#look man ive been sitting here for a render for like half an hour | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whaleofatjme1920 · 3 years ago

Note

EJ SIMPS RISE 😤😤💪💪💪

may i please request a scenario for yandere ej x fem reader where ej is punishing the reader for escaping ? feel free to go DARK dark with this one <3

Cream Colored Ceiling

[Eyeless Jack X F!Reader]

[Warnings: NSFW - but not for sexual content, just violence, what isn't a warning in this one, mentions of cannibalism (but there is no described cannibalism, just allusions to it), EJ physically harms the reader, amputation, violence of all kinds, throw up, look this is just,,,, it's dark. I repeat, there is no sexual content in here, it's just physically violent]

[AN: yeah. This was uh, yeah.]

Hazy, your mind is hazy. You wake and open your eyes to see that same fucking cream colored ceiling with water damage leaking through the top and dangerously close to your bed, if you’d even want to call it your bed.

You raise one of your hands that feels heavier than stones and wipe quietly at your eyes, dusting them from the sleep. Your body feels heavy, oh so heavy.

You sit up. Nothing strange so far.

Has he really been that gracious with you?

You yawn and stretch, joints and bones popping as you look out the window. There’s that cursed forest. It looks dark, shadowy, misty. The fog is rolling in and you know with it comes the rain. You’re going to be stuck here forever, aren’t you?

The sunlight doesn’t filter through the window, but there’s light regardless. You’re deep into mid Autumn and with it will come winter. It’ll be the third winter you’ve been trapped with this monster.

Your mouth feels dry, much too dry. You smack your lips together a few times, wondering where your saiva has gone and decide to go to the kitchen. It seems like Jack isn’t home right now, which is probably for the best. Alongside him being out, so too is your natural fear of him. You swing your legs over the side of your bed, wondering why you feel so physically exhausted before attempting to stand up.

“Shit!” You cry out as your knees buckle beneath you, your body cascading like a pile of bricks to the floor. Your knees and palms blank onto the hardwood, digging into you most uncomfortably. Tears well in your eyes as you struggle to get off the floor. You continue to curse under your breath as you glance back at your ankles where large surgical wounds lay, covered in stitches and gauze. What the fuck? When did that happen?

Your heart begins to race when you slow, calculated steps padding on the floor. You’re all too familiar with the sound of those combat boots knocking on the floor, pacing back and forth and keeping you awake at all hours of the night. Panic sears itself into your heart as you attempt to get up, pathetically crawling along the floor and reaching for your bedpost.

Jack stands in your doorway, his large form casting a shadow on your throw rug. He tsks, and you can already tell he’s more than disappointed with you. “What did I tell you about getting up?” He asks, voice smooth and clinical, once again padding towards you.

You feel tears well in your eyes as you curl as tightly into a ball as you can.

Jack breathes out with slight disappointment before crouching down and seeing your sorry form. “You knew this was going to happen,” he says, half lidded eyes watching you curiously before he reaches his large, gloved hand out. “Did you pop any of your sutures?” He tilts his head to the side and looks over your swollen, still bloodied ankles. “I think you might’ve.” He reaches to pick you up and you begin to panic, blubbering your apologies.

“I’m sorry, please, don’t touch me, don’t hurt me-” you begin to babble, your remaining strength trying their hardest to push the behemoth away. Tears well in your eyes as Jack grips your calves, sending pain holting like lightning strikes up and down your lower body, making you cry out in pain.

“You deserve it,” he murmurs, his claws pinching into your skin before he lifts you. A glance of annoyance passes over his face before he yanks your grip from the bed.

You struggle against him as you pound your fists into his broad chest, tears of frustration falling down your cheeks.

The tall demon moves without budging. He doesn’t care, you barely feel like a scratch to him.

You watch your surroundings, still fighting against him and feel your heart sink when you realize he’s taking you down the hall that he’s deemed forbidden. The energy you feel from this specific hallway makes you cry out in fear.

Jack eats it up, his own heart beating just a little faster. You won’t ever do what you pulled last night again. He juggles you into one his arms and uses his free hand to unlock the door, the slight beeps of numbers being added into a keypad making your attention shift ever so slightly.

The inside of this room is like a horror scene to you. You see an operating table, and stainless steel tables, cabinets and countertops. There’s a large trash bin filled with bloody gauze and other things, such as discarded clothes, clumps of hair, things you don’t want to think of. Is this it? Is he finally going to kill you?

Fear overtakes your system again and renders you to nothing but silent sobs as Jack pulls off a turquoise colored sheet from the operating table, placing you down.

You try to get off, wiggling and clawing at him. “Let me go!” You cry out like a broken record of a mantra, your eyes wild and feral.

Jack simply shrugs you off, tying large leather brown straps over your waist and your chest, rendering you immobile. “The more you struggle, the more it’s going to hurt you,” he hums, his clawed hands moving across your chest to your wrists. He quickly ties you down there as well, your legs numbly kicking at him through the pain due to severed Achilles tendons. He flicks the wound on your left leg, grinning at your pain. “Won’t be needing these anymore,” he chuckles.

“What?” You say in shock, pupils restricting to the size of pim points.

He takes a seat on his wheeled stool and begins setting you up with an IV drip. “Gonna sedate you, and when you wake up?” He warmly smiles, pricking the vein on your right arm with the needle, making you weakly thrash once more. “Get some sleep,” he murmurs, pumping some sedatives into your bloodstream.

You feel more tears welling in your eyes as your conscience begins to wean. The world becomes more shapes and colors, merging into brightness and shadows before you finally slip into your dreams.

You haven’t been able to trick Jack like this in the history of well, ever. Almost three years with this nightmare and you’ve finally gained enough of his trust to ask him for some time out.

“Don’t stay in there for too long,” he says, large hand gripping your thigh as you swallow down the feeling of hitting him from where you remain seated in the passenger seat. “I want you back safely,” he murmurs, his other hand gently letting go of the wheel to cup your face.

You do your best to show love and admiration in your eyes as you meet his gaze. “Don’t worry. It’s just an hour or so, okay?” You hum, your hand gently holding his and burying your face deeper into his warmth.

“I don’t know why you need anyone else’s company,” he says, a slight acrid venom seeping into his tone. “You don’t need anyone else but me.” It’s almost cute how offended he sounds.

You play the part of loving him. “I know, I know,” you coo, taking his hand from your face and pressing your lips into a pucker. You raise his hand to them, planting a kiss on his palm. “I love you. I won’t be that long.”

Jack’s heart flutters. “I’ll be here, waiting for you.” He says, watching you as you unbuckle yourself, his hand reluctantly leaving your thigh.

You flash him a warm smile and lean over to press a kiss to his cheek, and then his lips. You try not to spit at the scent of blood and taste of rot before pulling away. You then open up his car, sliding from the passenger seat and to the rinky dink little bar you’d managed to convince him to let you go to. Just an hour - that’s all it was. Just an hour. You’d be in and out, get some drinks, and come straight back to his car.

Due to Jack’s appearance, he had told you he couldn’t go in. They’d know something was wrong with him immediately, and you’d gained enough of his trust for you to be away for just an hour. Come straight back to the car when it reaches 10 PM. You promised him. And he fucking believed you.

It wasn’t that hard finding some idiot down on his luck with the ladies. You cozied up next to him, getting to sit with him at the bar and start talking. He was so attentive and sweet, so receptive to the story you had made up to him.

“That sounds awful,” he says, voice low and sweet. His deep blue eyes look at you with nothing but gentleness and fondness. His hand reaches for yours across the bar and you smile, allowing him to take it.

“I just wanna get away from that brute,” you admit. “I just wanna go home.”

He squeezes you just a little tighter. “Why don’t we go back to my car and call the cops?” He offers.

“Where did you park?” You ask, hoping it’s not in the front lot where Jack remains waiting for you.

“In the back.”

What a relief.

A slight smile blooms on your face as you nod. “Yeah, let’s go,” you finally answer. You hop off the barstool and then grip his hand, letting him lead you through the bar and the sea of people. It smells like sweat, alcohol, and regret - you love it. It smells like the beginning of freedom, something better. Maybe, just maybe…

He opens the backdoor to you, allowing you out first. The crisp night air of autumn greets you with her beauty. You can smell maple leaves and pumpkins out in the distance, the atmosphere is incredible. “That one’s mine,” he says, pointing to his car a little ways down in the parking lot under one of the yellow lights. He continues holding your hand as the two of you walk through the parking lot.

You watch as he unlocks the car door, walking around the side to let you in. You accompany him and slide into the passenger seat. Putting this seat belt on feels almost liberating. You giggle when the short man closes the door before walking around the front of his car.

And then he pauses.

Fear seeps into his eyes and leans forward, his abdomen cutting into the hood of the hunk of metal that can barely be called a car before sweat beads and rolls down his forehead. He begins to cough, violently.

Your eyes widen in shock as he begins to cough up blood, and tears well in his eyes. They roll down his cheeks, fat and crystalline like the beads of sweat. He reaches out to you, mouthing for you to run before finally slumping forwards.

You see him, the behemoth that’s held you captive for three years, a sapphire colored mask boring into your soul and searing into your mind with what you can understand is pure, unadulterated rage. You scramble, panicking as you notice the large blade that’s wedged itself into the man’s back as he seizes on the car, his thick body rolling off from the hood and landing with a large ‘thump!’ as he does so. Foam and the smell of something unpleasant wafts upwards and you palm the handle of the car, attempting to release yourself.

Jack takes slow, calculated steps forwards, his shadow growing larger as he gears up to catch you and claim you as his.

Your heart pounds like a drum in your chest, the panic overtaking your system as you finally get the car open. You shoot out of the metal cage like a bat from hell and stumble onto the asphalt, hissing as the black tar digs into your knees and palms. No time for registering your pain, you need to run! Like a freshly born faun, you hobble up and begin to run, wondering if you can make it back to the bar and the safety of other people when Jack’s steps grow quicker.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! He’s going to catch you and he’s going to kill you!

“You’re such a stupid little rabbit,” he hums, watching as you sorely sprint towards the door. “Look what you’ve done,” he taunts, hand gesturing to the man. “You made me kill him and I’m not even hungry,” he hums. “Maybe I should make you eat it instead,” he muses.

The thought alone makes your stomach retch. You stumble once more, body feeling violently ill as you cave. The alcohol paired with his words has you emptying your stomach of its contents that splash to the asphalt, the sickly acrid and saccharine taste overtaking your mouth.

Jack’s giant form finally overtakes you. He stands with his hands behind his back, peering down at you with disdain. “Fucking disgusting,” he coos in a tone that reminds you of a condescending father. He grips the back of your neck and forces you down.

You screech and fight him, not wanting to touch what came out of you.

“No? No,” he grins. “Fine. Let’s go see your date.” His claws dig into your neck as he drags you back to the man’s car where he’s finally gone still. He’s left a puddle of blood. Jack laughs quietly at your struggling before forcing you to your knees. “Are you hungry?”

“No-”

“I think you mean yes.”

The taste of blood still lingers in your mouth, and it remains even in your slumber.

Of course, you passed out due to your traumatic experience, and threw up again as well. Jack took advantage of your fragile state and brought you back to your home, the place you belonged - with him. He cut your Achilles tendons, just a warm up, really.

“Time to wake up.” Jack’s voice permeates your head, rousing you from your slumber. His gloved hands are snapping in front of you.

It’s bright, much too bright. Your body feels simultaneously heavier and lighter. Where are you? You see that you’re now looking into an operating light, and it’s super uncomfortable. “What did you do to me?” You ask drowsily.

Jack ignores your question and instead picks you up. His footsteps begin to lull you into sleep.

Exhausted, you fall back in again, and this time? This time, it’s dreamless.

It’s that fucking cream colored ceiling again that you open your eyes to. The water damage is still the same, and you realize you’re still stuck. You’re about to get up when you hear your door opening.

“Nice to see you up,” Jack says, watching as you slowly come to. “Did you dream about anything?”

You narrow your eyes recoiling as he reaches his hand out to pet you.

Jack glares at you for a moment, his hand straightening before he slaps you. “Don’t get testy, I’ll take your arms next,” he murmurs.

You’re about to bite back when you take in his words. What? Your heart begins to sink, deeper and deeper as your hand shakily reaches to the edge of your bed sheets. No. No. NO. You hold your breath as you rip the sheets off. Your flesh is swollen, puffy and looks like it’s crying out in its own form of pain. Large, manila colored casts and bandages surround your thighs and what remains of your knees.

You begin to hyperventilate. Your chest begins to rise and fall faster and faster - your body feels like a prison.

Jack only coos. “Stop that,” he says lovingly, hand petting your head as you fall deeper and deeper into despair. He removes the black glove from his hand and grabs your face, his dark, eyeless sockets boring into your own eyes. He looks at you with such adoration that acts as a front for the betrayal and anger he feels for you deep down inside. He draws closer to your tear stained face, a small smile bearing shark-like teeth at you before parting his lips to speak to you. “You’re being hysterical.”

#eyeless jack #eyeless jack x reader #eyeless jack scenario #eyeless jack creepypasta #ej #creepypasta #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta scenario #eyeless jack headcanon #nsft #gore warning

124 notes · View notes

pascalpanic · 4 years ago

Text

Caffeine Rush: Chapter Seven / Decaf

W/C: 4k

Warnings: language, dirty thoughts, all of the dirty thoughts because Javi is a horndog, male masturbation... general spice. pining that could make a pine cone tremble.

A/N: welcome to pining central, enjoy your stay :) (ps when Steve says “Javier Peña” I need you to read that in the voice of Anthony Mackie going “SEBASTIAN STAN”)

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter || Masterlist

ordinary coffee that has had most of its caffeine removed from it before the beans are roasted.

You are a goddamn test on Javier’s self control. He feels like those biblical stories of men fighting back against temptation to prove themselves to God, except the only thing he has to prove is to himself. To you.

He’s always been enraptured by you, captivated by your smile and laugh but since you went ice skating, he hasn’t been able to get your body out of his mind. The way you fell asleep on him last night, nuzzled in like it was the safest place on earth. He could feel your breasts press into his skin, the warmth of your thigh hiked across his abdomen. If the past week has been some caffeine-induced fever dream, it’s becoming real now. You, a figment of his imagination before, maybe, are all flesh and blood and God, is he desperate for it.

Javier hangs around your apartment when you’re gone at work. He doesn’t have much else to do, considering you’re gone and he knows hardly anything about the city. He watches the daytime television on your couch, usually meanders to the coffee shop for a drink, spends some time there, and returns to the apartment.

He feels like he’s couch-surfing, like he did for a summer in his college years. He feels guilty occupying the space in your home, especially without payment. As he walks to the bathroom, he takes a long glance into your bedroom. The queen-sized bed is mussed, unmade before you left for work. The fitted sheet is pooled in the middle beneath where you sleep, the various blankets tossed about. It looks like the coziest damn thing he’s ever seen, especially after a couple of nights on a couch.

Javier almost thinks about giving in, waiting for you to ask him to sleep in your bed tonight then jumping at the chance. Maybe he will, if he’s tired enough. Maybe he won’t, but maybe he will. He can think of nothing better than the endless whir of the radiator as your perpetually-cold body nuzzles against him, brushes your nose against his bare chest.

It’s been a long time since Javi has fucked anyone, and he’s starting to feel it. He’s a little antsy, and the image of your body, your ass as you ice skate past him, haunts him like a bad dream- or rather some illicit fantasy he knows he shouldn’t be having.

Would you want him yet? You’ve told him you love him, but that was an accident. When he kisses you, you kiss back harder. Hell, you initiated the first kiss. You seem like you’ve been all-in on this relationship, taking things at a rushed pace that Javier certainly doesn’t mind. He spends a lot of the day contemplating that, standing on the tiny balcony of your apartment and smoking a couple of cigarettes.

At this point, he needs a distraction or he’s going to have to take matters into his own hands, quite literally. What better to kill the horny buzz making his head spin than to call Murphy?

The phone is in your bedroom, on the nightstand. Javier dares to sit on the edge of your bed, and actually moans aloud at the plush comfort, the way his ass sinks into it. Goddamn, he’ll have to get one of these. He wants nothing more than to lay back and fall into the bed, wait for you to get home and pound you into the comfortable mattress. But he doesn’t. He stays strong and picks up the phone, dialing the new Murphy residence in Miami.

After a couple of rings, a familiar voice answers. “Murphy’s.”

“Hey, bastard,” Javier chuckles, and he can hear the blonde man’s laughter from across the receiver.

“Javier Peña,” Steve drawls, dragging out the name. “Good to hear your voice, man. You finally come out of a ten-day celebratory drunkenness?”

“Don’t talk to me about binges,” Javier teases, but he smiles a little. He’s missed the man. He’s glad neither of them got in any trouble over the entire Los Pepes situation- God, that feels like ages ago now. It’s hard to believe he’s only been in D.C. what, eleven days? If Steve’s math is right, yeah. “No. I’m in D.C. still, if you can believe it. Just… bored.”

“Oh really?” the man scoffs, leaning against his kitchen counter in Miami with Olivia on his hip. “And why’s that? What are you still doin’ up there anyway? Thought you were goin’ to visit the old man.”

Javier shakes his head. “Plans changed. There’s, uh… there’s a girl.”

Steve lets out a wolf whistle, laughing. “And how much does she charge a night?”

“Not one of those. She works at a coffee shop around here,” he informs him. “She’s… she’s really something. Nothing I ever thought I’d be into. She’s gorgeous, man, and so energetic all the damn time. Seems like she has an IV of coffee from her shop,” he chuckles, looking off into space. He takes a pause. Steve doesn’t speak. “I wanna be with her Steve. I don’t… I don’t know if I can go back.”

He’s silent a little longer. “This is some kind of practical joke, right?” Steve says after a beat, barely holding back a laugh. Never has Javier been so sincere, so real and honest and open. And more specifically, he’s never been like this over a girl. Almost… mushy. Soft. “Tell me more,” he says, hoping the joke will give up.

Javier talks about you, describing every little detail with a grin on his face. He tells Steve about Tie Guy and ice skating and your piece of shit car, how you can spin in circles on the ice and how you remind him of a busy little bee, fluttering about the coffee shop.

Steve is genuinely rendered speechless; a hard thing to do. He blinks down at Olivia then straight ahead at the refrigerator, covered in photos and magnets and drawings. He can’t imagine Javier ever wanting something like this, like what he and Connie have, but he sure sounds like it. “That’s… something. Good for you, Javi,” Steve chuckles, resigning to sincerity. “I’m happy for you.”

Javier grumbles back. “Don’t get too happy. I have to go back to Calí in three weeks. She doesn’t want me to leave… I don’t know what to do, Murph. I can’t bring her with, you know that, but I can’t just leave her here. And I sure as hell can’t quit.”

“You could quit.”

“I’m not going to, how’s that?” Javier huffs and crosses his arms, annoyed by Steve and his goddamn wording loopholes. “I just… fuck. I’m gonna go think about it before she gets back.”

“She comin’ to your hotel? You sure you aren’t paying per night?” He smirks.

Javier’s quiet and Steve isn’t sure what it means until he talks. “I’m, uh, staying at her place. She insisted.”

Steve whistles again. “Damn. You’re whipped, Peña. Well, I’ll let you go. Call again soon. I miss ya, bud,” he tells Javier in a moment of earnesty then hangs the phone back on the receiver, bringing Olivia to her nursery to change her diaper.

Javi sighs and falls backwards on the bed, admiring the way the mattress holds his body compared to the couch. Yeah, he’ll definitely need to sleep in here tonight or he’s going to crack his spine.

The issue will be you. He could handle it on the couch; it was like a soft, adolescent form of love, innocent and warm. Of course, it could still be the same in your bed. But would it? Is there not a different set of implications that come with the two of you sharing a bed?

Snuggling with you on the couch was nice. Wonderful, perfect even. Javier loves falling asleep with you in his arms. But in your bed, arms curled around him, maybe even being his little spoon… that perfect body pressed flush to his own, your soft ass against his groin, your breathing pushing back into his chest… that would be an entirely different thing. And he wants it, he really does, but he isn’t sure he’ll be able to control himself.

