#i think this chapter is the best I've written...

[yourlunarspice]

This hurts my heart so much, but I see it too in my own stories. The first stories I ever posted on AO3 were far from the best I have written, and yet they were perhaps the most engaging. I had dedicated Readers who'd comment whenever I updated a story, and it always made me feel happy. Since then, comments have steadily decreased until a story I was very proud of, with 10 chapters and over 40k words, barely received any comments. It was disheartening to see something that my free time revolved around for months receive hardly any recognition. (I do love and appreciate my two dedicated Readers, though! They gave me the motivation to finish the story when I almost gave up.) Like it is for so many writers, feedback is treasured. I keep every email about a comment in my notifications for as long as possible, just so I can see it throughout the day and be reminded 'Hey. Someone liked what you made and wanted you to know about it.'

If I found a group of people raving about my story without even considering leaving a single comment, I think I would be heartbroken. It would kill my passion for writing, despite being a hobby that I love dearly and that I've been doing for as long as I can remember.

I am writing story number five in a series of nine fics. Right now, I've posted 36 chapters in the series in total, clocking in at almost 133,000 words. It has taken me nearly a year to write this much (not including the four other stories I've posted during the same time). I can hardly stand to think about all the time I would have wasted if I found something like that. Months upon months of planning, researching, outlining, and scheduling chapters, usually multiple at a time! All while writing, editing, and posting. All wasted. And the series would just die, never to be completed.

My heart goes out to OP's friend. I hope they are recovering from this as they mourn, not only the loss of an ending for their story, but for the loss of all potential subsequent stories as well. It's not something anyone would want to go through.

A writer friend told me something that broke my heart a little bit today; they're going to quit publishing their fanfic.

My instant thought was that they had been trolled or attacked or that something terrible had happened in their life because this person is so passionate about their writing. It wasn't any of that. Engagement with their works has been going down, as it has for many of us. Comments are like gold dust a lot of the time, and just looking through the historical comment counts on old fics on ao3 demonstrates this trend very clearly. It was not simply the comments dropping off which caused them to decide to stop posting, however.

My friend came across a discord server for their fandom (I should point out here that their fandom interest and mine diverged a couple of years ago, we stay in touch but don't currently read each other's posts because I'm not into their fandom and they would rather gouge their eyes out with a wooden spoon than read anything Star Wars) and specifically to share fic in that fandom. They joined, because we all love a good fic rec, only to discover that their latest multichapter fic, which has almost no comments and very few kudos, is being hotly discussed in this server as one of the best stories ever. Not one of these people has bothered to say this to them on the fic. When they asked, none of participants could see the point in telling the author of the fic they apparently loved so much that they love it.

This discovery has absolutely destroyed my friend's love of sharing fic. They share because they love seeing other people's enjoyment, and fic writers do that through comments and kudos/reblogs/likes because we don't get paid. There is no literary critic writing a blog post/article about how amazing the story is for us to copy and keep/frame. There is no money from royalties. All we have are the words of the people reading our works.

Those people on that server could have taken five minutes of the time they spent gushing about how amazing my friend's story was to other people and used it to tell the one person guaranteed to want to hear that praise how much they loved it. They could have taken a moment to express their opinion to the person who spent hours upon hours plotting, writing, editing, and posting those chapters. Instead, they deprived my friend of thing that keeps them sharing their writing, and in the process have killed their love of it. My friend now feels used and unmotivated.

I won't be sharing a link to their fic, they said I could share their experience but not their identity. I know they plan to post one final chapter. I know they intend to express their hurt at being excluded from the praise for the thing they created, and I know they intend to announce that as a consequence they will not be posting for a long while, if at all.

So please, I beg you, don't hide your love of a story from the writer. It's just about the only thing we have.

[crossfandomskylines]

In the Space Between Us: Chapter 9

OTHER CHAPTERS:

Chapter 1 I Chapter 2 I Chapter 3 I Chapter 4 I Chapter 5

Chapter 6 I Chapter 7 I Chapter 8 I Chapter 9 I Chapter 10

Pairing: Glen Powell x OC

Summary: Gabby and Glen arrive in Austin, where she gets her first glimpse of his Texas home that perfectly fits him. After a casual tour, they cook dinner together, but a small mishap leaves Gabby with a cut finger. Glen keeps her calm, tending to her with a gentle touch. Later, they settle on the couch to eat, sharing laughter and easy conversation, and Gabby continues to feel like she truly belongs—not just in Glen’s house, but with him.

Word Count: 6.9k

Warnings: Kitchen Knife Cut. Some blood and First Aid.

A/N: Honestly this is just more of our favorite couple being sickeningly sweet and adorable.

I'm so appreciative and grateful for all of the reblogs, comments, and hearts I've received on this story! This story is the first time I've ever written anything with the intention of posting it, and I love reading each and every reblog and comment! Please continue to let me know what you think with Hearts, Comments, and Reblogs! Also if you'd like to be tagged please let me know, and I will get you added to the tag list!

Tag List: @djs8891 @queenslandlover-93 @teacupsandtopgun @loveatfirsttornado @khouse712

As they stepped off the plane and into the bustline terminal, Glen adjusted his baseball cap and sunglasses, doing his best to remain inconspicuous. Gabby walked beside him, brushing her hair behind her ear as she glanced around at the unfamiliar surroundings.

Just as they passed through the gate area, Glen looked over at her, his lips curving into a warm smile. “Welcome to Austin, Gabby.”

She laughed softly, the sound cutting through the din of the crowded terminal. “Thanks,” she replied, matching his pace. “So... are you going to be my personal tour guide while I’m here?”

Glen smirked, the playful glint in his eyes unmistakable. “I’ll see if I can fit a tour into our very busy schedule,” he teased, his voice dripping with mock seriousness.

“Oh, is that right?” Gabby shot back with an arched brow.

“Absolutely. We’ve got important things to do,” Glen said as they approached the baggage claim. “Like introducing you to my mom and sisters. No pressure or anything.”

Her cheeks warmed, but she smiled. “No pressure at all,” she said lightly, though her tone betrayed a hint of nerves.

They waited by the carousel, the familiar hum of luggage belts filling the air. When Gabby’s bright blue suitcase finally came around, Glen stepped forward without hesitation and hefted it off the belt.

“Got it,” he said, balancing it with his carry-on bag and Brisket’s carrier.

Gabby reached out, frowning slightly. “You know, I can carry my own bag.”

Glen gave her a skeptical look as he hoisted the suitcase to test its weight. “Yeah, no. This thing weighs a ton. What’d you pack, bricks?”

“Funny,” she deadpanned, crossing her arms. “Seriously, though, I’ve got it. You’re already carrying enough.” She added as she motioned towards Glen who had Brisket’s carrier and his own carry on bag on his shoulders in addition to now trying to pull her suitcase behind him.

But Glen just shook his head, determined. “Not happening.”

Gabby huffed and then gestured toward his full hands. “Okay, but you’re going to drop something at this rate. Come on, just let me help.”

Pausing mid-step, Glen gave her a considering look, then grinned mischievously. “Alright. You really want to carry something?”

“Yes,” she insisted, rolling her eyes at his exaggerated tone.

Without another word, Glen handed over Brisket’s carrier. “Here you go. You get to carry the most important passenger.”

Gabby stared down at Brisket, who let out a soft, curious bark from inside the carrier. She couldn’t help but laugh as she took it from Glen. 

“You’re such a gentleman,” she teased, holding up the carrier.

“Always,” he replied with a wink before he continued toward the exit, effortlessly rolling her suitcase behind him.

Gabby followed, adjusting the carrier on her arm and shaking her head with a smile.

As they stepped out into the Texas sunshine and headed toward the parking lot, Gabby couldn’t help but feel a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation. This trip was about to bring her even closer to Glen’s life, and she wasn’t sure what to expect—but with him by her side, she was ready to take it on.

As they drove out of the airport and into the heart of Austin, Gabby stared out the window, taking in the lively energy of the city. The streets were buzzing with people strolling between colorful shops, food trucks parked along the sidewalks, and music drifting out of open doors. It was a stark contrast to the sprawling chaos and noise of Los Angeles or the familiarity of her old life in Kansas City.

“First impressions?” Glen asked, glancing at her as he navigated the streets with practiced ease.

“It’s charming,” she said with a smile, her gaze catching on a couple of musicians strumming guitars on a street corner. “Lively, but in a different way than L.A.”

Glen nodded, his hands resting casually on the wheel. “It’s got its own vibe, that’s for sure. Just wait until you see the hill country outside the city. That’s my favorite part.”

Gabby looked at him, noticing how the tension he seemed to carry in Los Angeles had already started to dissolve. His shoulders weren’t quite so stiff, and even his voice seemed lighter.

“You’re different here,” she said softly, almost to herself.

He shot her a quick look, one brow raised. “Different how?”

She smiled, shrugging. “I don’t know… more relaxed, I guess. You’re not even home yet technically, but you seem... lighter.”

He chuckled at that, a low, warm sound that filled the car. “Yeah, well, I guess this place does that to me. It’s where I grew up, where my roots are. There’s just something about being back here that makes everything else feel... simpler.”

As the downtown skyline began to fade into the distance, replaced by quiet neighborhoods and stretches of open space, Gabby could see what he meant. The roads became less crowded, lined with towering oak trees and wildflowers dotting the ditches.

“You ever miss it?” she asked, her voice curious. “Living here full-time, I mean.”

“Sometimes,” he admitted, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “L.A. has its perks, don’t get me wrong. And it makes sense for me to be there for work. That’s why I still have my place out there. But this…” He gestured out the window toward the rolling hills that were starting to peek through the horizon. “This is home. It’s where I can just be me, you know? No cameras, no noise, no chaos. Just Glen.”

Gabby’s heart softened at his words, and she couldn’t help but smile. “I like just Glen,” she said, her voice sincere.

He glanced at her again, this time with a small, genuine smile. “Yeah? Well, he likes you too.”

The quiet intimacy of the moment settled between them as they continued their drive. Gabby couldn’t help but admire how at ease Glen seemed here, his hand resting comfortably on the gear shift, the sunlight catching the curve of his jawline.

By the time they turned onto a winding road leading out toward the countryside, the view opened up into sprawling stretches of land. Gabby leaned closer to the window, her eyes widening.

“Wow,” she breathed. “It’s beautiful out here.”

“You ain’t seen anything yet,” Glen said, his voice tinged with pride. “Wait until we get to the house.”

She turned to him, her curiosity piqued. “Alright, tour guide, you’ve got me intrigued.”

He grinned but didn’t say more, letting the Texas landscape do all the talking. The further they drove, the more Gabby found herself relaxing too, swept up in the calm that seemed to radiate from both Glen and the place he called home.

As Glen rolls up to the start of the driveway, Gabby notices the wrought iron gate looming ahead, guarding the property. Glen rolls down the window of the truck and punches in a code on the keypad. The gate opens with a soft hum, and they continue down the long gravel driveway, the crunch of tires beneath them the only sound breaking the stillness of the land.

