #kny fanfic

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bxldrsdraumar · 2 years ago

Text

The Dog That Sleeps Beneath the Eaves

anankelotus

Anankos does not know how this man can be so happy when he tells stories of sorrow and pain, when Sigurd himself has claimed to die and come back again. Anankos has done the very same, and yet, it all it causes him is more unnecessary pain. Sigurd revels in his second life, and Anankos only wishes that he had remained dead. It would have been better for everyone that way, that way there wouldn't even be a chance for him to cause the world more suffering or sorrow.

"You speak so easily, Lord Sigurd... like it does not pain you to think of the life that you once had... a life that you cannot have anymore..." His hands tremble as he grasps the ale before him, easily relenting in face of not wanting to be rude. He coughs slightly as he takes a tenative sip, trying to remember the last time he had truly had any thing of this sort. It must have been terribly long ago, when...

"You also speak of love like it is so simple... I wish it could have always been that easy for me..." He pauses, trying to stop his tears from welling up like they often did. He thinks of Cadros, his slightly tanned skin from days spent in Valla's sun, a young king who cared so deeply for his people, and his waves of blue hair that seemed to sparkle in the sunlight like they were the very ocean itself. And of Mikoto, her kind heart that had seemed to heal all of his sorrows when he was with her. Both of them had meant so much to him in their times, and yet they were both gone, as if he was cursed to remain forever alone.

"I love and yet the people I love are gone... how am I supposed to think about it as anything but a trouble...? I will never be able to see my beloved king again... he had long passed me by after all, even if I so dearly want to see his face everyday... my love still burning for him only causes me more pain..."

Sigurd could not help it; he had to laugh. "Ah! My friend - this is how I know you are not lying when you say you were a god, for no other man would be so confident in presuming how another feels." He poured another mug of ale, chuckling into it - it was a joke, of course. Even with the miracles that Sigurd had experienced in these last months - granted his life back, his family - he could not say he was entirely sold on the man seated before him being a god. A holy man, perhaps, in his strange way, or a king brought low - but he would not be so crass as to say so.

"You claim that I speak easily, but you cannot understand the pain I have felt, the horrors I have faced until I have shared them - just as I cannot for you. Though it seems as though we, like all men, have endured the pain of love - the pain, the bliss, the indelible marks. Do you think something that can change the course of a world to be so simple?"

He paused when the timbre of Anankos's voice abruptly shifted, trembling and tight-throated, and Sigurd's eyes creased into a soft smile, all mirth drained from him, awash instead in sympathy. "I apologize, perhaps I have been forward. I have certainly been accused of worse things - it is of course a painful subject. I myself have shed many tears over a love I thought lost."

He neglected to say that he had been given that love back, that he had his Deir back and safe in his arms, and that she loved him she loved him she loved him he reached for her screaming the flames seared at his fingertips inch by inch by -

In, out.

"Perhaps I do speak easily of it. I suppose I cannot help it - but you are wrong. I have lost those I loved. Many of them, through my own actions - I led scores of my loved ones to an early grave. But that is why this second life is such a gift - for if I have received it, surely those under my care were so lucky as well. Surely those that died by my side are breathing easy, safe beside their own families. I must believe that, or I am lost." Heartened by his own gusto, Sigurd tapped the edge or his tankard against Anankos's and quaffed the ale, mindless that the buzz in his ears was not caused by the drink, but by the sheer adrenaline coursing through his blood.

#in character #thread: the dog that sleeps beneath the eaves #interaction: anankelotus

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leroyzboots · 3 years ago

Text

you and i are trying, together.

part two.

The amount of unease that can fit into Tommy's more-than-human-less-than-god body is honestly surprising.

Tommy paces back and forth on the floor of the Lambda lab, his Beyblade whirring between his fingers and his precious immortal dog following behind him with love.

They'd arrived at around half past midnight, but it's now early morning and there's been no sign of the other two members of the science team.

Bubby leans back in their chair, crossing his knee-high laced boots over their knee, and bounces the other one out of anxiety.

"Tommy," he barks; "you're scaring the other scientists."

Tommy glances down and realizes that the Beyblade is whizzing madly in the air around his hands, suspended from nothing.

"D-dammit," He mutters, snatching his toy back and returns it to his pocket.

"They sho-should have been back by now."

Tommy stops pacing for a second and stares down the Coomers with his father's intensity.

"Surely, Benrey could have used teleportation?" Harold chimes in, his knuckles bruised slightly from his repeated stims.

"I think that's what he meant, dear," Bubby replies, patting their husband's shoulder affectionately.

"Yes, exactly!"

Tommy throws his hands into his pockets, huffing out his frustration.

"The f-fact that they're not...back yet! Means something has gone-"

A enormous thud echoes from the the floor, a piece of tile juts out slightly and scatters the scientists nearby.

"Wrong," Tommy finishes miserably, drawing his gun and preparing for Xen's creatures.

Beside him, Sunkist snarls, her hackles raised in warning.

The tile cracks and shoots into the air, with accompanying gunfire from below, and a hatch busts open from the hole.

Tommy aims to shoot, but immediately lowers his gun upon seeing Mr. Freeman's tired but happy face, followed closely by Benrey, the bags under his eyes looking darker than usual.

"G-Gordon!!"

Tommy rushes forward, embracing them both, and the knots of tension unravel in his stomach.

Benrey snuggles just a little closer into Tommy's coat, and Tommy releases Gordon to pull Benrey into a full hug.

Tommy planned on never admitting it to himself, but these two were the people he loved the most.

Benrey..he'd known Benrey for years.

It started when Benrey was just out of training, and Tommy had completed his certification to become a top scientist.

Benrey was 19, maybe 20 at the oldest, his hair pulled into a ponytail that ran down his back.

They weren't close, then, Benrey had been assigned to guard the G-Man's adopted son.

Benrey couldn't die, and Tommy's line of work was dangerous enough to need protection.

So it all worked out.

They barely exchanged more than a few words to eachother until that one night, that one fucking night and Benrey is tripping over himself in tears, blood pouring from the wound on his back and he's clutching Tommy, pawing at his shoulders.

Benrey trembled like he's made from glass and will break if he falls, and Tommy gripped the back of the others security vest so tightly the kevlar nearly rips in half.

And that's saying something.

That night they sat together and they're closer in distance than they've ever been, Tommy's warm and gentle hands bandaged the wound above the numbers tattooed onto Benrey's tailbone and Benrey spilled everything.

Between sniffles and the occasional sob, Benrey confessed, about the tools that somehow hurt him beyond regeneration, leaving a scar, about the men and their evil sticks of lightning that would seep into his bones and fill him with pain so intense he felt like he would break in half.

Tommy nearly broke in half himself.

He felt helpless, and so he went to the only person he knew would make the ones who hurt his first and only friend pay dearly-

His father.

Oh, Tommy had never seen the G-man so angry.

Black Mesa was a research facility, for god's sake, dedicated to the study of alien life and the progression of the human body.

So when Tommy's dad realized that the prototype imprisonment he had resolved several years ago had resurfaced with an even uglier face, he sent scientists who had never experienced fear in their lives tripping for the door in yelps of terror.

And that had been the end of it.

Benrey continued his job as a security guard, people who had previously been made in the facility were hired back on as scientists in new departments such as mixology and cybernetics, and Black Mesa cut its ties with the military.

Black Mesa, Benrey explained later in his own broken way to Tommy in the quiet breakroom during lunch hour, had been trying to create the perfect human being.

There were thousands upon thousands of prototypes that had been created, and Benrey had been the last.

But there had always been something wrong with the ones they created, whether it was serious physical or mental deformities, or simply a sense of fucked up little creature that ended up resulting in the insane amount of scientists with the ability to grow in size, and the security guards that always had a few too many rows of teeth or glowing eyes and severe anger issues.

They weren't always grown in tubes, Tommy learned, but they were always branded with their serial number on the base of the spine.

The one before him, Benrey quipped with a mouthful of sandwich, had been born to a prototype and a normal human employee, before they stripped them out with a memory wipe and sent them into normal society.

The anxious feeling that haunted Tommy in the years that followed had something to do with that piece of information in particular.

Something told him that the military and the alien planet they were studying wouldn't let go of Black Mesa kindly.

Mr. Freeman confirmed that.

He's in the hallway, on his way to get a soda, when he's met with a newer employee, only worked here about 4 or so years.

He seemed kind enough, if a little loud and stubborn. And alright, maybe it hurt Tommy's feelings when Gordon called him a freak, but that was pushed aside with the Resonance Cascade.

Tommy knew that this was it, this was the boot boys' revenge for cutting them out of the picture, but there was something else, distinctly and unsettlingly alien about the Cascade.

The whole of Black Mesa fell into shambles, with creatures of Xen integrating into their carefully built walls and lives, and Tommy kinda freaked, okay?

He'd seen Dr. Coomer around, always greeting him with a wonderful "Hello!!", and was met with a thrill in his stomach when he introduced another prototype as his husband.

Those two had been with him, in the observation room when the project exploded around Gordon and Benrey-

he wasn't supposed to be in the test chamber, what if it seriously hurt him?-

And maybe that was when Tommy realized he was in love with Benrey.

Over time, he felt a sense of conflict slowly building as he made friends with Mr. Freeman.

He seemed to hate Benrey, they hated eachother, but Tommy liked one and loved the other so he became their middle ground.

He was convinced to himself that Benrey liked him as well, until that room, that dark, dark room, and suddenly Benrey is kneeling in a puddle of Gordon's blood and Bubby is screaming, sobbing, blubbering his apologies to anyone who is listening as the soldiers drag them away and Benrey-

He says it, he says those words and it breaks Tommy's heart into a billion pieces-

"Because I love him, okay?! I'm fucking- whoop-de-doo, in love with Gordon god. G-goddamn Freeman, okay?..."

And then Benrey teleports, and he's gone, and Bubby is gone and Dr. Coomer leaves him in the cold dark sewer by himself.

Tommy cried.

Burying his head in his coat, he cried hard and long, alone on the rocky floor.

And then Mr. Freeman crawls out of the pipe, and Tommy can't help it, he holds him.

Gordon reeks of sewage and his bloody hand smells of copper but Tommy doesn't care, and alright, maybe that's when Tommy realized he's in love with Gordon too.

Alright, Tommy can deal with that.

Something Tommy can't deal with is the fact that his instincts are going fucking haywire.

Tommy's always been very perceptive when it comes to time, maybe he can't stop time like his father can, but he's definitely got a certain sense of time and reality as it surrounds him.

Being able to reach out and touch and feel certain areas, but not control them, and all of time is wrapped around him like a blanket.

So when the floor crumbles away below them and Benrey and Gordon fall deep into the recesses of Black Mesa's hellscape, Tommy freaks the fuck out.

A deep, inherent concern lays nested in the pit of his mind like a pile of cottonmouth snakes, hissing madly and snarling that something, something, is absolutely wrong with how this is supposed to go.

Tommy has a sinking feeling that something terrible is going to happen.

Man, Benrey really hates this place.

The scientists of the Lambda lab asked a simple request of the Science Team- go through the portal to Xen, get rid of the Nihilanth, bring back some weird space shit.

Easy as pie.

Right?

Wrong.

Benrey feels sick, feverish on this planet.

As he follows behind the group, his legs feel leaden and heavy, and he tugs at the collar of his uniform, which feels uncomfortably tight around his neck.

He's sweating, unusually warm beneath his helmet, but shivering as though chilled to his bones.

There's a tug, deep in his torso, pulling him along, but it's a nasty, oppressive feeling that makes his limbs feel like noodles.

He swallows nervously, eyes darting across the fetid, blood colored planet of Xen.

The sour smell clogs his senses, and as they trudge deeper and deeper through the portals, away from the floating rocks with little gravity and past strange barrels of highly toxic looking liquid, the heavy pull in Benrey's chest only grows stronger and more sickly.

They push through a final, puke-green portal, and the feeling inside of Benrey swells to near explosion.

A cave, with jagged and dark stone running up the walls in wicked cracks, a deep red flush to the area.

Water is flooding Benrey's boots, a putrid and decaying smell to the liquid, and it only adds to Benrey's fatigue.

The creature before them could only be the Nihilanth itself, and the very sight sends such a fucking shudder down Benrey's spine.

It's disgusting, twisted and pulsating flesh running down what must be its face, beady eyes in a cadaverous socket.

It looks like a fetus, a failed attempt of termination long after the allotted time.