He slept like shit the last night, to be honest. You on top of him prevented him from moving, and Javier is an active sleeper. His neck was at an odd angle and his back twisted. His body feels like it did after that fight with Tie Guy. He can’t- wouldn’t- invade your privacy of your bed without you home to give him the go ahead, but he’s so damn tired. Not even the coffee helps.

So Javier indulges in one of life’s little pleasures he rarely gets to experience: a nap. Curled up on his side on the couch, blankets pulled snug around his fetal-positioned body, Javier drifts off to the sound of the noon news on the television.

That’s how you find him when you come home. He’s peacefully asleep, his lips parted and mustache moving with his exhales. Well, he’s clearly alive. That’s good.

You’re not sure how long he’s been asleep, so you leave him, making yourself something to eat in the kitchen. You avoid the living room as you get settled in, changing out of your espresso-stained clothing and into something more comfortable.

When you’re all comfy, makeup removed and a warm sweater on, you sit at the other end of the couch. Javier’s curled into a ball, his feet just inches away from your legs. You hope when he moves, he’ll feel you there and wake. If not, oh well. He deserves the rest.

It’s gray and cloudy outside, and you snuggle into the corner of the couch while reading your worn copy of The Great Gatsby. It’s the one you’ve been re-reading recently, what you were reading that first day Javi wandered into your coffee shop and subsequently your life.

Javi wakes not long later, maybe half an hour, to the sound of your book crinkling. The paperback’s spine crunches with wear, and his eyes flutter open to see you tucked against a pillow. God, you look like an angel, the light from the cloudy day filtering in and illuminating you from the back. Your face is calm and peaceful, focused as your eyes trace the words of F. Scott Fitzgerald. “Hi,” Javier mumbles groggily.

Your expression turns to a smile and you set down the book. “Hey.” You take his legs and drape them across your lap, tracing your fingers across them. “How’d you sleep?”

He groans. “Okay. Neck hurts.”

“That wouldn’t be an issue if you’d just sleep with me,” you sing-song to him, stroking his legs through the comfortable pants he wears. “My bed is super cozy.”

God, does Javier know it. It felt like your love itself when he laid down and the warmth of it swallowed him, practically whole. “Maybe I’ll give in,” he sighs, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “How was work? Sorry I didn’t visit.”

“Boring as always,” you chuckle. “What did you do today?”

Javi frowns as he thinks about it, his brain fogged with sleep. “Not much. Called Murphy, talked a while. He’s doing good.”

“Good,” you nod and smile. “When will I get to meet this elusive Steve?” You ask, softly kneading at his legs through the blanket and frowning as you realize he’s wearing… jeans. “Wait, pause. Are you seriously wearing jeans?” you ask him and laugh, lifting the blanket to confirm what you already suspected.

He frowns defensively, crossing his arms. “Maybe.”

“Why the fuck would you take a nap in jeans, Javi?” You laugh.

Javier looks away, frowning. The stubbornness shows. “I don’t own many comfortable clothes besides what I wear to work, if you haven’t noticed,” he retorts, but you can’t help but giggle. “Plus I thought I’d only be here to get fired.”

You smile at him lovingly and cup his face. “You sweet, stupid workaholic. Let’s go shopping later, get you some cozy stuff.”

Javier warms against your touch but maintains a pout. “I like jeans.”

Rolling your eyes, you huff out a laugh. “Would a pair of sweatpants be detrimental to your wardrobe, Javier?”

“Stop using big words,” he groans. “I’m barely awake.”

The large mall is annoying to Javier, full to the brim with last-minute (or maybe prepared, he never holiday-purchases) shoppers. He holds your hand, shooting feisty glares at anyone that dares to bump against his or, god forbid, your side. “Relax,” you tease and squeeze his free hand. The other carries a bag containing two hoodies, three t-shirts, and two pairs of sweatpants. “You’re not on a mission, and you certainly don’t have the knuckles to pitch another fight.”

He looks at his hands and scowls. You’re right. They’re no longer black and blue but faded yellows and greens, a spare bit of purple over the bones. The fight wasn’t that long ago, really, even though it feels like an eternity.

You drag Javier into a favorite shop of yours. He follows you around like a lost puppy while you search through clothes. He even hands you one or two tops he thinks you’d look nice in. You kiss him on the cheek and he dares to smile for a moment before returning to his stone-faced annoyance at such a packed area.

The dressing rooms are nicer, much more spaced out and offering places to rest. Javier sits in a chair across from your little cubby as you try things on. Every time you find something, you come out and model it for him. He comments, always positively, gives a little applause and smiles at the twirl you give in the big trifold mirror.

There’s one pair of leggings that hug your ass tight. Javier nearly salivates at them. “I like those,” he comments. “They look comfortable.” The same follows with a pair of jeans, even more flattering. He crosses his legs and nods, giving you similar comments.

Then come the dresses and tops. They’re all low-cut, not the wintery clothing Javier’s always seen you in. They show off your cleavage, and one scarlet colored blouse with a low neckline and fluffy sleeves makes Javier’s eyes simultaneously light up and darken. “How’s this one?” You ask, tugging at the sleeves.

“How much is it?” He asks, leaning back and looking at you through lidded eyes.

“Uh…” you tell him the cost and look back up at him, expecting a comment. “Why?”

“I’m buying that for you myself,” he smirks up at you, eyeing you up and down in a way that makes your skin feel intensely hot. The sight is stunning to him, and your flustered smile makes the smirk a little more devilish.

Javier does end up buying you the shirt, and you purchase a few other things you liked. But that scarlet shirt is stuck on Javier’s mind in replay: the subtle valley between your tits, how they filled out the shirt just perfectly and tugged at the cloth covering them, the way they look painfully soft to the touch, especially through that soft fabric. He wonders if you were wearing a bra under it. Then he has to stop himself.

You eat dinner late, chatting mindlessly over everything and nothing. Javier has no work to speak of now, so he tells you tall tales of the hunt for Escobar, some exaggerated and some underplayed. He mainly listens to you, asks about your past and your future, your family and your job. He could never tire of your voice, the soothing lull that warms him from the inside out, just like your skin flushed in that goddamn red top.

He drives the both of you home, humming softly to the songs on the radio. He’s beginning to recognize more and more of the top-40 hits on a certain preset station, songs he’d never listen to on his own. He glances over at you, gazing out of the window, and feels his body warm again- not just in his heart, but his stomach and lower too. He dares to steal a glance down, at the soft swell of your tits in that sweater. God, he wants to get you naked.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what you want and he’s too afraid to ask, too afraid to shatter this blissful phase of adoration without the sexual attraction. He wonders if you feel it too, if your clothes suddenly feel too restricting and too warm when you run a hand down his bare back.

The nightly routine ensues: you shower. Javier changes, this time into a new hoodie but leaves his legs bare, wearing only boxers on the bottom. He waits on the couch, and when you exit the bathroom, he takes his turn. He returns and sits next to you on the couch.

Tonight, when you ask him to share your bed with you, he doesn’t say no. In fact, he doesn’t say much of anything, just yawns softly and stands, taking your hand.

It’s a sacred space, your bed. Javier knows it. He rarely fucks women in his; whether it’s for his own privacy or fear they’ll fall asleep there, he can’t say. But your bed is such an intimate expression of you, and he can see it. He can see the divot in the mattress where you sleep, the way you arrange the pillows just right for your own head. It is a queen size, but it’s single-occupancy: until now, that is, and Javier feels honored you’re willing to share this holiness with him.

He gets into the bed on the other side of you, the warm blankets enveloping him, and he nearly lets out a moan at the comfort. Compared to the hotel bed and the couch, this is sleeping on a literal cloud from the heavens. He lies still, waiting to see what you do first. Not wanting to overstep anything.

His prayers are answered when you snuggle into his side. You rest your head on his chest, kissing his sternum through the soft material of the hoodie. A hand rests on the other side of your face, and your legs both encircle one of his. Javier smiles, wrapping an arm around you. He presses a kiss into your hair and murmurs a goodnight, letting his head fall back. He has no time to worry about this situation before he falls asleep.

He falls asleep almost immediately, which makes you chuckle through your half-conscious state. He seems to always radiate heat, Javier. Your layers of blankets upon blankets suddenly feel unnecessary when a heat source the strength of the summer sun fills your bed. His chest is strong and firm beneath you. The rise and fall of his chest is like a boat rocking on the ocean, putting you at ease and allowing you to rest.

Fuck. He knew this was a bad idea. Why did he do this?

The clock reads 1:48 and Javier is wide awake, staring at your popcorn-stucco-whatever the fuck it is ceiling. He wasn’t able to process this before sleep overtook him, before his consciousness was wiped and with it, his inhibitions.

Your body is pressed to his so perfectly. You sleep without a bra, and Javier can feel his arm being slightly sandwiched between your breasts, the way they press further into it every time you inhale. Your thighs are warm with sleep, and he can feel your core pressed against his hip, even while you sleep and even through the layers of clothing.

Javier feels like the embodiment of slime. You’re asleep and all he can think about is how fucking hot your body is, how much he wants to press you into this mattress and wake you with an orgasm. He wants to palm your tits and make your nipples harden through that flimsy shirt, to slide his fingers beneath your pajama bottoms and-

He can’t take it. He feels so wrong, the smell of you surrounding him and choking him like a thick perfume, even in its subtlety. He does not deserve to sleep next to you, innocently, like someone you love, when all he can think about is his own carnal desires.

Pushing back the covers, Javier gets out of bed before any more blood can flow to his slowly hardening dick. This is all wrong. He should not be doing this, thinking these things without knowing you feel the same.

But the guilt is as strong as his arousal. He watches you for a moment, torn between his options, before meandering through the darkened bedroom and finding his way into the bathroom. He turns on the bright lights and forces himself to stare at the bulbs, to make his pupils shrink from their blown state of sleep mixed with desperation. He’s fully awake now.

He needs to get the hardened length down. He can’t do this, can’t allow himself this suffering while you sleep in the next room.

The sink. Cold water. He gasps silently at the splash of the ice-cold water against his face, dampening the edges of his hoodie. It doesn’t work enough. Again. Nothing. He feels like a teenager, unable to control himself. The cold water is a good idea, though.

Javier strips down, trying to avoid the urge to take himself in hand and fix this here and now. Turning the water as cold as it can go, Javier turns on the shower and steps in.

Agony is the best term he has. It makes him want to squeal like a fucking pig as he shudders from the cold. It doesn’t work to force his erection down, but what use is it when it’s not something physical but mental stimulating him? The cold shock didn’t do shit. Javier’s still achingly hard. He turns the water warmer and sighs as it gradually turns to a tolerable temperature, one that he can relax under and allow himself to let out a deep sigh.

He has no other options, unless he wants to wait it out. Leaning against the wall, Javier strokes himself, biting his lip and hoping the water pressure will cancel any soft moans he can’t avoid. It doesn’t take long when he’s this aroused, when he knows exactly what the fantasy in his head would feel like.

Javier is panting and sweating, from the effort and the growing heat of the water. He feels disgusting but it feels so good, and he can’t help imagining you doing this to him, you spreading your legs and feeding the fire between his own.

It only takes a few minutes. He gasps as he cums, with a force he’s never brought forth with his own hand. He bites his lip so hard he’s sure he might cut it off, not allowing the desperate sounds to reach a level you could hear. When he’s done, he groans and cracks his neck. “Oh, little bee,” he whispers, agonized as he lets the water wash the evidence of his sins down the drain.

When he’s done, Javier walks into your bedroom, silently, in the dark. His previous boxers were stained with a patch of his precum; he can’t put those back on. He drops the towel and puts on different boxers.

After he’s changed, he looks at your bed longingly for a moment. The soft sheets, soft mattress, the soft body between them. But in Javier’s head, he’s forsaken his right to the warmth, the comfort.

When you wake in the morning, hours after you thought you heard the shower running, you find Javier is not in your bed. There isn’t even a warm spot where he lay, just your body shifted further from your normal sleeping position. When you wander out to make your morning coffee, you find him. He spent the night on the couch again.

taglist:

@remmysbounty @mishasminion360 @blo0dangel @binarydanvvers @sleep-tight1 @apascalrascal @randomness501 @spideysimpossiblegirl @notabotiswear @pedro-pastel @sanchosammy @lv7867 @greeneyedblondie44 @hunnambabe @astoryisaloveaffair @emesispo @pedritobalmando @magikfanatic @yooforia @oceanablue @sara-alonso @pedrosmustache @feelingmadclever @hnt-escape @radiowallet @obsessivelysearching @sugarontherims @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan @linnie0119 @1800-fight-me @autumnleaves1991-blog @toilet-keeper @evelynseventyr @metalarmsandmanbuns @shannababyy @sambucky21 @princess76179 @starless-eyes-remain @theorganasolo @jagi-yaaa @mrsparknuts @tacticalsparkles @beskarboobs @wintermuteway

#javier peña x reader #javier peña #javier peña headcanon #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña x you #javi peña #javi peña x reader #javi peña headcanons #pedro pascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #narcos fic #narcos fanfiction #narcos fanfic #narcos #caffeine rush

173 notes · View notes

bouncyirwin · 4 years ago

Note

So after reading Knock Knock, Let the Devil in again (I can’t praise you enough with how good that story is ♥️) and I’m so invested in the the dynamic between Shikamaru, Sakura, and Kakashi!

And because I have a question (and I hope I’m not bothering you by asking this 😭) how do you think Kakashi and Shikamaru would react if Sakura either came back from a mission seriously injured or if they found her seriously injured from a mission?

Hiii, thank you so much for this ask, I’m always so ready to gush about these three!

When I read this ask, inspiration quite literally slammed into me and I churned this out in a sprint session. Oops.

Word Count: 2,126 words

I present to you a one-shot in the knock knock-verse.

It was too early in the day to function, yet Shikamaru was in the Hokage’s office bustling about, feeling only half-human as he guzzled on his third coffee. “Fuckin’ paperwork,” he muttered disdainfully at the sight of an ungodly pile marked with his name.

That had to violate some natural law. How this became Shikamaru’s routine was beyond him.

Once upon a time, he professed that his deepest wish was to lead a mediocre life. And here he was.

Tsunade showed up ten minutes late, visibly drunk and doing very little to conceal it. “Morning,” she tossed over her shoulder and made a beeline for the coffee machine.

“Hokage-sama,” Shikamaru said, studying the dark circles under her eyes and her ashen pallor. “You look …”

He clamped his mouth shut. Was it worth getting assigned a D-rank to let her know she looked like shit? Probably not.

“Save it kid, I know,” she waved a casual hand and slumped in her chair. “Couldn’t care less with the night I pulled.”

“Drinking again, Hokage-sama?” he inquired with polite interest.

“Ha,” she said. “I wish.”

When he raised an eyebrow, she elaborated, slumping even further in her chair. “Sakura,” she pinched the bridge of her nose. “They brought her back yesterday.”

Shikamaru’s heart sank. “Brought her back?”

“Yes, there was an ambush and she was badly injured—cracked every one of her ribs, that idiot. And the hospital was out of B-positive blood so Shizune had to sit the healing session out to donate blood. Nearly ran myself dry trying to keep her breathing…” Tsunade was scrubbing at her face but Shikamaru wasn’t listening anymore—he could barely hear her over the deafening roar of his heartbeat.

“Is she alive?” he demanded once he found his voice. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Yes, but she’s going to need plenty of rest—” the rest of her sentence remained a mystery for Shikamaru tore out of the room with a single-minded focus.

In the space between heartbeats, rationality was tossed out of the window. It left behind a desperate and half-crazed person—he needed to see her, to hear her heartbeat, to see the lively green of her eyes and he wasn’t going to rest until it happened.

He burst through the hospital doors undoubtedly looking like he’d escaped an asylum. The nurse he cornered shot him a bewildered look. “Sir, are you—” she began to say when he cut her off.

“Haruno Sakura,” he demanded breathlessly. “Her room. Where can I find her?”

“Sir,” she attempted again, sounding a little exasperated. “Haruno-san just underwent extensive surgery, she’s not allowed visitors, only family members can see her.”

Shikamaru pinned her with a no-nonsense look. “Akane-san,” he read off her name tag. “By order of the Hokage, I’m here to see Haruno Sakura.”

Akane shuffled nervously. “Do you have an official slip?”

He arched an eyebrow at her, as if to say ‘really?’.

“I-I might get in trouble,” her eyes shifted unsurely. “I need to put you down as a relative and you’re… what would I mark you down as, sir?”

It occurred to him a second later that he was being a total ass. But rationality had already fled. He was now a mess of frayed nerves.

The toddler bawling in the background wasn’t helping his case, and neither was the frantic husband demanding to see his wife at the reception, babbling about … oh.

Shikamaru turned back to the nurse, and before he realised what he was saying, he blurted. “Her husband. Mark me down as her husband.”

Akane blinked. “Oh.”

Shikamaru stared her down, daring her to argue with him. But she simply nodded and scribbled something on her chart. “Right. Of course. Follow me.”

As they stalked through clinical hallways, Shikamaru’s heart rose in a crescendo, worry and nervousness swirling in his chest in a toxic mix. What would he see upon reaching her room? Was she in pain? Was she even lucid? Gods, what if she was in a coma? What if she’d hurt herself so irreparably that it cost her career?

His mind raced with sickly thoughts until his stomach roiled and his face tinged green.

Akane stopped at room 217 and there she was.

“Oh gods,” Shikamaru whispered.

She was hooked to so many wires. Oxygen tubes and an IV and a heart monitor and tubes he didn’t even recognise. She looked frail and broken, too small amidst white sheets and beeping monitors.

He heard Akane quietly slip out of the room and was glad for it because his knees nearly buckled.

Sakura wasn’t awake. Hell, she didn’t even look alive, her face so pale where it wasn’t bruised blue and purple.

Numbly, his feet carried him to her side, his breath a short and rapid thing that barely saturated his lungs.

There was blood caked beneath her fingernails and in the cracks of her lips. His eyes stung faintly as they slid over to the heart monitor.

It was too slow.

“Oh god,” he said again, every cell in his body congested with fear.

He was afraid to even reach out and touch her, lest she broke apart under his fingertips. Delicately, ever so delicately and with trembling fingers, he ghosted a light stroke across the apple of her cheek.

“Sakura…” he said feebly, wishing her eyes would just open.

Except they didn’t. And her heart monitor droned on sluggishly in the background, crawling heartbeats that served more in adding to his anxiety than diminishing it.

It was beating. But it wasn't beating enough. What if it stopped beating?

Shikamaru wasn’t prepared. She wasn’t allowed to die. Not yet. Not ever. He didn’t care what laws governed this cursed world, this was Sakura, she was spring incarnated, and she wasn’t allowed to die.

His fingers curled around her hand, and he wished for the first time in his life that he could heal. That he could bleed strength into her the way she did to him.

It was getting difficult to breathe. What if she died?

What then?

Fuck, he hadn’t even told her he loved her.

His vision swam, rendering the room a splash of colours and pink. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t breathe.

In the muddled daze of anxieties and fears, Shikamaru wished he had the foresight to grab Kakashi.

He’d never needed an anchor more than he did in that second.

Kakashi was having an incredibly shitty day.

His coffee machine broke down, he spilled tea over his mission report and he mixed a black shirt with his coloured laundry and now half of his clothes were beyond repair.

“Dammit,” he sighed, tossing his book aside. He couldn’t even read, busy as he was dwelling on his ruined laundry.

He took one dispassionate look at his soggy report and groaned. “What a mess,” he’d actually attempted to do this one on time. Served him right for breaking his routine.

Kakashi grabbed his weapons holster and stepped out for some much needed air. Maybe he should just turn in a tea-flavoured report—perhaps if he offered Tsuande a bottle of sake she’d make an exception and accept it.

He made a beeline to her office, remembering he was due for a debrief. But what he found upon his arrival wasn’t what he expected.

Tsunade was shouting to Shizune, clearly exasperated: “—and he just upped and left! I’m his Hokage, and he upped and left!”

“Maah…” Kakashi began unsurely.

Tsunade’s gaze cut to him. “Hatake, there you are,” she huffed. “I’m too fucking hungover for this. We’re one man down, I need someone to look over these reports.”

Kakashi frowned, finally noticing how empty her office looked. “Where’s Shikamaru…?”

“The idiot left,” Tsunade growled, raising goosebumps on his arms. “I told him I spent all night healing her, what did he think, that I’d leave her to die? Fucking hell.”