Nestled among the towering oak trees, the home appears to rise from the earth, its pale walls glowing softly in the late afternoon sun. The roofline is low and sleek, dark metal panels contrasting with the rustic stone, giving it a subtle modern touch. A stone path leads up to the front door, flanked by neatly manicured landscaping—grasses and flowers swaying gently in the breeze. The scene is nothing like she expected, yet it feels impossibly fitting for the man she’s come to know over the past month.

“Wow,” she breathes, her eyes wide, not just at the house but the land that stretches out around it, open and expansive. “This is your house?” She asks, voice a mixture of awe and disbelief. "Like ALL of this?"

Glen smirks, a glint of pride in his eyes as he nods. "Bought it last year. Been eyeing this area for a while. When it came up for sale, it just felt right. This is where I come when I need to get away from everything.” His gaze sweeps over the land around them, an unspoken connection to the place that only he seems to understand.

He steps out of the truck and gestures toward the house. "Come on, let me give you the tour."

Gabby follows him, her boots crunching on the gravel as they make their way toward the front door. The door opens with a soft creak, and the moment she steps inside, the shift in atmosphere is immediate. The space is expansive, airy, and yet warm, with a perfect blend of rugged charm and understated modern luxury.

The living room was a warm, inviting space that struck the perfect balance between rustic charm and modern elegance. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, which framed lush green trees and a serene view of the water beyond. The walls, made of creamy stone, complemented the rich, honey-toned wood beams that ran across the vaulted ceiling, adding a natural warmth to the room.

At the center of the space was a grand fireplace, its tapered design drawing the eye upward. Above it hung an intricately woven rug in warm red and earthy tones, giving the room a personal and artistic touch. Plush seating was arranged around a low, solid coffee table—two sleek leather chairs with soft, neutral cushions, a sofa in a deep, rust-colored fabric, and a matching wooden-framed couch with cozy taupe pillows.

A woven area rug tied the seating area together, while textured throw pillows and a soft blanket added layers of comfort. On the far side of the room, a vintage console table, adorned with carefully chosen decor and a hint of greenery, completed the look.

They move to the kitchen, where the dark black cupboards and glossy marble countertops create a striking contrast against the white walls. Stainless steel appliances reflect the natural light pouring in through the windows, while exposed beams in natural oak add a rustic charm to the otherwise sleek and modern space. It’s a space for someone who appreciates both design and functionality, and Gabby can’t help but be impressed by the seamless integration of the two.

Glen leads her down a hallway towards the bedroom. He points out the guest room on the right. It’s a quet and serene room with beige walls and carpeted floors. The bed has a white comforter and some green throw pillows that add a touch of color but still look cozy and inviting.

“You’re welcome to stay in here if you don’t feel comfortable staying in my room.” He says softly, his voice a little softer now. She can tell he’s hoping she stays with him in his room, but doesn’t want to push or pressure her.

Gabby smiles softly, touched by his thoughtfulness. “It looks cozy in here,” she says, stepping inside to take in the space a little more. It feels welcoming, just like the rest of the house.

Next, they continue down the hallway. Glen points out the main bathroom and then opens the door to the left. He leads her into the master bedroom, and Gabby immediately stops in her tracks. It wasn’t at all what she expected. Which in hindsight, she wasn’t sure quite what she expected from a 35 year old bachelor. But it wasn’t this.

The room was both strikingly modern and somehow also seemed almost personal, a reflection of a man with layered tastes. The walls were painted a deep charcoal gray, creating a cozy yet bold atmosphere that drew her in. The centerpiece of the room was a king-sized bed with a headboard made of reclaimed wood, its warm tones breaking up the darkness of the walls. The bedding was a mix of textures—soft white sheets layered with a dark gray comforter, patterned throw pillows, and a luxurious fur blanket draped across the foot. A low bench of smooth, solid wood sat at the end of the bed, simple yet elegant in its design.

Above the bed hung a large abstract painting, its earthy tones of bronze and black blending seamlessly into the space. It was lit by two pendant lights suspended on either side of the bed, their glass shades casting a warm, ambient glow over the nightstands beneath them. The nightstands themselves were sleek and minimal, adorned with a few thoughtful touches—a small sculpture, a stack of books, and what looked like a vintage alarm clock.

The floor was made of rich, polished wood, partially covered by a large, intricately patterned rug in shades of cream, black, and brown. Gabby’s eyes were drawn to the tall windows that dominated one wall, their black frames perfectly complementing the dark color palette. Beyond the glass was a private deck and a view of the snowy landscape outside, the natural light softening the room’s bold edges.

She couldn’t help but smile, caught off guard by how perfectly this space encapsulated Glen. It was masculine without being overbearing, stylish without being pretentious, and just comfortable enough to hint at the quiet thoughtfulness he often hid behind his teasing. It was the kind of room you wanted to linger in, much like the man who owned it.

Turning to look at him, Gabby raised an eyebrow. “This is... unexpected,” she said, her voice soft with wonder.

Glen smirked, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Unexpected good or unexpected bad?”

“Unexpected perfect,” she admitted, letting her gaze wander over the room once more. “It’s so... you.”

“It’s kind of a mix of styles,” Glen admits, almost sheepish as he watches her reaction. "I wanted it to feel kind of both modern and... comfortable, you know? This is where I spend a lot of my time when I’m home. I come in here and read scripts or respond to emails a lot in here.”

Gabby nods, absorbing the energy of the space. "I can see why," she says softly. "It’s really... perfect."

Glen gives a small chuckle. “Glad you think so. I hope you’ll be comfortable here this week.”

He stood a few steps behind her, his hands shoved casually into the pockets of his jeans. There was something almost vulnerable in the way he glanced between her and the room, as if her opinion mattered more than he cared to admit.

She turned to face him, her chest tightening with a sudden wave of emotion. It was only then that it struck her—this wasn’t just any place. This wasn’t like his rental in Los Angeles. This was his home, his real home. The ranch, with its wide-open space and weathered charm, was his pride and joy. Every detail, every corner of this house, felt steeped in him: grounded, steady, and quietly intentional.

But bringing her here, to the place that clearly meant so much to him, felt huge for their very new relationship. He wanted her here. He wanted her to see this side of him, the side that wasn’t shaped by movie sets and red carpets but by something far more authentic. And somehow, knowing that made her fall for him just a little more.

“It’s perfect,” she said softly, her fingers brushing over the edge of the wooden bedframe as she turned her gaze back to the room. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

He shrugged one shoulder, trying to play it off, but the faint curve of his lips betrayed him. “Figured it was time to show you where I come from.”

Her lips quirked into a small smile. “Well, it’s definitely not L.A.”

“Nope. It’s better.” His tone was light, but there was an undeniable sincerity in his words.

She nodded, looking out at the sun-drenched fields again. She could feel it now, too—the sense of peace that seemed to hum through the air, the way the ranch felt like an anchor to something truer and simpler.

After giving her a moment to take in the master bedroom, Glen guides her through the house again, back toward the kitchen. The space opens up into a large deck, a smooth wooden surface that stretches out from the house, offering a sweeping view of the massive backyard. The sun is beginning to dip lower, casting a golden hue across the landscape. Gabby’s gaze follows the expansive lawn, where a firepit sits surrounded by stone seating. Beyond that, the green of the land rolls on, stretching out until it reaches a distant body of water—either a river or lake—glimmering faintly in the fading light. In the far distance, a barn stands, old but sturdy, its white paint peeking out from behind a cluster of trees.

Glen notices her eyes linger on the barn and grins. 

“That’s the party barn,” he says with a wink, leaning against the railing beside her. “Not much happening there right now, but when I’ve got some time off, that’s where the guys and I go.”

Gabby laughs softly, picturing him with his friends, all of them hanging out in a place like this, enjoying the solitude of the land. “You guys must have some fun stories out there,” she says, her voice light. 

She leans forward, resting her elbows on the railing, taking in the scenery with a relaxed sigh. The quiet beauty of the place settles over her, the peace of the land wrapping around her like a warm blanket.

Glen steps closer, his presence radiating behind her. He wraps his arms around her waist, his body pressing against hers as he rests his chin gently on her shoulder. The warmth of his breath near her ear sends a shiver down her spine.

“Welcome home,” he murmurs softly, his voice low and sincere. The words settle in her chest like something precious.

Gabby’s heart flutters at the unexpected intimacy of the moment, the weight of the words not lost on her. She turns her head just enough to meet his eyes, a soft smile playing on her lips. He presses a gentle kiss to her cheek, the contact brief but tender. It lingers on her skin, sending a rush of warmth through her. 

“I’m going to grab our bags from the truck,” he says, stepping back slightly, though his hands remain on her. “Feel free to keep enjoying the view. I’ll be right back.”

Gabby watches him walk away, her mind still caught in the gentle comfort of his touch. As he disappears back inside, she leans over the railing again, letting herself relax completely. The quiet of the evening, the distant sound of wind rustling through the trees, and the sight of the water shimmering in the fading light all blend together, and for the first time since arriving, Gabby feels at peace. It’s a feeling she’s getting used to the more time she spends with Glen.

Meanwhile, Glen walks back into the house with their bags, he pauses and takes a moment to glance at Gabby, still leaning over the railing as she takes in the view. The soft evening light seemed to glow around her, making her look even more at ease than when they'd arrived. He smiles quietly to himself before walking back into the house.

He takes the bags down the hall, his mind lingering on the thought of her staying in the guest room. It’s a comfortable space, perfectly fine for her, but the idea of having her close to him, in his own room, is hard to shake. Of course, he’ll be okay with whatever she chooses. If she’s more comfortable in the guest room, than that’s okay. He shakes the thought away as he sets her bag down on the bed in the guest room and straightens up, trying to focus on the evening ahead.

When he returns to the living room, Gabby is already inside, taking in the kitchen.. Glen leans against the doorway for a moment, watching her as she surveys the space, almost like she’s settling in for a moment of peace.

“You hungry?” Glen asks, his voice casual but laced with an underlying warmth.

Gabby looks over at him, nodding with a smile. “Yeah, actually, I am.”

“I had my mom run out for some groceries before we got here,” he admits, stepping into the kitchen. “There should be plenty of stuff to work with. What do you feel like?”

Gabby shrugs, glancing over at the fridge. “Something quick and easy sounds good,” she says, her smile widening. “We don’t have to go all out.”

Glen laughs, relieved. “Definitely not. I was thinking something simple. Maybe stir-fry? Or tacos?”

She grins, the light in her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Tacos sound perfect.”

They both get to work, the easy rhythm of being in the kitchen together settling around them. Glen pulls out a few chicken breasts from the fridge and starts prepping the protein, slicing it into strips with quick, practiced motions. Gabby, meanwhile, moves toward the counter to start chopping vegetables—peppers, onions, and a handful of fresh cilantro. The space between them feels comfortable like they’ve done this together a hundred times before.

