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7deadlycinderellas · 4 years ago

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The Starks at War, 1941 part 2

AO3 link

(who knew all I needed was something called the “Abandoned WIP challenge to finish another chapter of this?)

Arya doesn’t stop shaking the whole way home, through to the next day. Asha accompanies her, sympathetic, but distant. The bus ride is hell.

When Arya walks through the front door, Jojen and Bran are playing cards, but stop immediately to look at her.

“Arya-” Bran starts, stuttering, “Mother?”

Arya feels a sob choke out, then get stuck halfway.

“How did you know?” Asha asks.

“Radio,” Bran says, pointing at the wireless set by the front window, “It said that the Germans hit a military hospital- the one we knew you were going to.” His voice suddenly becomes thick, and Arya realizes he sounds double his newly fifteen years.

“We were scared, we thought it might be both of you.”

Arya slumps down in her chair.

“It was stupid, really,” Jojen comments, “painting crosses on the roofs of all the hospitals. Just gave them something to aim at.”

“If half the stories out of France are true, it is our error to expect any kind of fair play from Nazis.”

Arya feels like she can barely move.

After a time, Asha stands to leave.

“I’ll spend the night at the inn and leave in the morning.”

She leans down to clap Arya on the shoulder.”

“You know where to reach me.”

Once Asha leaves, Arya slumps and clutches her face in her hands.

“I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it,” is all she can whisper to herself.

Autumn begins to turn over the coming weeks. Arya sleepwalks into it. Gilly ends up being the one who goes to the church to report. There are no remains to bury.

Sansa calls multiple times a week.

She keeps asking if they need her to come home. They all push her off. Winterfell isn’t home as it was, and they won’t bring her back if she is needed elsewhere.

She’s begun to settle in in London. The flat she shares with Margaery is tiny, just a bedroom and kitchen. The two beds they’ve managed to drag in barely have enough room between them to walk.The walls are papered, but it’s fading and peeling. The heating doesn’t always work, what with the coal shortages. Often at night, the two of them simply pull on all of their clothes before crawling into bed.

The tenement building’s shelter is outside. When the air raid sirens bellow, they have to shove on their slippers, grab their masks and barrel down the stairs among the other flat-dwellers. Praying that all they will hear is the sirens and not the whine of an incendiary or the gait shattering boom of an explosion before they manage to cram themselves inside.

Sansa’s begun adjusting to the work as well. She spends all day in the tiny gray office, editing and retyping papers, sometimes helping Margaery do translations. Sometimes, even work is interrupted by air raids.

She can’t stop thinking of what Catelyn would have said to see her now. With her short cut hair and simple office clothes, she looks nothing like the debutante she dreamed of being. This was not a world her or her mother would have even thought to be part of.

She’s good with idioms, her supervisor notes, so at least she can take pride in that. She was always good at French in school, longing one day to go there, to see the sights and the glamor for herself.

One night when they’re at home, eating some cobbled together vegetable medley, cooked in a pan, Margaery comments,

“I think I’m going to cut my hair. I’m sick of having to set the whole mess at night.”

Sansa nods. She had been surprised when watching Margaery do her hair the first time, to see how hard she worked to make it perfect. Without the curlers at night, one side would curl up perfectly, and the other would hang straight pin straight, stretched out by its length.

“They do say long hair is terribly old-fashioned.”

Margaery sighs when it’s finished, touching the ends as though she can’t believe it’s gone. But now the sides curl properly, and she won’t have to do anything but wash it and wrap it all up before bed.

“My mother used to put it up for me when I was little, the way she did when she went out,” she comments idly.

“You never told me what happened to your mother,” Sansa tells her, suddenly keenly feeling her own loss that she’s spent so much time shoving down deep inside.

“She died of the flu- not the big one, just the usual one- when I was ten. My father was never the same after that. I’m not sure any of us were.”

Sansa is quiet. She understands really. She’s almost appreciative that she hadn’t been at home most of this entire past year. She can’t imagine how her mother must have taken her father’s death. While the pair had never been the most demonstrative of their affections, their children were very secure in the fact that the two had loved each other, and that not all married couples were as lucky.

Margaery glances down at herself.

“She always wanted the best for me. Nothing specific, just that I would be happy and the best person I could be. She was the only one I think. Everyone else has their own ideas about who I am and exactly what I should aim for.”

“What do you want to do? What would make you happy?”

Margaery’s expression is pensieve.

“I wish I’d applied to go to university. I’d like to study political science. I’d like a proper little flat, near a park, one that’s not been bombed. Maybe I’ll marry, but only if I meet someone I want to. Maybe I will when the war is over.“

It has been strange, Sansa thinks, leaving school behind and seeing Margaery for who she really was. She had always thought they were friends, but here she’s stripped bare. She’s not a prefect, or head of the French club, or the beautiful polished girl Sansa had idolized. Here she chips her nails and ladders her stockings and forgets her hat just like everyone else.

That doesn’t mean Sansa doesn’t still look up to her though. She fits right in at the office, even with most of the others being London born girls who left school at fourteen and knew they would end up working if they didn’t marry. Many of them were pleased to work in an office, rather than in a factory, or worse, in service. Sansa sometimes feels tongue tied around them, and not just because the Starks have always had a few people employed in service.

Before October, both of them get letters inviting them for an interview with the same Baelish that Margaery had said recognized Sansa’s name. The instructions have them both come to a tiny, bare bones hotel room during lunch hour. Sansa’s stomach grumbles while she’s outside waiting for Margaery to finish her turn. Her stomach is not eased by her own interview.

Petyr Baelish isn’t a tall man. Sansa’s used to looking most grown men in the eye, and finds that when he stands, she’s actually looking more at his hairline. He has dark hair, going somewhat gray, a neat mustache and an overall aura of having everything under his control.

He asks her dozens of questions, some of which she doesn’t even understand. But by the time it’s done, she has a job offer.

And a new, horrifying, realization, about the nature of the office where she’s been working.

Her and Margaery both, are, on paper, enlisted in the FANY, the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. In practice, they were brought aboard the organization that became known as SOE for secret operations, and being sent to Scotland for their training.

Sansa cringes at the slightest thought of what her mother would say. But her mother is dead now, and this gives her the slightest hope for vengeance. Vengeance. That was one of those words so beloved in those awful twopenny comics Arya and Bran devoured.

It doesn’t take long before she wonders what on earth she was thinking by accepting.

Even reaching the training school is rough. The terrain in Scotland is difficult. By the time they reach the facility, they are all exhausted, hungry, soaked through with rain and covered in scratches. And when they reach it, the real fun begins.