“Leave who to die?” Kakashi said, confused. “What happened?”

“Sakura happened,” Tsunade ranted tiredly. “They brought her back almost half dead, I’ve been patching her up for the better part of eight hours and this is how I’m rewarded.”

But Kakashi had stopped listening after ‘half dead’. Half dead? “Half … dead?” he echoed, his mouth dry.

No. This wasn’t happening.

This wasn’t happening.

“Yes,” Tsunade sighed. “But I operated on her and she’s going to be fine.”

Kakashi barely heard the words. His brain was a string of very adamant denial. No, no, no, no.

He didn’t want it to be true—all those years he had been certain, was so sure that it was him, that he was the reason the people he loved always died. That he was a curse to those he cared about.

Every person he loved came back in a body bag.

Fuck.

Kakashi turned tail, a sudden manic urge to see her rising unbearably in his chest. What if Tsunade was lying, what if Sakura wasn’t fine? What if she was fine, but she died anyway?

Fear pumped through his veins, rendering him dizzy. This was his worst nightmare come to life—how could he have forgotten that people, even those that could mend bones and heal what was broken, were so damn breakable?

His legs couldn’t carry him quickly enough.

He didn’t waste time interrogating the nurses for her whereabouts, he knew her scent like she was a part of him. It led him to her now, her unique sweetness tainted with blood and antiseptic.

Gods, he was going to be sick.

He nearly ripped the door off its hinges in his haste to get to her.

Shikamaru was already there, looking wrecked, looking worse than Kakashi had ever seen him. “Is she—”

He couldn’t even say it.

“They … they said they don’t know when she’ll wake up,” Shikamaru whispered hollowly.

Kakashi felt the ground crumbling beneath his feet. “No,” he whispered, leaning back against the wall when he teetered off balance.

His hip jarred against the doorknob but Kakashi barely registered the sting. Barely anything registered beyond the fear-terror-fear coursing through his veins like poison. “Please, no,” he said.

This couldn’t be happening again.

His father and Obito and Rin and Minato-sensei—hadn’t they been enough? Was Sakura going to be another name on the too long list of losses that haunted him?

He really was going to be sick. He clenched his jaw against the reflex, forcing his brain out of the dizzying tornado of anxieties. His gaze focused on Shikamaru, the only other person that mattered as much.

He didn’t look good at all, pale and shaking and appearing ready to fall apart.

The sight of him was strangely grounding.

Kakashi found his elusive strength, located his knees under him and was at his side in the next second.

“Shikamaru,” he rasped, clutching the other man’s arm.

“She looks dead,” Shikamaru whispered. “I … I …”

Words eluded him.

Kakashi tugged at his arm, drawing Shikamaru against him. He went without a fight, slumping against Kakashi’s chest like a puppet whose strings were cut.

“It’s going to be okay,” Kakashi lied, surprised by how much conviction he could bleed into it when it was for someone else’s benefit. “She’s going to be fine.”

Shikamaru shook in his hold, his shoulders minutely trembling. But just as suddenly, his body calmed down and he gripped tightly onto Kakashi’s middle. “What if she isn’t?”

“She will be,” Kakashi stressed because … anything else was not an option. “It’s Sakura. She punched a goddess in the face.”

Shikamaru let out a short, pained laugh against him. “Gods, don’t remind me; what a reckless idiot.”

“It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Kakashi confessed in a soft murmur against Shikamaru’s hair. He tightened his hold on him, drawing strength from the warmth of his body. “As beautiful as the two of you together.”

Lean fingers dug in his back. “I’m glad you’re here,” Shikamaru said sincerely. “I’m glad you came. Fuck, I think I’m gonna cry.”

“You can cry,” Kakashi soothed, sinking his fingers in lush, dark hair. “Hell, I might cry.”

Shikamaru let out a wet chuckle. “Yeah.”

Kakashi’s face bowed, nuzzling the side of his head as he took a shuddering breath. He clutched Shikamaru closely, his breath shallow and his heart a warbling mess in his chest.

He couldn’t think about if she died. He would die, then, if not from sorrow then from a broken psyche. It was easier to focus on the beeping machines and Shikamaru’s sure, thudding heart. Kakashi tuned in on every shuddering breath, his palm mapping his expanding ribs.

His focus narrowed down to his senses, to Shikamaru, to Sakura’s fighting, beating heart and prayed like he never had before.

She was going to be alright.

She had to be.

#bouncyirwin writes #kakasakushika #kakasaku #shikasaku #kakashika #naruto #angst #hurt/comfort #knock knock let the devil in #sakura haruno #kakashi hatake #Shikamaru nara

180 notes · View notes

heyyy-hey-babyyy · 4 years ago

Text

When We Were Young (part VIII)

Dean x Fem!Reader; Sam x Fem!Reader (platonic)

Read part I here ; Read part II here ; Read part III here ;

Read part IV here ; Read part V here ; Read part VI here

Read part VII here

Warnings: Angst, Mentions of trauma/abuse, brief moments of self-harm, mentions of anxiety attack, *moments of assault*

**This chapter contains images of assault. Please be aware if this is trigging for you!

B/N: I’m getting a little lost in my own timeline, so apologies for any inaccuracies... All mistakes I claim as my own.

Summary: Dean, Sam, and Y/N grew up together, but when she’s taken away for over 10 years, the boys have no idea what she’s been through. Will asking her to move into the bunker with them reveal more than she’s ready for?

1773 words

All you could hear was the constant dripping of the pipes above you, one splashing cold water on the back of your neck. Greg hadn’t left you alone after unbuttoning Dean’s flannel, and rather decided to strip you down and shackle your hands above your head again after. Then he walked out of the room, leaving you shivering, still leaning on your naked and bruised knees, arms growing numb above you.

You had to have been in the same position for over eight hours or so after you factored in how long you might have been passed out, and your body felt like it was ready to snap in half. You couldn’t lift your head anymore, though you wanted to move out of the dripping water, which felt like standing under a cold shower. But you couldn’t be too worried about it, because suddenly you felt an arm snake around your waist and lift you to your feet. You felt yourself fall into a slight feeling of hope, thinking that perhaps Dean had finally come for you. But your hopes were dashed when Greg whispered in your ear.

“Okay, hunny-bear, time to make it up to me.” You whimpered slightly in response, and you felt Greg release his hold on your waist, your body crashing roughly to the floor, chains yanking your arms above your head again almost ripping your limbs from their sockets. You cried out with what energy you had left, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Oh dear. I’m sorry hunny, I didn’t realize you were this weak already...” He trailed off, pulling you to a standing position again. He spoke like he cared about you, but you heard the smile behind his voice, relishing in the fact that you couldn’t fight back right now. “I’ll make sure to be gentle,” he whispered in your ear again, making you shudder, tears continuing to fall down your face.

Greg grabbed the back of your neck, bending you at the waist and holding you up on your own legs, rendering you completely powerless, afraid he would snap your neck if he felt like it. You felt fear course through your body as her rubbed his other hand slowly down your exposed back tracing a long scar down your side that you got from a vampire hunt, ending at your hip bone. You hated the way he seemed to be caring for you, his movements slow and careful, and your mind quickly drifted to Dean. Shaking your head, you dislodged the hunter’s green eyes from your mind, knowing you would need to repress this memory later on and it would be impossible if Dean was anywhere near it. Greg felt you shaking your head, and he stilled his movements, turning to stand in front of you instead, hand still at your neck.

“What’s wrong, hunny?” He lifted your head so that you were forced to look into his eyes, and he smiled knowingly. “Oh, I get it. You’ve moved on.” He gave you a small pout and you avoided his gaze. “It’s okay, I want this to be good for you. And honestly, it doesn’t matter what body I’m in anyway. It feels amazing either way.” You whipped your head around, suddenly staring into bright green eyes. Gasping loudly, you were suddenly pulled forward toward the lips of Dean Winchester. You froze, but felt yourself kissing him back slightly, your brain playing tricks on you. Dean pulled away and smiled at you widely, and you smiled back until he opened his mouth.

“That’s right, hunny-bear. Now we can both be comfortable.” ‘Dean’ disappeared from your view and you felt a small bout of strength, your body fighting against the chains holding you in place, trying to escape from the nightmare your brain couldn’t even imagine up. But Greg’s hands held you tight to him, and you felt his hips move against you. You were prepared to accept this happening to you at the hands of Greg, but you couldn’t get the image of Dean standing before you in the damp room out of your head. And though you kept repeating to yourself that it wasn’t Dean, it was becoming impossible as Greg continued to speak, Dean’s gruff voice floating up to you.

“Alright hunny,” he cooed, stroking up and down your back as you heard the zipper of his jeans. “Are you ready for me?”

You didn’t respond, your mind shutting down like it had so many times before to help you survive this moment. You felt some pressure to your core, and then your body was moving back and forth, but you felt numb, and didn’t say a word. You weren’t sure how long Greg used you, but when he was done, he pulled out, zipped back up, and came to stand in front of you. Dean’s body came into view, and he looked concerned, as he swiped at the tears you didn’t realize were streaming down your face, cupping your cheek. You involuntarily leaned into it, and when you looked up again, Greg was staring into your eyes. You leaned out of his grasp, and he sighed, pulling you forward to kiss you on the top of the head.

“I have something I have to do hunny-bear. I’ll be back soon.” And just like that he was gone, leaving you hanging from the chains, bent at the waist.

You started to sob silently, knowing that Greg didn’t destroy you 13 years ago. He destroyed you now, using the only man you felt comfortable with against you. Being a hunter you didn’t believe in anything you couldn’t see, so you often refused to believe in God, but in that moment you felt yourself praying, reaching out to anything or anyone to help you.

You suddenly heard the rush of wind and the flutter of wings, as a figure appeared in front of you. Too tired to react you attempted to move away from whoever had appeared in the room, when you felt a soft hand on your cheek, causing a warmth to spread throughout your body.

“Hello, Y/N.” The figure began and you looked up into bright blue eyes. “I heard your prayer. My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord.” You stared up at the man in disbelief before your world went black.

-----------

Cas disappeared as quickly as he appeared and Dean spun around looking for him in the small room.

“Cas!” He yelled into the emptiness, but the angel didn’t reappear. Dean scoffed, returning to find Sam and Bobby in the living room. Sam rose to his feet when Dean entered, looking questioningly behind him, anticipating Cas following Dean. Dean shook his head, throwing his hands up the air, when he heard the flutter of wings behind him again. The look on Sam’s face made Dean whip around nervously afraid of what he might find behind him.

Cas was standing in the doorway to the office holding Y/N tightly in his arms. He had shed his trench coat and it was wrapped around an unmistakingly naked Y/N like a towel.

“Hello Dean,” Cas repeated for the second time in 20 minutes, and Dean rushed forward taking Y/N out of Cas’ arms and cradling you tightly to his chest. You looked as if you were sleeping, but your face looked like you were in pain, stuck in whatever nightmare you were being forced into. Bobby and Sam rushed over to where Dean stood holding you, both men looking murderous.

“Cas, what happened?!” Sam was yelling, unable to control his emotions, and Castiel stood awkwardly, not having the people skills to deal with human emotions this complex. He took a beat or two to answer, but Dean cut him off, not ready to hear the story while you were still in the room.

Dean shifted you slightly in his arms and your face relaxed as he hiked you up, your head resting in the crook of his neck. He didn’t want to leave you alone right now, but he wanted you to be more comfortable as you slept, and didn’t want you to be naked anymore. He motioned with his head for his brother to follow him upstairs. Sam followed, and as they reached the stairs Dean spoke over his shoulder.

“Cas, stick around.” Cas nodded once, and Bobby motioned for him to sit on the couch him and Sam had just vacated. Cas sat awkwardly fixing his stare on the wall ahead of him, as Bobby left the room.

Dean walked toward Bobby’s room upstairs knowing you would feel most comfortable there if you woke up while they were downstairs talking to Cas. Sam opened the door for him, and stood in the doorway as you placed Y/N down on the soft blankets.

“Sam,” Dean spoke up, making sure you were fully covered with Cas’ trench coat for the moment after you were jostled about a bit. “Can you find Y/N’s bag and get maybe some sleep shorts, or something we can get on her easily?” Sam nodded, disappearing from the room. You took a second to take in Y/N’s appearance, not seeing any signs that you had been hurt, but you figured you’d learn the extent of the injuries from Cas, as Dean was sure he healed you before bringing you here. He knew Cas wouldn’t without permission, but he also secretly hoped that Cas had scrubbed your memories of whatever had happened in the hours that you were missing.

Sam returned while he was lost in his thoughts, clearing his throat simply. Dean turned around and Sam handed him a pair of Y/N’s loose shorts and one of Sam’s flannels, figuring it would work best to cover her.

“Can you help me?” Dean asked his brother awkwardly, not wanting to betray Y/N’s trust, especially not when you were sleeping. Sam nodded coming forward while Dean placed each of your feet carefully in the leg holds of the shorts. You were still in a deep sleep, your chest rising and falling slowly, so Dean pulled the shorts up your legs, careful to not touch you, and both brothers looked away while Dean slid your shorts up over your hips and Sam moved the bottom of the trench coat out of the way. They repeated the same process to move Sam’s flannel over your head and slip your hands into the sleeves. Sam grabbed Cas’ trench coat off the bed and left the room, nodding once at Dean with pain in his eyes.

Dean couldn’t stop looking at you, relishing in how peaceful you looked now that you were curled up in the blankets with familiar smells all around. He felt a tear slip down over his cheeks, and he swiped at it angrily, muttering to himself that he didn’t deserve to cry right now. Leaning forward he pressed his lips softly to your head and you stirred lightly, letting out a dreamy sigh, and Dean stood intent on killing the monster that hurt you before you even woke up and bringing his head to you as a trophy.

Read part IX here

When We Were Young Tag List: @vicmc624 @woundedxsmile @akshi8278

52 notes · View notes

dontshouta · 5 years ago

Text

elegant obscenities

summery: Your tattoo session which you’ve had scheduled for months has finally arrived and you finally get to meet the man everyone’s speaking so highly of. pairing: tattoo artist!bakugou katsuki x fem!reader word count: 3,799 note: modern au! also,, this is ns*fw so please… if ur not into that... just look away alsoalso, my tattoo knowledge is very limited.. im goin based on what ive seen on t.v or what ive read.. soo sorry if anythings wrong lol i dont have the heart to do extensive research on it atm but i hope you enjoy nonetheless

To say you were excited was a massive understatement. You felt like your heart was gonna burst from how quickly it was beating, your stomach felt like the den of a thousand butterflies, and yet you couldn’t wipe the huge smile plastered on your face. Today, you were going to see what all the fuss was about. Today, you were getting your first tattoo from the King of Tattoos himself-- Bakugou Katsuki. Just the mere thought of it shot a rush of adrenaline through your veins. You’ve heard so many reviews on this guy, you’ve seen his beautiful works on yelp, you’ve seen the clean and cut format of the parlor’s website- he was no joke. Though, his reputation seemed flawless, people did seem to not like his attitude. But of course, that would be ultimately overlooked, his work was just that good.

As excited you were, you were equally nervous. You didn’t know if you could sit through an hour session of what could possibly be him yelling and screaming at the top of his lungs. Or at least, that’s what some people have claimed to have happened. You wanted to remain optimistic though, and decided not showing up would be a waste of everyone’s time.

So, with determination and excitement fueling your resolve, you entered the tattoo parlor. You were greeted by an eager redhead, who smiled when you told him of your appointment.

“Oh yeah! Well, Y/N, if you could read over these papers and sign ‘em, Bakugou’ll be ready for you when your done!”

You took the clipboard with a smile and sat down. For a moment, you just stared at the words, not really reading them and letting the paper blur. You only hesitated for a moment, before grabbing the pen and firmly filling out the forms. You couldn’t possibly back out now, you’ve waited months for this opportunity! Just because some reviews said he could be a scary guy, psh, from what you’ve seen from the redhead, he couldn’t possibly be that bad, right? Just as you signed your last signature, someone cursed at the end of the hall.

“Shitty-hair! Is that client here yet?! I’m not gonna fuckin’ wait all damn day!”

You froze in your seat, your eyes watching the redhead as he rolled his eyes.

“She’s here, dude, chill.”

You gulped, pen shaking in your hand as you stared at the papers again. Was this guy serious? He sounds like he could up and kill me with his tattoo gun! The redhead laughed, taking in your pale figure and offering a calming smile. You relaxed the slightest bit.

“Ah, don’t mind him. He’s all bark and no bite, you’ll be fine. It’s just a tattoo after all!” He laughed again, trying to get you to ease out of your frightened position. “Are you done filling those out? If you could hand me your I.D you’ll be all set!”

You nodded mutely, handing him your I.D and clipboard. His reassurances should’ve placated you but why were you so damn tense? Was the reality of getting a tattoo settling into your bones and immobilizing you? You let out a deep sigh, deciding it’s now or never, hostile artist or not, he still was the best of the best.

The redhead, Kirishima he said was his name, handed you back your I.D and beckoned you to follow him down the hall. The closer you got to the room, the quicker your heart beat. You were so nervous, so excited, you didn’t know what to do with the plethora of emotions surrounding you. With a deep breath, you entered the room behind Kirishima.

The room was covered in art and designs of the past on the walls, fat binders lining bookshelves and a desk spilling over with sketches and unfinished line work. You could tell just from the room alone the experience Bakugou’s had. The tattoo table sat in the corner, laughing at your hesitance, which almost had you running for the hills at the mere sight of it. The air smelt sterile, and you took a deep breath again to try and calm your jolting nerves. Just as you did, the air caught in your throat when you finally laid eyes on your tattoo artist. His eyes were an angry red, brows set in a frown as he appraised your form. You were frozen at the door, not quite able to tear your eyes away. No one mentioned anything about how hot he was! Feeling very deceived by the reviews online, you shimmied yourself fully into the room, all the while staring at the famed Bakugou Katsuki.

“Took you long enough.” He grumbled with a click of his tongue, strong, impossibly tattooed arms crossed over a built torso. He wore a black tank top, not leaving much to the imagination and wore watching black jeans, which hung delectably low on his hips. Now you weren’t sure if you could sit in the same room as him for a completely different reason.

Kirishima rolled his eyes. “Dude, she’s early. Impatience is so not manly.” He huffed, walking out of the room, giving you a thumbs up and smile on the way out.

Now you were left alone. With an insanely attractive man whose hands and eyes were going to be all over you for the next hour. Your earlier hesitance in the matter all but withered away and was replaced with a newfound excitement.

You waved awkwardly, smiling slightly. “Um, hi, I’m Y/N! I’ve heard so many great things about you!” You greeted, hoping you didn’t seem overly eager. Now with your resolve restored tenfold, you wanted to get off on the right foot. His temper still looming over your head dangerously.

He clicked his tongue again, eyes roaming over your figure. “You better have, I don’t run this fuckin’ business for nothin’.” He mumbled, motioning for you to sit at that tattoo table while he prepared.

You watched him eagerly, eyes following where he slapped on his latex gloves. You drank in the way his nimble fingers worked with his equipment, sending you head reeling from thoughts of what else they could do. Goodness, this is embarrassing. Get yourself together, Y/N! You can’t be getting yourself all hot and bothered, this is a professional environment! And with that, you averted your eyes and focused them on your twiddling thumbs.

“So’re you gonna take your pants off or what?” He finally asked, eyes slanting in passive anger at you.

“Wh- huh?!” You exclaimed, almost falling off the table in pure shock. Take off my pants?? Has he noticed my staring? Wait- can he read my thoughts?!

“I can’t tattoo your thigh over you pants, you know. Idiot, you should’ve worn shorts or somethin’.” His voice was laced with superiority as he chastised you, making your thighs clench unconsciously. You were not going to survive this session.

With flaming cheeks, you stood from the table, hands poised over the button of your jeans.

“R-Right.. Well um, would.. Would you mind turning around or something?” You asked quietly, the blush on your cheeks traveling to the rest of your face as you stared into his red eyes. Which he rolled.

“I’m gonna see you half naked anyway, just take your pants off so we can get this shit over with.” He commanded, a brow raised haughtily as he sat on the stool next to the table.