It speaks, and the chorus of voices that accompanies it gives away the fact that Xen isn't just the planet-

It's the entire race.

"So. The humans have finally decided to be rid of us."

Gordon looks tired, beaten, but pulls himself upward and grunts through the pain of his broken shin.

"Get your video game dialogue out of the way," he says, with a dismissive wave of his gun-hand.

"I'm about done with this alien shit."

The Nihilanth laughs, a hideous and painful sound, and tilts its head in curiosity towards the little group of vagabonds.

"But you have brought us the very thing we need, Mr. Freeman."

Gordon groans in frustration, turning back to his friends with his teeth grinding against eachother.

"Why does it know my name?"

Xens' audience shrieks with delight, and the Nihilanth's barely feasible mouth twists into what can only be guessed as a grin.

"Xen knows everything about you, Mr. Freeman."

Benrey sways on the spot, his boots splashing the strange water, and the scene before him blurs.

"Whadda....what the hell are you..talking about, man?"

Xen's creatures seem to roar with laughter, and beside Benrey, Dr. Coomer throws up his fists protestingly.

"Xen has been all knowing, all seeing since time begun. As we grow, so do our minds, until we are forced to repopulate. Regrow."

Beneath their feet, headcrabs scuttle ominously, causing Tommy to jump backward with surprise.

"But human beings became a problem for Xen. Their flimsy bodies failed, burst open upon integration."

Benrey is only just awake enough to process this.

"The scientists of Black Mesa were so eager to learn of a new planet. So Xen took influence, and under the guise of building a perfect human being, created what Xen needed."

Gordon scoffs, his shoulders shaking as he laughs scornfully.

Xen reacts strongly, a collective hiss rising around them.

"Do not laugh at us, human."

The headcrabs stay at a distance, but raise their pincers and click them menacingly as the Nihilanth's speech continues.

"Xen required a human being who could withstand radiation, a being who could lose blood en mass and not perish."

A sense of dread washes over the Science Team, and Tommy instinctively puts himself in front of Gordon.

Bubby ignites his arms protectively.

"Let me guess," Gordon growls, revving up his minigun limb; "you needed me?"

Xen's creatures wail in joy, and Benrey takes that as a yes, and reaches for his gun, when something big and poisonous and slimy wraps around his ankle.

"Xen requires Benrey."

Benrey yelps as the Nihilanth drags him underneath the water, bubbles of Sweet Voice trailing from his mouth as his back bounces on the cragged floor beneath the surface.

The Nihilanth swings him into the air, and Benrey splutters, ears waterlogged under his helmet, which slips from his head and falls to the ground with a splash, Benrey's short black hair now dripping wet.

"Look at you, our once perfect vessel- a mewling, pathetic dog."

Hung upside down by his ankle, Benrey gasps in pain as Xen shakes him repeatedly, and for a brief, sickening moment, Benrey is forcibly reminded of the Finding Nemo movie Tommy showed him-

He feels like a fish in Darla's little bag.

"Bark, bark, bark but no bite. You were made with Xen's own blood and yet you cannot even protect those you are infatuated with."

With that, the Nihilanth throws him to the far wall, and his skull cracks on the rock.

It doesn't heal, and Benrey slumps down, struggling to stand, his eyesight swimming with tears.

"You think the Freeman human loves you? You cost him a limb. You would be perfect save for your one flaw- you kneel before a man you could kill with no effort, and you beg him to love you as you love him."

Benrey shakes, kneeling, and whimpers as he chokes out a sob, not trying to disguise his tears.

"You truly are nothing."

"No."

The word is tiny, barely audible.

Then again, louder, with a crack of his voice but more than enough power-

"No. You're wrong."

Gordon pulls himself to full height, scowling so deeply the age shows on his face.

"Benrey is everything to us. To all of us, but especially me."

"Y-yeah! We're not afraid of you!" Tommy chimes, and Sunkist howls with approval.

"If you or your alien bitches thought we'd just leave him here, you're just as stupid as you look."

Bubby grins wildly, cracking their neck from side to side, his bright and eager eyes flashing beneath their glasses.

"Don't fuck with the Science Team!" Coomer bellows, and Bubby cheers beside him.

"Now I'm only gonna tell you once," Gordon beams, turning away from his family to draw his gun-hand and point it at Xen's Nihilanth.

"Piss off."

Gordon fires, and the accompanying screams of headcrabs and peeper puppies echo across the cave, and Benrey is overtaken with an aching, sweet feeling he usually associates with Gordon.

It's love.

Benrey smiles fondly as his knees buckle and he falls to the ground and submerges in the murky waters.

Benrey wakes up and immediately is struck with a massive goddamn headache.

He closes his eyes and pulls the pillow over his ears, but the pain is there and clearly is not going anywhere, so he's going to have to ask for an aspirin or some shit.

Sitting up makes him so nauseous it's not even funny, so he decides it's not worth it to stand.

A loud snore startles Benrey enough to yelp, and he glances around for the source of the noise.

Sitting hand in hand on the floor, against the wall opposite his bed, are Gordon and Tommy, both bearing signs of wear and both dead asleep.

Gordon is clutching Benrey's helmet so tightly to his shirt it looks uncomfortable, and Tommy is curled protectively around Gordon's shoulders.

They're half dressed, like Black Mesa decided that the HEV suit and a bloody lab coat was not appropriate clothing but also did not have a whole lot of options for back up wear.

Benrey guesses this based on the fact that Gordon's not really wearing pants and Tommy's wearing a t-shirt that says "Birthday Girl".

Something about the fact that they're holding hands hurts Benrey, just a little.

His heart aches for a moment as he remembers the warmth of Gordon's hand and the feeling of a hug from the Beyblade enthusiast who was his best and only friend for a very long time.

Benrey shakes his head, decides he's going to repress it, and yawns.

God, his head hurts.

Benrey figures that if he stands, he's going to trip and probably break something, and since he doesn't trust his regeneration ability right now, he's not risking it.

Instead, he picks up his pillow and heaves it at the two scientists as hard as he can.

Tommy jolts awake, blinking, then smiles widely upon sighting the guard.

"Benrey!!"

Tommy shoots upward, and makes the distance between the wall and the hospital bed in one step, leaving Gordon to slump over and yell in surprise as he hits the floor.

Benrey's pulled into a crushing hug, and he wheezes for Tommy to be gentle.

"S-sorry!" Tommy cries happily, pulling back to take in Benrey's face.

"It's..it's g-good to see you awake."

Gordon stands, still holding the helmet, and wanders over to where Tommy is perched on the edge of the bed.

"You've been out for hours," Gordon adds, gently reaching out with his left hand to ruffle Benrey's hair.

"We were starting to get worried."

Benrey swallows his funny retort for once, instead choosing to spit out some clear blue song in response.

Tommy reads it almost immediately, and excuses himself to get medicine.

Gordon takes his spot on the bed, and just looks over Benrey.

Benrey feels like he's being scrutinized, with Gordon's soft green eyes just roaming over his face.

"Alright. Fucking. Get the questions outta the way," Benrey mumbles irritably, sticking out his tongue.

"I know you're fuckin. Curious about the shit Xen said."

Gordon laughs sweetly, setting the helmet down on the bed next to him and runs his fingers over it fondly.

Benrey takes a note of his new right hand, a grey-black prosthetic that clicks when Gordon moves his knuckles.

"I don't really have any questions," Gordon grins, adjusting his shirt.

"Other than, are you okay?"

Benrey's taken back by this one.

Not only did he cost Gordon his hand and almost his life about thirty billion times, but everyone (including him!) also just found out that Benrey was made with Xen DNA.

He's essentially Gordon's enemy in every sense of the word, and Gordon is asking if he's okay?

"....did the Nihilanth hit your head or somethin', man?? What the hell kinda. Question is that one??"

Gordon's smile softens massively, and it makes Benrey's heart melt into a little puddle in his stomach.

"Benrey, you saved my life a whole shit ton of times back there."

"Yeah, I also almost got you killed," Benrey interrupts, but Gordon doesn't pause.

"I've been thinking about a lot of things while you've been asleep, and I've been talking with Tommy a lot too."

Benrey's happy puddle evaporates into a heavy leaden ball inside of his chest.

"I don't need to hear this, dude."

Gordon looks a little confused, so Benrey keeps going.

"You're. I know you heard the shit Xen said about...."

Benrey pauses, unsure if he wants to say it out loud.

That'll finalize it, forever.

He takes a breath, then with a great effort, says it out loud.

"I love you. Have since we were kids, have since I first met you. Xen was...right. They were fucking right, you're happier with Tommy because he's never hurt you or..fuck. Fuck, man, you don't feel the same and I'm done pushin' it on you. We uhh, clear?"

Gordon covers his mouth with his hand, and for a split second Benrey thinks he's made him cry, but Gordon bursts out laughing, clutching his stomach and snorting in between giggles.

"B-Benny, you idiot, I am in love with you."

Maybe it's the sudden affectionate nickname, or the fact that Gordon said he loves him.

But Benrey blushes, hard, and pink-to-blue sweet voice bubbles out of his mouth in surprise.

"Whuh?"

Tommy walks back into the room, bottle in hand, and pauses at the sight in front of him.

"Oh, are w-we doing conf-confessions now?!"

Before Benrey can even speak, Tommy drops down beside him and kisses him on the cheek, putting him and Gordon's hands in his own.

Tommy doesn't say it, but Benrey gets the point.

"Fucking- FINALLY!!"

Benrey just might die for real.

Bubby leans in the doorway, a smug grin on his face, elbow resting on Dr. Coomer's shoulder.

"Ah, young love is beautiful!"

Tommy and Gordon laugh cheerfully at Dr. Coomer, and Benrey buries his face sheepishly in the blankets.

It takes a few days, but Benrey recovers pretty well from the Nihilanth.

He's thought a lot about what Xen said.

And he's decided that they were very wrong about him.

His love for other people isn't a flaw, it's his best quality.

He can and will protect the people he loves with his life, no matter what.

And he knows that the people he loves will do the same for him.

With time, Gordon learns not to flinch at the sight of his right hand, or gag when he drinks a soda.

Benrey learns to accept hugs and snuggles from Tommy, and figures out the jokes that Gordon likes and doesn't like.

Tommy is always there to patch up Benrey's injuries, and learns better responses that don't involve soda when Gordon needs to vent.

So Benrey feels safe, and knows that he's not the only one who's trying to be better.

Benrey and them are trying, together.

#hlvrai #frenrey #tomrey #freelatta #frenreylatta #leafy fics

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writefightandflightclub · 4 years ago

Text

Calm after the storm (dad!Nathan x fem!reader)

Summary: dad!Nathan / ex-husband!Nathan and angst. He comforts your son during a storm. You were always better at dishing out comfort, but Nathan is trying his best to learn how. He’s had to, since you left him. If only he could get you to come home, after he pushed you so far away.

Author’s note: my 1st go at writing something emotional / angsty with Nathan. Different to my other Nathan stuff, so won;t be offended if you don’t like it! No-one asked for this but this popped into my head and ended me and I figured I’d drag you down with me. Will add taglists tomorrow :o) (If you DO happen to like it, please let me know! Writing has been so slow for me lately and honestly I’m just pleased to have finished something.)

Warnings: language, themes of children, divorce / separation, angst, alcohol abuse / misuse, parent!reader.

Warning that there is zero smut in this. Nathan is literally a father when I say daddy here. Just to be clear. Some may feel this is ooc (I may have used a bit of license with his character to achieve angst, but actually, I don’t think it’s too far from a potential truth?)? Mistakes etc. maybe, but I can’t look at this a second longer so here it is.

Word count: 8.8k (sorry!)

Nathan’s head whips up from his computer screen as he sees a tiny, shadowed figure appear in the doorway to his lab. He pauses his frenzied typing, but retains the frown weighing on his brow.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed, buddy,” he says sternly, bathed in a pool of blue light and looking at the child from beneath his lenses. Hell, when did it get so dark?

“I’m scared,” a tearful little voice says, and Nathan sighs, pushing back his chair with a small, thin-lipped smile as he regards the boy. His soft, dinosaur-adorned pyjamas have been twisted by sleep, and he is rubbing his balled-up fists into his cheeks, a pet lip trembling beneath. Nathan never did understand the kid’s obsession with dinosaurs.

Unlike father, unlike son.

Things long dead and gone? Nathan didn’t like to look back, after all. He looked ahead. Moved forward. There’s nothing for me over my shoulder.

