#i was the medic just trying to keep sun on a stick alive and helping aye get across

[puppycharmz]

Sun on a Stick Gaming and Aye if you're out there. I love you I hope you both live a great life

[sleeping-on-cracking-ice]

hello! i was wondering if you could make a kurabe imagine/fanfic? any type!

Yesss! I’ve been wanting to write for him. Thanks for requesting! ❤️

To Protect The Protector | Daikichi Karube

{Alice In Borderland Masterlist}

Character(s): Karube (ft. Alice, Chota, Shibuki)

Genre: fluff

Summary: Karube came back from his game injured, so you look after him for the night

Warning: swearing, blood

Word Count: 2.1k

*reader is gender-neutral

The air was frozen around you. No breeze or slight wind was present in the slightest, making the atmosphere unsettling. Even the crows were silent, having lost their usual screeching that rang through everyone’s ears throughout the day.

Your adrenaline has been on a constant flow through your veins since you survived the first game. Watching the young high school girl get penetrated by the laser struck a deep chord within you. You couldn’t move a muscle as Karube pulled you into the next room before you were engulfed in flames.

You’ve never experienced anything like this world. Where has everyone gone? Who is running the games? Are there any other players?

A young woman that you met last night at the first game named Shibuki decided to stick by your sides for a while. You all took refuge in an empty mall, considering the amount of resources that would be available to you that could come in handy for some reason or another.

Shibuki sat everyone down after a good night’s sleep and explained the concept of the world you were now trapped in. She had only been present in the game for a little longer than you, but you still put trust in her as she obviously knew more than the four of you.

Your boyfriend Karube, who you happened to be with at the time of everyone’s disappearance, has become more anxious about your safety. Since things started becoming peculiar, he has remained tight to your side, ready to shield you from god knows what.

That was just his personality. Yes, he could be blunt and impatient sometimes, but he honestly did care about Alice, Chota and you more than you guys could have ever imagined. He knew he was the brawn of your small friendship group, so he took it upon himself to be the protector.

But unfortunately, him and Alice were too confident and curious for their own good. Alice and Karube had a private chat on one of the mall balcony's discussing whether they should go to an extra game to gain an idea about how they play out, but also to see if they were able to find any players that had a past in medical fields to perhaps look at Chota’s searing burn injury on his lower right leg.

When it came to the next day, Karube talked to you in private without the others, wanting to have some alone time with you.

“Wait what?” you asked shocked. “You’re going to another game? Karube, I’m sorry but are you an idiot? You saw what happened in the game we went to, you could die at any moment!” you exclaimed at him. Karube went silent from your outburst but tried to reason with you. “Look Y/N, I know you’re worried but Alice and I need to see how this place works so we can protect you and Chota.” he said, placing a hand on your cheek.

“But what about you? Who’s going to protect you?” you remarked. You were scared more than anything. You didn’t want to wake up the next morning to find that Karube and Alice never returned. It would’ve absolutely shattered your heart.

He looked up at you from his position on the bed in remorse. He felt awful putting you through the stress, but he knew he had to do it if you wanted to stay alive for as long as you could.

“Come here,” he said after a short juncture of silence. You glanced at his stressed face before moving towards the bed and placing your thighs comfortably on his lap. He wrapped his strong arms around your frame and held you tightly against him.

It should’ve felt comforting, but at that moment it didn’t. If anything, you were dreading the hug because it felt like a goodbye.

“I’m so sorry baby, but I have to go.” Karube rested his chin on top of your head. “I promise you I will do everything in my power to make sure I come back safe and sound.”

He felt you move your head up and down in a nod against him. You pressed your face into his orange shirt. “I know you’ll come back. A stupid game wouldn’t get rid of you. The world would have to work much harder to kill you off.”

Karube chuckled and pulled back to look into your eyes. “You’re right. I’ll be back before you know it.” he claimed.

You wished that were true. There you were now, standing out on a stone ledge looking over a big part of Shibuya. The lack of hustling and bustling from thousands of people was strange to get accustomed to. It was unsettling, almost frightening.

“Why the fuck did I let them go?” you cursed, letting out a harsh huff of breath. “This is bullshit. They have another day on their visa. We could have all waited until tomorrow to go to another game together.”

You heard Chota let out an agreeing hum from the table he was seated at  behind you. “It does seem a bit pointless now that we’ve had time to stress about it,” he admitted.

You slouched forward, having hoped for at least a positive response from Chota to reassure you. You continued to keep scanning the streets below you, looking for any sign of another person. Anxiety filled your body the more you looked and couldn’t spot him.

“Shit,” you breathed out, rubbing your face with your hands. “Chota, what if they die?”

“Shh, don’t talk like that. They’ll be fine,” he shushed you quickly, trying to keep worse case scenarios out of his head.

Several hours later after the sun had set, you saw the familiar unpleasant light that indicated where the games were. Karube and Alice had left early to try and look for a doctor for Chota’s leg, so you knew they would then be on their way to the game.

Your heart leapt to your throat and stayed there for several hours as you laid on a couch. You couldn’t help but envision awful ways that Karube could possibly be killed. Before you knew it, hot tears began pooling in your orbs and running down your face onto the pillow underneath your head.

“Oh fuck,” you cried, your voice cracking, “Please be okay Karube. I can’t live on in this world without you.” You let out soft little sobs, trying to stay quiet in order not to alert Chota or Shibuki who were in the room over from you.

Quite literally, you cried yourself to sleep. Your eyes became heavier and heavier alongside the irritation that the tears brought. You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to pass out, manifesting the vision of seeing Karube laying next to you when you wake up. He would be unharmed and have the biggest smile on his handsome face, ready to pepper kisses all over your face to make up for all the stress he put you through for going to the game without you.

Soon enough, you woke abruptly from a loud noise coming from the door of the room, watching as it swung open harshly to reveal Alice holding Karube by the arm, acting as a crutch.

Karube stumbled in clutching his side. He glanced up with stained tears of pain in his eyes and smiled when he saw you still half-asleep on the couch.

You widened your eyes in surprise and breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh my god, Karube! Alice! Thank god.”

You scrambled to your feet and rushed over to the two exhausted men to help Alice out with Karube. Karube lifted his arm and wrapped it around you as you crashed into him in a reunion hug. Karube winced heavily from the huge machete wound in his side stinging.

“It’s okay baby, we’re okay,” he comforted you, pushing his face into your hair and breathing in your scent. You felt tears filling your vision again, the relief of seeing Karube safe and sound in your arms again being too overwhelming.

Ten minutes later, after everyone welcomed Alice and Karube back, you and Karube were sitting on the couch while the others searched for something fresh to eat further in the mall (which would be a challenge). Karube was wincing as you lifted up his black t-shirt to take a look at the wound he gained from the tagger in the ‘Tag’ game.

“Shit babe,” you groaned. Luckily it appeared like the machete hadn’t cut too deep into his abdomen. He wouldn’t need stitches, just disinfectant and a tight bandage to stop the blood flow.

Karube watched you as you walked over to the table to grab the disinfectant and medical bandage to use on him. He felt on edge because you hadn’t said much since he’d returned from the game. He was thinking maybe you were agitated with him.

“Y/N,” he said, catching your attention. “I’m sorry I went to the game. I know it was a mistake now,” he admitted, hanging his head low apologetically.

You shook your head disapprovingly and focused back on his wound. “Yeah, it was a mistake. This is the least that could’ve happened Karube.”

He could tell you were annoyed, because you always got smart with him when he’s angered you.

“Now you’re going to be disadvantaged at your next game with this gaping wound in your side.” You stated. You began pouring the rubbing alcohol onto a cloth. “Just warning you, this is going to hurt but try not to squirm too much.”

Karube nodded and held his black t-shirt up so you could disinfect his injury. As you pressed the cloth to the slice, Karube hissed and placed his hand over yours. “Just be gentle,” he stammered.

You nodded and continued to go slow.

After you managed to clean his injury, he stood up so you could wrap the bandage around his abdomen. He stared at you as you did so, smiling to himself about how lucky he was to have you look after him like this.

When you were done, you brushed off your hands and placed the disinfectant back on the table. Karube sat back down and looked at you.

“Thank you Y/N,” he said in a sweet tone. You glanced over your shoulder and saw him gazing at you lovingly. You grinned, being glad that he was okay.

“You’re welcome,” you answered. “Can you promise me something?” you asked, turning around fully to face him. Karube leant forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Of course, anything for you.”

“If it ever came to a choice between you or me to continue living, you need to promise me that you’ll choose yourself,” you murmured. Karube’s cheeky smile rolled off his face, replaced by a confused expression.

“Why would I do that? I love you. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I survived but you didn’t.” he said sadly, reaching out his arms to invite you into a hug.

You took the invitation and trudged over to him, standing between his legs and letting him wrap his strong arms around your waist while resting his head on your stomach.

“Yeah, I know you would Karube. I feel the same way but, you have a dream and a bright future ahead of you. I wouldn’t want to take that away from you if it came to that.” you ran your fingers through his coarse, bleached blonde hair and he let out a big sigh.

“But my dream is you Y/N. I want to stay with you,” he professed. “I want to leave this place with you, no one else.”

You felt your heart clutch itself in your chest. You felt awful. You didn’t know what to do or say to make things seem better than they were. That was the horrific reality about that world, nothing you could ever say would make things better or more comforting.

“Why don’t we just focus on surviving and keeping each other alive for now and focus on the more serious stuff when it comes to it,” Karube spoke up, resting his chin against your stomach to look up at you with his big dark eyes.

You stared down at him with so much love. You do anything to keep him with you, to keep him happy and safe. Just his eyes alone show the amount of love and care he holds in his blunt heart.

You smiled slowly and nodded your head in agreement. “Of course. Let’s just focus on staying alive right now so we can have many more moments together.”

Author’s Note: I hope this wasn’t too boring. I have a lot of requests for Alice In Borderland lined up so I’ll be working through them and posting them when I can! 💕

[spencers-renaissance]

tell me how to balance my coins

Summary: When Spencer falls down the stairs one morning he decides not to tell anyone, his insecurities about not being enough winning out. Too bad insecurities don't matter when they end up trekking through miles of barren land on a search and rescue mission, and his injuries finally become too much. The team knows exactly how to make it better.

Tags: hurt!spencer, whump, hurt/comfort, hiding medical issues, insecurity, angst with a happy ending, fluff, team as family TW: self-esteem issues

Pairing: GEN / Spencer Reid & Derek Morgan

Word Count: 3.2k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo

Set in S1 but there's no Gideon because he didn't really fit the plot, so it's just the five other field agents here. This entire fic was inspired by this post by @i-write-whump so credit goes to them for the premise! Title from this poem by Zahraa Surtee <3

Maybe it’s embarrassment that stops him from telling the team. Spencer runs headfirst into dangerous situations every day, puts his life on the line repeatedly and escapes unscathed more often than not, but his nemesis this time is the single flight of stairs in his apartment building he descends each morning.

He’s later than he usually is, and already feeling a little flustered from both his toaster and coffee machine breaking, leaving him with a cup of instant coffee and an overripe banana from breakfast, which only makes the situation worse. As if lying sprawled out in a public stairwell wasn’t bad enough. He gingerly pulls himself up, catching a glimpse of a “Caution: Wet Floor” sign he somehow missed, and winces as pain floods his body.

His ankle is screaming at him, throbbing and burning, and for a moment Spencer has to close his eyes against the gut-wrenching pain of a twisted ankle flaring up his calf. A couple of thankfully undisturbed minutes later, the pain eases enough for him to open his eyes and inspect the damage. It’s already swelling slightly, and he’s certain he’ll be covered in bruises by tonight if the aching of his entire body is anything to go by.

For a brief moment he considers calling Derek or Penelope or someone else on his team; maybe even calling in sick, but he quickly pushes that thought away. It’s not embarrassment that stops him from telling the team. It’s a good cover story to keep him from addressing the real reason, but it isn’t the truth.

The truth is that the only time he ever feels valuable is when he’s contributing to a case. That cruel voice in the back of his head will waste no time in piping up, telling him how worthless he is, what a burden his friends see him as, how insignificant he is to the team if he doesn’t suck it up and head into work.

Fighting back the tears burning hot behind his eyes with ardent determination, he drags himself up by the stair handrail until he’s upright. His ribs ache and his ankle burns something fierce, but he compartmentalises it, breathing deeply and taking a few tentative steps, one at a time until he’s limping towards the train station.

The moment he walks into the bullpen, JJ grabs his elbow. “You’re just in time, Spence,” she says, marching towards the briefing room with a pace Spencer can’t quite keep up with. “We have a new case. Rural Kentucky.”

Everyone’s already seated at the round table, and no matter how much he tries to disguise his limp, putting far too much weight on his battered ankle, he can’t get it past a room full of profilers.

“Hey, pretty boy, you alright? You’re limping.” Derek’s tone is light, carrying the cadence of joking banter, but he can see the concern in his eyes, and that’s just unacceptable. He can’t have people worrying about him: he’s not worth their pitied looks or vapid attempts at comfort, especially not when they have a far more important case to be focusing on.

He slips into a seat, and manages to conceal a wince at the movement of his ankle swinging forward. “Oh, uh, I just stubbed my toe pretty hard on the way in.” It’s not convincing even to his own ears, but luckily it’s enough of a time-sensitive case for JJ to barrel on regardless, drawing everyone’s worried glances away from him and towards the board full of grizzly crime scene photos.

Even though he’s been on the team for close to three years now, he still feels like the new kid. Elle is newer than him, but she’s still far more confident in her place on the team than he is. He suspects that’s probably because someone like Elle doesn’t have trouble fitting in anywhere. It’s never been quite that easy for Spencer.

Pushing his insecurities aside like he always has to do in these meetings, he reads the case file thoroughly before offering his own contributions. The unsub is snatching young women from bars and clubs and holding them for weeks before leaving them to succumb to the elements in the rural countryside of Kentucky. With a missing woman and the expected deadline for the unsub dumping her fast approaching, they don’t waste any time in boarding the jet and flying the short way to West Kentucky.

It’s a short enough flight that there’s no time for personal conversation — no time for Derek (or anyone else for that matter) to confront him about his blatant lie and obvious injury — since they spend the whole journey discussing the case. Thankfully, throwing himself head first into theories and hypotheses keeps his mind off the pain a bit, but he can’t fully keep it from bothering him.

He’s just thankful that he has enough experience in disguising his true emotions that no-one’s attention is drawn to him by poorly hidden winces.

They dive straight into the investigation when they arrive at the sheriff’s station, everyone laser focused on finding Marissa Williams. By mid-afternoon, though, Spencer’s gritting his teeth as he forces himself to persevere through the pain despite it increasing incrementally every hour, and he curses himself for not being able to dedicate 100% of himself to the case. If he can’t help everyone find this woman, then what is he good for? His stomach twists at the thought.

“You gonna tell me what’s really going on, Spence?” Derek asks him as it approaches 4pm, cornering him at the coffee machine.

Spencer looks around as subtly as he can for an escape, but he quickly succumbs to his fate. “I’m fine, Derek,” he promises. It’s so far from the truth he wants to cry.

The concern in Derek’s eyes only intensifies at that. “Seriously? You’ve been quiet this whole case, I catch you wincing when you think no-one’s looking, and you’re still limping. A stubbed toe wouldn’t do that, kid, and you know it.”

He sighs, knowing the jig is up. “It’s nothing I can’t handle, Derek.” He’s not sure it’s the truth, but it’s close enough to it that it doesn’t bring burning tears to the backs of his eyes.

Derek’s about to say something when JJ calls out for him. They both turn to look at her, Spencer feeling relief flood his chest, while Derek’s expression quickly morphs into one of frustration, sighing heavily as he curls his hands into tight fists.

“This isn’t over,” he says, levelling him with a serious look before walking back over to JJ, leaving Spencer to stir his bitter coffee in peace. It definitely doesn’t make him want to cry.

They finally get a break in the case at nightfall, a call on the tip line combined with their profile leading them to a secluded wooded area down by a small river. Knowing there’s nothing more for them to do at the office, Hotch gathers them all up, insisting they join the search party to find the poor, beaten woman currently suffering exposure, awaiting their rescue.

Spencer’s heart sinks as everyone gathers their equipment, and he’s almost relieved when Derek speaks up.

“Reid can’t go,” he insists to Hotch, only barely in earshot of Spencer. If he doesn’t go out in the rescue party, then he’s still served his purpose hasn’t he? He helped with the profile that narrowed down the area she’s likely to be in, he worked the case until this point, he can rest and still be worth something. Right?

Besides, it’s not exactly like he can don the heavy walking boots everyone else is pulling on. If he goes out, he’ll have to wear the same loafers that have been squeezing his swelling joint all day, and that’s hardly going to work. Hotch will let him stay back, and for once, he’ll accept the rest he’s offered.

His hope is quickly dashed. “We need all the manpower we can get,” Hotch says, clearly distracted in the same way he has been throughout the entire case. Spencer likes his boss but he has a tendency to wear blinkers when on a job, not noticing anything that doesn’t pertain to the ultimate solution. “He’ll be fine.”

Derek sighs again, clearly frustrated.

“I’ll be fine,” he says as Derek comes over to sit with him, not sure who he’s trying to convince. His ankle is still burning in pain. The last time he checked it, it was bruised and swollen, tender to the touch. It’s nothing short of a nasty sprain.

“You stick close to me, Spencer. I mean it.”

He can’t help the small smile that crosses his face, genuine happiness warming his heart at the concerned protectiveness of his friend. “Sure, Derek,” he says softly.

The pleasant temperature of the mid-Spring day drops to almost freezing as the sun sets, the moon and stars taking over the clear night sky. Even Spencer’s thickest coat isn’t enough to keep him from practically vibrating with the force of his shivers as they trek across the miles of terrain, staying as quiet as possible to listen for anything that could indicate their victim’s whereabouts. They’re spread out a little, but for the most part they all walk reasonably close together, the beams of their torches criss-crossing as they fight their way through the windy countryside.

Thankfully, it’s only a couple of hours into the search and rescue mission that a call crackles over the radio, telling them that Marissa had been found, beaten and weak but alive. Spencer can’t even bring himself to feel any kind of victory or relief, nothing being able to penetrate the haze of pain he’s in. Everyone else chatters happily enough as they converge back together for his silence to go mostly unnoticed.

His obscurity doesn’t last long, though.

“Are you ever gonna tell us what happened to your foot, Spence?” JJ asks, raising an eyebrow at Spencer’s heavy limping and Derek’s worried hovering. By the second mile of their walk, Spencer had given up trying to hide the limp, instead focusing on gritting his teeth and breathing through the pain as it flares up his leg.

She’s clearly voicing what everyone else is thinking, judging by their worried expressions. Part of him wants to give in and tell the team, but the part that wants to continue to hide his embarrassment away, the part riddled with fear and insecurity wins out. He stubbornly shakes his head, closing his eyes tightly. In the kind of terrible timing so emblematic of the life of Spencer Reid, in the short second he has his eyes closed he manages to stumble into a small divot in the ground, and he trips, twisting his ankle all over again as he falls down.

His vision whites out, the pain suddenly all-consuming, punching nausea through his stomach and he can’t help the cry he lets escape as he lays helplessly in the grass.

“Spencer!”

Derek crouches next to him, laying a hand on his shoulder as he checks him over frantically, and Spencer can’t help but lean up into it, craving the kind of comfort he can only get from his best friend. Hotch joins them quickly as JJ and Elle stand close enough to offer support without crowding him.

“That’s it, Spencer,” Hotch says firmly, blinkers well and truly off by now, “you need to tell us what’s going on.”

As the blinding pain slowly fades into something minutely more bearable, Spencer forces his eyes open to face the team. “I fell down the stairs this morning,” he finally admits, sullen and teary. “Pretty sure I sprained my ankle.”

Hotch wastes no time in gently rolling his trouser leg up, exposing his ruined loafers and the bruised, swollen joint to the torches of his teammates. Derek audibly winces as he positions himself behind Spencer, supporting his back as his tired, aching body starts to collapse.

Hotch levels him with a stern glare after he finishes his tender inspection of his ankle. “Spencer, it was incredibly irresponsible to hide something like this. You not only put yourself in danger, but you put the rest of the team at risk, too—”

He doesn’t get any further in his lecture before the tears he’s been holding back all day, finally spill over and a dry, sudden sob, his bruised and aching rib cage heaving as he starts to unravel at the seams. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Softening immediately, Hotch puts his leg down gently and shuffles closer, taking Spencer’s hand in his. “Hey, it’s okay, I’m sorry for yelling,” he says soothingly, watching as Spencer presses closer into Derek’s hold. “You’re not in trouble, I’m just worried about you, Spencer. Why didn’t you tell us you were hurt?”

He squeezes his eyes closed again: it’s as much dignity as he can hope for when his face is crumpling and he’s sobbing on the cold, hard ground as it nears midnight. “I just… I just wanted to be worth something.” It’s an admission he’ll regret later, he already knows that, but he’s so so tired and all he wants is the comfort that only his team can provide.

Derek pulls him into an even tighter hug before anyone can react, holding him against his chest fiercely while his hand plays gently with his hair. “Spencer, you are worth something whether you’re injured or fully intact, you hear me? We’d love you with a broken leg, with a bad case of the flu, if you quit the team tomorrow and decided to never work again. But most importantly, we love you now, kid. No matter what. Nothing can change that, alright?”

“He’s right, Spence,” JJ says softly, sinking to the ground along with Elle. “I know you think we only tolerate you because of your brain and what you bring to the table on a case, but you’re so much more than that. We love your nerdy rambles and your awkward waves and the way you love so openly and protectively, no matter how many times you’ve been hurt before. We love everything about you, Spencer.”

“Yeah, if you’re hurt, Reid, we wanna know,” Elle chimes in, sounding a little hesitant as the one who’s known him the shortest amount of time, but firm in what she’s saying nonetheless. “I know I haven’t been on the team that long but this is a group of people that watches out for one another, that supports each other, that builds everyone up leaving no person behind. That includes you, Spencer Reid, even when you don’t feel like it.”

“Everyone is right, Spencer,” Hotch says softly, still holding his cold and shaking hand protectively in his gloved one. “I’m just sad that you still prioritise your work over your own health. You are not this job. You are an incredibly talented and multi-faceted person that oftentimes needs a little TLC, and until you’re willing and able to do that for yourself, we’ll be here to do it for you, okay?”

Tears are streaming down his face as he nods, feeling warmer than he has all day despite the cold dark night they’ve found themselves in. The strangest part about it all is that he’s actually starting to believe them. It’s not like they haven’t all said similar things before, but hearing them all vehemently corroborating each other’s stories, hearing it all laid out in front of him as they promise him with earnest expressions that they’re telling the truth is doing something to shift the leaden weight of insecurity and low self-esteem that presses on his chest each and every day.

“Now, come on,” Derek says. “Let’s get back to base and I’ll go with you to the hospital to get you checked out, make sure it’s nothing more than a sprain.”

He shifts behind Spencer, using his already firm hold on his waist to help gently pull him up to a standing position, taking most of his weight as Spencer whimpers at the pain that swiftly reignites at the movement.

Derek turns around and bends at the knees slightly as Spencer leans on Hotch, before looking over his shoulder, his signature grin returning. “Hop on, pretty boy.”

“What— Derek! I’m way too heavy!”

Everyone immediately breaks out in amused laughter, even Hotch chuckling fondly.

Derek rolls his eyes. “Come on, Spencer, you’ve gotta weigh what, like, 140lbs? 150? You can’t exactly walk on that ankle anymore and it’s the only way we’re getting back without calling for a search and rescue team of our own.”

“Reid, I’m pretty sure I could give you a piggy-back ride,” Elle points out, raising her eyebrows. “Just let him carry you back.”

Let us take care of you is implicit enough in everyone’s words and expressions that it doesn’t really need to be said, but Spencer hears it anyway.

Hotch helps him up onto Derek’s back and they begin the long trek towards the search and rescue base, and Spencer’s never appreciated the easy banter they all share more. Hotch is visibly relaxed with the case solved and his youngest team member soon to be taken care of, so he joins in with the conversation, his light and happy expression that he only ever wears around his family or the team on rare days and nights off, replacing his focused frown.

Spencer clings on tightly to Derek and presses his face into the space between his neck and his shoulder, closing his eyes as he listens to the conversation, the vibration of Derek’s laugh and the shameless flirting between Elle and JJ taking his mind off the pain that throbs in his ankle with each step Derek takes.

When they finally get back to base, they all gather round the ambulance that’s been designated to take Spencer and Derek to the hospital.

JJ steps forward to give him a hug first. “Love you, Spence. Let us know what they say, okay?”

Hotch surprises him by stepping forward and wrapping him in a hug as well, forgoing the macho pats on the back for a short but close embrace that feels fatherly enough for tears to prick the back of Spencer’s eyes. “We all love you, Spencer. Remember that okay. And actually listen to what the doctors tell you. Morgan, you’re my eyes and ears.”

“Well now I want a hug, too,” Elle says dramatically, squeezing him in a tight embrace for just a moment before stepping back, lining up with JJ and Hotch to present a united front of people on his side.

“We’ll see you both in the morning,” Hotch says as the paramedic starts prepping for the journey, moving Spencer onto the gurney and rolling him in.

“Hope they don’t keep you too long!” JJ calls just as the doors close, making them both chuckle.

Derek takes his hand in both of his, staying out of the paramedic’s way as she quickly places a line of mild painkillers before sitting back, knowing that there’s not anything more she can do for Spencer until they get to the hospital.

Derek must see the anxious look on Spencer’s face, because he’s quick to reach a hand out and brush his cheek gently. “Hey, I’ll be with you the whole time. I’m not gonna leave you on your own, okay? You’ll be alright, pretty boy, you’re gonna be just fine. I promise.”

And on the flight home the next morning he realises that Derek’s promise was kept. He’s fitted out with a crutch and a temporary wrapping around his ankle, resting comfortably with his head in Derek’s lap while his foot sits elevated on a pile of cushions carefully built by JJ, surrounded by people who swear up and down that they love him while proving it to him in a thousand little ways, and he’s really not sure it gets any more alright than that.