As they work, Glen glances at her now and then, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. There’s something about the way she’s so at ease in the kitchen, moving with a natural grace. She’s focused, but there’s a lightness to her that makes everything seem effortless.

“I’m impressed,” he says as she arranges the vegetables, wiping her hands on the towel. “You look like you know what you’re doing.”

Gabby raises an eyebrow, shooting him a playful glance. “You didn’t think I’d be any good at this?”

Glen chuckles, shaking his head. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure what to expect. But I’m glad I’m not the only one who knows how to cook around here.”

“Maybe you would’ve known sooner if you ever let me cook.” She quips back.

He just laughs as he looks over at her.

As they continue preparing dinner, the easy rhythm between them persists. Gabby’s focused on chopping vegetables, gliding the knife smoothly through the peppers and onions. The kitchen is filled with the hum of sizzling chicken and the soft sound of the knife hitting the cutting board.

Then, with a slight misstep, Gabby's hand jerks just as she cuts into a pepper. The blade catches her skin, and a sharp sting runs through her finger. She immediately stops, setting the knife down and cursing under her breath as she glances down.

“Damn it,” she mutters to herself, her finger now starting to redden with blood. 

Glen doesn’t notice at first, still busy with the chicken. Gabby shakes her hand, hoping it’ll stop, but when she looks at it again, the blood starts to pool around the cut then begins to run down her finger.

"Uh, Glen..." Gabby's voice cracks a little, the panic starting to creep in.

“Gabby?” His boots thudded against the wooden floor as he made his way to her. “What happened?”

“I—” she stammered, her face pale as she held up her trembling hand. “I—I cut myself. Glen, it’s bleeding a lot. Oh God, I think I’m going to—”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Glen stepped in, his voice calm and steady, grounding her. He reached for her wrist, his fingers warm and grounding as he gently pulled her hand closer. “Let me see.”

She reluctantly let him examine the wound, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. Her free hand braced against the counter as her knees wobbled.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Glen said after a beat, his tone calm and reassuring. “It’s a clean cut, nothing too deep. You’re gonna be fine.”

Gabby didn’t feel fine. Her vision swam, and her chest felt tight. “Are you sure? What if I need stitches? What if we have to go to the hospital? What if—”

“Gabby.” His voice softened, and she dared to look up at him. His green eyes were steady, his expression a mix of concern and amusement. “You’re not dying. I promise.”

“I’m not good with blood,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I noticed,” he said, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he guided her toward the sink.

She stumbled after him, her hand throbbing, her heart racing. The sight of the blood smeared across her palm made her stomach twist again, and she squeezed her eyes shut as Glen turned on the faucet.

“Deep breath,” he said, his hand firm but gentle as he held hers under the cool water. “You’re tougher than this. I’ve seen you handle way worse.”

“That’s debatable,” she muttered, wincing as the water stung.

“Nope. I’ve got evidence. Like that time I made you watch a scary movie with me and you left nail marks on my arm.”

Gabby cracked an eye open to glare at him. “This is not the same as a scary movie.”

“Fair point,” he teased, his grin widening as he turned off the tap and reached for a clean dish towel. “The slasher in the move was way scarier.”

Despite herself, she let out a shaky laugh. “You’re the worst.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Glen said lightly as he patted her hand dry. But his teasing faded as he inspected the cut again, his focus sharpening. “Hold still,” he murmured, turning to open a drawer and then pull out a first aid kit inside.

Gabby stayed rooted in place, her pulse still pounding in her ears but slowing under the calm efficiency of Glen’s movements. His hands were steady, his touch sure as he opened the kit and pulled out antiseptic and bandages.

“This might sting a little,” he warned, dabbing at the cut with a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic.

She hissed, her fingers twitching in his grasp. “A little?”

“Okay, maybe a lot,” he admitted with a chuckle. “But you’re doing great.”

Gabby bit her lip, her eyes fixed on his face instead of the wound. He was so calm, as if patching her up was just another chore on the ranch. For all his teasing, he took the task seriously, his brows furrowed in concentration as he carefully wrapped a bandage around her hand.

“There,” he said after a moment, stepping back to admire his work. “Good as new.”

Gabby glanced down at the neatly wrapped bandage and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The bleeding had stopped, and the throbbing was already fading to a dull ache. “I... guess it’s not that bad,” she admitted reluctantly.

“Told you,” Glen said with a wink, leaning back against the counter. “You just needed a cowboy-slash-surgeon to handle it.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched into a smile. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re dramatic,” he shot back, his grin playful.

But as she looked at him, standing there with that easy confidence and those steady hands that had just taken care of her without a second thought, her heart did a little flip. There was something about the way he’d stepped in, so calm and capable, that made her feel... safe.

“Thanks, Glen,” she said softly, her voice catching slightly.

His teasing smirk softened into something warmer. “Anytime, Gabby.”

Gabby lingered there, cradling her bandaged hand against her chest as she watched Glen. He had gone back to tidying up the counter, wiping away the faint smear of blood as if patching her up had been no big deal. But to her, it had been a very big deal. He’d been calm when she wasn’t, steady when she was spiraling. She bit her bottom lip, her heart doing a funny little flip in her chest.

This man—this steady, confident, infuriatingly charming man—was becoming so much more to her than she’d anticipated. It wasn’t just the way he’d taken care of her tonight. It was everything about him—the way he teased her, the way he made her laugh, the way he somehow always seemed to know exactly what to say to settle her nerves. She realized then, with startling clarity, that she didn’t just like Glen. She really liked him. She maybe even loved him.

And that thought scared her. Because if this didn’t work out—if she let herself fall for him completely and it all went wrong—she wasn’t sure she’d be able to pick up the pieces.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice him turn back to her until his voice broke through.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asked, his tone soft, his hazel eyes glinting with curiosity. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

She blinked, realizing she’d been staring, and felt heat rush to her cheeks. Before she could come up with a quick excuse, Glen stepped closer, his hands finding their way to her waist. He pulled her gently toward him, the warmth of his touch grounding her in a way that made her heart thud even harder.

“Well?” he prompted, tilting his head as a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “What’s on your mind, Gabby?”

She smiled up at him, her fingers brushing lightly against the front of his shirt, where she could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath the fabric. “I think…” She hesitated, her smile softening as her eyes met his. “I think I’m in trouble.”

Glen’s brows furrowed, and the humor faded from his expression, replaced by something more serious. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice quieter now, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Gabby bit her lip again, her gaze flicking down to her hand resting on his chest. Her thumb moved absently over the fabric as she searched for the right words. “I mean… I like you, Glen,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Like, really like you. And that scares me, because if this doesn’t work out…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “If this doesn’t work, I don’t think I’ll walk away unscathed.”

For a moment, Glen didn’t say anything. He just looked at her, his eyes searching hers, his hands steady on her waist. Then, his grip tightened just slightly, and the corner of his mouth quirked into a small, reassuring smile.

“Well,” he said, his voice low and warm, “then it’s a good thing I don’t plan on letting this not work out.”

Her breath caught, and for a moment, the fear she’d been holding onto melted away under the weight of his words and the way he was looking at her—like she was the only thing in the room that mattered.

And maybe, just maybe, falling for Glen wasn’t as scary as it seemed.

Glen’s gaze softened as he searched her face, his hands tightening slightly at her waist, pulling her just a little closer. The air between them felt heavier, charged with a warmth that made Gabby’s chest ache in the best way. Then, without another word, he leaned down and kissed her.

It was soft at first, almost tentative, as if he was testing the waters. But when her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and she kissed him back, he deepened it, his hands sliding from her waist to cradle her face. Time seemed to stand still as the rest of the world faded away, leaving just the two of them in the quiet hum of the kitchen.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, his lips curling into a smile. “For the record,” he said, his voice low and rough, “I really, really like you too.”

Gabby laughed softly, her hands still fisted in his shirt as her cheeks flushed. “You better,” she teased, her voice light despite the nervous flutter in her chest.

Glen kissed her again, quick and firm, before stepping back and brushing his thumb against her jaw. “Alright,” he said, his tone returning to that easy confidence she knew so well, “you should probably take it easy after that serious injury of yours. I’ll finish up dinner.”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms as she tilted her head at him. “It’s a cut, Glen. I’m not a war hero coming home from battle.”

“Uh-huh,” he said with a smirk, wiping his hands on a towel. “And yet, you looked ready to pass out ten minutes ago.”

“I did not,” she shot back, narrowing her eyes.

Glen chuckled, stepping closer again. “Sure, tough girl. Go sit down in the living room before I have to carry you there myself.”

Gabby raised a brow, her lips quirking into a challenge. “You wouldn’t dare.”

His smirk widened. “Wouldn’t I?”

Before she could retort, Glen moved fast, his arms wrapping around her as he effortlessly hoisted her over his shoulder.

“Glen!” she shrieked, laughing despite herself as she kicked her legs in protest. “Put me down!”

“Nope,” he said cheerfully, his tone utterly unapologetic as he carried her toward the living room. “You had your chance to go willingly.”

“This isn’t fair!” she exclaimed, her fists playfully hitting his back as she squirmed. “I can’t fight back when you’re manhandling me like this!”

“That’s the idea,” he said with a laugh, adjusting her weight slightly as if she weighed nothing. “Maybe next time you’ll listen to me.”

“Next time? Oh, you’re dreaming, cowboy,” she shot back, kicking her feet again for good measure.

Glen only laughed harder as he reached the couch. With a careful yet exaggerated flourish, he set her down, smirking down at her as she fixed him with a mock glare.

“Comfortable?” he asked innocently, crossing his arms and leaning slightly to one side as if daring her to challenge him again.

Gabby folded her arms and leaned back against the cushions with an exaggerated huff, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stubborn,” Glen shot back, his grin as smug as ever. “Now stay there while I finish dinner. Doctor’s orders.”

Gabby rolled her eyes again, but this time it was accompanied by a laugh as she watched him head back toward the kitchen. 

“You’re not a doctor! Have you ever even played one?” She teased. But as much as she hated to admit it, being taken care of by Glen—and teased in the process—felt a little too good.

About fifteen minutes later, Gabby was curled up on the couch, idly scrolling through her phone as the sound of clinking dishes and the occasional hum of Glen’s voice drifted in from the kitchen. The scent of seasoned chicken and warm tortillas filled the air, making her stomach growl in anticipation.

When Glen finally appeared, he was carrying two plates balanced perfectly in his large hands. The sight of him—a little more relaxed now, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and that easy grin on his face—made her heart do an annoyingly giddy flip.

“Dinner is served,” he said, setting one plate down in front of her before placing his own on the coffee table.

Gabby smiled, sitting up a little straighter and taking the plate. “Thank you, Chef Glen. Smells amazing.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, his grin widening as he straightened up. “I’m gonna grab a drink. You want anything?”

She hesitated for a moment, looking down at her plate, then back up at him. “Sure. Surprise me.”