Sansa never once in her life thought she would someday learn to shoot a gun, or disarm a man, or be required to carry a suicide pill. These skills are not second nature to her, so she has to work at it. When her eyes threaten to prick full of tears and her throat threatens to close up, she thinks of her mother’s face, dead now for no reason, and no one coming to save her, or Sansa or anyone. No one is coming to save them.

She learns to parrot back the goal they are told. To resist the enemy by any means necessary. There aren’t a great many women in training with them, but there are far more than Sansa would have expected. Too many in England have lost loved ones in this war. Too many have seen their homes destroyed.

Learning telegraphy and morse code are much easier, even if they are still totally foreign skills for her. She goes back through Arya’s letters, remembering her speaking of learning these things for Girl Guides. These at least, don’t make the bile rise in the back of Sansa’s throat at even the thought of using them.

One night, she sits on the end of her bed and puts her head in her hands. Margaery has the bunk above her. There are bunks here, it’s like being back at school again.

“What’s wrong?”

Sansa’s shoulders slump as she responds.

“All I can think is how much my younger sister would prefer learning all of this than me. She always loved science fiction and pulp magazines and those awful two-penny adventure comics. And when I called home last, she sounded so angry...she needs to feel like she’s contributing as much as us, but she can’t. She’s sixteen, she’s tiny and she’s stuck at home still.”

Margaery frowns, deep in thought.

“Your sister Arya...you said she’s only sixteen?”

Sansa nods.

“She’ll be seventeen at the beginning of next year.”

“Then let her be a child if she can still, we don’t know how long this war will last. Besides, from your stories, she always sounded like such an impulsive and ill-refined girl.”

Sansa sniffs. Her stories had always been terribly unfair to Arya. She might still prefer running about outside, but she hadn’t thrown a tantrum in ages, and the shouting and even the insults were a thing of the long past. They might never have been as close as sisters in Jane Austen novels, but they hadn’t fought each other in so long.

Except when they did.

“She is.”

Margaery smiles, and plays with one of her gloves.

“Know why Baelish had been head-hunting us?”

Sansa shakes her head.

“Because aristocratic women are good at a great deal more than picking out dresses and fixing their hair. We know manners, and pick up rules of etiquette with ease. We are good at talking to people and getting them to tell us things. And we are excellent at keeping up appearances under pressure.”

Sansa nods, and tries to put on her face.

And it is very easy to see why Margaery was selected. Her French is perfect and she has a great deal of knowledge of French geography, culture and fashion. Information that it turns out, Sansa has picked up quite easily having hung on Margaery’s words when she was just the glamorous school prefect.

And it’s so much easier to keep her face on in the dorms than out in the training field with a weapon in her hands.

One of the instructor’s compliments Sansa on her accent.

“A bit breathy, true, but the disguise of an excited young girl can be very handy. Very few would doubt the intentions of one.”

When the both of them get near to finishing training, Baelish’s assessment claims they would both make excellent radio operators. Even Sansa’s not naive enough to believe that’s a safe occupation, like Baelish insists. Mum had seemed fond enough of him, but Sansa doesn’t trust something in his gaze.

This is what sticks in Sansa’s mind as Margaery and her are sent off to parachute school. The first day of training, she stares out the window and wishes she were more like Arya.

That same day, Arya gets the telegram.

The months since Mother had died were hell. Arya has kept up with the girl guides when she could. She helps out with the WVS, who seems nearly as lost without Catelyn as she does. She helps Bran stumble through the paperwork needed to keep the family affairs in order. She tries to help Gilly with little Sam and Weasel.

She writes Gendry whenever she can. His letters are always so sweet, so understanding, but he can’t write often. And she doesn’t know if her own letters actually capture even half of what she feels.

He writes that he wishes he could come see her, but the Navy is stingy with leave, and when he gets a day, he’s stationed too far away to make the train ride south in the time given. Sometimes, selfishly, Arya wishes she could ask him to come anyway, but she can’t. She won’t get him in trouble because of her.

The day the telegram comes, she’s about to burst as it is. It’s only a few days after America has entered the war, wrapping her mind around that was hard enough.

She’s in the kitchen, staring at the paper when the others trickle in for lunch.

Bran notices first, Arya’s stony white face.

“What now?” he asks.

Arya’s hands are holding the card still, but her fingers are shaking.

“It’s Robb,” her voice says, low, dead. “His plane was shot down over France. They have no idea what’s become of him.”

Without meeting his eye, she hands the telegram to Bran, puts her hands on the table. Then she lays her face down on top of them and cries.

None of them could have known what was going down in France at the moment.

Robb was a competent pilot. He wasn’t a natural like Jon was, but he was good enough. This was very little comfort when his plane was currently on fire and quickly losing altitude.

He tried to radio out assistance, but the controls are dead. Robb’s head is throbbing from where it slammed against the inside of the cockpit and he can hardly think. It’s only through sheer luck that he manages to get his parachute on and leap from the rapidly descending plane and pray as he bails out for the ground.

The air rushes around him for only a split second it seems before he collides with the ground so hard that it feels like he’s being manhandled. He thinks he hears something crack, but he can’t stop to think. All he sees is blurs, all he hears is ringing and all he smells is blood and smoke. He tries to stand and run, but his body isn’t listening.

Eventually, one of those blurs comes closer, and grabs him, by the arm, pulling roughly. His legs screech in protest, his lungs wail, but it keeps pulling, and eventually the world begins to return to him.

The figure pulling him, he eventually sees is a woman. Young, perhaps in her twenties, with dark hair. She wears a heavy, dark green coat and her footsteps are heavy.

Eventually, the image of a barn comes into sight. The woman pulling him stops, moves something, and the next that Robbs knows, he’s being shoved into what seems like a hole in the ground.

“Stay quiet. Don’t make a sound until I come back for you. Not a single word, or you’re dead.”

Robb tries to stop himself from blacking out, but he doesn’t succeed.

When he comes to, he takes inventory of his surroundings. Dirt, a lot of dirt. A couple of what look like potatoes in one corner. A root cellar, most likely. The inhales and all he can smell is dirt too. His leg is on fire, and much of his skin is too. He fears when he wakes up fully, the pain will be so bad it makes him pass out again.

He can hear people outside, somewhere, faintly. He follows the woman’s advice and pretends he’s dead. He hears planes overhead, and gunfire too. He hopes his squadmates are alright.