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @temily @jellejareau @reidology @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @tobias-hankel @garcias-bitch @oliverbrnch @physics-magic @sbeno22 @im-autistic-not-stupid (taglist form)

[kakashiswilloffire]

Orange Sherbet

ao3 link

tw: suicide attempt, overdose, painkillers, mentions of self harm

words: 3.5k

He was a drain on Gai.

His students didn’t need him—they’d surpass him soon enough.

There were still villagers who called him Friend-Killer Kakashi.

He still saw faces every time he laid down to sleep.

He felt Rin’s blood splash onto his chest every time he used the Chidori.

He couldn’t help Itachi.

He couldn’t help anyone.

Sometimes he understood what must’ve gone through his father’s head.

Sometimes, the corner store doesn’t have orange sherbet.

Kakashi is suicidal and we hope Gai can help.

If there was orange sherbet at the convenience store on the way home, he’d stay alive. They always had pints of ice creams and other frozen treats—it was something he had promised to treat himself to when he felt this way. They had made him write down all these promises during his last few mental health sessions with various Yamanakas, listing three people he could talk to when he felt lonely, three distractions he could use to keep himself sane for a few minutes longer, three reasons to stay alive. When he felt like he couldn’t stand to live another day, he had to summon Pakkun, read Icha Icha, and eat something special and different. Pakkun was still recovering from their last rough battle together. He had read each volume of Icha Icha so many times they risked falling apart upon his next touch. So orange sherbet it was.

He’d never cared much for sweets, of course. But there was something nostalgic about orange sherbet, it wasn’t quite as punch-in-the-face sugary as ice cream, but still gave a slight buzz and coated his tongue. In the back of his mind, he remembered his father—or was it Minato?—buying a pint for each of them and snagging two disposable spoons so they could enjoy them as they walked back from the training grounds. Or was it three pints with Rin and Obito after difficult missions? Something Gai or Tenzou insisted on buying for his birthday one year? Everything blurred in his mind, unable to clearly break each memory apart to see it again.

He pushed open the door, hearing the dull chime of bells as it swung forward to let him into the packed corner shop. He made his way to the freezer without taking in any of the other colors, sights, or smells around him. He remembered his goal. One pint of orange sherbet. Buy one, eat it, and try life again tomorrow.

The freezer door was coated in a light fog, but he was in no hurry to see through it. It was just him and the shopkeep cashing out an older civilian woman. He skimmed his eyes across the rows, looking for the familiar orange carton.

Where was it?

He tried again, looking more carefully at each row, all the way across, then moving down to the next systematically. His heart rate jumped roughly 15 more beats per minute.

They always have it.

He opened the door, searching furiously with his eyes now that there was no frost in his way. He knelt to the ground, checking the bottom rows thoroughly.

It has to be here.

He glanced at the shopkeep, bagging the woman’s groceries as she talked animatedly about something he didn’t care enough to make out. He slid his headband up a couple of inches, barely exposing the crimson eye hidden beneath. With as much chakra as he dared use given his current state, he searched the frozen rack again.

Every flavor of ice cream he could think of, and a least a dozen more he would never consider. And toward the bottom, there was lime, lemon, and raspberry,

No orange sherbet.

He wasn’t sure how long he remained squatted down with the freezer door open, focused on the empty slot where it should be. The shopkeep, now with no other customers, cleared his throat loudly and gestured for Kakashi to shut the door. He blinked twice, then rose, hearing the door seal as he returned to his feet.

“Anything I can help you with?”

Kakashi blinked, again. There was all this noise roaring in his head, and he felt flushed. After a beat too long, he understood what had been asked and shook his head.

“No, ah… Thank you.”

He nodded and quickly ducked out of the store.

That was it. He had to write down three reasons. Reason one was currently out of commission because of him. Reason two had been violently abused so that he had something to do with his hands when he was so full of fire and anxiety that if he wasn’t holding something he’d— well, whatever came easiest or first. Digging his nails into his arms, forming tiny red divots. Scratching until the skin was raw and angry. Slamming fists into his thighs. Step one was always untying his kunai pouch and letting it fall. He’d learned that early on.

Reason number three to stay alive, and the agreement he’d made with himself today, was the convenience of dropping by the store for a small treat. Without that, he wasn’t sure how to proceed.

Walking back to his apartment, he thought about the previous weeks. Those promises had all begun the same way, but ended in a different direction. The format was simple: if blank, then I won’t kill myself today. He used to use a similar format: I can’t kill myself until blank. The problem with that was dreaming far enough ahead to find a goal worth the pain, effort, and time, and also, what to do when the goal was met. You can’t kill yourself until you make chunin. You can’t kill yourself until you complete an A rank mission. You can’t kill yourself until you make jonin. You can’t kill yourself until… what? Until I come back from a mission with no casualties? Until I can become close to someone without them dying in front of me? It spiraled too quickly to come back from.

The simpler way to go about it was short-term goals. Can’t kill yourself till after dinner. Then you’ve gotta brush your teeth. Then read a chapter of a book, or two. Then you’re tired, and you can sleep until the alarm wakes you far earlier than the sun would, and you live until you feel like you can’t again. But even that had its downfalls—if you can’t be bothered to brush your teeth tonight, you’ve gotta find something to keep going.

It had been Gai who suggested rephrasing the prompt to its latest version. On a day I challenge you, Rival, you can’t end the passion of youth! The challenges had been almost daily for a couple of months after that, until Gai had left for an extended mission and Kakashi had been thoroughly encouraged to stay a similar amount of time in the Yamanaka’s care. He’d begrudgingly admitted later that both of those developments had helped, and it had been a few years since his last bout with depression like this.

But it had been like this for a few months now, and the clouds fuzzing over his mind didn’t seem to be letting up. So he revisited some old advice. If it doesn’t rain on the way home, he’d stay alive. The sky remained cloudless. If Naruto pulled something stupid during training, he’d stay alive. It only took fifteen minutes before Sakura started yelling at him. If there was orange sherbet in the corner store—But there wasn’t.

Somehow, he made it inside his apartment, not quite recalling the rest of the walk through the dull ache behind his eyes. He slipped his unzipped vest off his shoulders, not noticing it hit the floor. Routine dictated that next was the kunai pouch, then the bandages, then—

He was sitting on the floor and wasn’t sure how he got there. Sitting was a generous term, he supposed, as his legs were fully outstretched and he was propped on one forearm with his head against the wall. His eyes slowly screwed tight as the dull ache sharpened briefly, then the static between his ears picked up in volume. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and gradually got back to his feet, stumbling into the living room.

He slumped across the couch, staring at the ceiling. He remembered the routine, drilling itself into his head. His vest was off, he needed to remove the kunai pouch, then the bandages, then the shoes, and put all of that away before removing the rest of his clothing to take a shower. After that was dinner, then two hours of free time to fill with whatever he was capable of, then bed. Lately the free time had been compromised of staring at the pile of clean laundry on the chair opposite him that had needed to be put away since Wednesday. He knew the routine. He decided to get a jump start on free time anyway.

He began counting all of the socks he could see sticking out of the collection of clothes. Organization and listing had always helped situate his mind and get him back on track. After ten or so minutes, he was finally able to unstrap the kunai pouch, tossing it across the room, taking care to not pay attention where it landed. There had been a week where Kakashi didn’t even carry the bag because Gai had taken it and every sharp object he could find in the apartment under the pretense of helping him hone his taijutsu by not relying on weapons. He had been content to let Gai keep the explanation at that. That might be something to revisit soon.

No. Gai had already done more than enough for him.

Kakashi found himself standing in his small bathroom. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he’d been in the living room, but he was now free of his bandages and shoes. He shrugged, reaching behind his head to untie his headband. Somehow, it had gotten knotted worse than usual and a section of his hair was caught in it. He yanked viciously at it, breathing in through gritted teeth at the sting then feeling himself relax ever so slightly. Forgoing undoing the knot, he slid it along the trapped segment of hair until the headband came free. That made it on to the counter. That never saw the floor, unlike every other part of his wardrobe had

.Next to the headband on the counter was a scattered collection of varying sizes of orange plastic bottles with thick white caps. The clinical labels all had his name, and the names of various antidepressants and antianxiety medications, as well as several painkillers and muscle relaxants and some antibiotic from the mission a couple years back where everyone returned miserably ill. Most of the bottles were empty, and he had held on to them meaning to get them refilled. He always had good intentions, but there was so many things to do in a day, and he ran out of energy usually three or four items into his list.

The one thing he could always count of having around, though, was some kind of pain relief.

Missions were hard, somehow harder now than ever with him as a jonin leader. He still had teammates, but they relied fully on him to take the brunt of every attack and to protect them at all costs. He couldn’t blame them, of course. They were children. He wanted nothing more than for them to be children and not suffer the same losses he had.

Still, he was sure to return from every mission above a D rank with at least a few nasty bruises. And any time Gai could rope him into a training session, he knew he’d come home needing ice packs and the heating pad and whatever else he could get to be able to train with his team the next morning.

And that was how he found himself glaring into the mirror, the bottle of white tablets shaking in his fist.

He was certainly in pain, that couldn’t be argued.

But how many to take?

No orange sherbet.

He shook his head vigorously again, walking back into the living room and falling onto the couch. He focused on a mark on the ceiling, breathing faster than he understood why while his vision started swimming.

There wasn’t orange sherbet.

He was a drain on Gai.

His students didn’t need him—they’d surpass him soon enough.

There were still villagers who called him Friend-Killer Kakashi,

He still saw faces every time he laid down to sleep.

He felt Rin’s blood splash onto his chest every time he used the Chidori,

Sometimes he understood what must’ve gone through his father’s head.

He couldn’t help Itachi

He couldn’t help anyone,

Sometimes, the corner store doesn’t have orange sherbet.

Sometimes, the little orange bottle that rattles doesn’t rattle any more.

He was in the kitchen, water dripping off his face and hands as he panted over the sink. How did he get here? He swallowed hard, his mouth somehow still dry, and turned the water off. The prescription bottle was laying on the floor. Then so was he. Against the cold tile, he was able to relax just a bit again.

It’d be over soon. He wouldn’t hurt anyone else ever again.

His thoughts became harder to string along, but that didn’t bother him. The thoughts he could connect didn’t sting as much as they usually did. It might be nice to put away that laundry, actually.

Every muscle was heavy. There was so much weight on him, and he couldn’t move. How much time had passed? He thought his heart was starting to race, and wondered if he was having second thoughts. But he couldn’t feel the ground beneath him any longer. He struggled for hours, days, to move his index finger to trace the hem of his shirt over and over. Could he feel it? Was he moving?

He rolled to his side, slowly bringing his knees up to prepare to stand. But his body didn’t move. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. He couldn’t? His… It was his body. But? Was he? Could move? …Him?

Several centuries had passed before he heard the key in the door, and the door had already been sealed shut before he understood what the noise was.

“Ka-KASHI! In celebration of your return home from your latest mission, I made sure to grab a treat. Do you remember when you left the ANBU and we went to the corner store together? What a celebration to end all celebrations that day was! I was sure to grab the finest, most youthful of every snack—orange sherbet!”

***

Gai held the thin plastic bag up triumphantly, two pints rolling against each other. Normally he would have also grabbed spoons, but assuming Kakashi would be home, he was sure he could find two spoons somewhere in the apartment, even if he had to wash every dish himself.

It hadn’t gone unnoticed to him that Kakashi was on a downswing lately, but he’d always been the counter to balance his own exuberance, and he had complete confidence that they would move past this, too.

He nudged the flak vest that was crumpled on the ground at his feet. Kakashi must’ve been itching to take it off to have removed it the second he got inside. But why wouldn’t he have hung it up, or placed it at least near the hamper? This wasn’t part of the routine. Had he been badly injured on this last mission?

That must be it. He would have come home, shed his clothing, and jumped in the shower to clean his wounds and begin loosening his muscles. Much to Gai’s dismay, Kakashi seemed to be magnetically repelled from hospitals, preferring to treat his wounds himself as long as he could walk. So he must have some sort of torso injury, maybe bruised ribs or a minor stab wound, and he was surely tending to it quietly deeper inside the apartment.

The laundry he had helped Kakashi wash last week was still in the soft, cushioned chair in the dim living room. That wasn’t too surprising, he knew that was the first thing Kakashi would let fall by the wayside if something wasn’t going to get done. As long as the clothes were clean, he could wear them, even if they hadn’t been neatly hung, and that was something Gai could live with.

What he did not appreciate the sight of, however, was the kunai pouch halfway under the end table near the entry way. With such an inconvenient location, Kakashi surely must have made an effort to lose the bag and the knives it contained. He felt his heart swell with pride that Kakashi had the forethought to disregard the bag, but his heart deflated just as quickly with the knowledge that Kakashi felt it necessary to do so.

As he continued into the apartment, he called out his rival’s name once or twice. He must be home. The barrier seals hadn’t been placed over the front door, which means he either was here, or kidnapped from here, and the building still existed, so he must not have been kidnapped. So where was he?

Conscious of the rapidly melting sherbet in his hand, he turned down the hallway to the kitchen to leave the bad in the freezer while he helped Kakashi, presumably in the bedroom, bandage his wounds.

As he rounded the corner, flipping on the lights as he went, he heard a small groan. Nothing at eye level. Cautiously stepping forward, his foot sent a small orange plastic bottle skittering across the tiles.

Gai was barely aware of the sherbet hitting the ground.

Kakashi looked terrible. It was not particularly strange to find him lying on the ground, but there was absolutely no color in his face. Both of his eyes were lazily opened, and neither focused on Gai’s as he kneeled down to check his vitals. His breathing was shallow and his heart rate garbage.

“What did you DO?”

Gai yanked Kakashi up into a sitting position, grabbing for the prescription bottle. Depending on what it said, maybe this wasn’t as bad as it seemed. Maybe he’d been poisoned. Maybe even food poisoning. But the signs of an opiate overdose matched the label printed in cruelly clinical terms and he crushed the plastic in his fist. Kakashi needed to get to a hospital, and he needed to get there immediately.

He gathered his rival in his arms, not noticing his weight nearly as much as he noticed how limp he was, making no effort to not be ragdolled around. As he stood up, he took stock again of Kakashi’s breathing—shallower than a moment ago. After a second’s hesitation, he reached for the edge of his mask and yanked it down under his chin, hoping the direct access of air to his lips and nose might help. His lips had some color in them still, and he looked away, trying to respect the privacy of the man who he would kill as soon as he was saved.

***

Some time in the next twenty-four hours, Kakashi’s eyes opened. When they did, blinded by the light and surrounded by medical whites, he was shocked to find himself actually in heaven. What brought him back to earth was Gai, unceremoniously slapping his shoulder.

“What, my dear, dear rival, were you thinking?” he said, thankfully not as loudly as he could have.

Kakashi was at a loss. There were dozens, hundreds of thoughts racing through his head, but they all seemed password-protected and he didn’t have administrative access. He could barely open his mouth, covered by a thin towel, let alone form an explanation that would have made any sense to Gai.

Instead, he surprised himself by feeling the towel suddenly go cold and cling to his skin.

Gai panicked for a moment at the sight of Kakashi’s tears, then took a deep breath and slid forward to the edge of his chair. He brushed a warm, calloused thumb across his rival’s face.

“I know you’re in pain. I do. I don’t understand it, but I believe that you’re in pain and we’re going to help you get better.” He took a shuddering breath, noting that it was thicker with emotion than he had anticipated. “I don’t know what the future is going to hold for us, but the passion of our youth, and especially of your youth, Kakashi, is not close to over. So, whatever it takes, whatever the Yamanakas advise and whatever you need, we’ll make it happen. I love you, and you’re not going anywhere.”

Kakashi’s eyes widened, and Gai became aware that he had opened his Sharingan at some point to record this moment in his memory. He swallowed, feeling his throat begin to ache.

“I love you.”

Kakashi’s tears began falling in a steady stream, and Gai remained exactly where he was, brushing soft, silver hair off of his rival’s forehead. After a moment, he leaned further forward and pressed his forehead against the space he had just cleared.

In a small, scratchy voice he had not heard from the man laying before him ever in the past, he heard a whisper that nearly broke his heart.

“I love you too.”

[kikis-writing-world]

Love is Blind

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x F!Reader (her hair is described in that it is long enough to braid, and it is brushed by another character. Sorry if that alienates anyone)

Word Count: 8.4k

Rating/Warnings: Mentions of dead bodies and glossing over of canon-typical violence, injury leading to temporary blindness, talks of medical procedures (vague descriptions cause idk what I’m doing,) mentions of pregnancy (Whiskey talks about his dead wife) If I missed anything please let me know. It’s a long one and I tried to mark down anything that might need warning.

Summary: The mission was going perfectly until you were caught by a stupid trap, spraying some kind of toxin in your face. Now you’re (temporarily?) blinded and have to find out what that means for your future with Statesman.

The dust settled over the room as the chaos gave way to silence. You waited a beat, taking a deep breath before speaking out.

“Clear.” You spoke softly, knowing the message would be transmitted to your partner. Despite your confidence that you’d taken out the men on your side of the room, you kept your pistol firmly in your grasp.

“Clear.” The response came through your ear piece, the voice tinny in your ear. The bass tones were missing, but it was unmistakably Agent Whiskey’s southern drawl. You stood from your cover behind a large, leather sofa and surveyed the mess. Whiskey was standing behind the bar in the corner of the room doing the same.

“Nice work.” You nodded at him, noticing several bodies elegantly cleaved in half from his lasso.

“Same to you, ‘Rhett.” Whiskey returned the compliment, stepping around the bar. You glared at him for shortening your name - he knew you hated that - but you were stopped from responding as a third voice joined the conversation through your earpieces. “Intel puts the plates in a safe behind the painting. The landscape behind the desk” Ginger’s voice instructed from HQ, watching the scene through the micro-cameras you were both wearing: Whiskey’s in his bolo tie and yours on a broach on your vest.

You and Whiskey both turned to look at the large painting on the far side of the room. It, and the desk it sat behind, were riddled with bullet holes and other damage from the fray. It was still hanging askew on the wall. You crossed the room easily, stepping over the various bodies on the way. Whiskey let you take the lead, keeping a watch while you turned your back to the room.

The painting fell with a nudge from the barrel of your gun, revealing the safe tucked into the wall. A 10 digit keypad with a small screen kept it locked. You leaned in, making sure your broach was pointed at it. “Ginger?”

“Got it Amaretto. Analyzing.” You could picture the woman typing away, executing different commands as she analyzed the image you broadcast back to her computer. You knew she was using possible heat signatures, wear on the numbers, oil deposits, not to mention the tech you didn’t understand to crack the code. You could hear Whiskey shifting around the room behind you as you waited.

“7298,” Ginger instructed. You entered the code and the lock clicked, the door swinging ajar.

“Thanks, Ging.” You acknowledged before addressing Whiskey. “We’re in.”

“And?” He asked, looking over his shoulder at you, but keeping himself angled out into the room in case of trouble.

You pushed the safe’s door the rest of the way open seeing a large, black briefcase inside. If the intel was right, inside it would be counterfeiting plates. A small time counterfeiting ring had somehow paired up with a large terrorist ring, laundering the fake money into real profit to fund their plans. Taking down this ring would be a big, although likely temporary, hit to the terrorists.

You pulled the briefcase out of the safe, setting it onto the desk. There were no locks on the briefcase, just the latches keeping it closed. While that should have been suspicious, your excitement of completing the mission had you pushing forward. You unlatched and opened the lid.

Before you could see what was inside, something shot out of the case. You were sprayed in the face and neck with a cool, goopy liquid. You yelped in surprise, wiping frantically at your face to get it off. You stumbled backwards into the wall, falling onto your ass.

You heard Whiskey call for you the same time Ginger did through the earpiece. Whiskey was beside you quickly, pulling your hands away from your face by the wrists. “What happened?”

“I-I don’t know.” You stuttered, feeling him wiping at your face and hands with some fabric. “I opened the case and it shot out at me.”

“Ginger?” Whiskey called out.

“I’m checking the footage now, running it through our databases.” The tech responded, voice level as always. “Keep a sample, but find some water to get it off her. I’m sure it’s some kind of safety measure.”

“Stay here.” Whiskey ordered before he left your side.

You nodded, trying to remain calm as the substance started to sting your eyes. You relayed that information back to Ginger.

“What else can you tell me about it, Amaretto?” She asked.

“It’s viscous. Like syrup.” You told her, feeling the slimy coating it still left on your skin after Whiskey had tried to wipe it away. “Cool to the touch. Smells like… flowers? Definitely floral.”

“Okay. That’s good. That’s helpful. Anything else, let me know. It will help us identify it quicker.”

Whiskey returned as Ginger spoke. You jumped at his sudden presence beside you.

“Sorry.” He mumbled. “Got the water and a cloth.” He narrated as to not spook you when the wet rag touched your skin.

“Flush out her eyes and get out of there.” Ginger instructed as your partner wiped your face clean. The cloth disappeared and Whiskey’s large hand was on the back of your head, leading you to lean over.

“I’ve got you. We just gotta wash out your eyes.” He kept talking, although you couldn’t quite tell if it was to keep you or himself calm. “Open.” He instructed.

You listened, opening your eyes and whimpering at how much it hurt to do so. The room seemed so much brighter than it had been before. You only had a moment to think on this before Whiskey was pouring the water into your eyes. You reached out for him, steadying yourself with your hands against his chest.

When the flow of water stopped, you told Ginger. “Light sensitivity. Add that to the list of symptoms.”

“Got it.” She responded. “Whiskey, grab that case and get to the jet.”

Your partner’s hands were on your arms, helping you to stand. He left you momentarily and you heard the briefcase snap closed. His arm wrapped around your waist as he led you away from the wall. You stumbled a few times over the bodies on the floor, but Whiskey did a good job of leading you. Any misstep you took or slight fumble, he never let you fall. You were lucky the two of you had dispatched everyone in the house before making it to the office. There was no one left alive to stop you as you left.

“It’s really starting to burn.” You told them, feeling tears falling from your eyes. The burning was also translating into a headache as the pain spread. It was getting harder to focus on Whiskey as he navigated the two of you out of the house.

“Stick with me, pick up your feet. I got ya.” Whiskey continued to instruct as you moved.

You knew you’d made it outside the second the sunlight hit your face. Even through closed eyelids, the light was too much to bear. You cried out in pain, shielding your eyes with your hands. You would have fallen to your knees if not for Whiskey’s firm grip on you.

“I can’t.” You cried, holding your head in your hands. “It’s too much.”

Whiskey cursed under his breath before you felt something slip atop your head and you were lifted off the ground. “Keep your head down,” Whiskey ordered, the vibrations of his voice moving through his chest against you. You could feel the bouncing of his footsteps as he ran. You removed your hands from your eyes to hold onto him, and you assumed you were wearing his hat by the way it kept the sun off your face. You buried your head into his neck to shield your eyes even more from the light.

“We’re almost there.” He promised as you trembled in his arms. 

When Whiskey had landed the jet earlier, it hadn’t seemed too far from the cabin - far enough to not alert them to your presence of course, but the trek there hadn’t seemed far. Now, it felt like he might as well be carrying you to Canada as the pain grew worse. You could hear Whiskey and Ginger talk, but it grew harder to hear them over your own groans of pain and the blood rushing through your ears. You were crying in earnest into Whiskey’s shoulder, fighting the urge to claw at your eyes.

You felt his gait change as he ascended the stairs into the jet. You could hear his voice but the words were lost on you as he set you down into a sitting position. Without him to grip onto, your hands flew to your eyes. Your arms were quickly restrained, making you yell and thrash. It was too bright. It hurt too much. The stinging was unbearable now.

You felt a single hand wrap around both wrists as you pleaded for him to let you go. You needed to do something to stop the pain.

You barely felt the pinprick to your neck. As it got harder to fight him, you realized he must have given you a sedative. He dropped your arms as your muscles grew sluggish and you felt him buckling you safely into the seat. You tried to mumble a thank you to him, but you couldn’t be sure if the words made it out of your brain as you lost consciousness.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Your surroundings came to you slowly. The feel of the stiff cot under you, covered with scratchy linens. A few quiet beeps from different machines. The sensors attached to your chest and your arms - you must be in the medical wing back at Statesman HQ. It took you a moment to remember what had landed you in medical but once you did you were pleasantly surprised to not feel any pain. 

You couldn’t remember anything after stepping outside the cabin. The last vivid memory you had was the sun hitting your face and excruciating pain shooting through your head. Whiskey must have gotten the two of you back safely.

Your eyes fluttered open meeting a dark room. You were thankful for that, remembering how severe the light sensitivity had gotten. Introducing you to light slowly was a good idea.

“You’re awake.” The voice made you jump, even though you quickly recognized it to be Ginger. You didn’t expect her to be waiting in the dark for you. “How do you feel?”

You heard the heart rate sensor beep a little quicker as you clutched your chest from the scare, laughing softly. “You scared me. I feel okay, actually. No pain.”

“That’s great.” You could hear the relief in her voice. “And your vision?”

The question gave you pause, wondering how you were supposed to test your vision in the dark. “Turn the light on and I’ll tell you.”

“What?” Ginger’s voice was clipped, fallen from the relief it held moments ago. You weren’t sure exactly what the tone was but you knew you didn’t like it.

“Turn the lights on, Ging.”

“The lights are on.” She explained. You could hear the clicking of her footsteps and the rustling of her clothes as she moved closer. A hand on your right arm made you flinch.

“That’s not funny.” You scoffed.

“I’m not joking.” She replied seriously. She was silent for a moment, the faint rustling of fabric moving again before she asked “you don’t see that at all?”

“See what?”

“I’m shining a flashlight into your eyes.”

“No you’re not.”

“Ginger!” You heard Whiskey’s drawl, echoing like it was in a different room. Footsteps, heavier than the ones you had just heard, accompanied his voice as you figured he must be entering approaching your room. “She awake yet?”