Now, you really didn’t think this through. You’d hoped he’d find you half naked in different circumstances, but here you were, jeans pooling around your ankles in contempt while the flush seemed to travel throughout the rest of your body. How could you forget that you wanted this stupid tattoo on your thigh? At first, you didn’t think anything of it, believing you wouldn’t be attracted to your artist. Fate had other plans though, and made your artist the most attractive man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

You stepped out of your jeans, mumbling begrudgingly as you scooped the mass of fabric from the ground. Once you straightened up, you made eye contact with Bakugou. For a split second, it looked like he was staring at you ass. If you were bolder you might’ve said something like “Like what you see?” but instead, you shook your head, finding the notion preposterous as you sat back onto the table with curses being muttered under your breath.

“It ain’t my fault you wanted the damn tattoo on your thigh, no need to get all bitchy with me.” That comment might’ve brought down his attractiveness to you by about one percent, so any response that you had died in your throat once he started cleaning the exposed area on your thigh. Your lips were zipped tight, trying your absolute best and then some to keep any peep from coming out of your mouth.

The breath that had been stuck in your chest finally escaped from your body once Bakugou pulled away, reaching for the readied transfer paper. You eyes softened at the sight of the design of your tattoo, heart fluttering at the way Bakugou had rendered it.

“It looks beautiful.” You whispered, smile blossoming on your face as he applied the transfer to your thigh, momentarily forgetting your qualms about the damn artist’s proximity.

He hummed in response, clearly denoting an I know in his wake as he removed the transfer paper. “Look in the mirror and tell me it looks good.” He commanded, his tone clearly indicating he already knows it looks good. Probably just wants me to stroke his ego some more.

You got up anyway, not wanting to disobey him, and checked out the art that was going to be permanently etched into you skin in an hour’s time. “It’s perfect.” You breathed, checking yourself out in the mirror with renewed excitement. When you turned back, Bakugou’s eyes flickered up from your thigh to your eyes. He cleared his throat, motioning you to sit back on the table with a flick of his wrist.

“Duh, I strive for nothin’ but perfection.” He said, gloved hands patting the table impatiently.

Was that… a blush on his cheeks? Your heart rate accelerated, smile growing as you skipped back onto the table. “I don’t doubt it, Bakugou! Alright, now tat me up!” You were giggling happily, legs spread onto the table before the young artist, which, unbeknownst to you, had his heart rate going a mile a minute.

“Yeah, yeah.”

With that, he leaned into you inner thigh, one hand gripping onto the soft flesh while the other poised the tattoo gun over it.

“Brace yourself, it ain’t the most comfortable feeling in the world.” He warned, barely giving you any time to actually do so before getting to work.

A gasp escaped from your lips once you felt the tattoo gun connect with your skin, not necessarily in pain but to your horror, in pleasure. You bit your lip, trying to seem nonchalant but in all reality, heat was rushing to your core and you started to feel your body temperature rise considerably. You couldn’t really blame yourself, an attractive man’s face was inches from your barely concealed vagina while he gripped your thigh. How could you not get turned on? What was really going through your head though, was how you were going to distract yourself. You couldn’t possibly think about him and only him this entire time, right? He’d probably catch on and kick you out or something. You wouldn’t be able to stand the embarrassment that would come with that.

While you did try to keep your mind occupied, you couldn’t help but watch the artist at work. His tongue slightly poked out his lips every now and then. Sometimes he’d blow out a breath which would hit your thigh deliciously and send you head spinning. He’d squeeze your thigh and maneuver it this way and that to get a better angle. Every little thing had your heart racing, your thighs needing to clench, your core needing some damn friction. You were, to put it lightly, going fucking insane.

Bakugou suddenly pulled back, his face screwed up in an expression you couldn’t place. An agitated groan escaped his lips while he made aggressive eye contact with you.

“Wh- ar-are you done-?!” Your eyes flickered to the unfinished tattoo, your expression turning confused when you met his eyes again. “What-?”

He shoved himself onto you, pupils blown wide with arousal. “You know what you’re doin’, huh? Don’t play dumb with me you’ve been acting like this since you walked in here.. You know how hard it is to fucking concentrate when I can just smell how wet you are? Huh?” He all but growled, eyes glued to yours while his large hands gripped your waist possessively.

You took in a shaky breath, breaking eye contact to watch his body hover impossibly close to yours. A sweat had built around Bakugou’s temples, body slightly shaking with restraint as he gathered your next reaction.

“Fuck.. you can’t blame me, can you?!” You yelled, hands gripping onto his strong biceps. “You’re over here gripping on my thigh and breathing on my coochie, how the fuck am I supposed to react?”

Your response shocked him, but was enough to confirm any suspicions he had and he immediately clashed his lips with yours. You melted instantly, hands roaming up to grip at his sandy hair roughly. Teeth clashed, tongues melded and fought for dominance, breath coming in hot and heavy as your bodies melted into each other. Bakugou was already hard against your thigh, member pulsing through his jeans and prodding closer and closer to your dripping core.

You moved to wrap your exposed legs around his waist but was shoved roughly back onto the table, Bakugou breaking the heated kiss and roaming down. His hands left a trail of fire on your exposed skin, causing small, broken mewls to slip to your lips while he pushed your top over your breasts, his eyes drinking in your heated form greedily.

“Fuck baby you look so good like this. I’ve barely even touched you and you already look fucked out, all for me huh?” He purred obscenities into your ear, a shiver wracking through your body at his words. His hands barely skimmed over your bra, your breath held in anticipation as he slowed his rough mannerisms to admire your breathless body. A low growl emitted from the back of his throat, his hands pushing your bra down to expose your chest, your nipples hardening immediately in the crisp air. Deft, tattooed fingers toyed with your breasts, red eyes burning into your own as he watched you writhe underneath him, your legs rubbing together incessantly to try and gauge at least the tiniest amount of friction you could get.

You whined needily, fingers fisting into his hair as you tried to connect your barely concealed pelvis with his.

“Nuh, uh, baby girl I’m gonna need you to be patient, yeah? Can you be patient for me?” His tone was laced with such dominance you were rendered speechless, a nod of your head indicating you understood what he was implying.

“No, that ain’t gonna cut it sweetheart, use your fucking words or else I’m stoppin’ right here, when we’ve barely even gotten started.” His fingers gripped your chin, forcing your gaze onto his.

“Y-Yes, sir..?” You were hesitant with the addition of the title but a hum of approval resonated from the tattooed man that had you relaxing back into the table again. Your eyes watched his every move while he lowered himself closer to you, a feeling of desperation slowly gnawing at you. His hands roamed every inch of exposed skin, from the apples of your cheeks down to your pelvis, his fingers toying dangerously with the waistband of your delicate panties.

Just as you thought he was gonna grant you at least some relief, his fingers skimmed past the waistband completely, ignoring the removal of the tiny article of clothing and instead moving to push a tattooed finger against your core teasingly. A gasp escaped your lips, one of your hands gripping his bicep for dear life, the tiny amount of contact overwhelming you.

He chuckled dangerously, his face moving to hover over your clothed heat, his hot breath tickling your thighs.

“Oh, please, just fucking touch me, Bakugou.” You seethed, your patience growing incredibly thin. You wanted to reach for his wrist and just make him touch you yourself but you didn’t want to push your luck, having already yelled at the man already.

He laughed at your command, his hands moving to grip your hips while his tongue poked out of his mouth to gently prod at your panties. An eloquent oh fuck rolled out of your mouth, his hands gripping harder as his tongue lightly grazed over your clothed cunt.

“Is this what you wanted, princess?” He murmured against your wet panties, his eyes lazily gazing up at you. The sight of his face buried in between your legs had you shaking, the hands in his hair impossibly tightening while you tugged him closer to you.

“Bakugou, please, please, please, eat me out I can’t take it anymore, I want you to fuck me so-!” You cut yourself off with a hearty moan, his fingers snatching your underwear to the side and delving his tongue into dripping core. One of his hands massaged your hip, while the other snaked to toy with your entrance. You were already gasping for breath, legs spasming against his head while he dug himself deeper into you. His tongue laved other your clit, alternating between drawing lazy circles and sucking it hard. The juxtaposition of movements drove you mad, your head falling back against the table with your back arching, you hips bucking into his mouth greedily. His finger finally pushed into you, the combination of his thrusting finger and suckling lips pushing you further and further towards the edge.

All too soon, the friction was gone just as you felt your climax rush over you, causing a shriek of disapproval to sound from you. Your head was up in a flash to shoot a look of desperation to the teasing man. His gaze shook you to your very core, almost undoing you just then, with eyes completely clouded over with unadulterated lust. He smirked, bringing his soiled fingers to his lips and sucking them clean. A whine emitted from your throat, the display downright lewd and having you begging for more.

“Baku-”

“Call me Katsuki, darling.”

“Katsuki, please.”

And with that statement, his tank top was off. His pretty fingers worked to smoothly take off his belt and pants, the mere sounds of the rustling clothes bringing more excitement in between your legs. You crawled toward him, moving to help but he quickly pinned you back down onto the table.

“Now, now, let’s not get too hasty. I plan on fuckin’ that pretty pussy of yours real good, yeah? Don’t you worry that pretty little fuckin’ head of yours.”

Bakugou picked you up with ease, flipping you around and bending you over so your ass was up in the air for him to lay a resounding smack onto it. He hummed while you whined desperately, his abusing hand rubbing the skin immediately to soothe the reddening cheek. You legs felt wobbly, barely able to keep yourself up for him. He was rubbed languid strokes against his angry cock, angling it towards your entrance and prodding at it coyly. He tapped the appendage against your folds, chuckling as your hips bucked up against him. A smirk played on his lips, his eyes dark and dangerous as he started to shift his hips forwards to meet yours. You watched the muscles in his beautifully inked stomach flex as he moved, the feeling of slowly being filled just too good.

Once he was fully inside you, you gasped hotly, trying to accustom yourself to the sensation of being so thoroughly stretched out. His eyes watched attentively, flickering from your stretched hole and to your face. He moved his hips back tortuously slow, setting a pace so agonizingly good that you could barely open you mouth without moaning desperately.

“Oh, f-fuck!” You half-sobbed, clinging to the table for dear life as he rocked into you. He moved to hide his face against the back of your neck, latching onto the juncture of her shoulder and throat in a way that made you sure he would leave a mark. The feeling was almost too much– the slow drag of his cock inside you, the ministrations of his lips, teeth and tongue on your shoulder, the quiet and low growls leaving his perfect lips– you were done for.

His large hands gripped your ass, alternating from hard gropes to rough slaps that resounded about the room and arousing you tenfold. Broken moans fled your lips, your fingernails scratching at the table hopelessly. His cock pulsed within you as he quickened his pace abruptly, his hand fisting into your hair and forcing your back to arch up into him. You cried out in pure glee, your breasts bouncing while he pounded mercilessly into you.

His hands held your hips in a bruising grip, the pain mixing deliciously with the absolute pleasure that was Bakugou’s pace. His lips were muttering obscenities into your ear, alternating from suckling your earlobe in between his teeth and littering your neck with pretty purple bruises. You have ascended, your mind gone due to this tattoo artist’s godly dick.

You were sputtering, moans never ceasing to escape from your lips as you tried your best to keep up with his pace, your body becoming hotter and hotter with every deep thrust. You felt your climax building, your walls clenching around his thick cock, causing him to curse into your ear.

His unoccupied hand snaking around your waist to rub quick circles into your clit, sending your body into overdrive and making you see stars.

“I’m go-gonna- oh my goodness- I’m gonna f-fucking come-!” Your body was on fire, your mind short-circuiting with the amount of pleasure wracking your body as you finally came. Your moans came louder with it, your body spasming against his still pistoning cock.

He came soon after, his thrusts becoming sloppy as he rode out his high within your overstimulated walls. Bakugou released your hair, your body falling limply onto the tattoo table. You were gasping for breath, his seed pooling out of your pussy and onto the table. His fingers circled your folds and gathered the come from it, holding them out in front of your lips.

“Now, be a good girl and swallow my cum, huh, princess?”

#i hope this is like... GOOD #i spent like two days on this #mainly bc im a pro procrastinator #ANYWAY #bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou smut #bnha #bnha x reader #bnha smut #mha x reader #mha smut #ns*fw

1K notes · View notes

firewoodfigs · 4 years ago

Text

into each life some rain must fall

Six times he stands before a grave in the rain, grieving. But this time, courage is reborn. [5+1 Things]

read on ao3

Riza Hawkeye is terrifying. This is the first thought that crosses Roy’s mind when he sees her slicing up the carcass of a chicken (or is it a duck?) without even flinching. So when it rains that day, he doesn't think it’s necessary to find her, in hopes of passing her an umbrella. Truthfully, he doubts someone like her is even capable of catching the common cold.

Perhaps it’s childlike bravery, or sheer stupidity, but Roy decides to search for her anyway. He can think of many reasons why this is an awful idea. First, Roy knows he’s kind of good-looking, the same way he knows he’s sort of ingenious and incredible. But he also knows his aunt is paying a lot of money for his lessons, and that he’s here to learn; not to chase girls or get a girlfriend. Second, he knows from his sisters’ stories that the female imagination is capable of unimaginable things, and he most certainly does not want her, of all people, to get the wrong idea.

If word ever gets out about the little stunt he’s about to pull, his sisters would never let him live it down.

But thunder rumbles in the distance, and rain pelts down incessantly, relentlessly. It’s enough to make even a grown man shiver. So he jogs over to her school in quick strides, searching for a socially awkward urchin with messy golden hair and a terrifying glare.

Roy only manages to find her in the end, after what must have been hours of searching. She’s not at school, no. She’s kneeling in front of a tombstone with a bunch of wilted freesias and roses, staring blankly at the inscription written on it.

He says nothing, only lifts his umbrella over her grieving form and lets half of himself get drenched.

Miss Hawkeye glares at him when she finally notices his presence, but accepts the umbrella begrudgingly nonetheless. As she turns around to face him, he sees rivulets streaming down her cheeks, and Roy wonders if it's the rain or her tears.

She rubs her eyes impatiently. “It’s just the rain,” she insists, even though the umbrella shields her from the raging storm overhead.

ii.

Master Hawkeye dies in his arms after begging him to take care of his daughter. He’s only twenty, halfway through the academy and still unacquainted with death. He’s too stunned to care about decorum and propriety and honorifics at the moment, and ends up yelling for Riza to come.

She appears a moment later, hair still a dishevelled, dampened mess; knuckles white from gripping the doorframe so hard. Her eyes are hollow and she’s too numb, too shocked to say or do anything as she stares at her father’s unnaturally still form.

For a long while, nothing he says seems to elicit any kind of response from her. It’s almost like she’s catatonic; trapped in another dimension where he can’t reach her.

He ends up taking care of the burial and the estate and everything else.

The funeral passes by in a haze. It’s a small, quiet affair. His master has never had many (or any, actually) friends to begin with, anyway, given his eccentricity and preference for seclusion.

Roy stays by her side before a gravestone again afterwards. It’s a sunny day. She doesn’t kneel this time; only stares quietly at the name engraved on it like it belongs to a stranger rather than a father.

To his dismay, he learns that, unlike him, she has no other living relatives or family to turn to. How lonely must it be, then, being trapped in this nondescript, deserted town all by herself?

So he offers her his contact details; his dreams and aspirations for the future as an excuse for them to maintain some semblance of a friendship. It’s probably closer to an acquaintanceship, given that they hadn’t really spoken much even during his stay at the Hawkeye manor. Either way, it’s better than being all alone, he thinks.

In exchange, Miss Hawkeye simply responds with a small, sad smile before asking if she can entrust her back to his dream; offering her own naive ideals and hopes for a better, brighter future.

And then, she unbuttons her blouse as soon as they return to the manor to unveil an intricate array begging to be deciphered. For all his brains and talents Roy can only stare, shell-shocked.

What the hell had his master done?

The sky begins to weep for the abuse she’s endured for the sake of bearing an alchemist’s legacy. But the misty rain can’t wash away the ink splaying out like blood on her back; the pain she must have suffered during the excruciating procedure.

“I’m sorry,” is the only thing he can say to break the silence that hangs over them like a death sentence, as he crosses the distance between them to ghost his fingers over the apology inscribed onto her back.

Miss Hawkeye offers him an impassive shrug. “It… it doesn’t matter,” she mumbles, but her shoulders are quaking and her hands are trembling as she grips on to her blouse for dear life.

iii.

The war finally ends. Rain descends from the heavens like drops of silver after what must surely have been hell on earth. A rarity, Roy thinks, where condensation in the air is caused only by blood, not water. A gift from the gods (do they exist?), perhaps. He lifts his palms heavenward, as if begging for the rain to wash away his sins; his scars and his very soul.

It doesn’t. A soldier like him now inured to violence and gore doesn’t deserve such a reprieve.

At the very least, though, the Hero of Ishval is grateful that it renders him useless. A hero. The title sits uncomfortably on his tongue, in his gut. He’s nothing more than a murderer; a monster, and he doesn’t want any medals of gold or glory emblazoned across his military garb. Not when they’re just symbols celebrating death and destruction.

Roy watches from the distance as a sorrowful silhouette with a familiar tuft of blonde hair kneels over a makeshift grave.

“An Ishvalan child, shot and left to die on the roadside alone,” she explains reverently with a forlorn smile, when he inches closer to ask whether it’s a fallen comrade.

He swallows thickly. God, if only he’d kept his ugly mouth shut back then. Then maybe she’d still just be shooting birds and rabbits and antelopes. Maybe she’d still be making chicken soup for dinner now (imagining the smell of cooked meat is enough to make him nauseous). Maybe she’d still be stuck in the raffish countryside; in that countrified, eerie manor all by herself.

Being alone, he thinks, is still infinitely better than being surrounded by cadavers in a deluge of blood-stained sand.

The… sniper (The Hawk’s Eye leaves an awfully bitter taste in his mouth, like he’s biting a bullet) clenches her fist when she’s done, before asking him for the impossible.

“I have a favour to ask of you, Mr. Mustang,” she begins. “Please burn and crush my back.”

“There’s no way I can -” Roy replies immediately, almost yelling. How in the world could he burn her flesh, with the alchemy he’d learnt from her back?

“Please,” she says, begging for him to liberate her from the bonds chaining her to a deceased man so that she can be her own person. Just Riza Hawkeye, not the keeper of her father’s secrets.

“Damn it,” Roy curses under his breath. She makes it sound like it’s her fault for entrusting her father’s research to him. But isn’t he the one who had abused the power entrusted to him; defiled her trust, destroyed her hopes of everyone getting their happy ending somehow?

And yet... endings like these only exist in grand castles and fairy tales. Not in arid, scorched deserts, and most certainly not in their horror stories of ruthless murder and bloody genocide and endless strife.

If only he’d been a little less foolish back then. If only.

Roy relents.

iv.

Rain pours down in heavy, roaring torrents when he burns her back. Roy wishes it could fall through the roof somehow; douse the fire eating her at her flesh so he doesn’t have to hear her suppressed screams that come out as whimpers as she bites down on an old, ragged cloth. It breaks his heart to burn her, a friend he’s come to cherish and appreciate through all the hell they’ve endured together over bland coffee and stale bread.

But he does so anyway. Because it’s what she wants - no, what she needs. He lets the massive downpour swallow the sounds of their cries; lets the wind carry away the lethal secret that has killed hundreds (or thousands?) into the dark, endless void.

“It… it’s done,” Roy whispers breathlessly at last. He removes the burnt tissue carefully, mindful of her quivering frame before covering them with sterile dressings. Then, he gives her the painkillers he’d gathered from the apothecary, which she eagerly swallows.

He doesn’t dare meet her eyes while she’s still conscious, fearing that he’ll only see hatred swimming in them. How could she not, after all that he’s done? He wouldn’t blame her, to be honest. She has every right to, and he deserves every ounce of it.

Fortunately, the medicine kicks in quickly. Roy kneels before her half-lucid form as her eyelids begin to flutter shut. God, he wants to beg for forgiveness, but...

“I forgive you,” she murmurs sleepily even before he says anything, before finally falling into painless oblivion. Roy stays by her side, nervously close and gentle as he wipes her forehead with a cool, damp cloth to make sure a fever doesn’t develop.