Robb’s not sure how long it is before the cellar door cracks open and he jumps, squawking in pain, but the woman from before pulls him out again and leads him to the farmhouse.

“I told them where I saw your plane go down. I told them I saw it on fire and was worried about the trees in the wood. I didn’t say anything about your chute, I burned it in the hearth.”

After she leads him in and lays him upon a wooden chair, she retrieves a glass and tells him to drink the liquid inside. It’s bitter, and he sputters, but she pushes it to his lips again, and after that, he fades in and out.

When he finally wakes, there’s the sound of a kettle whistling.

“Not real tea, I’m afraid, but dried mint is good enough to pretend.”

She sits across from him. Even still in pain, Robb can’t help but notice that she’s lovely. He sips the mint tea and tries not to choke.

When he finally gathers the mindfulness to speak, he picks his first question carefully.

“What’s your name?”

The woman sighs, before taking her own cup and sitting in the other chair.

“Talisa.”

“Talisa,” he says, feeling the name on his tongue, “I’m Robb.”

“I suppose we should use each other’s Christian names, given we’re going to be stuck here together for at least six weeks” she admits. Then she gestures at Robb’s leg, which she has immobilized with splints and thick rolls of bandage cloth. “Don’t try and move. I couldn’t set a proper cast, but I did my best. Don’t ruin all my hard work.” Dimly, Robb realizes he is covered in cuts that are also bandaged.

Robb is flush with gratitude.

“Thank you,” he says. He examines her bandaging. “Are you a nurse?”

Talisa nods.

“I was going to be, before-” she waves her arm out, “All of this.”

Robb glances around the farmhouse, and realizes the place is empty, but has the signs of other people having lived here before. Four chairs around the table, more cups than one person would need.

“Do you live here by yourself?”

Talisa nods, sadly.

“My father died when I was young, of a fever. I was born in Guernica. When Franco bombed it, me, my mother and my brother escaped and fled here. My father was French, so getting asylum was easier.”

“Guernica,” Robb muses, rolling the word around in his mouth, wondering where he’s heard it. “That’s in Spain right?”

Talisa purses her lips before answering.

“I guess it was too much to expect England to have reported too much on our own little war. But yes, Guernica is in Spain. The three of us came here and worked this farm. Then the Germans came. It had barely been three years. Seems like such a little time of peace.”

She turns away, and Robb chooses not to press her.

“Once your leg heals enough, I’ll pass you off to the resistance, and they can see about getting you home.”

“The German’s won’t get suspicious of you?” Robb asks. He doesn’t want to bring any trouble to her.

“That’s no matter,” she insists, “It’s not like you can go anywhere on your own, and anything I can do to be a thorn in the side of the Third Reich, the better.”

Talisa drains her cup at this point, pushing it back down against the table, and briefly shuts her eyes.

“It’s probably not good to admit, but I am happy that at least I’ll have someone here to talk to this Christmas.”

Christmas, Robb thinks. He hadn’t even realized.

Christmas 1941 is hellish for his own family.

Jon can barely eat any of the Christmas dinner the servicemen are given. It feels like ashes in his gut.

Sansa is given a break over Christmas, but the next day is when they’re supposed to be given their first parachute lessons. She cries herself to sleep, in fear. Fear for herself, fear for her brother. In her more fanciful moments, she imagines parachuting into France and one day bumping into him on the street. Perhaps he’d lost his memory, she wonders, her mind a Hollywood fantasy.

Arya and Bran are still at Winterfell.

Bran is overwhelmed. The work that has been left in his lap threatens to consume him, even as he had wished so hard to be useful.

Arya feels nearly dead inside.

The past two Christmases without Robb and Jon had been bad enough, but at least there were his letters. Now she can’t read them without wondering if they’re the last she will ever receive.

On Christmas Eve, no tree, no lights, no Christmas dinner, Arya stares out her bedroom window. Father, Mother, Robb gone. Jon, Sansa and Gendry far too far away. Bran overwhelmed, even Gilly, Sam and Weasel ash-faced.

They see Rickon so little it’s as though he’s slipped away.

It hardly feels like Christmas at all.

Maybe it would be better if she weren’t here too. One less mouth to poorly feed.

She leaves her bicycle, and her books. She takes Gendry’s letters, and she wonders if she’ll be able to receive any more of them.

The day Arya turns seventeen, she calls Asha Greyjoy, asking if her offer still stands.

#game of thrones #A Song of Ice and Fire #fic #ww2 au

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arianakristine · 5 years ago

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@skagengiirl So, this has actually been sitting around in a word document since about 2015 (what I meant by cheating a bit). I’ve taken pieces of the ideas for other stories, but I hope you will enjoy anyway :)

Title: Girl Talk Summary: The Wonder That’s Keeping the Stars Apart collection. A few months after everything settles, a party is held at Granny’s. And Red has a question that’s been bugging her for a while. Some Frankenwolf mentioned.

“Emma,” a voice calls. She looks up to see Ruby stumbling toward her, her drink sloshing around her glass precariously but not spilling. “There’s my godchild!”

Emma winces, but lets the woman hug her awkwardly in her seat. Ruby falls back into another chair clumsily, giggling all the while.

“You’re such a light-weight, Ruby!” Emma teases, denying the way her own voice came out in a cursive. She can barely hear over the din of people talking and music playing. Granny’s looked more like a bar than a dinner currently, but everyone looked in a good mood.

Ruby takes a sip of the cola-colored liquor and chances a glance behind her. “Emmy, you gotta tell me –“

“Uh, uh, no way, no Emmy. Nix it,” Emma corrects firmly. She points at her directly. “Emma’s short enough, no nicknames needed.”

Ruby cackles. “Fine! Though I’m sure you and your hubby have plenty for each other.”

Her eyes darken as she seeks out Graham from across the room. His hand is curled around the neck of a beer bottle, chatting amicably with David and Archie. He is grinning, that dimpled smile that sends heat straight to the core of her. She sucks in a bit of a breath. “Not my husband … not yet, Ruby,” she corrects. Then she blinks. She must’ve had a couple more whiskeys than she should have, to imply something like that. She turns back to Ruby sharply, but the damage has already been done.

“Are you guys engaged?!” she asks in a stage whisper, her eyes widening.

“Hush, no, we’re not!” she says as she bats at her. “We’re not even really talking about it.”

Unfortunately, even an inebriated Ruby can pick up on the things she’s saying. “’Not really talking about it’? Does that mean you’ve kind of talked about it?”