With his headspace out of his work, Nathan suddenly notices the rain drumming down against the skylight. The rumble of thunder and flash of lightning carving the sky open.

“The storm?” he asks, rising to meet the boy as his little feet pad with trepidation across the cold lab floor to his father. The boy nods. He looks slightly uncertain, since he’s not allowed in the lab, but enters and sticks his arms up into the air all the same. He does that tentatively too, since Nathan hasn’t historically been generous with affection; and yet, this time, Nathan wordlessly scoops him up on to his hip, his heart clenching as the boy’s wet, grabby little hands fist into his Henley. His severe gaze softens instantly; though not all the way. The gesture is still a little rusty.

“That’s illogical, bud - it’s not gonna hurt you. Let’s get you back to bed.”

Irrational. Emotional. Unlike father, unlike son.

You were always better at the comfort stuff. Of course you were. Still, Nathan thinks he’s learning, without you. He’s had to learn.

Nathan quietly carries the little spider-monkeyed bundle back to his bed. He offers no words of comfort, but he does offer a firm and reassuring pat on his back as he walks. The boy smells of bath bubbles and baby oil, mixed-in with fresh detergent and that indescribable kid smell, and Nathan feels alarmingly soothed as he inhales the scent.

A flood of memories comes back, but he pushes them down. There is nothing for him over his shoulder, after all. Nothing in the past he would care to resurrect.

Carefully balancing the boy with one strong arm, Nathan peels back the covers and slots him back into his soft bed, the glow of the nightlight illuminating the boy in a blue halo.

Like father, like son.

The man securely tucks him in and smooths the covers, his eyes alarmingly gentle now, even amidst his stony face; however, the boy is still not entirely placated. His eyes are still wide. His bottom lip is still trembling.

Nathan sighs and lowers himself on to the edge of the bed, his genius brain struggling with this problem. Apparently, simply telling a 4-year-old they’re being illogical doesn’t cut it. Children; so inefficient. So tiny and fragile and…

The best thing I ever created.

Let’s hope he doesn’t grow up to stab me in the chest.

“Okay,” he begins, with a sweep of his hand over that buzzed head of his. “Do you know what static electricity is, buddy? One of the forces which attracts or repels things? Remember?”

“Repels. Pushes things away?” the small voice asks him.

I pushed her away. I’m a force. A force of nature. A storm.

Fear is often based on lack of knowledge. Nathan imagines if he explains the storm, he can demystify it. Take its power away. Still, the 4-year-old looks up at him in confusion, little fingers tightly gripping the edge of the bed covers. His mess of curls splaying over the pillow like a rolling black cloud.

Maybe you did get your mother’s average brain.

We can hope you got fuck all from me, kid.

“Come on, champ, we talked about this...” Nathan sighs, with mild impatience, and then he thinks some more – just like he’s always thinking, except algorithms make sense to him, and how could he hope to solve this?

Nathan shuffles up on to the bed until his back is against the wall, perpendicular to the boy. “Okay,” he says, slapping his palms gently against his thighs. “Remember when we were at Ankita’s party, and you rubbed that balloon on your head, huh? And then all of your hairs stood-up and it kinda tickled?”

The child giggles – a sound that punches Nathan in the gut. “Yeah, Daddy, and it didn’t work on your bald head.”

Nathan exhales through a small smile which doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“So, you remember,” he nods, waving his hand in the air as he tries to find simple language to continue his explanation. “Well. It’s like the sky is having a party, and the clouds are rubbin’ up against each other, making all this static. Understand?” Nathan continues, and the child is rapt, listening to his father’s deep, steady, sandy voice. “But clouds don’t have hair-“ there is another giggle, and this time Nathan’s eyes do crease with his smile, “-so instead they send their lightning forking out in all directions. You got it?”

“A party?” the boy enquires, still unsure. His hands gripping more tightly to the covers and his face inching further below them as a particularly loud rumble of thunder sounds overhead.

“Right. A party.” Nathan runs with it, pleased that he’s getting somewhere. Moving forward. Making progress. “And parties can be noisy, right? All that dancing and singing and scraping chairs around?”

The kid briefly looks at his father as if he’s stupid -a trait you’d always had nailed- but in the next heartbeat he seems to accept the explanation given, the fear in his eyes beginning to ease, though not entirely gone.

He’s still afraid.

Like father, like son.

It’s evident that Nathan needs to devise something even more soothing. He vaguely considers trying to explain the unparalleled lightning and surge protection in-built into this facility, but he thinks better of it. He instead plumps for something he dearly hopes the kid will understand somewhat better than he comprehends static electricity. “You’re safe here and nothing can hurt you,” he says, raising his eyebrows up from beneath his frames and delivering an intent stare, smoothing a broad hand on the boy’s chest and shoulder. “I promise, kid. Would Daddy let anything hurt you?”

“No,” the boy answers, peeking up at Nathan with big eyes, shaking his little head and rustling his curls against the pillow. It breaks Nathan’s heart that his voice wavers, as if he’s a little unsure of his answer.

“Exactly. Not in a million fuckin’ years.” Nathan says adamantly, his deep, dark eyes intense with conviction to emphasise his point.

“Daddy!” The boy gasps when Nathan curses, little palms rising to clamp down over the shocked “o” of his mouth.

“Ah, shit. Don’t tell your Mama I said a naughty word, okay?” Nathan sucks air through his teeth and delivers a sheepish half-grin.

“I miss Mommy.”

The boy blinks. His eyes sad, his emotions constantly unmasked. Feeling. Always feeling.

Unlike father, unlike son.

Nathan’s chest tightens. He scoops up the plush dog, Crunchy, from on top of the duvet and settles her in the boy’s arms, buying him some time to arrange his busy thoughts.

Thinking. Always thinking.

The dog is so named since it spent the boy’s early years crusted with dried-in food and mud and whatever else. Nathan had dubbed it Crunchy Mutt, and the name had stuck. Memories nip at his heels, but he doesn’t let you creep back in. Doesn’t fill the gaps.

Nathan emits a shallow sigh. He misses you too.

Like father, like son.

His eyes are almost soft, almost apologetic as they meet the boy’s again. He is sorry, in that moment, for depriving the boy of you for half of his time. He shouldn’t have to miss out on you. You shouldn’t have to miss out on your son. Nathan knew all this was because of him.

Nathan had sworn never to let anything hurt you, either. To look after you, and yet...

I pushed her away.

I’m a force. A force of nature.

A storm.

“Mommy’ll be here to get you in the morning.” Nathan says in a taut, gruff voice, his beard bobbing as his throat wrestles around a hard swallow. “To take you… home.” At that, finally the boy finally looks content and sleepy, stretching his little face into a big yawn. Still, selfishly, Nathan no longer wants to be alone in this storm - alone with himself - and so, he keeps talking. “You know, your Mommy loves storms like this.”

“Really? Mommy doesn’t get scared?”

“No.” Nathan shakes his head, eyes becoming burdened with memories. “We would sit out on the deck, wrapped in blankets, and watch the lightning. Listen to the rain.”

“It’s science 101, genius. You can’t work in the lab during a storm. You might create Frankenstein.”

“Fuckin’… how many times? It’s Frankenstein’s monster, sweet cheeks. Frankenstein is the doctor.”

“I know, asshole. At this point I just say it to rile you. Never fails. You stay here then, and play at creating life. If you want to play at living one, I’ll be out on the decking.”

“How about I do both?”

“What are you saying, Nathan?”

“What about we make something together, while the sky is fucking rife with creation?”

The boy springs up in bed, capturing Crunchy in a choke-hold in excitement.

Nathan raises himself to standing - beginning to backtrack, and snapping back to the present day. Compartmentalising you. Putting long dead things to rest. He knows better than to look over his shoulder for too long.

“Can we go outside and watch it, Daddy?”

“Nuh uh. I don’t think so, buddy. It’s way past your bedtime. Go to sleep now, okay?” His voice is sterner again - his gaze back to being more severe.

Still, he guides the boy back down to the mattress and plants a soft kiss on to his forehead, brushing his dark curls back. He kisses Crunchy on the head too, as he is routinely instructed to do.

“Night, kid. Night, mutt. Come on, off to sleep.”

His hands move to his hips, elbows cutting a sharp shape in the near-dark. The boy, however, looks wide awake, a smile playing at the corners of his lips, and an excited glow on his face.

“Please, Daddy?” the boy pleads, with big, puppy dog eyes. So closely resembling your eyes, which Nathan always was a sucker for.

Yep. He’s definitely your son.

Nathan is about to use his stern voice, and his finger is moments away from wagging. And yet…

“Fine. Quickly then,” he concedes. “Get your coat and shoes on. And find your little red hat with the Pom-Pom that you look fuckin’ adorable in.”

“Daddy! No bad words!” the kid scolds, even as a smile of glee bursts on to his face and he wriggles out from beneath the covers.

“Yep, sorry! Don’t tell Mommy,” Nathan repeats on autopilot.

The boy springs out of bed and zooms with enthusiasm to his little closet, while Nathan gathers up some blankets from a neighbouring chest.

Sure - it was past the boy’s bedtime. Yes, Nathan had a lot of coding to rehash. But Nathan had lost you. He had let work consume him until there was nothing left for you. He was always looking ahead to what could be, and he didn’t pay enough attention to what he had, when he had it. He wasn’t going to make the same mistakes again. Not with his son. This time, at least, work could wait.

Once the pair are both dressed in their outerwear, Nathan hoists the boy up on to his hip again, and carries him out to the decking, on the side of the house with the best view of the storm churning over the miserable valley. He clings on to his son tightly as the pulse of lightning illuminates his awed little face, a perfect mixture of your features and his, and yet someone entirely his own. The boy gasps and shrinks back from the vast, roaring sky, nuzzling closer into Nathan’s chest, grabby hands fisting in his clothes again.

“It’s okay, buddy. It can’t hurt you, understand?” Nathan reassures.

The child visibly relaxes, absentmindedly tangling his fingers into the soft texture of Nathan’s beard.

He does that when he’s nervous. Seems to calm him down, Nathan notes, and files for later.

“Look, Daddy!” the kid points as forks of lightning raze through the blackened sky, sparkling eyes following the display.

“I saw it, champ,” Nathan confirms, as the storm lights up his child’s face in more ways than one. However, Nathan is more awed by his boy than the storm. By the boy you and he created, on a night not unlike this one.

He fixes his eyes on him as he grows in confidence, facing his fear of the braying wind and rumbling thunder. Being a parent is everything Nathan anticipated he would hate. Full of things you can’t control, and yet, he loves every way this boy surprises him.

Shit, he’s braver than me, Nathan thinks, as he cradles the boy in his arms, holding him just a little bit closer – a little bit tighter.

Nathan isn’t afraid often. In fact, in his adult life, he’s only been truly afraid a handful of times. On those occasions, he didn’t face it like the boy did. He tended to bury his fear, in a landslide of work and drunkenness and insults and excuses. To cocoon himself in his own self-interest.

Nathan was afraid when he fell in love with you, even despite his best efforts not to. He was terrified he didn’t deserve you.

He was afraid when you told him you were pregnant; he was terrified of creating another thing that hated him.

But Nathan has never been as afraid as when you left him, and took the boy with you. He was terrified that you would never come back.

You were brave. You were so brave that you never ran away from a storm, and yet you had fled from him.

What kind of storm am I, if even you ran from me?

Despite his fears though, Nathan was learning to be brave. He’s had to, since you’ve been gone. For his son, for you, he would fight off any foe or threat. Turns out, he would even do the hardest thing of all, and fight his own demons.

Yes, Nathan knew he was a stern man. Serious. Flawed. Unyielding. An asshole, a lot of the time.

He hadn’t been ready. To be humbled. By you. By the boy. Hadn’t been ready to face his shortcomings and his demons and look them in the eye.

He was afraid of creating something that hated him, but he hadn’t been prepared to create something better than himself. A child who was open, and kind, and brave, and loving. Who wasn’t afraid to feel, and to be kind.

Unlike father, unlike son.

The boy made him strong. The boy was just like you.

“Wow!” the boy gasps at another display of lightning, even though he jumps slightly as a loud rumble of thunder sounds. The shock makes him laugh - a sweet, musical, innocent noise that makes Nathan’s chest tear in half like the sky. The boy watches for a while longer as the storm tires itself out and the boy with it, the rain dying off to a pleasant lulling noise.