“Alright,” he said with a wink, heading back toward the kitchen.

A minute later, he returned with two glasses—one filled with iced tea for her and the other with what looked like a cold beer for himself. He set hers down on the coffee table next to her plate before sinking onto the couch beside her, the cushions dipping under his weight.

“There you go,” he said, nodding toward the glass. “Extra ice, just how you like it.”

Gabby raised a brow at him, her lips tugging into a smile. “You remembered that?”

“Of course I did,” he said, taking a sip of his beer. “I’ve got a good memory when it comes to important things.”

Her smile softened as she picked up the glass, the cold condensation pressing against her fingers. “Thank you,” she said quietly, looking over at him as her heart did that fluttery thing again.

He glanced at her, his brow furrowing slightly. “For what?”

“For…” She paused, taking a sip of the tea before setting it down and shrugging. “For taking care of me. For being you, I guess.”

Glen’s lips curved into a slow smile, and he leaned back against the couch, one arm resting along the back as his eyes stayed on her. “Well, I like taking care of you,” he said simply.

Gabby laughed softly, shaking her head as she picked up her taco. The two of them settled into a comfortable rhythm, sharing bites of food and bits of conversation between mouthfuls. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses filled the living room, blending with the soft hum of the evening.

And as Gabby sat there beside him, eating chicken tacos on the couch like they’d done it a hundred times before, she couldn’t help but feel like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

As the last of their tacos disappeared, Gabby leaned back into the couch, setting her empty plate on the coffee table with a satisfied sigh. Glen did the same, stretching his legs out in front of him, his socked feet brushing against hers.

“Okay,” she said, wiping her hands on a napkin. “I’ll admit it—those tacos were amazing. You’ve officially ruined takeout for me.”

Glen smirked, leaning his head back against the couch. “High praise. I’ll take it.”

She gave him a playful nudge with her foot, which he caught with his, trapping it gently between his. For a moment, the room was quiet except for the faint creak of the house settling and the soft clinking of their glasses on the table.

Then, Glen tilted his head toward her, his expression thoughtful. “What do you say we change into something more comfortable? Get cozy for the rest of the night?”

Gabby arched a brow, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Are you trying to call it a night already? It’s barely past eight, old man.”

“Nah,” he said with an easy grin. “Not saying we need to sleep. Just thought we could ditch the jeans and get into some pajamas or sweats. You know—real comfort.”

He pushed off the couch, offering her a hand to help her up. “Go ahead and get changed and I’ll met you in my room in ten.”

Gabby took his hand but didn’t move right away, giving him an exaggeratedly confused look. “Your room? I thought we were sleeping separately tonight. Wasn’t I supposed to take the guest room?”

For a moment, Glen’s entire face fell. His hand remained in hers, but his shoulders sagged as he stared at her, completely speechless—a rare thing for him.

Her grin widened as she shoved his chest lightly and stood. “Relax, cowboy,” she said with a laugh. “I’m joking. You should’ve seen your face, though!”

He narrowed his eyes at her, his lips twitching like he was fighting a grin. “You’re real funny, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she said, still chuckling as she headed toward her overnight bag by the door. “But you like it.”

“Mm-hm,” he called after her, his voice laced with amusement. “You better sleep with one eye open tonight.”

Gabby just laughed, already thinking about how his expression would probably replay in her head for the rest of the evening.

Gabby smirked over her shoulder, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Ooh, I’m so scared of you,” she teased, winking before turning on her heel and heading toward the hallway.

She could practically hear him smirking behind her. “You should be,” Glen’s voice followed, playful but low. He was already on her tail, footsteps steady but quick, matching her pace.

Before she could even make it halfway down the hall, she felt his hands slip around her waist, his strong arms locking around her like a vice. With an effortless move, Glen lifted her off the ground, spinning her around so that she was facing him, her feet dangling slightly.

“What the—? Glen!” Gabby let out a surprised laugh, her hands instinctively reaching for his shoulders to steady herself. She playfully kicked her legs, trying to wiggle free.

He grinned, his voice a teasing whisper. “Told you to sleep with one eye open.”

Her legs kicked out in mock protest, and she gave his chest a soft shove, but she wasn’t really trying to escape. “It’s not fair,” she muttered, pretending to glare up at him, “that you can manhandle me like this.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You love it.”

“I do not,” she shot back quickly, even though the warmth blooming in her chest said otherwise.

“Mm-hm,” he hummed as he slowly lowered her back to her feet, but kept his arms around her. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”

Gabby bit her lip to stop herself from grinning too wide, but it didn’t work. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, but there was no malice in the words—just affection.

“You’ve got that right.” His grin softened, and he leaned in to kiss her temple, a quick, tender moment before he nudged her toward the hallway again. “Now, go get changed. I’ll be in my room.”

[museumgiftshoperaser]

80s New York Art Scene AU for @steddiebang Now on AO3

Written by me with art by @melonalemonade & @dreaminginpencil Beta'd by @lihhelsing & Nevertheless

If Eddie had known that sharing his art studio with Robin would include her buddy Steve, he never would’ve offered it in the first place. There. He said it. If that makes him a bad friend, so be it. Because Steve is around all the time. Pastel and prissy. Sculpted from marble, yet dressed like a Macy’s mannequin. Always hovering. They got Robin’s potters wheel up the stairs last week, a three man effort he can still feel in his lower back, and now she’s fucking teaching him. Full on, arms wrapped around his waist, hands guiding hands. Someone grab him a bucket, ‘cause Eddie’s about to throw up. He’s not even good at it. Steve can barely get the hump of clay centered on the wheel and he refuses to get stains on his clothes. It’s fucking clay. It comes out in the wash. Steve’s shirtless approach to pottery is borderline offensive to the arts.

More information under the cut:

The posting date is less than two weeks away and I'm beyond excited to start sharing this fic with you guys! I've been working on it since January and it's the longest thing I've ever written. This story is absolutely drowning in 80s neo-expressionist art, graffiti and street art. Think Jean Michel Basquiat and Keith Haring. Everything about this fic is covered in paint <3

Posting Schedule: Nov. 7: Prologue + Chapter 1 - "Takes One to Know One" Nov. 10: Chapter 2 - "You've Done This Before" Nov. 14: Chapter 3 - "The Boy From California" Nov. 17: Chapter 4 - "A Regular Thing" Nov. 21: Chapter 5 - "You Don't Have to Tell Me" Content warnings for: Past abusive relationship, mentions of abuse during childhood, addiction, slighty toxic relationship, period typical homophobia and mentions of homophobic parents, mentioned death of a parent, explicit sex scenes with dom/sub undertones I've got a little snippet for you here:

“Ta-dah,” Robin says with a big smile and an even bigger hand gesture.  She stretches her arms like a big reveal, which only highlights how small the studio is. Both of her hands almost touch a wall. Eddie’s normally fucking proud of this space, but Steve’s presence is ruining it. It’s one of the reasons he hates rich people. The world always looks like shit through their eyes. A crease forms between Steve’s eyebrows, an expression Eddie has seen him make several times in the thirty minutes he’s known the guy. “This part is mine!” Robin says, sounding genuinely excited. She’s the only rich person Eddie respects. He cleared out the room directly to the right of the entrance for Robin. It’s slightly smaller than his own, but she agreed to it before she left to spend all of June and July with her mother in California. She said it had better light anyway, which Eddie doesn’t give a fuck about.  There’s something twitchy about Steve’s movements. He baby birds his way across the space, like he doesn’t realize he has wings yet. Anxious, which, what the fuck? What did Eddie do to deserve that? Steve’s nose scrunches like he smells something he disapproves of. “I really don’t like this part of the city,” he says and he looks out the window like that proves his point. “Do you have to work here?”  Eddie bites the inside of his cheek. He promised Robin he’d play nice, but surely these are extenuating circumstances.  “We don’t all have daddy payin’ our bills,” he says with a pout and a lilt that borders on sexual. Just to piss him off. Just to make everyone uncomfortable. Robin blinks a few times fast and shakes her head. Count that as a win.  “I don’t…” Steve stutters before collecting himself. “I just want Robin to have a nice place to work.”  “And I’d like a pony and a private jet, but we can’t all get what we want,” he says and he really should stop there. But… “Isn’t that right, pretty boy?”  He doesn’t even have to wink this time. A blush stretches all the way to Steve’s ears. His eyes deepen from shock to anger like a bruise turning dark purple on day three. Yup. Worth it.  “Eddie, could you please just behave,” Robin groans. “We still have to get the rest of my stuff.” “I can help you with that tomorrow,” Steve says, still flushed, but pretending like he isn’t. It’s a sweet offer until he turns to look Eddie up and down and adds: “So we can get out of here now.”  “That would be great.” Robin looks up at Steve. “I could really use a drink, you?”  There’s those puppy eyes again. Steve’s whole face lights up and he nods quickly.  “You coming, Eddie?” She wiggles her fingers at him. “First round on me?” An offer to get drinks with his best friend and this random guy who makes him want to rip his own hair out? Fuck no. He has some sense of self preservation, thank you very much.  “I’m just gonna work on my painting for a bit.” Robin rolls her eyes at him before pushing Steve back toward the front door. “Go home on time, okay?” she yells over her shoulder. “The painting’s gonna be here in the morning.”  “Yeah, yeah…” He waits by the door until he can no longer hear their footsteps on the stairs. Once he’s confident they’re gone, he grabs the sheet turned blanket from the crate behind his easel. He never bothers with pajamas, just unbuckles his overalls and lets the pants sag around his hips as he sinks into the couch. It’s easier that way. If Robin comes back he can just tell her he was taking a nap. Sweatpants and a sleep shirt would be a dead ringer that sleeping here isn’t just a one off. He’s been doing it since he got evicted in April, but what Robin doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

[appalachianapologies]

Remittent Distress

Chapter Seven: Transient

Chapter Summary: Mac, Riley, and Bozer all touch down in Mission City, hoping to get their footing before seeking out the elder MacGyver and Walsh. At the same time, half of the Delta Team head toward James MacGyver's last known residence while Dalton is caught up in memories with the past that threaten to cloud his judgement of the present.

Fic Summary: After years of being on the run and keeping his head down, Mac finally receives the opportunity to end this screwed up game of hide-and-seek for good. With the help of two unlikely friends, some unconventional skill sets, and plenty of all-nighters, Mac attempts to track down his father before James gets to him first. It's been six months since an ordinary mission turned to hell, leaving its permanent marks on Jack Dalton—both physically and emotionally. But when information about a wild kid he came across four months ago gets dropped into his lap, he has to push it all down in order to find not just the kid, but the truth behind him as well.

[sk1fanfiction]

Chapter Nine: Red Rum, Red Hands

Oh, he’s spotted it,” said Blaise from behind her, his voice giddy with anticipation.

“Who?” asked Parvati.

There was no answer, because Harry and Cedric both seemed to dive in unison, robes snapping in the wind after what must be the Snitch near the ground, far too small to see.