Emma’s nose crinkles. “God, Ruby, really?” she sighs. She peeks back up at Graham. She can see the way the muscles of his back move through his shirt as he gestures. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbow, his hands in plain view. She pictures a band around his left ring finger, trying hard to ignore the pleasant tingle that curls up her spine at the thought. “We only really mentioned it once we saw each other again. We’re not talking marriage for real.”

“Bree’s what, almost six months old? What’s the delay?” she asks, her bright eyes trained on hers as she twists a cherry stem between her teeth.

She huffs a sigh. “Nothing, it’s just … we weren’t really together together before he … you know. We’re taking our time.”

Ruby’s brow arches. “You guys have a kid. You’re true love. But marriage is a rush?”

She waves her hand, and then takes a thick swallow of the honeyed whiskey. “We’re doing fine right now; why worry about getting married.”

Ruby rolls her eyes, taking another sip of her manhattan. “Whatever. Anyway, what I was saying before: I gotta know something that has been bugging me for ages,” she gushes dramatically.

Emma gestures. “Shoot.”

Ruby’s gaze turns playful. “How in the hell did you wind up pregnant in the first place? I’ve been trying to pinpoint the timeframe.”

Emma grimaces. “Ruby! Seriously?”

Ruby nods enthusiastically. “Yes, seriously! Now, was it after the dart incident? You guys were pretty heated; did you guys have like some angry sex against the cruiser or something?”

Emma gapes at her, slightly insulted. “No! We didn’t have angry sex!”

Ruby presses further, the alcohol making her bolder. “Not angry sex? Did the tension just bubble over and he took you in the middle of the parking lot or something?”

“Ruby!” she hisses. “No! We didn’t have sex that night.”

Ruby is pensive. “Hmm, not that night, then? Was it before? Was that why you were avoiding him when you found out about him and Regina?” she asks.

“Ruby!” she moans out. She takes a gulp of her whiskey, downing it cleanly. “No. Not then, not before then.”

Ruby’s expression turns stunned, training on her in sympathy. It takes Emma a second to realize she just basically told her the day it happened. The same day he died. “Emma, it was that day? Oh, I’m so sorry. Tell me you at least had time to enjoy it.”

Emma buries her face in her hands. “Just enough,” she grouses.

The other woman’s face spreads into a wicked grin. “So, it was good?”

Emma scowls, her first reaction being just to straight tell her off and exclaim that she would never tell Ruby something like that.

Then, it hits her. Ruby’s a friend. A friend like she’s never had. Sure, Mary Margaret and she are fantastic friends, but it hasn’t been the same since the curse broke. They’re family, and things run smoothly like that and they are still closer. But it’s not like it is with friends; not like late nights in the bunks at foster homes or half-whispered convos between girls in coffee shops. She can’t exactly talk to her mother about how good her boyfriend is in bed.

To gather strength, she pulls the open bottle of whiskey from the counter behind them and pours a shot that she downs immediately. She pushes the bottle towards the other woman in invitation. “God, Ruby, you couldn’t have imagined how good,” she finally admits.

Ruby pours over the ice left of her drink and grins impishly. “Girl, we’ve all imagined it,” she says with a wink. “I mean, his looks haven’t exactly gone unnoticed in this tiny town, or even in that massive forest before.”

Emma feels something creep up inside her that feels suspiciously like pride. She pours another glass and smiles into her drink. “He’s even better out of uniform,” she says, feeling decidedly playful.

Ruby’s eyes widen slightly. She opens her mouth to reply when Victor plops down in the chair next to her, pulling her close with arm. “So, Ladies, what are we discussing on this fine evening?” he slurs dramatically.

Ruby frowns. “Girl talk, Victor.”

Victor pouts. “Am I not allowed in on girl talk? Ruby, I will have you know that I am very in touch with my feminine side.” He whips his hair back and then leans into Ruby, smiling widely.

Even though Emma still holds a bit of a grudge against the doctor even months of reconciliation later, she has to stifle her laugh against the rim of her glass. The man is a funny drunk.

Ruby presses a teasing kiss against his lips, just barely brushing them. “Be that as it may, this is private, mister. You may get a reward if you leave now.”

Victor locks eyes with Emma’s and raises a brow suggestively. “Then I should be off. Have fun, lovelies.”

Once he leaves, Emma smirks at Ruby. “So, how’s that going?”

Ruby waves her hand as if pushing away the implication. “Just someone I’m testing. Not making a big deal out of it.”

She laughs. “Testing? Haven’t you been ‘testing’ for two months now?”

Ruby snorts indelicately and raises her cup, the ice tinkling around the glass. “We’ve been dating for two months. I’ve been ‘testing’ for the past week.”

The girls giggle together, and Emma has a sharp feeling of poignancy. She’s never had this kind of friendship with anyone, amicable and teasing without being heavy with other emotion. She finds herself enjoying it. “And? He is …?”

She looks up thoughtfully, tapping a finger on her lips. “Acceptable,” she finally spouts. “A solid 8 out of 10. Room for improvement.” She picks a fleck of polish off her bright red nails. “Proportionate.”

Emma glances up at Graham again, almost shyly. Not-so-sober eyes trace the lines of his body, heat flicking in her as her memory looks past the clothing. She looks back at Ruby. “Not so proportionate. In my favor.”

Ruby gives a noise of approval. “Mazel Tov,” she quips with a coy nod.

Emma takes a sip of her drink, feeling a blush creep up her neck. “God, I must be drunk.”

Ruby grins. “Well, while we’re at it – how did it happen? Y’know, the first time?”

Emma purses her lips, considering. “Quid pro quo?” she asks.

Ruby nods enthusiastically. “Deal. I’ll even go first: we had a real date, you know, dinner, drinks, nice music. He was a perfect gentleman, and we closed down Tony’s. Then went to his place to look at this painting he just got, and once the door closed … well, I just kinda jumped him.”

“Sounds like you waited too long,” Emma chuckles.

Ruby smirks. “And you don’t think you and Graham waited too long?”

Emma rubs her temple. At the time? No. She had been worried that they had rushed things. Hindsight, however, did get her wondering about the what-ifs. “Yeah, well.”

Ruby chuckled and swiped lipstick from around the side of her glass. “So?”

She sighed and pulled her lip through her teeth. She glanced at him once more before meeting her eyes. “I had just had a fist fight with Regina after he broke up with her. He fixed me up, I kissed him, and somehow that ended up with us on the desk.” She grimaces slightly; it sounds subversive in such simple terms.

Ruby’s eyes widen considerably. “On the desk? In the office? Kinky, Emma! I love it!” She seems to think about it a second, shock crossing her face. “Hey, I’ve sat at that desk!”