Afterwards, he goes to her parents’ grave to beg them for forgiveness; to repent for all that he’s done to their daughter.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t fulfil your last wish, Master,” he cries, filled with regret that he hadn’t listened to his warning back then. The stones only stare back at him wordlessly. Self-reproach swallows him whole, the way squalls of driving rain completely engulf him.

A little less than a month later, Riza Hawkeye marches into his office, stoic and stalwart with an unrivalled expertise in guns and an unyielding duty to the living and the dead. He’s inclined to believe that maybe, just maybe, he can make the necessary reparations and restitutions with her by his side. And so he makes her his personal adjutant; gives her the right to shoot his back if he steps off the path.

It’s the least he can do after he’s defaced hers, after all.

“Will you follow me?” Roy asks apprehensively.

“If that is your wish, then even into hell,” she states, not flinching in the least. He wants to tell her that she’s already been through hell with him, and she doesn’t deserve anymore of that.

Instead, he grits his teeth and looks on ahead resolutely, determined not to let her down this time.

Brigadier General Maes Hughes is buried on a relatively bright afternoon. The sun shines as birds sing and flowers begin to bloom. The spring sky shimmers overhead in a vibrant, cheerful shade of blue like it’s paying an ode to his sprightly nature.

And yet, the ceremony is distinctly somber: it’s filled with soldiers who aren’t allowed to break protocol and say their eulogies and prayers; a wife whose heart is torn asunder, who still yearns for him to return home, and a child who’s far too young to understand that he’s not coming back.

Colonel Mustang stands at attention as the soldiers lower his best friend six feet under. His stomach coils as his heart wrenches. He feels like throwing up again. A part of him wishes his body would stop behaving in this manner so that he can at least attempt to convince himself that this isn’t real; that it’s just a feverish dream which will be chased away by the morning light.

But it’s real. It’s not a dream. Because Elicia, darling Elicia is crying for her father. “Why are you burying Papa?” she yells. “He has to return to his work!”

Roy only barely manages to stop himself from grieving aloud. Years of military training, perhaps. He continues watching quietly as the bugle sounds off in Hughes’ honour instead, and waits for everyone to leave before saying his piece.

Well, almost everyone.

“... Are you alright?” His Lieutenant asks.

“Yes,” he answers unconvincingly. “It’s… it’s a terrible day for rain.”

She looks up at the vast horizon above them, a pretty pastel pink with tender ribbons of lilac streaking across. “It’s not raining -”

“Yes, it is,” he whispers, before donning the military cap once more.

Thankfully, Hawkeye understands. She gives him a moment to grieve, not bothering with senseless platitudes or empty sympathies. A crow caws in the distance, calling for the departed soul of his friend as he stands, uniform dry but cheeks inexplicably damp.

“Let’s go, sir. It’s getting chilly here,” Lieutenant Hawkeye calls gently. Colonel Mustang nods and obliges, leaving his best friend behind in the setting sun.

Daybreak arrives once more, like clockwork. His eyes are raw and red and swollen shut as he mulls over the consequences of ditching work for the day.

Hawkeye turns up at his doorstep with freshly baked bread and a warm cup of coffee just then: the morning light that offers him a brief respite from grief.

vi.

It’s pouring this time as he stands in front of Hughes’ grave. Somehow, it always does whenever he stands alive before death.

The sky and rain are like sackcloth and ash, Roy thinks, as it falls on his shoulders and shrouds him from the rest of the world in a sad, pearly grey. But he’s been so scared and frustrated and exhausted over the past few months - from losing his closest friend, to dealing with a government corrupt to its very core and an impending nationwide catastrophe - that it’s a welcome relief.

“It’s almost time, Colonel,” comes a gentle voice in the midst of the gloomy darkness.

The downpour gradually lessens into a soft drizzle.

It’s impossible to miss the scent of her, lavender and petrichor masked beneath gunpowder even in this graveyard reeking of death. And it finally dawns upon Roy then, why the time they’d spent apart had felt like an eternity; why it’d pained him so badly like someone was ripping his innards out. Because he loves her. He loves her so much that it pushes out through every fiber of his being; that he almost can’t contain the urge to kiss her; hold her, keep her in his arms forever.

Behind him, he hears her feet shift subtly. Her breathing is weary and slightly laboured. A well-timed reminder that she’s very much alive, not buried underneath soil like the other rotting corpses in this god-awful place.

Roy bites on his lips, hard, to restrain himself from crushing them on hers. They don’t need any more fires between them when they already have enough to extinguish.

But she’s here now, at least, and that’s more than enough. It’s enough for him to keep moving forward despite having buried a part of himself alongside the man he’d seen as a comrade, a friend and a brother. It’s enough for courage to be reborn; for him to face another day with strength and hope.

“Let’s go, Lieutenant,” he says at last, a genuine smile crossing his features for the first time in months. She hesitates for a moment before trailing behind him, footsteps quiet and steadfast. And when they depart the land of the dead (together) to meet the maelstrom awaiting the living he’s not afraid anymore.

#royai #royai fic #royai fanfic #5+1 fic #5+1 things

60 notes · View notes

golden-van-fleet · 6 years ago

Text

Your Song

Summary: Gwilym has loved you for a long time and will continue to.

Word Count: ~2.2k

A/N: Hi! I needed to write about Gwilym. I’m not sure about the format? Also on mobile for this one. Enjoy!

It’s a little bit funny, this feeling inside

I’m not one of those who can easily hide

Despite Gwilym being an actor, his fatal flaw was his inability to hide what was on his mind. The entire world knew how he felt about you, except for, well, you. It made his stomach turn, to see you with a man that wasn’t him, holding his hand, kissing his cheek, calling him “babe”. He hoped, wished, and prayed desperately to be that man.

I don’t have much money, but boy if I did

I’d buy a big house where we both could live

He knew you wanted a big house in the countryside. It’d been your dream for as long as either of you could remember. In fact, it was the first thing he bought with his paycheck from Bohemian Rhapsody. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t dream of the two of you living there like Allie and Noah in The Notebook. He didn’t want to buy your love, per se, but if he could afford what you wanted, he wanted to be able to spoil you. For only being your best friend, he treated you a hell of a lot better than that boyfriend of yours ever could. Any of them, really.

And it wasn’t lost on you. You’d lost a couple boyfriends because they felt they couldn’t compete with Gwilym, and they couldn’t. Gwilym was over the top for you and only for you. When he bought the house, you were stunned. He constantly had you over, one of the guest rooms unofficially becoming your room. You’d been by his side before the fame and the fortune, it was only fair in his eyes that you were still there after it.

If I was a sculptor, but then again, no

Or a man who makes potions in a traveling show

I know it’s not much but it’s the best I can do

My gift is my song and this one’s for you

Every performance he did as Brian May was with you in mind. Gwilym was willing to go to the ends of the earth to prove that he was worthy of your love, to prove to you that he was the one you needed. He knew, rationally, you never needed a man to be happy or to succeed. He also knew, selfishly, that he was the one for you. This was a man willing to bend over backwards for you at any given moment, knowing you would do the same.

And you can tell everybody that this is your song

It may be quite simple but now that it’s done

I hope you don’t mind,

I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words

How wonderful life is, now you’re in the world

The day you met was a day he’d never forget. Your eyes piercing back into his own, a stare that sent a delicious shiver down his spine. It wasn’t a malicious stare, it was one of amusement. You were working at a local coffee shop while finishing your bachelor’s degree around the same time Gwilym began filming one of many up and coming projects. He’d come in with an agenda, a man on a mission, but when his eyes met yours, he babbled like an infant. You were so kind, you didn’t make fun of him, you smiled a little and let him compose himself.

Ever since that day, he made a point to visit you at work, seated at one of the tables in the corner as long as he could be without disturbing you, your coworkers, or the other patrons. You found it sweet, and your heart ached to get to know him.

So you did. He’d been to your apartment more times than the members of your family had over the course of the next year. It was around that year mark Gwilym realized he couldn’t live without you. It was also around the time you’d started your string of terrible boyfriends.

Gwilym couldn’t thank you enough for changing his quality of life. You breathed a life into everything that he’d never been able to find. Life by your side was beautiful. You never let him dwell on the bad, and as hard as it could be to find the good sometimes, he always tried. If not for his sake, then for yours.

I sat on the roof, and kicked off the moss

Well, a few of the verses, well they’ve got me quite cross

He had to tell you. He couldn’t say it to your face, but he couldn’t not say it to your face. He wrote letter after letter, page after page, hoping that something, anything would encapsulate his feelings about you. Late night after late night, he failed to document exactly what he wanted to say. He didn’t want to plan out what he wanted to say, but he needed it to be everything he’d had on his mind for years.

When you showed up at his door during one of those late nights, he told himself as soon as he opened the door he’d tell you. What he didn’t expect was to see you sobbing, throwing yourself at him. He caught you before you could hit the floor, catching a glimpse of you before you buried your face into his shoulder. Your eyes were puffy and swollen with tears, your face red and stained with tear tracks. It absolutely broke his heart.

“He broke up with me,” you whimpered. “Almost two years, I thought I was going to marry this man, and then suddenly I’m not good enough?”

But if only you knew how good enough you were. Gwilym saw the sun rise and set within you. You were the very center of his universe. He couldn’t tell you now, you’d just had your heart broken. He could try, in vain, to tell you how wonderful he found you and about the total joy you brought to his life, but his dark secret would have to wait a little longer.

You climbed out onto the roof outside the guest room window, the full moon hanging bright above your head. There was a gentle, almost imperceptible breeze floating through the summer night. This was your favorite part of the house. It was your hideaway, wrapped around the back of the house with a full view of the river in the background. It felt as though time stood still when you were there. You found yourself lost in the peacefulness of it all until Gwilym squeezed himself through the window frame to sit with you.

“He thought you and I had something going on on the side. I told him that you were my best friend, that you always would be, that without you there is no me. And he was jealous.” You sniffled, the tears of sadness now transformed to tears of resentment. “But maybe he had a reason to be jealous. You’re all I need in my life.”

Gwilym was nothing short of stunned. That was the first time in his life that he was utterly lost for words.

“I- I can’t be your rebound, Y/N. I’ve loved you for far too long to let myself be who builds you up for someone else to tear back down. You mean too much to me for that.” He felt a tear slip down his cheek. His heart was on the line. As much as he wanted to be with you immediately, to hold you in his arms and never let go, he couldn’t. Not right now.

“I’m not saying I want to jump from him to you. But I did a lot of thinking on the drive over here. You’ve always been there for me. You’ve been this support, this rock, and I can’t help but feel I’ve taken it for granted. And for that, I’m so sorry. I know the way you look at me when I’m not looking because I look at you the same way. I always have. And maybe I was too afraid of ruining what we had built up so beautifully. Rome wasn’t built in a day, but they were laying bricks every hour, and that’s what we did. We’re still doing it. So if you’ll let me, I’d like to keep building it, I want to know that it’s not going to go away after tonight.”

He forced himself to look at you, your eyes burning with unshed tears. It would never go away. It couldn’t.

But the sun’s been quite kind while I wrote this song

It’s for people like you that keep it turned on

Over the course of the following months, your relationship bloomed into the blossom it was destined to be. The dark cloud that hung over Gwilym’s head had finally given way to the warm rays of the sun, and he embraced them fully. Loving you was diving head first into a pool that had no bottom. There was always a new depth to be reached, and when he thought he’d reached his capacity, there was always more.

You noticed the change, welcomed it, and encouraged it. Gwilym was finally back to the man he was when you first met. The man that you thought you were going to fall in love with. However, you’d hung that up when he brought over one of his girlfriends, unannounced, to your flat the night you were going to tell him how you felt. It crushed you, but you couldn’t tell him that. To know that now, it wouldn’t happen again, he was yours? It was heaven in and of itself.

So excuse me forgetting, but these things I do

You see I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue

Anyway the thing is what I really mean

Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen

He had to ask you to marry him. He made up his mind before the two of you had even been together six months. It took half a lifetime, or so he thought, to get with you in the first place. Hell, you’d moved in together after two months together, what difference would it make?

He found himself in the same position he was years and years prior, back in that tiny coffee shop. Your eyes were focused intently on his, your smile kind and your hand relaxed in his. Gwilym was in his element, at home, alone, with you. And there, in the comfort of your shared bed, he was going to ask you to be his wife, and he couldn’t choke the words out. All he could do was present you with the ring first.

“Marry me. Please,” he added, softening what sounded like a demand.

“Easily,” you smiled, pulling his face towards yours and locking your lips into a breathless kiss. “I would marry you a million times over.”

He found himself in the same predicament when it came to your vows.

“I’m not usually one to forget what I’m saying before I say it, but you look so beautiful I can’t help myself,” he began, chuckling as he bashfully wiped away a tear. “I had this whole thing planned about how you were the one for me and I knew from the moment I met you, but even to this day you render me speechless. So forgive me if I cut this a bit short, but I’d really love to call you my wife sooner rather than later.”

And you can tell everybody this is your song

It may be quite simple, but now that it's done

I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind that I put down in words

How wonderful life is while you're in the world

When your daughter was born with your bright, beautiful eyes, Gwilym cried more than he ever thought he would. He was so gentle with her, so gentle with you… You couldn’t love him more if you tried.

Despite having your eyes, your daughter was Gwilym’s clone. She had her father wrapped around her tiny little finger from the first cry she let out the day she was born. Gwilym immediately switched into protective dad mode, refusing to let her go without a fight. Unless she was going to you, of course. But even that took a little convincing.

One night, about three weeks after she was born, Gwilym got up in the middle of the night to tend to her. He took the wailing newborn out of her bassinet in your bedroom to the rocking chair in what would be her nursery.

“Alright, love, it’s okay.” He’d done everything he could think of to soothe her and nothing was working, and the last thing he wanted to do was wake you. He unbuttoned the front of her onesie, placing the newborn over his heart. He’d been told to try skin to skin bonding whenever he could, and by some miracle, it calmed her down.

Gwilym didn’t realize he was humming until he started to sing lyrics to a song he didn’t realize he knew.

I hope you don't mind,

I hope you don't mind that I put down in words

How wonderful life is while you're in the world

Your song had had its share of wrong notes and tweaked lyrics. It conveyed a full spectrum of emotions, highlighting the ups and the downs that came with life and love. Your song was unique, and Gwilym was blessed to share it with you.

#gwilym lee #gwilym lee imagine #gwil #gwilym lee fanfiction #gwilym lee fluff #dad!gwilym

89 notes · View notes

monsters-demons-and-ai-oh-my · 5 years ago

Text

What We Lost and What We Have:

Chapter 6: Sock puppets, stomachaches, and what you really learn in college

In which we meet a very strange nurse, talk about teen drug use and the plot thickens.

TW: Conversations about recreational drugs, questions about suicidal intentions, and brief mention of throwing up

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-

AU somewhat inspired by Episode 2x20 - What Is and What Should Never Be, and the season 14 storyline concerning Jack’s illness.

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-

AO3 Link

Previous Chapter

First Chapter

Complete Tumblr Chapter List

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-

Sam and Dean both decided to give the Kline’s a little space after after the incident with Jack’s lunch tray. Ironically both brothers using the excuse that they hadn’t had anything to eat since they arrived early that morning.

Jack seemed on the verge of mortified tears afterward and for selfish reasons or not neither wanted to be the one to push him over the edge.

The kid was already embarrassed enough.

The doctor had told the brothers (much to Dean’s chagrin) that at least one of them should come back in later that evening as they had a few more background questions for all of them once Jack had a chance to rest.

There was only so much the doctor was willing to do when they still didn’t know what was causing Jack’s symptoms but when Jack’s nausea refused to fade and several more bouts dry heaving literally drove Jack to tears they finally gave him anti-nausea drugs that had the added benefit of finally putting him back to sleep.

Getting a few hours of rest (plus something new the doctor gave him via IV to help with the fact he hadn’t eaten for a day and a half) seemed to perk Jack up a bit. At the very least Jack seemed a lot more calm when he woke up around three hours later.

Though, that could have also been the low dose of narcotic painkillers doctor Hannah also decided to give despite the risks when Jack’s stomach pain was bad enough to cause his heart rate to skyrocket.

It wasn’t enough narcotics to make Jack start accusing innocent staff members of being out to suck his blood again, but it was enough to render him quiet and subdued… and not at all like the Jack Castiel knew.

‘He could only watch and try to comfort Jack as he got sick and then hugged his stomach, literally crying with the pain the action caused him…’

A quiet Jack was better than a sobbing Jack, but it still terrified Cas.

It threw him back to sixteen years previously when Jack was first born, made him feel like he was failing Kelly all over again…

He remembered when Jack was four and a half and afraid of long clawed demons under his bed. ( strangely specific child that he was ) Then Castiel could consol him and promise to protect him from any monsters .

When Jack was seven and John died and Jack tried to run away from home, ( only getting so far as the neighbor down the street who lured him in with cookies and called Castiel ) he’d been able to reassure the traumatized boy that his parents and the people around him didn’t die because he was close to them.

“...you’re not cursed Jack, I promise… and I’m not planning on leaving you alone any time soon.”

But this…

Castiel couldn’t promise everything would be okay, he didn’t know how to fix this, he didn’t even know what this was…

Every little twitch Jack gave in his sleep, every harsh intake of breath was like an electric jolt to Cas’s heart, terrifying him that Jack would start seizing again.

By the time that Jack was awake again and Cas was able to call the Winchester’s back in he was thirty-six hours without sleep and felt on the verge of a mental breakdown.

“Med student party here yet?” Cas heard the now unfortunately familiar voice of Dean Winchester over his shoulder.

“No…” Cas said dully, hand tightening over Jack’s as he broke into another fit of harsh wheezy coughs.

‘The antibiotics either weren’t helping the pneumonia or were taking far too long to kick in for comfort.’

“I...I don’t really feel up to p-party,” Jack muttered with a tiny wry smile.

“You feeling any better buddy?” Sam’s voice was a little more tolerable.

“They gave me more drugs?” Jack said bluntly, perhaps the amount of pain meds he was given was still enough to make the teenager a more aloof if not completely loopy.

As scared as Jack must be Cas didn’t have it in him for him to be upset with Jack being a little… high, as it were.

‘Anything to keep away the horrible tears of pain.’

“They’re waiting for me to let them know you’re here…” Cas explained quickly to the brothers reaching for the nurse call button and using the moment to compose himself.

“I thought we were done with all the questions?” Dean sighed pacing by the window like nervous rather unimpressive tomcat not looking at anyone.

“Well apparently they didn’t get what they needed last time.” Cas tried not to think that more questions meant the doctors were at a loss with what answers they did get.

“It probably had something to do with you ‘scaring the crap’ out of the person who was recording them…” Cas glared choosing to believe that instead.

Dean’s eyes narrowed for a moment and he opened his mouth as if to say something scathing but Sam surprised Castiel by speaking up.

“Well whatever the reason pointing fingers won’t help anyone,” Sam said taking Dean’s old spot by the far end of the bed. It seemed like while Sam was rendered relatively unable to function when it came to Jack that same reservations did not stand for confronting his argumentative older brother or Castiel.

“So how about this time we all sit down, and shut up, and get this over with and then neither of you will have to see each other again if you don’t want to…” Sam said with an air of aggressive calm, folded his hands in his lap.

Jack eyes seemed to dart between each one of them tense and nervous, clutching at the sheets without a word.

Castiel felt a pang of guilt in his chest.

He and Dean took their seats… quietly.

They sat awkwardly like two children who’d just been chewed out by the principal until the silence was broken by a knock on the door.

Well… a series of knocks… to the tune of… Yankee Doodle?

Jack’s eyes darted between his uncle and the door like he wasn’t sure if he actually heard what he thought he heard or if the drugs were just kicking in.

“Come in?” Castiel said hesitantly.

The door opened and in stepped not the nervous med student, but another more suspicious looking individual.

Another… nurse?

“Hello,” said the strange skinny man in seemingly oversized giraffe print scrubs. He had a smile about as appropriate for the tense atmosphere as sunbather in a snowstorm, “My name is Garth but you can call me nurse Fitzgerald and I’m here to help Jack and you all with a patient history today.”

Dean shot Sam a confused look that was ignored.

“What happened to the other g-guy?” Jack hacked into the back of his hand, looking wary of having yet another stranger in his room.

