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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 4 years ago

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Built on a Lie

Prompt: I like the possible idea of Janus being a absolutely crushed to find Roman bleeding out due to a bruised ego in his room after pof was uploaded. After all most Sander Sides Fans hated Roman after he mocked Janus's Name.

Thanks for the prompt, babe! I hope it’s what you wanted!

Read on Ao3

Pairings: arguably roceit i guess??? it’s just focused on them, can be platonic or romantic if you want. same with LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR

Warnings: sympathitic janus even if it might not seem like it, sympathetic feral protective remus, roman is a hurt boi

Word Count: 5010

The wedding is tough.

After the wedding is an ordeal.

After after the wedding…hurts.

The Mindscape is all but deserted. No one wants to come out to the common areas for risk of running into someone who they had…disagreements with or getting swept up in a painfully awkward conversation. Patton lingers in the kitchen, Virgil almost never opens his door, Logan works, and Remus, well…Remus is the only one still behaving as normal.

Janus is grateful for his consistency.

In all honesty, and oh, the irony, he doesn’t enjoy this. He doesn’t enjoy the others walking on eggshells constantly, nor does he thrill at how they seem to jump at everyone, not just him. His point was made. That is his job.

But he’s not so sure he fully anticipated the cost.

At the very least, Logan seems to get over their troubles first. He approaches Janus a few days after the wedding and offers one of his philosophy books. Janus accepts it gratefully and by the time he’s finished it, Logan starts talking again. It’s not the greatest thing for the Mindscape that Logan is willing to talk to the others again.

Patton comes around next, simply because he’s the kindest. Janus pities him a little for it. But sure enough, the common areas start to ring again, drawing Remus out from the depths to cause his chaos.

Virgil appears next, summoned by the repeated calling of Remus’s antics and Janus’s exasperation. And sometimes, well, sometimes it seems like they’re back in their hallway, with Patton and Logan looking on with the air of some bemused anthropologists.

All the Sides reemerge and start trying to figure out what’s going on except for Roman.

Roman is nowhere to be found.

“He…he just needs some more time, I’m sure.”

“Roman is prone to fits of dramatics. It is unsurprising that he chooses to have a repeat performance.”

“Princey’s a bit of an asshole, it’s gonna take him a while to own up to what he did.”

“Catch!”

Janus grunts and staggers under Remus’s weight, eventually getting them both with their feet back under them on the floor. He adjusts his hat and looks disapprovingly at the amount of slime Remus has managed to get all over himself.

“What were you even doing?”

“Exploring the precise relationship of viscera to ventricles inside the heart of a blue whale!” Remus shakes his sleeve. “They lied about how bit the veins and arteries are.”

“How did you—nevermind,” Janus sighs, “I don’t want to know. Now, will you answer my question or not?”

Remus shrugs. “Dunno. Not paying attention.”

“…Roman’s not or you’re not?”

“I’m not!” He flicks some slime at Janus’s hat. “But you should be!”

“Yes, well, when slime starts to emerge from every corner again, I’ll chase you down.”

“Ooh, promises, promises.”

Janus doesn’t hurl some of the slime at Remus as he sinks out.

Roman still hasn’t appeared and the others are starting to notice. Thomas isn’t exactly in a position to do a whole lot of things, but at the very least he’s not doing what he perhaps should have been capable of. Logan notices and at first, chalks it up to the fact that they are in a pandemic; lapses in peak physical and mental performance are not unexpected, but it quickly becomes clear that it’s a little more than that.

The Mindscape grows dimmer, more sluggish. Thomas doesn’t seem to want to do much of anything, let alone work.

“I don’t understand,” Patton mumbles one afternoon when they meet—sans Roman—to try and figure out what’s going on, “I know I’m having a few—um, it’s not Thomas’s feelings that are causing us problems.”

Janus doesn’t make a note of how Virgil quickly presses his arm against Patton’s shoulder.

“There are certain things that are to be expected under times of great stress,” Logan muses, “and certainly any pre-existing problems will be exacerbated, but…this was not anticipated.”

Remus cranks the chainsaw and sets about carving up a new slice of…whatever he’s working on. “We’re in a pandemic, Spectacles!”

“I am wildly aware.”

Virgil stares at the chainsaw—which is fair—then up to Remus. “You ever been in a pandemic before, Remus?”

“Nope!”

Virgil rolls his eyes. “Okay, so that makes sense. But L’s right, this feels…weird. Like we’re missing something pretty big.”

In unison, they all look towards Roman’s seat.

The room falls as quiet as it can with Remus’s chainsaw still in the background.

The big, red, overstuffed armchair looks…different, without Roman lounging in it. The blinds aren’t drawn but it looks like the coloring has faded significantly, as though it’s been out in the sun for far too long. The seams look as though they’re struggling and there’s a dark imprint on one of the arms.

It’s not a shock to Janus to discover he’s never really looked at the chair before.

“Has anyone heard from Roman,” Logan asks quietly, “since the wedding?”

Virgil shakes his head, glancing around. Patton looks down at his chest.

“You think this is Roman.” It’s not a question.

“HIs tantrums do not normally last for this long,” Logan continues, adjusting his tie, “and whilst I admit that perhaps our circumstances have contributed more than I anticipated, I do not believe that is how Roman feels.”

“Princey has been away for a really long time.”

“Thomas is starting to get hurt by it,” Patton mumbles, laying a hand on his chest, “I can—I’m starting to feel it a little.”

“So we need to get Princey’s head out of his ass again.”

Logan sighs. “Most likely.”

“I didn’t want to rush it,” Patton says, glancing at Janus, “but you guys are right. I think he’s being selfish now.”

At the word ‘selfish,’ Remus freezes.

The chainsaw splutters and dies to the floor with a heavy clunk.

“Remus,” Patton scolds, “be careful with the…”

He trails off when he notices what the rest of them have.

Remus is standing completely still—an impossibility for Remus—his head tilted back, eyes fixed on a point in the ceiling. His nose quivers, almost like a bloodhound.

His nose twitches.

His lip curls up into a snarl.

His morning star appears in his hand with a growl as he tears off toward the stairs.

“Remus? Remus!”

“Wait!”

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Remus!”

Janus closes his eyes, reaching out to see if he can tell where Remus is going. His eyes shoot open.

“Roman’s room. Now.”

Virgil grabs Logan and Patton and sinks out.

Janus tries to appear in Roman’s room only to hit something burning cold. He hisses and flinches away from it, only to realize that he hasn’t materialized properly and is stuck. The burning cold reaches further, further, into his scales, digging under them, until Janus yanks himself away and appears, panting, in the hallway outside Roman’s door.

Virgil appears too, still holding the others. “What the fuck was that?”

“Did he block us out?”

“None of us have the ability to do that, other than Thomas.”

“Did he get Thomas to block us out?”

“I don’t know!”

A loud crash jerks their attention to Remus. He raises his morning star again and drives the spikes deep into the bright red of Roman’s door.

…that isn’t nearly as bright as it should be.

Remus snarls again and wails against the door. The wood starts to creak and buckle under the onslaught. He hefts the weapon again and shatters the door with a thunderous crack.

The morning star is hastily flung aside as Remus claws at the splintered wood, yanking it away from the hole he’s made.

The door groans and yields.

Remus rushes through, Virgil on his heels. Patton and Logan attempt to follow only to run smack into both of them.

“Why’d you stop, kiddos, we can’t—“

“Let us through, why did you—“

When those two fight their way through and into silence, Janus sighs and gingerly steps through, nudging Logan and Virgil aside to look at what’s got them so shocked. Roman in the middle of a sobbing mess of tissues, probably, or an empty room signifying he’s gone off on some quest in the Imagination, or even a pouting Roman glaring at them for ruining his door.

He gets around Virgil’s shoulder and his blood runs cold. Burning cold.

If they weren’t in Roman’s room, he’s not sure he’d be able to recognize this as Roman.

His pristine white costume is stained an ugly brown. The gold trimmings fall limply off, hating on by barely a thread. His hair sticks to the floor in horrid, matted clumps. His hands are speckled and stained with more blood, some congealed and crusted from the puddle on the floor. His legs bend at awkward and uncomfortable angles. One of his arms is stretched away from, reaching for something.

Or anything.

They dare not move. They dare hardly breathe.

Remus takes a step forward. Then another. Then another. He circles the body on the floor, not caring about stepping in the blood, crouching down on the far side. His face is drawn, paler than Janus has ever seen it go, he looks sick.

If…if Remus looks this bad—

Remus looks up at the others. His face darkens.

“Explain,” he whispers, his voice low and soft and dangerous, “now.”

No one can find words to even try.

When no one says anything, Remus crouches down and, with a tenderness that shocks Janus, lays his hand on Roman’s side.

“Roman,” he whispers, almost inaudibly, “Roman, can you hear me?”

“...Re?”

“Yeah, Ro-Bro, it’s—it’s me.”

“Wha’re you…here?”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Remus growls, looking up at them again, “maybe no one was.”

“’S fine.”

“Roman, it is about the furthest from fine that it could be.”

“…’ve had worse.”

“…okay I was wrong. That is the furthest from fine it could be.”

Judging by the way Roman’s body slumps, his eyes must fall closed again. “You c’n go. D’n’t have to stay.”

“Not on your life.”

“’S fine, Re,” Roman slurs, “the others will…wonder where you are.”

Remus stiffens. His hand tenses on Roman’s side.

“No,” he says softly, “they won’t.”

Roman twitches, his head rolling up. “‘M sorry, Re.”

“What the absolute fuck are you apologizing to me for?”

“Thought they’d…care.” Roman’s head waivers and drop back down. “‘Bout you.”

Patton can’t stifle his whimper.

Roman twitches again. “Wha��”

“They’re not gonna wonder where I am,” Remus growls, “because they’re here.”

Roman’s going to panic. He’s going to freak out and they’ll have to reassure him. Or Roman’s going to be angry and they’ll have to stop him from hurting himself. Or he won’t believe Remus and that…that might be the worst.

…Janus should really stop thinking that.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why’re they here, Re,” Roman mumbles, his body sagging to the floor again, “‘m I late for s’mething?”

Remus snarls and Roman flinches.

“Don’ be mad, Re, please, ‘m sorry—“

“I’m not mad at you, Roman.”

“But you’re mad.”

“No.” Remus stares at them, his voice still even and soft. “I’m enraged.”

Before they can say anything, Roman hisses and jerks. Remus’s hands instantly flit to Roman, searching for whatever’s hurt him.

“What’s happening, Ro,” he growls, “whose ass do I need to kick?”

“You can’t,” Roman wheezes, “can’ stop it.”

“The hell I can.”

“No, you—you actually can’t,” Roman says, reaching for Remus’s hand, “help—help me sit up?”

“Ro, you’re—I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“’S fine.”

“I don’t think it is!”

“Please?”

Remus sighs, gingerly wrapping his arms around Roman’s bruised and bloody body. “Come on then.”

Roman’s costume clings to the floor and his back as they sit up, the stain darkening and drying on the belly of his tunic. His head lolls against Remus’s chest, breathing heavily for a moment before he finally looks up.

Oh, his face…

It’s an absolute mess. Blood and salt and other things Janus couldn’t hope to figure out cling to every scrap of skin they can as he squints at them.

“You broke my door.”

“You were in trouble,” Remus replies easily, hoisting Roman to sit properly.

Roman sighs, his breath rattling. “Did I miss a meeting?”

“We…” Logan swallows. “We just came from one.”

“Oh.” Roman closes his eyes. “I’ll…gimme a minute, I’ll—“

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“I gotta do the meeting, Re.”

“The hell you do.”

“You—you don’t have to worry about the meeting, Roman,” Logan says firmly, taking a step closer, “we—what happened to you?”

“What d’you mean?”

“What does he mean?” Virgil explodes. “Roman, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Roman hisses again. “Don’ have to shout, Virgil.”

“Of fucking course I have to shout! Look at you!”

“I believe that might be more of a reason not to shout,” Logan says quietly. Virgil huffs, balling his hands up into fists.

“What the fuck happened, Roman,” Virgil repeats, “and don’t pretend like you don’t know what we’re talking about.”

Roman sighs again, something whistling, what happened to him?—and sits up away from Remus. “I can’ shout, come closer.”

Logan and Virgil immediately walk forward, crouching down a respectful distance away. Patton takes a moment longer, creeping forward and reaching out a trembling hand toward Roman.

“K-kiddo,” he mumbles, “I’m so—so sorry, I didn’t know—“

“’S okay,” Roman slurs, leaning back against Remus, “’s okay, Pat.”

“Patton?” Logan turns. “What do you know?”

“Yeah, Patton,” Remus growls, “why don’t you tell us.”

Patton shrinks back. “I—I—“

“Shh,” Roman mumbles, clumsily patting Remus’s hand, “don’ do that, ’s okay.”

“No, Roman, it’s not.”

“...kiddo?”

Roman nods.

Patton takes a deep breath. “You guys know that—how Roman gets hurt sometimes when Thomas does something that, uh, doesn’t turn out great?”

“We all get hurt, Pat,” Virgil says, “that doesn’t explain this.”

As if on cue, Roman hisses again.

“No, no, Virgil,” Patton mumbles, “it’s—Roman’s the only one who gets physically hurt when this stuff happens.”

Logan’s eyes widen as he looks at Roman’s injuries. “Of course…”

Despite everything, Roman smiles tiredly up at him. “Figure it out?”

“You’re the Ego,” Logan mumbles, “and thus it follows that you would get…bruised.”

“Wait, that’s a literal thing?”

“Apparently so.”

“Jeez, Princey,” Virgil mumbles, “you coulda told me.”

“You were busy, didn’t wanna give you anything else to worry ‘bout.”

“That’s not—Roman—“

“But Thomas has been inside,” Logan interjects quickly, “alone, he hasn’t—we haven’t done anything since the pandemic began.”

“It’s a pandemic, Lo,” Roman says, “no one’s doing much of anything…besides staying inside, reading things, watching things…”

“So how is this happening to you, Roman,” Patton says, wringing his hands, “what—what’s doing this to Thomas?”

“Fuck,” Virgil says, burying his hands in his hair, “Princey has this been happening to you since the wedding?”

“Mm,” Roman hums, leaning heavily against Remus.

“People are watching the video,” Logan whispers, “and they’re—well, they’re talking about it.”

“Are they—are they still saying Thomas should’ve…” Paton gulps. “Done something different?”

Logan shakes his head. “I’m sure they are but Thomas…Thomas hasn’t been looking at the comments from the video, not really. Virgil and I have specifically told him not to.”

“So then why is Thomas still being hurt by it? Why are people still attacking Thomas?”

“Not—“ their heads all jerk around to look at Roman— “not Thomas.”

He waves a hand at himself.

“Wouldn’t be like this if it were them attacking Thomas.”

“Then what—“

“They’re attacking you?” Virgil’s eyes go wide as they scan over Roman’s injuries. “Directly?”

“Mm.”

“Oh, kiddo—“

“Princey, what the hell—“

“Why didn’t you tell us? We could’ve—“

“What for?”

In response, Roman’s eyes raise slowly, and look at Janus.

Everyone else follows, looking back toward the door, realizing that Janus hadn’t moved closer with the rest of them.

Roman’s gaze isn’t cold, but it makes him feel cold.

Oh.

Oh, no.

“My name,” Janus breathes, “it’s…they’re mad at you because of me.”

“Told you,” Roman slurs as his eyes close again, “gotta come closer. Can’ shout like this.”

Janus swallows heavily, his throat dry, clutching his cloak tightly around him as he edges closer. Roman mumbles to himself until Janus is close enough to hear him.

“There we go…” He cracks a bloodied eye open. “You’re right. They’re angry at me. Rightfully so, but…yeah.”

“Because you made fun of my name?”

They all rush forward as Roman keens, his hand flying to his gut and hissing.

“Fuck, Princey, is it—is it still happening?”

“Mhm.”

“How do we—how do we stop it?”

“Can’t,” Roman mumbles, “wasn’t lying. Nothing you can do. Not until it’s over.”

“It’s been ages since the wedding, Roman, how much longer is this going to go on?”

Roman makes a vague noise of ‘I don’t know.’

“But—but—“ Logan looks frantically back and forth between them— “surely they can’t all be angry at you, that would be—“

“They’re not,” Roman mumbles, “not all of them, but it’s—it’s most of them.”

“How is that possible?”

“Some of them really don’t like me—“ Roman hisses again— “some of them really like J-Janus or Remus or…or Logan, or Patton—“

“What?”

“What does that have to do with—“

“And some of them just think that it’s—what I did was—“ Roman stifles a whimper, biting his lip— “really bad.”

“But then why…why aren’t the rest of us being affected like this?”

“You’re not the Ego.”

Remus snarls again as Roman jerks, a new bruise blooming on the underside of his neck.

“…ow.”

“We have to get you cleaned up,” Logan mutters shakily, trying to stand.

“Not much point right now,” Roman sighs, absentmindedly nuzzling into Remus, who tightens his grip protectively around Roman, “‘m just gonna get all messy again.”

“Not if we stay with you,” Logan promises, “not if we help.”

“…don’ have to.”

“What the hell are you—“ Virgil shakes his head. “Of course, we’re gonna help you, Roman.”

Roman just looks at them and closes his eyes.

“Ro—kiddo,” Patton says, reaching out for him, “why don’t you believe us?”

“You haven’t exactly…done that before.”

“We didn’t know!”

“You did.”

Patton’s retort dies in his throat. He looks desperately around for something, anything—

Janus is in shock.

Roman…oh, Roman…Janus knew Roman was the Ego, but he didn’t—he hadn’t—

Fuck, were the bruises from what he said still there? Not—not just that awful, awful thing about comparing Roman to Remus, but…from before?

How many times had Janus hurt Roman…and hadn’t cared?

“…I’m sorry, Roman,” Logan murmurs, breaking the silence, “will you let me help now?”

Roman looks up at him. “I’ve been awful to you,” he mumbles, “you don’—don’ have to apologize.”

“Yes, I do,” Logan says, “because you’ve been wonderful to me too…and I am not blameless in this either.”

“But they don’t know that.”

“I do,” Logan says firmly, “and they will.”

The smallest smile tugs at the corners of Roman’s mouth as Logan stands up to go fetch the first aid kit.

“Princey, I—Roman,” Virgil stammers, “fuck, you—oh my god—“

“I’ve been awful to you too, Virgil.”

“And I’ve been fucking worse right back!” Virgil squeezes his hands tight. “And I—you’re the only one who gets yelled at for it. Fuck, I’m—I’m so fucking sorry, I’m gonna—can I help too?”

“…if you want.”

“I’m gonna go help Logan get the shit,” Virgil mutters, getting to his feet and tearing out after Logan.

“…oh, kiddo…”

Patton’s eyes begin to tear up.

“I thought—I thought you needed more time—“

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Pat,” Roman manages, “it’s not fun, trust me.”

Patton’s laugh comes out more like a sob.

“I won’t hold it against you, and you can—“ Roman hisses again— “help if you want.”

“Do you think you can drink something?”

“…I’ll try.”

Patton’s gone in a flash.

Janus looks at Remus. Remus glares at him and pulls Roman closer.

“…we should…try and get some of that off,” Janus tries, “so we can see what, um…”

Remus’s stony silence as Roman starts to drift again cuts off Janus’s words.

“…Remus…”

“You are very, very lucky,” Remus whispers, cutting him off, “that I’m not about to leave my brother’s side for a long time.”

Janus nods.

“Start on the buttons,” Remus says, “at his wrists. I’m not sure how much of this we can save.”

He immediately sets to work, trying to communicate how sorry, sorry, sorry he is with every gentle brush of his fingers against Roman’s skin. Remus summons something for them to lean Roman against as they start to gingerly remove the tunic. It’s worse than Janus thought.

Roman is one big pulsing wound, little nicks here and there and varying shades of purple, red, green, yellow, all coming from one massive sore in the center of him. As they watch, more injuries appear, little bruises that make his breath hitch, and occasionally a small swipe along his ribs. As Janus works the cuff over his wrist, one of his fingers blackens and swells as it breaks.

“Oh, Roman…”

“Sit up, Ro,” Remus whispers tenderly, peeling and unsticking the tunic from his back, “okay, there we go. Are most of them…up here?”

“They all look to be coming from…that,” Janus says, indicating the giant wound, “so…”

And indeed, as they watch, Roman keens again and the wound deepens, more blood beginning to trickle out.

“Are all of these—“ Janus indicates the injuries littering Roman’s body— “comments?”

“Mm.”

“Then what—why is this one…?”

Roman’s eyes drift closed and his head lolls back.

“’Oh, Roman, thank god you don't have a mustache.”

No.

“’Otherwise, between you and Remus—‘” Roman winces as the wound digs deeper— “‘I wouldn't know who the evil twin is.’”

…no…

Janus reaches out a trembling hand and lays it next to the wound. It’s…it’s warm under his touch but…wrong.

A snarl jerks his hand back and he looks up to see Remus glaring at him.

“Remus—“

“Save it.” Remus glances toward the door. “The others will be back in a moment anyway.”

Sure enough, Logan and Virgil bust through the broken door, their hands full. Logan immediately sweeps his gaze over Roman and kneels down, reaching out.

“May I touch you, Roman?”

“Mm.”

“Thank you.” Logan slots a hand gently behind Roman’s hand. “We’re going to try and get the blood off of you first, alright?”

“Mm.”

“This might sting,” Logan cautions, starting to rub an antiseptic towel down Roman’s arm, “my apologies.”

Virgil takes another one and carefully cleans Roman’s other arm, mindful of his broken finger. As they work, Patton reappears, holding a bottle of water and a glass of juice.

“Come on, kiddo,” he says softly, taking Logan’s place behind Roman’s head, “drink this for me?”

Roman manages a few sips of each.

“Good job, kiddo, there you go…” Patton glances down. “Does it seem to be stopping at all?”

As if it can hear him, the wound starts to bleed again.

“Oh, Roman…”

Logan glances between the wound and Janus, his brow furrowed.

Please, Logan, for once…don’t be so smart.

The way Logan’s eyes widen and narrow say that it’s too late.

“This one seems to be the origin,” Logan says instead, turning away, “all the others seem to stem from it.”

“Okay,” Virgil mutters, “so what’s that one?”

Janus’s mouth runs dry as Logan turns to him expectantly.

“Well,” Remus growls, “go on.”

“I don’t—what if it just makes it worse?”

“That didn’t stop you before.”

“I didn’t—“

“Oh, shut up,” Remus cuts him off, “you knew. You knew.”

“Remus—“

“You wanna know how I know that?” Remus draws away from Roman just enough to clench his fists. “Because I found you after the wedding. You were all curled up on the floor and you were so upset.”

Roman stirs. “…Re…”

“And I asked you why, and you said it was because Roman made fun of your name,” Remus continues, “and I thought: ‘huh, that feels a little weird. Where have I heard that before?’”

Patton shrinks out of Remus’s line of sight.

“Then I remembered! The courtroom,” Remus continues, a manic smile on his face, “and your little plan to make sure Roman felt like he had no idea what was going on.”

“…J, what is he talking about?”

“Oh, he’s not going to tell you,” Remus says, “but I will.”

“Remus—“

“You said that you knew Roman,” Remus says, talking right over him, “and you knew that if you pushed him in the right direction, you’d be able to get him to listen to you easily.”

Even Logan pauses.

“Do you remember what you said, Janny?” Remus’s eyes bore into Janus’s mind. “Do you?”

“…Remus, please.”

Remus’s grin drops.

“You said,” he whispers, “that if you just fucked with his name, he’d be in the palm of your hand.”

And he was.

"Conveniently, everyone seems to have forgotten that. Forgotten what you did. Or they don't care."

Remus tightens his grip on Roman.

"But not me."

Guilt presses hot and thick against Janus’s throat. Unbidden, huge, fat tears start to form in his eyes as he stares at the wound on Roman’s gasping chest. Distantly, he thinks he can hear the others muttering but all he can think about is how much of this is a lie.

Roman isn’t the evil twin.

Roman isn’t Remus.

Roman isn’t stupid.

Roman isn’t worthless.

Roman isn’t a toy or a puppet or a tool.

Roman isn’t selfish or greedy or arrogant.

Roman is hurt and scared and Janus is so, so sorry.

He lets out a growl of his own and presses his hand hard to the wound.

Lie. Lie.

This is a lie.

Truth is hard and unyielding and painful but nothing is more painful than knowing that all of this is built on a lie.

Janus grits his teeth and concentrates, his hands trembling as he presses it against the wound, searching, searching for—

There.

He closes his fist around the lie and yanks, pulling the words and the hurt and the ache out of Roman’s chest in a bright flash.

When it’s gone, Roman’s chest is heaving, bruises still littering his torso, but the big wound is nowhere to be seen.

Panting, Janus clenches his fist until the lie shatters into pieces, the shard disappearing into harmless puffs of air.

He looks back.

Logan and Patton are staring at him open-mouthed. Virgil has his hands bunched up in his hoodie. Remus just stares at him, his face unreadable.

And Roman…

Roman looks up at him, panting too, but it doesn’t feel quite so wrong anymore.

“I can’t promise that this one won’t hurt you ever anymore,” he vows, “but I can promise that it will never have that much power again.”

Roman reaches out a hand. Janus lets him pull him closer.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

Janus huffs. “I can also promise that you’re not nearly as sorry as I am.”

They let their eyes fall closed as Janus’s hands steady Roman, landing lightly on his sides and just resting there. Roman tips forward and his forehead lands against Janus’s.

For a second, the room just breathes.

“Can we clean you up,” Janus whispers, “the rest of the way?”

“L-Logan?”

“I’m right here, Roman,” Logan says instantly, “what do you need?”

“Can I—wanna sleep.”

“I don’t think you’ve got a concussion, so that should be alright…” Logan glances at Patton. “Let’s have you drink a little more and then you can rest, hmm?”

“Okay.”

“Come on, kiddo,” Patton coaxes, “here we go…”

As Virgil and Logan set about cleaning again, Janus runs his hands slowly over every injury he can, plucking out what little lies there are and sending them away. He can tell by the weight of Remus’s stare on him that he’s not in the clear yet, but the way Roman starts to sag slowly makes it easier.

“Alright,” Logan murmurs after a while, “I think that’s all we can do.”

“…sleep?”

“Yes, Roman, you can sleep now. Would you like us to help you to your bed?”

Roman blinks, his hand reaching out for— “Re?”

“I gotcha, Ro-Bro.”

“Re…” Roman mumbles sleepily as he all but collapses into Remus.

“…yeah I’m okay with that.”

Logan jerks his head towards Roman’s mattress. Together, they drag it down to the floor and help Remus get Roman onto it. Logan murmurs that he’s going to go put the first aid kit away, but that he’ll be right back. Patton gathers up the glasses and leaves with the same promise.

Virgil glances back and forth between Remus and Janus.

“…you guys remember that this is about what Roman needs, right?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay good.”

Virgil reaches out to brush a little of Roman’s hair out of his face.

“Well, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Neither am I.”

Logan and Patton reappear at the door and slot themselves in around the mattress. Remus looks at Janus.

Janus deliberately sits between Roman and the door, something he’s seen Remus do too many times.

Remus nods.

This conversation is far from over, but right now…

Right now, Roman mumbles sleepily and grabs onto Remus’s sleeve.

There is truly so much that they never see, isn’t there? Logan wasn’t wrong, the amount of Roman that’s never been on camera is truly staggering.

Janus has let that lie of omission cause too much damage for too long.

Right now, he’s got work to do.

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#sanders sides #dragonbabbles #fic #roman sanders #roman angst #roman sanders angst #logan sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #janus sanders #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit #remus sanders #sympathetic remus #lamp #dlamp #dlampr #roceit

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romantichopelessly · 4 years ago

Text

Line Without a Hook

Happy holidays @romanapologist ! I am so so so sorry that this @sanderssidesgiftxchange gift comes to you so late, but I am very bad at checking my email and just found out that I was going to be your pinch hitter. I hope that you enjoy this Intruality hurt/comfort anyway. It came with some help from my wonderful friend @sunshineandteddybears as well.