Nathan looks up at the sky too and he feels almost complete, until he looks to the other side of him; where you should be. Until he looks over his shoulder. To where long-dead things still haunt him.

“Mommy will be sad she’s missing the storm, won’t she Daddy? Can we send her a selfie?”

No tech after 5pm. Bed by 7pm. One of the co-parenting rules rings in his head.

It’s 2:30am, and he worries you will ride him for this, but surely this is an exception, right?

“Sure we can, bud,” Nathan responds, and he fishes his phone out of his pants pocket. The boy nuzzles into his chest in that adorable red hat, and gives a thumbs-up as Nathan extends his arm to grab a quick selfie. “Great photo. She’ll love it. What shall we tell her?”

“Hmm...” the boy thinks, and then he lands on the perfect words. “Say… I wish you were here,” he says with a toothy grin, unaware of the emotional sucker punch of his words.

Nathan’s chest tightens again, and he attempts to school the frown from his face.

I wish you were here.

Like father, like son.

Smoothing himself, he types out a message.

“Storm watching with Papa bear. Kid says: I wish you were here.”

“Ok,” he says softly, pinging the message away to you. “Done.”

The boy beams at his father.

“Will she type back?”

“Dunno, kid, she might be asleep.”

Tiredness hitting him, the boy nuzzles closer and Nathan gently rocks him on his hip, the boy’s eyes gradually closing.

When Nathan feels his phone vibrate, he lifts it back up, bathing the pair in a halo of blue once again. He is surprised to see a photo. There you are, wrapped up in a chunky cardigan and blanket on your new porch.

You’re watching the storm too, and god, you look so beautiful that it hurts him.

Beneath the picture, you have typed out: “Storm-watching, Mama bear edition. Wish I was there too, baby bear. I’ll see you in the morning. xxx”

He knows the smile and the wave and the words are solely for your son’s benefit, and not for him, but oh, how he wishes.

“Mommy’s watching the storm too!” the boy says sleepily, barely able to keep his eyes open in the comfort of Nathan’s warm, strong arms, as his soporific movements rock him back to sleep.

“Yeah, bud, she is.”

And Nathan tugs the boy into his chest, bouncing him on his hip and stroking his hair -as much for his own comfort as anything- until he is soothed too.

***

After the boy is safely back in bed, Nathan plods sullenly back down to his workshop, bathing himself once again in a blue halo. His fingers gravitate naturally towards the keys, and though he should work, his mind is very much elsewhere. His mind is wrapped up with long-dead things.

With a heavy sigh, he fishes his phone out of his pocket again, and spends a wistful moment staring at the picture you had sent him.

“Fuck it,” he says, and he lifts up the photo frame he’s had face down on his desk for some time now. For months.

Longer.

It’s a picture of you and him and the boy, out on a hike a few years ago. Nathan is carrying your son in a harness on his front, and you are side by side with them, clasping the baby’s hand in yours, and your head leaning on Nathan’s shoulders. You’re all smiling, though none of you had managed to look at the camera, only at each other.

The sight of it makes Nathan’s throat constrict. Lights a fire of yearning in the pit of him. A fire he’s tried to quell and resist for so long – hasn’t let himself feel, because he’s afraid of the power of it.

He stares at his phone again, so many things he wishes to say, but all he has the courage to type is:

“Just letting you know. Byron’s back to bed now, before you ride me for keeping him up. Woke up scared.”

Your reply pings back almost immediately, as if you were expecting him.

“Come on, Nathan. I’m not a monster. It’s a sweet picture. He looks happy.”

Nathan scratches the top of his buzzed head, and he sees the tell-tale dots disappear and reappear, signalling you are considering typing something further.

“Say it,” he types out to you, blunt and demanding as ever, and although the dots disappear for a moment, you come back - finding some courage yourself, perhaps?

“I wish I was there too.” He wonders if you held your breath while typing it, like he did when reading it.

This time, it is Nathan’s turn to convey nothing but dots to you, as he struggles to respond. As his pulse thrums in his ears.

“Say it,” you echo, just as plainly.

He takes a deep breath, knowing he’s going to curse himself for his stupidity even as he types the message. He has been earning your trust back. He has been rebuilding. He hasn’t pushed you too far yet, and yet he can’t help but plead with you now.

He says what he most needs to say.

“Come home.”

He stares at the phone, his heart hammering in his mouth.

But there’s nothing. No message. No dots. He throws the phone down on the desk.

Fucking idiot, he chides himself, launching himself out of his seat with a surge of nervous energy, and coming to rest his forehead and elbow against the cool window pane as he tries to steady his nerves. This is why he doesn’t let himself feel. Because when he does, it’s too much.

Nathan’s best quality is also his worst. He isn’t a man of moderation. He doesn’t know how to stop. When to stop. He never has.

Doesn’t know when to stop working, drinking, striving, fighting.

Loving.

He loved you enough to split the sky open, and god damnit, he doesn’t know how to stop loving you. How can he solve this problem?

I pushed her away and she might never come back.

He feels a tightening in his chest - worse than before - and he has thoughts of reaching for a bottle until he’s blackout drunk, or hitting the punchbag until his knuckles bleed, but he bites those urges back down.

He has to. He has to, because his kid is in the house. For him. For you. For his own good too.

Gradually, Nathan -who once naively believed he had already attained perfection, superiority- has become a lot stronger, and a lot braver. A lot better at feeling his emotions instead of pushing them down. He has learned it from the boy, who learned it from you.

Still, despite this newfound courage -or, perhaps as a result of it- he has his moments of weakness, just like anybody else. He’s not untouchable. Not a god any longer.

Nathan is weak when it comes to you. He loves you. And he doesn’t know how to stop.

Overcome by the impulsive need to hear your voice, and ignoring all reason, he tracks back to the desk and calls you.

You answer almost instantly, as if you were expecting him.

“Nathan...” you say, in your eminently familiar voice, and he can he the agitation and accusation veiled as you say his name. What are you thinking? Always thinking. He’s always thinking. Yet, no- this time, he is only feeling. Finally feeling.

Still, Nathan doesn’t respond until a taut pattern of breaths has been laid like a tightrope for him to walk across.

Then, with a deep exhale, he asks you again. A plea. His face sharp and contorted in the blue light. He is terrified of falling.

“Come home.”

“Nathan...” you say, again. What are you thinking? And the sound of his name in your mouth causes a lump to rise in his throat. He hears your discombobulated breath on the other side of the line, and it is all too familiar. You were always charged, rubbing up against one another, causing static. He was always a storm; the one storm that could drive you away.

Come home.

“I wouldn’t even know how,” you insist, your voice paper thin, syllables soft and measured and sorry like raindrops drumming against a window pane.

You were always his release. If he was the energy and commotion and anger behind the storm -the severe, withholding clouds- you were its beauty and majesty and release. Together, you created life, and you destroyed each other.

Nathan hunkers over on the desk, leaning his head in his spare arm for some morsel of comfort, his guard up over his face.

“Just walk through the door tomorrow and stay,” he says tiredly, as if it’s simple.

He hears you sigh again, exasperatedly - the sound he induced all too often, when you were together.

“It didn’t work Nathan,” you say through your teeth, like lightning might spark through them at any moment. “How would this be any different?” Still, he can hear the tell-tale break in your voice. A gentle plea. God, could you really want to come back to him? If he could find the right answers to your questions?

“I’ll be different,” he promises, all the muscles in his face pulled taut. His face and his body aching with the tension of the sky splitting open, creation or destruction imminent.

Fuck it. Fuck everything else. Enough of this. The measured conversations, the co-parenting, the negotiations. You are what he wants - his family back together; home.

True- love hadn’t come easily to him at first. He was an asshole, a misanthrope, a closed book. Sex came easily to him. Desire. Infatuation. Thoughts of you, bordering on obsession as they took over his busy mind. But love? That too came, in the end. But love as a verb- the act of loving?

Nathan had sworn he didn’t want love at all, but then, there was you. He has sworn he had no desire for the legacy of a child, and yet, then there was the boy. For all his arrogance and grandiose dreams of the ways in which the whole world might remember him, he was finally ready to admit that all he wanted was to be remembered by you as a good husband, and by the boy as a good father.

He had never wanted to create another thing that hated him.

It didn’t come naturally to him at first. He was withholding, stubborn, rigid, and self-involved. Still, when he was motivated, there were other, finer qualities Nathan possessed too. Dedication, focus, discipline. When he was motivated, he possessed those in abundance. Turns out, love is one hell of a motivator.

Turns out, sometimes it is still not enough.

“I’m doing better,” he offers as he is met with silence, clenching his fist in discomfort as he hears you sniffing intermittently through the phone.

“I know,” you enthuse, your voice almost sickly with sincerity. “I know. I’m proud of you, Nathan.”

But Nathan doesn’t want your platitudes.

“Baby, please. I love you,” he pleads, and even in his plea his voice is stern. He refuses to let it crack. He states his truth as a cold, hard fact. He loves you. It’s undeniable. It’s logical, that you should be together.

“You know…. You know that I love you too.” you say, your voice small and full of holes. A sigh billowing out of you. “Shit, Nathan…” You sniff on the other end of the line with greater frequency – definitely crying. Nathan knits his brows together, his eyes brimming with tears that he fights back.

He thinks of all the times you cried and he didn’t reach out to you. He would give anything now to wipe your tears away.

“Come home, then,” he pleads, bluntly, swirling with hurt like silt stirred up by the rains. It hurts. It hurts to feel things. “Fuck, why are you so fucking stubborn?”

You huff out air as he snaps and instantly, he knows he’s fucked it. He wishes he could retract the words but it’s too late. They’ve already become breath. Already thunder, splitting his sky in two all over again.

He throws himself back in his chair in defeat, his hand rasping over his buzzed head in some unconscious attempt to comfort himself. “Shit, look, I just-”

When your voice interrupts him, it is perfectly smoothed out. Cold. Withholding.

So that’s how it feels.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Nathan.”

There is a beat, and you soften. You always soften. “I’ll come get him later so you can have some extra time, okay?”

Nathan sighs loudly, catching a glance of his calendar on the illuminated screen.

“Fuck. I have a meeting at 11am- I thought you would collect him early so I booked a board thing-” he says tiredly.

“Fine,” you bite off.

“No. Wait, I’ll rearrange,” he backtracks. “Let me have more time,” he reasons, his voice softening. He tips up the photo frame – that blessed and cursed item- and brings it to rest on his thigh, torturing himself with your smiling face. “Please. I need more time.”

You are silent for a moment, and this time when your voice comes back, it is level, but infused with intentional warmth. He hates that tone. That tone where he knows you are placating him rather than speaking your mind, just so he doesn’t do anything stupid. He hates that it must feel like you have a guillotine hanging over your head at all times, because you feel like you can’t push him over the edge.

“Fine. Get some sleep, Nathan, okay?”

He huffs out air, a sharp, self-pitying guffaw, and he rubs his eyes underneath his glasses, the frames lifting from the bridge of his nose. “Right. I can’t even fuckin’ sleep without you.”

There is another pattern of breaths, and whatever tightrope Nathan might have tried to walk across to reach you snaps. “Don’t do that, don’t guilt me, Nathan.”

The worst thing is, you don’t even sound angry. You just sound… tired.

“I’m sorry,” he pushes out, muffled through a hand over his beard, and though this time he means it, the words come out sounding entirely insincere.

“Sure. ‘Night. Try and get some rest, okay?”

Now that -that sounded genuine. Sincere. You never stopped looking out for him. Even if you couldn’t stand to be around him any longer.

“Yep,” he says tautly, with little feeling, and he hangs up, tightening his grip on the photo frame in his lap before slamming it back down on the desk along with his phone.

He leans back in his chair for a moment and buries his face in his hands. “Fuck.”

I pushed her away. I did that. I pushed her away.

With a knot building in his chest, partly out of need and partly out of habit, Nathan drags opens the desk drawer where an ever-replenishing stash of vodka used to reside. Where instead, he has taped a picture drawn by his son. For moments like this.

It helps, but it’s not always enough.

Nathan knits his brows together, his face set with a stony resolve, and his dark, turbulent eyes awash with a storm of emotion.

The boy. He’s braver than me.

Somehow, because he has to, perhaps- because he’s had to learn how, Nathan smooths himself. He cannot solve the problem of how to bring you home, when this simply isn’t home to you anymore. So, instead, he bathes himself in blue light. He basks in the glow of algorithms he can solve, and works and works his mind until it shuts off. Feeling to thinking to nothing.