“Whiskey, tell Ginger to stop joking around.” You begged, starting to freak out. The increased beeping beside you accompanied the anxiety you were feeling spread through your body.

“What’s going on?” The cowboy asked, worry coating his voice as it moved closer.

“She can’t see anything.” Ginger admitted, her hand leaving your arm. You heard Whiskey exhale to your left, a loud breath that sounded like he’d been punched in the solar plexus.

“Why not?” He demanded.

“I don’t know.” Ginger admitted. “We’re still analyzing the substance. So far all we know is it seems to be made from orange blossoms and some kind of berry-”

“It won’t be permanent, right?” You asked, cutting Ginger off. Your voice sounded so small compared to the other two in the room. There wasn’t an answer right away, footsteps approaching from the left before a large, warm hand covered yours.

“We’ll figure this out, sugar.” Whiskey told you as he laced his fingers with yours.

“We will.” Ginger confirmed. She sounded confident, and you knew she was nothing if not capable, but you still felt tears roll down your cheeks as the fear crashed over you.

You heard Whiskey tut beside you before he was brushing your tears away, his large palms cupping your cheeks as his thumbs brushed your skin.

“I’ll get to the lab. See if we’ve got anything new.” Ginger excused herself and you could hear her footsteps fade as she left the room.

As the two of you were left alone, you felt the cot shift underneath you as Whiskey sat down. He pulled you into a hug, letting you cry into his shoulder. She rocked you gently back and forth, telling you it was going to be okay. He let you cry until you felt numb, like there were no tears left. He didn’t move away until you lifted your head.

“I’d offer you my handkerchief, but it’s in the lab too.” Whiskey told you, voice light like he was trying to make you smile. He shifted away for a brief second, leaning back as you felt him press a scratchy fabric into your hand, which you quickly identified as a tissue. You used it to blot at your cheeks and nose.

You thanked him, your voice hoarse from crying. “Not just for this,” you waved the tissue in the air. “For getting us out of there.”

“It’s part of the gig, sugar.” It sounded like he was grinning when he spoke. You hoped he was. Even more, you hoped you’d see the grin for yourself again soon.

The next several days revolved around tests. Scans of your head and eyes, tests being done on the limited amount of the substance the lab had collected from Whiskey’s handkerchief and the briefcase. You didn’t even realize there were that many different tests they could perform, but everyday they brought you new results. Unfortunately, none of the results so far had led to any answers about why you’d lost your sight. As the lab identified more ingredients of the goo that had sprayed you, they tried different medicines and remedies but nothing had changed. They also told you how the substance had left you with a light rash on the skin of your face and hands where you’d been exposed. You were hardly worried about the rash. They said it was fading naturally. You wished your sight would return naturally too.

Between tests, you were hardly ever along. Whiskey visited you more often than not. Ginger spent a lot of time with you during tests as well as socially for meals. The team of doctors and junior agents working with her to help heal you all came and went. Tequila, Champ and other Statesman agents came by to check in on you when they could.

It was getting easier to identify who was coming as you started to hear differences in their footsteps. Whiskey had a long, slow gait, his boots slapping the floor with a dull thud. Tequila’s steps were quicker, and his boots snapped a little lighter against the floor. Champ’s steps were slower, like Whiskey’s, but there was an irregularity to the pattern. His left hip making him have the slightest limp that you had never noticed by sight alone. Ginger was easiest, being one of the few women who came to see you. Her steps clacked as her heels hit the floor.

You were also surprised to start noticing the different scents everyone held. Tequila, bless that boy, smelt obnoxiously like axe spray deodorant, reminding you of a high school boy’s gym class. Champ smelt of vanilla, cloves and the cigar smoke that clung to his clothes. Ginger smelt like clean linens, a hint of tropics in her detergent but seemed to be content staying largely scent-free, no perfumes that you could pick up on.

Whiskey’s smell was more complex, but maybe that was because he was the one who would sit next to you on the bed, giving you a chance to really breathe it in. Hints of spiced citrus hung to his clothes, along with the smell of leather and smoke - not smoke like Champ, but the kind from a freshly fired gun. When he got close enough, his musk had you remembering being cradled in his arms as he carried you away from the cabin, his hat atop your head.

You were thankful for the ways you were picking up to identify people. Your years as an agent had you trained to survey your surroundings, to avoid being caught off guard. It was unsettling to have your primary sense for that taken away from you. Most people were learning to announce themselves as they approached your room, giving you a heads up someone was nearing. Not everyone did. Tequila was particularly bad at it, and you suspected he enjoyed watching you jump.

You expressed your worries to Champ when he came to visit, on the fourth day of no progress. He chuckled and patted your back in a fatherly way.

“Let’s give them some time to figure this out, Amaretto. We don’t need to start plannin’ a retirement party just yet.”

You supposed he was trying to help you worry less, but it didn’t help. Would you have to retire if your vision wasn’t restored? You could hardly imagine a position at Statesman that you could easily navigate without sight. If you ever learned braille, and how to type, maybe some kind of administration or archival job, but who knew how long it would take you to master those skills. It was hard enough to accept what this meant for your career, let alone the rest of your life.

The agents that came to visit tried to help take your mind off of it, but it was hard when there was no true reprieve.

“Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board fence nine feet high. Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged.

“You know, I’m startin’ to remember why I wasn’t so fond of this book in school.” Whiskey interrupted his recitation. “How Mr. Twain managed to turn the absolute boredom of paintin’ a fence into the written word with such lucidity is an artform in itself.”

“Oh stop,” you laughed, reaching beside you to swat at him. It was an easy thing to aim for, feeling the warmth of him on the bed next to you, his arm pressed to yours.

“I’m just sayin’ that I’ve had better adventures before breakfast than these so called adventures of Tom Sawyer.” He complained.

“Tom Sawyer wasn’t a senior agent of a secret spy organization.”

“And good thing too. He’d have burnt this place to the ground by now with his behaviour.” He harrumphed, making you laugh.

“Just keep reading.”

He sighed, a long, annoyed sigh.

“Please.” You sang, smiling up at him as you leaned into his arm. These were the moments you could really smell the spice and leather on him.

He was silent for a beat. Although the two of you were joking, you almost worried he wouldn’t keep reading. It was much harder to read people’s moods without seeing their facial expressions. No smile or eye roll to go by had you guessing by voice tone alone. Silences had you absolutely puzzled.

“Can’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an’ git dis water an’ not stop foolin’ roun’ wid anybody. She say she spec’ Mars Tom gwine to ax me to whitewash, an’ so she tole me go ’long an’ ’tend to my own business—she ’lowed she’d ’tend to de whitewashin’.”

“Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That’s the way she always talks. Gimme the bucket—I won’t be gone only a a minute. She won’t ever know.”

“Oh, I dasn’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis she’d take an’ tar de head-

“I’d be able to follow a lot easier if you did different voices for the different characters.” You interrupted.

“Don’t push your luck.” He grumbled, but you were pretty sure you could hear that grin in his voice again as he kept reading.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“Keep your eyes closed.” You were instructed by Tonic, a junior agent who worked under Ginger. You felt the dampened towel being lifted from your eyes. You’d just spent 40 minutes laying back, letting the medicinal solution on the towel soak in. You had done the same thing the day before, and would likely be doing it again tomorrow.

“Just dimming the lights. Hold on.” Tonic explained as you heard his shuffling footsteps through the room. It was a good thing he had a knack for medicine because he’d be an awful field agent with the way he never picked up his feet.

“Okay, open.”

You did as instructed, blinking as your eyes adjusted to being open again. Just like the day before, you only saw the familiar inky blackness.

“Nothing.” You shook your head.

“That’s okay.” You could hear the forced optimism in his voice. “Ginger said it could take up to five treatments for this to work. We’ll do it again tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.” You gave the poor kid the best smile you could muster, but you were definitely losing hope. It had been nearly a week now with no progress. It was getting time to face facts.

“Don’t worry, Agent Amaretto. We’ll figure it out.” The boy told you, a soft pat on your shoulder accompanying his attempt at comfort.

You weren’t sure if you’d ever seen Tonic around Statesman. You might have walked by in passing, but you were never introduced. It was weird to be spending this much time with someone and having no idea what they looked like. You were almost tempted to ask, but kept it to yourself. You'd have to get used to not knowing what new people looked like.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

You shuffled out of the bathroom with your hand on the doorframe to help guide you. You had showered - your first true shower on your own, not just a quick wash-up in the sink or a sponge bath - and it made you feel slightly more human again. The robe was soft and plush against your skin, wearing only a tank top and underwear under it. The towel you had half-heartedly wrapped your hair in was falling out of the twist - you hadn’t quite mastered that skill without seeing yet.

You opened your mouth to dismiss the junior agent who had been tasked with waiting for you - sitting outside the washroom in case you needed to call for help - but you were interrupted.

“I sent her on her way, sugar.” You immediately recognized Whiskey’s twang. He was the best so far at announcing his presence, and you truly appreciated it. You still jumped slightly, not expecting him to be here. “Sorry.” He chuckled.

“I’ll get used to it eventually.” You waved off his apology, not actually knowing if you would ever get used to it.

“C’mon, none of that.” Whiskey tutted. Your uncertainty must have shown on your face. “Want a hand?”

“Yes, please.’ You confirmed, holding your arm out towards his voice. You heard him approach, footsteps and fabric, before he looped his arm around yours.

“Where to?” They had set up a table and chairs for you in the room, trying to make you feel more at home than in a hospital room. All it did was reaffirm that you weren’t any closer to finding a solution and that your stay was going to last even longer.

“The bed, please.”

He led you to the bed easily, not taking his arm away until you were sitting comfortably. You felt the towel fall even further off your head as you sat.

“Can you pass me the brush?” You asked him, holding your hand out.

You waited, hearing Whiskey move around, but instead you felt him pull your hair free from the towel. With your wet hair falling down your back, you felt him run the brush through it.

“What are you doing?” You chuckled.

“You just relax, sugar.” He ordered. He started at the ends of your hair, brushing the tangles out before moving closer to your scalp.

“I can brush my own hair.” You argued even though you were grinning.

“Just let me take care of you, Rhett.” He huffed, smacking you on the shoulder with the flat side of the brush.

“Fine, Whisk.” You huffed playfully in response, leaving him to brush your hair.

He was surprisingly gentle, only once did your hair pull painfully at your scalp to which he mumbled a quick apology. You hadn’t had someone brush your hair for you in a long time. Outside of a hairdresser, it probably hadn’t happened since you were a child. As much as you were trying to maintain your independence with your new loss of sight, it was very relaxing.

You hadn’t expected it when you felt him part your hair into sections and start weaving them together.

“Are you… braiding my hair?” You asked curiously.

“Yes, ma’am.” He hummed, clearly concentrated on his task.

“Okay, the brushing I could let go, but are you going to tell me how you know how to braid?” You laughed.

“I’ve made my own whips before, sugar.” He explained, his drawl even more pronounced as he spoke slowly, keeping his focus on the hair. “Part of that is just fancy bradin’.”

“You make your own whips?” That surprised you.

Whiskey chuckled, his fingers brushing lower and lower on your back as the braid progressed. “Not the ones I use on missions, but I have some at home I made. I’m not too up on the electricity part, but a good ol’ fashioned bullwhip? I can throw one of those together in a few days if I have the time.”

“So which came first? Using the whip or making them?”

“Been usin’ them since I was a boy, on the family farm. Started makin’ em ‘round the same time, maybe a few years between. Although those first ones were nothin’ to celebrate. I got better at it. Decent hobby to have, if you’ve got scraps of leather hanging around.”

You felt him end the braid as he spoke, tying an elastic around the end. You lifted your hand to your hair so you could feel the braid. It was surprisingly sturdy and didn’t feel like there were any messes of bumps.

“Thank you.” You turned, smiling in his direction.

He was silent as he pushed the braid over one shoulder, his fingertips grazing your neck as he did. The sensation left goosebumps on your still-damp skin.

“I also used to braid my wife’s hair.” He admitted quietly. “Especially when she wasn’t feelin’ well. Braided it up to keep it out of her face.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that. You knew a bit about Whiskey’s past, about his high school sweetheart and that she’d died, but it was hardly ever discussed between the two of you. Before you came up with something to say, he continued.

“When we found out she was expectin’,” he grunted as you felt the mattress dip. You scooted over to make room for him to sit. “I was braidin’ her hair all the time. For one, the mornin’ sickness that first trimester, hoo-” he chuckled softly, lost in the memory. “It really kicked her ass. Spent most her time huggin’ a bucket or praying to the porcelain gods. But before we found out she was carryin’ a boy, she wanted me to practice. ‘Case we had a little girl.”

You bit your lip, reaching in Whiskey’s direction. You wanted nothing more than to take his hand in yours, but you fumbled in the air clumsily. He brought his hand up to yours, letting you grip it tightly.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered.

“Thank you, sugar.” He answered back. “Was another life. Wasn’t meant for me, I guess.”

You gave his hand another squeeze, really wishing you knew what to say. Something to make the pains of his past a little… less. His hand stayed in yours, but you heard something rustling off to the side.

“What are we readin’ tonight? We’ve still got some of Tom Sawyer’s adventures to go through, or we can start Pride and Prejudice.”

You leaned back, getting comfortable in the bed. “Tom Sawyer. Besides, you can’t tell me you actually want to read Pride and Prejudice.” You grinned, letting him change the subject.

“I could be persuaded, but if the lady requests Tom Sawyer…” He trailed off, likely picking up the book based on what you heard. He got settled in beside you and you heard the pages turning as he found where the two of you had left off. As he read, his hand stayed firmly in yours.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“Lean back.” Ginger instructed. You did so, keeping a firm grip on the arms of the chair to keep your equilibrium. They had uncovered a new piece of whatever had attacked you, leading them to coming up with another possible cure. Ginger had explained this to you as she prepared you for the eyedrops. You were glad they were eyedrops this time because last time it had been a gel. Even without your sight, the feeling of gel in your eyes was incredibly unpleasant. That being said, you’d do it everyday for the rest of your life if it meant you could see again.

“Ready?” She asked, placing her hand on your shoulder.

“Mhmm.” You held your eyes open as much as you could, waiting for the liquid to hit them. If you thought eyedrops were bad before, they were worse now that you couldn’t see them coming.

The first drop hit your eye, making you jump despite being ready for it. You felt one more drop in the left eye before she moved to your right.

The cooling effect was almost immediate, the strange tingling making your eyes water. You fought against blinking until Ginger gave you the go ahead. You kept your head tilted until a tissue was pressed into your hand.

You leaned back upwards, wiping the residual drops from your cheeks. There were tears too, your eyes watering from the sensation.

“How does it feel?” Ginger asked as you heard her click a pen.

“Tingly.” You told her. “It feels like minty, maybe? Like chewing mint gum with my eyes. Or menthol.” You tried to explain. You heard her scribble something down as she hummed in response.

“Let me know if anything changes. It could take up to an hour to work.” She explained.

You blinked continuously, having no choice as the reflex tried to deal with the feeling in your eyes. It wasn’t unpleasant or painful, just very foreign.

Ginger ate lunch with you while you waited for something to happen, but nothing did. You swallowed down your thoughts of ‘I told you so,’ instead agreeing with her that maybe the next thing would work.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“We gotta start making plans, Champ.” You told him plainly, hands clasped in your lap. “I can’t stay here forever.”

“‘Course not!” The man agreed with gusto. “Forever is out of the question.”

You sighed, knowing he was deflecting. “Nothing is working yet.”

“Somethin’ will.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“What if it does?”

“Agent Champagne-”

“You sound like my wife.” He snarked.

“Your wife calls you Agent Champagne?” You asked with a smirk. You couldn’t resist taking that bait.

“A gentleman wouldn’t kiss and tell.” He joked, but it did little to lighten your mood. “But what I mean is the tone of voice. That’s the voice she uses when she thinks I’m being as dumb as a bag o’ hammers.”

You wouldn’t have quite put it that way, but you did think Champ was avoiding dealing with the situation at hand.

“So I’m gonna tell you what I tell her when she starts usin’ that particular tone of voice.” He took a pause and you waited for him to continue. “Trust me.”

You sighed, dropping your head. “I trust you, Champ.”

“Then why are we havin’ this conversation? Is it Ginger and her team? Do you not trust Ginger?”

“Of course I do-”

“You don’t trust Statesman or Statesman technology or medicine?”

“That’s not what I’m saying-”

“Then you stop worrying ‘bout what we’re gonna do with you, and focus on gettin’ better.” He instructed, his tone firm. His accent grew thicker as he went on. “I won’t hear anymore about plannin’ nothin’ ‘cause you’re going to get back out there, Agent Amaretto. This piss poor attitude ain’t helpin’ nothin’! If we thought this was a lost cause, we’d tell you. You’d get a gold watch and we’d set you up with a good pension and probably a little desk job at some library somewhere to keep you busy, but that’s not in the cards for you.”

You couldn’t help but tear up as Champ went on. You weren’t even totally sure why. You felt so alone, like no one was hearing your concerns - but at the same time, it sounded like Champ had been thinking about possibilities. A librarian? You didn’t want to end up a librarian. You almost wanted to go back to not talking about the future.

“You, missy, are a Statesman Senior Agent. Now, I’ve already got Tequila climbing up the walls and causin’ trouble, I can’t be worryin’ about herding two cats. Suck up that booboo lip and act like the Agent you are. Understood?”

“Yessir.” You mumbled.

“I didn’t hear you, Agent Amaretto.”

“Yessir.” You repeated, louder this time.

“Good.” You could hear the finality in his voice before the ice in his drink clinked together as he took a sip. “‘Cause if that didn’t work… well, the next tactic I use on the Missus is a little inappropriate to try with you, Agent. No offense.”

Now that did get a laugh out of you.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The podcast played from the speaker beside you, but you were only half listening to it. You were thinking of taking a nap, more out of boredom and lack of anything better to do than tiredness, when you heard familiar heavy footsteps approaching your room. You couldn’t help that it lifted your spirits to know Whiskey was on his way.

“‘Rhett.” He greeted, that signature tone in his voice letting you know he was grinning.

“Whisk.” You responded with a sigh. “You know, if anyone else called me that, I might have to kill them.”

“Not interrupting, am I?” He ignored your warning, stepping into your room.

“No. Wasn’t really listening to this anyway.” You told him. You turned your head in the direction of the speaker and asked it to stop. The room fell into silence as you sat up on the cot.

“That better not have been a book on tape.” He warned.

“Now why would I listen to one of those when I have a real life book on tape at my beck and call.” You smirked.

“Walkin’ talkin’ book on tape, huh? If that’s all I am to you, I think I might just take this present back home with me then.”

“Wait!” You stopped him, hearing his feet retreating back towards the door. “You didn’t say you had a present.”

“Thought that might change your tune.” He chuckled.

You scooted to the side of the cot, patting the mattress beside you. It only took him a second to sit next to you, that familiar spiced citrus and leather scent taking over your senses.

“Hands out.” He instructed. You held your hands in front of you, waiting impatiently for them to be filled. He placed the gift in your hands, but you had no idea what it was yet.

It was circular, but it seemed to vary in width - no, it wasn’t circular, it was just looped. You ran your hand over it, feeling the smooth pattern adorning it.

“What is it?” You asked, finding the end of it - a strong, heavy piece, the texture similar to the rest of it, although the pattern was different. The very end came to a bulbous tip.

“That’s a bonafide, one of a kind, handmade by yours truly, bullwhip.” He explained, taking your hand in his and wrapping it around the handle to hold it properly.

“For real?” You smiled, feeling what you now knew to be leather under your fingers.

“For real.” He chuckled.

You tested the weight of the handle, feeling the drag as the rest of the whip pulled against the sheets. Your fingers ran over the design, following the lines of the handle carefully woven and etched throughout. You regripped the handle and ran your other hand over the tail of the whip, pulling your hands apart to get a feel for how long it was.

“What does it look like?” You asked, leaning into him.

“It’s brown. Medium brown, the colour of gingerbread, maybe. Right along here,” he took your hand holding the handle and guided you in tracing the designs. “It’s stained red, just to make it pop. Not blood red, just tinged red with the stain. Gives it some detail, you know?”

“What else?” You asked, feeling breathless as he helped you to see the details with your hands.

“Well you can probably guess it’s made of leather.” You nodded. “But it’s actually made of kangaroo leather.

“Kangaroo?” You asked in shock. “Where’d a farm boy get kangaroo leather?”

You felt Whiskey’s laugh against your side. “I made this one a year or so ago. Just so turns out that kangaroo hide is one of the strongest in the world and well, when you have a hobby that requires leather, you start gettin’ creative with what kind of leather you’re usin’. Gotta keep it excitin’.”

“You don’t get enough excitement at your day job?” You teased.

“Nah, I’ve got this great partner who always has my back.” His voice made you shiver, despite the fact that his comment had your face heating up. He was leaning heavily against you now, his breath fanning over your cheek.

You swallowed the lump that had appeared in your throat, finding your voice to ask him to tell you more.

“About my partner? She’s a great gal. I’m sure I’d be dead twice over if she wasn’t there to pull my ass outta trouble. She’s a great shot, and there ain’t nothin’ sexier than a woman who can handle a pistol.”

His hand was on your opposite cheek, turning you to face him. The gentle touch made your breath stutter in your throat. 

“She’s got this amazing smile that can make a mark fall in love from 40 paces, and it can light up a room from even farther.” He continued, the breath from his voice dancing across your face. His breath smelt like the spiced Whiskey he was named for, and a slight hint of cherries.

“She deserves better than me for her partner, that’s for damn sure. A broken man with a messy past who’s been too scared to tell her how special she is. I thought it was best to keep it professional, but I don’t know if I can anymore.” His nose brushed against yours. You gasped softly at how close he was.

“She’s always in danger, we both are, but once she was in danger I couldn’t help her out of… that made me realize how important she is. If she’ll let me though,” he whispered. You could feel his lips brush against yours as he spoke, his mustache tickling your upper lip.. “I’d like to spend all my time makin’ that up to her.”

“Jack-” Your whisper was cut off as he pressed his lips to yours gently. It was so gentle, almost hesitant. The man was such a loud, boisterous personality and this kiss was so contrary to that. 

You dropped the whip, bringing your hand up to rest on his hand on your cheek. You followed his arm past his shoulder and up his neck to tangle in his hair. You felt his breath hitch from the light tug on the strands.

“I’m gonna stick by her side,” he muttered, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “No matter what happens. I’m gonna do everything I can to help you.”

You pulled him into another kiss, tilting your head to slot your lips together. He hummed softly into the kiss, brushing your cheek lightly with his thumb. His other arm wrapped tightly around your waist, like he was scared you would disappear. You nipped his bottom lip, trying to reassure him you weren’t going anywhere.

He hissed softly at the sensation and your tongue darted out to soothe the skin. His own tongue met yours, his moan at the contact matching your sigh.

He pulled back and you chased his lips. You were stopped as his nose brushed against yours, his shaky breath flitting across your face.

“Say it again.” He requested, so quietly you almost didn’t even hear.

“Say what?”  You hummed, distracted by his nuzzling and the strong urge to have his lips against yours again.

“My name, sugar.” He was close enough that you could feel his cheek flex with a lopsided grin. “I ain’t ever heard you call me by name before now.”

You smiled in return, biting your lip. It was true. You’d called him Whiskey most of the time. Agent Whiksey when you were being formal. Whisk when he annoyed you. Numerous different names while undercover…

“Kiss me, Jack.”

He growled, low and deep in his chest, before he obliged. Now this was the kiss you expected from Whi- from Jack Daniels. His tongue, pressing past the seam of your lips. It felt like he was marking his territory, all you could do was let him. He swallowed your moans as you matched his hunger. He kissed you with passion, both experienced and unrefined. Unbridled. He kissed you breathless, until you had no choice but to part.

You pulled back, panting softly as you leaned your forehead against his. You wished you could see him. See if he was just as affected by the kiss as you were.

You slid your hand from his hair to his cheek. His skin was warm, you could almost imagine it tinged pink, flushed from being so breathless. You continued exploring, finding his mustache next. The coarse hair felt askew, likely mussed from kissing and not the neat, groomed thing you were used to. You felt the uptick of his lips in that signature grin, and you couldn’t help but feel those too. They were warm and moist. You wondered if they were swollen, like yours felt.

Jack held your hand still, kissing each finger tip one at a time. The tickle of his mustache made you giggle.

“I mean it, sugar.” You could feel his lips move against your fingertips, his voice vibrating through your hand. “I’m here with you. Whether they figure this out or not. We’ll get through it.”

It was the first time someone other than yourself acknowledged that your sight may never return. It didn’t bring about the hollow defeat you’d been feeling anytime you thought of being blind the rest of your life. It finally felt like you had someone in your corner. Of course it would be Jack. He’d had your back for years, working together in the field. You should have known it would be him, in the end.

“Thank you.” You dropped your hand from his face to wrap both arms around him, hugging him as you rested your head against his chest.

You felt him press a kiss against your forehead before he pulled you to lay down. He held you, cradled into his side as you burrowed your face into his neck. You heard something fall, probably the whip that had been forgotten on the sheets.

“Oops.” You winced, not having meant to be so careless with his gift. You moved to sit up, wanting to pick it up, but he held you firm.

“Leave it there,” he instructed. You relished the way his deep voice vibrated against you. “It ain’t gonna fall any further.”

“I don’t want something to happen to it.”

“If it does, I'll make you a hundred more.” He promised.

“Fine.” You ceded, snuggling back into him with a deep inhale. Leather and spice.

The arm that was draped over your waist left your side. You felt his muscles move under his shirt as he stretched out. It only took a minute before the released, relaxing again. You heard the fluttering of paper before he started to read.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. 

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The pressure from the device around your head was unpleasant, but not unbearable. The way it pressed down on your eyes made you want to squirm. Instead, you squeezed frantically at the stress ball Ginger had offered you before you’d been strapped in. You knew Whiskey was standing with her as she ran the test, but you wished he could be here. You’d take his hand in yours over the foam smiley face any day.

“Almost done, Amaretto.” Ginger’s voice echoed through the speaker, barely audible over the hum of the awful machine.