Words: 2.6k

Summary: When Patton's entire world view is challenged--when he doesn't even know who he is supposed to be anymore, help comes from an unexpected source. Maybe things can be okay after all.

Warnings: This is hurt/comfort, so there is a happy ending. Before that there is descriptions of intrusive thoughts, guilt, depression and negative self talk.

----

Morality was a bit more complex than Thomas had been led to believe when he was younger. No, a lot more complex. When Thomas was just a kid the rules were clear cut. Simple. Don’t fight with your brothers. Do as your parents tell you to. Respect your teachers. Say please and thank you. Don’t lie.

Or do?

Were even those simple, childhood rules concrete anymore? Janus’s words suggested otherwise. And from what Patton could tell, the snake-like side was right. Had been right for a while now, just muffled by Patton’s own ignorance and… pride. His insistence that he had to be the one to help Thomas out of every situation. Was the foundation that Patton had built everything on--Thomas’s feelings, his motivations, his perception of the world--even stable?

Patton himself sure wasn’t.

Even now, sitting in his sepia-toned room, surrounded by stuffed animals and memorabilia that could usually comfort him, when Patton closed his eyes, he could see the green on the edges of his vision. He could hear his own voice, distorted and croaking, feel his heart racing again, the knowledge that he had hurt Thomas, his Thomas, and that he was responsible for years of grief-

Patton choked back on a sob. The lump in his throat was almost unbearable. He pressed his mouth into the back of his panda pillow pet to muffle the sound.

The only thing worse than sitting alone in his room with the crushing knowledge of his failure was the possibility that someone would hear him and come to check on him. The idea of one of the other sides--one of his friends--seeing him like this, weeks after the incident, was unacceptable.

He could just imagine the look of pity that would cross their face. Roman would look so heartbroken to find Patton in such a state. Virgil would probably extend the same amount of kindness that Patton had always shown when he found Virgil in the midst of a panic attack. (But had Patton been kind to do so? Or was it just another form of selfishness? An act born out of guilt for shutting Virgil out for so many years. Was Patton only kind because someone told him to be once? Did he actually love any of them at all? Or was he just destructive?) Logan- Patton was ashamed to admit that he was not sure how Logan would react. He was sure that it would be heartachingly sweet, though. He would probably say something poignant and true that would make Patton feel stupid for ever feeling bad in the first place.

If one of the d- the others found Patton…

It wasn’t like Patton had been avoiding them. In fact, in the days following the… incident… Patton had gone out of his way to seek them out. Janus had been wary at first, and it broke Patton’s heart a bit. The look of distrust in his two-toned eyes. The slight curl of his lip. Confusion? Suspicion? Patton couldn’t tell at the time, and although it had replayed again and again in his mind ever since, he still was not quite sure.

He liked to think that he was doing the right thing now. That he could make things right.

But who was he to judge that anymore?

It was obvious, now, that he had never known what was truly right. He was only just deluded enough, just stupid enough, to assume that his function as Thomas’s Morality was infallible. But his versions of right were wrong. Catastrophically so. Up was down. Left was right. Black was white. Or was gray the new goal? That sounded like something that Janus would say. He was still confused about it.

He was just so stupid.

Another sob was stuck in the back of Patton’s throat. His eyes burned, shame and guilt curling in his stomach in an ugly flash of putrid green and black.

He had carried Thomas’s heart on his sleeve and on his shoulders. And he had buckled under the pressure.

And now Thomas was cracked. And no one knew if it was fixable, least of all Patton.

Grounding. Patton knew, distantly, that he needed to ground himself. But it was borderline impossible with tears clouding his vision and pooling in the frames of his glasses.

How could anyone ground themselves when it felt like the ground was opening underneath them?

Did he even deserve to be grounded? Didn’t Patton deserve to feel this way? After everything that he had done to Thomas, to Virgil, by ignoring his obvious discomfort at Patton’s over exuberant displays of love, to Janus, by pushing his contributions aside for years, hell, even to Logan and Roman. Not to mention Remus, who Patton still did not have the guts to spend more than ten minutes alone with. Who was so, painfully, obviously bereft of love and craving attention. Who looked at Patton like he was a friend, like he was something to smile at, even though Patton had shown him time and time again the exact opposite.

A gasping sob wrenched its way out of Patton’s chest before he could muffle himself with his panda. He didn’t deserve that kind of a second chance. He really, really didn’t.

He deserved nothing other than to sit here alone in his room, with nothing other than his own guilt.

In fact, Patton should probably just stay there, in his room forever. He could do his work as Thomas’s heart and emotions from here, and really that was all that he had ever been any good for anyway.

There was a loud POP from the far side of Patton’s room that startled him into raising his head up from his pillow pet.

Across the room, just beside the door, stood Remus. Patton blinked, stunned. His hair was disheveled, which was not out of the ordinary, the silver streak that ran through his brunette locks sticking up in a wild cow lick. The purple eyeshadow that encircled his eyes gave the unique impression that he was startled. Or perhaps deranged.

“...Remus?” Patton’s voice came out in a weak, watery croak that made him wince. Tears were still fogging his vision, so he couldn’t quite see Remus’s reaction to such a sad sight.

“Pattycake?” The usually taunting nickname sounded surprisingly… soft. The Duke’s voice was almost… gentle. It nearly shocked Patton into stopping crying. Nearly. “What’s up?”

“I’m fine.” Patton responded immediately. Reflexively. He didn’t even bother to try for a smile though, even he knew that it would be weak.

“Don’t try that.” Remus’s voice was steady. He still hadn’t moved from his station at the door. “I could hear you bawling your eyes out from the hallway.”

Patton closed his eyes. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. He had been too loud. They had probably all heard him in here, crying like a baby over his own stupid mistakes. And now Remus was here, and could see him, all blotchy and red in the face, his hair messy from when he had been running his hands through it earlier before covering it with the hood of his cat hoodie. Remus was here, and he knew that Patton wasn’t okay right now. Remus was here, and he sounded… sympathetic.

Patton sniffed pathetically. “I’m sorry.” Remus blinked this time, tilting his head at an awkward angle. He looked confused. Patton continued on. “I didn’t mean to be so loud.”

Remus was silent for a moment. Patton took a couple of deep breaths, trying to stop himself from crying.

“Can I come sit with you?” Remus asked.

Patton swallowed. There was no use in denying the Duke. He pulled his knees closer to himself and gestured to the open space beside him. Remus had crossed the room in an instant and dropped unceremoniously down next to Patton.

“Who upset you?”

Patton looked up, surprised once again. It wasn’t unusual for Remus to say shocking or surprising things, he embodied Thomas’s intrusive thoughts. However, the level of… concern that Remus was showing at the moment was not something that Patton expected.

“If someone said something to you, I can remove their toenails and glue them to their forehead for you.”

Patton bit back a wince. That was more like the Remus that he was becoming used to.

“No one.” Patton answered, truthfully. Remus looked skeptical, so he continued. “No one said anything to me, really. I just… Get down sometimes.”

Remus looked confused. “You mean like depression?”

Patton curled back at the word, as though it were a physical blow.

“Well, fuck, Patty!” Remus sounded much brighter now, and when Patton looked back up, he could see that the other side was smiling. “You could have just said so!”

“It’s not just… that.” Even now, Patton was unable to say it. Unable to admit to it. “I’ve been… thinking.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

The joke startled a chuckle from Patton. It was choked and sad sounding, but it made Remus wiggle proudly nevertheless. Patton sniffed again. “No, not like that, sorry. I just mean that I’ve been… thinking about Thomas. About everything that’s been changing lately.” Patton stared across the room at a painting by 12 year old Thomas that was hanging on his wall. “About… how I’ve been holding him back. I can’t stop thinking about it, no matter what I do to try and fix things.”

“Then don’t!”

Patton blinked in confusion, tilting his head in confusion as he sniffed one more. “Huh?” he couldn’t help but mumble out. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t try to fix things.” The Duke grinned widely, showing off teeth. He seemed so proud of himself, but Patton was still confused. How could he not try to fix things? He kept messing things up, so he had to find a way to do it right this time. He needed to. “But-” A hand clamped onto his back, making him startle and tense. It left just as quickly as it came, Remus pulling it away as if he had been burned.

“Oops, sorry. Forgot to ask if that was okay.”

Patton frowned. He hadn’t meant to make the other side feel like touching him had been a bad thing. He typically loved physical affection! He just hadn't expected it, that’s all! But now he went and made Remus feel bad, because apparently that was all he could do lately-

“Anyways,” the Duke continued, his tone unbothered, “you don’t have to fix everything, Pattycakes. Especially by yourself. Sometimes things aren’t as broken as you think they are, and don’t really need fixing at all. Sometimes things fix better when you leave them alone and let time work itself out. And sometimes, you take it to a specialist who knows better than you on how to fix it.” That sounded… rather wise. It was more than a bit unexpected, coming from a side that was currently picking his nose as he gave his advice. But Patton was quickly learning that the others had more to offer than their appearance suggested.

Still... “How do I know which kind of thing this is?”

“You don’t.” Well, that was disappointing. “At least, I never do. Not right away. After a while you start to figure it out, but even then you can still mess up sometimes. But that’s okay.” Grinning a little more softly, Remus looked right into Patton’s eyes. “No matter what, you got others around who can help you. Even when you don’t think you need it, or aren’t allowed to ask for it, they’re there. Like plumbers or doctors! Better to use them than to play handyman or diagnose yourself with WebMD. Get your kids fucking vaccinated Karen!”

A startled laugh escaped Patton at that. He was a little in disbelief over the suddenness of it, but he sounded a little less like he was going to burst into more tears.

Remus seemed to take that as a victory as he cackled quietly himself. “I’m not sure if anything I’m saying makes any sense, but things are gonna be okay. Your world’s been shaken to its core, but it’s still in one piece. Mostly. Just gotta adapt now.” Patton rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve, they felt puffy and a little itchy, as he hummed in thought. “But what about Thomas and everyone else? The pain I’ve caused them…” “Did you say sorry?”

“Well, yes-” “Then the only thing you can do now is learn and work to do better next time.” Remus sounded so sure, so certain. But it couldn’t be that easy could it? “You don’t gotta keep apologizing for the same stuff. We’ve all done bad things before, me especially! Thomas is still standing, and not too worse for wear.” He couldn’t deny the truth of that. Thomas was still more or less in one piece. “He’ll be okay, and so will we. So will you.”

A small smile formed on Patton’s lips. It wobbled and didn’t go very far, but it was genuine. It was hard to shake away his worries, his fears, of the damage he caused and the future, how he’d fit in it. But Remus’s words helped. Made the knot in his chest loosen just a bit. “Thank you Remus.” The Duke stared wide eyed at him, suddenly seeming shocked and dazed. “Remus?”

The other jumped, snapping out of whatever spell he was under. “H-huh? Oh!” Dusting of pink coated Remus’ cheeks, stretched up as he smiled brightly. “Sorry. Not used to people thanking me. Also your smile is fucking adorable.” Now it was Patton’s turn for pinkened cheeks. “Oooooh that little blush is cute too! And it goes to your ears!”

Oh, that was embarrassing.

“Stoooooop!” He whined out, burying his now red face into his pillow pet again.

“Oh. Not okay to say, gotcha.” Patton’s head shot up at that, in time to see Remus frown down at his shoes. “You know I just sorta blurt out everything that comes to mind.”

“No, it’s okay.” Patton said, uncurling a little bit more. “I just felt embarrassed that’s all. It’s silly.” Remus’s frown deepened and he shook his head.

“Silly isn’t bad, but your feelings aren’t silly. So if you don’t like it, just say so. It’s not gonna hurt me any.” It was an easy out Remus was giving him, allowing him a chance to put barriers between them. But Patton was trying to move past those, wanted to move past them.

“No, it’s okay. I promise.” Slowly, Patton reached out and stuck out his pinky. “Pinky promise.” Remus snorted at that, but there was a playful gleam in his eyes. He wrapped his own pinky, that thankfully wasn’t from the nose picking hand, around Patton’s and cackled.

“In Japan, when someone makes a pinky promise they have a saying that threatens the person promising to not lie, or else they’ll cut off their finger and punch them ten thousand times and make them swallow a thousand needles.” That was a very gruesome image that Patton wished he hadn’t pictured. “Don’t worry though, I won’t do that to you. I like your hands too much.”

“O-oh?” Remus liked his hands? That was nice.. Maybe? “Why my hands?” “Well I like everything about you Pattycakes. So naturally, hands fall under that category.” Heat returned to Patton’s cheeks, blooming them in pink once more. “Awww the blush is back!” Remus shrieked with glee, kicking his feet wildly. “Wanna watch a movie?” The non sequitur nature of the question had the moral aspect blinking before he could fully process it.

“Um..” He didn’t really want to leave his room just yet, he didn’t feel quite ready. But a movie sounded nice, and he found himself wanting to spend more time in the Duke’s company. “Can we watch it in here?”

“You got it Pattycakes!”

Relief and a surprising… warmth filled him at that, his smile growing a little bit more. “Thanks.”

#intruality #remus sanders #patton sanders #sanders sides #dukality #ts patton #ts remus #ts intruality #moduke #ts moduke #Lucy if ur reading this I hope u like it #bc I did have a writers spiral in the middle of writing this bc I thought it was v bad #but I wanted to get it out to u bc it’s so late ))):#that being said I did not post something I rly think is bad sksnkxkdks I’m rambling

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zenrayne · 4 years ago

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Learn presence for negative thoughts and emotions

This can be applied to any feeling. I’ve tried this with my anxiety, depression, dpdr (depersonalization/derealization), CPTSD, PTSD, anxiety attacks.

there’s always a reason as to why you feel the way you feel. Some event in your life made you where you would be seen by someone else as being “irrational” if something remotely related to that initial stressful event would happen again. So technically our body isn’t being irrational, but trying to protect us. Even though we understand at that irrational moment nothing is actually happening that should be making us be feeling this way—even if it’s ridiculous and isn’t connected to any type of event prior—it is still happening. The fact our body is reacting to it and is feeling overwhelmed we shouldn’t feel that we are being irrational but be gentle with ourselves like a parent soothes their child.

I’ve started validating how I was feeling and accepting that something triggered me even if I don’t know what it was and/or just an over exaggeration. Because If you tell yourself “I’m overreacting I’m just being irrational why can’t I just be calm like everyone else”, this completely gaslights yourself (denies your own reality). In essence our body freaks out more because instinctually this does feel like a reason to be anxious to our body. When I validate I accept that this is happening even if I think it’s wrong and I shouldn’t be feeling this. I validate and accept that this is how I’m feeling even if it’s from something small.

Then I dive into the feeling. This part feels very impossible to do if you’ve never done it before but trust me the fear of facing/feeling fully the fear is greater than actually feeling it. Over time the more we deny our feelings and thoughts, we become more and more disconnected with ourself. It becomes hard to enjoy life fully and numbs out a part of us we actually really need to pay attention to. Our negative emotion is a direct path to finding how to make us feel better. It’s like a symptom from a cold, you have to first accept that you have symptoms of an illness to then be able to diagnose and then treat that sickness. You have to first accept you are having this emotion to be able to find the root of the problem and to then come up with a plan to “fix” the problem.

When I first validated and dived into my anxiety I very quickly felt calmer. It was the first time I was ever actually present with myself and I’ve been having panic attacks since I was almost 5 from abuse. It took me awhile though so what I’m saying here is it isn’t easy at all. In fact if you believe you can’t do this by yourself do this with a therapist or a family member or friend that understands you and what you’re going through. When I first did it I had been crying and hyperventilating for over an hour then suddenly I remembered something I read about being present with yourself through hard moments. Then I just decided to try it, because what the hell I already am losing my shit why not try something different for once. So I validated myself and made myself open to feel whatever it was that felt like it was going to burst in my chest. I closed my eyes and I heard silence, my rushing thoughts had stopped, the room had stopped spinning, and I felt better.

Not every time does this happen. One time I did this and instead of feeling relief I actually felt the pain inside of me first. It was so painful! I have no idea how else to describe it but it was so much grief it felt like the pain of losing your soulmate and your family type of grief. When I opened myself up I allowed however much time I needed. So I felt this pain for 40+ minutes; just ugly sobbing on the floor in my kitchen. I was trying my best to let me handle this situation naturally without forcing myself to do anything or to feel anything. I just wanted to let my emotions flow through and out of me. At one point I naturally felt the urge to accept whatever upset me. I accepted that it happened and I decided to use the rain to grow and not to be drowned anymore by it. So .. I hugged myself. I hugged myself and kept saying “it’s okay. There is a reason why I’m feeling this and it’s okay. I’m here now with you (myself) I’m here. I’m not leaving this time.” I said this to myself 7x before I calmed down. A few times after this event I did the same method again but I didn’t have to cry so much to feel better. But another time after I had cried a bit more. Based on how big the situation is impacting you depends on how long you need to sit with yourself to do this process. I’m sure in my future I will have to sit with myself for days, months probably years before I can accept and let go so I can form a plan to move forward. And this is completely fine if you feel this is you.

So I learned that telling yourself you shouldn’t feel the way you feel, and think the way you think is the biggest form of self betrayal you could ever do. So with the example of anxiety: when I read a ton of times people saying facing your fears will help you overcome it I would get pissed off because obviously in my mind they didn’t understand anxiety especially anxiety disorders. What I learned though is that phrase can be looked at another way: it’s not always literally facing your fear physically, but facing the fear mentally.

For people with anxiety disorders it can take a couple to a whole bunch of times to get past that one fear. Which is why exposure therapy works so well for anxiety disorders: it’s the only time you ever have to purposely try to be in that moment with the fear, to be with yourself in that moment. Where overtime the fear gets less and less. Our body isn’t scared of the actual fear most of the time, it’s usually scared of what we think will be the outcome of that fear based on an experience or hearing something bad happening to someone else. It’s all in the mind and that’s the first place you should learn to be present with when all you want to do is run or disappear from whatever’s causing the anxiety. What’s the first thing a regular parent does when seeing their child upset? They sit with them. Then they tell them it’s okay to feel the way they do: giving them permission to feel. And then they give advice to move forward. This process should be done with every relationship we have with others and ourself.

All of this can be applied to any emotion good or bad. I say good because some people find it hard to accept happiness. The first step is to validate your feelings! Accept that this is happening and it was caused by something big or small or nothing at all and that’s fine. Working towards moving on would to be to be more open to future happiness.

You can take this model of validating, accepting, letting go/moving forward, and transform your entire life. being present with your own thoughts, feelings, emotions has to be done first and only then can you work forward to heal, grow, or let go.

My advice is to do this when you’re in a crisis and can’t reach any help. Do this when you have a very strong emotion that you find yourself to be pushing against. You can do this actually whenever you want. You can start off with small emotions and work your way up. For DPDR (depersonalization/derealization) do this whenever you want. DPDR is an intense form of disconnection that causes dissociation. Learning to be present with any emotion will help you to over time become more and more connected with yourself. If you find yourself really hesitant to do this, that’s perfectly fine. Just know that the more hesitant you are the more you know in the future you need to attempt this process. The more hesitant you are the more intense the emotion is from past self rejection: your body can become so disconnected from continuous self rejection that your subconscious doesn’t trust you to stay present and therefore will make it harder for you to access that part of yourself. This can be done by creating extreme fear and panic the closer you get to feeling. This can be done by blocking a memory you can’t access. Theres lots of ways your mind can block or distract you from reaching a memory or feeling that was too painful for your past self to handle. This is done out of protection for that part of you and for yourself as well, so both parts within you don’t have to confront whatever is causing your intense emotion. This is why I strongly suggest doing this under the guidance of a therapist whether in session or not.

☀️💛 Good luck stay safe beautiful angels 💛☀️

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stubbychaos · 4 years ago

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Something I Can Never Have

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3| Part 4

Chapter 5 of Saviin’ika

Pairing: Paz Vizsla x Nurse!Reader

Summary: After days pass without you seeing your blue Mandalorian, you force yourself to make a promise that will ultimately strip you of your happiness, though you find it hard to stay true to your word. In the process, you also meet an unlikely companion that will teach you that not everything on Nevarro is ugly.

Rating: M for darker themes pertaining to abuse, animal neglect/fur trading, unresolved sexual tension.

Word Count: 10,000 (at least there’s finally plot lol)

Warnings: This chapter definitely starts off very dark and has descriptions of intense injuries. There’s pretty graphic descriptions of manipulation and abuse (I tried to keep all actual descriptions of the father actually abusing saviin’ika very non-detailed, but still, please read with caution if such topics make you upset and DM me if you want a safe summary of the chapter <3). There’s also a brief mention of animal neglect, but again, nothing descriptive at all!

A/N will be at end of the chapter!

“You know everything I do is for your own good, right? To make you stronger?”

You force yourself to nod when a crooked finger presses cruelly against the small gash at your hairline and you find yourself desperately missing the much softer touch of your Mandalorian; a few droplets of blood trickle past your brow and into the soft divot of your eyelid.

“Then why do you never learn?”

“I... I don’t know,” You whisper weakly, your body limp and weak against the uncomfortable cot, “I am sorry.”

“I only hurt you because I care about you--because I want you to be better. Do you understand that? If you just did your fucking job and listened to what I say, I wouldn’t have to hurt you all the time,” Your father informs you, though you’re certain he’s trying to rationalize his own actions so he can sleep at night, rather than actually comforting you, “I don’t want you wasting your time on someone who doesn’t care about you, not when you’re needed here and nowhere else. How long has it been since you’ve seen him? Two or three weeks?”

Your chest aches at his cruel words.

Sixteen days.

It’s been sixteen days since you’ve seen him and you’re certain it’s your own fault he stopped showing up without a word as to why.

After your companion had taken you to see the waterfalls, your father had been utterly infuriated upon seeing you with the Beskar-clad warrior, lengthening your shifts from easier twelve hour days to shifts that nearly lasted twenty hours. After finally emerging from the infirmary nearly twenty hours after he’d taken you to watch the sunrise, you had been absolutely heartbroken to find that your blue Mandalorian had not been waiting for you in the wee hours of the morning. After nearly half an hour of standing around, you had shrugged it off and slowly made your way home; you honestly wouldn’t expect anyone to wait for you that long and figured you would see him at some point later.

But then he’s not there the next day when you get off at a somewhat reasonable time--or the night after that.

Thinking that perhaps an emergency had arose in his tribe, you find yourself waiting against his usual spot the following nights when you are finally released from your agonizingly long shifts.

Still, he does not show up and while your faith in the Mandalorian is slightly shaken, it is not completely broken and hope still flickers in your chest like a tiny spark.

“It has been however many fucking days and you think he’s going to come back for an incompetent girl? He’s probably already forgotten about you. Why did the Maker curse me by having you as my last living blood?”

Your eyelids slip shut at the same time a tear trickles along the bridge of your nose and lands somewhere on the stiff cot that you physically cannot lift yourself from; you think you’ve heard him utter those words more times than he’s ever said ‘I love you’ or, ‘I’m proud of you’. You try to think of the last time he’s said something kind or encouraging to you, but your mind is foggy and the room around you is spinning wildly, breaths leaving your lungs in erratic little patterns that you have no control over.

You can’t even remember the last time he attempted a small smile in your direction, let alone a reassuring sentiment.

You’re certain that at least one of your ribs is fractured or broken and you vaguely remember patching up your blue Mandalorian upon your initial meeting, though that moment seems so far away and out of reach. You swear you can still feel how scalding his skin had been underneath your skilled hands and how the muscles in his abdomen had contracted and tensed upon feeling you rubbing that salve against sore ribs.

Your dry throat constricts and you force a sob away when you remember that night he had carried you home and tenderly treated your wounds while you were in and out of sleep, going so far to even take out your braids and massage your tender scalp.

You ponder what he would say or think upon seeing your current state--curled up on your own medical cot, bruised and battered and unable to work. Even if he found you to be pitiful, you’re certain he would manage to make you feel better and you hate that the ache in your chest is worse than the one in your bruised ribs.

“Look at me when I speak to you,” He furiously demands and you reluctantly crack your eyelids open, your head aching from the fluorescent lighting that assaults your sensitive eyes; you think you must be concussed, “You’re wasting your time with the Mandalorian, you know that deep down, don’t you? Do you even realize what they would do to a weak woman like yourself? His people are known to be ruthless and unforgiving towards outsiders. He’s going to turn his back on you or take advantage of--”

You tune him out after that.

Partially because you don’t wish to listen to the lies that he spits like venom and also because the ringing in your ears makes it hard to hear much of anything; you don’t want to hear what kind of torture he believes that the Mandalorians would ever inflict upon people like you when you know it to be false. It actually upsets you to the point of nausea--that another man who has hurt you so badly could attempt to convince you that the only man who’s ever shown you kindness and that you are absolutely infatuated with was against you--that he only wishes to harm you in the cruelest way possible.

Your Mandalorian--cruel?

Impossible.

You think you know your selfless, caring Mandalorian better than you know the back of your own hand and the horrific assumptions your father implies causes a terrible ache to form in the pit of your stomach--a disgusting feeling that makes you want to retaliate, though you force yourself to calm down. You truly do not want to intensify his anger; not when your ribs are aching something awful and the pounding in the back of your skull throbs more achingly the more he spews insults.

Ignoring the anger that quells deep in the pit of your belly, you let your eyes slip shut again and think of blue Beskar instead, or how lovely you think his visor looks in the moonlight, despite not being able to see what he truly looks like underneath his helmet. Though he threatened the life of the very man who hurt you so badly that you currently can’t even move, you think him to have the kindest soul you’ve ever known and you pray that he isn’t too upset when you see him again.

If you see him again.

As your father continues to remind you that you don't deserve the little happy moments that the Mandalorian has gifted you with in such a short amount of time, you try to ignore the fact your companion lied to you. You’re almost certain that it’s not his fault--that something complicated must have developed within his beloved tribe and though you worry for him, you also can’t help but to let your father’s venomous words manipulate your mind into briefly thinking that he’s completely abandoned you.

Usually your injuries are easy to hide with the long sleeves of your dress or longer leggings, but you can feel the contusion that's currently forming around your eye, as well as the blood that's starting to dry and grow crusty at your hairline. You’re only slightly grateful he hasn’t been there for you the past few days, knowing he would absolutely loathe to see what’s become of you and how messy and tangled your usually soft mane has become--

How you haven’t even bothered to decorate your messy braids with vibrant flowers because you no longer feel joy upon wearing them.

You think the skin that's visible must resemble your Mandalorian's dark blue armor and you find the irony of the realization sick and cruel; it’s unfair because you’ve always thought his scuffed up armor to be beautiful, but there’s nothing beautiful about your current state.

If you possessed even a fraction of the Mandalorian’s strength, you would not be in this painful position and you wished you were somewhere so far away where your father's violent nature was nothing more than a distant, faded memory. You think of the planet your Mando had described to you just weeks ago--Felucia--and vibrant flora that towers over the heavy-infantry warrior; you wonder if he had been making the story up to cheer you up, though you know him to be an honest man.

“Maybe one day I will have the chance to take you there, mesh’la.”

The mere thought of traveling among the stars with the warrior is enough to subdue the pain that’s coursing through your bruised body and your lips barely stretch into a tiny smile; you know it’s something that will most likely come to fruition, but perhaps if you get lucky, it will come to you in the form of a lovely dream one night.

“Clean yourself and get up,” Your father grunts upon realizing that you’ve been ignoring his deprecating speech, “You have a long shift today.”

“My head though,” You grimace when his fingers curl into fists, tears burning something fierce in your eyes at the thought of simply moving, let alone working a full shift in your current state, “I--I think I’m concussed.”

“If you have the energy to complain, then you have the energy to work,” He hisses and you let out a pained yelp when he roughly grabs your elbow and yanks you into a sitting position; the room spins around you and bile rises in your esophagus, “You should be thanking me for not breaking anything important, like your hands or legs. You gonna thank me? Or you gonna keep being an ungrateful bitch all the time?”