I’m a force. A force of nature. A storm.

He can do anything he sets his mind to.

And… fuck. I pushed her away.

Anything, perhaps, except bring you back.

***

The next day, you arrive to collect your son.

It is familiar by now. It is an encounter that Nathan both longs for and dreads, in equal measure. Today, especially so; especially both.

Byron runs down the hallway and leaps into your arms, the sound of your laughter scooping Nathan out from the inside as you pepper the boy with kisses, a toothy smile on his angel face.

In these encounters, the moments are always too fleeting; always slipping away too quickly. It seems to happen so fast that it’s a blur to him, his mind zoning-out and working through a million things he wants to tell you, and simultaneously hyper-focussed on every single aspect of you he’s missed desperately. He wracks his brain for the right things to do and say, as if desperately searching for the one remnant of code- the one function or command that will simply make you stay.

With effort, he tunes back in to the scene as the boy wraps his arms around his leg.

“Did you pack Crunchy?” you ask Nathan, as he hands over the kid’s weekend bag to your waiting, outstretched arm.

His mouth opens to respond, but you are already unzipping it and rooting through the bag, checking in amongst the clothes and tiny boxing gloves and dolls for the dear mutt. You find him nestled in there safely, and you smile softly at Nathan for remembering.

You shouldn’t be surprised, he thinks. He remembers things – he remembers everything. It’s forgetting he typically needs a little more assistance with. Maybe he does look over his shoulder more than he’d care to admit.

You ruffle the boy’s crow black curls as he clings to his father’s leg, snapping your hand back as if you’ve been burned when Nathan opts for the same gesture in the same moment.

You opt to fold your arms against your chest instead, casually clearing your throat. “What did you do with Daddy then, baby? Have you had a good time?”

“We watched the storm,” the boy begins animatedly, swinging around Nathan’s sturdy leg, “and we did boxing and I learned a new combo,” the boy looks up at his father who nods and smiles gently in proud confirmation, hoisting the kid up on to his hip – a gesture that is becoming increasingly less rusty- “and we did a new trail to the glacier, and, um, what else Daddy?” Byron asks, waving his up-turned palms in the air and turning to his father for guidance. Nathan dips forward to whisper a prompt in his ear. “Oh yeah! And we watched Trolls and I put lots of my dolly’s bows in daddy’s beard,” the boys giggles, and scrunches his fingers through Nathan’s wiry hairs.

The kid’s smile is infectious, even fracturing Nathan’s stony resolve, and it has the three of you joined in a smile for a moment, until Nathan sees your eyes mist subtly over with tears as you observe the father and son together. You quickly quell them, but they don’t go unnoticed.

“Oh yeah?” you ask, voice expertly smoothed, and a masking smile on your face. The strength of you. “Did he look pretty?”

“Yeah, I guess he looked pretty,” the boy giggles. “And this morning Daddy taught me about static electric.... um-” the boys stumbles over his words for a second, and again looks to Nathan for guidance.

“You got it -go ahead,” Nathan encourages firmly.

The boy gains confidence, brushing his black curls out of his face with a little hand before continuing. “Static electricity, right?”

“Right, champ,” Nathan says, and as the boy barrels happily through his recital of events, Nathan barely realises that he’s holding him a little tighter, because with each moment that passes, so fleetingly, he feels it’s getting increasingly harder to think about letting him go.

“And Mommy, did you know this whole valley was made by a glacier that crawled all the way along and carved out all the shapes of the hills and then melted, like, a super long time ago?”

“You know, I did know that, but that’s smart of you to know too, baby,” you say fondly, a tremble at the corner of your lips that the kid doesn’t see, but Nathan is sharp enough to catch.

And then, suddenly, Nathan has no trouble contemplating passing the boy over into your arms, because you look like you need someone to hold too. However, as he motions to do so, Nathan can see tears threatening to spill out of the corner of your eyes. You shake your head subtly at Nathan in apology as you brush away a stray tear, in a moment you hope the boy won’t see, so, instead, Nathan sets your son down on the ground. He crouches and pulls the boy’s shoulders squarely to face him, providing you with a discreet moment to compose yourself.

“Hey, buddy,” he says softly. “I remembered I need to talk to your Mommy about boring grown-up stuff. Gas prices and 401ks and… major yawn. So, hot tip, you might wanna go and play in your room for 5. That okay, champ?”

“Okay,” the kid says, unphased, and skips off down the hall.

That leaves Nathan and you in the hallway. He hover-hands his palm against your lower back and gestures, with his other arm, towards the living space, guiding you towards the seating area.

You sit on opposite sofas, positions stiff and formal, hands clasped on laps. Your gaze looking just past Nathan because you can’t seem to meet his eyes.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks gently, feeling a lump grow in his throat. He hates this- how tense it is, when you used to be so intimate and relaxed around each other. “Why are you crying?”

Unlike Nathan, you were usually an open book, yet this time, you decline the invitation to share. You pinch your lips in between your teeth.

You’re so strong, and so brave that it breaks Nathan to see you succumb to tears like this. Plus, you’ve given so much already- so much love, and so much heart, and he hasn’t given you nearly enough back.

Still, he looks at you from beneath his lenses, gently encouraging, waiting until you are ready to share. Your gaze fixes on a spot in your lap. “I… It’s just. Seeing you and Byron together. Why in the hell couldn’t you have been this man while we were together, Nathan?”

Nathan’s heart aches at your words. Years ago, even months ago, he would have bristled. He would have snapped back at the insinuation that he was ever in the wrong. Ever less than godly.

This time though, he lets the sad truth settle over him like a dark cloud. And, as much as he wants to pull you towards him, he also- and he can’t believe he’s going to do this- he realises he needs to push you away from him one more time. There is only one way to solve this. To let you go. To realise it’s your choice. You are out of his control. Unsolvable.

He shifts his position, until he is perched on the coffee table in front of you, his palms resting on your knees and smoothing circles there. His dark, calculating eyes intent on yours, and for once unobscured by agendas. For once, he has things to say to you that aren’t intended to provoke a particular response, or establish a particular gain. He has things to say that he simply needs you to hear.

He needs to show you his fear. He needs to face the storm he was never too afraid to create, but was always quick to flee the wake of. Nathan imagines if he explains the storm, he can demystify it. Take its power away. Then, even if you don’t come home, at least there can be calm. Calm after the storm. Both of you able to move on, with all the cards laid out on the table.

With effort, he begins.

“I’m sorry,” Nathan says gently, and even with those two words a gentle sob wracks your chest, perhaps with the relief of a weight you didn’t know you were carrying. “Honestly, I don’t think I told you that and meant it yet. So, I’m sorry. About last night, by the way. But, shit, about everything that I did, and didn’t do…” Your hands come to clasp his in your lap, fingers gripping fingers tightly as his face contorts with regret. His dark eyes wander over your face as tears stream freely down your cheeks. Where once he would have shied away from you, in a state like this, now he has courage enough to be present.

“I missed you,” he continues, his voice tattered by emotion. “I miss you. I didn’t want to tell you that. Didn’t want to admit that I’m scared either. But I am. Of losing you. Scared that the best thing for us… the best thing for you, might be being without me. To get out of the black hole I suck everything in to.” Nathan tears his eyes away from yours as his vision becomes blurry with tears, his voice cracking. “I’m scared because I love you, and I love that fucking kid and I... I’m scared that I might get better, and be better… but that you, and him… that you still might deserve better. Better than me. So, I’m sorry. Actually fuckin’ sorry, for all the ways I’ve been a dick. Shut you out. Put you last. Made you hurt.”

“Nathan,” you breathe through tears, as if you can’t fathom this onslaught- this emotion tearing your chest in two, like the sky on that night.

He reaches up to fumble some tears away from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I need you to know that I finally see it, even if it is too late,” Nathan nods to himself, eyes fixed down at your hands clasped in his. “I see that if had to lose you to realise what I had; I never did deserve you. You’re so… fuckin’ unreal. And he’s just like you. And,” Nathan presses on, despite the mortifying ordeal of baring his heart to you. Despite the tears which finally spike out of the corners of his eyes too. “I need you to know. Even if it didn’t last forever… This fuckin’ family? It will always be the best thing I ever created. And if there’s one thing I want to be remembered for- any fuckin’ legacy I wanna have, I just… I need it to be known that I love you, and I love that fuckin’ kid. I want you to be happy, and I’ll always regret that I didn’t make you happy while I had the chance to.” He huffs out another small, self-pitying laugh “Guess in the end, I’m an idiot; not a genius. Guess I should have realised that when I got stabbed by my own AI…”

He drags his big brown eyes back up to meet yours from beneath his lenses, and your eyes are shining softly at him, brimming with bittersweet pain, and you tug him into you for a hug, holding him close and your tears wetting each other’s shoulder.

After a moment he pulls away and settles himself back on the edge of the coffee table, already missing your embrace.

“You did. You made me happy, Nathan,” you promise. “So, so happy, and so, so miserable,” you let out a small, self-pitying laugh too, and then suddenly you are both laughing, as bizarre at that seems, as you palm the tears away from your puffed cheeks.

When the laughter fades, you reach out and place your palm fondly on the side of his face. Nathan knew that even in all his years of marriage, he had never been so vulnerable with you as he had been just now. He knew that had been precisely part of the problem. He had thought it would feel horrible to open up, but he finds that he feels fresh, like ground after nourishing rain.

Your gaze flicks back to him, and he swears he can read the look in your eyes.

Why couldn’t I have been this man when we were together?

Then, it is as if you remember you are touching him. You snap your hand back from him, and back from the brink as if you have been burned. It would be so easy, Nathan thinks. So easy to just fall back into you. As if wrestling with the exact same thought, you surge up from your seat, wiping the remainder of your tears away and immediately putting some distance between the two of you. You track to the nearby mirror, leaning forward to fix your appearance a little, before the boy returns.

Nathan watches you fondly. Longingly.

You turn back to him again, a little more composed, and retake your seat opposite him – in the same spot, but feeling much further away this time.

You bite your lips between your teeth, gazing at that same spot on your lap again.

He wishes he could reach out to you. Take in the textures and scents and feel of you in all your glory. But he does not want you to jump away as if you’ve been struck by lightning.

“I miss you too, you know? I miss our family. When it was good it was…” your voice is small and you trail off, perhaps not wanting to look too far over your shoulder. With a visible effort, you seem to drag yourself back to the present. “Byron adores you, you know that? I don’t think I’ve told you this since we… but you’re a good father, Nathan.”

A pride ignites in Nathan unlike anything he’s felt before.

He opens his mouth as if to speak, and instantly closes it again, his throat bobbing around a hard swallow before he can push his words out.

“Just a terrible husband?”

You shake your head. “No,” you say, with a wistful expression on your face, and Nathan is surprised that you sound sincere. “No, not terrible at all.”

Nathan knew his flaws well enough, but you always reminded him of his attributes. You never poisoned the boy against him, even though the split was largely on him – a fact he had denied for a long time, because it was your decision. And, because of your strength and commitment to that, the three of you -oddly- had never made a better team than you do now.

He examines your face. Your beautiful face.

Come home. Please.

For your sake, he makes an effort to lift his thin smile up until it creases the corner of his eyes.

“I think you’re forgetting what an asshole I can be,” he smiles lopsidedly at you and succeeds in lightening the air. Lightening it a little too much. Enough that there is an alarming hint in your eyes of what used to be there for him. He hopes it is not the shining of false hope.

It would be so easy. So easy to kiss you.

You chew some words over in your mouth, and Nathan can see their failure to launch on a couple of breaths as you wring your hands in front of you.

“You, um. Last night… you asked me to come home.”

Nathan’s breath stalls in his chest.

“Did you mean it?”

Nathan can’t speak suddenly. He can only nod, slowly, tears sparkling in his eyes as he looks at you.

“I could… I could never just move back in. It didn’t work, Nathan. But… maybe…”

Nathan holds his breath, like a latent storm, the hint of a new energy buzzing in the space between you.

“Maybe,” you continue tentatively. “We could start over again. See if we can build something new. Not the same old patterns. No looking over our shoulders or trying to resurrect what’s long-dead. Instead, maybe we – I don’t know- try to create something… new?”

While the sky is rife with creation.

“You’re good at that. Building things,” you finish, fondly, everything about you tentative yet somehow hopeful, and Nathan’s chest constricts, his blood thrumming nervously through his body in a blind panic.

Just shut up, Nathan, and don’t fuck this. Just refrain from being a dick for five fuckin’ minutes.