Emma laughed and pulled up her hair. “Months later, I might add.”

Ruby shook her head with a grin. “I don’t think I’ll ever look at that office the same way ever again.”

“Why would that be?”

Emma doesn’t turn; the voice’s soft rumbling tones, the elongated syllables have alerted her to who exactly is behind her shoulder. She leans into him, and he helps pick up her hair, coiling it into a bun. He easily relaxes into her, the pads of his fingers lightly caressing the juncture between her neck and shoulder.

Ruby is looking at Graham with an openly appreciative glance. Her eyes are steadily focused above the belt, but Emma can see the restraint in the brunette’s eyes. “No reason that you don’t already know, Sheriff,” she teases.

Emma turns her head, pressing her face into his stomach and breathing in his scent. All this talk, the warmth of the liquor in her belly, the smell of him, his nearness … she is suddenly glad she left Brianna with Mary Margaret this evening. “Sorry, Ruby, but I think Graham and I have to go,” she says, giving the woman a pointed look.

Ruby hums an agreement. “We’re not done, just so you know. We’ll talk again tomorrow,” she says with a wink, rising slightly unsteadily in her sky-high heels. “I’ll just find Victor. Have fun, lovebirds.”

Emma stands and rolls into him, her arms crossing behind his neck. She presses a lingering kiss to his lips, which he responds to immediately. “You’ve been watching me again,” he says, a smile in his voice but worry in his eye.

Emma shrugs. “I was just appreciating the view.” She knows what he’s getting at, but this time she wasn’t watching to be sure he wouldn’t disappear.

Graham tightens his arms where they linger at her waist. “We should go home.”

She nods, grabbing her coat. Then, she turns, a different thought on her mind. “Or, we could go to the office. I think I remember something that needs to be fixed over there,” she says huskily.

He raises a brow and pulls her close. “Some desk work you need to finish?”

She nods enthusiastically. “Definitely. And I think I need someone to help me jog some memories about the last time the desk was worked on.”

He laughs. “Em, you must be drunk if you’re picking up my sense of humor. Maybe we should just get you to bed.”

She shakes her head, but sways as she takes a step forward, the room spinning slightly, and she wants to groan aloud. “Fine. But tomorrow, we’re going in early.”

He kisses the top of her head. “Let’s get you home, Emma.”

Emma’s seized with the sappiest feeling, and in her inebriated state, lets it come into words. “I’m already there.”

He looks down at her, those dark-blue eyes gleaming. “You’re my home, too, Emma. But let’s also get to a place where we can sleep it off.”

Hugging him, she nods. “The Reason, Graham.”

Slowly, he rubs her back. “The Reason, Emma.” He presses a kiss into her hair, tracing a line down her back.

#gremma #graham humbert #emma swan #gremma ff #ouat ff #wilding verse #that's right

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peachesncremate · 6 years ago

Text

OH BOY IS THERE MORE

Percy and Brainstorm are roommates, they got randomly assigned bc they were both stem majors and the RAs figured that was good enough. Rodimus and Magnus being the RAs. Megatron is the new dorm advisor and he’s absolutely unprepared for the nightmare tenants that they have.

Brainstorm and Perceptor absolutely hated each other at first.

Percy had read a paper that Brainstorm had published on quantum relativity and was honestly pretty excited to meet him until he actually did and realized how annoying he could be.

Brainstorm almost cried when Perceptor told him he liked his paper though.

Perceptor’s alarm never goes off any later than 6 am. Brainstorm doesn’t get up until AT LEAST 11 if he doesn’t have class. He has thrown things at Percy before to make him turn his god damn alarm off

Percy is quiet and introverted. Brainstorm usually has a friend over and he will not stop playing fleetwood mac while he studies and percpetor is going to kill him one of these days for the love of god I am trying to study for our midterms will you USE HEADPHONES

Brainstorm also never picks his shit up so their room is always half a nightmare mess of bits of chemistry homework, awful thrift store clothing, empty soda and energy drink cans, and bits of wire and metal for god knows what. The other half is spotlessly organized.

Brainstorms walls are COVERED in posters. Cult musicals, band posters, campy sci-fi, good sci-fi, a pride flag or two, several strings of fairy lights. Perceptor has one (1) signed star trek poster and a whiteboard calendar.

After a ton of arguments and some discussions and mutual agreements they realize they have a lot more in common than they thought. It takes another month for them to admit they’re friends. It takes a week after that for them to get into a heated argument that ends in them kissing.

Other bits:

Brainstorm tried to convince Percy to convert the beds into bunk beds. He said no.

Neither of them take good care of themselves. Drift, their room neighbor, usually has to drag them to the student union building to get food so they actually eat.

Not really relevant to anything but Drift is NB and i love them

Brainstorm wears nail polish, but it’s almost always chipped by the end of the day. One time he convinced Percy to let him paint his nails red. He loved them.

They go out for coffee after stressful exams, it’s a tradition. Perceptor likes insanely sweet drinks and usually gets white chocolate mochas. Brainstorm will pour espresso shots into a rockstar and shotgun it.

Quark is the hot chemistry TA that Brainstorm has a super obvious crush on. He has a thing for smart boys with glasses.

Perceptor has definitely had to babysit a drunk Brainstorm/Chromedome/Nautica/etc. before after they got back from some house party in the area. They all pass out in a pile on Brainstorm’s bed and Percy sort of just throws a blanket over all of them and brings them water in the morning. He calls all of them dumbasses.

Rewind, Chromedome, Rodimus and Swerve have a running bet going on when/if the two of them are going to hook up. Rewind wins it.

Other character things worth mentioning:

Chromedome and Prowl are roommates because they went to high school together and figured why not. Prowl has to put up with Rewind constantly coming over to “Study” and ending up in makeout sessions. He normally just leaves

The next year Chromedome and Rewind room together.

The RAs are Drift, Rodimus, Magnus, Skids, Ratchet, Cyclonus, and Velocity. Dorm meetings are a nightmare and Megatron is exhausted.

(based on true events i have lived through) the first year Megatron was the dorm advisor, the fire alarms went off 4 times in the first week. The third time, someone exited the building completely naked. It was Whirl.

The first time was because Rewind burnt a bag of popcorn

The second time was because Drift tried to light a candle and those fuckin smoke alarms are sensitive as hell

the third time was because Misfire was vaping

The fourth time was Brainstorm’s fault. Whatever he did also blew out half the fuses to the building.