You clench your jaw and swallow the lump in your throat, feeling absolutely pathetic as you speak through your teeth, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” He spats and you cringe when you smell the alcohol and spice on his breath, “I will not have you disrespecting me when I’ve done so much for you. You’re going to stop seeing the Mandalorian if he shows back up again, okay? I don’t need him filling your head with such foolish fantasies and thoughts, especially when he’s distracting you from your job so much.”

“Father, please,” You beg, no longer caring about sounding so feeble because nothing leaves you feeling more bereft of all hope than the thought of not seeing your kindhearted Mandalorian if he chooses to ever come back “I promise I’ll be better and I’ll stop talking back all the time! Please, don’t make me do this. I’ll be a better daughter if you just--”

“If I just what?” He scoffs, sounding disgusted and you think his next words are probably the most heart-shattering words he’s ever uttered, “There is nothing I could do--nothing you could do--to ever make you be a better daughter.”

Tears trickle down your bruised cheeks as you force yourself not to sob, “Please don’t take him away from me.”

“Your Mandalorian has already given up on you, yet you try to defend him? If he truly cared, he would have been here for you days ago. Your cowardly warrior does not care for you like I do,” Your tears don’t affect him--they never have--and he almost seems amused as he wraps his dirty fingers around your wrist, squeezing until you cry out from the pain, “Don’t make me break your hands, little one,” He warns and you ponder how someone could be so cruel as to rob you of two of the only things that bring you the most joy, “They may bring in a lot of credits for me, but I would not be sad about breaking one or two fingers.”

It hurts to breathe, let alone cry, and you somehow manage to subdue your tears, though you have not felt such devastation in years. The pain in your ribs and the back of your skull is nothing more than a flicker of a thought as you contemplate what it is he wants you to give up. The anger you felt earlier upon hearing him talk so horrifically about your Mandalorian is nothing to the flames that currently dance wildly in your belly, making you feel absolutely feral and resentful towards your only living family.

“Don’t worry,” He coos when you sniffle and struggle to force your sobs away, “It wouldn’t be enough to keep you from doing your job, just enough to get the point across.”

Your body shakes with breathless, silent sobs that cause your ribs burn and throb in absolute agony, though you think your father’s words hurt far worse.

“No, mesh’la,” You remember your companion’s response upon hearing how you insisted that your father was family and didn’t deserve to be harmed, “He is a monster that deserves to feel shame for what he’s done to his own blood.”

“You really are a monster,” You speak the realization out loud, as if all the past abuse hadn’t been a clear indicator of that, “How could you be so cruel to your own daughter?”

He scoffs and finally releases your wrist from his painful grip, “I don’t have a daughter, just an incompetent nurse who can’t properly do her job because she’s too busy daydreaming about a future she’ll never have. Forget the Mandalorian and focus on your job, or else I’ll really make things far more miserable for the two of you and make sure you never help another fucking patient for the rest of your life.”

“You may be able to do this to me, but he would not let you lay a hand on him.”

“I can hurt him in other ways,” The cruel man reassures you, something dark and ruthless glimmering in his dark eyes; you wonder how a man can be filled with so much hatred and disgust towards their only blood, “If he cares for you as much as you think he does, then I think he wouldn’t be too happy if you suddenly disappeared, if he thought you ran away. Shit, perhaps he just wouldn’t care at all.”

You’re certain it’s a threat against your life, but the way he says it so nonchalantly fills you with utter resentment towards him and your chest heaves. You think back to when the infirmary had been robbed a couple months ago and how the bandit threatening your life had held a blaster to your forehead, but that seems like nothing compared to your father’s violent promise. Though you haven’t seen your Mandalorian in over two weeks and there’s a chance that he’s already tired himself of you, the thought of him showing up one night to simply find out that you ‘ran away’--well, you’re certain he wouldn’t believe a word that comes out of your father’s mouth.

He wouldn’t, right?

...Right?

You’re not sure what thought is worse, your Mandalorian feeling betrayed at the thought you would simply take off without a word or his reaction upon finding your lifeless body wherever your father would dump it, should he be the one to discover it.

“He would kill you,” You weakly inform him, though you feel that you have already lost this fight, “He already wants to.”

“I have connections too, little one,” He refutes easily and you know he’s only telling the truth by the way he smirks, “Ones much more powerful than a coward who chooses to live a life hidden in the shadows.”

Your fingers loosely curl into a fist at the insult, but you remain silent when you see his own hands form into much tighter fists.

“Forget him,” The cruel man repeats in a hushed growl and you refuse to meet his angry glare, “Or else you will both regret it.”

The words hurt more than his fists and you loathe that your voice cracks when you speak in a broken whisper, “Yes father.”

“Now, get up and get to work--you look like a damn mess.”

You weakly nod and tiredly wipe a hand down your face as your father leaves your office with the slam of a door, making you flinch at the aggressive action. You wince upon feeling the new bruises splayed across your skin and carefully slide off the medical cot, gripping the metal railing with stiff fingers and pressing your other hand to your aching ribs. Wearily, you make your way to the mirror that sits on your desk and squeeze your eyes shut upon seeing purple and blue bruises covering nearly half of your face, along with your neck and jaw.

You think you look just as bad as you feel.

After washing your hands and retrieving your suture kit, you slowly sink into your chair and begin the painful process of cleaning and stitching the gash at your hairline. The pain that comes with the horrific sensation of a long, hooked needle piercing your skin and tugging bloodied skin back together is pretty intense, it’s nothing compared to the agony that threatens to rip you apart when it dawns on you that your father truly expects you to forget the Mandalorian, as though he’s some sort of toy that you’ve outgrown.

“Why me?” You question nobody in particular, or perhaps the Maker that has cruelly elected you to such a painful life, “Stars... why me?”

Even though your vision blurs with tears and the throbbing pain in the back of your skull is damn near incapacitating, you continue to stitch and treat your own wounds, and you grow bitter upon realizing you’re your own patient. This is not what you envisioned when your mother decided to teach you everything she knew, hoping that someday you would have the same skills she possessed, though she was far more of a talented nurse than you could ever hope to be.

You don’t remember much of your mother, nor her soft voice and kindhearted touch, but as you finish tending to your wounds and force yourself to forget the blue Mandalorian that never truly leaves your mind, you focus on the patients that slowly trickle in and out of the infirmary for the next twenty hours or so. You’re far too injured to be working and even though your vision is doubled and speckled by black dots, you force yourself to focus and do your job. Only a few mention your new wounds, but when you insist that you were simply mugged the night before, they promptly drop the subject and you continue with your day as best as you’re physically able to.

As you find yourself thinking of your Mandalorian’s deep baritone and how he would hold you like it was pure instinct, you realize now what the warrior truly meant when he spoke of you feeling homesick for a home you had never even known.

You think the warmth and safety of the blue Mandalorian’s arms are the closest you’ll ever know to having a home and it is the only think that gets you through the most painful shift of your life.

When your shift ends eighteen hours later, black spots dot your vision and you can barely breathe with the intense, agonizing pain in your side.

You only make it a few buildings past the infirmary, nearly passing the dirty cantina you’ve known a few of your scummy regulars to frequent when you hear it.

It starts off as a high-pitched whine that eventually dissolves into pained whimpers that wrack your heart and pique your undying curiosity.

Despite the exhaustion that bleeds into every single one of your senses, the painfully heart wrenching noises of a creature beckoning for you to help it overpowers any other rational thought that your concussed mind can possibly conjure.

You know how absolutely dangerous the village is at this hour, but something about the hopeless whimpers combined with the fluorescent red eyes that seem to reflect underneath the moonlight absolutely haunts you. Though it’s difficult to make out anything in the dark, you’re very much aware of how desperate the strange creature sounds like it’s being tortured and despite the traumatizing events of the day you’ve just experienced, your natural instincts have you making your way to the helpless animal.

As you get closer, it reluctantly emerges from the safety of the dark corner it has been hiding in and you gasp out loud at the strange, yet astonishing sight in front of you.

The ethereal moonlight seems to reflect off of the creature’s gorgeous crystalline coat and you press the back of your hand to your mouth when you realize the poor animal is tied up to a kriffing dumpster on the outside of a disgusting cantina.

How could anyone tether something so absolutely beautiful to something so dirty?

You nearly sob and your heart aches something fierce as you cautiously make your way over to the whimpering creature, it’s bright crimson eyes seeming to glow in the darkness of the night and you hesitate when it lets out a shrill noise as it moves in a way that must cause intense pain.

The tiny cub shakes its beautiful coat and you startle a little when you hear the soft clinking of crystals jangling against one another, its coat seeming to be clad with some sort of stunning, reflective mineral. You’ve never seen something so ghostly or intangible and you raise your brows when the creature politely sits on its hind legs and stares up at you, its front paw lifted off the ground and you realize it must be injured if it refuses to support any weight on the wounded appendage.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” You coo, utterly entranced, but determined to help what seems to be such an innocent, beautiful creature; despite the horrific pain in your own ribs, you slowly sink to your knees and hold a soft hand out for the cute cub to sniff, “I only want to help you.”

The cub tilts its head to the side and you nearly giggle at how big its ears seem compared to its little head; the peaks of the crystalline ears look dangerously sharp and you remind yourself that this is a feral animal that could easily deal some serious damage upon feeling threatened. Keeping that in mind, you slowly reach into the pouch at your hip where you think you still have some sort of sustenance left over from your meek lunch.

Clumsily, the beautiful creature hobbles forward and eagerly accepts the piece of jerky you’re offering. For the first time since parting ways with your Mandalorian sixteen days ago, you find yourself grinning when the fox-like creature makes a hacking noise, as if it expects some sort of luxurious cuisine, rather than dried out meat.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” You murmur, earning a curious tilt of the head from the clearly neglected animal, and your grin melts into a sad frown as you move to untie the thick rope that’s wrapped like a vice around its neck; it flinches severely and you think you understand its fear all too well, “It’s okay, I’m going to get you back to the infirmary and fix up that leg. I only wish to help, I promise.”

Something about the soft determination laced in your quiet voice must resonate with the creature, because it’s soulful, crimson eyes blink slowly up at youas it plops down and heaves a tired sigh. Using the vibroblade the blue Mandalorian had given you over a month ago, you carefully cut through the thick rope and your heart breaks when you realize the pale flesh underneath is absolutely rubbed raw and slightly bloody.

“Shh, it’s okay,” You coo when it lets out a little whine as you inspect the extent of its injuries, though they seem fairly minor, “I’m going to take care of you, I promise. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

You smile sympathetically and lean forward to carefully pick up the cub, marveling at how tiny the creature is and loathing that you can feel its ribs, even underneath its rocky coat. Slowly, you rise with the strange animal cradled cozily in your arms and ignore the pain in your ribs as you gently scratch its rocky chin. You’re met with the pleasant sound of a happy little shriek and you can’t stop yourself from giggling, not even noticing the sound of shuffling from behind you, nor the soft click of a weapon pointed in your direction.

“Drop the vulptex right now.”

You turn around so fast that you nearly knock yourself off balance, gasping when you realize the source of the voice belongs to a Trandoshan that towers over you by more than a foot; you tremble at how terrifying the reptilian species is. He’s pointing a rusty blaster right between your brows and you think that this day can’t possibly get any worse, what with your injuries, your father’s haunting words, and your Mandalorian’s continuous absence.

As if it senses your fear and sadness, along with the severity of the situation, the creature in your arms--the vulptex--whines a little and tucks its wet snout against the crook of your neck.

“Drop the mutt,” The Trandoshan hisses, his Basic a little choppy and slurred as he staggers closer until the cold barrel of his weapon is pressed firmly against your forehead; you’re shocked that you manage to not tear up from fear alone as you stare into his emotionless yellow eyes.

“I would not surrender this abused creature so easily--not when your intentions are cruel,” You whisper, grunting a little when he shoves the blaster against you and urges you backwards into the stone wall, the back of your already aching skull colliding against the unforgiving surface, “Why would you own such a beautiful animal, only to harm it?”

“You think I actually care about the damn noisy thing?” He scoffs, eyes darting down to the shaking creature that you hold so protectively to your chest, “Her coat right now could easily earn me over two thousand credits; I don’t give a shit if she’s hurt or not, I only care about the pretty reward she will bring me.”

You glare fiercely at him, hating that your eyes fill with tears simply from the thought of the precious creature being bred and born for no other purpose than the cruel intentions of a sick man. Unconsciously, you hold the vulptex tighter against you, hating the little squeaks and whimpers she lets out, as though she’s aware of the torture she will endure if she ends up in the hands of this monster.

“Hand it over and I won’t hurt you,” He steps closer until his scaly body is pressed against yours and it all feels wrong and gross and you force your mind to go anywhere else than the wall of a dirty cantina, “Though I don’t think I would mind seeing you with more bruises, little one--seems like I’m not the first one you’ve manage to piss off today.”

For the umpteenth time that day, anger swells like a grave wound in the pit of your stomach and you hate that it only makes your tears burn hotter in your eyes, leaving a trail of scorching fire down your cheek. You cringe when the Trandoshan reaches forward to grab your bruised face and you’re hasty and panicked as you speak up before he can do anymore damage to your already wounded skin.

“Put the blaster down and I’ll give her back, I swear!”

He makes a strange hissing noise and grips your bruised cheeks harder, making you cry out in pain, “This is not a negotiation, little one. Just hand over the fucking mutt and I might let you leave in one piece.”

Though your voice shakes, you somehow steel your nerves and stand your ground, “I will give you your animal once you put down the blaster. How do I know you won’t just shoot me dead as soon as I hand her over?” You question, realizing that the confusion in your voice must affect him severely and when you speak up again, your voice is filled with fury.

“Put. It. Down.”

“Only because your anger is amusing.”

The Trandoshan clicks his tongue angrily at you and lets out the most vicious growl you’ve ever heard, though you must be convincing enough because he finally eases his body off of your much smaller one. Your heart pounds frantically in your chest as you watch him bend down a little to holster the unforgiving weapon and you remember what your Mandalorian had once told you in regards to defending yourself against enemies larger than you.

Without really thinking of the consequences, you promptly bring your knee up into the enormous Trandoshan’s groin, cringing at the loud yelp the man lets out and you further the damage by swinging your calf upwards when he nearly collapses, your ankle colliding with what you’re sure is his most sensitive appendage.

The fox-like creature in your arms whines and squeaks profusely as you take advantage of the situation by sprinting to the end of the alleyway where you know you can make a quick escape into the infirmary that’s just a few buildings away from your current location.

Your feet move before your mind even registers your actions and all that you know is that your cruel attacker is bent down at the waist, nearly on his knees and crying out in pain as you quickly sprint as fast as your aching legs will allow you to. Pain is radiating throughout your entire body, but you ignore it as you focus your entire being on getting out of a dangerous situation in one piece.

You think you’re safe and in the clear when a massive arm wraps tightly around your waist and tugs you close to them, causing you to cry out in pain and desperation as you angrily kick your legs about. In a furious rage, you shriek and thrash against the impossibly tight grasp your new attacker has on you and it fills you with utter fury; it’s the third time today that someone’s hurt you and something about the realization fills you with resentment and grief.

Barely registering the familiar baritone that attempts to calm you in a softer, exasperated tone, you thrash wildly against the arm that holds you to an unyielding chest. It’s familiar, but you’re certain that your mind is playing cruel tricks on you and you are not willing to give in so easily to your captor.

“Let me go!” You shriek, absolutely blinded by fear and terror to register that the one holding you to his chest is your only other companion--the only man you’ve ever trusted. His arm is wrapped around the worst of your bruising and you feel as though you're being crushed so heavily by the weight of your own consequences, more so than his armor.

"Shh, It's me," The familiar voice shushes you and you feel shame that you didn't recognize it earlier, that you didn’t even realize it was Beskar digging into your broken body, "I've got you--you're safe. Please don’t… don’t cry, mesh’la. Shit, please don’t cry--it’s just me."

‘It’s just me.’

He says it like you haven’t been waiting for him every night for weeks and you nearly sob at how unconcerned he sounds when you spent so much time terrified that he had simply abandoned you or had gotten gravely injured.

Before you can even think about weakly asking him why he didn't show up all those nights ago, another voice--a much angrier one--echoes from down the sidewalk. You're not sure whether your shakiness is from fear or adrenaline, but the warrior doesn't lessen his grip and holds your back tightly to his Beskar-clad chest. You’re grateful when he removes his arm from around your tender ribs, deciding that just above your chest seems like a better option and if you weren’t so shaken up, you’d blush upon feeling his fingers gently squeeze your shoulder in a comforting way.

"You fucking little--"

Immediately, your attacker’s angry tone dies down as he realizes that someone new has entered the altercation, immediately spotting the irritated Mandalorian that’s holding you and the ethereal creature securely with one arm, his other stretched past your head as he steadily aims a long blaster in the Trandoshan's direction. Though the intimidating criminal stands just as tall as the blue heavy-infantry warrior, you're certain that he's not nearly as broad or as intimidating.

Definitely not as skilled in his drunken stupor.

Your attacker's eyes widen just a fraction upon realizing who's currently holding you and your breath catches in your throat when he refuses to lower his blaster--would he really be so foolish to challenge someone who was trained from childhood to be a skilled warrior? You feel the Mandalorian fist the material of your dress that covers your shoulder and if you weren't so focused on the tense situation, you would have complained about the burning pain that shoots through your side at how closely he holds you to him to his Beskar chest. Swiftly and not unkindly in the slightest, the warrior gently urges you behind him and you’re quick to let out a deep exhale that you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in since he initially grabbed you.

"I don't want any trouble, Mando," The Trandoshan's voice drops, as though he can sense the anger rolling off of your Mandalorian's Beskar, "I just want the vulptex back--the girl is a thief and I want my reward."

“Thief, huh?” The blue warrior cocks his head to the side, like he's amused by the thought of you committing any sort of crime, "Seems to me like you're the thief. Vulptices only reside on Crait and are protected by law, even in the Outer Rim. I’m sure you already know that though."

“Since when do Mandalorians have morals?”

Your Mandalorian doesn’t say anything in response and you think that his silence is far more fearful than whatever else he could have said in retaliation. His leather-clad hand slowly reaches behind him and your cheeks burn something painfully fierce when you realize he’s reaching out for you, as though he’s worried that you’ve somehow vanished or that your visible injuries are because of the Trandoshan.

Despite the promise you made to your father earlier, you’re unable to resist the urge to reach out for him as well. As your fingers intertwine with his and you give them a gentle squeeze, your father’s words haunt you and tears fill your eyes when you remember you’re going to have to break off the tender relationship you’ve somehow formed with him in such a short amount of time. You thought that nothing would hurt worse than convincing your father that you would simply focus on work, rather than your Mandalorian, but now that he’s actually there and holding your hand like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever held?

You’re absolutely terrified that your heart is going to break into hundreds of piercing shards and somehow hurt him, even with the protection of his precious Beskar armor.

Upon realizing that the heavy-infantry Mandalorian isn’t going to relent, your attacker seems to falter and finally lowers his blaster upon hearing the warrior’s next words.

“I’m sure a fur-trader like yourself would have a pretty big bounty on their head,” A squeeze of your own hand fills you with warmth and reassurance as he argues with the cruel man that holds such ill intentions for such a beautiful creature, "I would not mind handing you over to a bounty hunter and seeing how much I could make off of someone like yourself."

“You really don’t want to do this, Mando,” The Trandoshan hisses and you realize that he’s trying to convince your Mandalorian to hand you and your newest companion over, “They’re not worth it--I promise.”

Thick fingers curl tightly around yours and you hate that your heart skips a little when you realize he’s silently reassuring you that you are worth all this trouble, a notion that’s difficult for you to truly believe after the past few weeks. You want to be upset with him for disappearing without a word, but you’re certain that he must have a reasonable explanation and fear churns in the pit of your belly when you remind yourself of the promise you’d made to your father earlier.

“I think he wouldn’t be too happy if you suddenly disappeared, if he thought you ran away…”

Tears burn painfully in your eyes as the Trandoshan relents with a furious growl, sending you one last glare as he angrily makes his way back into the cantina. The Mandalorian stands deathly still as he continues to stare at the spot where your attacker had previously occupied and you think that he must be collecting his thoughts before he speaks out loud. You’re certain that this isn’t how he expected your reunion to go--you pissing off a Trandoshan that rivals his own strength and having to yank you out of a bad situation--but as he slowly turns to regard you and the creature you cradle so closely to your chest, you think he’s not angry with you.

“Seems like you’ve had quite the day, saviin’ika,” He observes with a cocked helmet, his hand slowly moving to the underside of your jaw so he can tilt your head back to get a better view of your newest injuries; judging by the tension laced in his baritone, along with the way his chest heaves, you must appear as awful as you feel, “Not a good one, at that.”

The weight of his grave words fill your eyes with tears and you squeeze your eyes shut when the cold leather covering his calloused thumb ghosts along the apple of your bruised cheek; it brings you back to when he carried you to your hut and tended to your wounds. Somehow, his touch seems far gentler right now than it had that night, despite him wearing his gloves and it only makes you want to cry harder for the tender warrior.

“Y-You weren’t...” You force yourself not to sob, as you feel you’ve cried far too much for one day, “Where did you go? I-I waited, just like I promised. I know it was so late the first day, but after that I kept waiting and y-you never showed up and I thought you--”

Your voice cracks and you think from the way he slumps forward a little he must feel the pain that’s so prevalent in your broken words; he raises his hands in a pleading gesture as your tears burst like a kriffing dam. You’re certain it’s just the events of the day, combined with being concussed and absolutely exhausted that’’s making you so emotional, but you don’t care anymore and let it all out.

“I… I am sorry I have not been here for you,” He sounds ashamed as he leans down to tenderly press his Beskar-clad forehead against your bare one, taking great care to not bump into your stitches, “There were problems in the tribe that needed to be taken care of. I did not intend for it to last this long.”

You hesitate to open your eyes and peer up at him, though when you do, you find that the sight of his scuffed up helmet and visor bring you more comfort than what you’ve felt since his absence, “Are your people okay? I could help if someone is injured or--”

“No, mesh’la,” He still sounds pained as his fingers graze the edges of the bandage that covers the stitches at your hairline, “Everyone is okay, but thank you for your concern. It was just a dangerous mission that our bounty hunter needed help with and some negotiating with the tribe that I needed to be there for. I did not want to be away from you for this long--it was not my intentions--but I know that one day soon you will understand. Please don’t cry, I’m sorry.”

“No, I just... there is nothing to forgive. Your tribe should always come first,” You shake your head as you viciously wipe the tears from your cheeks, “It’s been a long day and I’m just being... I’m just tired--I’m exhausted and hurt.”

“Then let me take care of you, little nurse.”

“You… you should not be here; you should be with your own people,” You force out in a tiny whisper, though he does not seem afraid by your words in the slightest, “This is--what we have..” You hate that your expression crumbles and your voice breaks, because he immediately tilts his helmet, as though he already sees right through your lies, “It is wrong.”

He scoffs and you’re barely aware of the way he gently curls his fingers around your hip, pushing you up against the infirmary you had somehow made it to in your hysteria. Judging by the way he shakes his helmet at you and easily backs you up until you're pressed to the brick wall of the broken down place you work at, you think he must not believe your words at all. You feel as though you do not have the strength to explain what is going on as he cockily rests a forearm right next to your cheek against the brick wall of the infirmary that he’s successfully trapped you against.

“This is wrong, mesh’la?” He questions softly--desperately--and you think your heart might combust at how gentle his modulated baritone is, “Is it so wrong that I couldn’t stop thinking of your eyes and smile every night I was away from you? Is it wrong that I dream of how soft your hair feels when I take off my gloves or that I only wish to hold you when I am alone in my bed at night? Would you really be so cruel to me after I traveled so long just to see your pretty face?"

“Was it not cruel of you to be away for so long without me knowing why? I thought you might have...” Your gaze lowers to his cuirass in embarrassment and shame, “I thought you were injured or that maybe you just didn’t... you didn’t want me anymore.”

He tenses, back straightening as he makes a strange choking noise, “I always want you--I always will. It pained me to not be able to see you in person, but you were in my dreams whenever I actually managed to get sleep. Do you really not want this anymore? Did I hurt you that badly?” He suddenly sounds fearful and your heart absolutely aches in your chest, “I would get on my knees and ask for forgiveness if that is what you wished for.”

“I would not allow your big ego to take that big of a hit,” You jokingly whisper--a poor attempt to lighten the situation, though it stops him right before he can fall to his knees, “This is--it’s just something that cannot go on any longer.”

“You are making no sense to me, mesh’la.”

You release a small sigh when his fingers drift up to the remnants of dried blood that have crusted into your roots, “I am not a cruel woman, Mandalorian, I am tired and I would not let you feel the same pain I have felt,” You whisper the last part as he gently nudges his forehead against yours, “I would not wish it upon anyone, especially you.”

“You think your father could hurt me?” The Mandalorian’s thumb is rubbing soothing circles into your hip as he tilts his helmet, forehead still pressed to yours and you force your expression not to crumble when you remember your father’s words from earlier, “He wouldn’t be able to lay a finger on me--he wouldn’t be able to even think about it before I’d have him in ashes at your feet.”

“Must you make everything so difficult?” You inquire lips trembling because he does not realize the true extent of the kind of pain your father it able to inflict on the fearless warrior without even laying a finger on him, “You should leave. P-Please, you do not understand what he is--what he can do to you.”

“What did he say to you? Please tell me he did not get inside that pretty head of yours,” He taps the underside of your chin and urges you to peer up at his visor and you fear that he’ll see the despair and agony burning something fierce in your shimmering eyes, “Is that really what you wish for, mesh’la? You gonna break my heart like this?”

“You know what I wish for, yet it is something I can never have, Mandalorian.”

“Don’t do this to me, to us,” He sounds just as devastated as you feel and it only complicates the situation more than you could ever hope to anticipate as he continues to speak in the same tone, “Don’t take this away from me--not when it’s the only good thing we’ve both had in so long and I... please let me help you.”

He sounds so despondent and the graveness of it causes your heart to ache terribly as you shake your head frantically, tears streaming down your cheeks and into the leather covering his fingers.

“Let me take you away from here.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and rest the back of your head against the wall he has you trapped to; all confidence you had in your attempts to break things off with the Mandalorian dissipates the very moment you feel the cool leather of his thumb kiss the corner of your mouth. He cocks his helmet to the side when you turn your head further against his hand and slowly let your eyelids slip shut when your lips meet the palm of his black glove; you long for the warmth of his rough skin instead.

You simultaneously loathe and love that he has this effect on you--that he holds your heart so protectively in his palm--and you know you're playing a dangerous game as your free hand comes up to press against his much bigger one. You trap the cold leather close to your face and don’t care when you force him to apply the tiniest pressure to the blue and purple bruises covering half of your face.

You’re barely aware of the way he raises his fingers, so he causes you no pain.

He lets out a deep, dreamy sigh when you press a firm kiss to his palm and all thoughts pertaining to the promise you’d previously made to your father disappear as he tenderly strokes your cheek with his thumb.

“I have to tend to her wounds, Mandalorian,” You murmur when the vulptex cub lets out an irritated whine and you feel emptier when he reluctantly pulls his hand away from your face, though he keeps your hand trapped firmly in his.

“Then I will tend to yours after, mesh’la.”

“They really aren’t that bad,” You insist, though the ache in your ribs and the throbbing in the back of your skull reminds you otherwise, “They look a lot worse than they feel.”

“You are a terrible liar,” He sighs again and gently squeezes your hand as you lead him into the infirmary, taking great caution to lock the entrance behind you, “I can tell by the way you are breathing that your ribs are injured. Let me--just, please let me take care of you."

You should tell him to leave, your father's threat lingering in the back of your mind, but the temptation of your Mandalorian's bare touch outweighs any rational thought you might have had. So, you relent with hardly any fuss, giving the stubborn man a small nod as you tiredly guide him into your office and turn on the lights.