“You’ve got this, sugar.”

“Whiskey, don’t tou-”

“-tell me not to-”

“-my lab, my buttons-”

“-OW!”

The bickering coming through the speakers was almost enough to make you laugh. The clicking of the microphone engaging and disengaging had you picturing the two fighting over whatever button turned the feed on. The two had spent hours bickering the past two weeks, Jack becoming increasingly more involved in your treatment as the two of you shifted from partners to...  well, there was no set term put on it yet, but you were very fond of kissing him. You couldn’t quite imagine the cowboy in the other room being called a boyfriend. It felt very middle school.

It was another few minutes of the machine humming, pressing awkwardly against you, until Ginger finally announced you were done. You heard the door between you and them open, two sets of footsteps approaching. One set of hands started to release the device from your head, while the other took the stress ball away. It was replaced with a large, warm hand that lifted yours until a kiss was pressed to your knuckles. The mustache prickled against your skin.

“Okay, you can sit up. Go slow, though.” Ginger instructed once you were free. You did, feeling your head swim.

“How’re you feeling?” Jack asked.

“Light headed.” You answered honestly, waiting for the feeling to pass. You leaned into Jack, letting him support you through the dizziness.

“Almost done.” He cooed, petting your braided hair. “We’ll get you back to your room soon.”

You heard Ginger moving around the room before she came to a stop in front of you. There was silence for a beat.

“Any change?” She asked.

You blinked a few times, but there was nothing. “No.”

You sighed, letting your shoulders slump with defeat, but Jack stayed strong next to you.

“That’s okay.” He hummed, not letting on any disappointment he might be feeling. He never tried to dictate how you should feel about your condition, but he stayed strong for you throughout. It was still so hard to deal with that you may never see again, but he made it a little easier. “Let’s get you back to your room. I for one am dyin’ to know what happens to Elizabeth next.”

You scoffed as he helped you to stand. “Sure you are.” His hands held you steady until you found your footing, his arm wrapping around you to guide you out of the lab.

“I am.” He argued. “I’m invested in it now.”

“Oh, well I guess I didn’t need to ask Champ to track down some Louis L’Amour books.”

“To hell with Elizabeth.” Jack declared, making you laugh.

You roused slowly. It took you a moment to realize you had fallen asleep while Jack read. The last thing you remember in the story was the caravan was going to be attacked. You wondered how long Jack had read for before realizing you’d fallen asleep. You were pressed tightly to his side, you could feel his warm body next to you. His head was leaning against yours, his deep breaths tickling your ear. He let out the tiniest snores anytime he exhaled. It made you smile.

“Jack, wake up.” You hummed, pressing a kiss to his neck. He hummed in response but didn’t fully wake. You called his name again, nuzzling into him.

Your name left his lips in a soft moan as he told you to go back to sleep.

“You’re going to have an awful kink in your neck if you keep sleeping like that. Come on.” You argued quietly, poking him lightly in his side as you sat up.

“Alright,” he groaned. You felt his body stretch out beside yours before he too sat up. You felt something hit your leg and you instinctively opened your eyes to see what it was.

You saw the book had fallen off Jack’s lap-

You saw.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

tagging: @wickedfrsgrl​ @driedgreentomatoes​

A/N: The books that are mentioned being read by Whiksey are The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, and The Walking Drum by Louis L’Amour

[axoxtxhxh]

You Saved Me - Chapter 1

Overall summary: Everyone loves Miche right? I hate that he never had the chance to grow as a character so I started writing a little story about what would happen if he didn’t die that day. So this is the first chapter. It wasn’t originally supposed to be the first chapter, but I’m impatient so hopefully the overall story is still good. Thanks for reading!

Chapter summary: Miche gets saved. Whoo-hoo!

Also, I am definitely not a doctor, but I looked up TONS of broken bones pictures and info in order to try to make this semi-realistic. Sorry to the doctors out there for messing this up!

Chapter 1

MichexFem!Reader      Warning: Mentions death, broken bones, vomit, blood      Word count: ~4,200

Y/N could hear Miche’s screams. She ducked down on her horse trying to move as fast as she could. She noticed the bigger, hairier titan approach him after it launched Miche’s horse. She was in the open field, but dipped behind the trees and houses when she saw the abnormals. She was so close now.

“Come on, Miche,” She said to herself. “Hang on just a bit longer.” She flew past the last set of houses and was preparing to round the corner just as the big titan turned the other way. She was taken by surprise and could have sworn she heard him speaking. There’s no way. She tried to pick up more speed as she fully rounded the corner, Miche in sight.

Miche was surrounded, the titans closing in. She wasn’t even sure she had enough space to squeeze in with her horse. Miche was pulling out his blade when she lowered her body as low as she could, leaning over her horse.

“Miche!” She yelled and he turned towards the sound, seeing Y/N racing towards him. She put out her arm and he reached up, grabbing it as they raced past the titans about to catch them, barely making it through. The titans all turned, following them.

He grabbed the back of her saddle and laid there, his stomach on the horse while his legs and arms dangled on either side.

“Shit! Fuck! Holy fuck!” He was yelling, confused that he somehow made it out alive. “I think I shit my pants.”

“Well we aren’t out of it yet.” She looked back, the titans were closing in again. She looked down at Miche, her stomach dropping. His leg was broken, worse than broken and he was losing a lot of blood. “What happened to your gear?”

“I…” He couldn’t think how to explain.

“Nevermind, you take over. I will take care of the titans.” She started to get up.

“No.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Just go through the forest. We can lose them that way… Please.”

Y/N was confused why he was pleading with her, but she followed what he said and went through the forest. It was a lot harder for the bigger titans to follow and they lost the majority of them. A few smaller ones continued following after they made it out of the clearing, but soon they fell behind and Y/N and Miche were safe. Well, as safe as they could be. She headed towards the next set of trees for some cover and slowed down. She jumped off the horse and helped him down so they could catch their breath.

Miche fell to the ground and vomited. He was choking and breathing heavily his body trying to react through his emotional state. Y/N leaned down behind him placing her hand on his shoulder.

“Miche?” She rubbed his back a little. He turned around to face her, wiping his mouth. His eyes were red and pouring, tears falling all over his cheeks. He started panting, his breathing becoming quick and uneven, fighting a panic attack. He reached forward and pulled Y/N into his arms, squeezing her tightly. He sobbed uncontrollably into her stomach and she held him tighter, dropping to her knees so his head laid on her shoulder. “I—It’s okay, I got you… it’s going to be okay, Miche.”

“Thank you,” he whispered into her. “Thank you for coming for me.” She looked at him, not sure what to say. His eyes were still red, the dirt on his face made the tear stains stick out that much more.

“I…” She started, not knowing what to say. She could only watch him struggle to comprehend what had happened.

“If you hadn’t come...” He was crying again. “If you weren’t there… I could… I was going to be…” He bent over to the side on all fours, vomiting again. He struggled to breathe and Y/N continued rubbing his back until he was able to get himself up. She didn’t know what else she could do for him other than be there.

His breathing slowly returned to normal, but he stayed on all fours looking at the ground. Y/N was getting worried about staying in the same spot too long.

“You okay if we get back on the horse? We shouldn’t stay here much longer.” She looked around the woods, getting nervous.

“I think so.” He was completely lost in his head, eyes lidded, tears and dirt covering his face while spit was dripping from his mouth. Y/N reached up with her cape and wiped his mouth then used her hands to wipe the tears off of his cheeks. Miche held her hand at his face, sniffing her palm as he closed his eyes.

“I’m going to need your help getting you back up there.” She helped as he climbed up onto the horse. She again noticed how bad his leg was. We need to get you to a medic. She climbed up herself, sitting in front of him. They made their way back to the base. After 10 minutes of riding, Miche’s head laid bobbling on her shoulder, having either fallen asleep or passed out. Either way, she knew that if she didn’t get him to a hospital soon, he may not make it.

They were less than 80 miles from headquarters, but she wasn’t even sure if they could make it back there today. The sun was already starting to set in the sky and her horse was tired. She slowed down her riding to give herself time to think.

What do I do? I can stop riding here and give my horse a break, but Miche isn’t doing well. I can ride as long as the horse can go, but I don’t even know how long that will be. I can try to remember some of my medical training and try to fix Miche’s leg myself. She turned to look at his leg. Blood was starting to drip from his boot. Shit! I have to do something.

She pulled off to the side, taking slight cover between some trees and turned around to look at him. His face was pale and sweating.

“Miche.” She shook him. “Miche.” His eyes fluttered open and he looked around, eyes still unfocused. “Miche, I need to—”

He doubled over, leaning forward on her leg and grabbing the back of her jacket, groaning.

“My leg! Shit!” He was moaning and breathing heavily through his teeth.

“Miche. I have to try and stop the bleeding.” Y/N started. He lifted his head and moved it to her shoulder, shaking it. “I’m going to get off the horse. Can you hold yourself up?”

He waited there, unmoving for a while until he pulled his head off of her shoulder, leaning back a little. The front of his hair was soaked with sweat and his lips were turning white. She slowly lifted her leg over the front of the horse, trying to move him as little as possible. She slid herself down off the side and Miche sucked in air quickly as the horse shifted its legs to account for the weight change.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She rubbed the horse, trying to get him to settle. “Can you lift your good leg over to me? I can help if you need.”

“Wait! Wait!” He looked down, taking deep breaths. “I can do it.” His lips were tight, pursed together to muffle his groaning. Y/N watched as he turned to the side, slowly inching his leg over the horse.

“You’re going to need to turn around and lower yourself with your back to me.” Her hand was on his good thigh trying to reassure him. “I’ll lean over and you can slide onto my back. I’ll lower you down.”

“I’m too heavy,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about that.” The corner of her mouth curved a little. “I come from a family of tall men.” She turned around, leaning forward and giving him a seat to land. He turned himself around, wincing as his broken leg moved. He slowed his movements and reached down for her hip to stabilize his landing. Bit by bit, he gently lowered himself onto her and she slowly lowered herself to the ground until he was sitting. He leaned all the way onto his back and let out a deep sigh, taking deep, steady breaths. She watched him before pulling off her cape and tearing off some strips of fabric.

“This might hurt a little.” She warned. He looked at her, his eyes fully focused now, and nodded. She gradually worked the strips around his legs trying to move it as little as possible. He continued breathing deeply, his breath staggering out when she reached under his thigh.

She pulled the strips tight and tied a knot in the middle of his thigh. She quickly went back to the horse to grab her satchel of water and went back to him. She lifted his head and helped him drink some of the water.

“Thank you.” The cool water hitting his throat and cheeks felt good.

“I’m going to take your boots off.” She moved down to his legs, getting more nervous about the amount of blood he’s lost. She reached for the top of his boot.

“Please, go slowly.” He looked down at her and she nodded. She pulled from the top of his boot until it was lower than his knee and then grabbed the foot, sliding slowly. Miche groaned and she slowed the pulling, trying to keep it away from his leg as she continued sliding it off. A little further and the boot was off. His other leg wasn’t as bad, the boot coming off without any issues. She made quick work of the leather straps, setting them aside to use later.

“Can I get you anything?” She was back up at his face.

“I’m re—really co—ld.” His body started shivering and she grabbed what was left of her cape and laid that over him then removed her jacket and laid that on top of him as well. Looking down at his legs, she could see how bad the breaks were. His left leg was broken at his calf, twisting the lower part of his leg and his ankle was severely dislocated. His right leg had some deep cuts on it, but for the most part, it looked okay and since he was able to stand on it earlier, she wasn’t going to worry about it for now.

She took a deep breath and walked over to the trees, climbing up to the branches and pulling some of the smaller, but firmer ones loose. She broke them down to the length of his calf and went back to sit with him.

“This next part is going to hurt.” She looked down at him, her eyes serious and concerned. “A lot.” He looked at her, his eyes round. “You can bite down on this.” She gave him one of the sticks she brought back and he put it in between his teeth and nodded at her.

Back at his legs she was contemplating which bone to adjust first. The dislocated ankle might actually hurt less to realign and maybe she could use that as a buffer before straightening his tibia. Then again, moving his ankle will in turn move his tibia which will probably be just as painful. However, if she doesn’t move the ankle first, then the tibia might not line up properly anyway. Ankle it is.

She looked back up at him and rested her hands lightly on his heel and the side of his foot. She took a deep breath and as quickly as she could, jerked her hands pushing his ankle back in place with a snap. Miche cried out, his voice muffled by the stick in this mouth. Y/N quickly positioned her hands to readjust his calf and pushed it back in place and he let out a broken wail, his breathing becoming uneven and heavy. He brought his hand up to his forehead, tears flowing out onto the grass below him while his chest bounced up and down as he cried.

“That should be the worst of it.” She tried to comfort him while she placed the sticks in line around his calf and used his leather straps to tighten them which incited a small groan from him. She moved up to his face and saw that he was covered in sweat. She moved his wet bangs out of his eyes and wiped the sweat off of his forehead. He looked over at her, his bottom lip curling as he unsuccessfully fought back what was coming.

She knew that look. She knew it all too well when she worked with the scout doctor in her younger years. It didn’t matter how tough you were, how manly you were, how many titans you could kill on your own, pain was pain. Based on Miche’s legs, he was in a lot of pain. He pushed his face into her knees, letting himself cry and she lowered herself more so he could rest his head in her lap.

She brushed his hair back as he pulled himself deeper into her lap, holding her hip and crying into her stomach. His breath was catching, stuttering from his crying and she looked down at him. His eyelashes tinted darker from being soaked with tears, he focused his attention on her belt loop, playing with it. His breath continued catching and she could feel herself losing it. She looked up quickly to blink back tears.

It’s not that she hasn’t seen anyone this bad. She’s seen way worse. She’s held onto men’s hands as they cry in pain and there was nothing she could do for them other than hold their hands feeling the grip weaken as their lives slowly drifted. But this was Miche. She rubbed at the tear stain on his cheek and he looked up at her. His eyes were red from crying, but the color was starting to return to his face and Y/N let out a sigh.

“How are you feeling?” She touched his cheek.

“Better actually.” He smiled lightly.

“Good enough to move?” At that his eyes widened, worrying. Y/N looked around. “It’s going to be getting dark soon. We can’t really stay here.”

She looked off into the distance, looking for anything to help them. A short way away looked to be some houses. She stood up, squinting her eyes to see better.

“It looks like there is a village or something that way. If we go now, we can move slowly and hopefully get there before it gets too dark.” She continued looking around for something to help carry Miche.

“I can get myself on the horse.” He said as if he could read what she was thinking.

“Are you sure? You’ve lost a lot of blood.” She looked back down at his legs. She needed to stitch up the wounds quickly.

“If we can get on the horse, we can get there faster.” He sat up and Y/N dropped down to him to help him. His head was spinning and his vision wobbly. He managed to stand up, his weight on his right leg. She did her best to prop him up and after a couple tries, they were able to get him on the horse. She quickly hopped on and they road to the houses.

It turned out there wasn’t a town, it was a couple houses next to each other, both of them vacant. They slowed down and surveyed the surrounding area. Everything looked okay. In fact, there was a working well in front of the house as well as the great cover the surrounding trees provided.

She hopped down and helped Miche. He was moving much better than before. He wrapped his arm over her shoulder and she helped him into the house. It wasn’t big, but they really didn’t need much. There was a bed in the corner and Y/N walked him over there first. There was a fireplace next to that with a small bathroom across from the bed. There was even a little kitchenette with some leftover supplies, she might be able to make them something to eat.

“I’m going to get some water and make sure we have enough firewood for the night.” She walked over to him. “Please rest a little bit.” He nodded, his eyes already half closed.

She went to the well, pulling up enough water for the kitchen and the bathroom, as well as filling up her water pouch. She pulled her horse around to the back of the house where a small cover gave him shelter and she filled up his water as well.

Having something to do was helping her. She was never the kind of person to sit and do nothing while people around her kept busy. Having something to do to take her mind off of their situation was exactly what she needed.

While in the back, she noticed there was some chopped firewood with an axe and Y/N grabbed those, bringing them all inside. She also saw a small patch of potatoes and some wild lettuce and grabbed some of those to make dinner. It was dusk now, the last bit of sunlight slowly disappearing as she worked on lighting a fire.

She chopped the potatoes and lettuce and put them in a pot with water, setting it on the fire. While that was boiling, she found some flour and tried to make a dough for bread, setting that near the fire to cook. It wasn’t the greatest, but it would do well enough.

“That smells good.” Miche was looking at her from the bed, smiling.

“Don’t even try to lie.” She smiled back, walking over and lifting the blankets to check on his legs. “I’m going to need to do those stitches. I found some first aid supplies in the bathroom. Are you okay if I do it now?” He nodded.

She grabbed the kit and started working, first cutting his pants up until the knot she created earlier. It was a little harder now that the splint was on, but most of the lacerations were on his thigh and knee and didn’t look as bad now that his leg was realigned. She couldn’t even remember the last time she had to do this, but the motions came back quickly.

“The stitching and bone stuff, did you learn it from when you studied medicine?” He questioned, looking down at her while she worked. She nodded. “How old were you?”

“I started studying when I was 14.” She told, not looking up from her work. “I did it for about seven years. I was working with a doctor who worked with the military so I saw a lot of these kinds of breaks and cuts.”

“I guess I have twice as much luck as I thought I did.” He laughed. “What made you stop then? seven years is already a big commitment.”

“I decided to join the scouts because I was tired of losing people.” She sighed. “By the time a lot of the soldiers came to us, they were too far gone. I thought if I joined the scouts, I could stop people from dying before they reached the doctor.”

“That’s…” Miche watched her concentrate. He thought of all the people she must have seen, the different and terrible conditions the soldiers came to her in. Most of the citizens never see the horrific situations and deaths that the scouts encounter, but Y/N did, every day. Yet she still took the responsibility, putting herself in danger so more people wouldn’t die.

“Last one.” She moved quickly through the final small cut and covered him back up. “Obviously, it’s not perfect. You should still see a doctor, but it’s good enough to get us there.”

“Thank you.” He said, resting his hand on hers and she smiled.

She went to the kitchen to grab two bowls and poured soup for them both along with her attempted bread.

“This isn’t too bad.” He said after eating a spoonful of soup. “Better than the mess hall food.”

“I will take that compliment.” She took a bite of bread, dry flour coating her mouth and she swallowed hard trying to get it down.

“It’s like if the mess hall food was shit, this is shit’s cuter younger brother.”

“Ah-ha so you are feeling better.” She chuckled with him.

“But really, it’s not bad.” He kept eating. “So where exactly are we?”

“I honestly don’t know. I thought this was going to be a small town, but it’s just two random empty houses.” She thought about their luck. “It’s nice that it has basically everything we needed. We’re about 50km West of headquarters. So if we leave early enough, we should be able to get to HQ tomorrow afternoon.”

“Well I am feeling a lot better.” He started. “Seriously, after fixing my legs, resting and eating. I might be able to get myself up on that horse tomorrow without any help.”

“Slow down cowboy,” She cautioned, “I’m pretty sure based on the swelling, your right leg is also broken. It was necessary you walk on it for us to get here, but I really recommend you do as little as possible on your feet.”

“Well then how am I supposed to pee?” He joked.

“You don’t want to know.” She said coyly, taking a sip of her water. Miche finished his food and Y/N scooped another bowl for him. “Eat more.”

They stayed quiet for a little as they finished their food. Y/N poured a second bowl for herself and a third one for Miche before taking both bowls and putting them in the kitchen and washing up.

“For a second I thought you were going to force me to eat a fourth bowl.” He laughed.

“I should have.” She added more wood to the fire. “But I want to make sure you have some for tomorrow morning.”

“Well I’m glad for that.”

“Why’s that? You actually looking forward to the taste?” She teased.

“I wasn’t kidding about me having to pee and I’m not sure the plan.”

She sat on the bed next to him trying to think about how to go about telling him. He honestly wasn’t going to like either idea, but maybe if she painted one of them as better, he wouldn’t feel so bad about it.

“Well there is an ideal option and a not-so-ideal option.” She counted on her fingers. “Ideal option: I piggy back you into the bathroom and set you on the toilet.”

“That doesn’t seem so bad.” She smiled at her plan working.

“That’s why it’s ideal, but it’s also the most painful because you’re going to have to move.”

“Let’s start with that one.”

“I figured you would say that.” She pulled off the covers and helped him slide to the edge of the bed. “I’m going to let you move yours legs and I will just help guide.”

“What does that even mean?” He started sliding his left leg off the bed, keeping his knee straight. He barely got the back of his knee to the edge of the bed before he was panting. “Shit.” He tried to move it again and winced, sucking air through his teeth. “I can’t… I can’t…Can you grab it?”

Y/N put her hands under his ankle and under his knee and guided his leg back to the bed. Miche was taking deep breaths, his face already sweating. He shook his bangs out of his eyes.

“Do you want to try turning around? Maybe lowering your right leg first for balance?” Y/N suggested and he nodded. She helped turn him around and he started lowering his right leg, getting it on the floor easily.

“Okay, that was much better.” He planted his foot firmly on the ground. “Can you help lift my other leg and I’ll stand up?”

She moved around the side and put her hands under his knee and ankle again, lifting as he tried to stand up. The second he put weight on his right leg, pain shot straight up from the fracture in his leg and he cried out.

“No, no.” He sat back down. “It’s not going to work.”

“Why don’t you try just climbing my back so your leg doesn’t touch the ground at all?” She turned around and bent down a little to let him climb. “Get on.”

“This is so stupid.” He positioned himself to face her, grabbing her shoulders and pulling himself up a little. Lifting his right leg to her hip, she held on from behind his knee and he started to lift his left leg, but it started aching and he sat back down. “I can’t. Sorry, maybe tomorrow I will be able to. It’s too much right now.”

“It’s fine.” She lowered him down and walked to the kitchen. He set himself back in the bed, with his back against the wall, trying to catch his breath.

“So I guess we’re going with the not-so-ideal option.” He told her as she came back from the kitchen. “What is it anyway?”

His eyes widened, his mouth fell open and sweat starting to form on his face as he looked at what Y/N was holding. She was smiling at him.

“Please no.” He shook his head at the cup Y/N was dangling in front of him.

[mandelene]

✿: feeling so out of it, they need constant attention

You’ve got it! 💕  Thanks for the ask!

Someone asked me to write asthmatic Matthew in the ER a while ago, and I didn’t do it, but here it is now. 😂 I hope it's not total trash.

Sweet Normalcy

Word Count: 1555

Chest pain, the dull aching kind that flares up every time he inhales, that’s all he feels. Keeping his eyes open takes a great deal of effort, but the constant hissing flow of nebulized albuterol being delivered through the mask on his face makes it hard to get any sleep. Maintaining a train of thought for longer than fifteen seconds is also a sudden challenge. When he rolls his head to the right and looks up at the monitor behind him, he sees his heart rate is in the 140s and his oxygen saturation is at ninety-five percent on albuterol and oxygen. That’s not normal for him. None of this is normal. He can’t remember the last time things got this out of control.

“Matthew? Any better, love?” Dad asks him from the chair to his left. He’s been sitting there for hours now, continuously keeping vigilant watch.

It’s a busy night in the emergency department, and it feels a bit like he’s in a bad fever dream. The doctor checking in on him introduced herself earlier, but he can’t recall her name. An alarm goes off every few minutes from someone’s monitor, and it takes him longer than it should to recognize that it’s his monitor making that noise and alerting his nurse to keep coming over to assess him due to his seesawing oxygen saturation and heart rate.

Matthew’s not even sure what time it is anymore. He barely remembers anything. Every hour or so, he will doze off into a fitful half-sleep for twenty minutes or so before waking again and feeling disoriented. A nurse could tell him he’s been here for a week, and he’d believe them.

“Matthew? I asked if you’re feeling any better?” Dad asks again, leaning forward in his seat to grab his clammy left hand and squeeze it gently.

“A little,” Matthew lies, for his father’s sake. He wonders where Alfred and Papa are. They were here earlier, he’s pretty sure.

“I can tell when you’re not being truthful,” Dad sighs, squeezing his hand harder. “You’re not improving. You need to be admitted. This is ridiculous. You should have been admitted hours ago.”

Matthew hates seeing him stressed like this, but he also knows there’s nothing he can do about it at the moment. He feels himself slipping into momentary sleep again, and his eyes flutter shut. He wants to go home. Wants to be in his bed…Is it morning yet?

“Sixteen-year-old with a history of asthma…Patient accompanied by his father. Patient began oral corticosteroid treatment two days ago at home after experiencing wheezing, chest tightness, and coughing that was not fully improving with usual rescue medications…”

They’re talking about him—Matthew realizes that much, at least. He opens his glazed eyes and sees a new doctor approaching him. His ID badge says he’s a critical care doctor. Matthew’s not sure what the difference is between him and the other doctor he saw earlier, but he honestly can’t be bothered to care. He wants to sleep. Desperately. And he wants the chest pain to stop.

“Matthew, buddy?” the doctor says, putting a hand on his shoulder.

He doesn’t want to breathe anymore. His chest hurts too much, and speaking would require taking another agonizing breath.

"Mmmrgh" is all he can manage.

“He’s been less and less responsive,” Dad supplies from the other side of the room, and Matthew can hear the nervousness in his voice, which is unsettling. Dad rarely ever shows how anxious he is when someone’s sick. “I can’t get him to talk to me in full sentences anymore—just phrases.”

The doctor carefully sits him up, and Matthew feels his whole body shake. He rests his elbows against the stretcher to brace himself. A cold stethoscope touches his back, and he shivers.

“He’s still not moving air. He needs to be brought upstairs to intensive care to be monitored. We’ll continue IV steroid treatment and continuous albuterol. If he’s still like this, we can consider non-invasive ventilation and take it from there. Our main priority is to protect his airway.” 

Dad says something, but Matthew doesn’t hear it over the noise of the nebulizer. He just knows he’s going to be moved soon and the treatment is going to become more serious now. If he weren’t so tired, he might be scared.