"Well, Kevin was having a bit of a hard time, so the head nurse wanted someone with a bit more experience to finish it,” Nurse Fitz-… Garth shrugged the left sleeve of his scrubs dangerously close to sliding off his narrow shoulder, “they send me in when things get a little hinky,"

"Hinky?" Castiel's eyebrows rose.

"Well I say hinky," Garth smiled, "I think it's a much nicer word than the one nurse Master's used... that I won't use in front of a child.

The child in the room looked mildly offended.

"Or what was written on the chart," he picked up Jack’s chart clipboard off the end of the bed and flicked it significantly, “which is… ''disorderly"."

Dean scoffed, "Please, we weren't "disorderly”,” he drew quotation marks in the air.

The strange skinny man just continued to smile shrugging, "okay well you made poor Kevin cry in the on-call room so I wouldn't exactly call that "functional behavior"."

Dean’s mouth opened looking defensive but for a second time the words were lost behind an interruption.

“Sorry…” Jack said quietly, clearing his throat, “they… they mean well… I think…”

“We should… probably apologize to this Kevin though…” Castiel said sheepishly.

“Probably…” Dean muttered noncommittally refusing to look at Castiel.

“What’s that?” Sam spoke up suddenly sounding confused, everyone turning to see at what he pointing at.

I appeared to be a strange looking… sock with lips? hanging of Nurse Garth’s scrubs pocket.

“Oh him?” the nurse pulled the object out his pocket smiling at it fondly before slipping it over one hand, “This… is Mr. Fizzles.”

He opened and closed the sock puppet’s mouth in Jack’s general direction as the boy looked on warily pressed against his pillows.

“A lot of kids find a friend easier to talk to than a stranger, especially when in a big scary place like the hospital.”

He looked at Jack expectantly.

“I...I think I’ll pass…” the teenager said turning a little pink.

Garth seemed mildly disappointed but shrugged and surreptitiously tucked the sock back in his pocket picking back up the chart.

“Well Kevin’s handwriting started getting illegible at… drugs…” he looked up expectantly at Castiel’s affronted face.

“He had a tablet of ibuprofen about seven hours before the seizure and then a second four hours later, but no Jack does not do drugs,” Castiel said flatly.

“I think… he was asking Jack…” Sam said carefully watching Jack who was refusing to look back, scratching at the adhesive over the line in his arm.

“I don’t… do drugs…” Jack said quietly.

Castiel gave nurse Garth a satisfied “see” look.

“But there was… this one time,” Jack coughed sheepishly.

Everyone was suddenly staring at Jack who seemed to be trying to disappear into his hospital mattress.

“Jack…” Cas’s heart sunk more disappointed than angry, he didn’t have a chance to ask why before Jack cut him off seeming desperate to explain.

“It… it was just one time… Noah offered me a hit?” his eyebrows drew together and he looked unsure at the terminology, “of a joint he had?”

Dean gave an impressive little huff earning him a dirty look from Cas.

“Don’t look at me, I didn’t go to college…” Dean shrugged, shooting Sam a knowing smile he refused to return.

“It was just the one time though!” Jack said quickly looking at Cas pleadingly, “It was really, really gross and… and I never did it again!”

“Why wouldn’t you tell me?” Castiel asked exasperated, trying not to show Sam or Dean how hurt he was. What made it worse was he knew how stereotypical it was for a parent to think their teenager would never lie to them. Half the parent teacher conferences he had to call at the high school were dealing with people under such delusions.

“I… I didn’t want to get Noah in trouble…” Jack mumbled biting his lip and refusing to look Cas in the eye.

“Noah?” Castiel mentally ran over his shortlist of acquaintances Jack talked about and came up empty. “Wait… Noah Ophis?” Castiel felt completely at a loss when Jack’s blush seemed to confirm it, “Jack… wasn’t Noah the one who locked you in the school gym’s weight room and then stuck gum in the lock so we had to call maintenance to disassemble the door to get you out?”

“It… was never confirmed…” Jack muttered turning brighter red glancing back between his older brothers as if expecting them to laugh.

“How long ago did you ‘get silly with Mary Jane’?” Garth broke in on the tense moment seeming unbothered.

Jack looked extremely confused for a long moment, “Six… months ago?”

Garth wrote that down, “well it’s probably not that then, the devil’s lettuce only lasts like… a few hours, unless you snort it that’s worse...”

Castiel really did not believe that was an actual way people consumed marajauna… he had gone to college after all.

Cas suppressed the need to start in on a long speech about peer pressure, lying, and the dangers of underage recreational drug use (especially when you didn’t know the source), but now was not the time, not now with as Jack as sick as he was. He would be taking advantage of a secret Jack only willingly told because he was scared for his own safety, and Jack’s health might rely on him being honest with his doctors.

Though Cas was relieved when the next question was, just “Do you have any animal friends?”

He felt his confidence as a surrogate parent had taken enough of a hit for the moment.

“Well… I have Felix… but I don’t know if he thinks of me as a friend, I’ve read their brains can’t really process that sort of thing?” Jack’s eyebrows furrowed in thought.

Sam’s eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline.

Maybe the drugs had a stronger effect on Jack than Castiel first realized.

“What is Felix?” Sam looked completely at a loss.

Jack blinked, “A corn snake,” he said like it should be obvious.

Dean seemed to recoil slightly and then snorted, a very, “of course I’m going to judge the character of a kid I don’t know based on the fact he keeps a snake…” noise.

That was a big mistake… Castiel knew Jack was fairly shy but he’d been on the wrong end of one of Jack’s, “I must defend the honor of snakes everywhere,” speeches before when the Jack was first trying to convince his uncle to let him keep Felix.

“Felix is really great!” he insisted, probably louder than he should have judging by the short fit of coughs that followed. He cleared his throat before croaking, “N-not only do corn snakes eat d-disease carrying pests, they're really gentle, and they’re easy to breed in captivity, and they’re from the US so they... they don’t c-contribute to the… the e-exotic pet trade…”

Castiel remembered vividly Jack showing up in his classroom clutching a shoe box the day before winter break, nervous but determined. He’d gone into a spiel about how a boy had brought the snake to the lunch room to show it off but the boy was planning to kill it at the end of the day with a rock because he thought it was ‘kinder’.

“He said he couldn’t get it to eat, but! he only tried one thing and... and you can’t let him do that, he doesn’t deserve that…”

He’d practically begged Castiel to let him keep the snake, “even if it was just for a little while,” and then spent the next week researching and trying to feed it different things, bringing everything from bags of frozen mice to eggs and minnow into the house before he’d had success.

Cas remembered the huge grin on Jack’s face when he finally succeeded heard him whisper, “see you’re going to be okay now,” into Felix’s enclosure when he thought his uncle wasn’t watching.

Jack dissolved into another fit of coughing near the end of his snake rant, doubling up as Castiel laid a worried hand on his shoulder.

“Fine fine kid jeez…” Dean raised his hands in mock surrender, looking mildly alarmed, “I believe you, don’t lose a lung over it…”

“Snakes are great you’re just a mean,” Jack muttered breathily with one laugh hacking cough, sinking wearily back in his bed. The short bout of passion seemed to have taken a lot out of him.

“I don’t really like snakes, I’m sure they’re great but the way they look at me makes me nervous y'know?” Nurse Garth Gave a shiver, no one knew what he meant. “Also they can carry salmonella…”

The nurse spent the next half hour asking more questions of various degrees of embarrassment. Each answer the brother’s gave grew increasingly bored and each answer Jack gave getting softer as he grew increasingly drowsy.

Any energy Jack gained by resting seemed to run out of him like water through a sieve and soon he had fallen back asleep. Castiel knew seizures could take a lot out of a person but this? This felt different. He breathed deeply to calm himself down, told himself he never finished nursing school, let alone medical school like the doctor’s taking care of Jack.

‘He was in good hands…’

He carefully straightened Jack’s blankets, trying not to listen to the wheezy quality of Jack’s breathing even in sleep.

“Did you get all the answers you needed?” Castiel asked quietly, not wanting to interrupt and of the sleep the boy managed to get.

The nurse smiled looking a little too pleased with himself, “yup just about the entire thing, I don’t know what Kevin was upset about you all seem like very nice people.”

Dean looked up mildly guilt pulling his hand back from where he’d been trying to fish the sock puppet out of Garth’s pocket, while Sam hid his face in his hands. “Yeah… um… so it’s fine for us to take off now?”

‘Of course…’

Garth nodded satisfied, “yeah, visiting hours for everyone but parents are ending soon, and the kid looks like he’s had all the fun he can handle for today.”

Castiel just nodded in agreement trying not to seem to eager carefully fixing Jack’s mussed up hair, “I think he’s had enough of strangers for now…”

That was enough for Dean who left with one last indignant puff of air but Sam stayed back for a moment tettering as was his custom in the doorway.

“Call if something changes?” he asked, like he was half unsure he should say the words.

Cas offered a tight smile, “sure…”

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

Sam and Dean left for their home and hotel respectively the nurse leaving soon after to give Castiel and more importantly Jack some time to rest.

The nurses mostly let Jack be through the evening only coming in once or twice to record his vitals and give him more of the drugs the doctor prescribed earlier, Jack thankfully remained asleep during the visits.

He seemed mostly stable much to Cas’s relief though that could have just been due to the pain and nausea meds masking the worst of his symptoms. It wasn’t until Jack reached a full twenty-four hours without another seizure that Castiel finally let himself relax.

It wasn’t until much later, half past midnight that the doctor came in again.

Castiel had finally fallen asleep in a recliner chair one of the nurses graciously brought in when they realized he was staying with Jack for another night..

‘They’d explained it was standard practice for when a parent stayed with their child on the ward…’

He’d been woken rather unceremonious by doctor Hannah pulling a cumbersome looking machine into Jack’s room.

“What’s… What’s going on?” he asked dumbly rubbing at his face, the confusion quickly turning to alarm when he saw the look on the doctor’s face.

Her face was mostly calm, but her eyebrows were furrowed and her mouth was pressed in a thin tense line.

“I… need you to wake up Jack…” she said something worrying in her calm voice Castiel couldn’t quite identify.

Castiel immediately began to panic head snapping up to the monitor of Jack’s vitals. Everything seemed the same, except the fever which had risen to an even hundred degrees.

“Is… What’s wrong?” He asked in as hushed a tone as he could manage.

The doctor gave him a reassuring smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“I just need to check something…” she said unhelpfully.

Castiel tried to breathe evenly and remain calm as he gently shook Jack’s shoulder.

‘What was so bad you’d wake a sick kid in the middle of the night?’

He gently shook Jack’s shoulder, calling his name, Jack barely moved, his eyes twitched and he let out a soft cough.

Castiel frowned shaking his shoulder a little more forcefully eliciting an unhappy groan from Jack as he rolled away as far as the tubing on his face would allow him.

‘At least it was confirmation he wasn’t comatose or something…’

“The painkillers he’s on can have a sedative effect,” she frowned, “it’s always best to try to wake someone up naturally but I did bring something if that doesn’t work.

She produced a set of keys from her pocket to unlock the set of rolling drawers the machine she brought was propped on top of.

“Wait,” Castiel quickly held up a hand, “there’s one thing I haven’t tried yet…” he leant down close to Jack’s ear, “Jack… come on you have to get up… we’re going to be late to school…”

Jack tensed up and groaned, “I… I don’t want to, I don’t feel good…” he grumbled face screwing up.

Cas huffed a sad laugh, gently ruffling his hair to keep him from falling back out, “I know Jack, but you still need to wake up.”

Jack finally blinked woefully up at him, “you said I didn’t have to go…” His croaked eyes wandered towards the window as he coughed to clear his throat, “it’s still dark out…” he muttered bewildered.

“I know, I know… you don’t have to go to school, you can go back to sleep... in a little bit?” Cas looked back toward the doctor who offered him another thin smile, neither confirming or denying.

“But doctor Hannah she needs to talk to us… for now, alright?” Castiel said still gently squeezing his shoulder...

Jack just blinked and nodded trustingly too tired to question it.

Doctor Hannah ducked down to his level whispering, “I’m going to turn on the lights now and I need you to roll on your side like before okay?”

Jack looked wary breath speeding up, “P-please don’t stick another needle in my back…”

“It’s okay Jack, I promise I’m not going to do that honey,” she said gently flipping on a switch and making everyone in the room wincing at the sudden brightness, “I just need to run an ultrasound on your back and abdomen…”

Jack looked even more confused, face morphing into mildly suspicion, “But… I can’t have babies?”

Doctor Hannah actually chucked, “No that’s not all we use ultrasound for, and that’s not what I’m looking for…”

“What are you looking for?” Castiel couldn’t hold himself back from asking, fidgeting in the recliner.

The doctor’s face dropped a little before she could stop it, “I’ll let you know if I see it, I… I don’t want to alarm you,”

Her eyes drifted back to Jack with an unspoken, ‘or him’ .

Jack’s eyebrows furrowed but he still did as he was told and the doctor guided him onto his side before pulling down the blanket to his waist and undoing the ties on the upper half of his hospital gown while he blushed pink.

When she carefully began to probed Jack’s back it became abundantly clear the medication didn’t completely numb his pain.

He barely held back a cry of pain between clenched teeth, reducing it to a strained groan, his whole body shaking.

Castiel reach for his hand which was clenched around the bed sheets. “It’s okay Jack… I’m here.”

“Th-that… that really hurts,” Jack mumbled tearfully.

“I know Jack I know…” the doctor said seemingly lost in thought

doing her best to move quickly through prep procedures for the ultrasound. Applying a plastic cover over the wand and spreading clear gel on a portion of his back.

Jack looked like he was trying not to scream when the doctor finally pressed the ultrasound wand into his back, teeth gritted together heart rate spiking.

The doctor’s eyes were fixed on the ultrasound screen beside the bed looking grim and Castiel wished not for the first time that he’d finished his degree so he’d know what she saw.

‘All he could do was hold Jack’s hand.’

“Shit…” he barely heard the doctor mutter as she set aside the wand and gingerly wiped away the gel on Jack’s back.

There were already already tears welling in Jack’s eyes when she had him turn back onto his back.

The doctor promised to be as quick and gentle as she could as she repeated the process with the upper part of Jack’s abdomen.

Jack was shaking and crying silently by the time it was over, and the doctor was if anything quieter.Terrifyingly lost in thought.

Castiel carefully helped him back into his gown, telling him softly that he did well and could go back to sleep soon.

Jack watched the doctor red eyed and wary gripping the blankets a little too tightly even as he wilted exhausted back against the bed.

The doctor waited until the teenager seemed to have calmed back down before speaking.

“Jack… I’m going to ask your uncle and you some questions and I need you to be as honest as possible, alright?”

The tone of doctor Hannah’s voice set off the already ringing alarm bells in Cas’s mind to a shrieking pitch.

Jack nodded cautiously, “O-okay…” he said shakily.

The doctor began pacing at the foot of his bed hands clasping anxiously at one another.

“You said Jack had a headache a few hours before he had a seizure at the restaurant and that you gave him ibuprofen for it, are you sure it was ibuprofen and not aspirin?”

Castiel blinked, “yes I’m sure I know better than to give a child aspirin, and I even remember the brand I bought, it was Advil…”

“It’s was a blue... package,” Jack said after a moment coughing into his elbow, exhaustion, and illness fogging his brain.

The doctor nodded and resumed her pacing, “and… how much did you give him?” she asked seeming careful about her phrasing.

“A lower dose, one tablet… and then another four hours later…” Castiel said suspiciously, “what is this about?”

The doctor hesitated, “did you see Jack take them both times?”

There was a long pause as Jack looked increasingly upset, “wh-what are you tr-trying to say?”

“What are you suggesting?” Castiel knew full well what she was asking but he couldn’t believe he’d heard it.

“I…” she paused and sighed, “I have to ask it’s very important.”

Jack seemed to understand despite everything, “I...I wouldn’t, I couldn’t d-do that I…” his breathing sped up.

“The first thing Jack asked about when he woke up was school and needing to take care of his pet? Does that really strike you as someone who would try to… to…” Cas paused, “to hurt themselves?”

“I… I was upset and sad after what happened but…” Jack’s forehead wrinkled again as his breathing grew more frantic and his heart rate rose with it, “I wouldn’t, I didn’t do that…” he muttered eyes pleading and filling back up with tears, “please believe me.”

“I know Jack… I do believe you,” Castiel reassured him gently squeezing his shoulder.

A thought dawned on Cas and he reached for his coat still hanging off the back of his chair, “he really physically couldn’t…”

Castiel pulled a small half crushed blue box from the pocket of the coat, “I didn’t even buy a bottle of pills they didn’t have any in the hotel commissary they only had it in a box of packets and there were only four pills to start with…”

‘The stupid box had cost a whole ten dollars regardless.’

He handed it over for the doctor to see, “and there’s still two left…”

The doctor looked in the box then checked the date on the bottom, but instead of looking relieved like Cas expected…”

She just looked... frustrated?

“Alright… I’m sorry, we had to rule that out as a possibility…” she sighed.

The apology did nothing to placate Jack, who just stared at her distrustfully tears running silently down his cheeks hugging himself still breathing too fast.

Castiel tried to resist the anger and resentment building up in his own chest he knew the doctor was just doing her job, but it was late and the already ill and drug addled Jack was not tolerating being woken in the middle of the night to be painfully prodded, cross examined, and accused of hurting himself very well.

He placed a protective hopefully comforting hand on Jack’s shoulder, “couldn’t you have just tested for a possible overdose in the blood samples you took instead of coming in here past midnight and harassing him?”

“If the problem was being caused by taking too much ibuprofen it would be important to find out and treat as soon as possible.”

“W-why?” Jack mumbled hunching forward red-eyed and shaking his breath coming out in uncomfortably fast puffs, “what… what’s wrong with me?”

He looked how Castiel felt, on the verge of panic.

“Jack, it’s alright I need you to calm down…” the doctor said looking warily between him and the vitals reading on the monitor.

‘That didn’t calm him down.’

“You… you don’t know d-do you?” Jack sobbed continuing to hyperventilate, heart beating about a mile a minute on the monitors, “y-you don’t…” he coughed, the developing panic attack not helping his already labored breathing, coughing soon turning to wheezing.

Castiel’s mouth became a thin anxious line as he wrapped a supportive arm around his shoulders.

“Jack?”

The doctor moved quickly back over to the locked set of drawers retrieving a vial and injecting something into Jack’s IV line, “it’s alright it’s okay… just try to breathe deeply Jack…”

Jack tried, leaning on his uncle tears running down his face even when his breathing slowed and he relaxed as whatever drug the doctor gave him took effect.

The doctor and Castiel gently helped him lean back into his pillows as his eyes blinked blearily, “it’s alright… just rest now… you’re alright…”

She didn’t look like even she believed what she was saying as he drifted quickly back into unconsciousness the rise and fall of his chest slowly evening back out.

Castiel felt as if a live wire was clenched between his teeth.

“What happening to Jack?” he managed an impossibly calm tone.

The doctor sighed taking a moment to steal herself before answering. “Most of the tests we have back so far… they came back inconclusive… There was no sign of meningitis or encephalitis in his spinal fluid, no… conclusive signs of infection in his blood at all…”

“But,” Castiel said feeling miles away.

“But… between the blood taken when he was first admitted and a few hours ago, we’ve found a significant increase in his liver enzymes and protein levels and if… they don’t improve in the next few hours I want to look at transferring him to Kansas University hospital…”

Castiel felt like the ground was dropping from beneath him, “and… the pain, what you were testing for just now that was…”

The doctor paused for an even longer moment before answering, “Jack’s liver and kidneys… are showing signs of inflammation… and the blood tests results are signs they’re starting to lose function…”

‘Failing… she meant they were beginning to fail’

“And you don’t know why…” Castiel mumbled numbly.

The doctor said nothing...

Notes:

Dun dun dun, and the plot thickens, hopefully the introduction of nurse Garth managed to lighten things up a bit before the darker second half and reveal.

If you enjoyed this chapter and have the time and/or inclination please let me know what you thought :)

#SPN #Supernatural #Castiel #Jack Kline #Dean Winchester #Sam Winchester #fanfiction #whump #humor #illness #family drama #garth fitzgerald iv #Hannah #TW drugs #TW vomit mention #only accusations of not an actual attempt of overdose #kylermalloy

3 notes · View notes

pass3rby · 6 years ago

Text

Caught By Your Past

31st Part

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed Pairing: Altair x Malik Warnings: modern AU, mature, OOC, original female character; unbetaed.