I have more but this post is long so i’ll end this here lmao. As a bonus, have an image i doodled of brainstorm and perceptor making out.

#my cat has been sitting on me the whole time i tried to write this so it took a while #transformers #i have. this whole universe worked out more or less #college au

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thewarlocksbitch · 8 years ago

Text

Gay Camp ch3

malec gay camp chapter 3

word count - 4k

thank you to Sen for beta editing!

read my other fics here

hope you like it!!

________

Magnus supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that, excluding Alec, the other boys at football camp had very limited knowledge of classical literature. He had survived the first week of camp by sheer willpower and by staying close to Alec. Alec was an easy person to become close to, he’d realized. Magnus liked how Alec spoke. He liked how he considered his words so carefully before he chose them, and how he was more emotionally observant than any of the other boys. The week before, Magnus had anticipated at every conversation for Alec to say or do something that would force Magnus to acknowledge a brutal truth; that boys who were pretty and interesting and not straight could never be found at a high school football camp. He was amazed that Alec kept him optimistic. Magnus had fewer complaints about camp than he’d expected. The food narrowly toed the line of being edible. Magnus spent more time drenched in sweat than he did dry and he was outdoors more often than in. The camp-issued blankets were thin, scarcely thicker than a sheet of notebook paper. The most glamorous things Magnus had worn since arriving were black nail polish and black grease – the latter of which he painted across his cheeks daily in the name of visibility and manly spirit. Many other travesties occurred daily, though, and Magnus strived to forget them. But what he hated most of all was the siren that he woke to every morning. But on Saturday, instead of waking up to a blaring siren, Magnus was stirred from sleep by Alec’s finger tapping his shoulder. For the second time that week. Alec really needed to learn that some people just weren’t equipped with the skill-set to socialize immediately upon waking. “Hey, good morning,” Alec said, as Magnus tried his best to appear dignified with bed-hair and half-dead eyes. “We’re free until practice tonight. Want to go to the library?” Alec’s eyes were clear and his hair defiantly messy despite its short length; Magnus swore it’d grown an inch out of spite. Alec wore a customary camp hoodie and this close Magnus could smell the forest on him, the dampness of moss and fog. Magnus slowly sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He stole another glance at Alec, peeking through his fingers, and then slumped back down and buried his face in his hands so Alec couldn’t see him blush. This really was ridiculous. Nothing about ugly hoodies or the inability to maintain inch long hair should have been attractive. Magnus needed to get hold of himself, or kiss Alec. Whichever came first. “Did you go running?” Magnus asked.

“Um. Yeah, we did, with some guys Ryan knows.” Alec said, his voice shy. Magnus dropped his hands to look at him as Alec intently wound the string of his hoodie around his finger. “I thought you would want to sleep in.”

Magnus hoped that extra sleep had at least done something for his appearance. The past week had left him feeling much too productive and busy. He wiped at his eyes again and ran his hands through his hair. “My lazy, inactive self thanks you.”

“Show us some of that appreciation and get up,” Colin said behind Alec. He’d been watching Magnus’s sluggish ascent to consciousness and, by the look on his face, was unimpressed. “We’ve been waiting for you to eat.”

Magnus slipped off his bunk and held a hand to his heart. He tried to ignore that he immediately felt lightheaded and sore. “Aw, you guys. You shouldn’t have!” He said.

“Asshole,” said Ryan, rolling his eyes. He was already dressed, his hood pulled up to almost completely cover his wide-awake eyes. He tossed a hoodie at Magnus without looking where it hit. If Magnus were Colin or maybe even Alec, he would have mimed catching a football and said something lame like, “Touchdown!” Since Magnus was not Colin or Alec, he bent down to pick up the hoodie from where it fell on his socked feet and pulled it on. He lethargically began searching for his sneakers.

The second his laces were tied Colin ran for the door, with Ryan on his heels. Alec was slower to get up, and instead he fell into step beside Magnus. “Colin’s just really excited about the microwaved pancakes,” he said.

________

Colin brandished a steaming bag of pancakes at Magnus and let his tray clatter to the table, knocking over Ryan’s orange juice. Ryan’s indignant grumble was drowned out by Colin shouting, “Twelve hot mini pancakes! Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

“Actually, I have. Many times,” Magnus said, while Alec helped Ryan mop up the collateral damage with their napkins. Ryan continued to grumble, his thin lips turned down in annoyance, though his eyes on Alec were grateful. Magnus stirred his oatmeal, then immediately lost interest and propped his chin in his hands, hoping Alec still had some Oreos hidden away. “For example, one time my cat stole my dad’s burrito and I found it under my bed a few months later. That was much better than this.”

Colin ripped open his pancakes, rolled his eyes, and sighed simultaneously, a feat Magnus could only respect. “Whatever, man. Hey, you know where the syrup is?”

Magnus vaguely waved an arm towards the cafeteria line. “Over there.”

“Get me more orange juice while you’re up there!” Ryan shouted after Colin.

There was a moment of silence before Alec scooted closer to Magnus. “So,” Alec prompted, “Achilles and Patroclus.”

“Yes,” Magnus said. He’d been waiting for Alec to bring them up.

“They were lovers, right?” Alec asked, and Magnus didn’t miss the way he cautiously lowered his voice. “I mean, hearing that Patroclus died is what finally stopped Achilles sulking about Briseis. He cared more about avenging Patroclus’s death than his pride.”

Magnus very suddenly did not care that the other boys seemed to know nothing about classical literature. He turned to Alec fully, straddling the bench they were sitting on. “Yes,” he said again. “And don’t forget them putting their ashes together and Achilles ripping his hair out. It’s obvious-”

A voice across from their table spoke up. “That’s pretty gay, dude.”

Ryan looked up from his cereal. “How? It’s art.”

“Well, I don’t know, Ryan, maybe he has a point.” Colin said. He turned to the boy, brow furrowed. Colin was a short guy – taller than Ryan, but still short – that Magnus had come to think of as the token comedy relief friend of their group, naturally excitable and unable to be in any situation without making it better, but for a quick moment, he looked intimidating. Leaning over the table, Colin went on, “Could you please explain, in detail, why one of the most famous literary works in history is gay?”

“Only chicks and gay guys read that crap,” the boy said, glancing at Magnus. He didn’t seem to realize how quickly Magnus was becoming annoyed. “It makes you-”

“Actually,” Magnus spoke up, “If the Iliad reflects the reader’s sexuality, then my copy would be bisexual crap. Not gay crap. The more you know.”