“Now, the technique Potter’s using’s called a Spiral Dive—” Blaise began.

“Shhh,” said Parvati, almost dangling over the railing. “They’re so close!”

The two Seekers were neck and neck, hands outstretched, pressing themselves flatter against their brooms—

Then they both pulled up. Hard. The Snitch must have slipped away.

“Well, wasn’t that hair-raising?” called Lee, and the stadium cheered in approval. “It’s still anyone’s game, sixty to eighty, Gryffindor to Hufflepuff — but Johnson’s currently doing her best to make that score even.”

The tension in Harry’s shoulders as he rose was clear even from far away. The Gryffindor stands yelled encouragement, but he seemed indifferent, unhearing as he watched the swarming chaos of red and yellow below. Cedric looked similarly contemplative.

And then, it happened.

Cedric dove.

“Diggory spotted the Snitch!” called Lee. “With Potter in pursuit — no, where’s Potter, why’s he just sitting there? Earth to Potter!”

“Why isn’t he following?” asked Parvati, the wind from Cedric plummeting blowing her hair back from her face.

She was right; Harry was just sitting there, casual as you please.

What if something’s wrong?

“Wronski Feint,” Blaise supplied. “At least, that’s what Diggory’s attempting. But Harry knows there’s nothing down there.”

Indeed, Harry’s face was tilted towards the sky, scanning the clouds with a tense, quiet determination.

Is that really what he’s doing?

Gryffindor plays Hufflepuff, but, believe it or not, Harry and Cedric's last match-up is far from the most exciting event this Saturday. Read from the beginning at FFN|AO3!

[ratgirlexe]

Literally none of you are ready for some of the stuff I now have written for Myosotis. We are going to go to such beautiful places, and I am so excited to take you there.

[optiwashere]

I completely forgot about the best part of a new year, at least from a "neurotic about genuinely pointless shit" perspective. It's this little sweetness on AO3.

This is also where I'm a massive hypocrite and admit that I look at things that don't matter. I'm here as a lesson. Don't do what I do, fellow writers.

These pages on AO3 are the Great Evil. Save yourself and ignore them. I highly recommend making a site skin to block yourself from seeing any statistics!

I hate seeing this screen. Expectation and comparison lurk here:

I love seeing this screen and its relative emptiness. It's comforting:

I hope to stop looking at either in 2024.

[jennycalendar]

“Jenny, what do you know about this town?”

An Englishman who needed to stay in Sunnydale. Who moved here around the same time you did, just before what should have been the Harvest but wasn’t. Who doesn’t like his job, but married you so that he could keep it, and thanked you for the marriage like lives depended on it.

He does have a secret, Jenny realized. Her stomach turned over.

“Jenny?”

“What if I don’t want to know anything about it?” said Jenny.

agonized for nearly an hour over posting this chapter :) i like my little soft fun silly fic but it is also a celia fic which apparently means: heart-wrenching angst.

i'm hoping to write the next chapter tomorrow, if i can, but rest assured there will not be a long wait! worth noting that we are very much in the home stretch.

[doctorweebmd]

good news chapter 12 of the path to paradise is basically done so i need to edit and tweak some things before my night shift tomorrow but hopefully i'll post it then!!!

[whom-to-kill-whom-to-let-live]

Ah lads, I might have gone off the rails in my desperation for Legato fanfics and ended up writing my own.

[heliodorwrites]

act iii of seven days in sunny june is almost done. it's a batch of eight chapters over 10k. absolute monster update lol

i'm like vibrating with excitement about this part. the plot! the suspense! the romance! i'm cooking here!!! i want to talk about it so bad but it's not done yet

i'll probably have it edited and ready either by the weekend or after the weekend depending on how busy i am what with halloween and all

[jaywhere]

okay! almost done! 1/2 of a scene left!

[thuumwrestler]

Just editing and doing some revisions and then chapter 3 of my durge fic will be done!

[blacktabbygames]

even if you've already finished slay the princess, i would highly encourage you to return for the new stuff in the pristine cut. the damsel's third chapter, is, imo, far and away the best thing i've ever written. not even close genuinely intimidated by the standard it sets for me moving forward

i think the only thing i've worked on that's on the same level w/ it is the bit with stella in episode 4 of scarlet hollow. iykyk

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 36: To The Sea

Summary: It's time to move on. You're not sure where you're going exactly, but anywhere is better than Texas

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 7,811 words

Warnings: ANGST, injuries, medical stuff, descriptions of pain and injuries, brief discussion about strangulation, mentions of PTSD and nightmares, so much crying, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, angst, a very little sprinkle of comfort, language, mentions of medications, still very heavy emotionally

A/N: Not actually a lot of warnings for this one. It's a lot of dialogue and inner monologues. Not a lot happens, just mostly setting the scene for the next chunk of the story. Bring tissues though, the last part of the chapter emotionally wrecked me but also might be the best thing I've ever written.

11/30/24: **This Chapter has been edited and rewritten from its original version**

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

It’s warm outside. 

Not even the shade from the building can completely shield you from the dome of heat that seems to surround the base. It seeps into the concrete and asphalt that lock it into place, trapping everyone in a bubble that may as well be an oven. It’s always hot in Texas, though. You hate it. You’ve been spoiled by the cold, rainy seasons in England. You’d gladly take that over Texas. 

You’d take anything over Texas. 

The heat prickles at your skin, your arm starting to get sweaty in the sling. It had been Dr. Keller’s idea to keep your shoulder as still as possible so you don’t continue to cause yourself pain when you move. It still hurts, but at least you won’t instinctively try to use your left arm now.

Despite the warmth, there’s still a chill deep in your bones. The warmth of the pain medicine has worn off and you’ve been left with the perpetual ice that has seemed to coat your insides. Dr. Keller says it's the stress giving you a fever. Every nightmare, every flashback sends your body temperature spiking, your heart beating right out of your chest. You’re not out of the woods yet. It can take a long time to recover from that level of distress and the omega taking over. You almost regret it, but there was no guarantee you would have lived either way at that time. You did what you had to do, and it did work out in the end. 

But at what cost? 

Dr. Keller’s phone buzzes in her pocket and she pulls it out, staring down at the screen for a moment. “Kyle wants to come by.” 

You don’t want to see him. You don’t want to see any of them. 

“I think you should see him. Even if it’s just for a moment.” She squeezes your hand. “I’ll be right here.” 

It’s a predicament. Dr. Keller supports your decision to keep them away, putting some distance between all of you for the time being. Yet, she also says being close to your pack will help your healing. Having your pack around will help your omega settle once again. She needs that safety, that security before she finally lets go completely. 

You don’t want to be close to them, but you may not have any other choice. 

You sit there in silence, picking at the fabric of your sweatpants as you wait for Kyle’s arrival. Sweat has started to bead on your back, the day only getting warmer and warmer as the sun moves higher in the sky. You want to go back inside, back into the cool air conditioned building. You want to crawl back onto the hospital bed and lay there for the next few hours. 

You can’t. 

Footsteps approach, but you don’t look up. You know who it is. You don’t want to see him. 

“Kyle.” Dr. Keller greets. 

“Christine.” He says back. It still throws you off, hearing Dr. Keller's first name. She'll always be Dr. Keller to you. Kyle turns his attention to you, still standing a few steps from the bench you're perched on. “Hi, love.” He says. The affectionate nickname almost makes you wince. You don't look up at him. You don’t want to see his face. “I wanted to stop by and see how you’re doing.” 

You don't move, don't give an answer. You don't have an answer to give anyway. You shouldn't have to give an answer. 

He lowers himself onto the bench, sitting as far away from you as he can. “It’s hot today.” He says, adjusting his hat. Always wearing a hat. Maybe that's why he and Price work so well together. 

He stares at you for a long moment but you don't bother moving, your gaze still on your sweatpants. They're starting to get a bit warm, even with your perpetual chill. 

“I’m not here to apologize.” He says, breaking the silence. “You’ve probably heard enough apologies to last you a lifetime.” He shakes his head. “Words can’t fix what we did. Nothing can fix what we did. All we can do is give you what you need, try and make you as comfortable as possible.” 

Tears burn your eyes as you listen to him. He's not wrong, an apology won't fix what happened. No words will ever be able to fix what they put you through. You're not sure there's anything they could do that would make up for it. An apology still would have been nice, despite the fact you know how guilty he is. Their avoidance of you, their willingness to give you such space in an unknown place just proves how guilty they all are. 

That doesn't make things hurt any less. 

You slowly turn away from Kyle, angling yourself towards Dr. Keller. 

He doesn't say anything further in that regard, taking your movement as an answer to his non-apology. He leans forward instead, resting his elbows on his knees. “I just wanted to let you know that we’re getting ready to leave soon. We’ll be heading somewhere safe, somewhere quiet and secluded. I think you’ll like it.” 

Dr. Keller had informed you of that earlier after she went to speak to them. They've decided what to do, what's best for the pack again. You might have protested, except for the fact it meant you were getting to leave Texas. Where exactly they're taking you, you're not sure. You just know it's not Texas. 

“I want you to know that we’re here if you need us.” He stares at you for a moment longer before pushing himself up to stand. 

If, not when. 

Maybe they're finally getting the message. 

Dr. Keller stands, touching your right shoulder gently before she steps away with Kyle, speaking quietly with him, but you can still hear every word in the nearly silent space around you. 

“In an attempt to remain a neutral, professional party in this situation, I feel it would be appropriate for me to tell you not to beat yourself up too much about this.” Dr. Keller says. “The unprofessional side of me has many words I’d like to say to all of you.” She clears her throat. “That being said, on a positive note I can say you’re all doing the right thing for once, prioritizing your omega and fulfilling her needs, even if her needs require you to leave her alone for now. I know it’s hard, I know every instinct is screaming at you to help her, but just take comfort in knowing you are helping her. You’re doing the best thing you can do for her at this time.” Dr. Keller puts a hand on his arm, squeezing it gently. “Even if it is tearing you up inside.” 

“Thanks, Doc.” He says. 

“I’ll see you soon.” She says, patting his arm before she heads back towards your bench. 

You turn your head just slightly, not missing the way Gaz lingers for a brief moment before he turns his back on you, walking back down the sidewalk. 

It hurts. 

You want to cry with every swallow. No matter how much you chew, it doesn’t ease the pain of trying to swallow solid food. Even the worst sore throat you’ve ever had pales in comparison to this pain. Tears burn in your eyes as you eat, unable to refuse this time in favor of choking down some liquid nutrients. Even liquids make your throat ache, but they are easy to chug to get it over with at once. 

This feels like torture. 

Dr. Keller looks guilty as she spoon-feeds you the soup. Chicken noodle, something simple and easy but still something with some substance. It makes you think back to when you were sick as a child, your mother dutifully feeding you homemade chicken noodle soup until you reached the age you could feed yourself. 

You do feel like a child again, unable to even hold the spoon. Well, you could hold it, but it would have come at the expense of some burns from how badly your hand was shaking. 