A/N: So, first of all, I'm sorry for the 'There must occur an accident in order for them to get their act together' drama. It was not the point there. Instead, I wanted to address that horrible (for Altair a lucky, in the end, really) thing that happens in your life sometimes? The one where you pretend something to get out of whatever and your life throws it right into your face the very next moment. Like, I still remember my classmate missing one day at school. The next one, she attended and after the classes I heard her whispering to a group of her friends that she "just didn't want to go to school, so I've told them my grandma/aunt died." (not sure which one that was anymore). I cannot remember exactly (yeah, I don't remember A LOT) if it was the very next day or just a few after when I saw her shaken up and crying at school. Turned out her grandma/aunt just died. So... There's that. Dun dun dun dun. Sorry for ruining the mood, but I kinda felt the need to explain why the story ended in such a cliché manner. (Yes, you heard right.) So, without further ado...

Lucy loved cognitive neuroscience and all the mysteries and possibilities it had to offer. Think about the various studies which were only asking for substudies and evolution. Attending university, she inhaled any information she could get. She had ambitions.

As much as she wasn't stingy with her smiles and at least a few polite words, that wasn't what she studied for. As if that hadn't been enough, she had to watch as those in power and with opportunities to move her chosen field further didn't care about it one bit. All they did was patting each other's shoulders, while the real progress in the field was rotting in the corner just because a few elites weren't capable of accepting that the world was changing, evolving.

What wasn't as painfully obvious when she had loads to do and learn, turned into a nightmare now as she was basically forced into twirling her thumbs. As much as she enjoyed digging deeper into her chosen field, everything has its pros and cons. For example.

Be a “genetic freak” and there you have it – a lonesome life right there. There's simply no time for anything else and frankly, why would you waste your day on whatever when what you wanted to do was right in front of you? Her obsession proceeded to swiftly bite her in the hide, though, as soon as they kicked her out of the university.

Wait. They kicked her out? They...?

Beep beep beep beep.

Her eyes opened on reflex, her cheek suddenly pressed against a pillow. Her pillow. And her old alarm clock was blaring full force.

Damn.

Another morning.

***

Arriving at the hospital meant undergoing the same ritual she had done twenty-four hours ago. Then the coffee, the to-do list, the new patients and old; the stories. When it was a turn to check one Altair Ibn-La'Ahad's room and the patient himself, there was no telling what sight will greet her after the event from yesterday.

What she did encounter was atypical silence. Locating the reason of that wasn't hard. Taking in Altair's silent nod in greeting, her eyes immediately slid down to his hip and the extra heap of dead-to-the-world human.

Half-sitting on a chair, half-slumped on the side of the bed. Jet black hair. Male. Wearing the same clothes that he stormed the room in hours ago, his fingers partly threaded with those of their patient.

For the little time she had the... pleasure to know Malik Al-Sayf, she had no doubt that he must have been all-out knackered to allow himself ending up in such an undignified, hand-in-a-jar heap. As she looked back up, the brunette mouthed a “please, don't wake him”.

Giving a nod to signalize that she understood, she began the regular checkup of the IV and whether any of Altair's wounds reopened or bled through the bandages while quietly maneuvering her way around the sleeping visitor.

The bed's rightful occupant kept still – or at least much less animated now than what she had gotten used to. Not in a bad way, though. Nothing forced, stiff or that whipped kind of behavior, no. Somehow, the until-then very lively, socializing-addicted guy was more than happy to stay like that, silent.

Content.

That was the word.

In the end, it wasn't so bad to end up where she was. Contact with humans and not just the central organ of their nervous system had its perks. Instead of just picking at their brains, she got to talk to people or see this. That didn't change her opinion about the stuffed piñatas called higher-ups.

Almost done with the check-up, she carefully redressed one wound that seemed to be acting up a bit before getting her things and the old dressing, intent on soundless retreat to give them their privacy back. Only to be stopped half-a-step away from the bed.

“Hey, could you-” Altair whispered, pointing to his side table drawer messily, the gesture just barely clear enough for Lucy to understand what he wanted her to do. However, as he previously shared with her what secret the drawer held, she frowned.

“Are you sure?” After all, the other man was deeply asleep.

“Positive.”

“Shouldn't he be awake for that?”

“Absolutely not.” If anyone were to witness their back-and-forth whisper game, they would laugh for sure. She, personally, would. Also, she was starting to suspect that the room's dark stowaway might be actually dead, because the acoustic here was doing them no favors.

No, he was good; his chest moved just now.

“You know, I still think that doing this while he's asleep is kind of wussing out.”

“To the contrary, hun. Braver man has not walked this Earth.”

“That doesn't make any sense,” As if going through with this while the man was awake would equal intentionally running onto a scalpel... Well, considering the previous reaction, the thought of modern seppuku wouldn't be entirely baseless. Yet, “You're a BASE jumper.”

“Exactly. Excitement. Adrenaline. Hardly suicidal. Malik?” pointing at his partner as successful in that as with the drawer a minute ago, “Waking him up now, you might as well start thinking about what to write in my obituary. Now, c'mon, before he really wakes up.”

Not entirely convinced, she pulled the drawer, taking a small box hidden inside and passing it to the suddenly impatient patient. Not that he didn't politely thank her before diving into work.

“Fuck. Dammit.” Swearing in a subdued voice, he kept trying to open the box. Since he had one arm in a cast and the other bandaged heavily, rendering it a basically mummificated appendage, they were unsurprisingly, visibly and frustratingly close to no use in his endeavor whatsoever.

Before he could swear any further – and possibly also louder – she took the box away from him, opening it herself before returning it to its owner.

“Aw, thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

Ungracefully shaking the box upside down resulted in dumping its content into his palm.

“Now the fun part,” he chuckled and wasn't he right. Since his only hand that had a chance to actually do the deal was the one further away from where Malik lied, this was hands down going to hurt. Nothing that would pop his stitches open or setback his healing if done carefully enough, but it'll have a bite. Lucy watched as he stubbornly pushed through anyway.

He took a deep breath before turning his upper body towards the slumbering man as much as possible; reaching with his hand out...

Almost...

Almost-

Defeated, he was forced to lay down on his back again, eyes closed, mind obviously whirring. After a bit the amber showed again with renewed fervor shining through.

“Maybe if you held his hand up?” The thoughtful voice was soon covered in a layer of plea frosting on top. Lucy sighed but did as he asked, careful not to wake the dark-haired man up. It was much better option than him really ending up doing some serious damage to himself.

“I feel like I'm being a part of a conspiracy here.”

“Well, darling,” Altair moved again, painstakingly slow, the arduousness of the exercise easy to read on his face. Nevertheless, he kept up with the conversation despite the physical pain, “You basically are. But no worries, he likes it.”

“He's asleep.”

“He still likes it.”

She snorted. This man was impossible. While objectively a tempting specimen of a man, it was more of a relief that he was spoken for, because taming this wild being? That would be a hardwork. But clearly an ordeal somebody had under their belt already anyway.

After a few dozens of very dragging seconds full of hand-handling on her part and careful cooperation from them both, she could finally be a witness to Altair painstakingly – if shakily and quite gingerly – putting a shiny new ring on the literally oblivious man's finger.

With the deed done, Altair wearily slumped back to his original position, eyes squeezed shut, breathing labored.

“Aw shit, that was harder than I thought.” She closely, if secretly, monitored his pulse slowing down back to normal. His eyes shone with quite a deal of pain when he blinked them back open again, though. She went to re-read when was the last time he had something for pain.

“I presume you're not talking about the nerves.” She noted dryly, humor on par with his. Hmm. She'll check up on him in an hour again and if he'll want, she'll have it ready.

Altair's shit-eating – if tired – smile was answer enough. He was obviously satisfied with himself.

“That was the least romantic proposal I ever saw.”

“Thank you, dear.”

The proud grin never ceased.

Gie was starting to understand why Malik was so exasperated with Altair at times.

Let's start with that fake episode with cast and brace... he even had the gall to ask her to pinkie-swear! The offer alone was utterly ridiculous, since the only one getting something out of that deal would be him; she wasn't in any danger from Malik finding out.

Although he and Malik seemed somehow gotten over the matter the morning Altair left again, the experience could be hardly forgotten. No wonder that the drive to the hospital looked the way it did.

Since Malik was the one driving, there was enough space in terms of opportunity to notice things. Things like Malik not being stressed. As in really not stressed. At all. Even her brother had certain tells, but none of them were showing. If anything, he seemed irked. When she asked if he was alright, the answer was a curt “Perfect.”. Go figure.

Now, Altair had been hospitalized, seriously hospitalized and while in no way would anyone plan that, it was heck of a timing to get into an accident anyway. All Gie was saying here was that even though she loved them both, she could finally see where Malik was coming from. Altair tends to do dumb shit and when something really happens...

This, though; this was truly something else. Altair Ibn-La'Ahad worked fast. There was no question about that. Awestruck, she just stood there, in the hospital room, her eyes firmly held and fixed by the metallic shine coming off her slumbering brother's finger. Ring finger. Left one.

Her eyebrow went up.

Altair's wiggled in answer.

One leaves for a couple of hours to preclude an end of student privileges and obligations only to return to a completely different world. One she never even imagined that she'll find herself living in for how far off the concept was. Strange to see but great all the same.

Time didn't wait around even then, though, and so it happened that Malik – engaged Malik? – started to gradually wake up. Taking stock of his surroundings, nose wrinkling... his fingers gave a strange kind of spasm upon encountering steel andwaitaminutethere. Did she imagine it or-

Don't tell me...

Gie didn't even get to decide how she felt about the revelation before Malik's head went up, eyes forcefully blinking the sleep away. Not daring to even imagine what will Malik do when he finds out, her eyes hunted down the amber hue.

Unapologetic in all its glory.

For the love of- that man was an accident waiting to happen combined with utter disregard for basic principles.

No matter the amount of desire to kick someone in the shin, they both stealthily watched as Malik was little by little shaking off the fog of sleep, in silent truce. True to his fashion, Malik was a bit slow in the mornings without a proper kickstarter – a very useful knowledge to wield – and today was no different.

Not fully focused, yet his littlefinger and middle finger kept subtly, inconspicuously brushing over the new adornment, evaluating the situation for sure. He didn't take a look – he was too awake already to be that obvious. Shame that she and Altair were focused exactly on that particular area, rendering all his efforts vain. But they better come up with a cover up themselves, because Malik was bound to look up any moment.

What's your plan now?

“Morning.”

Cheery, huh? Satisfied with the evidence that Malik noticed the ring much? He might've notice it way easier, if you gave it to him when he was conscious.

On one hand, she recognized the daring person, on another she couldn't believe that his ability to think quick on his feet failed him so bad. Neither of which meant she was thrilled. She inclined more towards-

“Hmph.”

Well, that's one way to say it.

“More like noon.” Opposing with pure facts straight away was an automatic reaction. One of which Malik would be proud. It wasn't her looking for a fight per se, as much as Altair deserved a good smack, no. More like a 'what the hell' statement of her inner self if anything, only continuing with the topic where it was left off. Whatever. She might as well play distraction so as to give Malik an opportunity to take a good look with his own eyes.

“Semantics.” Altair winked, taking cue from her and intentionally switching his full attention her way.

Forcing a frown on her face, she ignored it. She was trying to stay mad at him here. She was doing this for her brother, not confirming their renewed conspirators-in-arms status. Nope.

“Did you take a look who we're talking about?” Speaking of which, Malik was yet to take a look. What? She was his sister, she had to check! But he did stop with the ring nudging, fingers idle again; there was no way he didn't realize what the constricting band around his digit was and its meaning.

Nothing.

No reaction.

“If you want to bicker, there better be a coffee available.”

Except this one.

Malik got up from the chair to stretch, his joints cracking unnaturally loud.

“It is. In the hall. The vending machine is fully operational.” Okay, maybe she was starting to get annoyed by both of them this little bit. Is he really not gonna say anything?

“Ever helpful, little sister.” And here they were, back to the dry ribbing – as if she'll back off.

“Don't mention it.”

“I won't.” He checked for his wallet before heading for the door.

What the-As he was leaving, Altair gave Gie a beaming smile.

“Unbelievable.”

A/N:

Well, this is it, guys. Now, please, if you give me a minute of your time, I'd like to explain this whole thing (CBYP in the form it is). Aside from my obvious weak spot for AltMal, in overall, I just wanted to include all the situations that happen in stories and completely ruin them for me just because they are written in that soap opera-ish manner, you know the kind of thing? Namely, I'm talking about:

1) love triangle between siblings and a third person 2) accident being all relationship trouble solution (okay, now, I know I'm walking a very thin line here, but you gotta admit that eventually Malik and Altair would be able to solve their shit even without Altair falling with no hay safeguard) 3) way too feely, overdramatic reactions to everything happening in the story. (what I mean is feelings are good, but that overplayed kind I'm having serious trouble with)

So, I've decided to give them a try myself to draw them differently. Because I believe all of these can happen. What I also believe in is, that they don't have to necessarily result in Esmeralda field of doom if there's a valid explanation at hand.

What do you say, how did I do?

Also, you didn't believe I'd left you hanging like this, did you? (actually, you could and you probably did, fuck. x.x) Anyway, be prepared for an epilogue the next week! ;)

#cbyp #assassin's creed #altmal

5 notes · View notes

maudanouk · 4 years ago

Text

PROLOG

MARGOT

Tears overflow my cheeks and from my vanquished eyes a sudden shower falls.[1] The drops form a trickle, a flow, a torrent. Forty days and forty nights of continuous and universal rain.[2] Waves are in excess, everything runs to the sea. [3] No possible action of any flood could thus have modelled the land, either within the valley or along the open coast.[4] A flood that leaves everything in a state of confusion[5] forming a great briny mass searching for direction. The sea by its motion, detaches from its bottom an infinity of plants, shells, slime, and sand, which the waves and winds continually drive towards the shore. [6] There is a stone in the sea called the oyster. A stray grain of sand finding its way into its shells is enough to spark a new beginning. The Oyster comes out of the sea early in the morning ahead of the light, and, opening its shell, it swallows the heavenly dew and the rays of the sun and moon and the light from the stars above. And thus is born the pearl, I am born, from the most high celestial bodies.[7]

LENNY

(Thrusting the flat knife between the two shells) I keep praying for You to make something happen so why this awful, crawling feeling that nothing ever does?[8] (he turns the knife forcefully) God does not shout. God does not whisper. God does not write. God does not hear. God does not chat. God's infinite silence…[9] (the two shells crack open and he draws out the knife) The oysters valves are standing open and a pearl lays between them, a wonderful sight and notable, for no pearl in all history could be compared with it at all, either in size or in beauty.[10] But her beauty does not lie in the perfection of the sphere, nor in symmetry. She is irregular, ovoid, curved and lumpy. One moment it did not exist, the next moment it was full blown in my mind, as though it had been there all the time and needed only the bursting of a soap bubble veil to show it.[11] All this time I sought for truth and unity and now all that matters is her proud glow that strives for contradiction and multiplicity.

ACT I

EXT. GARDEN - DAWN - ABOUT BEES AND HONEY

LENNY arrives at the WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE. Here is the garden and around it some flower beds, a space cultivated for flowers for Margot, to make a spray for her hair, to perfume the sheets.[12] Naturally, […] only the apple tree interests him, tempts him: he can see its flowers.[13] He walks towards the tree. The WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE is observing him. As LENNY reaches for one of the blossoms a bee flies out of it.

WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE

Once on a June evening, in those long gone years when the ends of days sank into silence, I was waiting for a total eclipse of the sun on a terrace facing a garden, overlooking the foliage of a maple tree.[14] And I thought of you Lenny. In the sudden darkness I saw you, hidden behind a veil, the massive walls of the Vatican Palace. A faceless silhouette.

LENNY

It’s all different now she has revealed herself only for a short moment but I saw my reflection in her pearlescent luster: functioning, utilising, thinking in causes and effects, logically evaluating and analyzing. But what if I want to walk for hours and weeks without a destination. What if I want to know what the month of march brings for an Aquarius. What if I want to miss her for no better reason than that I love to be fucking emotional.

WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE (hesistates)

When i watched the total eclipse of the sun that summer evening it soon became dark and an eclipse wind, like a wave, had risen when suddenly from the neighbouring house burst forth a sort of wild dance, with the strange, biting, astringent sound of Pan’s pipes. Young people were celebrating some festival, they had confused shadow with twilight and were playing as night fell. However much one knows about it, the veiling of the sun’s light is disturbing and transports one to another world. [15] I saw you cover up in darkness and now i see you longing for the sun. This is a complete inversion. And in this twilight a party shall rise so that the heart, that obscure, celestial flower, undergoes a mysterious blossoming.[16] That is the only way great loves stories are born and I don't want any more part time believers.[17]

LENNY

But how can i find Margot in this city still so strange to me?

WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE

She’s the bee and you are her honey. What does Margot like?

LENNY (looking at the flowers)

Margot likes wind in her hair and salt crystals on her skin, lace and hoodies, rings on her fingers and flowers in her hair, black panthers and partridges, walking barefoot on wet grass and wearing mid calf boots, day dreaming and ADHD, dancing underground and sleeping in white sheets, Los Angeles and Palermo, birch trees and skyscrapers, gel nails and knitting, equal rights and mini skirts, cabrios and umbrella pine trees, Fellinis Roma and Mario Cart, seashells and pinecones, Zorra by Bad Gyal and playing the Bach Suite Nr. 1 on her Cello, passion fruits and rough fights, oranges and jeweled persian rice, fig trees and Coke, dry white wine and soft cheese, creaky parquet and soft carpets, ....

WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE

The mask does not hide the face, it is the face.[18] Your new face should combine all these elements to a story and make a lot of noise.[19] [...] the veil of mystery you profess to hang before their eyes, serve but to stimulate their curiosity[20]. In being everywhere and nowhere [...] the object of much social curiosity[21] People will pay attention to it, speak about it, remember it. You’ll be EROS and I will be the embodiment of your story the place where all elements manifest in a happening. A great feast all the Margots will want to attend.

ACT III - THE INVITATION

INT. MARGOTS MURCIELAGO - AFTERNOON

A downpour of summer rain patters on the front window. MARGOT is waiting at a red light. Her phone buzzes and she opens the message.

@ YUNGPAPA:

“My darling friends, there’s one spectacular party in the making! Join us tonight at the Wittgenstein House to another glass of wine under fig trees, eating fresh fish on soft carpets next to blossoming anthuries. Glowing cheeks from dancing till dawn. Bring a delicate, floating, spring bouquet of florets in new leaf green, cherry blossom pink, and marigold yellow[22] and we’ll serve everything else. XOXO”

ACT IV - THE PARTY

EXT. THE CITY - SUNSET

THE HOUSE WANTS TO BE KNOWN

The rain had stopped. The water evaporated on the hot asphalt and left a sultry summer evening air. AVAs cabrio is speeding down the Ringstrasse with its roof folded down.

AVA (lost in thought)

Do you think YUNG PAPA will attend the party today? I wish we’d find out who’s behind all this uproar.

MARGOT

Some weeks ago we’ve never heard about him and now he's everywhere. Noise, ruckus, rumors spread.[27] I’ve heard the parties are supposed to be unique in its kind and his face, enveloped by a more or less dense veil[26] has sparked many suspicions. I think he looks like Hauru, wearing drop earrings made of rubies and emeralds combined dripping down[27] his lobe, his blonde chin length hair making him the cynosure of all eyes.[27]

EXT. THE SITE - SUNSET

THE HOUSE WANTS TO BE SEEN

The garden is enlightened by the colourful lights emerging the windows. The WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE is radiant and reaching in all directions, emitting visual, audible and perceptible vibrations. The air is full of petals twinkling through the air giving off a smell of orange blossoms. A car enters the SITE. AVA and MARGOT step out of it. Instantly they are surrounded by an electric atmosphere. On inspecting the entrance facade, you can discover a series of metaphors and symbolic signs.[29] It would be too strong to call this fantasy a portal to Hell, but it is surely no entrance to a Heavenly Jerusalem[30]. AVA and MARGOT join the stream of guests walking through the garden towards the WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE greeting, kissing, hugging.