"I do not want you to see my body like this," You warn him as you tenderly lay the wounded creature in the center of your medical cot, "I am ashamed of my bruises and scars."

You barely glance at the warrior as he lazily removes his heavy cannon, as well as the jetpack that's attached to the huge weapon. He freezes upon hearing your meek words and shakes his helmet as you begin to disinfect your tiny patient’s minor wounds, earning you soft squeaks and whines in the process.

"That shame belongs to him, mesh'la," Your Mandalorian reassures you in a firm tone that makes you think he's upset, "Never feel ashamed for the cruelty of others, especially when you did nothing to deserve any of this. As for the scars, there is nothing embarrassing about the stories that tell your survival."

“Do you have many?” You question, not able to meet his emotionless visor, though something about how terse he sounds makes you think he’s not as stoic as he always tries to appear to be, “I know when I stitched you up a couple of months ago you, I just didn’t see many scars.”

“The armor doesn’t always hold up,” He quietly admits and you finally turn your head to peer up at the dents in his helmet; dread pumps through your veins when you realize the scars on his Beskar must have been a result of a powerful blaster shot and you wonder if the bare skin beneath is scarred as well, “I have many scars as well. Some I’ve gotten from fights I’m not so proud of, but they are still a part of me and tell the story of who I am today.”

You contemplate his words carefully, observing all the scuffs and dents in his dull blue armor before collecting your thoughts, “I am not a warrior like you and I did not get these scars from fighting in battles. There is no honor behind my story--behind learning how to take beatings and keeping my mouth shut so I won’t be hurt worse. This is not a battle, it’s just learning to live with it.”

You turn away from him when you fear that you won’t be able to hold your composure any longer, tensing a little when the Mandalorian speaks in a low, deeper baritone, “Maybe it is not a battle you’re fighting, but that doesn’t make you any less of a warrior, mesh’la. You’re far braver than anyone in this damn village and I’ll keep telling you that until you finally believe it.”

“And what if I never believe it? What will you do then?”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to keep saying it until the day I die.”

You smile sadly and not knowing how to respond, you simply fall into a thoughtful silence as you check the cub for any broken bones or wounds that might not be visible; after confirming nothing is broken, you spin around in your chair to face the Mandalorian. He’s leaning against your desk, wood creaking underneath the weight of his body as he stares right back at you with his bare hands resting on his hips. Just the way he stands when he’s in a relaxed environment screams confidence and power and you think it to be amazing that someone can consistently exude that kind of energy, even to someone like you--someone who’s seen him grow shy and even sometimes vulnerable.

“Would you please hand me the antibacterial cream?” You politely ask as you situate yourself in the most comfortable position that your bruised ribs will allow you to sit, offering him a tiny smile when he nods and turns around to reach up to the top shelf bolted to the wall, “Thank you.”

“Sure,” He hums as he makes his way over to you in two wide strides, seeming to be unbothered by you ordering him around, “All this trouble over a vulptex that looks like a little runt?”

“All creatures matter the same to me, Mandalorian,” You gratefully accept the little jar he holds out for you to take and you scoop out the white cream on two fingers, “No matter how big or small they are, they all deserve basic medical attention.”

“You’re something else, saviin’ika,” He informs you, sounding amused as he holds a hand out for the cub to sniff, though the ethereal creature merely turns its nose away and blinks slowly at you; the Mandalorian shakes his helmet with a grunt and turns his attention to you as he leans against the back of your chair.

“Do you know much of this species?”

The Mandalorian hums as he lazily wraps his fingers around the top of the backrest of your chair, seeming entirely comfortable to be this close to you, “I know they’re native to the planet of Crait, but other than that, I don’t know much else outside of the fur trade and them being smuggled and slaughtered for their crystal coats.”

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach and you hate that tears immediately burn your eyes as you stare at the precious little creature and her soulful crimson eyes, “S-Slaughtered?”

“It is best not to think about it, little nurse, especially when your heart is so soft compared to everyone else’s,” He sighs and he must be mentally kicking himself in the back of his scuffed up blue helmet for exposing you to such terrible news, “You did a good thing--saving this little runt. Her fate would have been… unfavorable, to say the least.”

You swallow the lump in your throat as he gently thumbs your braids that lack their usual vibrant flowers; they had all fallen out upon the beating you’d taken earlier and it felt so wrong to be without them, “Do you think her family--her mother--?”

“I don’t know,” He answers honestly, dutifully stroking the unruly baby hairs away from your forehead as you continue to wonder what kind of trauma this beautiful creature must have gone through, “Like I said, it is best to not think about it.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop thinking about what that man would have done to this poor animal,” You confess in a meek whisper as he smooths a calloused hand over your braids in a comforting manner, “How can people be so…?”

Your question hangs heavily in the air like a dark gray cloud and the Mandalorian makes a small noise in response, wordlessly answering that he doesn’t know why people are capable of acting so cruelly to those who don’t deserve it.

“That Trandoshan… did he do anything to you? I could go back and--”

“Always so ready to fight,” You smile sadly, watching as the cub slowly falls asleep underneath your tender hands and the soothing sensation that your homemade cream bestows upon its burning wounds, “He did not hurt me. If anything, I hurt him.”

You continue when he makes a questioning hum from the back of his throat, “I kind of uh, kicked him between his legs… twice?”

You blush fiercely when he makes a choked sound and reaches out to gently squeeze your nape, he sounds like he’s trying not to laugh when he speaks, “You kicked a man in the balls? A Trandoshan?”

“I was left with no other choice and did what I needed to.”

“You are much braver than you believe,” You think you hear a twinge of admiration in his cool baritone and shake your head a little at the sentiment, refusing to believe his words “I mean it. Not many with no fighting experience would have the courage to take on someone so much bigger to protect something so little, especially when you’re already hurt. You should feel proud.”

“Th-Thank you,” You whisper, shuddering when his hand slowly travels down your neck and settles on the space between your shoulder blades, rubbing the tension away from your aching muscle; your fingers fumble with the roll of gauze as you slowly finish wrapping it around the cub’s raw neck, “You are… you’re distracting me from my work, Mandalorian.”

“I would prefer to distract you in other ways, mesh’la,” That slight cockiness is back in his modulated voice and when you try so desperately to think of some sort of witty comeback, you find that your mind is full of thoughts of what other distractions he could possibly mean. His hand slowly trails up your back and around the slope of your shoulder, eventually stopping at the base of your throat and urging your head backwards so the back of your skull is gently pressed against his armored-clad abdomen and you’re peering up at him with wide, inquisitive eyes. He barely uses any pressure to control you and it’s then that you realize it’s not dominance he seeks, but more so your trust in him, and knowing that he would never harm you with ill intent.

“I have a patient to treat.”

“So do I.”

“I’m still upset with you.”

He releases the gentle, barely-there grip on your throat at your weak words and you exhale a long, deep sigh as you finish wrapping up the vulptex’s sprained paw with a small splint and a tight layer of gauze to keep the bones from shifting. Grabbing the thin pillow from the top of the medical cot, you slowly rise from your chair, fully aware of your Mandalorian’s attention on you as you place the pillow in a safe corner of the room before retrieving a small, metal dish that you would typically use to discard debris into upon treating injured patients. Instead, you fill it with water before placing some dried meat into a smaller dish, just in case your newest companion becomes hungry at some point throughout the night.

Once you settle the healing creature near its water and food bowls, you hesitantly turn to the Mandalorian that now occupies your chair, legs splayed wide, as though he doesn’t give a damn about how much space he takes up in your little office. As you approach him after making sure the cub is sound asleep and comfortable in her cozy corner, you find that you don't mind his hulking stature in the slightest and place a gentle hand on the spot between his pauldron and the lip of his helmet.

“Mesh’la,” He greets you in a quiet huff as you slowly lower yourself onto the cot with a pained expression etched upon your features; his hand moves to your thigh and carefully tugs you closer to him, “Your wounds?"

"I've done all that I can already," You inform him weakly, putting up no fight when he gently guides you into a laying position on your side by placing a firm hand on your shoulder, "I don't have anything for fractured ribs."

"I do," He begins to pull a familiar jar from the pouch at his hip and you shake your head a little upon realizing it's the bacta salve you gave him two months ago, "Please, let me take care of you the same way you take care of everyone else."

“I’m not used to--”You swallow the lump in your throat and eventually nod your consent, melting into the stiff cot when he gently wraps his fingers around your bare calf and you speak in a weak whisper, "Okay, just please be careful, the bruising is--it's pretty bad."

"I would never--" His chest heaves and his head tilts as his visor lands on your face, "I'll always be gentle with you, mesh'la."

You nod and fully relax against the mattress, peering at his scuffed up helmet as his fingers curl into the hem of your dress; you think his hesitation is endearing because most men would not have the same reaction, "It is okay, I'm wearing shorts."

"How unfortunate."

So much for hesitation.

Your face grows so hot that you feel it spread to your earlobes and you shake your head at the man who's determined to be your own nurse. You think it’s ironic that you’re in the same position he had once been in during your initial meeting and you now understand why he had become so tense upon touching his warm skin. He’s barely touched you and your heart is beating harder than a war drum before battle; you briefly wonder if this is what he had in mind when he inquired about treating your wounds and you think he must enjoy watching you squirm a little.

Yet, you know his intentions are pure and he only wishes to help you.

"Do you flirt this way with everyone?"

"No," He sounds utterly amused by your exasperation and shy disposition, "Just pretty nurses who go around picking fights with Trandoshans."

You scoff at that, fully aware of what kind of game he’s playing with you, “It seems as though you are the nurse and I am your patient now, though.”

“I... uh, yes, it does seem that way, mesh’la.”

You roll your eyes at him, though a small smile threatens to break your stoic features, "It is not professional to flirt with your patients, Mandalorian."

He huffs a little, risking a cursory glance at your face before carefully sliding your dress up your thighs and stomach so he can get a good look at your ribs. Your breath hitches in your throat when you feel his calloused knuckles graze the outside of your bare thigh and you force your mind out of the gutter, reminding yourself that he’s doing this to tend to your wounds.

"Oh, saviin'ika," You hear him sigh gravely as he lightly drapes your dress just underneath your bust, exposing your severely bruised skin to him, "He… he did all of this to you? Wh-Why? Maker--how could anyone--?"

You flinch a little when he cautiously lays a warm hand near the darkest of the bruises and he’s astoundingly quick to yank his hand away, as though you’re the one that’s caused him such pain and you shake your head a little. You reach out to grab his warm hand in your colder one and guide it back to your bruised skin, longing to feel any sort of tender touch after the rough, violent week you’ve had.

"He caught me daydreaming instead of working. I should have--"

"Don't you dare blame yourself for this," He breathes, a twinge of devastation clear as day in his crackly voice, "Nobody deserves this kind of torture except for him and him only. I wish you would--" He sounds like he's in even more pain than you and your heart shatters upon realizing you've unintentionally reduced him to such a state, "I wish you would let me kill him for you. I could even make it fast so you wouldn't think me to be as cruel as him. Please, mesh--"

"I want to continue to be a nurse, Mandalorian," You weakly remind him, remembering your father’s threat as your own nurse glides a cautious thumb along your tender skin, remaining diligent in not applying any pressure, “I could not keep helping others if you killed him--the infirmary would close down and I would be left without a job.”

The Mandalorian shakes his head and you watch as his rough fingers collect a generous scoop out of the jar that looks just as filled as the night he’d carried you home and tended to your wounds then. You wonder if it’s simply an instinct for him to take care of others and you give him an encouraging smile when he begins to rub the warm gel against the worst of your bruises with far more tenderness than you’ve ever experienced. You can tell he’s utterly afraid of causing you further pain and you watch as he keeps his visor trained on his massive hand that’s currently soothing your wounds.

“What if you could though? What if there was a way you could continue to help others and not have to fear him?”

You force yourself not to ponder his words too much, knowing such wistful thinking will only end in more pain.

“I would think it to be a fairytale,” You finally murmur, eyes slipping shut as he continues to slowly and carefully soothe your bruises with a ghost of a touch; the bacta salve is pleasantly numbing and you’re suddenly grateful for the unexpected medical attention, “And I have never believed in fairytales, Mandalorian.”

He simply hums and doesn’t say anything else as he finishes rubbing the numbing salve against your tender skin; though the dull ache still lingers, you’re certain the pain will be minimal come morning. You think he’s finished when he kindly fixes your gray dress so the hem is settled against just above your knees once again, but then he’s standing up and you barely lift your head when you hear water running from the small sink that’s adjacent from where you lay. The Mandalorian seems like a man on a mission as he keeps his back to you and goes through a few drawers and cupboards before finding what it is he’s searching for.

You make a small questioning hum as he makes his way over to a little sink that you'd normally wash your hands in, "What are you doing?"

He barely turns his head to you as he harshly wrings out a soaking rag in the sink, "I am cleaning you up. You have blood in your hair."

"You don't--" Your heart swells at the gesture; you hadn't really had much time earlier to thoroughly clean yourself up and had felt the dried up blood crusted into your hairline all day, "Th-Thank you. That's really sweet of you."

He merely grunts as he shuts off the water and makes his way back to the cot you currently occupy and you blink in surprise when he gently slides a hand underneath your head and urges you to sit up just a little. It takes you a second to realize what he's doing and you carefully lean up on an elbow so he can carefully shift himself behind you on the cot and your face grows warm at the thought of him yearning to be so close to you.

As he settles behind you and moves you up into more of a seated position between his splayed thighs, carefully wrapping his thick fingers around your biceps to pull you up further against his chest, you completely forget your father's foreboding threat. Now, you're focused solely on the way he curls himself around you to get a better look at the dried blood matted to your scalp.

"Nurses don't typically treat their patients like this, Mandalorian."

He lets out another grunt and firmly keeps his hand cupped to the underside of your jaw so he can tilt your head backwards, “I just wanted to be close to you after not seeing you for so long. Besides, I don’t hear you complaining at all, mesh’la,” He lowers his helmet a little as he gently dabs at the small section of matted, crusty hair, “Are you going to tell me the real reason why you tried to get me to leave you tonight?”

Your eyelids slip shut as he soothingly rubs your jaw with his thumb and you wish he wasn’t wearing his cuirass so you could melt against him easier, “This is dangerous for both of us."

The scratchy material of the cloth tugs at your skin a little, but it's nowhere near painful as he continues to dutifully clean the blood from your scalp, "What did he say to you?"

Tiredly, you rest your hands on top of his armor-clad thighs and lean further against his chest as you force yourself to lie to the only man you’ve ever admired, “Only the truth--that I need to stop getting distracted so much. I-I have a job to do.”

“That does not mean you shouldn’t be allowed to be happy,” He breathes and you keep your eyes closed when he moves to tend to the bruises; you don’t have the heart to tell him that your happiness would end with your demise, “You can still help people and... and be with me.”

Your brows furrow and your chest heaves as he affectionately rubs the soothing salve against your cheek before dutifully moving to the black and blue skin around your eye. You think of earlier when he spoke of your strength and scars and how you insisted you were no warrior, but as the Mandalorian drops his helmet until the chin of it is resting on your shoulder, you realize you are at war with yourself.

How could you possibly deny this man anything?

Even when the bacta is absorbed into your pleasantly numbed skin, he keeps caressing your cheeks, nose, and lips and you slowly turn your head until your nose bumps against his visor; if he weren’t so close to you, his next words would have been inaudible.

“I wish I could kiss you right now, mesh’la.”

His thumb barely parts your lips and you feel his other hand come up to feel the frenzied pulse at the hollow of your throat, seeming all too content to touch you anywhere you’d allow him to. You feel utterly warm and helpless when his thumb gently pulls at your bottom lip and a desperate noise somehow passes through his modulator.

“The things I would do for you,” He groans upon feeling the warm saliva on the inside of your lip, “The things you do to me...”

You swallow the lump in your throat as you speak, your words a weak promise that he doesn’t realize to be true in that moment, his mind only focused on the way your tongue barely grazes the rough pad of his thumb to register the weight of your statement.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Mandalorian.”

Saviin’ika= Little Violet

Mesh’la= Beautiful

Taglist: @parabatai-winchester @auty-ren @theocatkov @oloreaa @talesfromtheguild @blindedbyyourgrace17 @datmando @dartheldur @miscellaneous-mando @karpasia @ben-is-a-hoe @the-feckless-wonder @whatababeleia @maybege @aeryntheofficial @corrupt-fvcker @lackofhonor @phoenixhalliwell @crazy-kat-in-the-hat @roxypeanut @mandolovian @honestlystop @teaofpeach @macabrefaerie @acynicalcat @spaghetti-666 @readsalot73 @lanatheawesome @absurdthirst (as always, please let me know if I missed anyone!!)

Author’s note: SO I literally say it every single chapter, but you guys are absolutely amazing and I’m so grateful for all the sweet words and support y’all have given me. When I started writing the first chapter, I only intended on it being 3-5 chapters at the most, but I literally adore these two lovebirds and now I’m over here planning out a whole ass novel for them lmao.

Also if I take a long time to reply to your kind replies/reblogs/asks, please forgive me!! My dumb self gets so overwhelmed in such a good way and I never know how to respond :( I definitely see every like, every reply and reblog and ask you guys send me and I adore all of you <3

#paz vizsla x reader #paz vizla x reader #mandalorian x reader #Paz vizsla x you #paz vizla x you #idk if it's vizla or vizsla anymore so im using both to be safe lmao #mandalorian fanfic #my writing #LORD THIS CHAPTER TOOK SO MUCH OUT OF ME #AT FIRST HE WASNT EVEN GONNA BE IN IT AND THEN I JUST COULDNT STOP MYSELF #AGHHH

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polaroid15 · 4 years ago

Text

To Be Like You

Read on ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30005406

Summary: I’ll kill you and everyone you love. I’ll kill you dead.

Peter closes his eyes to keep the world from spinning. His panic sits like putty in his throat, blocking the air from reaching his lungs. He wraps his fingers around his neck, his pulse erratic underneath like he had just finished running a mile.

Come on Peter. Come on Spider-Man.

Or, the missing scene in Homecoming after the vulture fight.

----

It’s not working out.

I wanted you to be better.

There’s sand in Peter’s eyes, in his cuts. It mixes with his blood and adds to the ache, stinging and burning every inch of his skin like fire.

It hurts, but really it’s nothing in comparison to the heaviness in his chest.

I’m going to need the suit back.

Mr. Stark. Toomes. Homecoming.

He’s not exactly sure how he ended up on the cyclone, everything in his recent memory a dark blur. One moment he’s standing in front of Toomes, the last of his energy spent in cleaning up the beach and the next he’s sitting in the sky. The air is colder up here, but he’s too in shock to really feel it. Besides, it doesn’t come close to how cold it had been on the plane.

Before he had crashed it, of course.

Or when Toomes had dropped him in the river.

I lost the internship.

Logically he knows he needs to move, that he needs to go home, but the low-burning fire on the beach distracts him and steals all his attention along with the breath in his chest. He stares and reimagines the impact of the plane hitting the earth, of Toomes slamming him into the sand. The burns on his hands make them tremble and the pain brings tears to his eyes.

If you’re nothing without the suit you shouldn’t have it.

I’m trying to save you!

He wants to go home, crawl under his covers, bury his day deep underground and let it die. To wake up tomorrow and for everything to go back to the way it was.

But he can’t, the prospect impossible.

May is home.

It’ll break her heart.

Nothing will ever be the same again and the deep-rooted sadness that accompanies the realization threatens him to tears.

You smell like garbage.

Ned could help him. Ned can help-

It’s almost enough to spur Peter into action. But then he pictures Ned at homecoming with the rest of the normal kids and a deep pain separate from his physical infirmities cuts through him like a knife.

Like a talon in his chest.

Ned doesn’t deserve it, Peter realizes bitterly, even if he is his guy in the chair. Besides, Peter can barely fathom the energy to move off the cyclone let alone travel all the way to Ned’s house.

He has no phone. He’s out of web shooter fluid.

He’s out of options.

Hey. I just saved your life. Now what do you say?

Thank you.

A low noise of anguish comes out of his throat, surprising him. Through the smoke and the fire he can see Toomes’s legs jutting out in the sand. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t tried to escape.

I’ll kill you and everyone you love. I’ll kill you dead.

Come on Peter. Come on Spider-Man.

A sob rips through him, and out of everything that has happened tonight, it’s what surprises him the most. Tony abandoning him, the warehouse crushing him, getting thrown off a plane, his fight with Toomes- it’s all too much and he can’t breathe-

Lights and sirens coax his eyes open, though the tears in them make it near impossible to see. There’s ambulances and firetrucks and police cruisers.

To clean up the mess he made.

Is everyone okay?

No thanks to you.

He’s too tired to be relieved.

He doesn’t look for Happy’s car.

Sorry doesn’t cut it.

He should go to Ned’s.

Peter tries to move. Can’t. An overwhelming chill infects his body. He feels lightheaded and woozy and somewhere through the cutting numbness he feels his entire body give up on him. It’s deep, bordering on bone dead exhaustion. When he reaches up his fingers to touch at his chest they come away painted red.

Red, like May’s hair.

Red, like Tony’s armour.

Red, like the suit he had lost.

A deep nausea starts at the base of his gut and his vision shifts like a kaleidoscope. Only now does he realize how badly he’s screwed up, how he’s going to bleed out on the cyclone of all places.

He doesn’t have his phone, doesn’t have Karen or Mr. Stark or anybody. For once his inability to ask for help is entirely his own fault. There are no plan b’s, no second chances.

He’s alone.

It’s scary.

Come on Peter. Come on Spider-Man.

A bus was thrown at him, a warehouse dropped on his shoulders. He crashed a plane and fought a man with metal wings. It had taken strength. More than he’s ever had to use in his life.

And where is that strength now?

He doesn’t even have the energy to wipe the tears off his cheeks.

Through depleting vision, he sees blurred figures approach Toomes, the lights of their flashlights hitting his makeshift prison.

It’s over, he thinks, but it’s empty and cold. It doesn’t feel anything like he had hoped it would. And maybe that’s what it means to be a hero- to feel like you lose even when you win.

He wants to go home.

But he can’t.

The beach turns black, his chin lolling down to rest on his chest.

He’s so tired.

-----

Tony hadn’t quite expected to end his night on the beach and especially not surrounded by the burning remnants of his belongings. The plane had sheared an ugly line on the coast, though the damage is admittedly nowhere as catastrophic as it could have been.

Everyone is safe, they had assured him. No casualties.

Regardless Happy is a mess, unable to look him in the eye. Tony tries hard not to be upset at him.

His friend comes up to him now. His face is pale and ashen, the panic in it accentuated by the low light of the ruin around them. Breathless, Happy gestures over his shoulder with his thumb. “We uh- we found something boss. Over here.”

Feet sinking into the sand, Tony stumbles after him. It doesn’t take long for Tony to see their destination, standing straight like a beacon through the destruction. All the valuables on the plane, everything, stacked together neatly. A man is sitting at the base of the pile. The Vulture, Tony realizes darkly.

But it’s not what has the breath stalling in his chest.

It’s the webbing holding everything together.

Peter.

World narrowing and ears ringing, Tony crosses the rest of the distance to stand in front of the criminal. He looks smug, Tony thinks, and a little more than rough around the edges. His clothes smoke on their edges. There’s blood in his hairline and under his nose.

And beside his face, stuck to the mess, a note from Spider-Man.

P.S. Sorry about the plane.

“Where is he?” Tony asks, his fingers curling involuntarily into fists. The rational part of his mind is telling him to calm down, because Peter wouldn’t have been able to clean up the beach if he were dead.

He’s okay. He has to be okay.

Toomes smiles crookedly at him, reflecting behind it some foreign aspect of loss beyond the visible world. Tony has seen it hundreds of times, feels the weight behind it. “Pedro?” Toomes asks lightly, and Tony’s blood turns to ice. “Dead, hopefully.”

Happy holds him back from slamming his fist into Toomes’s teeth, though his own face reddens with anger. “You know who he is,” Tony says instead, accusatory to cover the fear creating a sinkhole in his chest. “How?”

Smirk unfailing, Toomes shrugs as if he hadn’t just been beat by a fifteen year old kid. “He was my daughter’s date to homecoming. Too bad he missed it.”

Happy swears viciously and let’s Tony go, taking a resolved step back. Freed, Tony drops to his knees in the hot sand and wraps his fist around Toomes’s collar. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears. “Listen closely bird man. If you’ve done anything to hurt that boy I swear to God I’ll end you. You’ll never see the light of day again, you hear? Now where the hell is he?”

Toomes doesn’t flinch. Eyes reflecting fire, he returns Tony’s passion in equal measure. “He was the one so hellbent on fighting me. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be his damn babysitter?”

“WHERE IS HE?”

Toomes laughs. Laughs. He spits out blood. “I don’t know. I don’t care.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“I’d prefer it.”

Disgusted, Tony releases his grip and stands back. He looks towards the water and wishes he could hear the waves hitting shore instead of the uncomfortable buzz in his ears. “You knew he was fifteen,” Tony says, “and you still did this.”

“You did too. Don’t pretend you’re better than me, Stark.”

It’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Something rockhard, something he thought was untouchable, shatters in his chest. It leaves him feeling sick and twisted and he fights the urge to throw up.

What if somebody had died tonight? Different story right? Cause that’s on you.

And if you die, I feel like that’s on me. I don’t need that on my conscience.

“Have fun in jail,” Tony says, but there’s no heat behind it. Because criminal or not, Toomes is right. He’s let Peter down. Big time. He turns to Happy and hopes to the universe that the split in his chest isn’t visible on his face. “Leave him. We gotta find the kid.”

“Better hurry,” Toomes says, coughing against the smoke. Some of his bravo is failing. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he bleeds out within the hour.” It’s said in anger but Tony is familiar enough with facades to know that Toomes has constructed one of his own. He’s worried.

And if Toomes is worried, Tony is three seconds away from a full blown panic attack. He turns away from the scene without another word, holding his breath so it doesn’t leave somewhere he can’t get it back from. Happy stays by his side, matching his strides with precision and hand outstretched should Tony need it.

“I’ve messed up,” Tony says.

“We all have.”

“I have to find him.”

Happy straightens, eyes cutting across the beach. “He could be anywhere by now.”

If his friend says anything else it dies in the sudden roar in his ears. His eyes attach to a speck of blue and red under the lowlights of the amusement park as if the gods themselves have orchestrated the connection. Even from the distance Tony knows without a doubt that it’s Peter.

I tried to tell you about it but you didn’t listen! None of this would’ve happened if you had just listened to me!

If you cared you’d actually be here.

“I see him.” His mouth is numb.

“What?”

“I see the kid.”

“Where?”

“Oh God. I need a suit.”

“Tony calm down-”

“I need a suit!”

And they’re running.

----

Peter is prodded back to existence by something warm on his shoulder. A faint murmur registers in the back of his mind, like TV static or hearing someone talking from a different room.

So tired.

“Kid? Peter?”

The surface is painful, he decides, so he sinks further.

“Parker! Open your eyes right now. That’s an order, you hear me?”

The voice is familiar. He wants to listen. He tries, but his eyes stick as if fused together with cement.

Cement. The warehouse. Thousands of pounds crushing him, making it impossible to breathe-

He gasps, his body jerking involuntarily with the movement. It makes every ache and pain in his chest triple and he can’t breathe and he can’t move and he’s being crushed. It’s cold. He sees nothing but sky and loses his grip.

And then he’s falling.

The ground rushes up to meet him in a disorienting blur and it’s only then he remembers. Toomes. The beach. The cyclone. The fact that he’s out of web fluid.

He doesn’t have the time or energy to scream before his descent is halted, the warmth from before attaching itself around his biceps and lowering him gently to the ground. Peter collapses against it, grateful, and looks up to his rescuer.

An Iron Man suit, the eyes blank and angry.

Sorry doesn’t cut it.