The boy’s mouth slowly closed and his face went blank. Magnus stared at him, waiting for him to say something that ended up with Magnus possibly punching the ignorance out of him, but the boy just shrugged and turned back to his friends. Huh, Magnus thought. Interesting.

“Woah,” Colin said, reverting to his true self. He made a flailing motion that upset Ryan’s bowl of cereal. Ryan pressed both his palms into his eyes and took in a very large, very loud breath. “Woah,” Colin said again. “You’re bi?”

Now Magnus was waiting for his bunkmate to say something offensive. “Yes. Does that make you uncomfortable?” He was hyper-aware of Alec going still beside him.

“Well, heck,” Colin said in a harassed tone as he tore apart a miniature pancake, “you saying it like that makes me uncomfortable. You sound like my mom. Don’t make it weird, dude.”

Magnus grinned and held his fist out, his annoyance effectively dissipated; Colin was good for weathering things out. “You’re a good straight.” he said.

Colin bumped his fist against Magnus’s triumphantly and went back to his pancakes. Magnus cast a quick glance to Alec; he was sitting very still, and his eyes were averted from the boys sitting across from him. Magnus scooted an inch closer to him as he said to Ryan, “What about you?”

Ryan had stopped trying to push his Colin-shaped headache out with his palms and was contemplating the ghastly remains of his cereal. He rolled his eyes at Magnus. “If Colin is a ‘good straight’, then I’m a great one. Are you going to eat your oatmeal?”

Magnus shook his head and pushed his bowl across the table. Ryan gladly accepted it, and his face fell as he got a closer look at the contents inside.

“Anyways,” Magnus said to Alec, pointedly turning to face him again, “the whole thing with Achilles demanding their ashes be placed together.”

Alec didn’t quite meet Magnus’s eyes. “Let’s just talk about it in the library later.”

________

They did not, in fact, go to the library after breakfast, because it had flooded. Along with the football field and half of the dorm rooms.

“Go get your crap and then come back to the cafeteria,” Boune droned, the better part of his pants soaked and the entirety of his expression something Magnus could only describe as pissed off.

The dread in the air was tangible as Magnus walked with his three roommates and the other camper’s downstairs to their dorm hall. A boy at the front opened the door and leaped back as water rushed out to soak his feet.

“Shit!” he shouted. “It’s like The Titanic in here!”

Ha, Magnus thought dryly, and he bent down to take his shoes and socks off and roll up the pants of his sweats. He looked over to Alec just as water began to creep over his toes; Alec was staring down at his own sneakers as they were soaked, his hands limp at his sides. Sensing Magnus’s gaze, he looked up. “It’s kind of cold,” he said.

Magnus lifted his carefully arranged shoes and socks in a what can you do? gesture and Alec shrugged. His shoes – along with the other campers’ – made disturbing squelching noises all the way down the hall. Magnus had half-feared some boys might take the flood as an opportunity to drown the weaker of the group, but everyone was already wet and miserable enough; Magnus made it to his room almost completely dry.

Colin was the first to enter the room, and he immediately let out a shriek of horror at what he saw. He ran to the side of his bed and dropped to his knees, ignoring Ryan’s hissed, “You’ll get soaked, idiot,” and thrust his arms under the waterlogged bottom bunk.

“What’s he doing?” Alec asked, and Magnus slipped past him to gather his things. Alec continued to mumble worry over Colin as Magnus pulled Alec’s blanket from the lower bunk. He turned back to Alec. What he had intended to be a friendly toss turned into him gently settling it over Alec’s shoulders – Magnus may or may not have let his fingers linger over Alec’s neck a few seconds longer than necessary – and Alec cut off mid-sentence and blushed.

“Why don’t they just let us sleep in here?” Magnus picked up for him, trying not to smile; it was childish, really, this joy over rendering Alec nonverbal. “We could just double on the top bunks; I know we’ll suffer either way” – this was a lie, as Magnus could barely contain himself thinking that he might bunk with Alec – “but it’s stupid to cram us all in the cafeteria.”

“Yeah, but think about it from their perspective,” Ryan said slowly, wringing out an athletic shirt he’d found floating in the water; it didn’t look worth saving to Magnus, but he decided to keep his opinion to himself. Ryan set the shirt over his shoulder and bent down to grab another. “Letting us stay in flooded rooms is probably violating a bunch of health codes and what not. Plus, if we get a cold or foot flu from the water we can’t do shit, and then Coach would cry.”

“Boune would cry.” Colin corrected, finally emerging from under the bed. His dark cheeks were flushed and his clothes were clinging to him in a way that should have been distracting to Magnus, but Magnus found he didn’t really care. He tried to remember if he’d ever felt that way solely because his affection was focused on someone else already.

He quickly tired of thinking and stared at Alec’s profile instead.

Colin thrusted the package of Oreo’s he’d grabbed at Ryan, who immediately let them fall to the water. They made a soft plop and threw droplets of water over his already soaked shoes.

“Why did you drop it?” asked Colin in dismay, though he made no move to retrieve the forsaken cookies.

“They’re all wet.” Ryan said. “Did you think there was any chance they’d still be good?”

Colin’s sad eyes followed the cookies as they sluggishly bobbed to the other side of the room. “No…” He looked unbelievably defeated, more somber than Magnus had ever seen him. Ryan let this go on for another heavy second before slapping Colin on the back almost hard enough to knock him down. Colin made a concerning noise, and Ryan smiled cheerily at him, then at Magnus and Alec.

“You guys got all your stuff?” he asked. The default expression on his face told people that he didn't very well understand what was going on at any given time, and that he very much didn't care to understand anything. For a second, though, his smile erased that.

Magnus held up the few possessions he’d deemed necessary for the night and Alec shrugged under his blanket in answer. “We’re all good,” Magnus said. He turned for the door, then caught himself mid-step and looked back to his roommates. “Make sure you grab some dry socks; you’ve got to protect yourself against the foot flu.”

________

Concerts were crowded. Buses were crowded. Schools, parks, and parades were crowded. Parties were crowded; in general, Magnus was crowded – he never seemed to have enough space to stick his arms out and spin. Magnus didn’t mind it. He loved being surrounded by people, no matter what kind of people they happened to be. Whether Magnus liked them or not, every person had the capacity to be entertaining.

But the cafeteria wasn’t just crowded; it was a mess.

Unlike a concert, there was no music to drown out meaningless conversations. Unlike a school or park or parade, there was no event nor objective to distract everyone from each other. And unlike a party, no one was having any fun.

Alec plopped down beside Magnus, expression miserable.