The muscles in his jaw twitch. The vein on his forehead pops, yet his whole body is still. Breath bated.

“Like, fresh code?” he asks, with shining, hopeful eyes.

You nod, and it is the tiniest gesture, but one that means the absolute world to him.

A new way of doing things. Moving forward. Looking ahead.

“Sure, I guess - fresh code.”

Don’t fuck it up, Bateman, you fucking shithead.

“Yeah,” he agrees weakly, yet with all the conviction in the world. “How?”

Anything.

You nibble on your lower lip, thinking things through as you go. “Take me out for dinner. A first date. Somewhere away from this goddamn house. From everything that happened. All the… mistakes.” As Nathan’s eyes swim with guilt and regret, you squeeze his hand, dipping your head towards his to catch his gaze. “Yours and mine.”

“Yeah. Yeah, ok,” Nathan responds, his eyes glowing as they meet yours.

He immediately feels you withdraw from his burning hope, and so he consciously tries to reel his natural intensity in.

“No promises, Nathan,” you caution, firmly.

He nods, slowly. Outwardly disciplined and measured.

Don’t fuck it. Do not fuck this, you mother fucker.

“And please, don’t get his hopes up?” you say as a quick aside before delivering a broad smile over Nathan’s shoulder, signalling that the kid had arrived back in the vicinity.

The boy runs over and starts happily wheeling a toy news truck over Nathan’s thigh. The man unconsciously, automatically, winds his arm around his son and dips a kiss into his black curls, causing your eyes to shine softly in admiration. “I love you, champ,” Nathan says, the words heavy with the weight of his feeling even as he reaches to tickle the boy’s tummy, earning a chaotic giggle.

“Love you too, Daddy,” the boy replies, but Nathan pats him gently on the back.

“Time to go though, bud.”

“Yeah, baby. We should… go,” you announce, and yet there is a tug of hesitation in your voice. A rope binding you to Nathan which he is desperate to reel in; however, he pushed you so far away, and he knows that if you do come back to him, it must be on your terms. In your own time. He understands now.

Nathan leads the two of you to the door and helps pile all of the bags into the trunk of your truck. You strap Byron into his car seat, and Nathan dips to bid him farewell. “Ok, get out of here, kid. Look after your Mommy, you hear me? She’s special.”

There is a moment, before you open the door to slot into the driver’s side that Nathan comes to face you, his hands stuffed into his pockets, a familiar furrow in his brow and tight-lipped expression on his stony, impassive face. “When was the last time you had your tyres checked?” he wonders idly, shifting forward to poke at the tread on the front wheel and finding them satisfactorily safe.

He is surprised to find you smiling softly at him when he looks back at you. You seem like you can’t help yourself, but you lean forward and press a kiss into Nathan’s cheek, your face lingering against his as he closes his eyes and leans in to it, just a little.

You pull back from him, your hand clasped around his upper arm. “We love you, Nathan. Will you be okay?”

His eyes grow overcast. “Uh, don’t like it when you go,” he states plainly, his brow pulled down and cloaking his big, brown eyes with shadow.

You nod in understanding.

“Text me later. About dinner,” you add casually before you slot yourself into the truck. Still, he can see you tearing up, just a little.

“You mean it?” he asks, his stare intense.

“Dinner and we’ll see, okay? No promises.”

He had made you so many promises that were broken.

Nathan nods his agreement and you clasp the door shut. Reluctantly, Nathan steps aside as you swing the truck around, and he doesn’t stick around to wave you off, aside from a quick hand in the air for the boy.

He doesn’t like it when you leave.

He knew he had pushed you away, and now, just maybe you would come back to him. He feels hopeful- ecstatic even- at the prospect, but he can’t help but feel a little guilty. A little selfish too. He feels as though he’s sucking you in to a black hole all over again. He thinks maybe it would be better for you if you could escape him.

But, as Nathan settles back in his chair down in the lab, and gazes at the framed picture of his family, he knows that as much as he has grown and changed - because he’s had to, with you gone- that he will never quite be selfless enough to let you go.

I’m a force. A force of nature. A storm.

You had always revelled in storms. You were always happiest when it rained. Maybe this time, he could make you so, so happy, without the miserable.

Oh, how he hopes.

Don’t fuck it up, Bateman, he thinks, glancing at the picture one more time. Don’t you ever fuckin’ push her away.

This time, he pledges to stop looking over his shoulder, and looks ahead to something new.

That’s what he’s best at.

Fresh code.

He types away, and his chest feels lighter than it has in a long time.

The calm after the storm, perhaps.

#nathan bateman x reader #nathan bateman #ex machina fanfiction #oscar isaac #nathan bateman angst

587 notes · View notes

sedated-love · 4 years ago

Text

Denki x Reader

TW - Mommy Kink

ALRIGHTY, THIS IS FOR MY GIRLS, MY GAYS AND MY THEYS!! I HAVE NO REGRETS OVER THIS AS I AM WHORE KNEE!!!

Seriously tho this fic is 3000 words so I really hope you guys enjoy! If you like it, please take the time to reblog <3 It helps a ton! Also if you have any suggestions for what I write in the future, please feel free to leave them in my ask box!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Come on, please~?”

Denki pulled his best puppy dog face as he tried to push his head in between you and the notes that you were writing. You loved your boyfriend dearly, but he had the tendency to be a bit annoying at times. Especially when you were trying to get important work done like right now. You normally loved how clingy and loveable he was but when you had an exam tomorrow, it made things a bit more difficult when he was all up in your space.

“I already told you, baby, I have to finish these first.”

You playfully pushed his face away which immediately resulted in a pouty boyfriend as he snuggled right back up to your side without hesitation. He rested his head on your shoulder, his lips pressed right against his ear as he spoke in a hushed whisper. “Please, mommy~?” His voice dropped an octave as he spoke. His normal playful cheery tone was much deeper and laced with something that made butterflies tingle throughout your stomach.

“Bed. Now.”

You sighed as you pushed your notes aside, standing up from the couch as you watched him run off towards the bedroom with an excited pep in his step. You couldn’t help but smile as your shook your head, following after your needy boyfriend as he somehow always got his way no matter what. You supposed you could work on your notes after you tended to him…Afterall, by the time you were done he would be a cute cuddly mess which would make working on what you needed to get done much easier than when he was loud and energetic.

“Someone’s eager.”

You walked into the bedroom to see Denki laying on the bed, shirt already off and he was working on wiggling off his jeans as he looked up to greet you. A toothy grin appeared on his face as he pushed his jeans the rest of the way off, leaving him in his boxers as he tossed them absentmindedly towards the other side of the room.

“How can I not be when my beautiful partner is waiting for me~”

“Flattery will get you nowhere…or did you forget that you interrupted mommy’s studying when she clearly told you to wait.”

You purposefully dropped your tone as you looked down at your baby boy with a disapproving look. You watched as his adam’s apple bobbed slightly as he gulped, his face stripping of his playful grin and becoming the picture perfect definition of submissive as a light blush flushed across his cheeks. “I just couldn’t hold myself back…” He adverted his gaze shyly, but you could already see the bulge growing in his boxers.

“Pervert. You like it when you get in trouble with mommy, don’t you?”

You crawled on top of him on the bed, poking playfully at his member which was straining against the fabric. “Looks like my baby boy has already gotten so excited for me~ Isn’t that right~?” He melted completely underneath of you, almost like he was a different person entirely as the cocky playful attitude was replaced with a submissive shy boy. You loved seeing him like this. He always looked so beautiful when he was blushing so prettily underneath of you. It made you think about skipping the punishment all together. However, your baby boy needed to learn his place.

“Go get mommy’s things for me, baby. Then we’ll begin.”

Your voice dropped again as you used your mommy tone, making sure he knew not to disobey as you sat on the edge of the bed and watched as he went to go grab everything that you would need. He was trained well enough to know not to miss a single item as he came back to you with all of the items you would be using on him tonight.

“Good boy~ Now…Ass. Here.”

You pointed to your lap, watching as he scrambled to drape himself over it, setting all of the items that he had collected on the bed next to you so you would have easy access to everything you needed. “You listen so well when you know that you are in trouble~ Are you afraid of upsetting mommy more~?” You rubbed his ass through his boxers, watching as his body shivered slightly from where he laid over your lap, his ass propped up slightly so you could touch it with ease.

You pulled his boxers down so that they pooled against his knees on the bed, letting his bare ass be exposed to the chilly air before you went back to rubbing one of his cheeks with a firm hand. “You look so pretty like this, baby boy~ So exposed for mommy~” You grabbed the paddle, one of the tools that he had grabbed for you, before you held it against his ass, tapping it against him lightly so he would know exactly what you were doing. “It’s a shame mommy has to punish such a pretty boy…Color?”

You waited for him to answer before you continued, wanting to make sure you’re precious boy was doing okay enough for this tonight. “Green.” His voice came out shy and wrecked, almost as if he were in sub space before you even did anything to him. A pleased hum left your lips as you grabbed his face with your free hand so that you could place a reward kiss on his lips for answering you so clearly.

“Good boy~ I’m going to need you to count for mommy, okay~? Think you can do that, baby~?”

The shy nod was all you needed to get started as you pulled the paddle back before colliding it against his ass cheeks. You knew exactly where to hit and just how hard to leaving it stinging but not painful as you knew how much your boy loved a slight shock. “O-One” His voice came out so angelic as he spoke for you, soft whines leaving his lips as he shook his ass slightly, almost as if begging for another hit.

“What a perverted boy~ Mommy is going to strike you ten times, okay?”

“Yes mommy~”

“Good boy~”

You stroke his ass again, a little harder than the last time as you made sure his sensitive bare skin would be able to take the hit of the paddle. You waited for him to give you a number before you swatted him again, watching as his ass slowly turned a bright shade of red under the harsh love you were giving it. You kept hitting him at a solid pace, giving him a few seconds in between each whack to make sure that he was both okay and would be able to adjust to the soft stinging of his bottom.

“T-Ten…”

His voice sounded so much softer now as he counted out the final number. You hummed, setting the paddle to the side as you started to rub your bare hand against his sore ass, watching how he quivered and mewled ever so softly as you massaged the sensitive skin. “You did so well baby~ Mommy is so proud of how well you took your punishment~” You patted his ass softly, a signal for him to get up as the two of you had a number of hand motions or signals for each other in the bedroom that didn’t require words.

He did so immediately, the hard on standing proud against his stomach immediately catching your attention. “Oh~ Did my baby boy like his punishment~?” You looked up at him as he was kneeling on the bed, making the delicious treat at head level. It was impossible for you to hold back when it was right in front of you like that. “Y-Yes mommy…”

You purred softly, licking up the length of his member before taking him to the back of your throat without warning, causing a loud moan to escape from his pretty lips. He was so easy to break. It was adorable to you how cocky he would act until you actually started messing with him and then he was nothing more than mommy’s good little boy. You held his thighs in your hands as you bobbed your head from where you were sitting on the edge of the bed.

You could already feel his legs begin to tremble slightly from the pleasure as he hit the back of your throat every time you pushed your head down. He always let out the cutest noises when you sucked him off. You felt around behind you as you sucked him off, humming softly in approval around his cock as you felt what you were looking for. You popped open the bottle of lube squirting some onto your fingertips before reaching around him as you never stopped sucking and lapping at his heart member.

His hands entangled themselves in your hair but when you looked up at him, his eyes were closed in bliss, leaving him completely unaware for what you were about to do next. Perfect. Your slicked-up fingers pressed against his entrance, rubbing along the rim which drawled out a surprised yelp from your boyfriend. He looked down at you with his cheeks flushed almost as red as his ass was after his punishment, but you didn’t stop.

The trust between the two of you was good enough that you knew Denki would use his safe word if you were to do something he didn’t like. However, you had been with him long enough that you knew he loved when you fingered him. He was quite the slut for it, actually, as he always moaned so loudly and would buck back against your fingers so eagerly.

You pushed your index finger inside of him first, slowly wiggling it to help open him up as he quickly became butter around your finger. He relaxed so easily for you that you would have praised him if your mouth wasn’t already full of his cock. You slipped in a second finger with ease, rubbing it along his walls and scissoring him open as his cock fucked deep into the back of your throat.