Something heavy rolls through him and he scrambles back, his breathing ratcheting up like clockwork. The blood on his hands leave marks on the pavement. “Mr- Mr. Stark. Oh man. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry-”

Tony emerges from the suit and it’s him, really him. Just like after the ferry. It’s surprising enough to stop his backward scramble and stare at the worried lines in Tony’s face, in the transparent fear in his eyes. He rushes to close the distance Peter had made between them, squatting down close. “Kid?” he asks, his tone thick with something foreign.

He should be angry. He’s supposed to be angry. Why doesn’t he look angry?

“I’m sorry,” Peter says again, blinking slowly.

“Don’t be sorry,” Tony says. Behind him, a sleek black car pulls up. Happy exits from the driver’s seat and Peter forgets how to breathe again.

Is everyone safe?

No thanks to you.

No thanks to me?

“I messed everything up,” Peter murmurs, backing away further until his back hits something cold and metal. “Oh man. Your- your plane. I’m so sorry.”

Everything blurs again. Distantly he’s aware of Tony approaching him but Peter must make a noise because he stops short.

“You’re hurt,” Tony says, something like pleading in his voice.

“No. I- I’m fine.”

“No, Peter. You’re not.”

I was the only one who believed in you. Everyone else said I was crazy to recruit a fourteen year old kid.

I’m fifteen-

No. This is where you zip it! The adult is talking.

“I said- I said I’m fine.” As if to prove it, Peter struggles to his feet because he doesn’t need their help. Tony walked away. Happy ignored him.

These are the facts.

Standing is harder than he anticipates and he can’t help but cry out against the new pain it brings, swaying when it makes him dizzy. Something warm trickles down from his chest and back. He sees double. “I’m okay,” he pants, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not fine!” Tony yells.

Peter flinches.

Tony does too.

He wants Ned. He wants May. He wants everything to be okay.

It’s not working out. I’m going to need the suit back.

“I gotta go,” Peter mumbles, but the world is dissolving. He tries to walk away, to show them that he’s as independent as they want him to be. “I gotta go home.”

He doesn’t even make it two steps.

Tony catches him when he falls and Peter doesn’t have the control or strength to push him away.

I just wanted to be like you.

And I wanted you to be better.

“Help me get him to the car.”

And like a mountain of cement crashing down over his head, everything turns dark.

-----

Peter collapsing chalks up to be one of the most terrifying experiences of Tony’s life. It’s worse than when he had fallen off the cyclone just minutes before, worse than finding Peter strung up between a divided ferry.

He catches the kid before his head hits the ground and promises himself that from here on out, it’s a permanent part of his job description.

Together they manage to haul Peter into the back of the car. Tony crawls in beside him and brings Peter’s head onto his lap, pressing shaking hands down against the worst of the bleeding. Happy scrambles to the driver’s seat, tires kicking up smoke as they peel out of the lot.

Peter looks terrible.

He looks dead.

Pale and bloody, his eyelids bruised and tear tracks cutting through the ash and grime on his cheeks. He’s wearing his original suit. Pajamas, as he had first referred to them as. They’re ripped to shreds, charred and stained with crimson.

I’m going to need the suit back.

Tony’s hands are red. He did this.

“Drive faster,” he says.

“I am.”

“Driver faster!”

“Tony-”

“Just do it.”

Peter’s head lolls with the movement of the car. He looks small and weak and fragile. He looks exactly how Tony never wanted to see him.

He should be at homecoming dancing with his friends. Not here, not hurt.

Your fault, his mind screams at him. This is on you.

“How much farther to the Tower?” he asks, throat constricting.

Happy’s sympathetic eyes find him in the rearview mirror. “The Tower’s empty, remember? We’re going to the hospital. Ten minutes tops.”

Christ. Of course it’s empty.

Because he left. He walked away and took Peter’s only protection with him.

Your fault. All your damn fault-

“Make it five.”

Peter moans, scrunches his eyes before opening them. Tony pats his cheek lightly in hopes to rouse him further. “Underoos?” he prompts. “You back with us?”

Cloudy eyes meet his own but don’t connect.

“M’ St’k?”

“Y-yeah kid. You’re going to be okay.”

Peter’s breath hitches, speeding up. “I’m sorry,” he whispers in anguish. “‘M so s’ry.”

“Peter don’t-”

“Wanted to be better,” he slurs. Weak and uncoordinated fingers latch onto Tony’s sleeve, leaving smudges of red. “‘M sorry. Wanted to be better.”

Happy stiffens. Tony forgets how to breathe.

“It hurts Mr. Stark.”

He’s out of his depth, drowning in the deep end.

“Comfort him!” Happy snaps from the driver’s seat.

Tony feels dizzy. He pats Peter’s head once, twice. More blood transfers onto his palm. “It’ll be okay bud. We’re getting you help. It’ll stop hurting soon I promise.”

Peter closes his eyes. “W’nted to be better.”

Happy accelerates.

----

Happy Hogan’s defenses are crumbling.

Cracking, tumbling, like Humpty Dumpty on his goddamn wall.

Because it’s Peter, and it’s the plane, and none of this would’ve happened if he hadn’t been such an idiot.

Everything after pulling up to the hospital is a blur. He remembers parking behind an ambulance, remembers his hands shaking too badly to twist the key out of the ignition. He remembers Peter tucked against Tony’s side in the back seat, dead quiet as Tony hyperventilates.

“He’s- he’s not waking up Hap.”

“He’s going to be fine.”

“He’s- he’s-”

“Breathe Tony.”

And then they’re inside, carrying Peter between them like a ragdoll. He doesn’t make a sound, lax and broken and it’s all his fault.

It doesn’t take long before Peter is scooped up by a team of doctors. The loss of the kid’s weight leaves Happy feeling cold. He stands in the middle of the hall and watches as Tony follows the staff pushing Peter along on a stretcher. Even from his position he can hear Tony talking frantically about NDAs and giving Peter the best treatment they’ve ever given anyone in their entire careers or so help them-

Eventually Tony can’t go any further. He stops at the swing of a double door, his palm resting on the glass as Peter is whisked away.

The hand curls into a fist.

Crimson smears under the movement.

Happy finds the strength to move. One step, two, until he’s at Tony’s side. He’s scared to touch him, to break something else, but finally works up the courage to lay and hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s sit down,” is all he can manage.

Tony doesn’t say anything, looking nearly as pale as the kid had been. He allows Happy to steer him into the waiting room and flips off other visitors as they gasp and stare. They find a quiet corner and sink into separate chairs.

They don’t speak for an hour.

Cho finds them at the tail end of the time. Happy is surprised to see her and figures somewhere in this whole mess Tony reached out to her. Her hair is windblown and her eyes are wide and alert, ready to jump in and intervene.

“Where did they take him?” is all she asks.

Tony moves for the first time, pointing towards the doors of surgery.

As quick as she had appeared, Cho is gone.

“Damn it,” Tony whispers, sinking low into his chair. The blood on his hands is dry now, flaking off his skin when he reaches up to rub tiredly at his face. It’s only now that Happy realizes his own hands have Peter’s blood on them too.

“It’s not your fault,” Happy says. The walls are closing in, the temperature seeming to increase by ten degrees.

“It is my fault. I dragged him to Germany. I gave him a suit, I gave him protection, and then I just yanked it all out from under his feet. I didn’t even have the guts to wait and see if he stuck the landing.”

Happy swallows. “Peter is stubborn. We both know that. You did the right thing-”

Tony shakes his head violently, throwing up a hand to cut him off. “No, no. You don’t understand. That kid is fifteen years old!”

“I know, Tony.”

“He should be at homecoming with his friends right now.”

“I know.”

“He’s bleeding out in a set of glorified pajamas because I was too scared to trust him.”

“We’ve all made mistakes here.”

Tony is quiet, looking at him with red rimmed and bloodshot eyes. “He’s just a kid, Hap. He didn’t even call for help. He doesn’t- he doesn’t trust me anymore. And he still saved all my crap. Do you know how much damage that stuff would have caused in the wrong hands?”

Yes. Stomach sinking, Happy looks to the doors Peter had disappeared through. He wishes for the kid to come cartwheeling out in his usual energy, in one piece and alive. Bragging about churros and bike robberies and Star Wars-

“Happy?”

Tony’s voice is disant.

“Happy.”

“What?” His throat is dry.

“What are you not telling me?”

Pretending not to feel the blood on his hands, Happy shifts uncomfortably in the cheap hospital chair. “I was stressed about the move,” he says slowly, “and you know what the kid’s been like. Calling and texting about every little thing since Germany.”

Tony is silent, the tension between them thick enough to cut.

“His friend called tonight. Before the plane went down. To warn me, I’m sure.”

“And?” Tony prompts, but the tone of his voice tells Happy he already knows the answer.

“I didn’t hear him out. I hung up. It’s my fault Peter had to do this alone.”

Keeping his focus anywhere but Tony is easy but it doesn’t save him from the reaction. He hears a sharp intake of breath, a muted curse. Tony stands, towering above him. He walks away, disappears, and for a moment Happy thinks it’s over. He hangs his head between his knees.

Then Tony’s shoes come into his field of vision. “We all made mistakes here,” he says.

And that’s it.

Tony sits back down and Happy holds his breath until Cho comes back through the doors. She approaches them quickly, her face completely neutral.

She looks at Tony and Tony alone, his face pained enough to know it must be the priority.

“Is he-?”

“He’ll be fine.”

Tony sags against the chair and covers his eyes with his hands, gasping for breath as if emerging from deep water. Cho waits patiently for Tony to collect himself and it gives Happy equal opportunity to blink the relief out of his eyes.

He’ll be fine. He’s okay.

“Thank you,” Tony says, his voice cracking on the end. “Oh God. Thank you.”

Cho’s expression turns into something gentle, her voice even more so. “He’s young,” she says.

“I know.”

“He sustained a lot of injuries. And though he’ll heal fine on the surface,” she pauses, taking a step closer, “just remember that there are wounds that you can’t see.”

Tony straightens, jaw setting.

It feels like a mantle being set.

“I’ll make sure he’s okay,” Tony promises.

“Good.” Cho stands straight and pulls the clipboard that had been hanging at her hip in front of her. “Before I let you see him, there’s something I think we should discuss.”

Happy holds his breath again. It sits heavy in his chest.

“What?”

“Peter received a variance of injuries. Puncture marks, burns, a concussion, a fractured wrist, multiple bruises and lacerations, the list goes on. All seem to coincide with the plane crash and following fight with Adrian Toomes.”

Tony stiffens, his fingernails splitting the wooden armrests of his chair. “And?”

Cho shuffles on her feet. Happy has never seen her nervous, but she looks it now. “There was something else too,” she says. “Deep bruising around his torso with several of his ribs fractured or broken. I believe something else happened to Peter, perhaps before he got on the plane.”

Happy clears his throat, finally finding the energy to enter the conversation. Tony is sheet white, eyes blank and unblinking. “What’s your best guess?”

Sympathetic, Cho dips her head. “In my best opinion, I would say he was crushed under something with a substantial amount of weight, probably for an extended period of time. There was concrete dust all over his clothes.”

Tony sucks in a shallow breath and doesn’t release it.

“But of course it’s all hypothetical. We won’t know anything for certain until he wakes up.”

“Which will be when?” Happy asks.

“With his metabolism I can’t be sure. Most likely within a couple hours.”

“Can I see him?” Tony asks, voice small.

“Of course. Follow me.”

Tony stands and doesn’t ask for Happy to follow.

He figures he deserves it.

So he sits alone, staring at the ceiling and wishing with every inch of his soul that he hadn’t hung up his phone.

----

Tony sits in the small hospital room.

It feels like failure.

It feels like relief.

Peter is small against the sheets and blankets, the tubes and wires. He’s pale and marred with dark bruising but at least he’s not covered in blood anymore.

He never wants to see Peter covered in blood again.

The kid doesn’t stir and Tony almost wishes that he’ll stay that way, that he won’t have to face reality and fess up to his sins; that Peter will remain safe and whole and better off without him interfering.

After a long hour of collecting himself, he calls May and asks if he can take Peter to an impromptu conference for the weekend. She sounds uncertain but ultimately caves, telling Tony to have Peter call her when they get here.

He thanks her and tries above everything else to keep his voice steady.

Hangs up and stares at the phone in his hand.

Hears the machines breathing air into Peter’s nose.

Hears other machines tracking his heart, reassuring it’s still beating.

He lays his head onto the bed and cries bitterly.

It’s quiet. His chest constricts.

Your fault.

He isn’t sure when he stops. He’s exhausted.

The heart monitor changes. The blankets shift.

“M’ St’k?”

The voice alleviates some of the pain in his chest. Slowly Tony raises his head, feeling slightly embarrassed the kid has found him hanging over him like some mother hen. He covers it with a smile and hopes it conveys a confidence he doesn’t feel. “Hi kid. How’re you feeling?”

Peter’s breath hitches. He looks up at the ceiling with glassy eyes, bottom lip trembling. “The roof,” he slurs, “‘s it gonna fall?”

Confused, Tony looks up. “What?”

Becoming more agitated, Peter grabs Tony’s wrist. The contact burns, makes acid rise up through his stomach. “Gonna fall. We gotta- gotta leave.”

Tony shakes his head but feels otherwise frozen. His mind is working double time trying to process that Peter’s hand is latching onto him, looking at him in a way that signals the difference between life and death. “The roof’s not going to fall,” he says. “You’re okay. Everything’s okay now.”

Unconvinced, Peter lays his head back and squeezes his eyes closed, his grip on Tony unfailing. “No. Falling. Hur’s.”

“I’m so sorry kid.”

“Plane fell too. Plane. Fire.”

“Peter-”

The kid’s eyes grow wide, impossibly so. There’s no coherence behind them, only drugs and pain and fear. “Mr. Stark. My- my parents died in a plane crash.”

Tony feels his eyes sting, his throat tighten.

“Thought I was goin’ die. See them.”

Words are impossible.

“Hurts.”

And then Peter relaxes, closes his eyes, goes limp against the covers with a low whine. His hand is still curled tight around Tony’s wrist. He stares and stares and stares.

Then he pulls it away, stumbles to the trash can in the corner of the room, and throws up.

-----

The next time Peter wakes up he’s more lucid, but barely.

“May?” he breathes, his face pinched in pain.

“I handled it,” Tony says.

“The plane?”

“Everything accounted for and safe. All thanks to you.”

Deep breaths. “Happy?”

A sharp pain. “He’s okay, Peter.”

A tear. “Liz?”

“Who’s Liz?”

But Peter doesn’t answer, his eyes closing against another dose of drugs.

The pain leaves his face in an instant.

----

Thirteen hours later and Peter is eating jello, eyes drooping and paler than Count Dracula. Tony sits in the corner, quiet and unsure, unable to stop watching his every move. He catches the kid throwing him hesitant looks and tries not to think of the implications behind it.

“You can go,” Peter says after his jello is gone, setting the empty container aside. “I know- I know you're busy.”

Every inch of Tony’s body goes cold. “I’m staying right here until you're better.”

“I feel better.”

“I’ll let Cho be the judge of that.”

Peter sighs and sticks out his bottom lip. “Fine.”

None of this would have happened if you had just listened to me!

“You should get some more rest.”

“Alright Mr. Stark.”

Something in the kid’s eyes is dark and sad.

And Tony isn’t brave enough to address it.

-----

Tony doesn’t sleep.

Peter does. A lot, though largely in part to the drugs still being pumped through him. It should be a peaceful sleep. God knows he deserves it.

But he twitches and flinches.

Whimpers.

Cries and wakes up gasping.

Tony sits by Peter’s side like a guard dog and talks to him after each episode until he falls back into a restless sleep. He looks at Peter’s bruised hand and is tempted to hold it like his own father never had, to assure in extra measure that everything is going to be okay.

But he doesn’t, wishing instead he were strong enough.

Peter doesn’t reach out for him either.

“It’s okay,” he says, feeling powerless and unsure if Peter can hear him half the time through a panic undesigned for fifteen year old kids. “I’m here. You’re okay.”

It helps a little. Peter apologizes over and over, and Tony tells him not to.

“I wanted to be better,” is the core of Peter’s delirium.

It feels like a knife to the gut.

-----

Sleep is difficult, a plague of concrete dust and sand.

Of not being able to breathe.

Of hitting the ground so hard he thinks for sure all his teeth rattle out of his skull.

He dreams about Mr. Stark standing in front of him, telling him he doesn’t deserve the suit. Of walking home in Hello Kitty pajamas.

He dreams of Toomes pulling a gun on him in his car.

Of the ringing in his ears after the plane had hit the ground.

Darkness. Dust.

It’s not working out. I’m going to need the suit back.

An impossible weight landing on him, grinding him to dust.

Help! Please! I’m down here. I can’t move!

I’ll kill you and everyone you love. I’ll kill you dead.

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe-

“Peter!”

The darkness changes, shifting to a light glow. It’s an unfamiliar room with unfamiliar sounds and smells. A heartbeat, loud and erratic.

“Peter it’s okay. Wake up. You’re safe.”

“Wha-”

He gasps for air, certain there’s none despite the pressure of an oxygen tube against his nose. He claws at his chest and feels the distant sting of cuts.

“Peter you gotta breathe.”

It’s Tony. His face swims in front of Peter, looking just as panicked as Peter feels. Why is Tony here? Where is here-

“Breathe, bud. Listen to me, okay? Use those freaky spider powers to listen to me breathe.”

“Mr. Stark-”

“It’s okay. You can do it.” Peter flinches when Tony grabs his hand. He brings it flush against his chest, rising and falling in exaggeration. “Follow this, okay? You can do it kid.”

He tries.

After a while, he succeeds.

Air has never felt so good.

Peter falls back against his pillows but Tony doesn’t let go. He feels exhausted, chest and ribs burning, his mind foggy. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles through numb lips. “What- what happened?”

Tony’s grip tightens. “You were panicking.”

“Oh.” Something in Tony’s expression tells him that it might not have been the first time.

“How are you feeling now?”

Peter shrugs, eyes fluttering but remaining open. Everything comes rushing back to him now. Toomes, falling off the cyclone, being brought here. Tony, for some reason, refusing to leave his side and bringing him jello. “Mm. Tired. Sore.”

“Do you- do you want to talk about it?”

No.

He shrugs.

Tony is quiet for a long time. “I’m really sorry Peter,” he says. His voice is different, heavy in a way Peter has never heard before. “I should’ve never let this happen.”

The pain returns to his chest and Peter smiles in an attempt to dispel it. He tries for humour, a language they both share. “I’m the one that screwed the pooch, remember?”

Tony stills.

“Peter look at me.”

He does.

“You definitely did screw the pooch,” he agrees, “at the ferry. But nothing after, you hear? That was- that was all on me. I screwed the pooch too.”

Peter furrows his brows, shimmying up his stance against the pillows. It hurts, but this is more important. “What? You did nothing wrong.”

“I took away the thing I specifically designed to keep you safe. We didn’t listen to you. We let you go through that alone. You should’ve been at homecoming, Pete. You shouldn’t have had to go through what you did.”

“Toomes was my date’s dad,” Peter admits, then laughs hysterically. It really is funny. “He pulled a gun on me in the car and then-” his mouth goes sour.

Tony’s eyebrows raise. He isn’t smiling. “A gun? Peter- God. Then what?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

Peter sighs. Closes his eyes. Wishes none of this ever happened.

“He kind of dropped a warehouse on me. But it really wasn’t a big deal, I promise! I got out before he got to the plane and everything was fine-”

“Fine?” Tony chokes. “Peter Parker that is so astronomically far from fine!”

To his left, Peter hears his heart monitor double. Tony must notice it too because he visibly relaxes, though a vein pulses at his temple.

“It was scary,” Peter admits, “I- I couldn’t move at first, or breathe. I thought I was going to die.” He pauses, eyes widening, because it’s true. He shakes his head to make the faint ringing in his ears leave. “It’s okay. I got through it.”

Tony’s heart is beating rapidly. Peter can hear it. He doesn’t have the strength to look at the expression on his mentor’s face. “Is that what you dreamt about earlier?” he asks quietly.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

Peter lets his shoulders fall. He picks at a string on his comforter. “Yeah,” he says softly, “it was part of it.”

Tony curses, shifts away. It feels like a gaping distance that Peter doesn’t know how to bridge. “I never should’ve taken the suit away. Your AI would have alerted me. I could have helped.”

If you’re nothing without the suit, you shouldn’t have it.

“I get why you did. I was being irresponsible. All those people on the ferry could’ve died. I get it Mr. Stark, really.”

Tony is quiet. “If we hadn’t found you at the beach-”

“You did though,” Peter assures, even though his voice cracks. “Everything’s okay.”

But it’s not. It’s really, really not.

Tony collapses. Peter thinks he isn’t going to say anything more on the matter. Then, “I’m sorry.”

Tears well up in Peter’s eyes. “I’m sorry too.”

And then Peter is sobbing. He can’t help it. Everything since the ferry crashes over him, drowning him. He tightens his hand over his mouth and tries to hold in the noise, turns away from Tony who is sitting shell-shocked in his chair.

“I’m sorry,” Peter gasps between sobs, “I’m sorry-”

And then Tony is hugging him.

That’s not a hug. I’m just grabbing the door for you. We’re not there yet.

And it makes him cry harder.

“You’re okay,” Tony says into his hair. Confident this time. Sure. “Breathe, Pete. Things will get better. I promise you.”

“It was all so scary,” Peter whispers. For the first time it doesn’t feel like weakness. “The- the warehouse. The plane. I thought- I thought it was going to hit the city. And- and Toomes. He said he was- he said he was going to kill everyone I loved and it was- it was so scary Mr. Stark.”

“You’re allowed to be scared. Hell, I was scared too.”

Peter regains control over his breathing and manages to hug Tony back. They stay like that for a while before separating.

Peter pretends not to notice the shine in Tony’s eyes, too.

“I didn’t know Iron Man was scared of anything,” he says, only partly serious.

“Well there’s not much,” Tony agrees.

And then he laughs.

And Peter laughs too. It’s stilted and disbelieving and relieved.

“No more sorrys,” Peter begs between breaths. “Okay? We’re even.”

“Deal.”

They sit in a short silence. Warmth enters the room.

“You deserve the suit,” Tony says. “I mean it kid. You did good. You did the right thing. You deserve it.”

“Mr. Stark-”

“Nope. Don’t want to hear it. My decision is final. If you proved anything tonight it’s that you’re meant to be Spider-Man. It’s who you are, kid. I’m not going to stop you from that.”

The warmth from the room moves into Peter’s chest. He stays perfectly still to prevent disturbing it. “Thanks,” he whispers, because it’s all he can manage.

“Help me upgrade it,” Tony says. It’s an invitation, but it sounds more like a plea. “Come over to the compound on the weekends. I’ll show you the mechanics of it. We can work on it together.”

“What? Are- are you sure?”

“More than anything.”

Peter smiles as the aches and pains in his body seem to disappear. “I’d really like that,” he says.

If you cared you’d actually be here.

And he is, Peter realizes. Maybe he had been all along.

He’s here. And for now, it’s enough.

-----

A month passes.

It’s one of the best in Tony’s life.

Peter heals and springs back like an elastic band. He smiles and talks enthusiastically about Star Wars and May and acing algebra tests.

His scars fade. He talks to Tony on the bad days when it hurts to breathe.

He gets help.

They’re together now, squished side by side to peer into a magnifying glass. Peter’s leg is bouncing, lips pressed into a determined line as he tinkers with the mask under the table. “Like this?” he asks.

Tony nods, though he doesn’t look. He already knows the kid is doing it perfectly. “Just like that.”

It hits him then, how much the kid means to him.

Though really he knew from the very first day. From the first second.

“Kid?”

Peter looks up, his concentration slipping into an easy smile. “Yeah?”

It looks like trust, like family.

“I’m just proud is all,” Tony says quickly. It’s important. “I wanted you to know that.”

“Oh,” Peter says, pink coloring his cheeks. “Thanks Mr. Stark.”

“It’s Tony, kid.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Stark.”

God. This child will be the death of me. He rolls his eyes and ruffles Peter’s hair, an odd display of affection he never would have thought himself capable of. “Fine, have it your way Mr. Parker. Now get back to work already.”

“Yes sir.” His smile is wider than Tony’s ever seen it.

The kid.

Peter.

He could live a lifetime of this, he thinks in content.

And maybe, just maybe, he will.

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riseatlantisss · 5 years ago

Text

His Sweet Kiss

Jaskier x female!reader

warnings: body issues, sense of not belonging, but mostly fluuufff !

Jaskier knows you are struggling with insecurities and body issues. And while he cannot fight that battle for you, he certainly can help you realize that you are never alone.

one-shot, 1,7k words

@antigonick thank you so much for your help/support on this

A/N: Writing this fic was therapy for me, and if it can help anyone else out there too, then I am happy ! Enjoy, you beautiful people <3

English is not my first language, please excuse any mistakes.

“Honey, are you ready?” Jaskier’s voice echoed from the other room. “We have to leave if we’re going to make it on time. Now I know it’s hard not to be blinded by my amazing voice and my utter handsomeness but still, it would be weird if you weren’t attending our own engagement party!”

You were actually really far from being ready. You weren’t even sure you wanted to go at all. Here you were, standing in front of your bedroom mirror, wearing the dress you had specially made for tonight. It was a stunning bare-back black dress with gold lace trimmings on the collar and sleeves. The only problem was that it was tight. Very tight. And it was revealing. Very revealing. You did not anticipate that. You thought it would be the final touch to a perfect night. You thought you would be confident enough to pull it off when the time came. Now that you were actually seeing yourself wearing it, all your dreams and expectations for this very special night seemed to have gone up in smoke. No pride, no confidence, no beauty. On the contrary. To your eyes you just looked fat, disgraceful, silly. Like a disgusting pile of jello. You could not stand it. Tears blurred the reflection in the mirror and you looked away. I can’t do this, you thought, as you quickly slipped out of the dress and put your large, comforting nightgown on.

“Come on, honey,” Jaskier pleaded as he entered the bedroom. “We’re going to be la--” he stopped short when he saw you sitting on the bed, hugging your knees up to your chest, the dress lying beside you. He understood right away that you had been crying.

“What’s wrong?” he immediately asked in his softest voice.

“I’m sorry. I – I don’t feel good. I have a headache.” You cringed at the lame excuse. You felt ridiculous. You couldn’t even make eye contact with your future husband. That felt particularly harsh because as far as you remembered, Jaskier had been the only person in the world to whom you could tell anything. You never ever felt self-conscious with him. He had shown you time and again that he loved every inch, every curve of your body. He always looked at you in pure awe. He wrote songs about his boundless love for you, and told tales about what he called your “infinite beauty”. Still, you couldn’t shake this feeling of unease and anxiety. The mere thought of having all eyes turned on you tonight while you wore a tight, revealing dress made your chest hurt.

Jaskier frowned and sat on the bed beside you.

“Y/N, it’s me. What’s going on?” He muttered. He had attempted to keep his tone light, but sounded genuinely worried.

“…Nothing.” You weren’t fooling anybody. Your voice cracked, your throat sore from crying. Your whole face felt tight with drying tears. You couldn’t pretend anymore. Not with him. “It’s just -- the dress,” you finally mumbled, still avoiding Jaskier’s gaze. “It looks ugly on me. I don’t have the right body type to wear it.”

“Nonsense!” Jaskier exclaimed. “You are gorgeous!”

“But look at me.” You sobbed, “Let’s face it, Jaskier. Your friends are sorcerers, royals, bards... They are all talented, powerful people. Everything I am not. I know I shouldn’t care about all this because I love you, and that should be enough for tonight, but I can’t help it. I just don’t fit in.” It felt good to finally explain all this out loud, but it did not ease any of your anxiety.

Jaskier rubbed his neck and pulled his arm around your shoulders. You felt his fingers tuck your hair behind your ear. A finger trailed down your cheek and under your chin. He lifted it up gently, coaxing you to look at him.