The doctor leaves, and Dad goes back to holding Matthew’s hand. “It’s going to be all right, love. You’ll receive better care soon and hopefully, you’ll start to feel better,” Dad tells him before using his other hand to pet his head. “Try to rest. I’ll be right here, and I won’t let anything happen to you, understand?” 

Matthew nods. His eyes do close again, and he does get some brief rest. The next time he’s aware of his surroundings and wakes up, he’s already in the ICU, which means he slept through his transport. The respiratory therapist is setting him up on a BiPAP machine, and once it’s on, it makes his chest hurt even more, which he didn’t think was possible. He grits his teeth against the pain and tries not to make a fuss about it—it would just make Dad worry even more. The air being forced into his lungs is welcome yet excruciating at the same time.

But he doesn’t have to say anything for Dad to know he’s suffering. It’s written all over his face. “I know, poppet. It’s just temporary. It should help.” 

It’s so exhausting that he falls asleep again without even needing to think about it. Again, he has no idea how much time passes until he sees the sun shining through the windows of the hospital, indicating that it’s finally morning. The BiPAP mask squeezing his face gets replaced with a regular oxygen mask again, and it occurs to him that his chest feels much lighter and his head is clearer. The worst is over. The air in his lungs feels crisp and refreshing...Almost sweet, even. 

“How are you feeling?” Dad asks for the millionth time, still perched next to him. 

“Better…For real this time.” 

Dad hasn’t slept, of course. He never sleeps in such situations. He was likely watching him all night and conversing with his care team. “Good. You gave us all quite a scare.” 

“Sorry.”

“Oh, no, it’s not your fault, love. Not at all…Do you think you’re feeling well enough to have some breakfast?” 

“Yeah.” 

Dad gives him a relieved smile and then goes off to request a breakfast tray for him. It gets brought up within half an hour, and even though Matthew feels a bit nauseous from the steroids in his system, he knows he needs to eat to gain some energy back.

He’s given some pancakes, a fruit cup, and orange juice. He decides to make a move for the orange juice first because his mouth feels incredibly dry and gross. He picks up the carton and that’s when he notices just how shaky he still is. His hands are trembling violently from all of the bronchodilators in his system.

Dad quickly takes the carton from him, sticks a straw into it, and then brings it back up to Matthew’s lips. “Here, poppet, I’ll hold it for you.” 

“…I can do it.” 

“You’ll spill it. Don’t be stubborn.”

It doesn’t feel great to have poorer motor skills than a toddler, but Matthew sips some juice through the straw anyway, allowing himself to be fed because he doesn’t have a choice. He finishes the entire carton, one pancake, and half of the fruit cup before his stomach protests. Dad doesn’t seem too happy about him not finishing the meal, but he doesn’t push it either. 

And just as he’s finishing up, he finds out Alfred and Papa are outside of the unit, waiting to be allowed in. He’s only permitted to have two visitors at a time, so Dad leaves to take a quick trip home to eat and shower while Alfred and Papa take watch next. 

“Dude, you’re alive! Thank God, man. No offense, but you were looking really rough and out-of-it yesterday,” Alfred exclaims upon arrival, bright-eyed and full of pep as always. “It’s good to see you’re looking more like yourself now.”

“We’re so relieved, mon chou. Your father said you may be able to come home as soon as the day after tomorrow.” 

“I hope so…Sorry for making everyone worry.” 

Alfred throws his hands up in the air and shakes his head dramatically. “I have to teach you everything, don’t I, Mattie? You’re not supposed to apologize for being sick. You’re supposed to milk it for all its worth and make everyone feel bad for you and buy you get well soon gifts. Tell Dad when he comes back that you wanna play the new Pokemon Snap on the Switch.” 

“That’s what you want to play, Alfred.” 

“Yeah, but we can share it, right?” 

“Alfred, your brother is seriously ill, and all you’re thinking about are video games again! Where did your father and I go wrong? You could show some sympathy!” Papa scolds, pinching the bridge of his nose in aggravation.

“It was a joke! Kinda…Obviously, I love ya, Matt! I was really worried, too!” 

And he has never craved normalcy as much as he does now. 

Yup. Things are already going back to normal.

[whump-town]

The Safe Side

No pairings

No warnings (surprising, I know)

Hotch is getting older and that scares the shit out of Reid

I probably wouldn't have finished this if not for @genevievedarcygranger

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

His only symptom is memory loss.

Reid sees it, he knows it. The symptoms he’s committed to his memory for better or worse dispelled so easily, so regularly before him but he can’t help but entertain his irrational fears. He’s not sure why. It would not be more comforting for Hotch’s occasional forgetfulness to be Alzheimer’s and not age and yet he waits for the moment that proves him wrong. For the phone call that Hotch is dressed for work and trying to get up to the bullpen. That they’ll lose him to anxiety and aggression, he’ll lose his temperament and comforting nature bit-by-bit until he’s broken down. And Reid will lose him too.

The good things become tainted by his fear.

At Christmas, they go to Rossi’s like they always do, and while the others dance to the music softly humming through the room Reid finds himself watching Hotch. Inspecting the grey hairs growing ever more along his temples, spread now through the rest of his hair. They age him appropriately but Reid can’t help but feel betrayed by their presence like he’s being taunted. No different from the reading glasses perched at the very edge of Hotch’s nose, the ones Hank lightly reaches up for. Old enough not to grab at them but still curiously taking a finger to trail their frames. Reid neglects his desire to be closer to them, to be drawn in by Hotch’s deep voice and the crackling fire soothing Hank to sleep. He stays where he is, hearing the ghosting bits of “Where The Wild Things Are” for the third time.

All he hears is science. Proof in the voice’s Hotch uses for each character -- “Oh, please don't go — I'll eat you up — I love you so!” -- that his language center had no inhibitions. The way Hank looks at Hotch when he bellows that line the first time, giggling and writing about when Hotch tickles him and squeezes him up tight so Hank can’t get away is lost to Reid for what it really is. That the spontaneous tickling and the reading mean other things. The love between them and Hank’s adoration for Hotch boiled down to symptoms Reid can prove Hotch doesn’t have.

Reid is terrified and it won’t let it up.

He finds himself panicking in Rossi’s backyard, surrounded by laughing people. Happy people who have no idea what his problem is. But he sweeps his over the clusters of chatting people and realizes that in all the groups he can’t find Hotch. Amidst them, he’s fairly easy to spot. Sticks to what he knows and who he’s most comfortable with. Diplomatic in that he makes sure he talks to everyone once but if he’s going to be someplace he’s not where he should be.

This is it, he tells himself. He’ll find Hotch confused, ambling about alone and where he shouldn’t be. Not sure where he is or why he’s here.

And then Reid turns around and finds Emily sitting with him on the porch swing. One of Hotch’s legs stretched out over the expanse of the porch, dark jeans a contrast to the concrete as he rocks them back and forth. Emily’s head on his shoulder and his arm around her back, a glass of wine passed between them. Neither saying a word as they watch the teams they built interacting with one another, families mixing together.

Reid can’t enjoy their smiles, the way they look out over everyone like proud parents.

Even his own birthday with books in a variety of languages sitting around him wrapped in an array of papers that so brilliantly display who their giver was. With his fingers tracing the one covered in newspaper, the one he knows is from Hotch, Reid is lost to this rot in the pit of his stomach. The sludge that fills his veins with tension. It leaves him the only person not smiling, with no idea what’s happening, when Garcia and Hotch stand over his cake fussing about which direction to light the candles. He misses the finger Hotch swipes through the icing and dollops right on Garcia’s nose. Looks up to watch Garcia retaliate with the same treatment but can’t enjoy it, can’t feel love or ease when the room erupts in laughter and Garcia and Hotch stand there with their icing-covered noses smiling at one another.

He finally finds the courage to mention it to someone, tells Morgan one afternoon when they both end up at Hotch’s house. Morgan is there fixing some wooden stakes in Hotch’s garden and Reid dropping off groceries. Hotch is sleeping off surgery medication, unaware of the hushed conversation being had outside.

“Kid,” Morgan can see it. The terror eating Reid alive. “They just hacked him apart and put him back together, all right? He’s on some strong shit right now. He’ll be fine in a day or two. You’ll see.” Morgan tells him not to worry about it, Hotch has been knocked around his entire life. Nearly sixty years of severe blows to the head and if he manages to walk out of this life with just a sketchy memory then he’s getting off lucky.

But when Hotch stands for too long in a room trying to remember what he was doing or when he can’t provide an answer for how much coffee he’s had or if he needs eggs or if he had the last bowl of oatmeal this morning it scares the shit out of Reid.

Really, Hotch is fine.

Hotch had to write his doctor’s appointments down and he’s constantly needing some sort of surgery to fix whatever old injury is coming back to remind him of his previous offense but he’s his normal actively grouchy self. He never forgets to stop by Reid’s apartment Thursday around noon or his promise to get Henry and Hank from school when no one else can.

That doesn’t mean no one worries about him.

He would hate to know the collapse wasn’t when they started taking note of his fragile health.

Two weeks after his forty-fifth birthday he pulled a muscle in his chest (moving the couch so Jack could get a Hotwheels out from underneath) and JJ had watched him pause during his coffee run to press his palm into the strain. Her mind had filtered through a hundred scenarios to explain the behavior and they’d all ended with his death. Hotch is the kind of person with a puzzle piece life, whose pieces are spread out over the course of years, meant to be collected and put together by only the most detail-oriented. She knew his father had died of a heart attack and Reid only served to reiterate that fact. It was only a pulled muscle but, not for the first time, she felt utterly terrified of how much losing him would hurt.

There’s a string of these awful moments when his humanity, his mortality, is right there for them to witness. And, as strong as they’d like to believe themselves to be, they look away.

He’s fine now, all things considered.

The janky memory thing isn’t all that bad. He has milked it on more than one occasion. It’s how he keeps missing his physical therapy. Although, that has come around to bite him in the ass. He’s supposed to be using this cane they gave him and now someone shows up every week to take him to the appointment so he can’t even play it off like he’s forgotten. Typically it’s Emily or Derek but Garcia’s shown up and Reid even took him once. It’s very annoying. Doesn’t help that there are roughly thirteen people who he might run into in public who know he’s supposed to be using the cane and who will inquire about it or bring it up to someone else.

He hadn’t realized just how many people could get on his case until he’d run into Matt’s wife in the store and after having their brief, polite conversation where he mentioned Reid had called him not that long ago asking for advice on the BAUs current case, she asked about his knee. She said Garcia had been fretting over this last surgery he had and told her about it, she hadn’t thought that much time had passed. Was surprised he was back on his feet. It had taken six hours for him to get the phone call from Garcia and then Emily came over an hour later begging him to just “for the sake of my fucking sanity, Hotch, take it easy”. That’s when Garcia sat down and made him a calendar and he lost his say in matters of his grocery shopping and responsibility to take himself to doctor’s appointments.

He’s since won back grocery shopping. His doctor wrote him a note and Garcia conceded. She’s not stupid enough to toss their schedule for his doctor’s appointments though.

So, though he loathes it, he takes the cane with him when he leaves the house.

He’s learned his lesson. Penelope Garcia is one scary-ass lady who has far more control over him and everyone else than he’d care to realize.

Hotch hears the doorbell, muffled though it is, from outside. He’d known getting down on the ground was a bad idea with the way his knees have been hurting but he’s got zucchini and cucumbers laying out in the sun and while he ignored them yesterday, he knows he need to get them out today. Reid had expressed interest in them and Rossi’s likely to want the zucchini. He also knows Derek offered to take care of this sort of stuff but it’s a too warm Sunday morning and Derek’s likely chasing around a happy toddler.

Besides, he doesn’t have enough tomatoes to compensate for Derek’s work. That being said Derek would come over and do it regardless, he doesn’t mind.

“It’s about to rain,” Reid informs him the second he gets to the door. Hotch watches Reid’s eyes flick to his empty left hand, to the curve of his limp palm where his cane is supposed to be. Unlike the others, Hotch knows Reid will not say anything directly to him. Emily might ask where the cane is and Garcia would insist on going to get it but Reid will just anxiously flicker back and forth between Hotch’s face and his hand. Twisting and worrying until Hotch gets it himself. Which is surprisingly effective.

Hotch hums his agreeance, he could smell it in the air. Can tell it’s going to be a good storm with the shift and strength of the wind coming in. It’ll cool things off for a few hours then bring back the humidity and the mosquitoes with a vengeance.

“Do you think” Reid follows Hotch into the kitchen. He’s careful to keep a distance, not to push Hotch’s pace. He mills about in odd places to compensate their gates, looks at the book sitting on Hotch’s coffee table. “Do you think it’s going to rain a lot?” He’s a genius with the means to figure that out on his own and likely he already knows what he thinks the answer is. Hotch’s opinion is still important.

Hotch is in the fridge, rustling bags around as he finds the bag of vegetables he’s got set aside for Reid. He’s weird about fruits and vegetables, worries about bacteria and things but will eat a Poptart for every meal if given the chance. The logic is irrational but after twenty years of worrying about Reid’s diet, Hotch has finally found a solution to this particular problem.

“No tomatoes,” Hotch promises as he hands the bag over to Reid.

Reid nods, “I don’t like tomatoes.”

“I know.”

Reid takes his bag, smiles as he thinks about what things he can make with what he’s been given. “How much do you think it’ll rain?” he asks again.

Hotch hums, having heard Reid the first time. “It’ll be a good storm,” he figures, “might take out the electricity.” He only adds the last bit as a warning. Reid’s scared of the dark, a fact exacerbated by big storms that knock out the electricity. A common occurrence but no less startling.

“Oh.” Reid worries his lip, looks to the ground and everywhere but where Hotch is.

It’s likely to start soon, the winds really picking up and the sun’s drowned out by thick, rolling clouds. The storm of the century it’s likely not. Hotch doubts it’s even the sort people pull over on the side of the road to wait out but he decides to think it might anyway. Decides to tap Reid’s elbow and motion for him to follow, “come on.” He’s not even really sure where he’s going but it’ll lend a distraction. “Wait out the storm,” Hotch tells him, glancing back to make sure Reid’s following. “I wanna show you something.”

They spend the storm in his office, leaning over an old law school textbook. Reid has an affinity for them. No matter how many times Hotch uses them for a distraction, pulling them down from their dusty shelves, Reid still takes to them like it’s the very first time. He’ll sit for hours reading over the information but, his favorite parts, are how Hotch they are.

The notes he’s scribbled in the margins. Flashes of yellow highlighter. A coffee stain or smudge where his palm moves against not yet dried ink. Notes for cases or classes. Pages he’s dog-eared. They’re lived in, nearly perfect condition biographies. Of course, Reid gravitates to them.

By the time the storm rolls over Reid realizes he’s been alone in the office for hours. Sheepishly, he gets up and looks around. Makes his way through Hotch’s house until Reid finds him on the couch. As soon as Hotch sees him he takes off his reading glasses, placing a bookmark in his book and raising his eyebrow to inquire if Reid needs something.

“I should probably get going.”

Hotch doesn’t miss how suddenly bashful Reid gets, the way he looks down at the floor. “If you’d like,” Hotch won’t encourage him to leave. He spends a lot of time alone. He doesn’t mind have someone floating around. But Reid’s decided he’s overstayed his welcome so he moves cautiously towards the door. Taking his time because he knows Hotch will see him out.

“Be careful,” Hotch tells him as he opens himself up for a hug and Reid flushes a little under the attention but still steps into Hotch’s arms. Hotch gives him the bag of vegetables and frowns at the state of Reid’s hair. “Stop worrying so much,” Hotch fusses and they’re both aware of how parental his tone has gotten as frowns. He can see grey hairs here and there. Maybe not as present as his but there. “Do you want to talk about it? Whatever’s worrying you so much?”

Reid freezes, confused. Ordinarily, he’d give in, Hotch always fixes things but not this time. “I’m okay,” Reid promises.

Hotch doesn’t believe him but Reid’s an adult and Hotch knows when he’s needed Reid will know where to find him. All he can hope is that Reid comes to him if he really needs help. “Alright.”

They nod once more and Reid steps out but he’s not halfway down the driveway when Hotch shouts “I meant it, be careful driving home!”

Reid stops where he is, struck by the oddness of this situation. He made it his entire childhood without this sort of thing. His mother cared that he got home but he didn’t have friends to be out with. Never needed to stop and figure out how to call home and tell her he’d be home late. Now he’s lost his mother and he’s lost Gideon.

And he’s terrified he’ll lose Hotch next.

“I’ll text you when I get home,” he offers, feels silly the second it comes out of his mouth. Like Hotch would care enough for that. Like Hotch won’t be bothered with him texting him. Like Hotch is going to sit there and wait for the text.

Hotch narrows his eyes, “you’d better.”

Because Hotch will sit there and wait for the text.

“Yes, sir.”

Hotch is fine but Reid will keep watching just to be on the safe side.

[topazy]

The Fierce And Broken

1.05

Masters

Harold stared at his wife, with complete admiration. She was exhausted, and covered in sweat, but to him she had never looked more beautiful. Her screams of pain had long been forgotten as she stared down at the bundle in her arms.

Their daughter had just been born. His little shining star.

Abby gently picked up the baby so Jackson could check his wife over, and placed his daughter into his arms for the first time. The moment he held her his eyes filled with tears instantly, and Harold could have sworn she took his breath.

Himself and his wife Vanessa had argued for years about having children, or rather his lack of wanting them. He thought it was cruel to bring a child into a world like there’s. But now his baby was here he couldn’t imagine a world without her.

He smiled as his daughter clutched his finger tightly, and in that moment he knew he’d do anything to protect her.

______

Stepping into the water tent you gave Raven a sympathetic look. “Hey, how are you doing?”

She tried to wipe away a stray tear, hoping you didn’t notice. “I’m fine...I just really hoped the flares would work, ya know?”

You nodded understanding, every hope and prayer you had for your fathering thinking you were alive had been destroyed. “I get it. You did everything you could with what you’ve got.”

“It’s all Bellamy’s fault,” she glanced down at the bag in your hand. “I don’t know how you can even stand to be around him right now.”

You were the first to volunteer to help Bellamy look for his sister. The older Blake was currently gathering more people, while you opted to bring extra water for O. “Octavia, she’s important to me. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to her and I didn’t try to help.” The way Raven looked at you caused a strange nervous feeling to start building up. A part of you wanted to impress her. “Besides, at least one person with medical experience should go.”

“Finn mentioned you had stitched Octavia’s leg up.” She let out a light chuckle, “I’ll know to stay within shouting distance from you in the future.”

The flaps to the tent opened revealing an anxious looking Finn. “Got everything you need? Bellamy says we need to go now.”

Nodding, you grabbed what you came for and pushed it into your bag. “Ready spacewalker?”

After saying bye to Raven you stepped outside the tent to give them a moment alone, which ended surprisingly quick.

“Be safe guys!”

You smiled as the brunette called out to you both. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep him out of trouble.”

______

Nobody imagined finding Octavia would be easy, but you’d never considered how hard it would be either.

John Mbege, Diggs, and Roma had already been killed by grounders. The only thing that had spared the rest of your lives was a fog horn being blown, Finn held onto you tightly as you shook. The thought of dying didn’t scare you, but the thought of seeing anybody else die did. Fortunately, the acid fog never came.

Quickly the remaining group followed a grounder Bellamy spotted into a cave. By the time you reached it Octavia had already knocked the grounder out.

Once Bellamy unlocked his sister from her chains, she gave him a quick hug before pulling you in for one. You stepped back with a smile on your face, “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“Me too.”

Finn picked up an object that was on the ground. “He blew the fog horn? Why would he-”

Finn was cut off when the grounder pounced up and swung for him. No. Without a second thought you shoved Finn out of the way of the grounders knife. It wasn’t until you heard Octavia screaming your name that you glanced down and saw the blood pulling from your top. You had been stabbed. Glancing up at the grounder you noticed the look in his eyes. He looked almost remorseful. The look only lasted for a moment, the ground then spun and began to attack Bellamy.

Stumbling backwards Finn caught you before you hit the ground.

______

“Daddy, why do you call me Alba and not Y/N?”

Your father lifted you onto his lap and pointed at the picture pinned to the wall. “See that? It’s the sun. The sun is a star at the center of the Solar System, and it’s the brightest star you can see from earth.”

Being so young you didn’t realise people on earth could look up into space. You gasped, “really?”

“Really,” your father smiled. “When you were born I always called you our shining star, and your mom called you her little sun. But we thought you wouldn’t want to be called those things in front of your friends when you get older, so I started calling you Alba.”

You started to pout still confused by the nickname, “but what does Alba mean?”

“Sunrise.”

Groaning you opened your eyes to see lots of colours moving around you. It took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the darkness, when the movement stopped. You could make out a muffled mumbled of somebody asking to ‘stop for a moment’.

You recognised the voice as Finn’s. “No offence Jasper, but this will be much quicker if one of us just carrying her because this stretcher is one sided.”

Hearing Jasper protest that it wasn’t his fault made you want to laugh, but that was impossible with the knife sticking out of your stomach.

Glancing upwards you could see Bellamy had his arm around Octavia’s waist. “Finn’s right we don’t have much time.” Bellamy’s words filled you with dread. “I’ll carry Y/N. Finn you're the best tracker, go in front of us and find the best path, Jasper go help my sister.”

You tried not to scream as Bellamy knelt down and lifted you into his arms, shifting the position of the knife.

The tree lines around you started to become blurred together as Bellamy spoke to you. He kept repeating that you’d be okay, but you weren’t sure if he was trying to convince you or himself.

The last thing you saw was the gates to camp before everything went dark.

[polaroid15]

Febuwhump day 11 - Hallucinations

Summary: “Pete,” Tony says again, resting a light hand on the kid’s shoulder, “wake up sleeping beauty. Time to eat.”

Again, Peter doesn’t move. Feeling a small twinge in his stomach, he strengthens his grip, giving the boy’s shoulder a small shake. The movement jostles Peter’s head off his arms where it rests against the table. Now, Tony can see his face.

And his stomach drops all the way down to his toes.

Or, Peter gets a bad fever, and Tony doesn’t realize until it’s almost too late. 

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29138196/chapters/72129546

----

“Hey Pete, are you feeling Mexican or Chinese for dinner?”

There’s a long drawn silence and Tony swivels on his stool to investigate, abandoning his project on the table. It doesn’t take long to find the boy- he’s leaning against his workspace, head resting on folded arms. The kid’s own project sits untouched in front of him, still a mess of unconnected wires.

“Oh lordy,” Tony sighs, “are you seriously taking a nap right now?”

When Peter still doesn’t stir, Tony begrudgingly slips off his seat and onto the cool tile, his legs aching after hours of disuse. He crosses the space between them quickly, a smile tugging at his lips.

Kids.

“Pete,” he says again, resting a light hand on the kid’s shoulder, “wake up sleeping beauty. Time to eat.”

Again, Peter doesn’t move. Feeling a small twinge in his stomach, he strengthens his grip, giving his shoulder a small shake. The movement jostles Peter’s head off his arms where it rests against the table. Now, Tony can see his face.

And his stomach drops all the way down to his toes.

“Damn it!”

Trying to keep his breathing even, Tony places his palm against Peter’s red, clammy forehead and curses at the heat emanating from it. His lips are dry and chapped, his curls sticking in wet clumps on his forehead.

“Peter! Wake up right the hell now!”

Slowly, Peter does. His eyes open into slits, revealing delirious orbs of brown on the other side. They drift up to Tony in some delay as he sways on his chair.

“B-Ben?”

Tony stills, convinced his heart has ceased beating. He swallows past a sudden lump in his throat, hand falling away from Peter’s shoulder. “No- no, kiddo. It’s Tony.”

Peter whimpers, a vicious shiver upsetting his equilibrium. He falls, and Tony is just able to catch him before he hits the floor.

“FRI!” Tony yells, his heart in his throat. He repositions Peter so his head is in his lap, the heat radiating from it impossibly high. “FRI, call a medteam now!”

“Right away, boss.”

“Oh God,” Tony murmurs, hands shaking as he feels for Peter’s pulse. “How- how did this happen? Oh Christ.”

“Mmm. Ben-”

Tony bites back a sob, the world dissolving down to a pinprick.

“Miss y-you.”

The kid’s eyes roll around in his head, his breathing short and stilted. Tony grabs onto his hand and holds it tight, vowing to never let go. “I miss you too,” he whispers, choosing to indulge whatever the kid is seeing.

“Ben.”

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

The doors to the lab slide open, a med team rushing through with a stretcher. Still hanging onto his hand, Tony maneuvers with the team until Peter is lifted onto the stretcher, his head lolling towards Tony like a flower to the sun. One of the staff raises a thermometer to Peter’s ear as Tony wipes away a tear off Peter’s cheek.

“Damn,” the medic says, voice tight. “Temp is 104.9. We need to get him cooled off now!”

They start to run towards the elevator, and Peter cries out at the movement, his hand tightening in Tony’s.

“You’re okay,” Tony soothes. “You’re gonna be fine.”

The elevator dings and they step inside. Peter gives a full body flinch at the harsh fluorescent lights and digs his sweaty face into Tony’s arm. He moans, eyelids fluttering.

“Where- where am I?” he slurs.

“We’re at the tower.”

“Wha- what? Tower?”

Tony adds his second hand to their already clasped ones, rubbing his thumb over the back of Peter’s knuckles. “Don’t worry about it. You’re okay. We’re going to take care of you.”

Peter shudders. He turns his head to look up at Tony with drooped, delirious eyes. Something passes through them, like he’s seeing a ghost. And maybe, Tony thinks, he is.

“Dad?” he whispers. Peter is crying freely now, and Tony sacrifices one of his hands from Peter’s to wipe them off his face. The heat from the kid’s cheeks burn his fingertips. “Dad. You’re- you-”

Alive? Here? Back? Peter’s sentence trails off, his coherence getting lost in the thick mist behind his eye. Tears of his own well up in Tony’s eyes and Peter’s small, shaking body blurs in front of him.

“Dad,” Peter wheezes, more tears dripping from his eyes. He’s growing weaker in Tony’s grip, the medteam becoming more frantic.