“Report?” Magnus asked. He’d sat in the middle of four laid-out blankets on the floor while Alec had gone to figure out what was going on. Colin and Ryan had gone with him, but Magnus didn’t know where they were now.

Alec plucked at his hoodie string; it was fraying at the end. “They’re not going to get our mattresses for us and we’re not allowed in the flooded areas, so we can’t go get them. But they are bringing in air mattresses and we have our blankets.”

“And about practice?” Magnus asked anxiously. It was the weekend and there hadn’t been an announcement of the day’s schedule yet, but they’d skipped – or at least Magnus had skipped – their morning run and drills, and he didn’t like the thought that their coach might consider this reason enough to turn night practice into more of a nightmare than it already was.

“Oh,” Alec dropped the string and looked up at Magnus. “Yeah. Practice is still on. It’s a health code violation to sleep in a flooded area, but we’re allowed to run around in one. And Coach is probably going to double the practice time.”

Magnus wiped away imaginary tears that may very soon become real. “These people should all be in jail.”

“’These people’ are going to kill us if we don’t go get ready.” Alec said, standing up. He smiled, and Magnus wasn't sure if he'd meant it to be reassuring or disabling. Alec held out a hand. “Come on, Magnus.”

Magnus was dumbfounded for one moment, and then it took another for him to tell his hand to grasp Alec’s and another after that for his hand to obey. Alec pulled him up, his thumb pressing to Magnus’s, the tap of his pulse going against the tap of Magnus’s, and then Alec let go and Magnus had to relearn how to stand on his own: the physical contact Alec had so surely initiated and the way he said Magnus’s name were getting to his head.

The rest of the campers were filing out through the cafeteria’s double doors to the field. As they joined the crowd, Alec said, unnecessarily, “Ryan and Colin will probably just meet us there.”

Magnus grinned. Now that Alec’s hair was short, there wasn’t enough of it for him to hide under, and his flustered expression was bare to Magnus. Magnus asked, “Did Colin get new Oreo’s?”

Alec shook his head and laughed. His laughs were starting to come easier, Magnus noticed. “The cafeteria doesn’t sell them. I still have mine, though.”

Magnus leaned into him and lowered his tone in secrecy, “Are you going to tell them that?”

Alec looked startled to be so close to Magnus, but he didn’t flinch away. Something like happiness filled Magnus’s chest. “Never.” Alec said.

Practice was as long and as hard as Magnus had dared imagine, and Alec was so exhausted afterwards that he barely took any time to shower before throwing his sleep clothes on and passing out against Magnus. After the coaches took turns lecturing and praising them, Magnus hauled himself and Alec to their feet. He grabbed Alec’s bagged clothes for him and patted his flushed cheek, and Alec laid an arm over his shoulder and muttered something about hell being preferable to this.

Magnus had noticed before how much bigger Alec was than he, but he hadn’t the chance until now to fully realize that Alec was actually a giant. Alec’s weight – all lean muscle and sprawling limbs – and his height – he was half a head shorter than Magnus, but all that height was legs and torso – had Magnus almost buckling under him. Magnus did not think that he was particularly weak, but he was definitely the kind of person that faked sickness during gym class and lifted at most however much the fridge door weighed.

“We made it,” Magnus said when they reached their spot on the floor. Two air mattresses had been laid out where their blankets and things had been. Alec's and Magnus's were on one. Colin and Ryan's were on the other. “You hungry?”

Alec loosened his grip on Magnus’s shoulder and let himself fall in a controlled tumble onto their mattress. “I hate running.” He said. He arranged himself so that his legs were crossed and his bag was in his lap, then looked up at Magnus. “I’m eating Oreos. You want some?”

Magnus plopped down beside him. “You’re going to run out at the rate you’re going,” he said, but happily took an Oreo anyway.

Alec popped one into his mouth. “Live fast, die young, or something.” He said, voice muffled.

“You traitors!” Magnus heard Colin shriek from behind. Magnus whirled, but Colin was already throwing himself onto the empty mattress across from Alec, though for once he was careful not to sling his dinner everywhere. With less energy, Ryan lowered himself to the spot beside Colin and wrapped his blanket around his shoulders. Colin shook his head to further assert his unhappiness, spraying the others with droplets from his wet hair.

Colin eyed the box of Oreos in Alec’s lap meaningfully as he took an angry bite of soup. “Never, in a million years,” he huffed, “did I expect this from you, Alec.”

“You can have some,” Alec said innocently, at the same time that Magnus said, “We never said we didn’t have any. We just withheld the fact.”

Colin already had multiple cookies stuffed into his mouth. The smile on his face was wide and disturbingly bulgy. Ryan quietly reached over and took one cookie. “Thanks, Alec,” he said.

“Alec’s my favorite,” Colin said. “No offense to the rest of you.”

“Leave me to scatter flowers and weep,” Magnus said unenthusiastically.

Later, after the Oreo's were gone and the lights were off, Magnus laid beside Alec, not touching but close enough that he could feel his body heat. He'd originally been off put by the fact that he'd be cramped into a cafeteria with the rest of the campers, but sharing a bed with Alec definitely wasn't the worst thing that could have happened to him.

Magnus shifted closer to Alec and wrapped his blanket tighter around himself. It was freezing.

Alec's voice, quieter than a whisper, sounded just across from Magnus's face. "Are you awake?"

Magnus opened his eyes. All the lights were off to dissuade the boys from late night shenanigans, but the moonlight flooding in through the few windows was enough for Magnus to make out the lines of Alec's face. He inched closer. "Yeah," he whispered, "I'm awake."

"Ryan stole my blanket," Alec said quietly.

"Ryan did?"

"I think it was sleep-stealing, so I don't blame him."

"Are you cold?"

Alec let out a little huff of breath, the air warming Magnus’s cheeks. “Yeah. A little."

"I can share my blanket," Magnus offered. "I'm not all that cold anyways."

"No, that's okay," Alec said. Magnus could see his eyelids fluttering in the dark.

"Let me see your hands, then," Magnus said. He felt himself flushing. If Alec could see, he was polite enough to not say anything.

Wordlessly, Alec offered his hands.

Magnus found them in the dark and twined their fingers together. His own hands felt like ice, but that couldn't be helped. He pulled them into his chest, and Alec curled a single finger into the collar of his shirt.

"Better?" Magnus asked.

"Better." Alec told him.

Magnus closed his eyes. Maybe he didn’t have much to complain about after all.

#malec #malec fanfiction #malec fluff #malec au #shadowhunters #tmi fanfiction #vv #malec gay camp

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