“Let me tell you something,” he said, looking deep into your eyes, dead serious. “I don’t fit in either.” You frowned and gave him a questioning look, but he went on before you could protest. “We don’t fit in a society of boring, conventional people who all look the same. We are all different and we come in all shapes and forms. Of course, it is not easy to be confident in the face of judgement, but our appearance matters not as long as we stay true to ourselves and support and love each other for who we are.”

You didn’t have anything to reply to this. Not right away anyway. You buried your head into his chest but you were no longer crying. He just said everything you wanted – needed – to hear for such a long time.

“So,” you asked after a little while of remaining silent, “you feel insecure too sometimes?”

“Are you kidding? Of course I do!” he scoffed.

Now, that was surprising. To you, Jaskier was always the confident and outgoing bard who never feared standing in front of huge crowds, getting out there, living life to the fullest. Well, it turned out he too could feel as vulnerable and doubtful as you sometimes did. And somehow, knowing this, you loved him even more.

“But you know what,” Jaskier added, “you are the one that gives me courage every time I fear something. I could never be the man I am today without you by my side. And these people you speak of? None of them holds a candle to the light you give off. You’re the light of my life. Every sunrise, every winter day, every rainfall, every twinkling star in my world.”

Once more, you were speechless. You felt the physical pressure of anxiety lift as he spoke, so you just listened to him. And you smiled. You smiled wider than you had ever smiled before. And more importantly, you seemed to have run out of excuses not to go to your engagement night. Though you didn’t move, not yet. You didn’t want to. The warmth of his chest was all you needed at that moment.

“Are these lyrics for a new ballad?” you asked.

“Might be!” Jaskier chuckled, “but everything I said is true. I love you, Y/N. I just want you to be happy.”

The dress was still beside you. You gently caressed the fabric, admiring the sumptuous colors and quality of the drape. It really was a stunning, expensive piece of clothing, but right now you kind of hated it.

“Is it ok if I don’t wear the dress tonight?” you asked after a while. “I still don’t really feel comfortable--”

“Y/N. The- Dress- Does- Not- Matter”, Jaskier intoned.

“But, it’s such a waste…I mean, if I don’t wear it tonight, I don’t think I’ll ever wear it.”

“Let me wear it then!” Jaskier laughed as he grabbed the dress and put it in front of him. “The color does match my eyes, don’t you think darling?”

You burst out laughing. “I guess that’s an option!”

“Seriously though, I don’t want to you to worry about all this,” he muttered, softly caressing your hair. “On the other hand, if you do want something to worry about, Geralt told me he’d come to our engagement party with Ciri and Yen, and all their mage and witcher friends.”

“Oh my,” you laughed. “How many people are we talking about exactly?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I’m guessing that means dozens of sorcerers who can cast spells and manipulate fire will be there, so yeah, definitely worry about that.”

You shook your head and laughed. This night you had been dreading so much promised to be very interesting after all. And you were starting to think that it would be a shame to miss it.

Jaskier gently kissed your forehead and let you get ready. You still weren’t comfortable enough to wear the dress, so you decided to wear something else, something you loved and you knew your future husband would love too.

Before leaving, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. For once, you weren’t afraid to look at the reflection. Quite the contrary. For the first time in a very long time, you were happy with the way you looked. You could even say you were beautiful.

Jaskier beamed with joy as soon as he saw you. The bright moon rising behind him made his eyes glow almost amber and his hair shone a golden shade. He was wearing dark blue linen pants and the silk red surcoat you loved so much. He was very elegant, as usual.

“How am I supposed to just stand next to you when you look this gorgeous?!” he exclaimed, making you twirl as you walked over to him.

You were wearing a simple but cute long-sleeved loose dress, which happened to be the most comfortable piece of clothing you owned, and also the most special, for one particular reason.

“Wait,” Jaskier stopped and took a step back to take a better look at you. “Isn’t that the dress you wore that night at the tavern, when I --”

“The night you kissed me for the first time?” you grinned. “It is.”

Jaskier leaned forward and kissed you ardently, holding you tight against his chest, as if he would never release you. You held on to him, smiling into the kiss, feeling his arm tighten around you. What a night, you thought. Full of so many different emotions. You used to think that your self-consciousness and your insecurities were like scars on your body that could never fully heal. You used to think you would have to find ways to hide them like a shameful secret in order to fit in, even if it meant never being happy. But why pretend and seek happiness in impossible places, when true bliss was right here, right now, in your husband’s arms, on your way to celebrate your love? It did not mean you were definitively and irrevocably rid of your old familiar demons, but you were getting there. Yes, what a ride of emotions this night has been. And the night was still young.

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barrysjumpsuit · 5 years ago

Text

like a brother - reader x jj/platonic john b

requested?: nope!

warnings/triggers: death, depression, kinda shitty parents, i think that’s it?

overview: reader seeks comfort from john b and jj after her brothers are taken from her in two very similar ways (1.7k)

a/n: wrote most of this while high (lol) so forgive me for any mistakes!! everything in italics is 2 years before canon plot, everything in normal text is based on and after s1e10

Tropical Storm Harold painted the sky black.

You started your car, and you felt it sway a little under someone’s weight as they jumped from the back of the car to the ground. Ethan opened the passenger side door, slid in, and you pulled out of the driveway as he slammed it shut.

It was a decently long drive to the Boneyard from Figure Eight. You saw John B’s van already there, the side door open, John B, JJ, Kiara, and Pope crouched inside seeking temporary shelter from the rain. As soon as you pulled up, you heard their whoops as they jumped out, and began to unstrap their boards from the top of the van.

You parked and helped your brother get your boards off the top of the Land Cruiser. It had started to rain, the water cold against your bare skin. Across from you, Ethan had a devilish grin spreading across his face, his long dark hair plastered to his forehead and temples. After you loosened the straps on your side, he pulled the boards off the top of the car and you grabbed yours.

“Wait for us!” Ethan called, sprinting after the boys and Kiara, who had already reached the water. You took off running after them, your board awkwardly tucked under your arm.

It was a tradition, to surf the surge. The shape of the land around the Boneyard and the bathymetry of the continental shelf under the water worked to funnel and amplify the waves. You hit the water, following the boys through the choppy surf and into the darkness.

Tropical Storm Danielle painted the sky black.

You had to leave the tent. It was chaos around you; Kiara and Pope were sobbing into each other, and JJ was being restrained by two officers. You stood from your chair and walked from the crowded space, passing by Kiara and Pope’s parents but not your own. Of course they wouldn’t be here. Your brain was oblivious to the rain coming down in sheets, and your feet took you onto the beach before your legs gave out and you fell to your hands and knees.

The sand grains pressed uncomfortably into your knees. The rain was cold on your skin and you shivered, sitting up so that you were kneeling, looking towards the sea. Waves crashed on the shore, thunder rumbled in the distance, and the lighthouse illuminated the empty horizon.

“That was awesome!” John B yelled. You were laying on your back in the sand, catching your breath, the surf violently lapping up to your waist. The rain, the adrenaline, and the salty sting of the water in your eyes made you feel alive, reminding you why surfing the surge was a sacred tradition within your group.

After a few moments you stood, hearing JJ’s voice join John B’s. They had gathered slightly farther up the beach, far enough so that their boards weren’t going to get sucked out to sea. Kiara ran up to you, dropping her board and jumping onto you, smiling. Once she was back on her own two feet, you ran towards JJ and John B with your board, dropping it onto the ground and hopping into JJ’s outstretched arms. He spun you around, and you could feel the rain pelting your body.

Your bare feet touched the sand again and as you went to tug on your swimsuit top to readjust it, JJ cupped your face with his hands. You smiled up at him, water beading off his skin and clinging to his eyelashes.

JJ kissed you, almost violently, and you knew he was feeling the same way as you. His body quivered under your touch, and his teeth gently pulled on your bottom lip as he pulled back.

You smiled at each other, but as you turned around to face John B and Pope and the surf, your smile dropped.

Your heart dropped too. “Where’s E?” you asked, stepping away from JJ and towards the shoreline. “Ethan!”

The wind carried your screams away as soon as they left your mouth. JJ had run after you, and John B was standing a short distance away, shielding his eyes from the rain with his hand and looking out to sea.

“Ethan!” you kept yelling. You started running down the shore in the direction of the current.

“Y/N!”

John B’s voice was almost lost in the wind. You stopped, immediately, and sprinted towards him, where he and JJ were crouched on the ground.

Your brother laid motionless on the beach. John B was on the phone, while JJ was performing CPR. Pope tried grabbing at you, but you easily slipped out of his grasp.

The world crumbled as you fell to your knees. You were hardly aware of JJ’s grunts of effort, or John B’s frantic voice, or even Kiara clinging onto you from behind, talking in your ear. The feeling of the rain and lapping of the waves was replaced by absolute numbness.

You were numb that whole night. The paramedics arrived and took Ethan away from you. You ended up in the back of the ambulance. You were sat in a seat at the hospital and told not to move. Your parents ran to you, hugging you and crying.

But you hardly noticed any of these happening. The only thing you did notice was JJ beside you through it all.

You were numb, oblivious to the stinging of the rain and the chaotic crashing of the waves in front of you or the voices behind you.

The only thing that you did notice was JJ, kneeling down behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his face into your wet hair. His touch sent you over the edge, your body heaving with sobs, threatening to double over but JJ’s strong hold kept that from happening. You scrambled around in his arms to face him, your hands clutching fistfuls of his t-shirt.

“Baby…” he eventually murmured, one hand moving to cup half of your face. “Let’s go, okay?”

You don’t remember nodding, but you followed JJ to the tents and had Heyward drop you off at your empty house.

It had felt empty for the past two years, ever since Ethan died in a storm eerily similar to the one that took your best friend just hours before.

After your brother died, your parents took their anger out on you. You for going out surfing that night, for letting Ethan die. It was the last straw for them, after disapproving of you and your brother’s behavior and relationship with the Pogues. They had been emotionally and often physically absent ever since, leaving you with nothing but emptiness.

It took all your energy to climb the stairs with JJ to your bedroom. Neither of you changed clothes, opting to strip naked instead. You just didn’t care enough. Both of you were shivering – whether it was from cold your bodies, soaked to the bone, or from the adrenaline, sadness, and rage coursing through you, you didn’t know.

All through the night, JJ held you while you laid in bed like he was never going to let go.

John B held you while you laid in bed.

He must have heard you crying, as he gently pushed open the bedroom door. You froze at the sound, trying to muffle your tears, snapping your eyes shut and forcing your body to look relaxed, but it was impossible.

“I know you’re awake,” he had said softly. You couldn’t help but let out a shaky sigh, and felt the bed move as John B laid down next to you. “Y/N?”

“Go away,” you said quietly and unconvincingly. You had managed to get away from JJ for the night, tired of his constant reassurances and questioning. Are you okay? he kept asking, though he knew the answer.

John B shifted his weight beside you, and wrapped an arm around you, laying his head beside yours. “You can’t keep pushing people away.” His voice was sad and tired. “It wasn’t your fault.”

You shivered but couldn’t bring yourself to respond. You just rolled over to face him, and you realized how shaky your breaths were and how your body was trembling under the sheets, as If you were about the burst.

“Let it out, Y/N.”

You cried. They were ugly, loud sobs, and you curled up, John B had moved to sit with you in his lap, the tips of his fingers running in circles on your back.

“We’re going to get through this, okay?”

You nodded, your cheek rubbing on his t-shirt. It felt wet under your skin.

“JB?” you asked shakily, finally able to push yourself up. You sat beside him, your back and head leaning against the wall.

“Yeah, Y/N?” he responded. His words were soft and comforting.

“Don’t ever leave me. Leave us.”

“Of course not,” he whispered. You rolled your head to the side, looking at him. His eyes were soft, full of sadness. With one hand he reached over to wipe the tears from your face. “You’re not getting rid of me anytime soon, okay? You’re like a sister to me, Y/N.”

You managed to give him a soft smile. “You’re like a brother to me, JB.”

He chuckled. “Well, I’m not as good at giving advice as Ethan was, but I want you to know you can come to me with anything, okay? I know he can’t be replaced, but I’ll your new brother.”

“Really?” you asked.

John B grabbed your hand, smiling at you before replying. “Of course. I’ll do anything for you, Y/N.”

“Does that mean you’ll beat up JJ for me?” you replied, smiling and leaning your head on his shoulder.

You feel him laugh. “Of course. Lay down, try to fall asleep for me, okay?”

John B gently pushed you off of him, pulling the covers over you. “Good night, sis.”

“Hey JJ?”

Your voice broke the silence in the dark bedroom. The digital clock on the dresser in the corner of the room read 3:51.

“Yeah, Y/N?” JJ responded quietly. He rolled over, pulling you into him.

“Promise to never leave me,” you murmured against his chest. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Never in my wildest dreams,” he whispered in your ear. JJ gently kissed your temple, tightening his grip on you reassuringly, as if backing up his words.

It was in each other’s arms that, for the first time in two days, both of you found peace.

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

hope you guys like it! my requests are open and feel free to message me if you want to be on any taglists, whether it’s for all obx, jj fics, etc <3

taglist: @macchiatohno @dpaccione @canibeoneofthepogues @bailspogue @wicked-laugh @jjmaybankx @jjsmentalpolaroids

#obx imagine #jj maybanks imagine #john b imagine #john b #john booker routledge #jj maybank #outer banks #outer banks imagine

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finaledenialist · 4 years ago

Text

Ok, so basically I haven’t written anything coherent in years. YEARS. I am not a writer guys. But something in me just snapped. And I kind of wanted to write something since 12x23, but never managed to. So anyway. Here it is. I have nothing in my defence. warnings: angst angst angst lots of angst; post 15x18; more angst; cas is dead; dean is sad; occasional Bad Word™, happy ending though, 2.8k words

This wasn't the first time Cas died, obviously. Although it was the second time it felt truly permanent. Dean didn’t want to, but he remembered it all. Three years ago he was kneeling next to Cas' dead body, watching helplessly as the first raindrops started to wash away the trace of burnt wings on the ground. He couldn't believe what just happened, what he just saw. He doesn't quite recall how long he was kneeling there, but by the time he snapped out of this overwhelming feeling of disbelief, shock and helplessness, he was soaking wet. He remembers clearly as he looked at Cas' vessel, Cas’ body, laying in the mud and thought that no, not like this, he has to get Cas somewhere, anywhere from the dirty ground. Still in complete shock, he managed to grab Castiel's body and slowly lift him up. The trenchcoat was wet and dirty and smelled awfully, and Dean was barely able to get up and stand on his own two feet. His vision was blurry, and one thing he was sure of, it wasn't because of the rain. It was hardly the first time he ever had to move a dead body. It was always awful and generally hard to do. Moving an inert body took a lot of physical strength, and Dean was no stranger to it. Holding Cas though... This was some whole other level.

The ground was slippery and boggy and Dean was trying to focus on every step because the other option was falling down and that meant Cas would once again end up in the mud and this was just too much. One step, two steps, three; towards the house. The sound of torrential rain was deafening but it was a good thing, at least Dean didn't have to listen to his own thoughts. The scene of angel blade ripping through Cas right in front of him started replaying itself over and over and over again; Cas' blue eyes, looking directly at him, suddenly became full of light, and in the next second the blue, celestial light was everywhere, and it was bright and blinding, and Dean's eyes were burning but his whole body was paralyzed and he couldn't stop staring at the one thing he hoped he would never have to witness ever again.

And all of a sudden the darkness fell, almost darker than it was just moments before, and Cas was no longer looking at him; his eyes were empty and his body was sinking to the ground as Lucifer slowly pulled out the blade, smiling like Dean's world didn't just excruciatingly fell apart. Dean felt like he was experiencing everything in some kind of a sick slow motion. He knew his feet slipped on the mud, he knew he was falling, he knew his knees hit the ground but at the same time he felt like he was merely a powerless observer, who couldn't react. 'Dean', he heard from the distance, 'Dean!' Sam's voice slowly started to drag him back to reality. The reality he didn't want to be in. 'Dean!' He blinked a few times, and there he was, again, in the dirt, on his knees, desperately clutching to Cas' body like it was his last lifeline. Dean glimpsed at Castiel's face, and by God, it was a mistake. He quickly looked up to Sam. 'Dean, the nephilim...', Sam cut off the moment he saw Dean's red, swollen, unseeing eyes, 'Oh my God...' Dean was still staring at him blankly. After a moment he exhaled, looked around and tried to get up without a word, still holding onto Cas. Everything was dirty and slippery, and ugly, and dark, and wet, and cold, but Dean had to stand up, he had to carry Cas inside, it was so cold... He didn't even feel Sam's arms helping him get up. He didn't feel anything. He was awake and unconscious at the same time. He was like a moth, instinctively drawn to the house lights.

He spent the night in the room with Cas' body. He recalls Sam trying to talk to him, but he just grabbed the first bottle that he found, chugged it down and passed out on the floor. It wasn't like he wanted to die, but at that moment he didn't want to be alive either. But now. Now was different. No, in a way it was the same. But at the same time it was different. By some unimaginable way this time was worse. Much worse. He always thought that it was impossible for something to be worse than what happened the night Jack was born. Castiel's death three years ago was shocking, unexpected, sudden and fast. This time? Oh, fuck. He was completely devoid of emotions and drowning in them at the same time. He felt absolutely nothing and everything all at once. What just happened has left him completely frozen and paralyzed. His body and his mind were actively refusing to process what he just saw.

And what he just heard.

He was just staring blankly around him, like he was looking for an answer, an explanation, written on the bunker's wall. His phone was buzzing, but he barely gave it a thought. The whole world might as well just end and disappear for all he cared; his own world was just taken away from him seconds ago (or was it hours?), so why, why should he give a damn if the planet kept on turning or not? And there he was, a sobbing mess once again, because he just lost. Again. At this point he should be used to losing, to loss, honestly. And yet this time it hit him harder than ever before. I love you. Goodbye, Dean, echoed in his head over and over again like a mantra, like a curse. Cas' eyes, more blue than ever, looking straight into his own. I love you, goodbye, Dean. I love you, goodbye, Dean, I love you, I love you, I love you. ‘I love you, too, Cas’, he whispered, with his face buried in his hands. I love you, too.

'Ready?', Sam's voice was uncertain and a little shaky. What they were about to do was risky and probably stupid as fuck, but— 'Sure', Dean lied. What if it doesn't work, what if something goes wrong, what if he won't find Cas, what if he won't bring him back, what if he comes back without him, what if everything goes terribly wrong... 'Ready when you are.'

It's been some time since they got rid of Chuck. It included Amara and Michael and all the strength they could find. To be quite honest, all the events just mashed up into one big cloudy memory for Dean. He felt like he was existing on autopilot all this time. Bottom line though, they got rid of the omnipotent bastard, got back all the people who disappeared... Well, almost all. But again, Cas wasn't 'people'. With all the help they could get, they finally crafted a spell to open up a portal to the Empty. Fine, not they, it was mostly Sam, Jack, Charlie and Eileen combining forces to read through all Rowena's spells and grimoires. Dean, on the other hand, spent most of his time locked in his room, not daring to hope.

And not being able to look at Jack. It was impossible but somehow happened anyway. The kid looked like a younger version of Cas, minus the hair. Every time he glimpsed at him, he felt his heart breaking yet again. And it was not just the looks. The last time Cas died was the night Jack was born. Dean looked at him and couldn't help it - the sight of Cas' dead body on the ground was always there. The burnt wings. And then, the Empty taking Cas. All these memories just rushed over him like a tsunami every time he looked at Jack. It was unbearable.

'I can't do this, Sam', he said one day to his brother, 'I just can't. I can't even think about this. If this thing... If this... Whatever you all are doing... If this eventually doesn't work out, I am not sure I am going to be able to survive this. So I just... I just can't help you with this'. Sam only nodded in agreement, desperate to get Dean out of his room, but at the same time understanding that if they don't find a way to open up the portal to the Empty, then all he was doing was giving Dean false hope.

And they already had Dean on suicide watch.

So, each day they buried themselves in the books, spells and lore, working as hard as they could to find anything that could help. Occasionally they caught a glimpse of Dean's shadow on his way to the kitchen or bathroom. Sometimes Dean even stood in the library's door for a minute or two, stared at them with a bottle is his hand, like he was anticipating. All they could give him was a reassuring smile. At the beginning they tried hugs, but Dean never let them touch him. It was like every touch hurt him. Little did they know, everything hurt.

After some time, they finally got a breakthrough. At the beginning they didn't tell Dean, but things finally started working out and the spell was ready in no time. Jack and Charlie were just high-five'ing each other, and they were all about to discuss who is going to get through the portal, when Dean appeared in the door. 'What is happening?', he asked quietly, and suddenly there was absolute silence. Everyone looked at Sam. 'I...', he finally grunted, 'I am not sure if you want to hear this'. 'Try me.' Sam took a deep breath. 'We... We found a way to open a portal to the Empty.' Dean blinked and then closed his eyes. 'Are you sure?' Everyone looked at each other, not daring to say a word. 'Yes, Dean', Sam finally said, 'We are sure.' 'Where is it', Dean whispered. 'Where's what?' 'Where's the portal', Dean said again, through his teeth, eyes still closed. 'We... We haven't opened it yet. We we just about to—' 'Do it. Now', Dean's eyes were now piercing through Sam. 'Dean—' 'Now.'

And here they were now, in front of an opened portal to nothingness. Dean's eyes were completely focused on the darkness. 'Dean... Remember. It stays open for an hour', Sam said, unsure if Dean was even listening to him. But Dean was, in fact, listening, the thing though? He couldn't care less. If he gets stuck, he gets stuck and stays there. It didn't matter. His life lately wasn't much different from what he was seeing right now in front of him. 'Yeah, sure', he muttered, and stepped inside.

It was... Dark. Not like Amara-dark. It was just all black. It was nothing. No right, no left, no up, no down. He was standing and floating at the same time and the feeling was... Honestly? It was liberating. He looked around but all he saw was, ironically, nothing. The silence was actually calming, though. He wouldn't mind staying. After all, one thing he was sure of — Cas was there, somewhere. Cas. The thought made his heart beat faster. Blood was pumping through his veins and he was suddenly starting to feel again. He blinked and tried to focus, steadying his breath. Cas. Cas was there somewhere. Well, this whole thing is at least worth a try. If he doesn't find him, he will simply stay here. An hour, Sam said. Dean looked at his watch, confused. 50 minutes left, he estimated and looked around. But there was still nothing to be seen. 'Cas?!' he yelled in a raspy voice, 'Cas?!' His voice, his breath and his hands were shaking. 'Cas?!' he cried out once again. And again. And again. And again, and again, and again. He didn't know when he started to run around, more and more desperately, but it was dark, it was so dark and his voice was completely scratched from yelling, and it was cold, and there was no Cas, and he was all alone and— 'Castiel?!', Dean called as loud as he could, feeling the tears in the corner of his eyes, because damn it, when and why did he let himself believe that he can find Cas in this emptiness? At this point his whole body was shaking, and he heard a quiet sob escaping his mouth. But he also heard something else. At first he thought he made that rustle, somehow. But then he heard it again, and this time he didn't even move a single muscle. He didn’t even dare to breathe. He exhaled, very, very slowly. And even slower, he turned around. And then he saw it. A figure surrounded by light composed of every colour he ever saw. He had to squint his eyes; the light, albeit beautiful, was blinding. And he could swear he saw it before. Because he did. It was the last thing he saw before waking up in a coffin, what seemed like forever ago. It took him a second to recognize it, but once he did, the feeling of familiarity and safety surrounded him completely and all he could do was stare at the figure getting closer, and closer, and then all those feelings were replaced with just one — the long anticipated feeling of relief. 'Cas', he mouthed almost without a sound, scared to close his eyes, too afraid that the light and the figure were merely an illusion, about to disappear. But after he blinked, it was all still there. And it was Cas, his Cas; the dumb, self-sacrificing idiot whose absence made Dean's life completely numb and pointless and unlivable. He wanted to run to him, to wrap his arms around him and never let go. He was shaking more than ever, but somehow managed to take a first step towards the light, and then the next one, and the next one, and one more. Oh, God. Cas looked awful. Absolutely terribly. Like he has woken up in a middle of the worst nightmare. He looked confused and scared; no, he looked absolutely terrified. His eyes were unfocused and his steps unsure. And then he saw Dean. He stopped walking, and his eyes widened. His mouth opened in disbelief. He looked petrified. 'What...', he whispered fearfully, 'How...' 'Cas', Dean's voice broke, 'I'm here' 'You're not supposed to be in here' Castiel said, now completely frightened, looking straight into Dean's eyes. After a moment he started to frantically look around. 'Look, I don't know how, or why...' 'What?!', Dean cut him off, blinking away the tears, 'Why?! Why as in why I'm here?! Are you serious...' 'Dean', Cas didn't let him finish, 'Are you even real?' he added quietly and softly. Dean felt blood rushing to his head; he suddenly was in a fight mode once again, starting to feel everything all at once - the anger, the fear, the pain; like after weeks of being numb his mind decided to unleash every emotion a human being can possibly feel. No. Not now, Dean thought, Now focus. Focus, he told himself but his eyes were feasting on the sight of Cas, his Cas, like he was a blind man who suddenly was able to see for the first time in his life. 'Cas. Cas, we have to go. We have to go', he said, desperately 'I— I don't know how much time we have left, I—', I don't even know now where is the fucking portal, he thought. 'We need to go', he said instead with a broken voice. 'Dean, I—' But Dean had enough. He reached for Cas' arm, grabbed it and started walking. Towards the portal, hopefully. 'Dean—', Castiel’s voice was very weak, 'Dean. Dean!' 'What now?', Dean finally stopped to look at Cas. He looked like he was just chewed up and spat out by a cow, but once Dean’s eyes landed on him, he just couldn’t stop looking. Man, I thought I’m never going to see you again, he thought and exhaled. 'We really gotta go, Cas’. But Castiel was staring at him like he just received a revelation, like a man lost in the desert who saw an oasis after days of being burned by the sun and deprived of water, like— 'What if it doesn't work?' Cas said quietly and closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were full of tears. No. Not again, Dean thought. 'Cas. Cas, look. Cas, look at me', he cupped his face, so he could stare directly into Cas’ eyes. 'We had that conversation, remember? In purgatory. And that conversation is over', he said, maybe a little bit too harshly. 'Although there is another one that is not over. Far from over, actually', he added more softly. Cas was looking at him, anticipating. 'Dean, I... What I said...' 'I heard what you said. And now we need to go. Understand?' 'Yes', Cas said after a while, 'I understand.’

#my writing #destiel fic #destiel coda #spn 15x18 coda #spn 15x18 #spn s15

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christopherjwinter · 3 years ago

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When a mind builds an expectation for an event, it struggles to realign its thoughts once reality proves those expectations incorrect. The more anticipated and longed for the event, often the more a mind may struggle with what feels like a profound wrongness of a situation. Such what my state when I finally made my way to Old Jack's cottage. Over the previous two months, I had essentially been held captive by my orphanage and the religious devotions of the church of Asmodeus. I dreamed of spending time with Jack once more. Of the simple joys that came from the hard labor of chopping wood, only to hear him spend hours telling me stories of the Lantern King while we shared a hearty supper. I fantasized of seeing his deeply lined face and the pleased grin that was offered as soon as I came bounding through the Chitterwood and offered a welcome. And though I knew it was impossible, I privately wished there would be a day when Old Jack gave a heavy sigh and asked me if I wanted to stay there with him. That he didn't want me to return to The Home for Lost Children. That he would take me in to look after as his own. I wanted that so badly, but I never dared to say this desire out loud least I risk any possibility it might come true.

It was an overcast sky, threatening to rain with distant rumbles that crept overhead when I made my slow passage and came to that familiar ramshackle building. Back aching from the still healing scars, I didn't care if I did a lick of work and in return earned no coin. I just wanted to see Old Jack again. I went to the front door and raised my hand to knock on the wooden frame. There was no response. I waited patiently, as I knew how advanced in years my friend had grown, and he sometimes rose from his chair with difficulty. When there wasn't even a sound to be heard save from the noises of the birds and bugs of the woods, I called out. "Hello, Jack!" I listened, and heard nothing. "It's Puck!" I was greeted only with another long, drawn out silence.