“I’m here Pete”, Tony whispers, his emotions bleeding into his voice.

A small, frail smile passes onto Peter’s lips. Then, as if realizing, it falls. “Am- am I dying?”

“No,” Tony says immediately. “You’re not dying. You’re going to be okay.”

“You’re- you’re dead.”

“I’m right here bud.”

“I’m scared.”

“You’re going to be alright. I’m right here with you, okay? I’m not leaving. You’re going to be okay.”

“Okay,” Peter repeats, as if testing the word on his tongue. The last string keeping him tethered to reality must break then, because his eyes close, head lolling to the side.

The elevator dings and they rush out of it, Peter growing limp against the stretcher. As they draw closer to the medbay, one of the staff grabs Tony’s arm, separating him from Peter.

“Hey!” he yells. “Hey, stop!”

“We need the space to work. He’s in good hands.”

I’m not leaving. He had told Peter that only moments before.

“I can’t- I have to go with him!”

“I’m sorry Mr. Stark.”

And just like that, Tony is left in the hall alone.

---

Peter is lucid two days later.

Or, well, mostly lucid.

He’s laying in bed, hooked up to an IV and playing a messy game of Go Fish with Tony. After reluctantly giving Tony a seven out of his hand, his eyes go wide and he drops his cards. “Wait!”

Tony looks up sharply, still on edge. The kid had nearly died, the doctors saying that if they had caught it even just an hour later, recovery wouldn’t have been an option. And Tony had been right beside him the whole time. Working away on a stupid mechanism while the kid’s brain boiled. “What?”

Peter looks frantic, his eyes wide above his fever-flushed face. “I called you dad, didn’t I?”

Tony huffs out a small laugh, rolling his eyes. He relaxes. “Are you kidding me? Why are you saying it like it’s a bad thing?”

“It’s not,” Peter assures. “It’s definitely not. I just- I just-”

“It’s okay,” Tony says, saving him the obligation for an explanation. “I’m surprised you remember, anyway. Your brain was quite literally melting.”

“Melting,” Peter echoes.

“Big time.”

Peter falls back against his pillows and retrieves his cards from the sheets with shaky hands. “Sorry,” he says.

“For what?”

“You know, calling you dad.”

“Kiddo,” Tony says, smiling. “I don’t mind at all.”

They both freeze, and Peter blushes until his ears are flaming, not helped by the remnants of the fever. “Oh,” he says, trying to hide his smile, “okay. Noted.”

“Noted.”

“Do you have any threes?”

“You wish, kiddo.”

[rotzaprachim]

Kalimat/كلمات

Yusuf al-Khaysani/Niccolò di Genova, 3.3k, teen, AO3 LINK

Yusuf translates medical texts for Niccolò from Greek and Persian into Arabic, and Niccolò spots the substratum of the ideas of the classical authors that he had once believed the basis of his own civilisation that he would go to the sword to defend, translated and passed down and sewn into a no longer foreign script. There are words Yusuf does not know how to translate. They will never, ever know all of the words. The prospect is thrilling. --- It takes Niccolò lifetimes to learn Arabic.

(I've tried pretty hard to make this at least historically feasible but I'm very sure this is just. Jam packed with mistakes. As is the Arabic langauge stuff- I got booted from the class due to dyslexia. I also hope the representation of Islam and Islamic culture is accurate.) 

Languages drop from Joe’s lips easily. Nicky struggles with survival phrases in lingua francas- What Hurts in Dari and Can you breath- nod yes in Swahili and How can we help in French, but Joe can easily lose himself in the sea of a new language’s words and come up swimming, not just stringing together sentences but swallowing poetry, drama, and music. In Ughyar, Bosnian, Zapotec, Spanish, Tamil, Sylheti, Albanian. The shelves of his books line their lives. That is important to Joe, that people be seen not just as they always seem to be in western news reports - as the bodies in the ruined city- but as poets. As storytellers. As humans who struck fire with language that will survive and burn anew.

Joe recites Khachatur Abovian to calm the fractured nerves of a former schoolteacher ripped from his home while he and Nicky rush to forge passports and visas for the teacher and his wife and his seven children to make new lives in America. In a post war displaced persons camp he speaks Yiddish, reads Sholem Aleichem and Avrom Sutzkever from paperbacks pulled from the fires and then decades later in the dust of Baghdad, Arabic and al-Sayyab. And he listens, listens even more than he speaks. He listens to stories upon stories of war and loss and human suffering with his ears and his eyes and heart and a clasped hand that says, I do not claim to know your pain but I have felt my own.

Nicky sets arms and delivers babies and administers vaccines and sorts endless boxes of quinine tables and bandages. He speaks with his hands, mainly, and his bedside manner is different from Joe’s. He learned long ago to keep lollipops in the right pocket of his jacket. The first language Nicky learned to speak was the sea and the second was the wind, and spoken words come to him slower, with less agility, blending into occasionally archaic jumbles. He means to ask an assistant for an antiseptic wipe at one point, has to dig through his mind through the piles of once vital vocabulary bleached useless by time, military jargon for battles lost nine hundred years ago and colloquial derja words for plants and crops gone extinct under the tides of modern monocropping, and comes up sputtering, asking if anyone, perchance, has a neckerchief?

The linguistic stumbling of an unlettered genovese sailor versus a middle class trader’s son who learned to love the written world on his mother’s lap.

It took Nicky a human life time to master spoken Arabic, in a few of her many varieties, with her tricky mazes of roots, more decades of listening and stumbling through conversations and gentle corrections than the average human mind could take before his own readujsted to the beauty of a world described through roots with all things connected to each other.

It took him another life time again to master fusHa, the complex turns of phrase and imagery and unwritten short vowells, and a brush and then pen always felt far more alien in his hands than a sword did. (Although the precision of a pen prepares him well for the precision of a scalpel, and that, perhaps, is the instrument with which Nicky writes history.)

A thousand years ago, in the same city who’s people Joe and Nicky will die again and again for to try and pull from the ruin, the man then Yusuf wrapped his hand around the hand of the man then Niccolò and guided him through this mysterious world of written letters. Alif-ba-ta-thaa and then nun-qaf-waw-lam-alif,

اسمي نقولا

For the first time, Niccolò wrote himself down.

The script contained other mysteries and hidden trap doors. The disappearing mem that could get swallowed by lam and alif and the mysterious shape-shifting ta marbouta and the categories of sun and moon letters that lent the marks on a page a tangible quality, the burning Mediterranean sole that Niccolò’s people marked their years by and la luna by which Yusuf’s people knew their own time by.

When they had reached their first truce in the battlefield and had to learn how to say things beyond various threats and claims of the name of God, they’d each had to remake the world in a new image, relabel everything they’d thought they’d known. Shams, the enemy man had said over and over again, pointing up, and Niccolò hadn’t known if he meant “sky” or “blue” or “above” or “God” or the color “blue.” Niccolò had drawn a line in the sand, the past running to the future and tried to map out the different tenses of his own language he didn’t fully understand himself, only knew how he’d use them in a sentence. He’d hatched an x in the middle for now, drawn two little stick figures and two blobby horses, us he’d said in zenaize, then future, right of the men, past, left.

“Ahhh,” the man who Niccolò now knew as Ana Ismee Yusuf, nodded. He stood up and pointed right. “Lelshar’.” To the left. “Lel’arb.” He smiled and Niccolò thought it might be worth dying, just to see again. “Si, si. Io capiscooo.” He stretched his syllables out in a deadpan imitation of a puffed-up Genovese noble, and Niccolò laughed himself.

Several lifetimes later and Niccolò tries to label his world anew again in writing. Yusuf writes out words in large, blocky script on pieces of scap paper, marks the harakat around the words carefully in red ink. He tacks باب to the door and سَرِير to their bed and even أنا to himself. He holds up a piece of paper to the sky outside, the sun blinding their eyes momentarily before they repair. الشَّمس, the first word. Yusuf even attempts to stick قِطّ onto Amira, the sharp eyed street cat who’s wormed her wait into their household. The scratches that earns him heal quickly.

It takes Niccolò far longer than he wants anyone to know before his mind properly started to see a word and see it as a word, something more than a collection of letters but a thing that existed, definitively, in God’s world. بَيْت, what he and Yusuf have now had in Basra, Palermu, Fustat. مُحيط, like the Mare Nostrum. فَتاة, a girl like like the sister he left behind.

And then the door was opened, and Niccolò could read, or at least, understand this process of reading for himself, and more than that, he could see this part of Yusuf, so crucial to the soul he nad come to love and this heart he now held in his own. Yusuf loved words, and books, and writing, he loved his Book as the word of God to his prophet and he loved his books as connection to the mother who had first taught him suras and his father who wrote in three languages, and, he had once gold Niccolò in the quiet safety of their bed, in the night, with the first boy he had ever loved, the other star pupil at their madrassa with whom he would lie composing lines of poetry under a lemon tree.

Niccolò thought of Yusuf reading in the small, cool courtyard of the house in Damascus that would for this lifetime be their home, his mouth moving silently in prayer as his fingers followed reverently over the verses. He thought of Yusuf moving elegantly through the world, his speech dry and witty or educated where his own felt blunt, trading jokes and barbs back and forth in the tea house and the market. But mostly, Niccolò thought of Yusuf writing, face still with all the steady focus and silent reverence of prayer, bent over a carved rosewood writing desk, the sunlight streaming in through the windows setting his curls on fire. And his hands, so strong, so reliable, moving unerringly across the page, line after line of the script that Niccolò once feared and mocked because he feared but which he now knew could contain all the beauty of the world.

He practiced by writing to the those he loved but no longer walked the world.

Oum, today sun bright. I see roses in market. I think of you, when I see roses in market.

Abba, in house of God happy I know you are, happy makes it me.

Maria, to read you will love, i know. Your son man now. Good i know. Peace to you.

Niccolò burned the letters in a fire and hoped God would make it so his 'aa'ila could read them. Yusuf and Niccolò were both young in the business of being immortal. They had not learned to shoulder the pain of it yet, so they faced the loneliness, together and alone. Niccolò thought that he saw the appeal of letter writing, then, imagined a world in which he could have written his family from the Holy Land, told them that no matter how many infidels he killed to cleanse this world for the Cross he felt no closer to holiness himself, told them that the one he killed and killed and killed again he had found holiness in, told his parents that their son died and died and did not die. That he missed home, the rocky shores and fishing villages of Liguria, but that he missed them more, because his family was his home, even if there were things about him that he hid in the darker parts of himself because he knew they would never understand.

His sister’s grandchildren- or maybe her great-grandchildren, he wasn’t quite sure- were still alive, probably, but there wasn’t a way they’d respond well to the idea of a relative who’d have been forty years past death even without war sending them letters written in the alphabet they’d been taught to hate, if they could read at all.

With the ashes of his letters, he lets his family go, and prays God looks kindly upon them, and shows them mercy, and grants them peace and understanding. Every century or so, he’ll check in, he vows, even from afar, because he owes Maria that much. He hopes her son or his son or his son has not wasted his life to die in a war on foreign soil like he did, or that her daughter or her daughter or her daughter has not been left a widow.

Yusuf’s family still lived in Tunis. His sister Maryam took over the trading business after his death and made the al-Khaysani family a great name and funded many hospitals and houses of learning. News of her death reached Palermu weeks after the burial, and it was one of the few times in their long, long lives that Yusuf had to walk for months alone, to process a grief as large as the world. He let the waves of the sea and the sand of the desert swallow him again and again, and when he did not die, he rose and lifted his head to the sky and swore he would make the world as good as she wanted it to be. In every city they go to with a cathedral or even a baked mud church Niccolò lights candles for Maria and for Maryam. Santa Maria, madre de dio, they’ll pick up one day, in a language centuries off from existing. You know she is named more times in our book than yours, Yusuf told him in one one of their many cycles of death and coming back, when Niccolò called out for her, bleeding out on the sand.

When Niccolò found Yusuf again they stood with their hands clasped at her grave outside the medina and then they prayed and set off again. New cities, new tongues, new people. To avoid suspicion, they alter the sounds of their names to match the sounds of the city. Yusuf and Naaqid. Giuseppe and Niccolò. Nikolai and Iosef. Every death is shorter.

Yusuf forges the documents and the names, barters and trades, even makes several seperate respectable fortunes as a merchant of cloth and then spices before even claims of pomegranates doing wonders for one’s health start to wear a bit thin and they have to fake their deaths again. He writes, and though home quickly becomes what they can carry, he keeps sheaths of poetry in tiny, perfect script in his saddlebag, recites long poems as they make camp in the desert. Some were written by and for men like them. Others Yusuf tweaks the gender of, chooses inta over inti. Every time they die they leave a generous waqf behind.

Niccolò takes care of the horses, and then he tries to take care of people. He learns as much of these strange healing arts of the east as he can from Yosef, and then from a doctor in Basra and a Jewish apothecary in the city of Fustat. It is not blasphemy to try to know the body, he is deciding, it is not sacrilige to try as hard as one might to save a life. At some point, the knowledge goes beyond what he can remember or what a diagram can tell him, and so it’s in Damascus that Niccolò decides, even with his previous failed attempts at the aliph-baa, to ask Yusuf to teach him how to read.

And he does. It takes time, years, before he can, before he feels more man than child with a pen in his hand and he does not smear ink across the page. And there are limits. He is never a poet. His language is always more practical than- and this is a word that will not exist for centuries but that colors his memories even still- than romantic. For him heart is a thing of muscles and chords that powers a life. He reads and takes notes on Al Razi far more than Abu Nuwwas or al Muttanabi. Ibn Sina’s Canon of Medicine astounds him just as Ferdowsi’s perfect schemes of monorhymes entrance Yusuf. His sentences do not flow into rivers like Yusuf’s do. They build squat, strong houses. They encode information that Niccolò can leave behind when he dies, only to return to a century later and find that have been added on to by scholars after him, the foundations for someone else’s palace. Sometimes, the things he thought were true are completely washed away in the flood of some new discovery, and he prays and begs the forgiveness of all those he caused unnecessary pain in his ignorance.

But even in his clumsiness, the power of words surges through. Yusuf’s words and his love of words surges through to Niccolò in the years of learning, until Niccolò loves words too, just as Niccolò’s love of the sea and her many tempestuous moods and promise of infinite freedoms filters through to Yusuf. Yusuf translates texts for Niccolò from Greek and Persian into Arabic, and just as with Mary and Maryam centuries ago on a battlefield, Niccolò spots the substratum of the ideas of the classical authors that he had once believed the basis of his own civilisation that he would go to the sword to defend, translated and passed down and sewn into a no longer foreign script. There are words Yusuf does not know how to translate. They will never, ever know all of the words. The prospect is thrilling.

And Yusuf’s love of words surges up into Niccolò’s love of Yusuf too. It took him about three weeks after their initial truce to realise the man was soft, which then took him a few decades to find more endearing than annoying. That he liked sweet things and flowers and goddamn useless hobbies like calligraphy and drawing complex borders of tulips and interlocking knots along the borders of his writing papers. And he knew he was a good poet, to his own ears, that he fit words together nicely. But being able to read Yusuf’s poems, even the unwritten snippets he leaves scattered around the house, often unfinished, is something else entirely. A glimpse into being seen, by the person who sees him best. But God above, he doesn’t think anyone alive has had their eyes compared to the beauty of the sea after the desert quite so many times, or wrung as many turns of phrase from the has the double meaning of عَيْن.

“The world,” he says one night as they sit and watch night descend softly upon the City of Jasmine. It’s a city to make even the woman who will come knocking at their door in a matter of decades feel young and insignificant, and even the colloquial name suits Yusuf’s pretensions annoyingly well. Steam from cups of tea curls into the evening air. The smells of horse shit and rosewater both on the air. The calm cradle of the evening after the maghrib prayer. “You see it …” He does not know how to end it.

“How, then, do I see the world, hayati?”

“You see the stars above a battlefield. You see the stars and then the fields that will grow again after the ashes are tilled into the soil. You see stars as gems, and the windstorms of the desert is the finest music, if you would believe your poems.

“And you are angry that I have seen the good in the world? I would not call the man who came to a foreign land to kill the infidel and came to spend a hundred years learning best to save their lives a man who does not see beauty in unexpected things either.”

“You are-”

He looks for a word, any word in his mind that has learned so many. Unchanging would not be right for the man who once killed him so many times and learned Greek and Latin to read him the words of the Apostles as they were written, who has accompanied him on pilgrimages to Antioch and the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. He has changed as much as Niccolò has. No, it’s something-

“You are looking at me as you look at your patients.” Yusuf reaches out and brushes back Niccolò’s hair. He kisses his forehead. A kiss from Yusuf, no matter how chaste or how many, still sends lightning through his body.

“As if you were ill?”

“No. You look with such focus upon the world, with so much kindness about how to help it heal.” For a time whose number has since gone beyond count, their hands interlink. “We cannot save the world, but we can save some, and by saving some, we can save the world. We will work to repair what is broken.”

“I have found the cause of your affliction.”

“What do you consider me afflicted by, Doctor Al-Zenowaizi?”

The word romantic is still more than six centuries out, although they’ll soon wander through Europe during the heyday of the romance, and Yusuf will even write a few himself in Occitan and Provençal. For now, though, the word carries the implications of Roma and the waning Basileion Rhomaion to the north, to the al-Rum rite of the Damascene churches he now celebrates the Eucharist in, the river of his faith turned down a different course. For now, though, the word romantic remains firmly in the future. No, it’s something else he thinks of.

“Hope. You have a most serious case of hope.”

“And what do you suggest as remedy, Doctor Al-Zenowaizi?”

Niccolò pulls him in for a proper kiss, long and deep and hot and sweet and bitter from the tea. He loses himself in the warmth of his body, his hands in the curls of his hair, and he thinks how blessed he has been by God that this is the man he has been destined to spend forever with.

“Albi, I do not think there is one. I think you have been cursed with an incurable case of hope.”

[crispyjenkins]

Prompt where the 212 gets together to paint Obi-Wan’s armor so he would wear it more but at some point our fool gets captured and his captor wears the armor to piss Kenobi off so when the 212 comes in Cody goes absolutely feral when he sees someone else where his general’s armor and Kenobi gets absolutely railed by Cody after.

(i don’t do smut, but i love this idea so so much, i really don’t know why i haven’t come across more painted armour Obi stuff, and y’all have probably realised i’m all about Obi angst, sooo this one was a lot of fun. thank you so much for prompting, lovely! threw in some headcanon mandalorian family and courting culture just for you) 

  Jedi were not made to wear armour, they were not soldiers, at least not before. Cody knows his general picked up clone culture better than most, from the little bits of Mando’a to the importance of Vode An, and he should perhaps be thankful that General Kenobi wears any armour at all, but what good are simple pauldrons and vambraces when Kenobi throws himself against hundreds of clankers without backup on a weekly basis?

  It’s Wupi that suggests it, drunk on Waxer’s rotgut and going grey with how often he has to patch up their general after missions. Boil is mostly amused by Kenobi’s apparent death wish, but he isn’t like their medic, or Cody: he doesn't have to deal with the fallout when Kenobi comes back to the Negotiator so much worse off than his men.

  “Why don’t we give him one o’ yours armours?” Wupi had slurred, half out of his blacks and staring into his cup like it would relieve him of his duty. “S’General’s too nice to lose someone else’s.” 

  Wooley had jerked his attention from his own cup and stared at Cody because that... that wasn’t a bad idea. 

  And because Wupi is too hungover the next day to do anything about it himself, it’s Wooley that starts the task of finding and retrofitting pieces of clone armour to fit their general (their “wonderfully tiny" general, as Wupi had put before passing out in his chair). It takes a few days, bouncing between three different quartermasters and Commander Tano for input on how to wear it over more traditional Jedi clothes, but Wooley finally amasses something close to a full set that they might convince Kenobi to wear, and then goes around giving each member of the Ghost Company a few pieces to paint. 

  Cody tries not to think about why Wooley gives him the chestplate. He tries really hard.

  There’s something to be said about family giving each other armour, of course, Cody doesn’t think Wooley or Boil or Wupi or Waxer are trying to woo their general, and it shows in the pieces of armour they choose to paint, but the breastplate is... forward, when not given in a familial sense, and Cody can’t pretend that he is. Giving it in a familial sense. Kriff. 

  Ghost Company all sit together in the empty mess one night, Cody having strategically made sure their sleeping shifts line up, and they paint the pieces while drinking more of Waxer’s rotgut and pretending they don’t have a battle tomorrow that they might not win. Cody’s men paint each piece to match their own, so that Kenobi’s set is a mix of bits of each of them. They aren’t quite sure how it works for natborn Mandalorians, there were limits on what the Kaminoins let the Cuy’val Dar teach them, but this is as close as they can get to claiming Ken— Obi-Wan as one of the vode. The meaning won’t be lost on him.

  Cody carefully paints his sun rays onto Obi-Wan’s chestplate, the orange crisp and shiny-bright, and he wonders if Obi-Wan knows the meaning of colours on beskar’gam. He seems to know a lot about Mandalorian culture that even the clones don’t, but Cody has never pushed to know more about why, not when it makes Obi-Wan clam up like that.

  Boil finishes quickly, and just as quickly gets completely smashed to the point he’s singing the last raunchy jig they’d picked up planet-side, and it’s almost calming to see him so relaxed. Waxer smiles fondly at his brother and switches his cup for one of water instead, shaking his head at Wooley’s disapproving glare. 

  Cody waits until the others have gone to bed to ask for the medic’s steady hand, to help him stencil a beskar’ta right above the sternum. He isn’t sure if he’s ever seen another vode with a beskar’ta, and perhaps it’s a little presumptuous for Cody to give Obi-Wan one without discussing it with him first, but he can offer no greater protection to his general. The way Wupi doesn’t say anything when Cody carefully paints in the lines says more about his relationship with Obi-Wan than he’d really like to admit. 

  Cody isn’t there when Wooley presents the armour to him, but when Obi-Wan joins them in the hangar before descent planet-side, he wears every piece as if it were the regalia of some ancient royal, and not a cobbled-together attempt to keep him alive. The rest of the 212th hide their stares inside their buckets, and Obi-Wan still wears his outer robe over it all, but Ghost Company all preen at the sight of their general not only protected, but in their colour and crests. 

  Obi-Wan smiles at Cody as they load into the shuttles, tapping a closed fist over the beskar’ta in all-too-knowing thanks. So he knows at least the familial connotations, which doesn’t bode well for Cody’s half hope that that’s all he knows.

  Crys claps Cody on the shoulder with an eyebrow wiggle, and Cody wishes Jango hadn’t taught them a damn thing. 

-

  Day three without water, even with the Force sustaining him, leaves Obi-Wan more than a little delirious. The Nikto bounty hunter that thought they could somehow convince Count Dooku that they’d captured the famed Negotiator grows increasingly agitated as the hours roll by, and Obi-Wan wishes he had better presence of mind to appreciate it. 

  They have him on his knees and strung up in chains like a barbarian, and stick him with a needle every three hours with some sort of Force suppressor that makes him even more incoherent — Obi-Wan is fairly sure they’re over-drugging him. Actually, perhaps the Force isn’t sustaining him properly; that would certainly explain a lot. 

  The morning of day four in the brig of a ship Obi-Wan can’t remember the make of, the Nikto starts picking through his removed armour, with scathing comments about the colour and fact that it had come from “cannon-fodder slaves that are better put-down than eating up the galaxy’s resources”, and oh, Obi-Wan wishes he could rend them limb from limb.

  “A bastardisation of Mando armour, you know,” the Nikto grumbles, sending Obi-Wan a pitying look when all he can do is grunt angrily. “Look, this even has an iron heart; what poor kriffing fool told you you were allowed to wear such a mark?” Scoffing, the Nikto discards their cloak to slip on Obi-Wan’s chestplate; every last scrap of energy in Obi-Wan screams at the wrongness, and he jerks in his chains.

  The Nikto startles and doesn’t get to fastening the sides as they stare at their prisoner. “You shouldn’t have any mobility left,” they say in part surprise, part anger, getting back to their feet to drag the small medical crate of suppressors back across the room. They kick it open and pull out an almost-empty vial, but don’t get to the needles before a proximity alarm goes off.

  They drop the vial and grab the blaster from their hip, and barely get it up in time for the single door to explode inwards, Ghost Company forcing their way into the room before the smoke has even cleared. And Obi-Wan trusts his men, his family, with every Force-forsaken bit of him, which means he promptly passes out at the sight of them.

  He doesn’t wake in safety, rather with a vibroblade pressed to his throat and a hand twisting cruelly in his hair. His vision is filled with white and orange and warmth, before his brain catches up to what he’s actually seeing, and he focuses on the blank helmets of his men. The suppressors in his system do nothing to hide the molten metal anger that leaks into the Force all around them, and Obi-Wan must look worse than he thought, if Cody’s hand is trembling on his blaster.

  ‘Easy,’ Obi-Wan whispers without moving his lips, Cody giving the smallest of jerks so Obi-Wan knows the message is received.

  ‘Sir?’ Cody shifts on his feet, the Nikto saying something from behind Obi-Wan that’s surely full of gloating and threat, but Cody’s helmet is tilted towards Obi-Wan, his presence fluttering in the Force like a lamp in the dark.

  ‘I’m not quite sure how you’re managing this,’ Obi-Wan admits, with half a thought to the cosmic implication of Cody giving him a beskar’ta, which has meaning even outside Mandalore, outside even the Force. ‘But my lovely captor is weak on their left side, an old injury, I think.’

  ‘He’s wearing your armour,’ Cody all but growls and raises his blaster properly, and the Nikto must sense the change as they nervously fumble the vibroblade and cut through the collar of Obi-Wan’s tunic.

  And Obi-Wan is tired, he’s been in chains for four days with drugs he’s never encountered burning the ends of his nerves and cutting off an entire sense he has never been without, so he looks up until he meets Cody’s eyes squarely. ‘Then relieve them of it.’

  ‘With pleasure, sir.’