“M-Mommy….If you continue that….I-I’ll…”

His voice became so whiney but that was your cue to pull your fingers out and your lips from his cock, causing a lewd pop to fill the room. You watched him whimper and whine as he dropped back onto his plump ass, leaving him looking wrecked as he sat in front of you with a pouty look written all over his face that made it difficult for you to hold back a laugh. “I can’t have you cumming too early, baby boy~” You hummed as you grabbed a few of the toys before stopping. He had been rather good tonight so you supposed you could let him choose what he wants to do as a treat.

“Do you want mommy to ride you or do you want me to dick you down, sweetheart~?”

“R-Ride me…”

You hummed in approval, dropping the toys before you stood up to strip. You could tell his eyes were glued to your body for every second of it as you made a show of being extra slow when it came to your panties and bra. He was practically drooling as he watched you, his dick twitching so eagerly against his stomach that you were half convinced that he was going to cum before you would even get the chance to take care of him properly.

“Like what you see?”

You hummed as you pushed him lightly so that he would get the hint to lady down as you started to rub your now bare pussy along his cock without actually giving him the pleasure of being inside the wet heat. You could see how needy he was becoming as he weakly grabbed onto your hips, his eyes focused on you as he kept looking between where you were rubbing right along your cock and your face.

“M-Mommy…”

He let out a slightly frustrated whine when you hadn’t taken him yet, bucking his hips against you as if trying to do it himself yet you place a hand on his chest to stop him. “Use your big boy words.” You could already see the big pout forming on his face when you were going to make him beg for it properly but you knew he wanted it bad enough that he would do it and you loved to hear the pretty things that he would say just to get inside of you.

“P-Please mommy…I need to be inside of you…Please take my cock, mommy~”

His back arched slightly as he bucked his hips up more and how could you say no to such a pretty face? “Alright baby, hold on~” You leaned down to place a soft kiss against his lips while you grabbed his cock and lined him up with your entrance. He kissed you back sloppily, seeming to be a complete needy wreck underneath you and you hadn’t even fucked him yet. You knew he was just about to get so much worse as you pushed yourself down onto his thick cock.

You were already so wet that you took him with ease, letting out a soft moan as he filled you up, making you feel so warm and full inside. “Does it feel good inside mommy~?” You couldn’t help but purr as you watched his eyes roll back slightly as he bottomed out inside of you, his finger tips sparking slightly against your hips, feeling like static when you run on carpet with your socks on and then try to touch a door knob.

“Y-Ye…s….feels….s-so good in mommy~”

You couldn’t help the soft giggle when he could barely get out a coherent sentence, but your amusement didn’t last long as his grip suddenly tightened, and he started bucking up into you roughly. A loud surprised moan left your lips as pleasure was shocked throughout your body as he suddenly took control, making it practically impossible for you to think straight when he was pounding into you so harshly. You could feel him against your sweet spot with every thrust, making your toes curl as his grip was so tight against your hips he was bound to leave bruises there for you to wake up to tomorrow.

“Mommy~ fuck~ mommy~”

He whined out loudly, seeming completely ignorant to his own rough actions as he fucked you so good that you were seeing stars, allowing you no time to adjust to his fast rough pace as his hips bucked uncontrollably. “F-Feels so good~ ngh~ Can’t help…myself~!!”

“B-Baby-”

Your own loud moans mixed with his as you flushed in embarrassment at how easily you had lost control to him. How were you supposed to know he was going to start fucking into you like a feral animal? He gave you no warning as he completely lost control, his thrusts being sloppy but somehow that just made it all the more erotic as you both melted into the ecstasy.

You could feel the tip of his cock pounding deep inside of you with every harsh thrust as he practically lifted you all the way off of his cock before slamming you back down to meet his thrusts. You sometimes forgot how strong he was until moments like this, but you weren’t able to focus on that for very long as he was quickly turning your brain into nothing but mush.

You could feel the familiar heat boiling in your stomach embarrassingly fast, but it was hard to hold back when he was slamming into you so roughly without letting up. “D-Den..ki~!” You leaned down, slamming your lips against his in a messy kiss as the both of you were too far gone to make anything orderly right now. Somehow that just made things all the more erotic as your tongues met in a sloppy kiss that left drool running down your chin.

You couldn’t bring yourself to care about whether or not that was gross as both of your moans only seemed to get louder the closer you both got, muffled against eachother’s lips. You pulled away from the kiss as you came against his cock, a loud squeal of pleasure that you could barely recognize as your own leaving the back of your throat as you drenched his thighs as you came.

Shame and embarrassment filled you as you noticed just how much of a mess you made. You didn’t normally squirt when you came but it just kept coming out as he kept thrusting into you even after you had cummed. The over stimulation had your eyes rolling back in pleasure as your back arched from the overwhelming feeling filling your body.

You knew you were going to cum again if he kept up this rough pace as you were too sensitive after having just released but he didn’t let up. “D-Denki…wa-wait~” Your words were lost as he almost seemed to pound into you harder as he chased after his own orgasm, his loud moans filling your ears as he slammed as deep inside of you as he physically could before cumming. The rough thrust is what did you in, making you spill over the edge all over again as you cummed a second time while he filled you up with his warmth. A mixture of both of your cum covered his thighs and the sheets as you collapsed on top of him, completely exhausted.

“You’re unbelievable…”

Your voice came out quiet as your heat rested against his chest, making his rapid heartbeat loud against your ear. Hearing it made you smile though as you closed your eyes to take it in while you both slowly rode out your highs. You only opened your eyes when he chuckled softly, making you look up at him with confusion written all over your face as to what exactly was so funny.

“Don’t you still have notes to do?”

“Shut up…”

#denki smut #Kaminari Denki #denki x reader #denki x y/n #mha #my hero academia #mha smut

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bread-elf · 3 years ago

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DWC 2021 - Day 1

This story revolves around a side character deeply involved in Jiroki's backstory. For more context on this character, you're more than welcome to read from the beginning, somewhere in the middle, or his end.

Afterlife Shadowlands, pre Chains of Dominion “I love you. I’m sorry.” The last words spoken by Rydras Feathergrazer, his strength waning as he looks up at his most cherished beloved, who he had purposely distanced himself from for so many years. Now laying in her arms he watches the weeping face of the Kaldorei woman, sea green hair spilling out from the bun she had made before the battle. The wounds on him blistered with fel corruption and seared his skin, and he could barely breath as is. But that no longer was a problem once she had honored his last wish. Their hands intertwined together around the hilt of his own dagger, and he only feels a pinch before he lets himself slip away with ease. And yet, he opened his eyes again. Blinded by the luscious blue forests of Ardenweald, he finds himself amongst protectors of the forest, both present and past, for he gave his life for the Wilds. And that was worthy enough to become one with the great forest beyond.

A new purpose given, and no longer in the mortal realm, he reformed himself. No longer Night Elf, no longer Rydras, he chose to glide through the forest as an Owl, once a favorite form in life. But now he embodied it, another soul amongst hundreds of thousands to serve the forest. He knew of other souls who lived here, such as Arileath and Sheradal, a couple who once treated him like a son, parents of once a dearly beloved of his. Both now at peace, guardians as well for their duties. Years pass for the living as the dead remain secluded. Though the Owl had anticipated eternal peace, a drought begins in his precious forest, and the Drust soon follows. Strange times indeed, apparently even the dead can still live in vain. And what’s more, mortals from the living world begin to slowly spill in, doing everything in their power to keep the delicate balance of the Shadowlands intact before all is ruined. Some souls steered clear of the living, as did the Owl. Having no need to interact with them, nor did he want to be reminded of the flawed emotions of the living. And each time he found himself watching any of the living, inklings of curiosities and old faces beginning to surface, he reprimends himself and widened the distance of his past self. Even now, up high in his chosen roost, he finds himself shooing away the past as another soul scurries up the tree in haste. “Spriggans! Spriggans!” The soul in the shape of a squirrel, though the Owl is familiar with this one. “Spriggans attack the mortals!” “And?” The Owl rarely spoke, but he chose to do so to regard the squirrel. “Why are you here? Go and tell the Wild Hunt. There is nothing I can do.” “You were asked by name!” The squirrel lingers near the edges of the Owl’s nest, trying to be respectful, but still urgent. The Owl’s head swivels hearing that, but the soul continues to speak. “And for Arileath and Sheradal! A mortal you all know!” “What-?” The Owl feels something inside of his stomach and chest. A sudden clutching of anxiety, and fear. “But-” The squirrel seems to have no other information to offer, suddenly scurrying back down the tree and leaving the Owl alone. Large wings spread, and the Owl now finds himself sweeping through the forest once more to find this mortal. Only a few faces come to mind who would know of all three of these souls. Faces that the Owl had worked hard on dismissing. If their time comes and they come to Ardenweald, then he would welcome them. But who knows if they were alive or elsewhere in the Shadowlands, and he had already accepted he would never see them again. And now the wall he had worked so hard on began to crumple, memories of his former life beginning to trickle in. Of his dear friend Brethilon, of his time as a druid, with his Shan’do Arileath, the way he had denied himself of her for so long. Much of Ardenweald had decayed away due to the drought, so his scope to look around is much smaller, for better or for worse. Though he spots the familiar souls of Sheradel and Arileath, both bears, regarding a being made of living flesh and bone. An elf like he once was, tall and proud but shaking with emotions, sea green hair spilling down to conceal her face as she wept. Something lurches inside of the Owl, his flight faltering as he quickly makes a landing. Though he had no heart, it was like he was still in his mortal flesh and something squeezed it, and for the first time in ages he felt the desire to run. For a moment he scrambles, clumsy as an owl on the floor and feeling out of breath, and in his desperation he takes on his spiritual elven form and uses those legs to run. A ghost from the past, Rydras Feathergrazer stops at a hard halt once Jiroki is just yards away from him. The last image of her burns inside his mind’s eye, her moonlit eyes weeping and filled with sorrow as she puts him down like a dog. Though as the woman turns, she is different than he remembers. Scars line her cheek and ears, her tangled hair decorated in a way he’s never seen before, those moonlit eyes now the dark side of the moon. But the way

they widen, how she reels back in shock, the sudden tension of her body; the way that only she can move that he remembers. Jiroki clasps her hands over her mouth, already beginning to shed tears as she once again see’s the face of her first love. Even Rydras feels something stinging at his own eyes, though he had no means to cry. But he feels a surge of emotions inside of him; so much love, so much regret, so much grief. No longer thinking straight as a jumble of words come into his mind, his chest and head feeling like they’re about to explode, and so he lets it all out like a flood.

youtube

“I’m in love with you!” He blurts out words he could never make himself say until the bitter end, and that causes Jiroki to create a shocked and confused expression. But he will never have another chance. “You heard me!” Jiroki blinked back tears, trying to process this sudden occurrence between the two of them. He is the first to turn her into a woman, and also to break her heart, yet also the longest love she has ever had, will ever have. And after killing him, after living with her biggest regrets all these years, he stands before her now speaking this. In his desperation, he continues. “I’m in love with you!” Hands come up to grip the sides of his head, as if trying to prevent it from splitting open. “And I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable! And that we’re all doomed...” His hands throw out to the surrounding forest of the Afterlife, slowly withering away. “And that one day, all of our labors will be returned to dust! And I know that the sun will swallow the only earth we will ever have!” And then he looks at her. “... And I’m in love with you!” Suddenly the energy is sapped out of him, his confession finally spoken after all this time, and weakly his arms fall. “... Sorry...” A strangled cry escapes Jiroki’s throat, no longer able to bury it. She feels like throwing up, but she endures, just so she can run to him. The reaction is unexpected to Rydras, but he himself runs to her as well, and they embrace as best they can as soul and mortal. Her body trembles and she cannot stand, so he slumps to the ground with her, both on their knees as they weep together. Though no longer living, Rydras feels his insides tearing up as he mourns with her, at the loss they both share, yet there’s something else mixed in. He can finally be at proper peace, for he told the woman he loved his feelings. @daily-writing-challenge

#stories #Youtube

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ginnywasafriendofmine · 4 years ago

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So I wrote this last night while wondering if things could have turned out differently if James Potters parents had survived. It evolved in a way I didn't expect (Euphemia Potter, where have you been hiding?) It's not finished either, but here is what I have so far...

They lived

When Fleamont Potter first felt the stirrings of pain, deep in his chest-he ignored it. He was no healer, and it was to be expected in his age after all. He ignored it when he felt it flutter through his spine, passed it off as a working hazard when he felt a pang in his knees. (He shouldn’t have been fiddling with that old cauldron anyways).