Moving around his property, I wondered perhaps in my two months of absence if he'd been forced to attend to the more physical chores on his own. That he was simply nearby and winded. Stepping about and brushing the dark hair of my bangs out of my eyes, it did seem that some things had changed. His weathered axe that I often used to chop wood was absent from the old stump, the dinged wheel barrel with the broken handle I was sometimes sent with to gather supplies in town was absent. I found these details curious, but continued hunting for signs of Old Jack. Coming to the rear door of his home, I knocked again ... and the door opened to the pressure of my hand. It had been left open. I didn't often enter my friend's home without his accompanying me, so my feet were locked in place while I made one final call. "Old Jack? Are you there?" Again, nothing. I reached my hand out, and pushed the door open further.

I was met with a troubling vacancy. Old Jack had learned to live simply, so I'd noticed on the few times he brought me inside that his home was sparse save for the cluttered belongings he kept in the basement. Except, looking into his home now, there was nothing save bare walls. No rocking chair, no broom in the corner, even the old stove was absent with simply a narrow hole in the roof. I stepped inside, and began to inspect further with the anxious feeling of treading through a crypt. Nothing. Moving to the small private room that I had never been invited to where I knew Jack slept, and all I found was an empty space. My mind slipped away from accepting what I was seeing, even as the first tattering taps of rain fell on the rooftop. It lasted for only a handful of seconds, then ceased. Still, I wasn't finished. I pulled up the latch that led to Jack's cellar, and started carefully down the crooked stone steps.

The times I'd been sent down here before, I had always wondered at the vast meandering collections that Old Jack had accumulated over the years. It seemed he had a habit of hording every little thing that wasn't tied down, and his basement was little more than piles of oddments with a winding path between them. A chill went through my spine as I saw for the first time the whole of the area without a single belonging. It felt somehow smaller than I remembered it this way, the caked dirt walls and the wooden floorboards above having shrunk in response to its lessened need. My arms clutched about myself, and before I was prepared, I felt moisture well in my eyes.

Had Old Jack left? Had he moved, in the time I was forced to remain part of that congregation? No. No, that wasn't something he could have managed on his own. Besides, that's the sort of action he would have certainly had to planned on. Even if it was an emergency, I knew he would have left me a note. Among the many other lessons I'd learned under Jack, he'd made sure I knew well enough how to read without stumbling and tripping over each word. Still, I darted back up the stairs and let my eyes race over the empty surfaces in hopes of finding a message. A single hint or sign. Still, there was an overwhelming presence of nothing. My heart was pounding so heavily that I was unable to ignore the sound of it against my ears.

Where was he? Did he leave me? I found myself reaching to squeeze against my own body again, even while I looked out through one of his shuttered windows. Still, my inner self wanted to reject what I was finding. Jack had to be there. He had to be. I had been wishing on being with Jack for so long, why wasn't he there? In my hopes of trying to comprehend it all, a terrible suspicion came to mind. Had Old Jack actually never been there?

The idea caused my to snap up and my plum colored eyes to shoot wide. Weirder stories were known to happen. I was Fey after all, and weren't my folk supposed to be notorious for this nature of trickery? An idea came to mind, and I started to look about. There was the patch in his roof that he'd instructed me to take care of in the first few visits I had ever managed, claiming he didn't trust himself to climb up on the rooftop. Looking outside the back door, I recognized several split logs that I had personally spent hours with blistering hands chopping. No, Jack had been here. It all hadn't only been some sort of phantasm.

My mind was dizzy, so I settled down onto the splintered floorboards and tried to think. After several more minutes, the rain returned. Hard this time, a pounding of drops on the roof that rose a clatter which made me cringe in response to. I worked at the problem of where Jack had gone off to, and a tiny voice in my head spoke a sad truth. Old Jack was, by his very moniker, old. Well matured even before we crossed paths, and I had been coming around for years. I had been doing so very much for him, because he simply found so many tasks too challenging. Had Jack passed in the two months I was gone? He spoke of family who rarely visited, though we'd never crossed paths. Had they come out to Old Jack's cottage, and salvaged all of his belongings?

The worry that Jack was dead filled me with a sharp pain, and the tears that had been threatening to spill came out in a torrent. My chest hurt with the sobs that claimed me, ugly and untamed in the way only the worst losses can affect a body. Jack was gone. I would never seen him again. I had so little, this single void nearly ruined me. After the first wave of crashing rain, the storm had settled into a lingering drizzle all around me. I denied the deprivation of Old Jack from my life, but the truth was too loud to be refuted. He was gone, and he would never come back. My insides churned and clutched. A pressure pushed against my heart.

After about an hour, I decided that no good would be gained by remaining. Though my feet had grown numb from how I sat, I pushed myself to standing and shuffled back through the door. Closing it proper as I exited, unlike how I left it. In a stupor, I move through the trickle of rain back towards Gillamoor as I wondered at the new shape of my life.

I don't even recall the distance traveled. All I knew was that the next moment the rain was easing to the verge of not falling at all, and I was in site of the Gillamoor Home for Lost Children. There was the aged stone wall that I'd helped construct forty years prior, now starting to spill apart where other sections were consumed by moss. I looked over at the small horse stall us children had built just a dozen years ago, when Norwell's predecessor had needed one built for the horse he'd acquired. Seven years after that, he'd been bucked out of the saddle to split his skull, and the new Herrod had taken over in his place. I felt the weight of time weighing on my shoulders. I wasn't young, and I wasn't old. I was this singular individual removed from the spinning of the seasons, creeping through the years with the pace matched only by the trees.

Norwell was primping himself in the reflection of a glass window when I stepped inside, before generously offering one of his many well manicured scowls in my direction. I knew how pathetic I looked, some half starved orphan soaked and with a hole in his life too big to ever fill. I didn't even say a curse under my breath before I turned and went off to the shared sleeping hall. There was nothing to me anymore. I was a shade, a counterfeit version of Puck that would wilt away once brought out into the sun. I was soul sore. Unsure of what else to do, I curled up on my cot and closed my eyes. Though the sun was still overhead behind the blanket of clouds, I slept almost immediately.

Lìse woke me with a hand running through my hair. I roused with the awareness that she'd been saying my name several times. "Puck? He's not well, Tanner. Puck?" I opened one eye, and saw relief pass over the deeply freckled face of Lìse. "Sweet merciful heavens, Puck, you had me worried."

In my pain, I lashed out. "Piss off." I emphasized this with a narrowing of my gaze, before rolling over to face the opposite way. I felt a hand come once more into my hair, and I yelped as it instead of offering gentle strokes had came to clutch at its length and give a sharp tug. I began to turn back around with my mouth open in complaint, only to be met with the fiercer eyes of Lìse Ó Broin.

"Puck, you arse, I can see something’s wrong. But just 'cause you're hurt doesn't make it right to hurt those caring after you." This little girl spoke with the confidence of a goddess, and her compassion for me was not tempered in the least by my breach of proper behavior. Still, I was suffering from what felt to be a mortal wound of the heart, and I glared at her in return for a long stillness. One of our other orphans who hadn't been chosen by the Hell Knights, Tanner, took a step away as though he might be injured in this battle of wills and rubbed his nose against the sleeve of his shirt.

Finally, I dropped my eyes and spoke under my breath. "I'm sorry, Lìse."

"There," she said imperiously. "That's better. Thank you. Now, tell me what's wrong." Without being asked, the rusty haired girl started to push me up so that she might sit on my cot with me. Tanner, seeing there would be no further metaphorical knives drawn, crept back closer and plopped onto the floor besides Lìse. He almost never spoke, and followed her around with his owlishly wide eyes like a pet. I looked at Tanner, and even though he often retreated from the slightest touch, he reached up his tiny child's hand and gave me a pair of pats on my knee. I looked at proud Lìse's expression, easing as it was clear I had accepted my fate and would confide in them.

It all spilled out. My history with Old Jack, how I had kept him secret from the rest of The Home. I expressed sincerely how guilty I had felt in keeping him a secret, especially to Lìse. There was no judgment in her face, only understanding. I was surprised that while sharing my experiences with Jack hurt like rubbing at a skinned elbow, it did not bring me to tears as it had. I wanted others to know of him. Of how wonderful he was. How Jack was the source of all those stories of the Lantern King that I sometimes shared with the other orphans. That when I came back to The Home, it was from his campfire that I brought extra food to share with Lìse. I didn't share each experience I had with that wonderful elder, but enough. They could see how much I cared for him.

They absorbed my story in quiet as some of the other children started to return from whatever efforts they had spent trying to find a copper to pay for our stay. Our lips were sealed shut, each of us looking into one another's eyes. Then Tanner rose up to his feet, and leaning over the lip of the cot gave me an awkward hug. The simple act of sweetness from a boy half Lìse's age had a choke rise to my throat, but he let me go before I did something awkward. Then he was walking off to his own bedding, leaving Lìse and myself alone. Another long silence was shared between us, and from the crease between her brows, it was clear that she had a thought to share.

I didn't know it, but this moment was a pivot on which the entire course of my life would change. The theory that Lìse was prepared to share with me would forever alter me as a person, and give me a suspicion to wonder at through the remainder of my years. It was only after she bit at the corner of her lip at a section of dry skin that a question was risked. "Puck ... I'm thinking about something." A hand reached up to tug at a curl of hair, hoping to conceal the fold of her ear. Lìse took a deep breath, and continued to speak in a soft voice that left the conversation to be shared only between the two of us. "it's ... it's wild and fantastic, but it also makes sense to me. Only, you would know better than I."

Lìse put a hand on my shoulder, and leaned close enough that I could feel her breath against my cheek. When she spoke, she both whispered and said her concept loudly enough that I didn't mistake a word. I shot her a look of such surprise as the implications rebounded inside my skull, I don't doubt that I looked the idiot.

"Puck ... what if Old Jack was the Lantern King?"

#Puck #Lìse #Lìse Ó Broin #The Lantern King #Lantern King #Writing #Writer #Author #Fantasy #Magic

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waiting-for-motivation · 5 years ago

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physical affection

summary: (Y/n) isn‘t used to physical attention and isn‘t sure if she deserves the love Bruce gives her.

pairings: Bruce Wayne x Reader

warnings: angsts fluff, mentions of sex

words: 1256

a/n: I‘m not sure about this because it kind of describes how I‘m feeling these last days. Ps: You are beautiful the way you are!

MASTERLIST REQUEST RULES

After one last kiss to her forehead, Bruce rolls off (Y/n) and lays panting heavily next to her. One of his arms is still under her head. (Y/n) doesn‘t move. Every now and then she takes a deep breath to calm her body down after the pleasuring events of the night. None of them says anything because they are both exhausted after the fifth round of sex. That‘s probably also the reason why Bruce falls asleep rather quickly. But (Y/n) doesn‘t.

When she hears his soft and regular snores, the young woman sits up and once again takes a deep breath. At first she stares at her hands laying on the bed sheets, then she stares at herself in the large mirror right opposite the bed. There she is. Her ugly face. Her strange hair. Her disgusting body. At least that‘s what she sees. Bruce would see the definition of perfection. But she doesn‘t.

One single tear runs down her face and drops on the white sheet. She runs her right hand through her hair and closes her eyes for a moment. Why is she here? Why would a man like Bruce Wayne take an interest in her? Why would anyone take an interest in her? She isn‘t as perfect as every other female. There is nothing about her body that could attract someone’s attention. She isn‘t pretty, nor sexy.

But here she is. In Bruce Waynes bedroom, after they just made love. And that doesn‘t make sense in (Y/n)s head. No man in her whole life, ever, showed physical affection to her. She was never important to anyone. Why should she be important to Bruce? All her life she believed that she was unworthy of love, that no one would ever love her. She lost hope when she was still single with 25 and no one showed any interest in her. No one.

So it doesn‘t make sense in her head. Bruce can‘t love her. It‘s impossible.

Slowly, (Y/n) leaves the warmth of the bed and puts on the first clothing she sees, which is one of Bruces shirts and her shorts. Then she leaves the bedroom and walks through a lot of corridors until she reaches the kitchen. Unfortunately, the kitchen isn‘t empty and (Y/n) stands in front of Alfred who is making himself some tea. They both stare at each other for some time.

„Already leaving?“ The old man asks and fills the hot water in the cup. (Y/n) swallows hard and looks down at her naked feet.

„No. No, I was just…eh“ Why didn‘t she think about leaving? If all of this doesn‘t make sense and is probably not even real, than it would be best to leave. Easiest way to avoid her problems.

„Did Master Wayne do something wrong?“ Alfred hands (Y/n) the tea cup he made and turns around to get himself another cup. But not before giving her a worried look.

„No! He didn‘t. Bruce is…nice. He is…the best.“ (Y/n) starts to feel unwell because Alfreds questioning makes her rethink everything. Maybe life is treating her this time like she always dreamed of. Maybe Bruce does love her.

„Then why aren‘t you with him?“ Without another word the man leaves (Y/n) alone in the kitchen. Alone with her thoughts.

With a sigh the young woman turns around and walks back to Bruces bedroom. The man himself is sleeping in the same position he was when (Y/n) left. Watching him sleep so peacefully, sends a shiver down her body. He is too good to be true.

After a sip from her tea, (Y/n) lays down again and tries to sleep but her thoughts are to dominant. But then a strong arm pulls her against a muscular chest and she can feel Bruces breath against her neck. There it is. The physical affection, (Y/n) thought she never deserved. She isn‘t used to it. But nevertheless it feels good, so good to be in his arms. And with that thought (Y/n) finally falls asleep.

The next morning the young woman wakes up well rested and as she turns around she must realise that Bruce left. We’re the events of last night only a dream? No, she is still in his bedroom in the manor. It must have been real.

As (Y/n) hops out of the bed a certain billionaire enters the room with two cups of tea in his hands. With a smile (Y/n) looks at Bruce and takes one cup from his hands. The moment the cup touches her fingers, Bruces lips also touch hers in a short but romantic kiss. As they separate, (Y/n) realises that he just got out of the shower. His hear is ruffled which is, in her opinion, the cutest it has ever been.

(Y/n) sits down in one of the comfortable armchairs, followed by Bruce who kneels in front of her, setting his cup down on the floor.

„Is everything alright, honey?“ Bruce asks with a concerned expression on his face. He takes the hand, (Y/n) isn‘t using to hold her warm tea cup. Kind of ashamed (Y/n) avoids eye contact.

„Yeah, why wouldn‘t it?“ Her voice breaks mid sentence and that’s one of the reasons that worries Bruce even more.

„You know, you can talk to me about everything. Don‘t be afraid to tell me what‘s wrong, I will understand. I promise!“ Slowly, (Y/n)s tear filled eyes look into Bruces brown ones. She fights with her own thoughts. On the one side, she wants to tell Bruce everything but on the other side, what if he doesn‘t understand and breaks up? „Alfred told me that you went to the kitchen, rather…messed up. Did I hurt you last night?“ Now it‘s Bruces turn to be insecure and that’s something (Y/n) never wanted to see.

„No! No, Bruce. You didn‘t. You did absolutely nothing wrong. You are perfect.“ (Y/n) puts down her cup as well so that she can take Bruces face in her small hands. „You are perfect. It‘s me, Bruce. I‘m the one that does everything wrong. I‘m the one that doesn‘t deserve you and…your love.“

Bruce lays one of his hands on (Y/n)s cheek and shakes his head slightly.

„Honey, no. You are perfect and you deserve more than I can give you. I love you so much.“ He gives her a short kiss and then leans his forehead against hers. „Why would you think like that?“

„It‘s just because…I was alone for almost my whole life, no one…showed me that I‘m important. I‘m so insecure about myself and when our relationship started….I‘m not used to physical affection and I don‘t know how to handle it. And I never thought I deserved love. I‘m so stupid, sorry…“ Now tears run down (Y/n)s face and she can‘t hold back her sobs. She feels so pathetic.

„Hey, it‘s okay. I understand. It was new to me too. You will get used to it, I promise. And get one thing inside your pretty little head, honey: You deserve to be loved, do you understand?“ Bruce kisses (Y/n) once again and helps her up after a few seconds. When both of them stand, he hugs her as tight as possible and whispers some sweet nothings to her.

„I love you.“ The words leave (Y/n)s lips without thinking twice and in pure shock she waits for Bruces reaction. She never told him before. Not with words.

„I love you too, honey.“ Bruce starts grinning like an idiot and presses his lips onto (Y/n)s in a heated kiss.

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fireblaze5555 · 5 years ago

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A small fic prompted by a post here on Tumblr, full post is on my page with link to Ao3.

Frank taking care of Karen when she falls apart.

Break

It was late when Karen finally closed her laptop and stepped in the shower. She had been buried in her work all day, barely stopping to eat or drink anything besides coffee and that was only because Frank was just as stubborn as she was, not allowing her to proceed without food. He had laid down hours ago, the past few days had been especially rough on him, the men he had been tracking not going down without a fight.

Karen had fussed over the, overall, minimal injuries he received and gave him general hell for not taking better precautions. She had meticulously cleaned his wounds, made sure he ate and refused to let him start anything else for at least another day or so. That had been the day before, this morning he was in good shape and it only took her about fifteen minutes to check his wounds and re-bandage those that needed it. All things he could have done but she smacked his hands away and efficiently took over.

Once Karen had finished taking care of Frank though, her hands were idle again and that was not acceptable, especially not today. So, she launched into any and every case she could to keep her mind busy, only coming up for air when Frank relentlessly pulled her back to the surface.

However, now the work was done and her eyes kept crossing every time she tried to read another word. Karen hoped her exhaustion would allow her to fall asleep quickly and dreamlessly, at least for a few hours. Then she could tell Frank she slept and she may be spared the sidelong glances he had been giving her all day today.

The warm water was doing nothing for her knotted muscles so Karen reached for the faucet to increase the temperature, turning the old metal handle quickly. The old handle protested the quick movement, letting out a high squeak and tortured grinding sound that filled her hearing until there was no other sound.

Karen was suddenly back, 12 years ago to the day, strapped upside down to the twisted hunk of metal that had once been the family car, Kevin motionless and bleeding beside her. The acrid smell of smoke and the stale taste of alcohol filled her remaining senses and Karen only just barely got a hand over her mouth before the choked sob escaped her. She wanted to scream, to punch at the tiles of her shower until the oppressive weight in her chest eased up a bit, to have one _fucking _year that she could get through this day without falling apart at the seams. Then again, she was alive to feel this, Kevin wasn’t, so maybe it was fitting that she got to relive this hell year after year.

She was choking and only vaguely aware that she was now curled over her knees on the shower floor, the water scalding hot against the back of her neck and shoulders. She thought she should turn the temperature down but couldn’t bring herself to move so she absorbed the pain, it was what she deserved anyway.

Frank came awake with a small start, his hand reaching out instinctively to the spot next to him that was cold and empty. He wasn’t surprised that Karen hadn’t come to bed yet, it wasn’t unusual for her to work until ungodly hours so he isn’t sure what it was that woke him up. The sound of the shower trickled into his awareness and he wondered if that was the culprit but then, so quiet he nearly missed it, a whimpering sob filtered through the air.

He was on his feet and to the bathroom door in record time, hesitating for only a second before he pushed it open. The steam that filled the small bathroom was so thick Frank felt like he had walked into a solid wall of humidity, it nearly stole his breath.

“Karen?” His voice was rough from sleep and concern creeped into his tone. Had he misheard something? She hadn’t seemed like herself the past couple of days but he had also been distracted so maybe he was just being paranoid.

However, a choked noise came from behind the curtain and before Frank had a chance to think about it he had ripped it back and his heart fell at what he saw. Karen was curled over herself, forehead pressed to her knees, shaking with the effort to hold in her sobs. Even more alarming was the deep red of her skin everywhere the water touched. Frank dropped down to a knee and reached out on instinct to put a soothing hand on Karen’s back.

“Fuckin’ Christ. ” The water was scorching and he jerked his hand out of the spray. A second later he was turning the handles to cut off the water and the hot water tap let out a scraping protest. Karen gave a pained whimper and covered her ears, a full sob finally escaping her as she curled impossibly more into herself.

“Hey, hey ‘s alright.” Frank climbed into the tub in just his boxer briefs, his legs bracketing Karen as he carefully leaned into her. She was curled so tightly into herself he couldn’t get his hands around her torso so rubbed his hands soothingly up and down her legs, from ankle to knee. “I’ve got you, Karen. C’mon sweetheart, breathe.”

She shuddered in a breath but it came out as another sob. Karen really wanted to pull herself together, she really hated falling apart in front of people but hated doing it in front of Frank more than any other. The man had been through so much, suffered more than any one person should and he shouldn’t have to shoulder her baggage as well. However, every time she tried to control her breathing and reassure him that she was fine, her chest constricted again and her demons ripped her thoughts to shreds.

Frank knew what devastation and grief looked like, he had experienced it enough in his life, so he knew that Karen, his beautiful, strong and resilient Karen, was in the throes of a panic attack. He just didn’t know what had set it off. Gently, he pulled her fingers from her hair where she had knotted them, speaking quiet encouragements and soothing words as he did. Next he wrapped a careful arm around her shoulders and sat back with her until they were both leaned against the back of the tub, Karen between his legs with her face pressed into the side of his neck, Frank with one arm wrapped around her torso while the other pushed the wet hair out of her face.

“Shh, I got you, I got you.” He kept repeating softly as she hiccoughed and shook with the full force of her grief. Frank was beside himself with worry, it was tearing him apart to see her so upset but all he could do was hold her while she rode it out. The hand that had been combing through her hair now rubbed soothingly at her arm while he waited, the contact soothing him as much as it was her.

Eventually Karen’s breathing started to even out and her shaking subsided to small tremors. Frank craned his neck up to locate the oversized towel he knew would be on the rack and stretched his arm out to pull it down and drape it over her, the shivers weren’t from the cold but it would help her feel less exposed and would hopefully prevent her from getting chilled.

Karen felt like someone had used her as a piñata, strung up and beaten until there was nothing left. She felt Frank settle the towel over her and wanted to smile but she couldn’t muster up the energy. His heartbeat was strong in her ear where her head rested against his neck and relaxed her like the hot water couldn’t. They lay like that for a while, neither breaking the silence, and she didn’t think she could love the man more when his hand settled to massage gently at the back of her neck.

After several minutes, Frank turned his head to where his lips pressed gently to her forehead and carefully asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Karen leaned into the caress but dreaded answering. It was a complicated answer, part of her wanted to get it all out there to see if it would ease the ever present tightness in her chest but the other part wasn’t ready for him to see the ugliness of her soul.

“I’m fine.” She managed to croak out after a moment, closing her eyes on her own cowardice.

She felt more than heard him hum disbelievingly, it rumbled deeply through his chest in a way that was so Frank it made her ache. He wouldn’t press her anymore but she felt like he deserved some sort of answer since she was pretty sure he was at least partially clothed and wet in the tub with her.

Karen opened her mouth to give an explanation but her throat seemed to close up, stealing her words. It took a few more minutes before she cleared her throat and tried again, “It’s the anniversary of Kevin’s death today. It’s been twelve years since I killed my brother.” She hadn’t meant to say that much, her exhaustion allowing the words to tumble out unbidden. Oh well, at least now Frank knew what kind of person she actually was and could decide for himself if she was worth being with, if he could be around someone who killed their own family.

Frank felt Karen tense after she finished speaking. It had been hard for her to say and it was almost as if she expected a physical blow from him. Tightening his hold imperceptibly he placed another small kiss to her forehead.

“Tell me about him?”

Karen’s eyes popped open and she felt tears starting to form in her eyes again. She had expected a demand for explanation, disbelief and disgust, not a gentle request in that calm baritone he reserved only for her.

She fought to get her emotions back under control, only a few tears escaping to slide down her cheek before they cascaded over Frank’s bare chest. When she felt like she could talk without sobbing, she answered with only the slightest tremor in her voice, “He was kind, gentle and terrible at sports. He constantly pestered me about every little annoying thing he could. He still cut the crust off of his sandwich even though he was nearly a senior in high school.” She chuckled a little when Frank huffed a little laugh across her face. Her small laugh turned into a sniffle before she continued, “He always pushed me to be better. Wouldn’t accept my excuses. Kevin never judged me, even when I hit rock bottom, doing and dealing drugs with the lowlife I called a boyfriend.”

Frank stilled for only a second before he continued to rub her arm, nodding slightly in encouragement for her to continue. He felt so solid behind her it kept Karen from feeling like she was in a total freefall like every other time she thought about that night.

“He found the camper we had been staying in and set it on fire, drugs and all. When we got back my boyfriend,” she spit the word out like it was venom on her tongue, “proceeded to beat him with a tire iron. I couldn’t get him to stop so I pulled the gun out of the glove compartment and shot him in the shoulder.” Her breath hitched before she took in another shaky one, “I threw Kevin in the car and drove away but I was still drunk and high. We didn’t get very far before I rolled the car. He didn’t make it.”

She was starting to shake in his arms again and Frank ached with the weight of her grief. He knew Karen had a rocky past but never pushed her on it. He never realized just how much she had been through. He brought his attention back when she started talking again, her voice small and quivering.

“He had come to tell me that he signed me back up for the college I dropped out of to help at the diner. He was there to help me get my life back on track and I killed him. I murdered the only person left in my family that had any faith left in me” The quivering turned into a full, racking sob that had Frank pulling her tighter to his chest.

“You were a kid Karen. You were put in a hard situation and you did the best you could.” She started shaking her head in between small whimpers but Frank put his hand on her cheek and made her look up at him. Her eyes were the palest blue he had ever seen them, almost as though her tears had washed away all the color and she looked so desolate and lost that it made his own eyes burn. He held her gaze, wiping absently at the tears that streamed over her temple with his thumb, “You made a mistake. That doesn’t make you a murderer, Karen. What happened to your brother is terrible and I’m so sorry that it happened but _you are not a murderer. _You are the best person I know and God knows where I would be without you at this point.”

Karen had quieted as he talked, her tears were silently leaving tracks on her face but those were slowing as well. He still saw doubt in her face, he knew better than anyone, that kind of guilt doesn’t go away so easily but it seemed that he had at least said the right thing this time around. He hoped he could be as much the rock for her as she was for him.

Leaning in, Frank gave her a sweet lingering kiss before resting his forehead against hers, a gesture that has given them both comfort over their time together. When he drew back, her eyes were clearer and she even managed to give him a watery smile.

She sniffled loudly and pushed off of him slightly, just enough to regard his position. Her voice was still thick with emotion but he could hear the hint of amusement lacing her tone, “How’s your back liking that position?”

He gave her a lopsided grin, “I’ll tell you later once it has caught up with me.” Frank watched her carefully for a moment, “Ready to get some rest?”

She nodded slowly and moved to sit up, Frank assisting her and then pushing off the back of the tub himself. He stood first, ignoring the ache in his knees and took Karen’s hands to help pull her to her feet, wrapping the towel tightly around her shoulders once they were both steady on their feet.

Karen watched Frank as he fussed over her, pulling her hair out from under the towel, smoothing it out of her face, rubbing her arms over the towel to keep her warm, all the while his deep brown eyes furrowed in concern, taking in every detail to ensure he was making her as comfortable as he could. Slowly, she felt part of her tattered soul repairing itself. It was amazing how someone as broken as Frank Castle could make her feel so whole. Someone who had lost so much, giving her everything he had left. Karen stepped further into his space, banding her arms around his waist and gave him a slow kiss that she hoped conveyed everything she didn’t have the strength to say at the moment.

He seemed to understand though, he usually did, and brought his own hands up to card through her hair, holding her so tenderly she could have cried if she had any tears left. Finally, he stepped out of the tub and held her hand while she did the same. Before she could protest, Frank scooped her up and carried her the short distance to the bedroom. Normally she would have fussed at him and told him she could walk on her own but she was so drained all she could do was be grateful and press her forehead into his neck.