So instead you sit here, being spoon-fed soup you can barely stand eating. 

“I know.” She says as a tear finally falls, your inhale shaky from the ache in your throat. “You need something in your system for the sedative. It’s a long flight and you’ll be sick when you wake up if you don’t have anything in your stomach. That’s going to hurt a lot worse than eating now.” 

Yeah. You’ve already figured that out. 

“Strangulation is a tough thing to survive.” She says, dragging the bottom of the spoon against the edge of the bowl to wipe off any soup that might drip on you. “Then again, so is getting shot, and distressing to the point of your omega taking over.” She holds the spoon up to your lips, and you’re tempted to refuse. “You’ve survived a lot, more than most could. And to look this good after...” 

You blink up at her, teary eyed and sickly looking, exhausted and bruised. Your left eye is still almost swollen shut, and your hair is tangled perhaps beyond saving, tied up in a bun at the top of your head. All just reminders of what you survived, all reminders of what happened to you. Of what was allowed to happen to you. 

You’re not quite sure when the last time you had a real shower was either. 

“I know.” She says, spooning more soup into your mouth. “You might not feel like it, right now.” 

“I want a shower.” You say, your voice still hoarse and cracking through your throat. A real shower might solve a lot of problems for you right now. It won’t fix much, but being truly clean would make a lot of things feel better. 

“I wholeheartedly agree.” Dr. Keller says. 

You give her a look. You don't smell that bad. She should know, she’s the one that cleaned the blood off of you and the one who gave you the sponge bath this morning. 

She gives you a look back. “I meant it would be nice to take a real shower. Once we get where we’re going, we can work on the logistics of a shower.” 

Right. You can’t exactly stand for a long time on your own, not to mention the problem of only being able to use one arm without bringing blinding pain upon yourself. That’s where the pack would come in handy. 

The thought of one of them seeing you vulnerable like that, putting their hands on you right now makes your skin crawl. 

A shiver runs down your spine, your body shuddering uncontrollably. You grunt as your shoulder screams in pain, another electric jolt burning straight through your nerves and down through your feet. Fuck. You mouth the word, squeezing your eyes shut. It makes your stomach churn, the soup starting to burn a path back up through your esophagus.

“Breathe for me.” Dr. Keller says, putting a gentle hand on your right shoulder. 

In and out. You focus on your breath, the only thing you can do without feeling like you’re going to go insane from the pain. It’s all you can do in this situation. It’s the only thing you can do at all. Breathe. Just keep breathing. 

Sometimes you don’t want to. 

The pain passes as it always does, leaving behind a subtle ache that will linger until the next flare of pain. It’s a constant, never-ending cycle that you can’t escape from. Weeks, Dr. Keller had said. It can take weeks to heal. You’ll be stuck in this cycle for weeks and weeks. What if it never heals? That is a possibility. It’s always a risk with any injury. 

What if the rest of your life is like this? 

You’re crying again, hot tears blazing a path down your cheeks. They won’t stop, they never stop. There’s a constant stream down your face, even in your sleep. You’ve woken to find your face and neck damp from the never ceasing flood of tears. 

How you can’t wait for the time to come when you have none left.

You’d welcome the numbness at this point, greet it like an old friend and invite it in for tea. Anything over the pain and tears that won’t stop. The depression-fueled numbness that had filled you when Price and Gaz left, then Soap and Ghost would be a welcome relief at this point. Anything would be better than the pain. 

You almost wish you were in a coma right now. Then you wouldn’t feel anything at all. 

Dr. Keller puts the spoon back into the soup bowl before rolling the table to the side. She puts a hand on your head, gently stroking your hair as you cry. The room is silent aside from your sniffles, Dr. Keller not having to say a single word. The silence is almost a blessing. You’re tired of hearing words, of hearing people speak. There’s nothing anyone can say that will do anything to help you, to comfort you, to make it better. 

There’s nothing anyone can do to make it better. 

You’re so tired of being like this. 

The sedative is kicking in before you even reach the airfield. She can see the way your head is drooping further and further forward in the car, your body jostling without any complaint. It had started kicking in before you even got into the car, as you offered very little resistance when Kyle helped her mauver you into the front seat. She chose Kyle out of everyone to help her in hopes it would be easiest on you. Your claimed alpha’s beta is a good place to start in rebuilding the bonds within the pack, and his calm demeanor certainly helps. He is a caretaker through and through, that beta trait prominent above the others in him. He would have made a good medic, had he gone that route. 

Your chin drops to your chest as the car comes to a stop in front of the plane, your body slumping to the side against the door. 

“She’s out.” Christine says, unbuckling her seatbelt. 

“Makes this easier.” Kyle says, getting out of the car. 

They maneuver you into the wheelchair, Christine easing your head onto your right shoulder to avoid aggravating the left. The less pain you’re in when you come out of it, the better, though pain will be unavoidable. Kyle pushes the wheelchair up the ramp of the plane, Christine following close behind. She’s glad she gave you the sedative before you left the med center to avoid as much pain as possible. She almost wishes she had given it to you earlier, as getting you into a sweatshirt had been a battle of its own. Though, the longer it stays in your system, the longer you’ll sleep through the flight. The longer you sleep through the flight, the longer they can delay the inevitable emotional storm of being enclosed in a tight space with your pack. 

If you’re lucky, you’ll be out of it long enough for them to reach the cottage without incident. 

John is waiting near the front of the aircraft, his eyes watching carefully as Kyle helps maneuver you into a seat. Even with the turmoil in the pack bonds, an alpha will always feel protective over their omega. There’s some things that can’t be undone, even in such a fragile state. Some instincts can’t be unlearned, no matter what. 

“I gave her a sedative.” Christine explains as she gets you as comfortable as possible in the seat. “It won’t last the whole flight, but it’ll take a while to wear off regardless.” 

“Is that more for her or for us?” John asks. 

“Both.” Christine says. “Mostly for her. It helps with the pain of moving around, but it will also keep her calm in close quarters like this.” 

“Here.” John says, handing her something. It’s a blanket, brand new by the feel of it. “Johnny made a store run this morning. It’s going to get cold in here, so he got the warmest one he could find.” 

Christine takes the blanket, the fabric thick and soft in her hands. It’s a touching gesture, speaking volumes of their desire to still care for you despite everything, their willingness to do what they have to, to keep the pack together. “Perfect.” She says, carefully draping it over you and tucking it around you before John gets you secured in the seat. 

“It’s going to be a long flight.” John says, taking a step back. 

“It is.” Christine says, pulling out her thermometer. She takes your temperature, letting out a hum at the number that pops up on screen. “I need to monitor her temperature.” She explains as John gives her a look. “It’s been spiking when she gets stressed.” 

“She's not quite out of it yet, is she?” John asks.

“Not quite.” She says, putting the thermometer back in her bag. “I’ve only seen two omegas successfully come back from that point, and I know the number across the board isn’t very high. It takes a long time for the body and the brain to get back to normal.” 

“And on top of everything that happened...” 

She stares up at him for a long moment. “She’s very strong. I knew she was a fighter, but to come out the other side even where she is now...” Christine shakes her head. “I didn’t want to say this at the time, but I was expecting the worst. When that call came in about what state she was in...” She bites her lip, holding the emotions back. “Her resilience and fortitude is what kept her alive. That and Simon’s courage to do what needed to be done.” 

“I know.” John says, looking past her. “We all owe a lot to him.” 

Christine puts a gentle hand on his arm. “You’re doing what’s best for her. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how much it goes against every instinct you have, it’s what she needs.” 

“That’s all that matters to us right now.” John says, staring down at her hand for a moment. “There’s nothing else we can do, so it’s time we start putting our priorities where they should have been the whole time.” 

Christine gives him a small smile. “I’m proud of you for that. It takes a lot to unlearn the things you’ve been told since the beginning.” 

The corner of John’s lips twitch before his face falls into the emotionless mask he’s been wearing for the last few days. “It’s about time we get our heads out of our arses.” 

“I can’t blame you totally.” She shrugs. “We were all just doing what the initiative was telling us to do. We couldn’t have known. There wasn’t any room to question it.” 

“I wish we would have figured it out sooner.” He sighs. 

“Things might have been worse if the truth did come out sooner. If you started digging into the initiative too soon, Shepherd might have gotten antsy and taken more drastic measures to stop the truth from coming out entirely.” She glances down at you. “I think this was all inevitable.” She turns her gaze back to John. “What happened, happened. None of us can change that. All we can do is keep moving forward with what we have right now.” 

He stares at her for a long moment. “The more time passes, the more I’ve come to realize why Kate chose you for this position.” 

The corner of her lips turns up in a smile. “Well, I am rather good at my job, which, among other things, involves advocating on behalf of omegas.” 

John huffs. “Wish we would have listened sooner.” 

“You can’t change the past.” She repeats, looking down at you again. “But you can change the future.” 

You woke from your sedation about four hours from Helston. 

Well, ’woke’ might have been too strong of a word for it. Your eyes opened, but you were still hazy, movements sluggish and entirely unaware of the world around you. You floated between sleep and awareness for an hour before finally gaining consciousness completely. Awareness took quite a while to return, though. Not until they were moving you to the car from the plane. 

Even still you’re groggy, slumped against the door in the back seat of the car. You blink slowly, eyes unfocused as you stare out the window at the blur of green passing by. 

“How is she?” John asks from the driver's seat, glancing up at the rearview mirror. 

“Cow.” You say, blinking slowly as the car passes a field of cows. 

“Still out of it.” Christine answers from the back seat where she's sitting next to you. Your response might have been enough to answer that. “Better than being in pain, though.” 

“How long will it take for her to get out of it?” Kyle asks. 

“Hopefully she’ll be more lucid by the time we get there, but it could take a few hours for it to completely wear off.” Christine says, wiping a bit of drool from your chin. “Probably not a bad thing. This is a big change, and with everything that’s happened, it’s going to take some time to settle in.” 

“Things are going to be rough.” Kyle says. 

“Yes.” She agrees. “Being enclosed in a small space with the people you want to see the least in the world isn’t an ideal situation. It’ll be an adjustment for everyone. I trust all of your abilities to adapt, though. Just don't go in expecting things to be the way they were.”

John's hands tighten around the steering wheel, his knuckles going white. Kyle cracks his window open, prepared for the thickening of John's scent in the air. Christine knows she hit a nerve, but it needed to be said. Even if you were open to forgiveness right now, even if they had chosen to go after you right away, things still wouldn't be the same. Things won't ever be the same. It is their fault deep at the root of it. Those cameras were put up because of them, you were taken because of them. You were chosen for the “initiative” because of them, because Kate thought you'd fit in well with them. Their decisions shaped your life, and will continue to shape your life. 

Can you ever come to forgive them? Christine likes to think so. She has the hope that they can put in the work and regain your trust and earn eventual forgiveness. She knows you'll allow them to try once the initial hurt and emotions begin to fade, once the two of you put in enough work to start processing the trauma around the events that happened. It will take time. Probably a long time. 