But when his wife said to him, almost idly at the fireside-

“Will you remind me to owl Healer Robbins in the morning? I had a strange pain in my shoulder earlier, and it doesn’t seem to have gone away just yet.”

Fleamont looked at his wife, her hands quick and nimble as they laced glimmering threads through soft fabric. He looked at his wife, and saw his life’s love before him. He saw the dark eyes that had drawn him to her, the sharp wit of her tongue and the power and grace he knew not. He saw beyond her greying hair and the fine lines that told stories of their joy, and saw the life they had built. The garden they had cultivated, the business that had flourished beneath their feet, the son who had his mothers eyes as well as her spirit, her spark, her joy.

Fleamont looked at his wife, his partner and knew that the world would be just that dimmer without her.

“Actually dear, I think we should owl them tonight.”

Their young son, his dark head of hair ducking under the mantle as he arrived, joined them at St. Mungos, his glowing wife at his side, her fingers weaving knots into her robes. James paled as he watched the Healers gather around the ones who had given him life, and he rushed to call his brother to his side, their dark heads bowed together as they sat in the crowded little waiting room.

So Fleamont saved his wife, but he died that Thursday afternoon with his little family gathered at his bedside, his last act of love surviving without him.

Lily Potter may have danced with her new father-in-law at her wedding, his beaming smile as bright as the candles flickering around them but it was to her husband's mother, alone, that she passed her newborn baby to.

Harry Fleamont Potter felt a fitting tribute, and James was sure he wasn’t imagining the tears sparkling in his mothers eyes.

Harry learned to walk through his grandmother's begonias, the ones that, in another life he may have walked towards his namesake. Or in another life, he would not know existed at all.

When the war which had brewed around them throughout their adolescence came knocking at their door, James cloistered his young family into Godric's Hollow, leaving his mother alone at the Manor where he had frolicked and grown and on one fine summer's day wed his now targeted wife.

James did not apologise to his mother as he kissed her goodbye. He didn't need to.

Her second son, the one whose hair was as Black as his name, as black as the scorch mark his birth mother had left in his wake, loped through the wards every few days. Neither of them dared voice the hope, that courageous flighty thing that had found a home within their chests as they sipped their tea, watching sunsets that should have been savoured.

But they did dare to hope, they dared to trust. And James Potter, who may have his mothers eyes and her spirit, also had his fathers unwavering loyalty. He trusted the wrong man.

(and their protection fell, shocks of green light rang through the air, and a boy who had found love and joy in the presence of his first friend, found his worst nightmare come to life instead as he rushed through the air on a motorbike he would soon hand away).

And the dog chased the rat, and the rat knew how to disappear when all the dog knew how to do was grieve.

Fleamont’s last act of devotion didn’t change the fact that Euphemia woke up on November 1st with an intrinsic feeling of dread. When she opened the door she wasn’t faced with a scarred orphan as a shrieking Petunia Dursley was three counties over, but with the weary and regretful eyes of the men in red robes who had come to symbolise loss in their world.

Euphemia managed to hold it together, her head held high until they used the words ‘Death Eater’ and ‘Sirius Black’ in the same sentence. Only then did she start to laugh, that horrible haunting laugh that only Blacks could. For Euphemia may have looked like her mother who had grown up across the world, but she was still a Black.

The two men, who had expected a feeble old woman and had gotten a glimpse of true Black madness did not think to question her when she demanded an escort to the Ministry. For her dear, kind son and his brave and bright wife would have to wait, their bodies still and cool as they would be for eternity, for it was her second son who needed her now. Her second son who sat in a stone cell and had cried himself to sleep.

For all that Remus-scarred, sweet, lonely and heartbroken-thought it was Sirius still, Euphemia knew her son. She knew he couldn’t be responsible for this. She also knew the look in a boy’s eyes when envy and greed had made its way deep into his heart, and she had seen it on Peter Pettigrew’s face one too many times to be as trusting as her dearly departed son.

With the power of her husband's name and his wealth she bullied an unsuspecting Barty Crouch into a trial the very next day, where a relieved Remus sat beside her, shaking while she was still. Later Sirius had wept apologies into her cloak, his regret tangible and as dark as his hatred for the man he had once called a brother.

Sirius did not spend his 22nd birthday as he had planned, holed up with three Potters, being plied with cake and butterbeer, but he spent it screaming at the man he had once called a leader, at the man whose heart may have been heavy with regret, but whose hands still meddled in places he ought not to touch.

The day after they gathered in Godric’s Hollow and watched a pair of twin coffins lowered into the fresh earth.

(While miles away, Harry cried for his mother and wondered why this woman who did not resemble anyone he knew had hands as sharp as her beady eyes).

Euphemia had saved her son from twelve years in Azkaban, but that did not mean she was going to leave the precious boy that had somehow survived, her husband's namesake, with a woman who had hated her own sister nearly as much as she had once loved her.

Euphemia hadn’t expected Dumbledore to interfere.

Dumbledore had expected Euphemia to acquiesce once he had explained with words like blood protection, and love sickly sweet on his tongue.

But she did not.

Perhaps, in another world-one where Fleamont survived the night that his dear wife did, this would have played out differently. Quieter perhaps.

But Euphemia was different from Monty. She had grown up having to hold her head up, high, above the snickers and the stares and the comments. She had grown up between two worlds; not white enough, not dark enough. Having to make space for herself in a world that did not know what to do with her.

When she first visited her family in India it wasn’t the overwhelming feeling of joy, she had expected, but rather a deep, dark loss in her soul. A wanting, a longing, a missing she would never truly understand. The colours were just as vivid, the smells just as enchanting, the sounds, the streets filled with life. But Mia had grown up across the world, where she’d had to learn to pronounce her r’s just so, how to preen, and dress and and hide so much of herself away that she’d never really found it again. Mia had grown up with a mother who was just as much a British citizen as everyone else around them, but different in a way they would never understand.

(It was only when she met a man with eyes as deep as the ocean, and a smile that made her feel like she could soar did she feel she was coming out of the seams. Bit by painstaking bit).

So yes, Monty, with his lineage and his old money and his class wouldn’t have dared, his fight would have taken place quietly, behind the scenes, where there was no fuss, no ruckus.

But Monty wasn’t here anymore, and Mia had spent her life being quiet.

So she raged, and stormed and threw herself into a battle with the most powerful man in Wizarding Britain. She argued her way through the courts, through countless politicians, secretaries and bureaucrats who she had spent her life kowtowing to when she was nothing but an immigrant's daughter with no power they could understand.

And she won.

The snow had just begun to stick, and the lights were up in the neighbors windows when her grandson finally came home to her, with a trembling lip and a scarred forehead.

Euphemia Potter held him close - his hair smelt just like James had, when he was little, when her entire world could fit in her arms-and then passed him to her other son. The one who hadn’t been born from her, but who she loved just the same.

They’d both had something taken from them, something ripped away with a cold curse and a flash of light, and she knew that only they could understand each other now. So Mia stayed in her opulent and empty house, and Sirius settled in the South Wing at the room that had always been his, his godson slumbering safely in his arms.

That first Christmas was as dark as the words carved into stone back in Godric's Hollow. Two men who had to learn to trust each other again and a woman who many had expected to break by now. Only Harry’s laugh, his smile, his sparkling eyes could light up their bleak and unforgiving day.

So Harry forgot the mean, cold woman who stared at him like something she would rather forget, and spent the spring with his grandmother as she planted flowers, her fingers quick and nimble as they had always been. He spent it with his godfathers-both of them-while one suffered each month as he always had, but whose love for Harry never wavered, and the other finally grew up.

For in this world Sirius Black did not wile away his years counting his regrets as he counted the bars on his cells. In this world he strategised, he built battle plans with the same fervour and determination he might have used to sliver between those bars as a shaggy, black dog. He focused on wiping out the forces that had taken so much of the light from their world.

But he did not do this alone. For in losing one brother, he had gained another back.

Regulus Black did not go to die in the cave that dark day in October of 1979. He would still be brave, and fierce, and full of righteous anger, but he did not die alone and afraid. Regulus Black had been in St. Mungos that summer, regretfully rejecting his prized and hard worked offer of a place as a Healer.

Regulus Black had been there. He had seen his brother-the one who he missed as much as Petunia Evans missed her own sister-pale and weary with grief. He had seen him stumble in the corridor from Fleamont Potters room, the loss deeply etched in his face.

Grief is the price we pay for love.

Regulus had watched his brother, and wondered if perhap there were things worth living for-as much as they were worth dying for.

So despite what his mother, and the Dark Lord, and about every other Black relative wanted him to do-A Healer? How plebian. Regulus Black did what he had always yearned to, and was brave. He tore the rejection letter from the secretaries fist, and asked, with a weak attempt at his brothers bravado;

“What day do I start?”

So Regulus had taken a different path, a path that was still hard-for the road to hell was still paved with good intentions.

Regulus stood with his head held high above the looks and snide comments-from both his Death Eater cohorts and his fellow trainees. But the Dark Lord could not touch him, could not stray him from this path, for the vow that was taken on his first day of orientation had sworn him to the Healing service, and even Tom Riddle knew some vows could not be broken.

Regulus Black had taken a different path (though the knowledge of the Horcrux and the unrelenting question of what/when/how still lingered) and was finishing up his rotation in the children’s ward when his long lost brother rushed in, a feverish child in his arms, and panic wreaking havoc in his young face.

“Please, I don’t know what’s wrong-I-I, he wouldn’t eat, and now he’s warm, too warm, and I-”

“Hand him to me.”

And Sirius had passed over the child he thought of as a son to a man he didn’t recognise and saw a boy he had once known.

“I-Reggie-?”

But Regulus had always been good at his job. Even the other trainees, who glowered at him through the corridors as they once had in Hogwarts could not deny this. Regulus saw the brother whose approval he had always craved, but he did not think of it now. Regulus only looked at the child who lay shivering before him, and set to work.

Dragon Pox may have taken Fleamont Potter, but Regulus Black’s quick mind and steady hands ensured that his namesake did not follow in this regard. Sirius had cried tears of relief, and Remus had shaken Regulus’ hand so hard it felt bruised.

By now Harry had spent as much time without his parents as he had with them, and his loss would have taken his family to a place they could not return

Once Harry had settled, Mia Potter at his bedside and Remus Lupin fetching the blanket that Harry reached for every night, did the two brothers talk.

They spoke of nothing that had lingered deep in their minds, and their hearts in the years since the older one had departed.

“A Healer, huh?” Sirius Black tried to hide his surprise.

Regulus bit back the 'You once told me I was good at Healing spells' and managed a smile. "Yes, coming on four years now.”

Regulus felt young in his brother's presence (even if they were both the same height now).

“That’s… really great.” Sirius smiled, looking close to proud.

“That's James son, isn't it?” Regulus asked, and watched the darkness flicker in his brothers eyes again.

“You can tell by the hair, huh?”

Really he could tell by the way Sirius looked at the boy-the same way he had always looked at James-but he smiled at his brother's attempt at humor anyways.

When the little family left two days later, a chagrined Sirius mumbled something out that was close to an invitation-coffee? Do you drink coffee? As he left St. Mungos, his beloved godson giggling in his arms.

Regulus watched and wondered if perhaps he had gotten his brother back. If his brother would walk away from him again.

(He would, once he found out about the paradoxical life his brother led, a Healer who moonlights as a Death Eater. The life of one who fixes scars and curses he recognises, the life of one who is vowed to both worlds even as they threaten to pull him apart at the seams).

But this time he would come back. And not on accident, stumbling in with a sick child, but with a determination for history not to repeat itself.

For this Sirius Black knew about the transformative power of second chances.

Harry Potter grew up at his grandmother's elbow, learning about his culture, his heritage. What was left of it. Some had been lost to time, others to the journey made from Delhi to here. The rest to the pressure of a world who didn’t want girls with dark skin and a determined glint in her eye.

But in this world Harry knew who he was. Where he had come from. What had been lost so he could live. And oh, did he live.

He lived in the same trees and lakes his own father had made his kingdom at his age, he lived in the books his Moony shared with him-Moony, who watched as identical green eyes skimmed over the same pages he had seen a flame-haired girl devour. He lived in the adventures, the wild reckless stories and pursuits of his Padfoot. He lived in his grandmother's kitchen, watching her bake roti in between English cakes of lemon drizzle and his favourite treacle tart.

Harry lived, and he knew what it was to be loved.

(After all, a boy must live so he can learn to die.

And even now, even here, Harry still had to be the boy who learned to walk to his death).

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