Mando’a: Vode An — "Brothers All" (a Mando’a war chant taught to the clones by Jango and the Cuy’val Dar)  Cuy’val Dar — “Those who no longer exist”, group of 75 Mando’ade and 25 others put together by Jango to train the clones beskar’gam — Armour made of beskar, “Mandalorian Iron” that was actually probably a steel alloy beskar’ta — “Iron heart”, the elongated hex-shape common in Mandalorian armour designs (great post here comparing them to katana tsuba). also called ka’rta beskar or “heart of the iron”

[its-sixxers]

Harmonics

Charon once played guitar - a scrap of information more precious than gold. The Lone Wanderer recalls it in the depths of her grief. Both realize that even in the wasteland, neither of them are alone. Charon x Female LW, pre-relationship.

Sorta sequel to Hobbies.

AO3 Link

Charon had mentioned he once played guitar.

Scraps of information about him were rare as intact books and Lizzy was intent on building herself a library with what was offered. Information about what he liked was most precious of all - it took her a couple of weeks to even persuade him to talk about anything beyond his contract, and a couple of months to get him talking about his own personal desires. While the faded slip of paper she kept in the inner pocket of her vault suit said otherwise, she and Charon were equals. She wanted to get him a gift to prove it.

The best part about gifts was the surprise, to Lizzy, and so tracking down a guitar presented a thorny problem indeed. Time spent apart from Charon was scant, and he seemed tense the few times she told him to go do as he pleased. When questioned on it, he said it was always more comfortable for him to stick around and her heart hurt to imagine just what was done to make him feel that way.

Still, she took advantage of what time she had - chatting to Rivet City merchants about possible sightings while Charon was distracted, slipping Crazy Wolfgang fifty caps to keep an eye out as Charon inspected a shotgun grip. Lizzy lingered in the magazine and instrument sections of libraries, sneaking reading material into her bag to figure out just what went into making a guitar work. She even made up an excuse to get them into the area of Agatha’s cabin so that she could check in with the violinist and see if her plan was feasible - and found to her delight that yes, it was.

Crazy Wolfgang eventually came through for her with the guitar, and she enlisted Butch’s help in delivering it unseen. To Lizzy’s despair, the strings were broken or rusted away, but Butch reassured her that at least the body was good, giving it a rap with his knuckles to prove his point. So her search narrowed from a guitar to strings, and even as her work for her father and the Brotherhood picked up she kept an eye out for her quarry. The nights she spent in Megaton (growing increasingly rare, with how much DC needed her) saw her sanding out splinters from the guitar body and varnishing it as best she could. Lizzy winced to see that polish only seemed to bring out a bloodstain on the thing more, but supposed Charon wouldn’t mind.

Blood was just another part of living in the wasteland, natural as snow or rain.

Lizzy soon learned the full breadth of what that meant, and the guitar was forgotten.

Her father’s death made her forget a lot of things - forget why she was trying to put one foot in front of the other, forget that her suffering was echoed by so many other poor souls out in the world. Weeks were spent in a hazy state, eating only at Charon’s urging and starting to dip into the few bottles of alcohol she’d collected. The growing cold outside mirrored the numbness that was spreading through her after she found she had no tears left to cry.

Charon spent more time apart from her out of necessity - it was he who went to see what the caravans had now, who went to Gob’s Saloon to find out the news, who even braved getting them raw meals from the Brass Lantern. When she slept in (slept was a generous term, for she often spent upwards of an hour lying limply in bed in the morning) he’d place a large hand on her shoulder to wake her. His contract meant he had to keep her alive - at least, that was what she told herself. Nothing more.

It was when Charon was out doing yet another thing that used to be her responsibility that she heard a knock on the door. Lizzy dragged herself from the couch where she’d been re-reading the same sentence of her book for the past thirty minutes and tugged open the front door of her Megaton home.

Butch stood with his leather jacket zipped up and knit mittens on his hands, holding a small box. Snowflakes stuck to his pompadour as he fell, and with every exhale his breath puffed out in a fog, reminding her of how they pretended it was smoke back in the vault’s freezer as children. Lizzy could remember the look of horror on her father’s face when he discovered them, her own bewilderment as to how the place could be dangerous. She flinched from the memory, and her dry eyes stung.

“Hey.” Butch said, his smile faltering at the sight of her. While not vain by any means, Lizzy had always placed importance on looking professional and put together - now she couldn’t remember the last time she brushed her hair.

“Hey.” she replied flatly, hand leaning limply against the doorway, subconsciously trying to bar him from entering. Lizzy couldn’t bear the sight of his smile, how it reminded her of the vault, of times when it felt like she’d follow in her father’s footsteps and everything was warm and bright. The fact that she felt such a way toward her best friend in the world filled her with guilt, her cup already overflowing. Guilt was the one emotion that broke through the numbness, and she was drowning in it.

“I found something in Rivet City Supply.” he began. “Had to cash in a favor with Seagrave, but I thought you’d like to see.”

In spite of herself, Lizzy’s eyes dropped to the box in his hands, curiosity sparking for the briefest of moments. Butch moved his thumb from the label, and in faded ink she could read “BKM Guitar Strings”. The cellophane window of the box was still intact, and within she could see shining metal strings.

“You came all this way…” Lizzy’s throat was dry from lack of use, most of the communication she’d done with Charon nonverbal. “... to give me these?”

“I know you were looking for them.” Butch looked over her shoulder and into the house, likely searching for Charon judging by what he said next. “For the big guy.” He held the box out to her, and she took it from him. “I’m gonna be staying up at Gob’s for the next couple’a days. I’d stay and chat now, but Moira wants to interview me about hairstyling.” He made a display of rolling his eyes, and Lizzy knew he was just making up an excuse.

It was a feeling the two of them shared, pain from family. A wish to keep their grief hidden, to keep it manageable and clean. For all the teasing he’d done to her in their childhood, he knew precisely when and how to dodge a painful subject entirely.

Sensation hummed in her fingertips, brushing the old cardboard and tingling in the cold. Lizzy nodded. “I’ll stop by.” she said, not entirely certain it was a lie. The guitar. She’d forgotten about the guitar, an idea born of the time before, when the sun wasn’t so cold and remote. Now the project was rekindled in her mind, something separate from the cloud that loomed over her.

Butch tilted his chin up in acknowledgement. “Say hi to the big guy for me.”

“You’ll probably see him on your way out.”

“He’s a hard guy to miss, I’ll give you that.” He laughed, turning back to Megaton’s many platforms. He cast her one last concerned look over his shoulder before she shut the door.

Lizzy moved faster than she had in weeks, the metal stairwell echoing from her hurried footsteps. She took the box into her room and shut the door before falling to her knees and crawling forward to her bed. Setting the box upon the mattress she set her palms flat against the cold metal floor, finding the panel she was looking for and pulling it open, revealing a floor compartment. Within were her most treasured possessions - her mother’s holotapes, the photographs from her tenth and sixteenth birthdays with Dad and Jonas, Butch’s first leather jacket. With them were items of value - an engraved magnum, an intact camera and film, a half empty bottle of scotch, and the guitar body. Lizzy pulled it out of the hidden floor compartment and retrieved a rolled up instructional booklet from inside of it.

The next two hours were spent sat on her bed with necessary tools in hand, stringing the guitar. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings, the saying went - and with her hands put to work Lizzy was incapable of thinking of the guilt that threatened to drown her. At some point Charon returned, and his knock at her door startled her terribly.

Lizzy froze, vaguely recollecting that surprise was a large part of why she’d gone to such lengths. If she was discovered now, all the work had been for nothing - and she couldn’t bear something else hoped for being snuffed out. To her relief, Charon did not try to enter. She must have made a noise when he startled her, for he seemed satisfied enough that she was still alright judging by his retreating footsteps.

Soon after her work was complete, and she almost wept on the instrument from relief. So much work, so much time, and now she had something in her arms to show for it, unlike…

Unlike…

It reminded her why venturing out of her carefully constructed bubble was a mistake, for she had no cushioning, no numb protection to the raw assault of memory. A hand pressed to glass, fingerprints on the glass, the geiger counter, the geiger counter -

The bath faucet in the other room turned on, the movement of the water through pipes gently rattling the wall the bathroom shared with her room. It brought her back to the present, staring down at the guitar. Lizzy mopped at her wet cheeks, clinging to the last stage of her project. The gifting itself. Thinking up solutions to the problem crowded out her memory - Charon only took what was directly offered to him if it was ammunition or a grenade. With food or medical supplies, she’d have to make a point of having it appear as if she was doing it for her own sake and creating plausible deniability - a gift of convenience.

When she cracked open her bedroom door, she could hear water splashing from the bathroom next door, the familiar sound of Charon’s large form sinking into it. Even in her state she felt a little swell of happiness to know that he was willing to let himself have such a luxury. Assured he’d be kept busy more than long enough for her to do what she had planned, she picked up the guitar by the neck and crept downstairs into the living room. A fire crackled away happily in the wood burning stove in the corner devoted to the kitchen, and the ground floor was much warmer than her room. It was too warm - too close to reminding her what times before felt like, and so she hurried. Approaching the couch, she set the guitar down in Charon’s favorite spot, in front of the blanket Moira had crocheted her as a housewarming present.

As soon as she was certain the guitar wasn’t going to fall over, she retreated back into the familiar territory of her bedroom. The chill washed over her, icing out not just the wave of memory threatening to drown her again but the fluttering embers of joy her work had given her.

Lizzy stumbled over to her bed and fell upon the mattress. The haze began anew.

When she returned downstairs in the night to grab a bottle of water, the guitar was gone.

--

Charon didn’t mention the gift, but the next day he woke her with breakfast and an announcement.

“I believe it is best that we go somewhere today.”

Lizzy hauled herself upright and looked at him blankly, her fork scooping up small portions of instamash. “Where?”

While his stony posture and expression didn’t change, she heard him exhale in relief. “Gob’s. They think I’ve kidnapped you.”

“Mm.” she hummed, finding she didn’t feel strongly one way or another. Lizzy didn’t protest when Charon handed her a brush in exchange for her empty plate, and soon she was bundled up and shuffling through the snow to Gob’s Saloon.

Butch was eating breakfast, and Nova’s face lit up to catch sight of her. She poked her head into the back room, and soon Gob was walking out of the kitchen wiping his hands with a rag. Charon placed a hand to the small of Lizzy’s back and gave her a gentle nudge forward.

The next period of time - Lizzy had lost the ability to gauge its passage - was a mirror world of normal circumstance - now it was Lizzy giving short and clipped responses to any conversation, and Charon exchanging longer sentences. What was discussed left her memory the moment it was spoken, and soon enough Charon was tugging her hat back over her ears and guiding her back outside.

“Charon.” Lizzy murmured, when they were back outside. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Is that an order?”

“No.”

He nodded briefly, strands of patchy red hair falling across his brow. “It is my duty to protect you.”

It was all he offered in reply, and she accepted it as she always did.

Going out was a mistake, she realized that night - new color was given to her nightmares, the armored men who’d broken into the Memorial breaking into the Saloon as she visited, the scene melting into Butch, Gob, and Nova staring up at her with glassy eyes, melting into her father’s kind face, gone slack, the tick tick tick ramping into a metallic screech with exploding rads, Charon’s arms tugging her away-

Charon.

Lizzy blearily opened her eyes, greeted by the sight of her room illuminated in the deep blue of early dawn. It was a welcome sight, an escape from the nightmare, and she lay with her cheek crushed against the mattress staring at the wall until the blue light started to tinge pink and sleep threatened to claim her once again.

Movement had to be made, and with great effort Lizzy untangled herself from the blankets, coiled around her from the thrashing she’d no doubt done in her sleep. When she opened her door she was surprised to find the door across the hall that led to Charon’s room was wide open, granting her a rare glimpse of his spartan quarters. He never needed to sleep much, but the pre-dawn was early even for him. The change made a bubble of dread rise in her throat - and she walked to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face.

The pipes groaned when she turned the tap, the water cold enough to make her gasp when she splashed it on her face with cupped hands. It shocked her out of her dream state and brought reality into sharp focus.

In her new clarity, she could hear something faint coming from downstairs once the pipes had settled, and it took her a few moments to register that it was music. It sounded nothing like the radio, lacking distortion and also entirely different from anything played on it. Guitar strings, plucked one by one in a simple melody. Lizzy took a few steps out onto the landing, and peered as far over the railing as she dared to the living room.

Charon sat on the couch with the guitar in his lap, dwarfed by his large form. He was twisting the metal tabs on the guitar’s head, plucking a few notes, then twisting another - she recalled from the books she’d read that he was tuning it, something she lacked the knowledge and equipment to do. The metal floor panel beneath her right foot creaked, and he lifted his gaze to meet hers.

Caught out, she froze, horrified that she’d made a misstep and seen something she shouldn’t have - but Charon just dropped his attention back to the guitar, unperturbed. He plucked a few more notes before giving the guitar a single strum. The sound reverberated through her small shack, and caused goosebumps to rise on the back of her neck.

When the echo of the strum faded he started playing properly, and Lizzy found herself slowly descending the stairs, the torn hem of her nightgown trailing behind her. Slowly she approached the living room, feet thankful to move from cold metal to throw rug. The music was a siren song, simple and warm notes intertwining in a rhythmic and almost hypnotic pattern. Truly hypnotizing was seeing Charon’s hands at work, large fingers suddenly dextrous and precise, hands that seemed built to destroy dancing up and down the guitar neck.

Another low sound joined the melody, and it took her a moment to realize Charon was humming, a bassy rumble of thunder. It had her sinking into the armchair across from the couch, and still Charon did not seem to mind - his attention was caught in his music, the few glances he cast her way seeming more incidental than anything.

Then he began to sing.

Not in a language she could understand - at first she thought he’d made up the sounds, so musically did it flow, but soon she recognized it had the same intonations and cadence as the few unfamiliar terms he’d used around her before. He sang as lowly as he spoke, warm and rasping as a campfire. The melody was terribly melancholy, but to her surprise Lizzy found it did not make her sad.

It made her feel understood.

The two of them sat only a few feet apart, the ambient blue light fading into the pink of sunrise. Shafts of golden light spilled through the holes in the roof. In the warmth of dawn, even Charon’s features were softened. For those few minutes the small space seemed another world, their exteriors cut open and bared to the other, each observing but saying nothing. When he made eye contact with her after trailing off of a particularly low and mournful note, she realized that she did not suffer alone.

Something about it comforted her. When at last Charon placed his palm over the strings to silence them and set the guitar aside, she inhaled sharply as she had when she splashed the cool water onto her face.

“What was it about?” she asked quietly, and to her surprise he smiled tiredly at her - a rarer sight than diamonds.

“A warning.”

Lizzy stared at him for several moments, watching the muscles in his jaw work - as if trying to work up the words to say something more. Whatever battle he fought, he lost.

“Thank you.” she said, more a whisper than anything - but he heard it in the still silence of dawn.

Charon nodded, breaking eye contact and staring at his lap for a few moments before standing. “I will get us some food.”

“No, it’s okay.” Lizzy interjected, at last finding it in her to smile. “I’ll make it.”

[detroitbydark]

Title: Tell Me That Your Soul Lies Now

Relationship: Sev/OC/Scorch

Warnings: Mention of blood and needles used in medical care

Summary: A Stowaway complicated what should be an easy night.

A/N: Based on a HC that Sev and Scorch both end up at Kyrimorut and adopted to Walon Vau. Love, Family, and the ties that bind come into play. I hope you enjoy!  

The Midnight Duke was an unassuming Corellian life class transport, a pre Clone Wars relic retrofitted to meet clan Vau's very particular, discerning tastes. 

Quick, fast, and armed to the teeth it got the job done ferrying Walon Vau’s adopted sons from one bounty to the next. The sons themselves were more than competent to take it from there with efficiency and expertise bred from a jar on Kamino and a lifetime of training by one of the most ruthless Mandalorians to ever exist. 

Dust settles in a thick layer over the Duke’s matte black hull. Its exit from the outer rim asteroid belt had been… dicey and it would need a new coat of paint in the coming days.

It had a lot of things, typically a dead body in storage wasn’t one of them.

“Fek!”

“Wha-“ Scorch barely misses his brother’s arm as he snaps back a step, exposing the open cargo hatch for inspection with a put-upon indignation only he was capable of. There’s a duffle of ordinance, kit and-

“What is this?” Sev’s growl reverberates through his buyce accusingly. Scorch eyes the curled up figure draped in a thick layer of clothes reminiscent of the mining colony they’d just left. 

“People-cicle.” What the hell did he expect him to say? He hadn’t stored a body away. He was in charge of the bounties. The heads of the two marks had been in the bounty bag which was now very empty and in need of laundering because A. Trandoshan blood stank to malachor and B. Human blood was just messy.

“Maker if I know.”

The sun over Kyrimorut was quickly beginning to sink down into the mountainous waste to their north and with it went the warmth of the late season day. They just needed to finish post mission once-over and they could take the speeders the five kliks from the airfield to the warmth of the karyai and a hot meal.

“Maker,” Sev growls again, “Buir is not going to be happy about this”

Buir. It still felt wrong to call the Sarge anything but Sarge. Scorch was sure he’d get used to it eventually. Sev had, oddly enough, but Scorch didn’t really question his vod’s rush to accept their former trainer as his father. The sullen commando had always sought Walon Vau’s approval. It was no worse than the vode of Skirata’s clan and their hero worship of their Kal’buir. 

“We’ll dump it off and be done with it,” Scorch offers, “Animals will take care of it and that’ll be- wait.” A quick blink through his HUD menu brings up an advanced heat scan.

Sev toes at the body with his boot. “What am I waiting on?”

“They're still alive. I got a vital readout. It’s not much but-“ The two clones stand shoulder to shoulder staring at the prone sentient.

“I slot ‘em and we pretend we never saw a thing?”

“The old man’s gonna know either way. Not sure what gets us in more trouble.”

At his side, Sev grunts. Wal’buir knew things.  It was uncanny and downright terrifying. As cadets they’d never been able to get one by the old Mando - not that Sev had ever tried - but Scorch had plenty and had more than a few scars to prove he’d been caught. 

“Kriff.” Sev lets out an uncharacteristic laugh. “Bring it back and Skirata will probably adopt it.”

Scorch can’t help the grin that spreads across his face, “or marry it off.”

“I’m not gonna carry it.” 

The argument that he’d saved both their shebs earlier is about to leave his mouth when a small feminine whine rises from the half frozen sentient. “Well that settles it”

“Marriage,” they both agree in unison.

It’s been a while since he’s been around a woman not already wed or destined to be wed to one of his extended family. Suddenly the idea of carrying the unfamiliar being doesn’t seem so off-putting. 

At least it wasn’t the bounty bag.

———

Buir was going to let them have it. Sev could handle the dressing down from Kal Skirata but he wasn’t sure he could handle it from Vau. 

His stomach twists in knots. The early signs of panic, the ones he was intimately familiar with - brought about by the only father figure he’d ever known - were beginning to make themselves known. He can feel his heart rate picking up. The thick nerf hide sticks to each finger as his palms begin to sweat in his gloves.

He wouldn’t have been able to get away with slotting the grubby stowaway and dumping the body, of that he is sure, there was no good way to keep it clean. Either the Duke or he were going to be covered in it and the water pumps at the strip had gone out a week before. They’d brought the replacement back but it would take one of Kal’s boys to plumb it up. 

“Ordo’s going to have kittens.” Scorch’s voice rings clear through his comms.

“Yeah, Bes is pregnant with what...” He rattles off the names of the clans ad in his head and begins assigning them to parents. “Number three?”

“Yeah, he’s always got a kad up his shebs when she’s carrying. This is going to royally piss him off.” 

Sev watches as Scorch readjusts the woman in front of him. She’d started shivering after they’d yoinked her from her spot in storage. Still hadn’t woken but It was a good sign. Her body seemed to actively be trying to warm up. They figured they’d help it along and wrapped her snugly in a thermal sheet from the emergency kit. Before Sev had at least been able to see her nose, a set of dark brows and fluttery lashes, nothing too unlike those some of his sister-in-laws had, now it was only the closed lids of her eyes visible. For all intents and purposes she looked like a bantha wrap he’d gotten from a food cart last time they’d been on Coruscant. 

Per the limited data from their HUDs she probably wasn’t in much better shape. She seemed stable, but it wasn’t guaranteed even with the vheh’yaims medical center and the clan’s skills she’d survive the long haul. They’d spent two days in hyperspace and she spent that time in a minimally heated interior storage compartment. The bloody marks along the hatch’s interior showed that she hadn’t had as comfortable a ride as they had. It was another thing they’d need to clean up but it could wait a day or two.

There were no ration wrappers, no canteens of water in the hold with her. They’d looked. 

Hypothermia was her biggest issue but dehydration wasn’t far behind, and the ease with which Scorch had lifted her left him to believe that malnutrition had been an ongoing issue. The bulk of her was the thick rough clothes the miners had worn. 

“We take her to Wal’buir before Skirata gets his turn. Let buir decide what to do.” The speeders rumble to life as they take off from the small airfield and head in the direction of home.

It takes less time then he remembered to cover the distance from the airstrip to the sprawling compound they called home.

“Look,” Scorch notes merrily, “they left the lights on for us.”

By the time they’re pulling up to the vheh’yaim Sev feels his breath coming rapidly. 

“Maybe the old man’s having some ti’haar with the neighbors?” Scorch sounds hopeful as he pulls his buyce off one handed and clips it to his belt. “We get her into medical and then have to explain our fek up. Mij should still be here.” He hopes aloud that the family doctor was still rotating through before heading back to Enceri. 

Mij Gilamar was a good a doctor as any clone commando, null, or trooper could ever hope for. If their guest made it through the next few days she’d do good to thank Gil.

Sev throws his leg over the speeder and grabs for his kit and the bounty bag while his brother jostles the woman into a better hold. The lights shine through the low windows peering into Skirata clan’s karyai and Sev can imagine his buir sitting by the warm fire drinking the potent Mandalorian liquor and busting Kal Skirata’s gett’se about something.

“Su cuygar Ad’ike.”

Or not.

Both men snap to. Instead of “Sir” an acknowledgement of “Buir” is barked. If Vau notices the near comical response he doesn’t let on. His golden eyes are narrowed firmly on the package in Scorch’s arms.

Sev isn’t sure he’s ever seen his brother lost for words and Scorch must decide today wasn't going to be the day.

“We brought a present. Heard Kal’buir is trying to settle Mereel down. Think this will work?”

Vau, emotionless stony Vau, stands for a moment before the hint of a sly smile flashes at the corner of his mouth. Sev’s heart jumps. The smile falls away with such quickness that had the man himself not trained him to be the best, Sev would have questioned if it had ever been present to begin with.

“Shall we get our guest set up? Maybe you boys can explain how you managed to bring home a stray while we do?”

Yeah they we’re in trouble. He can hear Scorch gulp through his comms as Vau turns away and heads towards the main entrance of their home.

Growing up with so many brothers, child soldiers who were destined to grow up too soon, Sev had never been privy to concepts like privacy. It shouldn’t irk him that eyes follow them as they enter the vheh’yaim, following their father through the one of the many different spokes off the main karyai toward medical. The low flicker of fire light catches on the rich golden plates of Mij Gilamar’s beskar’gam.

Without much more than a tired sigh, the silver haired Mando finishes his drink and rises from his spot near the fire to follow.

Sev finds himself thankful that even amongst the faces like his own, Ordo Skirata’s was not present. He wasn’t in the mood to hear what Kal Skirata’s golden child would have to say. He’d have to hear it eventually but he hoped he could at least grab a shower and hot meal before he had to deal with the Null.

Scorch elbows him in the side and Sev casts him a questioning glance. “In your head again, vod?”

“Just worrying about Ord’ika.”

“I would be less concerned about Ordo,” Vau remarks casually, “and more about me.”

To their left, Mij Gilamar huffs out a laugh as he motions for Scorch to lay the patient out. “Let’s worry about the aruetii first shall we? Where’d you pick this one up?” the doctor asks as Scorch begins to help him liberate her from the thermal blanket and then layer after layer of thick and dusty fabric. 

“New asteroid mining station in the outer rim, Kappa Black,” Sev offers, “and we didn’t know we even had her on ship.”

It takes gett’se to openly admit that in front of his training Sergeant but Vau says nothing.

Scorch picks up where Sev leaves off as the last layer of outer clothes is tossed aside. Sev had been right. There really wasn’t much to the woman underneath the bulk of gear.

“We picked off the bounties. Cake walk.” The demolitions expert chirps happily but Sev can hear the well hidden undertone of anxiety in his voice. “We got in. We got out. Didn’t stop to sight see.”

Vau looks down his nose, glancing slowly from one to the other and then to the girl being hooked up to tubes and monitors. “It appears you didn’t stop to check your ship over either.”

“We had to leave in a hurry. She’d tucked herself behind gear,” Sev explains, knowing it wouldn’t be good enough, “We-“

A cry rises up from the bed as the woman’s eyes shoot open. He knows panic when he sees it.

“Fierfek!” Mij curses as his recently placed central line is caught along the bed and yanked from her neck. Fluids flow freely, mixing with a steady stream of blood as the doctor grabs for gauze and fights to press it against the puncture. 

“Some kriffing help would be good,” he grunts as he manages to dodge a fist. 

Sev steps in. He manages to grab both wrists in a single movement, pressing them to the bed as her lower body twists and her legs kick out. He tries to judge his own strength, his hands swallow her wrists. 

“Restraints are in the drawer.” He hears Mij but his eyes are focused on the woman under him. “No! The other drawer.”

“Sorry Doc, gotta lot of drawers here.”

Sev ignores his brother as a leg swings wildly his way, its knee connecting with solid beskar along his back. She doesn’t even flinch. Sev positions his body over hers, swinging a leg over her hip and looping his feet over her thighs. She doesn’t stop fighting. 

“Stop!” He snarls down into her face, voice coming out gruff and modulated through his buyce. Stark blue eyes focus in on him as she suddenly goes deathly still. They stand out against the warm tan of her skin, only a shade lighter than his own. Her hair is a tangle of unkempt curls and knots. She looks feral and wild, bears her white teeth like an animal. Sev adjusts his grip as she begins her fight again, thrashing and bucking under him.