She'll be there every step of the way. 

“Ashley did some shopping for us, picked up some stuff to get us until we can get into town.” Kyle says, looking at his phone. 

“Good.” John says, his shoulders starting to relax. “Should wait a couple days before going. Get settled in.”

“She's still working on cleaning up. Probably still be there when we get there.” Kyle says, putting his phone back in his pocket. 

“That's fine. We’ll probably have to utilize her a bit.” 

“Doubt she'll complain.” Kyle says, looking out the window. “Be thrilled to have something to do besides work.” 

You let out a quiet groan, shifting against the door. “Hurts.” 

“I know, honey.” Christine says, carefully adjusting your left arm. “I’ll give you more pain meds once we get to the cottage.” 

“We’ll be there in half an hour.” John says, glancing up at the rearview mirror again before turning his eyes back to the road. 

The half hour seems to take the longest as you continue to become more and more lucid and aware. The pain sets in first, your brain picking up on those signals before anything else. John’s knuckles are white around the steering wheel as you begin to whine and whimper around every bend in the road and turn he has to make, every jostle of the car. Every instinct in his body tells him to pull over and comfort you, but he can’t. It’s more important to get to the cottage, and there’s no guarantee you’d even let him. It might make things worse. 

The last thing you need right now is for things to get worse. 

Christine breathes a sigh of relief as they pull up to the cottage, glad she can finally get you somewhere more comfortable. You’ve been in far too many uncomfortable positions today, moved around too much. She would have liked to keep you in Texas a couple more days, but she knew as soon as you were able to travel, the better. The sooner they could get off the grid, the better. 

The sooner they could get out of Texas, the better. 

Kyle is getting the wheelchair out of the trunk when Johnny and Simon pull up, not having been far behind. They likely took a turn around the back roads to ensure no one was following and to keep things from looking too suspicious. 

Christine keeps you from slumping out of the car as she carefully opens the door on your side. You’re more awake than you were, blinking up at her with almost startlingly aware eyes.

“Crutch.” You pout when she pulls the wheelchair closer. 

She gives you a look. “Honey I'm not sure you could even stand right now.” You may be more aware, but that doesn’t mean your body is working as it should.

You let out a defiant noise as you attempt to get your legs out of the car, trying to hide your grunts of pain and discomfort. 

She's tempted to stand there and let you try, but she knows all hell will break loose if she lets you fall. She's not willing to take that risk, not to mention it will cause you more pain to get you up off the ground. 

“Come on,” She says, stopping you before you can get your feet under you. “Nice and slow.” 

You let out a quiet growl of indignation but you allow her to help you, your legs trembling as she eases you up. Kyle is there with the wheelchair, getting it as close to you as possible so she can sit you down quickly. 

“Ow.” You breathe, eyes pinched closed as you breathe through the pain. 

“I know.” She says, patting your good shoulder lightly. She's glad she put you in the sweatshirt before you left Texas. It's chilly outside, chillier than it was further inland a few days ago. 

It's hard to believe it's only been a few days since you were taken. Barely even a week. So much happened in such a short period of time. It feels like it’s been weeks since everything started, but then again, it had been weeks since John and Kyle first left. It had been weeks since you had been around your whole pack together by the time you were taken. The deep depression you sunk into before the events of the last week had been draining you slowly for weeks before this. It had started before John and Kyle were deployed, back to that day when you revealed the cameras and the secret you had been hiding from them. 

How long you’ve gone in such turmoil. 

How far you still have to go. 

The path up to the door is rocky and uneven, the wheelchair jostling as she pushes it up towards the door. She can picture your face, the way it has to be screwed up in pain. You're silent though, holding it all in. She almost wishes you weren't being silent about it. 

The door is already open, light shining from inside as she approaches. Kyle is in the house already, having gone ahead to greet his sister. John is right behind the two of you as Christine turns to wheel you up the steps into the house. His eyes are on you, focused and ready should you fall.  

Christine would never let you fall, and from the way your hand is gripping the arm of the chair for dear life, you probably couldn't anyway. 

She wheels you through the entryway, the inside warmer thanks to a fire that's burning. It's a nice cottage, far nicer than she had been expecting judging from the outside. 

Johnny lets out a low whistle as he enters behind John, looking around. “Yer parents own this?” 

“It was given to our mum by our grandparents. They did some...renovations before they passed it on.” Kyle says. 

“Yer tellin’ me.” Johnny says. 

It looks new inside. New wood floors, freshly painted walls. The furniture looks like she would expect to find in an English seaside cottage, though. Kyle’s parents went to France for summer vacation instead of utilizing the cottage, and none of his siblings had wanted to use it, he told them. It looks almost perfect, like it came right out of a home renovation show. Kyle’s sister must have worked some sort of magic to get it this clean. 

It is a very nice cottage. It’s small, the door opening right to the main area. There’s two couches and a chair in the middle of the room around a coffee table. To the left of the couches is a fireplace, the fire already lit and crackling. It looks original, likely having been untouched in the renovations. There’s a door to the left of the fireplace closer to the main entryway. A bedroom maybe? To the right of the front door are two doors, one on the far wall and one facing the front door. 

The stairs are in the middle of the house, leading up to the second floor where there’s likely more bedrooms. On the far side of the main area is the dining area and beyond that is a sliding glass door. Around the corner on the far side of the stairs is likely the kitchen. She can see the fridge from where she’s standing. It’s new. Very new. Makes her wonder just how long ago it had been renovated. 

“Everyone, this is my sister Ashley.” Kyle says, introducing the other woman in the room. 

“Hello,” she says, giving everyone a wave and a dazzling smile. 

She’s dressed simply in jeans and a t-shirt, her medium box braids pulled up into a bun on top of her head. They look a lot alike, her and Kyle. Tall and slender and stunning. They have the same smile and the same soft brown eyes. She's wearing scent blockers, but Christine can imagine her having a soft scent like lavender or something fresh like mint. 

“There's two rooms down here, and two upstairs.” Kyle says. “The main bedroom is through there.” He points towards a door to their left. “I figure we'll give that to our omega. The bathroom in there has a walk-in shower.” 

“Perfect.” Christine says. That will make getting you in and out of the shower easier at least, and you won’t have to go far to use the bathroom.

“You should take the other room down here.” John says, looking at Christine. “So you can be close in case of an emergency.”

And so you don't have to be too close to them, so you won’t feel like they’re hovering.

He doesn't have to say that part out loud. 

“I put new sheets on all the beds.” Ashley says. “I also picked up everything Kyle sent on the list. Food, some clothes, some other necessities.”

You let out a quiet groan, Christine patting your head gently. You have to be exhausted and sore after the day. She should give you another dose of pain medicine like she said she would. You’re going to need it tonight. 

“Let's get you laying down for a bit.” She says, wheeling you towards the door. 

Kyle opens it for her, revealing a spacious room with a big window looking out towards the sea. You're going to spend a lot of time in front of that window, she thinks. The bed is in the middle of the room, and there’s two chairs facing the window. She’s almost tempted to sit you in one of the chairs, but laying down will be more comfortable for you right now. 

You're still too out of it now to care much as she wheels you to the double bed. With Kyle's help they get you horizontal, Christine draping the blanket at the end of the bed over you. It’s not very soft, but it will do for now. She’ll have to get the guys to pick up some soft blankets for you when they go to town. She has a whole list of things starting in her head she needs them to pick up.

She leans your crutch against the end of the bed just in case you might need it for an emergency. She hopes you’ll yell first, but you always have been stubborn. Being mostly bed-bound has only made that worse. 

“I’m going to go look through the things Ashley picked up.” She says, patting your leg gently. “Get some rest.” 

Christine leaves the door open a crack as she exits, wanting to give you a little privacy as you nap, or at least she hopes you’ll nap. It’s going to be a rough adjustment, and you’re going to need as much rest as you can get. 

“I’m assuming you’re Christine.” Ashley says, walking up to her. 

“I am.” She says, giving Ashley a smile. 

She can’t help but get lost in Ashley’s soft gaze for a moment. The Garrick siblings seem to share the same magnetic energy. There’s something almost ethereal about them. She could easily imagine them with glowing halos and angel wings. It’s almost like she’s being blessed with the opportunity to look upon her. She could spend an hour staring at Ashley’s face and not grow tired of looking at her.

“I picked up the items Kyle said you needed.” She says, motioning to the bags on the coffee table, pulling Christine out of her daze. “I couldn’t find the exact nutrient powder you asked for, so I got one that was as close as I could find.” 

Christine glances through the bags. She was thorough, getting at least two of everything. 

“I got warmer clothes for her too, since it can get chilly out here this time of year. Just some simple things for now until you guys get into town.” Ashley says. “I did some research too and I read that omegas like comforting things so I picked up some extra blankets and pillows” Ashley says, motioning to a couple bags sitting on the couch. “I also picked up this,” She pulls a stuffed dog from one of the bags, holding it up. “It was the softest one I could find. I thought it might help.” 

A small smile forms on Christine’s face, her heart fluttering in her chest from the sweet, thoughtful gesture. Ashley doesn’t even know you, nor did she know exactly what happened to you, and yet she went so far as to pick up some comfort items for you. You have nothing right now, only the borrowed clothes on your back. All of your belongings are still on base, all of the things that you had built to make your perfect nest. Would you want any of them still? Or have they been tainted by the events of the last few weeks? 

That Ashley thought to do this has warmth flooding Christine’s body. You can have some comfort now without having to wait for their trip to town. She almost feels the urge to cry. She wants to hug Ashley, thank her over and over for her kindness. Ashley has no idea how much her small act of kindness means, how much it's going to mean. 

A smile forms on Christine’s face as she stares at the stuffed dog. “It’s perfect.” 

You can hear it. 

In the distance, the quiet roar reaches your ears as you’re dragged from the sweet arms of sleep. It must be a dream, or perhaps the sedative is still clinging to your mind, making you imagine things. 

No. 

You’d know that sound anywhere. 

The effort to push yourself up to sit is a momentous one, every cell in your body protesting after a day of being moved and jostled. The last thing you want is to move right now, but you have to. 

The pain meds have done little to help.

The crutch at the end of your bed must be a thousand miles away as you sit there and stare at it. The ache in your body only increases as you become more and more aware of the pain, almost as if it can tell what it is your mind is planning. 

The door is cracked open, letting in a slit of light from outside. It’s dark in the room, the curtains pulled over the window. It’s a blessing compared to the bright yellow light outside the door. You welcome the darkness as your head begins to throb. You could call for assistance. You’d get more help than you needed. More help than you want. 

No. 

You need to do this. 