Frank tucked her in on his side where the blankets were already pulled back before quickly shucking out of his wet underwear and throwing on a dry pair. He left the room, returning a minute later with a glass of water that he put on the nightstand closest to her and then climbed in behind her, tucking her against him with incredible care, laying little kisses on what skin presented itself to him in the process.

Karen had been there for Frank in some of the hardest moments of his life, she had been an ear when he needed someone to listen, a childhood anecdote or sarcastic comment when he needed a laugh, and harsh words of truth when he needed a push in the right direction. He hoped he could be all of those things for her. Be the rock that she needed when her foundations were crumbling, just as she had been for him. When he heard a quiet ‘I love you, Frank’ before her exhaustion took her over, he felt his heart swell and thought maybe he had done something right for once.

“I love you too, Karen.”

By the next evening Frank had replaced the old squeaky faucet with a brand new one that didn’t make a sound when turned, the old one in the dumpster outside of her apartment, never to be seen again.

#frank castle #frank castle x karen page #i love them #karen page #kastle #post tps2 #hurt/comfort

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oyesmendes · 4 years ago

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love is...

a/n: everything i dreamed of with the right person. this is a WIP that i’ll be adding onto whenever i have new ideas!! just bc love is alot of things and there are many concepts that i adore. ❤️

love is walking your dog on a Saturday morning no matter how tired you are.

There was no explanation as to how Luke and Quinn fell in love with one another, it just happened. They were like two peas in a pod, puzzle pieces that fit perfectly with one another. Maybe they had their dogs to thank, but neither of them would ever admit that.

The pair met each other on a Saturday morning, where Luke was dragging Petunia on a walk while Quinn was being dragged by Bowie. The park was quiet seeing that it was only 8AM, but Quinn had to get the energy out of Bowie or she’d never have a moment of peace during the day. Luke and Petunia on the other hand, they didn’t have a reason to be at the park but up till today, Luke was thankful that he was.

“Oh come on Bowie, don’t shove your face into her ass” Quinn tugged on the leash, pulling her German Shepard towards her.

“S’alright, I don’t think she’d mind having a new friend. Isn’t that right, Petunia.” Luke cupped the face of his dog, planting a kiss on the top of her head. Quinn smiled at him, then releasing the tug that she had on Bowie. He ruffled the top of Bowie’s head, earning a bunch of kisses from the large dog.

“I’m Luke.”

“I’m Quinn.” They shook hands like normal strangers but it was no doubt that they noticed the beauty of the other person - Quinn saw the way Luke’s eyes shone under the light, and he saw how Quinn’s smile was brighter than the sun. They let both their dogs off the leash, allowing them to get to know each other as their parents interacted. Little did any of them know that the two dogs would become best friends, just like their parents did.

It’s like the warmth of the sun rays hitting your skin

They were out on a hike again, this time without their dogs. The afternoon sun beating down on the pair mercilessly as they hiked uphill. Her hand was intertwined with his, the skin to skin contact was sweaty, but comforting. It had only been three months since they started going out with each other, a month since they shared their first ‘I love you’ and two weeks since she met his best friends. Everything seemed to be going at top speed, but it all felt right to Luke, like things had fallen into place and he was finally seeing light again. Quinn enjoyed these moments with him as well, getting to know Luke for who he was off-stage, as a normal human being.

It took them three hours to reach the end of the trail, the magnificent view of LA right below their feet. Luke had his hand around her shoulder, Quinn’s arms wrapped around his waist as they took in the sight. They always stood like this at the end of their hikes - just to take in the view and bask in the sun. They talked about their lives while they hiked, what they had missed before they found each other. Quinn told him about her massive family, her boring 9 to 5 job, her favourite food, and anything she could think of. Luke told her about his extraordinary job as a musician, the travelling and his bandmates who he called his brothers.

They’d drive to either of their homes, dogs bounding at them when they entered. Quinn would dance while she cooked, and Luke would hum softly to the tunes while admiring his girl. They would kiss more than cook, often times causing a scene with their food.

“Luke! The pasta!” Water was overflowing out of the pot due to their lack of attention to it. She’d panic but Luke would laugh it off, saying how they should order takeout the next time. Though throughout the rest of their relationship, no one ever recalled them ordering takeout.

It is midnight driving with no destination

“You sure we should leave the dogs alone at this hour?” Quinn questioned as she put on her sneakers, Luke grabbing both their jackets in his hand.

“They’d be fine, they’re both well trained. Besides, they’re probably tired out after hanging out with each other the entire day.” Quinn still had her worries, but she wouldn’t pass off an opportunity to be with \ Luke, so off they went. They were driving on the somewhat quiet streets of Downtown LA, no destination in mind. Just soft music playing and talking about the little things in life. Quinn had a bag of McDonalds on her lap, feeding fries to Luke two at a time as he drove onto a street that up to the hills. He stopped at a random parking lot, one with a view of the skyline and they both got out of the car to sit on the hood. She was snuggled in his arms, fries and chicken nuggets devoured a long time ago.

“Quinn?” She hummed in response.

“Do you want to get married?” He looked down at her. Her head was resting on his chest, a soft smile graced her lips.

“Are you proposing right now?”

“No, but I would like to in the near future.” She sat up so her eyes met his. He watched as her hands grazed his cheeks, across his lips and along his jaw before she leaned in to press her soft lips against his. She smiled into the kiss, just like always because it felt good, she felt happy.

“I would love to marry you, Luke Hemmings.”

But love is also ugly

“Don’t you dare put this on me, Quinn.”

“Put this on you? Fuck, who was the one who walked into the house all somber and moody? Who was the one that snapped at me when all I did was ask how you were?” He could see the fire in Quinn’s eyes, the anger bubbling in her chest.

“I don’t need you breathing down my neck every second of the day!”

“I’m not doing that!”

“Fuck!” Luke swiped his hands across the kitchen island, throwing the beer bottle to the floor. Quinn’s eyes widened as she took a step back, wrapping her arms around her torso. The dinner she spent the afternoon cooking was now long forgotten, sitting ice cold on the dining table. She looked at Luke who had his hands gripping the counter top so tightly, his eyes squeezed shut as he breathed. Quinn put her hand atop Luke’s, stroking it softly. She already had her keys in her pocket, hoodie over her T-shirt and Bowie’s leash in her hand.

"I-I should go."

"Don't." Luke said barely over a whisper.

And you have to realise, it’s not always 50/50.

Quinn approaches him slowly, hand resting on his back. She hears him sob, tears dripping onto the counter top. Her touch brings him back to reality, pulls him out of those thoughts and his grip loosens from the table. She takes this chance to move him so his body faces hers.

"Don't go" He chokes out. Quinn could feel her heart physically break from the sound of his words. She cups his face in her hands so their eyes meet.

"Okay, I'm not leaving. I'm here." He leans his head on her shoulder, arms wrapping tightly around her waist. She tries to take as much of his 6’3” body into her tiny frame, rubbing circles on his back. She lets him cry his heart out, and babble incoherent words.

"I just want to love you in the way you deserve." Luke pulls away first, wiping the tears that stained his cheeks.

"Baby, you are doing that. You’ve always done that.”

"No, not on days like this. I can't give you what you deserve when I'm like this." His head is now hung low, back pressed to the kitchen sink behind him. She approaches him, hands intertwined with his. Quinn kisses his knuckles softly and brings his hands to her chest.

“You can, and you always have. Lu, you’ve given me your everything the past eight months we’ve been together. You’re human and it’s impossible to always give me the same amount of affection and love every day, you need to understand that. This is life - we give, we take and somewhere along the way we might lose some; but that doesn’t make me love you any less.”

Through it all, love is crazy and it works, especially between the right people.

Quinn bounces on her feet as she’s stood in the arrival hall of the airport, a huge sign in her hand that reads ‘I’m looking for Quinn Barker’s Boyfriend!’ In neon yellow against a black background. She spots his tall figure a mile away, head of curls hidden under a hoodie with his large suitcases in tow. He was too engrossed in a conversation with Michael that he nearly misses her. Thankfully, his brothers had long noticed her striking sign, a smirk forming on their face once Luke noticed her.

It felt like a scene from the movies when his eyes locked with hers. She was running towards him and he opened his arms for her to crash straight into him. Tears of joy filled both their eyes, finally being able to hold the other person after being apart for six months. Quinn grinned as she pulled away, reaching into her jacket pocket to take out a black velvet box.

“I have something for you.” She mumbles. Luke looks at her in surprise - is that box what he thinks it is? She opens it, and in it holds two gold rings. His smile grew even wider and her face was starting to hurt from the permanent grin on her face as well.

“You made me wait too damn long, Lu. So I’m gonna ask you - will you marry me?” He kisses her passionately at her words, murmuring a ‘yes’ as their lips moved. Luke picks her up from the floor to spin her around. Quinn squeals as her feet lifts off the ground, laughing and smiling like the idiot that she is. When he puts her down, she takes his ring and slips it on for him as he does for her.

“You’re crazy, future Mrs Hemmings.”

“Crazy for you, my love.”

#5sos #5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer fic #5 second of summer imagines #luke hemmings #luke hemmings fic #luke hemmings imagine #michael clifford #michael clifford fic #michael clifford imagines #calum hood #calum hood fics #calum hood imagines #ashton irwin #ashton irwin fic #ashton irwin imagine

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dulcidyne · 5 years ago

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Experiments in Diplomacy: Compiling [8/?]

There’s nothing in the Interspecies Diplomacy subsection of the Initiative handbook that covers sharing a tech lab with an angara who can kill her in her sleep. She knows, she’s read every page. Twice. (A collection of in-between vignettes from the Tempest tech lab)

//Jaal x Ryder // Humor. Romance. SFW // Previous chapters: [1][2][3][4][5][6][7] or read on Ao3

Somewhere along the way to age seven, in Citadel docking bay 223, Se-ah Ryder decides crying, hugs, tantrums, and other public displays of emotion are things she has outgrown. Perfunctory, precise, she shuts them away as if embarrassing emotional habits can be sealed into donation boxes for young needy children in the Lower Wards like her half-melted asari dolls.

Donated or lost, the box she puts them in stays shut. She doesn’t cry when they pay their respects to her grandmother’s urn at the columbarium. Or, much later, in another docking bay, when Scott waves goodbye as he ships off for Arcturus. She doesn’t cry the first time Iraenya plays down their relationship to her colleagues, embarrassed and ashamed. And when her mother dies, she takes a page out of her father’s book and finds a hospital supply closet and stifles her tears into her shirt collar.

It stays shut, that is, until now. Until twenty-eight uninterrupted minutes of sobbing into Jaal’s chest, followed by forty-one additional minutes of sporadic weeping interspersed with flailing grasps at composure. So, obviously, there is only one logical conclusion to make.

“Just run them again,” Se-ah hisses.

“Once again, Ryder, my scans do not detect any pathologic neurological patterns outside of baseline variation.”

She woke up to the dim ambient glow of the powered-down machine displays running through their background system scans, half-reclining in Jaal’s arms, in his cot, having cried herself to sleep in his embrace like an infant--that alone is an abnormality. She doesn’t understand why SAM is having difficulty with the concept.

“Outside of baseline,” she pauses, the gnarled tangle that is her hair fluttering as Jaal’s snores gust over her head. It tickles her temples but she doesn’t want to dislodge the warm arm banding around her shoulders to brush it back. “Wait, SAM, does that mean you normally detect pathologic patterns?” “It exceeds my functional parameters to parse this data into a clinical diagnosis. It would be unethical to make an attempt. Dr. T’Perro would undoubtedly provide better insight.”

Maggie’s lights pulse unhurried staccato patterns from the corner. Se-ah stiffens in Jaal’s loose embrace, indignant. “ Unethical. You’re an AI integrated into my entire body. Little late to be worried about ethics isn’t it?”

“A relevant point. I additionally lack subjective expertise. My data collection is limited to two genetically similar individuals. It is therefore relatively impossible for me to extrapolate what is normal and abnormal outside of overt structural dysfunction.”

“Further,” SAM says, “I am not an inert observer. It cannot definitively quantify what impact my integration and ongoing observation and interaction has had on your baseline neurological state.”

Disquieting. Se-ah stills and attempts to parse this new revelation while Jaal’s chest rumbles against her ear like the purr of a massive but very contented kitten. It’s nice. She wishes she were still half asleep and allowed to enjoy it and not awake and mortified over her predicament. Mortified and now, thanks to SAM, horrified.

“So not only can you not tell me if my brain is broken, you’re also saying that just by being in my head, you’re changing how it works and doing so in a way that you lack the ability to detect? Like some kind of quantum observer effect?”

SAM doles out a calculated pause for her benefit. All his pauses are for her benefit as he processes information in nanoseconds, but this one feels especially so. A pity pause. Bad news pause.

“Correct.”

“Great,” she mutters, “I’m Schroedinger’s basketcase.”

“My scans do detect significant decreases to harmful neurological metabolites and reduced cortisol levels...likely the product of sufficient rest.”

So that’s what it is. No creaking limbs, phantom aches or raw fatigue scraping the inside of her eyelids raw. A loose, shivery sensation clings like mist in her chest. It feels like a lungful of the air on Mr. Orleal, saturated in starlight and the ozone tingle of the eezo deposits under the lake.

Melatonin has nothing on Jaal. Lexi would be thrilled. Happiness flutters against her ribs. She hides her smile against the vast sloping ridge of Jaal’s alien chest even though there’s no one else there to see how foolish it looks. A familiar scent tickles her nose and she sniffles back a sneeze. He smells warm and herbal, like grapefruit orchards and Earth sunsets--carnelian, blush,and gold-- if Earth sunsets prickled in her sinuses like wasabi.

As far as smiles go, this one caught on the precipice of a sneeze, feels the stupidest.

“Pathfinder, if you have a moment, I would like to discuss some of the data I obtained earlier…”

The tentative flutter of joy in her chest curls inwards on itself, recoiling. She screws up her face, tipping her head back over Jaal’s arm, his r ofjinn bunching up against the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck.

“SAM, I don’t want to waste all this beautiful mental clarity on parsing out my emotional breakdown.”

It’s not fair and she regrets saying it. He provides more than his share of explanations for her and this is supposed to be a reciprocal relationship after all.

“That classification is interesting, Pathfinder. Noradrenaline phasic signalling was decreased, indicating the absence of a stress response. You rate the subjective experience, however, as a negative one?”

Half the words don’t even sound familiar. Despite being the daughter of a neuroscientist, she picked up precious little on the subject. Latching on to what she understands, she attempts an answer.

“No. Not negative. The opposite, I guess?”

“I see.”

She absurdly pictures SAM fitting the L of his imaginary thumb and pointer finger to his imaginary chin in a gesture of academic interest. Her father used to do that, unwittingly providing Scott with ample ammo for his ‘Alec Ryder, mad scientist’ impressions.

“This supports my observations of the intense activity within the mesolimbic circuit--”

Se-ah winces. “You know, it’s pretty weird to hear all the gory details.”

“I do not comprehend the discomfort.” SAM states, an echo of her father’s scientific fascination faint in the synthetic voice modulation. Her own imagination, she’s sure. “Your emotions are best described as the limited interpretation of this signalling process.”

For some indefinable reason, she bristles.

“Maybe technically, but...it was this amazing, overwhelming experience and it didn’t feel limited . It felt...immense. Bigger than anything. Like I couldn’t possibly keep it in without bursting and then I did burst and apparently that looks like a lot of crying.”

Ugly crying. There was a not-small-amount of snot involved.

“It’s more than mesolimbic circuits,” she persists, words coming faster and her voice tightening, “Sometimes things are more than their physical, observable state. When I’m on a summit, what I experience isn’t just snow and stars and rocks...it's…well I wouldn’t bother with it if that was all I got out of it. Look, I don’t think I could ever explain it in a way you’d be able to understand.”

The channel goes silent, longer than the normal exaggerated pauses SAM inserts into his responses. The silence is deafening on the heels of her tirade. As if he’s...affronted.

“Thank you Ryder.” SAM says at last. Clipped and professional. Is it her imagination or is it too professional? If there were such a thing? “I will attempt an analysis with this feedback in mind.”

Se-ah nods, unnecessarily given that it is SAM, her heart sinking. Who knows what havoc a peeved AI could wreck in her brain, apparently without either of them any the wiser? And if she can’t explain it to SAM she doesn’t know how she’s supposed to explain what happened to Jaal. Not that she didn’t try before, during all the sobbing, but it was impossible to get anything out that wasn’t ‘I’m fine, I just...’ before dissolving into tears again. He didn’t press her for more.

But maybe now that she isn’t an emotional wreck, he might. Whether she has answers is less certain.

‘Sorry, SAM says you overloaded my mesolimbic circuit and that it’s all very scientific and reasonable and I’m not crazy. Or I might be. Have you heard the human folk tale about the cat?”

Awful. The shivering sensation in her chest unfurls again and spreads out into her fingers. She furrows them into the crease of Jaal’s side and the cot, letting his warmth soothe the trembling overtaking her frame. His arm wraps tighter reflexively. This is the sort of moment she wants to soak in, slow, like sunlight filtering through leaves stippling ancient Morse-code patterns over her face. Eyes closed, she inhales and vague memories sift warm impressions on the backs of her eyelids.

Hands, scarred and calloused and massive sweeping soft, reassuring circles against her back. His chin on the top of her head, her face tucked into the graceful sweep of his neck where a crook would be on hers. A low thrum: his voice, unintelligable, but soothing. A musical hum buzzes through the air.

Se-ah sighs and blinks her eyes open to glance up. He’s still deep asleep, snoring away. A hazy, contented smile gathers at the corners of his mouth and makes him look, for all the universe, like someone having a pleasant dream.

Despite spending the vast majority of her waking moments on the ship in his makeshift bedroom, she’s never seen him this way. The quiet of the ship is unsettling, he claims. Unlike his naps on the NOMAD, the only sleep she sees him take on the ship is fitful, almost violent--covers twisting, his hands clutching, face grimacing, the names of the lost wrenching out of him as he jolts awake. But even the sleep he snatches on the NOMAD doesn’t look this peaceful. It takes him quick and fast, like something joyless and inevitable. She grimaces. Like death.

Studying his lidded eyes, she shifts on the cot to lean her weight more on his chest and tip her head back, peering up at the sweeping planes of his cheekbones, the point of his chin, and the fine ridge of his brow. He’s beautiful. All angara are, to her eye-- all grace and noble carved profiles like ancient Athame sculptures given color, life, and a Romanesque bone structure. But Jaal’s beauty is sharper, more defined than anything out of asari or human antiquity. War and grief etch his face in a landscape of visible and invisible scars, throwing the softness that remains, obstinate and miraculous, in high relief. The softness is all she sees now. It is the face of a man who dreams, hopes, composes poems and perfumes, and is always seeking, searching, finding bits of wonder. If it weren’t for the kett, this might always be his face and Andromeda would be a place where it would fit. The dreamer. The tinkerer. The explorer.

But the kett stole that place away from him. War is spare. Merciless. There is little room for anything else but soldiers. Se-ah bites the inside of her lip, hard. Jaal is the first to insist he isn’t much of a soldier.

She doesn’t realize the snoring stops until he, without bothering to open his eyes, asks, “Yes, Ryder?”

Chagrined and surprised over how close she’s gotten, she immediately jolts away. “You’ve been awake? How long?” The slant of his smile changes but his eyes stay closed, “Long enough. Were you under the impression that you were being discreet?”

Fair point.

“So why didn’t you say something?” “I was trying to sleep. Speaking seemed counterproductive.”

“Uh huh. To your eavesdropping, maybe.”

Jaal doesn’t look at her, on account of the fact that he’d yet to bother opening his eyes, but the resigned set of his shoulders conveys a beleaguered expression that comes with an air of ‘No, I don’t think I’ll even bother ’. It’s one he wears around Liam with regularity. “Please do not attempt to explain that one. If I cannot sleep I’d much rather occupy my mind elsewhere.”

He makes a point of settling further into the cot, the large divot his body forms in the fabric deepening. Maybe he’s trying to free up the arm underneath her she realizes, belatedly. Renewed mortification crowds up her neck and she coughs to clear her throat. “Oh, then I should...leave you to that then,” she says, cheeks burning as she draws back against the gravitational pull of his weight on the cot, narrowly avoiding toppling on top of him.

“Stay.” At last Jaal blinks open his eyelids, a slow reveal of vivid blue. He looks at her, uncharacteristically uncertain, before saying, simply, “If...you’d like. You could join me.”

She hesitates. “Join you--elsewhere?”

“No, just here.”

Somehow he feels...closer. Not physically. It’s as if the gap in the universe between them has vanished overnight. She’s no longer on the precipice, her thoughts and feelings a faint, distorted comm. She’s there , a few bare centimeters in front of him and he’s looking at her as if he can see every detail of her with absolute clarity. It’s dreamer’s look with a tinkerer’s focus and his eyes are luminous, twin helium nebulae lit from within with something like wonder. She mistook it for morbid fascination once. This time she knows better. He smiles as if he might laugh. Fond. Unbearably so. Her chest hurts to look at it.

“No idioms, nothing else. Just this. Right now.” The words linger, rippling against her skin in gentle, rumbling waves. Jaal crooks his pinned arm and brushes back the fluttering snarl of her hair.

A quiet bubble settles around the tiny cot, enclosing them within the warm, sunset smell of him. It feels safe. Like home. She doesn’t know the last time she felt those things. Not since-- It should be strange to find them here, an entire galaxy away, with an alien who openly spoke about killing her after they’d just met.

Jaal’s huff of a laugh skips across the quiet like a smooth stone on a lake surface. Something about it tells her he’s picked up on the precise turn of her thoughts--too perceptive by half. “You know, you are remarkably expressive. Almost angaran.”

She tucks her face into the slope of his neck and pulls a scowl, even though it isn’t an insult. The memory of her tragic poker loss to Gil is still all too fresh and she feels a little too raw, a little too exposed with nowhere to hide her vulnerabilities. Instead of answering, she buries a noncommittal sound into his bare skin.

He laughs again, rueful and soft. “It was a clumsy effort, but it was intended as a compliment. We are a vocal people. More than words and expressions. In addition to combative and deliberate communication uses, our bioelectrics have subtle subconscious patterns and pulses. I believe your hanar are similar, in the visible electromagnetic spectrum. It is difficult to suppress. Few have scrupulous reasons to try.”

His fused fingers twine into her hair. It seems a point of endless fascination for him. Even in the Milky Way, hair is something of a novelty.

“The emotions of those around us pervade all our senses. It saturates our lives. My first days on this ship were so...disorienting. I felt the absence keenly, like a limb lost in battle.”

Her scowl vanishes and she looks up to meet his eyes again. Of course, she’d suspected his trouble adjusting, but never knew the full extent. He kept so much hidden then. “It must have made it that much more difficult, deciding if you could trust us.”

Jaal laughs. It sounds pained. “Very. I learned to look harder, with time. There is a beauty in subtlety. Underappreciated among my people, but I’ve grown quite fond of it. Humans were easier. And then, there was you.”

“About as subtle as a flaming ship crashing on your planet?”

Genuine mirth threads into his laughter, his eyes tracing over her upturned face. “Yes. An apt comparison. Vivid, exciting… deeply alarming to some.”

She brightens and his smile deepens. The hand at her temple curls against her skin to brush a soft line over her cheek with the backs of his knuckles.

“It made trusting you more easy than wise, considering the risk.”

“I’m sure Evfra disapproved,” she says.

“Of course. Evfra is a cautious strategist. He despaired of me.”

Jaal leans his cheek against her head, looking off towards the dim ambient glow of the machines running through their downtime routines.

“My caution was always a feeble force and your face...says such beautiful things. I didn’t understand why you struggled so desperately to hide them away.” He adds, blunt as ever, “Not... well, of course . But with an extraordinary amount of effort. I imagine it was exhausting. Inexpressibly painful. My heart ached just to see it.”

The corners of her eyes begin to prickle. Machine lights catch on the dust motes, adrift on the flickering electrostatic currents weaving around and between them, setting each pinpoint aglow like rippling eddies of distant stars.

“I thought the same about you, you know. Before we rescued the Moshae.”

Caution shackling his expressions and the strategic withdrawals into clipped one-word answers calculated to give as little away as possible. She’s more glad than she can say to have earned his trust and the chance to see his genuine self without the fetters of fear and uncertainty. He said getting to know her would be a gift and that is how knowing him better feels--like the best gift she didn’t even know to ask for.

He nods. “Yes. I wept for joy that she was safe and for the wrenching horror of what we learned that day but also I wept for my freedom from my own fears. Escaping them was...liberating despite my grief. Cathartic. I think perhaps you felt something of that same freedom. Earlier, when you cried.”

Catharsis. Freedom-- but from what? She wasn’t on a diplomatic mission with alien intruders. She was just-- her . A touch-starved awkward hugger with a trigger-happy mesolimbic circuit. But, that feels insufficient as far as explanations go. Instead, she remembers Scott crying, wailing, hands fisting over his eyes. It’s gone. I have to find it. People are looking. Mom ignores them and kneels despite the crowd, attempting to soothe him. Alec Ryder’s stonefaced expression fractures into a grimace. Pained. He turns away. His hand presses down on her own small shoulder and squeezes. It feels like pride. She forces her chin to stop quivering. She won’t cry. Nothing will ever be okay and everything is wrong but she is Alec Ryder’s daughter and she is old enough to do that much.

A tear slips into her hairline and Jaal’s thumb rubs it away. Breath held, she reaches up between them to capture his hand in her own. His eyes are full of reflected stars, twin galaxies pulling her into their inexorable spin. At the point of her outstretched fingernail is a pinprick of light, fanning off, faintly luminous, refracting off her tears.Se-ah pauses, taken aback, blinking away the moisture collecting on her lashes. It’s not a trick of the light. Her fingertips are actually glowing. And, she realizes, the air is...humming.

“SAM, are we about to fry anything with this corona discharge?” she asks. All at once the air changes, the charged dust motes around them still and the lights on her fingertips flicker out. It smells and feels like a storm just swept out of the tech lab.

“Appropriate precautions have already been taken to accommodate non-combat angaran electromagnetic field manipulation, Pathfinder. Ozone levels are also within acceptable limits.”

Jaal coughs and looks away, suddenly awkward. “Ahh...as I was saying, it requires some concentration to suppress.”

“Can you stop? Concentrating that is? It’s not as if--well, SAM said it wouldn’t hurt anything.”

Now that she’s paying better attention, she can feel the tingling pressure building and shifting around them. The hairs stand up on her arms. The air smells bright and clean. Light collects on her fingertips again. Faint, but visible. Se-ah laughs, delighted, and slowly bends her fingers, watching the blue flicker and reappear. Ionized plasma balancing on the edge of an electromagnetic field pierced by the short point of her nail. Hardly seemed subtle in her book. Little about him was.

“We call this St. Elmo’s Fire,” she tells him. “It was considered a good omen by ancient human voyagers.”

“Ah. I’m your good omen then?”

“Well, we haven’t crashed once since you got here.”

He brings his free palm to hers, one fused, two separate for her five. She adds, sincerely, “It’s beautiful. Does this happen to you a lot? I’ve never noticed before.”

“No. This is...it’s more. It is special. Explaining would be difficult. Clumsy. I cannot do it justice.”

Hands pressed together, his palm dwarfing hers, a swell of emotion courses through her and a stubborn tear traces down her cheek. She laughs and a sniffle turns it into a tremulous, hiccuping burst of happiness.

“Is there a word for it in Shelesh?”

“No,” he says simply. “There is just this.”

Churning waves of electrons are crashing against her fingertips, caught in the lunar pull of him. Everything dissolves in the watery film of tears and she’s floating, falling, swept by tidal forces into an endless depth of variegated blue. There can be no words, in Shelesh or any other language. But she knows anyway. Floating in an electron sea of his design, palms pressed, wrapped in his embrace--she knows exactly what he is saying.

#jaal ama darav #mass effect andromeda #jaal x ryder #jaal romance

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