“I said stop!” He snarls again, and something changes in her eyes. Fear flashes. Her snarl turns into a frightened “o” of surprise before he feels her muscles begin to go slack underneath him. He glances to his side in time to see his buir remove the hypo from her arm.

Mij grunts. A bead of sweat glistens at his grey temple. “Always prepared, right Walon? I hope you took into account her body mass because I don’t feel like dealing with a heart that doesn’t want to beat.”

Vau smiles, holding up the still half full syringe and flicking it lightly with a well manicured nail. “This isn’t my first time. Now Sev’ika, please climb off our guest and let’s try this again,” the black armored Mando says calmly.

———

“I don’t like it. It’s too convenient.” 

Scorch rolls his eyes behind the mirrored visor of his buyce. Ordo Skirata has made himself known shortly after Mij had gotten their little stowaway stabilized. She’d be sleeping off the worst of  her hyperspace sickness. If she did decide to wake again they could all be secure in the fact that Scorch himself had tightened down her restraints.

The hot brand Doc found behind her left ear had answered more than a few questions she wouldn’t be able to answer for a while. A slavers mark denoting property of the Mining Guild. Between that and her poor condition, Scorch couldn’t blame her for hopping the first ship off the asteroid belt she could find.

 It did make them thieves technically, but he had strong feelings about people being property and it really hadn’t been the first time they’d creatively acquired something. He’d tried to ask Sev his opinion but he didn’t seem much for banter after they’d found the brand. Even Wal’buir had seemed a bit more disgusted than usual.

Then Kal Skirata showed up at the med bay door with his eldest in tow and a few of Omega’s commandos, Niner and Fi, trailing behind.

And now the adults were talking and it was his job to shut up .

“It doesn’t matter if you like it or not at this point,” Mij was saying firmly, “I’m not about to put a sick girl out.” His eyes flash challengingly to the Skirata clan head. “There’s nothing you can do to change my mind about it either, Kal.”

For his part, Kal Skirata has been fairly quiet, standing to Ordo’s side with his arms crossed loosely over his chest and a contemplative look on his face. Every now and then Scorch would catch old Kal’buir trying to sneak a peek at their acquisition. Scorch also noted both he and Sev had placed themselves between the other men and the bed. He could think of a star cruiser worth of smart things to say, but not one could account for the near-defensive position Sev was taking or Scorch’s own flanking of his brother.

“Besany’s pregnant-“

“Oh really?” Scorch can’t help himself. The words just come out because kriff, was Bes never not pregnant? “I wasn’t aware.” 

Sev snorts to his side as does Niner hovering behind the Null. Fi barely manages a suppressed smile as Ordo’s eyes narrow. Scorch rolls his shoulders, loosening the stiff joints up. It was always about Kal’s boys. It was always cowing down to Nulls. It got old fast. Next to him Sev’s neck pops as he rolls it.

“You got an issue, Scorch?”

“And if he does?” Sev’s voice cuts in. 

It had been awhile since there’d been a good family tussle. It might be time to take it outside and fix that.

“Scorch. Sev.” Walon Vau’s crisp, aristocratic voice cuts through the tension and posturing “Stand down. It’s late and I’m tired.”

Kal tips his head to his Null son. “You too Ord’ika. Everyone is concerned for the safety of the women and children, but if I know your wife she would no sooner have us dispose of an escaped slave as she would one of your deserter vode.”

“We’ve had squads do worse to get here,” Niner adds levelly.

“True, ad’ika,” Skirata agrees pleasantly, taking a step toward the bed. Sev’s sudden step forward seems to reignite the tension as he blocks Kal’s line of sight. The older man casts an appraising look at the Commando and Scorch feels every muscle in his body coil in anticipation. Kal Skirata could play the good natured ba’buir all he wanted, but below the surface he was anything but. He was as cold blooded as it came before you got his family involved, but once you crossed one of his boys Scorch wasn’t sure there was a star system you could hide in that the old Mando merc wouldn’t find you in.

Scorch wasn’t sure where he and Sev placed in the family tree but he wouldn’t be caught unawares if it was time to find out.

“She’ll be our charge,” Vau says cooly, stepping between the two Delta commandos.

“And if she’s brought trouble with her, what then?”

“We let Sev slot ‘er and Mird will have a nice treat,” Scorch offers as if they were speaking of troublesome roba. The mention of Mird is enough to get a shudder from both Niner and Ordo and a wet sound of agreement from the creature itself as it slinks in between Fi’s legs.

The strill circles around its master’s feet before giving Sev and Scorch a cursory sniff. 

“Walon,” Mij Gilamar’s voice is low with warning.

“Lord Mirdalan is an excellent judge of character.” The golden furred creature leaps to the bed with predatory grace. Scorch watches the strill stare expectantly at the sedated woman before turning twice and curling up on her legs. “See?”

Fi, who’d been quietly observing - for once - speaks up after a moment. “It may just be me, but I’m not sure Mird’s approval is necessarily a good thing.”

[vannahfanfics]

congrats vannah!!! your lists were amazing and it seems like so much effort, im so proud of you! could i please get aizawa and white please? thank you!

Hey! Thank you so much for requesting for the event, and I’m sorry it took so long! Medical school was very tough for me, so I ended up putting requests on the backburner for a very long time… But finally, it’s here! White symbolizes hospitals, death, and sadness, so… I’m sorry to inflict this upon you, but here’s Aizawa in the wake of the war with the Paranormal Liberation Front. Spoilers for the recent manga chapters!

Drinks on Me

“Hey, this weekend, let’s all go out and get drinks on me!” Nemuri smiled prettily, her long legs crossed as she swiveled back and forth in her chair across from Shota. “It’s been so long since we’ve all been out together. You never know, it could be our last chance!” she grinned while sticking out her tongue and winking playfully. She always said things like that, portents of doom and gloom hidden behind a winning smile, to rope Shota into joining her and Hizashi at clubs and bars. 

He should have regarded those for what they really were— omens. 

Shota jerked awake, snorting as his muscles spasmed. He laid there for a moment as he clumsily acclimated to the waking world, staring blearily at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above his head. When he finally realized that he was in bed, he exhaled deeply and reached up to rub his eyes with the heels of his palms. In the midst of his fitful sleep, he’d kicked the sheets off himself; the layer of nervous sweat on his skin absorbed the cold wind pushed down by the fan, coating him in a chill. Too exhausted to even bother pulling the covers back over himself, he flopped his arm back down to stare listlessly at the ceiling. 

The stump where his leg used to be throbbed painfully, almost as if it were aware he was awake now. He still hadn’t accustomed to the loss of his limb, nor the phantom pains plaguing his nervous system. Even now, he found himself groping for his calf, trying to ease the ache; but he couldn’t massage empty air, so it continued to burn dully, seeping down all the way into his sawed bone. 

Groaning, he pulled himself up into a sitting position, grasping the headboard as he hauled himself up. The rest of his body had endured a beating as well, making pain thrum through his nerves to shoot to his spine. He winced and grasped his shoulder, massaging the inflamed flesh until it quieted. He felt like an old man, much older than he ought to— tired, achy, defeated. He inhaled deeply, gathering the will to put on his prosthetic leg. His muscles tweaked in protest as he did, but as he gradually woke up his body and fastened the prosthetic to the stump below his knee, the pain faded into the background. 

He limped across his room to his closet, stumbling a little and using the dresser to catch himself. He hadn’t mastered navigating with his new leg, either. He took a moment to catch his breath, sweat already blooming on his clammy forehead, before tottering his way to the closet. He couldn’t tolerate dressing normally— not that he had impeccable fashion sense anyway— so he eased himself into a pair of black sweats and a gray tee and some sneakers. He tied his hair in a loose bun before shambling out the door. 

The dorm was alive with activity, but not the normal kind that Shota had become accustomed to. The air hummed with nervous energy as the students— and their parents, who were moving in to keep them safe— flitted about. Most of his pupils still sported injuries from the massive battle several days ago, bandages peeking out from beneath their clothes. But the worst injuries were the ones you couldn’t see, the ones on their hearts still oozing blood and bursting through the stitches at the slightest insult. They would be scars someday, an afterthought until the phantom pains struck when they least expected it. 

Theirs would, but not Shota’s. No, Shota’s inner wounds never really healed— and this newest one definitely would bleed for the rest of his life. 

A few of them greeted Shota quietly as he limped down the hall heading for the front door. Momo came up to him, asking if she could help him with anything— she had always been such a considerate girl, that one. He smiled and ruffled her poofy black hair, telling her that he was quite all right but thanks anyway. Shota could sure use some help, but there was no aid that any of his students could provide for him. He could feel Momo’s watery eyes boring into his back as he toddled out of the building. 

There were so many things that people took for granted every day. The ability to walk down steps without falling flat on your ass was one of them. Shota grimaced as he inched down the steps of the dorm, holding out one arm to seek purchase though there was nothing to grip onto. Somehow, he made it down to the sidewalk without eating shit, but the effort still left sweat beading in the crease lines of his forehead. He blew an irritated breath through his lips and raked his hand over his wavy black hair, taking a moment to let the pain pass before moving on. 

Though this region of the city had been spared the carnage of the war with the Paranormal Liberation Front, its effects reached even the city around U.A. There weren’t nearly as many people on the street; Shota was alone most of his commute to the business district, save for the occasional person rushing down the street with suspicious eyes and fearful breaths. Shota could feel eyes on him everywhere, though; nervous onlookers peering out their curtains and blinds, suspicious of everyone in sight. They were all waiting for the inevitable pin to drop, for the next piece in this godawful chess game to move and tell them their next poor fortune. Things would get worse before they got better; everyone knew it, the hapless civilians most of all. Their hope in heroes was teetering on the edge of a knife; if they strayed but a little, everything would fall into ruin. 

Many small business owners had closed up shop to skip town, but the liquor store was still open. A pleasant bell chimed as Shota opened the door. The cashier apparently still wasn’t getting much business, as he leaned back in a chair with his feet propped up on the counter, reading the newspaper. As Shota began to walk through the aisles searching for a particular brand of rum, the cashier decided that apparently the news was too dismal to read because he crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash bin. 

“Warmongers, the lot of them journalists,” he spat at Shota, who raised his eyebrows at him over the top of the rum bottles he was surveying. “All they’re doin’ is makin’ things worse.” 

“Do you have faith in heroes?” Shota asked and looked back down, fingers skimming over the glass bottles emblazoned with coconut trees and beach zines. He smirked when the old cashier snorted derisively. 

“Sonny, I been around a long time. This ain’t the first time some upstart has whipped everyone up in a frenzy. The heroes always come out on top because that’s what they do.” 

“That’s some unshakable faith you have there,” Shota remarked while plucking his chosen bottle from the rack. He rounded the rack while the cashier hopped up from his chair so he could check Shota out. 

“Eh, it comes with age. Nothing rattles ya anymore,” he shrugged, grabbing the bottle to scan it. He put it in a brown paper bag and punched a few of the keys into the cash register. “O’course, a little liquid courage always helps, eh?” he added with a wink. Shota smirked at that, sliding over his credit card. He took the bottle by the neck, crinkling the paper around it. 

“Thanks for the advice. Do I need to pay you for that too?” Shota joked. 

“Nah, it’s on me this time,” the man responded with a chortle, sliding Shota’s card back. Shota took it and slid it back into his wallet, then bid him a good night. When he walked out, the sun had risen into the sky and was blessing the earth with its warm rays. Yet they didn’t kiss Shota’s skin; a lingering chill wafted around him, blocking out all the warmth to leave him cold. Eventually, he’d feel the sun again, he knew that— but he had a while to go. 

It was a short walk to the graveyard. The iron was hot under his fingers as he pushed the unlocked gate open, and it creaked loudly as if to protest. The small gravel marking the winding, meandering path through the various headstones crunched under his feet as he made his way down, counting the rows. At row seven, he turned and walked down until he found a clean headstone above a freshly-turned patch of dirt, a rectangle the size of a person. 

Sighing, Shota eased himself down onto his knees, his prosthetic leg stretching out beside him— it was easier on his hip that way. He pulled the brown paper bag off the bottle of rum and then broke the faux gold foil seal. He stared down at it a second, just stared, and then exhaled quietly. 

“Hey, Nem,” he murmured. He reached up with his free hand to stroke the top of the stone, which was warmed by the bright spring sun. He fell silent again, throat bobbing as the emotions he’d been surprising for days welled up inside of him. The tears bubbled up and spilled over his eyes, carving through the layer of nightsweat and grime coating his unwashed face to bead in his beard. “I miss you, Nem,” he said finally, voice cracking. “So much.” 

His hand shook as it continued to run over the unblemished stone, down over the carved letters reading Kayama Nemuri. He leaned forward to press his forehead against the rock, closing his eyes and squeezing out more of the salty tears. “I never did take you up on that offer for drinks,” he said with a wan smile despite the despair tearing his heart apart. “So I brought you your favorite, on me.” He leaned back, then lifted the bottle to spill the alcohol over the gravestone. The light gray rock darkened as the clear liquid gushed over it, spilling over the smooth surface in rivers. It streamed down to soak into the grass at its base, soaking up the earth down, down, down to Nemuri’s casket six feet under. Shota didn’t drink a drop of the rum; he poured every bit of it over her gravemarker for her to enjoy. 

He sat there for a while, even after the hot sun had begun to evaporate the alcohol absorbed by the porous stone. Somehow, sitting there watching the color fade back to normal was cathartic. Like Nemuri was there, enjoying that rum. He could see the smile playing over her lips as she stirred a straw around a piña colada— and that’s when Shota felt the kiss of the sun, warming up his skin. He looked up to squint at the bubbling circle in the sky, then back down at the gravestone. Smirking, he patted the slightly damp rock before using it as leverage to push himself up. 

“Thanks, Nem. I’ll be back sometime, with drinks on me, of course,” he chuckled. He couldn’t linger here all day; he had work to do. Some upstart was out there whipping everyone up in a frenzy, and it was up to the heroes to bring him to justice. When they did, Shota would be sure to bring Nemuri a whole liquor store’s worth of rum— on him, of course. 

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

[biotic-boshtet]

Aftermath - Chapter 3

hellooooo friends, lets continue my trend of updating at godawful hours of the morning

Read on AO3

Start from the beginning

Waking up, Shepard wonders for a second if she dreamt it all, but then she feels Kaidan’s field against her own, gently fizzling. One of his legs is caught between her own. He’s somehow wrapped up in the entire comforter. She relishes in the feeling of just existing next to him for a moment, then he shifts and rolls over, scooching close so he’s pressed against her back, wiggling of the covers to just enough to drape an arm over her waist as he presses a kiss to her shoulder.

“Mmm, good morning.” Norah Jean feels his voice rumbling through him almost more than she hears it. Only one hearing aid is on and it’s pressed into the pillow.

“G’morning,” She readjusts so she’s laying on her back, Kaidan resting his head on her shoulder now. She tugs at the blanket he’s still burrowed into. “You stole the entire comforter overnight.”

“You weren’t using it.”

“So?”

“So, I put it to good use, its cold as hell in here.” He settles down deeper into the bedding.

“It is nice in here.”

“Right. I was getting flashbacks of Noveria while I was trying to fall asleep.”

“Oh please, it’s not that bad.”

The comm system crackles and they both glance up at the speaker on the ceiling.

“Up and at em, Norah Jean! We’re 10 minutes out from the Mu relay. Might wanna head up here.”

The channel clicks closed before she can respond. Norah Jean hides her face against Kaidan’s hair for just a moment, before sighing and rolling out of bed.

“So, do I get to call you Norah Jean now?” Kaidan sits up in bed, rubbing his arms, content to watch her in the dim light for now.

“If you want, preferably not around the rest of the crew, not if we’re gonna keep this quiet.” She gestures to the general space between them as she pulls on a t-shirt. Almost immediately, she pulls it back off, throwing it at Kaidan. “That one’s yours.”

“Joker calls you Norah Jean, always wondered about that.” He finally gets out of bed, shuffling around looking for the clothes they’d left scattered around the room.

“Close friends and family. He’s both.” Norah Jean tosses another piece of his uniform at him, this time hitting him square in the face, making herself giggle. She’s standing in front of the mirror, fingers staring to comb through her hair, then swiftly braiding down its length. Pins sticking out of her mouth, she carefully winds the braid into a flat bun, pinning as she goes until its completely secure.

“Y’know, that is mesmerizing to watch. Almost as fun as finding all the pins to take it down again.” He’s sitting on the desk, tugging on his boots.

“Maybe you can put it up next time, see if you can get the bun within regulation.” Finishing the last button on her uniform shirt, she tucks her it in and fastens her belt.

“I think I’ll leave that one up to you, you’re the expert.” Boots tied, he made his way across the room to her, wrapping his arms around her waist. She stood still for a moment, cleaning up her eyeliner. He rested his head on hers, eyeing her reflection. “God, you’re beautiful.” He paused a moment, grinning. “Norah Jean. Yeah, that’s good. I like that.” Hearing her name from his mouth sounded so right.

She turned around in his arms, standing on her toes to press a kiss to his lips. “We should go.”

“Mhmm, maybe just one more.” His hands cup her cheeks, and he kisses her slowly, savoring every second he gets.

Then the two of them walk out the door and pretend to be nothing more than friends while they try to save the galaxy.

-

She’s alive. She’s alive and everything hurts. She shifts and immediately freezes; white hot pain blocks every coherent thought. Alarms wail in the distance, she focuses on their sound, breathing through the pain. Most of the debris missed her on the way down. She’s not pinned under anything; she just hurts like hell. She shifts slowly, black spots dancing in her vision, working her way to a sitting position. She moves her left leg, and the pain comes again, this time she can think enough to pinpoint the source. Her knee is wrecked, probably. But it sure hurts like a bitch.

One more try. Gotta be worth one more try. She grips the low wall of a garden bed behind her as she tries to get to her good foot.

Tries.

The more she moves the more she hurts. Can’t even fucking breathe right around the shooting pain in her ribs. Swearing, she let herself sink back down to the floor. Somebody’ll find her. Eventually. Probably.

-

After two weeks of debriefings and medical paperwork and an official Alliance investigation, she was finally free. She’d been put on a week of mandatory shore leave, along with the rest of the Normandy’s Alliance crew. Looking around the courtyard, she spots Kaidan, just where he said he’d wait, and she’s making her way over to him. He looks up from his omnitool with a smile as their fields intersect.

“Hey, Norah Jean.” He gets halfway off the bench when she grabs his shirt and kisses him senseless, crutches falling to the ground. He reacts almost immediately, one hand sliding around her waist and kissing her back, oh so slowly, calming her frantic pace. When they pull away for air, his free hand cradles her face, thumb gently brushing over her cheek. He presses a kiss to her nose. “Hey, hey, we’ve got time.”

“Let’s get away, Kaidan, just the two of us.” She’s still breathless, all she wants is to kiss him again, but she settles for resting her forehead against his chest.

“You got a place in mind?”

“My grandparent’s old house, in Anchorage. Couple hours away, at least. Quiet and pretty unlikely to be occupied this time of year.”

“Then let’s get out of here.” He grabs her crutches and hands them to her, before grabbing his own bag off the bench.

-

Six hours and a trip to the grocery store later, they’re climbing out of a skycar in front of a modest looking house, twenty minutes outside the city limits of Anchorage, Alaska. Standing on the porch, Norah Jean leans her crutches against the siding to dig into a rarely used pocket of her duffel bag. She retrieves an old set of keys, unlocking the doorknob, then leaning all her weight against the door to unlock the deadbolt. The door creaks as she swings it open.

“After you.” She waves Kaidan and his armful of grocery bags into the dark house, grabbing her crutches and following him in, locking the door behind them. She flips the lights on, illuminating the living room and kitchen.

“Nice place. You spend a lot of time here?” Kaidan sets their groceries down on the counter, separating out the perishables. Norah Jean leans on the bar, smiling at him as he opens a bottle of beer and passes it to her.

“Not anymore, used to visit all the time as a kid though. Pretty sure my bedroom hasn’t changed in 20 years.” She clinks her bottle against his and takes a swig.

“Let me guess, you’ve got model ships all over your room.”

“Close. Old space stations and satellites. Plus, a scale model of the solar system, minus the sun.”

“Impressive.”

“I like to think so.”

“Can’t wait to see it.”

“You’ll see when groceries are put away.”

“And you’re not gonna help me?”

“Kaidan, if you want me in that tiny kitchen with my crutches, I’ll gladly grab one thing at a time and put it away, but I prefer to stay out of the way. This is a two-butt kitchen, max, and these crutches may as well be an extra butt.”

Kaidan laughs. “Fine, fine, but if you want another beer, you’re grabbing it yourself.”

“I can live with that.”

He puts the last few things in the cupboards, then wanders back around to the bar, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. “C’mon, Norah Jean, give me the grand tour.”

“I’m afraid it’s not all that grand, but I’ll indulge you.”

She leads him around the first floor, showing him the fireplace in the living room that’s older than half the house itself. Down the hall is a bathroom and the office that sometimes doubles as a guest room, where Kaidan spends at least 10 minutes asking questions about the artifacts and antiques in display cases along the wall. Between the two is the back door.

Upstairs was another bathroom, the master bedroom, and the other two bedrooms.

“I’d show you Jamie’s room, but I’m pretty sure it’s locked, and also I don’t care, but here’s my old bedroom in all its glory.” Norah Jean swings open the door, flicking on the light, revealing blue-black walls and ceiling, spattered with thousands of white speckles. A handful of constellations are carefully mapped out across the walls.

“Wow.” Kaidan idly traces along the lines of Orion with a finger, gazing around at the sky on her walls. “Did you paint all this?”

Norah Jean snorts, “Hell no, my grandpa did most of it, I helped. Well, I helped as much as a fidgety 5-year-old can muster when she’d rather be outside. Pretty sure there’s a few sets of handprints scattered around from me and Jamie.”

“It looks really good, it’s easy to see how you ended up in space after spending enough nights surrounded by walls like these. You’ve even got Arcturus up here. Didn’t you say you grew up there? On Arcturus station?”

“Yeah, Dad ran the garrison for a while, gave us a break from moving every other year. He didn’t get reassigned till I graduated high school, and by then I’d enlisted.” She drops her duffel bag on the floor, walking across the room to sit on the bed. “How’d you work your way back to the Alliance? After Jump Zero, I mean.”

“Time, mostly. Dad tried not to talk about it, didn’t want to push me further away.” He drops his own bag next to hers and sits on the bed beside her. “Aunt Irene, though, she wouldn’t let it go. She was always trying to talk me into the Marines, long as I can remember. It got a little better as I got older, but then after BAaT, she mostly quit talking about it, just the odd comment once or twice a year. Then a few months before my 22nd birthday, she talked me into staying a week with her and her wife in Rhode Island, to get away from Vancouver and breathe for a bit, y’know, see the Atlantic Ocean, Niagara Falls, few other places. The whole week she didn’t bring up the Alliance even one time. I got so curious that I finally cracked and asked her about it my last day there. She told me I was more than old enough to make my own choice, that she’d talked it up all she could and especially after the disaster with BAaT, all she could do now was support whatever choice I came to. I enlisted 6 months later.”

“Sounds like she really had an impact on you.”

“Yeah. She was having a blast drilling recruits out on Jump Zero when I finally decided. I think she’s still there. She’s made a hell of a reputation breaking in cadets, earned the nickname “Mad Major Mabbit”, she thinks it’s the greatest thing.”

Norah Jean stares at him, mouth hanging open. “No.”

“Yeah.”

“No, Kaidan, she took a year on Arcturus my first year of training, I swear to God she was the reason I almost dropped out. We were butting heads all year. And she’s your aunt?”

“Really? She’s the reason you nearly washed out? I wonder what she’d have to say about you now?”

“Probably not much good, I mean, we did steal the Normandy.”

Before he can say anything in response Norah Jean shivers, then, a long, low rumble of thunder rattles the house. Her face lights up and she shoots off the bed, hopping on her good leg before snatching up her crutches and racing to the window.

“It’s thundering! Let’s go downstairs and watch the storm!” She grabs her N7 hoodie from her bag, tossing it on.

Kaidan gives her a look. “You want to go sit in the rain, just because its thundering?”

“No, I want to sit under the back porch, enjoy the smell of the rain, and watch the lightning, all while staying perfectly dry.”

“Alright, I think I can get behind that.” He gets up off the bed, searching in his own bag for a jacket, pulling it on as Norah Jean works her way down the hall.

He joins her at the top of the stairs, not sure if she stopped to wait or if she doesn’t know how to get down them. Her laser focused stare down the steps says the latter.

“Do you trust me?”

She looks up at him, chewing her lip. “Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Yes?”

“Good, I’ll carry you down the stairs.”

Norah Jean makes an undignified squeak as he sweeps her off her feet, careful not to jostle her knee. One arm is almost uncomfortably tight around his neck, and the other grips her crutches as he walks down the stairs. He carries her to the couch, gently setting her down to let her sort herself out.

“You know, I’ve got to learn how to get down the stairs sometime this week.” She grumbles as she gets to her foot, making for the bar and their half-forgotten beers.

“Here, I’ll grab those, and some new ones. And don’t worry, I’ll let you work out the next time yourself.”

He follows her out the back door, to an old bench just out of the way of the water splashing over the edge of the gutters.

“You sure we’ll stay dry?” He passes her one of the open beers.

“Probably. Unless the wind blows this way, we’ll be fine.”

He looks out at the back yard. Lightning flashes, he counts on instinct. Thunder crashes overhead.

“Ten seconds.” She swings her good leg as she sips her beer. “Do you get a fun tingly feeling from thunderstorms? Or is it just 2.5s and 3s?”

“Sometimes. Don’t usually associate it with fun though, it’s just kinda weird feeling to me. I don’t think 2s are as sensitive to it.”

“Huh. I’ve always loved thunderstorms, partly for the feeling. Just one of those things that reminds me I’m still here. Still kicking.”

“Yeah.” He reaches for her hand and she laces her fingers with his.