The effort it takes to get standing nearly sends you back onto the bed. The pain nearly blinds you as your feet touch the floor, your body leaning against the side of the mattress out of desperation. If you fall, you’ll never be alone again. You can’t afford that. You don’t want that. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

The breaths out of your nose are short and sharp as you reach for the crutch, fingers trembling in the effort to fight the pain threatening to blind you. You’re trembling like a leaf in a storm as your fingers finally wrap around the cool metal. The rubber bottom drags across the floor as you tug it over to you, holding it against your chest for a moment. 

Breathe. That’s what you need to do. Breathe. 

In and out. 

Nice and slow. 

The pain is only a memory. The pain is nothing. The memories forming at the edges of your mind will take over and wipe out the pain and the misery. You just have to be sure. You just have to be certain.

You push yourself upright using the crutch, tucking it under your arm. You should go back to bed. You should rest. 

No. 

You need to know. 

You need to be certain.

The first step you take nearly makes you sick. 

It’s like watching a baby deer walk for the first time, knees wobbling, feet shaking. You lean heavily on the crutch, your determination the only thing keeping you from tumbling to the floor in a heap. That might almost hurt worse than forcing yourself to stand upright. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

Inch by inch you move across the floor, silently grateful for the socks on your feet. They allow you to slide across the hardwood, but they also pose a threat. Slide too far and you’ll lose your feet. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

The determination and your desire for certainty is what keeps you sliding inch by inch across the floor towards that strip of blinding light in front of you. It’s hovering before you, threatening you. How do you know there’s not one of them standing guard, waiting for you to try and leave? You can’t know. You don’t have a clue what’s waiting on the other side of that door. It could be nothing. It could be your entire pack. 

Breathe. 

In and out. 

You take a moment at the door, resting your aching feet. Your body is throbbing from the effort to keep yourself upright, the sedative still numbing your brain and your movements. It’s like treading through honey, everything twice as hard as it should be. You can walk. You’ve done it before. You did it in the medical center. 

You can do it here. 

You use the crutch to push the door open more, your free arm still tucked in a sling to keep you from moving it. Reaching for it with that arm would have put you on the floor, would have caused more pain than you needed, would have made you fall. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

Breathe. 

The light burns. Explosions of yellows and whites erupt behind your eyelids as you screw them tight against the sudden onslaught. The sun is in the room, shining its rays directly into your sensitive eyes. Your stomach churns, your fingers tightening around the crutch so tight your knuckles begin to ache. The oppressive light makes you want to recede back into the darkness of the room behind you like a vampire shying away from the light of day. 

No. 

You won’t be defeated by the harsh artificial lighting. You need to know. 

You need to be certain.

The others are moving around. You can hear voices around the corner, voices upstairs with thudding footsteps. The air is thick with a mesh of scents, cleaning chemicals, and the burn of scent blocker. Your nose wrinkles at the sudden onslaught against your senses, your sedated brain making it all seem so much worse. 

You need to know. 

The hardwood floors continue and you use them to your advantage as you shuffle your way across the main area. The fire crackles as you pass, the popping of a log making you startle. Your feet slide again, your body pushing up against the crutch to hold yourself steady. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

Your target is dead ahead, a mile away but so close you can almost taste it. Just past the dining table and straight on till morning. 

Despite your snail’s pace, no one seems to notice you shuffling your way across the house. It should make you upset, the fact that none of them notice you moving around, but instead it makes you glad. They’d try to stop you if they noticed you, turn you around and shuffle you back to bed. Or worse, they’d carry you. 

How easily you could slip away, though. 

Well...in theory. 

Perhaps that’s why they ‘re not paying you any mind. How far could you really go in your current state? 

Why would you want to stray from the only safe space you have? 

The world outside is more dangerous with the state you’re in. Not just because of your injuries and your status, but also because you know Shepherd is still out there, and for all you know Graves is as well. 

He could be waiting right outside the door. 

No. 

They’d know. 

They’d protect you. 

They failed. 

You push past the fear in favor of certainty as you push forward, passing the dining table in your slow crawl towards the sliding glass door. 

It poses an entirely new threat as you stand before it, staring out the darkened glass. You have to get it open. Getting it open takes strength and you’re down to one hand that’s trying to keep you upright. 

You have to know. 

You have to be certain. 

You lean your weight on the crutch, ignoring the way it digs into your armpit as you reach for the handle. You click the lock, wrapping your fingers around the plastic before pulling. Your body screams with pain as you tug, the door sliding in the track as slowly as you had moved across the small living area. It’s almost as if it's mocking you. 

It’s open only as wide as you need to crutch your way through, doing your best not to knock your left shoulder against the frame. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

Breathe. 

You can smell it. 

The salty sea air invades your senses, slipping up through your nose and straight into your brain. Memories come flooding back of childhood vacations back when things were simpler. Back when nothing mattered but the sand and the water and avoiding getting chased by your brothers carrying the piece of seaweed they found. 

Polkadot bathing suits, bright red to be seen easily. Toes in the water, sand everywhere. The nap in the silent car home. 

How simple life was back then. How easy life was. 

Your heart aches for those days again. The days when you could exist without a care in the world, trusting your pack would keep you safe, trusting your family would care for you. Your mind yearns for that sense of safety and security again. 

The world is grey as you hobble across the porch, the grey seeming to go on forever. You missed it, the chill in the air, the gloomy grey overhead. How you yearned for the gloom of England while stuck in the heat of Texas. 

Anything is better than Texas. 

Your forward shuffle pauses at the edge of the deck, your eyes looking out into the grey. Your breath catches in your throat as you stare out into the distance, the ache in your chest intensifying. It blocks out the pain in your body, numbing you to everything else as you stand there, legs trembling from the effort of going the short distance from your room to the end of the porch. 

You can see it. 

Emotions swirl inside of you like a hurricane as you stare out where the grey water meets the grey sky in the line of the horizon. Those emotions threaten to choke you as you stand there trembling at the edge of the porch. There’s a breeze, a cold one that bites through the fabric of your sweatshirt and into the skin below, but you don’t care. 

You can’t care. 

Your legs shake from the exertion, the neverending exhaustion that’s settled deep into your bones. It’s not just a physical exhaustion, but a mental one as well. It’s been a long week. 

Only a week. 

So much has happened in a week. 

You want to sit. You want to sink down onto the porch and rest. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

There’s a pain in your chest as your breath catches in your throat. The emotions are whirling, tightening around your chest, squeezing your lungs until they feel like they might pop. 

Breathe. 

In and out. 

You needed certainty. You needed to know. 

You can hear it. You can smell it. You can see it. 

A single tear rolls down your cheek as you stare out at the sea. 

NEXT ->

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[jonnywaistcoat]

What’s your opinion on the contrast between “silly” and “serious” spaces? Do you think people can have very serious interpretations about a genuine piece of media and also be goofy about it? I’m asking this particularly because I’ve seen people in the Magnus podcast fandoms fight about people “misinterpreting” characters you, Alex, and the many other authors have written. Are you okay with the blorbofication or do you really wish the media you’ve written would be “taken seriously” 100% of the time?

And follow up question, what do you think about the whole “it’s up to the reader (or in some cases, listener) to make their own conclusions and interpretations and that does not make them wrong”, versus the “it was written this way because the author intended it this way, and we should respect that” argument?

This is a question I've given a lot of thought over the years, to the point where I don't know how much I can respond without it becoming a literal essay. But I'll try.

My main principle for this stuff boils roughly down to: "The only incorrect way to respond to art is to try and police the responses of others." Art is an intensely subjective, personal thing, and I think a lot of online spaces that engage with media are somewhat antithetical to what is, to me, a key part of it, which is sitting alone with your response to a story, a character, a scene or an image and allowing yourself to explore it's effect on you. To feel your feelings and think about them in relation to the text.

Now, this is not to say that jokes and goofiness about a piece of art aren't fucking great. I love to watch The Thing and drink in the vibes or arctic desolation and paranoia, or think about the picture it paints of masculinity as a sublimely lonely thing where the most terrible threat is that of an imposed, alien intimacy. And that actually makes me laugh even more the jokey shitpost "Do you think the guys in The Thing ever explored each other's bodies? Yeah but watch out". Silly and serious don't have to be in opposition, and I often find the best jokes about a piece of media come from those who have really engaged with it.

And in terms of interpreting characters? Interpreting and responding to fictional characters is one of the key functions of stories. They're not real people, there is no objective truth to who they are or what they do or why they do it. They are artificial constructs and the life they are given is given by you, the reader/listener/viewer, etc. Your interpetation of them can't be wrong, because your interpretation of them is all that there is, they have no existence outside of that.

And obviously your interpretation will be different to other people's, because your brain, your life, your associations - the building blocks from which the voices you hear on a podcast become realised people in your mind - are entirely your own. Thus you cannot say anyone else's is wrong. You can say "That's not how it came across to me" or "I have a very different reading of that character", but that's it. I suppose if someone is fundamentally missing something (like saying "x character would never use violence" when x character strangles a man to death in chapter 4) you could say "I think that's a significant misreading of the text", but that's only to be reserved for if you have the evidence to back it up and are feeling really savage.

I think this is one of the things that saddens me a bit about some aspects of fandom culture - it has a tendency to police or standardise responses or interpretations, turning them from personal experiences to be explored into public takes to be argued over. It also has the occasional moralistic strain, and if there's one thing I wish I could carve in stone on every fan space it's that Your Responses to a Piece of Art Carry No Intrinsic Moral Weight.

As for authorial intention, that's a simpler one: who gives a shit? Even the author doesn't know their own intentions half the time. There is intentionality there, of course, but often it's a chaotic and shifting mix of theme and story and character which rarely sticks in the mind in the exact form it had during writing. If you ask me what my intention was in a scene from five years ago, I'll give you an answer, but it will be my own current interpretation of a half-remembered thing, altered and warped by my own changing relationship to the work and five years of consideration and change within myself. Or I might not remember at all and just have a guess. And I'm a best case scenario because I'm still alive. Thinking about a writers possible or stated intentions is interesting and can often lead to some compelling discussion or examination, but to try and hold it up as any sort of "truth" is, to my mind, deeply misguided.

Authorial statements can provide interesting context to a work, or suggest possible readings, but they have no actual transformative effect on the text. If an author says of a book that they always imagined y character being black, despite it never being mentioned in the text, that's interesting - what happens if we read that character as black? How does it change our responses to the that character actions and position? How does it affect the wider themes and story? It doesn't, however, actually make y character black because in the text itself their race remains nonspecific. The author lost the ability to make that change the moment it was published. It's not solely theirs anymore.

So yeah, that was a fuckin essay. In conclusion, serious and silly are both good, but serious does not mean yelling at other people about "misinterpretations", it means sitting with your personal explorations of a piece of art. All interpretations are valid unless they've legitimately missed a major part of the text (and even then they're still valid interpretations of whatever incomplete or odd version of the text exists inside that person's brain). Authorial intent is interesting to think about but ultimately unknowable, untrustworthy and certainly not a source of truth. Phew.

Oh, and blorbofication is fine, though it does to my mind sometimes pair with a certain shallowness to one's exploration of the work in question.