INT. THE ENTRANCE - SUNSET

THE HOUSE WANTS TO FLIRT

The party begins as people are moving in, gathering in the entrance hall and taking a stand up cocktail.[31] There is champagne, caviar and fireworks.[32] Ahead, some distance from the entrance, is a great mural of brilliant color.[33] Opulent Ornaments, heavy textiles, reflecting surfaces.

WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE (whispering to the Lenny)

First impressions are made. About me as the entrance always affects the impression of the whole house. And especially Margots first impression of you. Is she here?

LENNY

I see her in the hundreds of eccentric bouquets that the guests have brought along overflowing the room. I see her in that mans excessively long fingernails or and your lining flickers with golden mosaics and indirect lighting from above.

WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE

Yes you are right. I’m discovering my dramatic side. I want to dance, twist my elements, feel the motion and sensuality. I flirt and wink at the guests with my dizzying array of rich surface treatments.

MARGOT

Ava! Look at this man sitting on the seashell sofa in the garden. He’s knitting all alone while everybody else is clinking glasses.

AVA (teasing)

Why don’t you bring him a glass of wine. I know it, I feel it, and you will say it.[35]

MARGOT (concentrated)

You just know me too well and yes, he is cute.

EXT. THE GARDEN - SUNSET

THE HOUSE WANTS DRAMA

MARGOT walks over to the LENNY. Rising up in a warm haze, the innumerable modern statues towered on their pillars half way up the golden webs of sunset.[36] The garden is a collection of living beauties, rare plants, exotic flowers and fruits. The trees are old and high. Long white cotton cloths are blowing in the wind, rendering shadow plays. LENNY is sitting in the seashell sofa sheltered from the wind, warm sunbeams begin to play. [37] MARGOT hands him the glass.

MARGOT (laughing)

Hello strange man, what are you knitting?

LENNY

Some of the more exotic plants have to be taken indoors for protection from the cold night air and swaddled in thick woollen garments.[38]

MARGOT We have, indeed, become a flower growing people.[39] You seem pretty passionate about your plants. I like it when people care. About anything actually.

LENNY

When, on a summer evening, the melodious sky growls like a tawny lion, and everyone is complaining of the storm, it is the memory of the Meseglise way that makes me stand alone in ecstasy, inhaling, through the noise of the falling rain, the lingering scent of invisible lilacs.[41] Or when I reach out to touch a fragile tree and blossoming spicules float downwards and fade, each with its clear, tiny tinkle.[42] These are the moments I cherish most and that’s why I care.

MARGOT (hesistating)

But for me love is not only loving and caring. I don’t want my house to be all light and soft. It starts getting fun when you have contrasts, contradictions and drama. It can be raucous, low, full, pleading, vulgar, sharp, cutting, jovial, harmonious, commanding, harrowing, seductive, explosive or irritated[...] noble, high pitched, servile, majestic, ample, sick, affronted, clothed in silence, echoing with the sea or forest, undercut by the twittering of birds, howling like a wild beast, [... ]asking questions and saying come here. [43]

LENNY

Until now I’v only got to know a more one-sided monotonous love but thats another story.

MARGOT (excited)

Oh look over there! A black panther is prowling through the peach trees!

INT. SALON - NIGHT

THE HOUSE WANTS TO BE DIRTY

Food is being served in the salon. The huge chandeliers had dimmed spread a diffused multi coloured light from the tiny nucleo bulbs that bespangle the vaulted ceiling [44] The materials in which the WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE presents itself come from the everyday domestic sphere, much having to do with ornamenting the body: copper and brass wire, buttons, beads, baubles, hooks, eyes, straps, false fingernails, makeup, hair, ribbons, lace, thread, shells, feathers, and bones. The amulets are fetishes, beautiful ornamental objects, and they are connected to the fetishism of architectural representation.[34] Billows of smoke of several hookahs hang in the air. People sit on couches of brocaded silk, leaning on a cushions[45]. Chattering and cricket chirping fill the air.

INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT

THE HOUSE WANTS TO DANCE

After eating the WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE starts playing Promiscuous Girl by Nelly Furtado. Slowly the room is filled with curiously dancing people. Tossing their hands in a wanton and lascivious manner. One man imitates the movements of a kangaroo grazing in the woods, whilst a second crawled up, and pretended to spear him.[46] LENNY and THE WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE feel MARGOT penetrating them and start dancing along.

WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE (dances irregularly curved from concave to convex)

♪ Promiscuous girl

Wherever you are

I'm all alone

And it's you that I want. ♪

LENNY

Our most intimate gestures move to sounds, we dance.[47] Absurd, peculiar, mad, fantastic, bizarre, eccentric, capricious, whimsical, laughable, and also charming. [48]

WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE (opens the ceiling to reveal a hundred sparkling stars through the moving branches of the wind tossed apple tree blond, tawny, copper, golden, straw yellow, orange, ochre, sand or tan, multiplying the straight, centred, short rays, piercing and sharp like the trill of a bird. [49] The signs of the Zodiac are moving from east to west and go round the world in twenty four hours.[48] A strong wind starts rising.)

♪ Promiscuous boy

You already know

That I'm all yours

What you waiting for? ♪

LENNY

Minute promptings coming from everywhere, in quality, dimension or intensity, on every wave length make sensibility tremble, fluctuate and sweep and dance randomly over the spaces.[50] I look at Margot and even while she speaks the waves wash over her lips, and down into the deep she plunges. The sea breaking free.[52] WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE (Motion grows, as a wave grows white when the wind begins rising[53])

♪ Promiscuous girl

You're teasing me

You know what I want

And I got what you need ♪

LENNY

Time stands still where space folds in on itself. [54] The sea gives birth to a tidal flow […] a rhythmic current emerges from the disorderly lapping of waves, music surfaces in this place. [55] Here the body rises above disorder, here Margot rises above the waves, even more complex in her multiplicity than the nautical sound of waves breaking.

WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE

♪ Promiscuous boy

Let's get to the point

Cause we're on a roll

Are you ready? ♪

LENNY

However much one knows about it, the veiling of the sun’s light is disturbing and transports one to another world. Lying on the moving floor, shaken by the movement of the waves [56] I am in danger of drowning.

MARGOT

I thought you’ve learned how to swim till now.

LENNY

I am a moving, active body, expressing in exertion, movement, gesture and dance, rather than in sensibility alone.[51] I’ve learned to swim in this flood of confusion. And the ship will not resemble merely a ship, but also the sea itself, even to its hull and sails being composed of waves.[52] The obscurity is long; here is the dawn; the cock crows to the Sun God.[53] And beyond the reach of water, beyond wind, cold, fog, light and dark even beyond noise, […] the house protects us just as the belly of a vessel separates us from the cold of the sea. [54]

[1] Seneca, Complete Works

[2] Da Vinci, Notebooks

[3] Serres, The Birth of Physics

[4] Round the World

[5] Buffon, Natural History Vol 2

[6] Buffon, Natural History Vol 2

[7] Physiologus

[8] Serres, The Five Senses

[9] Aquinas, Summa Theologica

[10] Procopius, History of the War Books Vol 1

[11] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[12] Serres, The Parasite

[13] Deleuze Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus

[14] Aquinas, Summa Theologica

[15] Serres, Branches

[16] Hugo, Les Miserables

[17] The Young Pope

[18] Deleuze Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus

[19] Serres, The Parasite

[20] Rousseau, Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau

[21] Foucault, The History of Sexuality Volume 2

[22] Kassinger, Slime

[26] Deleuze, Cinema 1 The Movement Image

[27] Serres, Troubadour of Knowledge

[27] Rand, The Fountainhead

[27] Hovestadt Buehlmann, Quantum City

[29] Hays, Architecture Theory since 1968

[30] Frankl, The Gothic

[31] Schumacher, The Autopoiesis of Architecture Vol 2

[32] Carter, Anthony Blunt His Lives

[33] Ockmann, Architecture Culture 1943 1968

[35] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[35] The Young Pope

[36] Proust, In Search of Lost Time Vol IV Sodom and Gomorrah

[37] Wollstonecraft, Complete Works

[38] Proust, In Search of Lost Time Vol II Within a Budding Grove

[39] Gothein, A History of Garden Art

[41] Proust, In Search of Lost Time Vol I Swanns Way

[42] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[43] Serres, The Five Senses

[44] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[34] Hays, Architecture Theory since 1968

[45] The Book of the Thousand and One Nights

[46] Darwin, Voyage of the Beagle Round the World

[47] Serres, The Five Senses

[48] Wittkower, Born under Saturn

[49] Serres, The Five Senses

[48] da Vinci, The Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci

[50] Serres, The Five Senses

[52] Serres, Genesis

[53] Virgil, Aeneid

[54] Serres, The Five Senses

[55] Serres, The Five Senses

[56] Serres, The Five Senses

[51] Serres, The Five Senses

[52] Foucault, This is not a Pipe

[53] Serres, The Parasite

[54] Serres, The Five Senses

[43] Serres, The Five Senses

#maudanouk #text

1 note · View note

scriptmedic · 7 years ago

Text

Injury Plots: The Immediate Treatment

(This post is an excerpt from Maim Your Characters, which is out this week!)

The Immediate Treatment phase of the injury plot is fairly straightforward: it is anything your characters do in the moments following an injury in order to feel better and to get to safety.

Oftentimes, this is instinctive. If someone is punched in the face hard enough to break the nose, for example, the first response is to shield the nose by protecting it with the hands. This is part and parcel of the Immediate Treatment – as is the tissue (or tampon) in the nostril to stop the bleeding.

But so are fighting back and running away.

In fact, according to Tactical Combat Casualty Care, the standard course for combat and SWAT medics, the first duty of a medic treating a downed comrade isn’t to treat the wounded. Their first duty is to return fire, because that’s how the group – and the medic themself – stays safe. So the Immediate Treatment of an injury may be to inflict further injuries to the opposing party!

So let’s look at a few examples of some Immediate Treatments, shall we?

Example: Misery

In Misery, Paul Sheldon’s Immediate Treatment is a simple act of rescue.

Annie Wilkes is driving down the road when she comes across Paul’s car. She checks on the driver and immediately recognizes him – she is his Number One Fan, after all. She hauls him out of the wreck – I believe the words sack of potatoes are used; Annie is a strong, sturdy woman – and she throws him in her truck, covers him in blankets, and drives him to her house.

Note that we don’t see any care addressed to his actual wounds in this case!

Example: Men of Honor

Carl Brashear’s Immediate Treatment is mostly overlooked in this film, which is, in my thinking, a mistake. (His story parallels that of another character – more about this later – and that character is short-shifted on his Immediate Treatment phase, too. It’s the one downfall of that injury arc.)

What we see is Carl lying on the deck of the ship, screaming in pain, as men swarm to come to him. His leg is mangled, bent at a horrible angle away from his body, and blood is pouring onto the deck. Someone calls for a medic (an inaccuracy; in the Navy it should have been corpsman.) But we cut away before we see anyone attempt to render first aid.

Example: The Empire Strikes Back

Luke Skywalker’s Immediate Treatment may be the most interesting of these three examples. Luke’s hand is gone, but the lightsaber did him one small favor on the way past: it cauterized his wound. Where a sword injury like this would be causing a severe bleed, Luke doesn’t have one.

Instead, we see Luke squirming on the catwalk to get away from his assailant – who reveals, in one of the most misquoted lines in movie history, that I am your father.

But we also see Luke protecting his stump. He keeps the stump of his missing hand tucked in the armpit of the other arm, trying desperately to keep it safe from further harm.

(Ultimately, Luke jumps off the edge of the catwalk and somehow winds up landing safely, because The Force. While this is a form of escape, and therefor falls into this section, it’s a little bit… hand-wavy.)

Homebrew Example: Billy Badbones

Billy’s bike goes down alright, and he’s trapped underneath.

For a moment it’s just Billy, with his arm and his leg all jacked up, his bike still trapping him. As the adrenaline fades, the pain ramps up and up. He’s been shot twice before, but nothing has hurt like this.

He looks up to find a concerned man standing over him. Despite Billy’s most fervent hope, the man asks the most useless question in history (and one of the most common): “Are you okay?”

Billy is not okay.

He’s had a minute to think and take stock. His arm is a ruined mess, his leg is still pinned by the bike. There’s pain, not just from the road rash and the broken bones, but from the scorching-hot engine that’s lying on his leg. Cars have stopped in a jagged line, too close for comfort. He doesn’t like looking up at the axles underneath them.

“Get it off me,” he says. With help from two other motorists, the man manages to move the bike.

Billy tries to sit up, but he can’t move. He hears the wail of sirens in the distance.

When the medics arrive, they carefully move Billy to the stretcher and load him into the ambulance. One asks questions that seem inane to Billy, while the other begins to cut his clothing off. Their shears aren’t adequate for the thick biker’s leather, and sweat drips from the medic’s brow. Billy could swear. New leathers alone will cost him a thousand dollars he doesn’t have.

Then they’re splinting his leg, splinting his arm. Cold packs. An IV. Finally the merciful, beautiful moment when the medic pushes “a little something for the pain.”

It doesn’t fix everything, but it fixes enough to make it bearable.

So let’s unpack this a little bit. Billy gets some treatment from the motorists – they rescue him from being under the bike with its burning-hot engine. They also call for an ambulance (requesting help is still a treatment!), and from the medics he also receives care: splints, an IV, morphine.

Even though this all probably takes about half an hour, it’s still Immediate Treatment. It’s within the first few hours of the injury, but it’s also not entirely Definitive. Splints will do a little, but Billy will need more care before he’s back to being a road warrior.

This post is an excerpt from Maim Your Characters, out TODAY from Even Keel Press. If you'd like to read a 100-page sample of the book, [click here]. If you’d like to order a print copy, it’s available [via Amazon.com], and digital copies are available from [a slew of retailers].

xoxo, Aunt Scripty

#injury plots #immediate treatment #first aid #Maim Your Characters #masterposts

228 notes · View notes

hellosaltysaladcollectionstuff · 6 years ago

Link

THIS IS PART XII of LARB’s serialization of Seth Greenland’s forthcoming novel The Hazards of Good Fortune. Greenland’s novel follows Jay Gladstone from his basketball-loving youth to his life as a real estate developer, civic leader, philanthropist, and NBA team owner, and then to it all spiraling out of control.

A film and TV writer, playwright, and author of four previous novels, Greenland was the original host of The LARB Radio Hour and serves on LARB’s board of directors. The Hazards of Good Fortune will be published in book form by Europa Editions on August 21, 2018.

To start with installment one, click here.

To pre-order on Indiebound, click here; on Amazon, click here; at Barnes & Noble, click here.

Chapter Thirty-Three

After Jay fled the courthouse, he went to his Manhattan apartment on East End Avenue. Increasingly frantic about Dag’s condition, the phone calls he made during the drive left him unable to ascertain what it was. The doctors were silent, and nothing had leaked. Why did no one make a statement? Tell the world Dag is sitting up in bed, talking, eating—something! Of course, no statement meant that he, most likely, was not dead and that was cause for celebration.

The uniformed doorman saluted him with a touch of the cap and the usual, “Mr. Gladstone, sir.” In the discreet manner of those who serve the ultra-wealthy, the man did not acknowledge Jay’s battered appearance. At the elevator bank, Jay pressed the button and glanced over his shoulder to check if someone was approaching from behind. He wanted to avoid any interactions. Since it was the middle of the day, most of the tenants—they included a former Secretary of the Treasury, several CEOs, and a Saudi prince—were at offices where they pulled the invisible strings that moved the world, and Jay hoped that when the elevator arrived, it would be empty. An interminable fifteen seconds later the door opened, and a well-dressed older woman emerged. Mrs. Wessel, 16B, the wife of a Wall Street gorilla. Jay offered what he hoped was a smile tight enough to forestall any inquiries about what had occurred last night. She looked up at him with heavily made-up eyes.

“Are you doing all right?”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Wessel.”

“Were you wearing a seat belt?”

“I was,” he lied.

Jay got on the elevator and pressed 20. The encounter with Mrs. Wessel had jangled his already frayed nerves. Which details had made it into the news reports? He could only imagine, along with the degree to which the entire metropolitan area was chattering about it. At least she hadn’t asked about Dag.

The Gladstone apartment was the only one on the floor. The elevator opened on to a vestibule decorated with two Currier and Ives prints, an antique side table where the mail appeared, and a copper stand from which several furled umbrellas protruded. Jay stepped off and absently picked up the pile of mail that had accumulated since his last visit. About to insert his key into the lock, he thought: What if Nicole is here? They had not connected since the incident and Jay had no idea where she was. He had not responded to her texts and right now, he realized, she could be waiting for him on the other side of the door. He hesitated while he considered this possibility but his intense desire for a hot shower overrode any discomfort at the idea of confronting her and he warily entered the apartment.

Closing the door quietly behind him, Jay peered around and braced himself for an encounter. Furnished in contemporary style with king-of-the-world views to the south, east, north, and west, the dwelling reflected Jay and Nicole’s taste and, for all of its refinement, looked like actual human beings lived there. On a table in the entry area was a framed photograph of Jay, Nicole, and an unsmiling Aviva at her high school graduation. In front of him the spacious living room where an Anselm Kiefer canvas took up most of a wall. Across from the painting, custom-built bookshelves crammed with hardcovers that looked as if they had been read. To the right was the formal dining room with its Gustav Klimt portrait of a Viennese socialite, and seating for twelve, and beyond that the kitchen area. To his left a den/screening room and a hallway that led to the bedrooms. In all directions, an expanse of unobtrusive rugs.

Jay listened for the sound of the television, a running tap, the click of heels against parquet. He called her name as neutrally as he could, considering the welter of strong emotions he was experiencing, and waited. He wondered how he would react when he heard her voice. When there was no response, he repeated her name. Again, nothing. Satisfied he was alone, Jay entered the master bedroom. He half-expected to see his wife waiting for him demurely in a chair, legs crossed, nonchalantly perusing a magazine, but there was no sign of her. The bed was immaculate.

Jay’s phone rang. It was Boris, who informed him that Dag was alive and now being treated at NYU Medical Center. Jay sat in a chair and gazed toward Central Park. It was sunny, and there were high clouds in the western distance. He gave a loud sob and placed his head in his hands. Jay remained in that position for several minutes.

When he regained control of his emotions, Jay shed his clothes. He stood in the steam-shower, careful to keep the bandage covering his nose dry, and let the scalding water course over his tired body and open his pores until it washed the last vestige of jail from his mottled skin. Although the three-ring circus in his head had prevented any rest, nerves rendered him wide-awake, and as he toweled off, he tried to formulate a plan for the remainder of the day. There were messages from Bebe, Franklin, Church Scott, Mayor Major House, his ex-wife Jude, and a litany of business associates including Renzo Piano, calling from Italy (the story, unfortunately, was international), all of whom expressed concern for his health. Several conveyed sympathies for the legal predicament he was in, although no one seemed to understand quite what it was.

Naked, Jay examined his face in the bathroom mirror. He gently peeled the bandage off his nose. It was not a bad break and, although there was some swelling and it was tender to the touch, the fear that he would look like a proboscis monkey had not come to pass. The bruises under his eyes resembled small mussel shells. It would be possible to appear in public without a bag over his head. He would need sunglasses, though. Where had he left them? He glanced down at his nakedness. For a man in his fifties, he didn’t look terrible. Jay sucked in his modest paunch then let it out. He shaved and dressed. Crisp, pin-striped suit, red patterned tie.

Earlier, Jay informed Boris that he wanted him to familiarize himself with the family’s Asia holdings—he did not say why—and since this might require that Boris travel there, Jay would be breaking in another driver. This had been duly arranged.

Before leaving the apartment, Jay went to the kitchen where he filled a glass with filtered water and swallowed an Oxycontin left over from the previous winter when he had tweaked his knee skiing in France. Sunglasses on, he pulled a Yankee cap low over his forehead. Thus disguised, he took the elevator to the lobby.

In the passenger seat of the SUV, Jay stared through the tinted window as Second Avenue blurred past his bloodshot eyes. The driver was a skinny young man from the mailroom who was the son of one of Bebe’s friends, and he had the presence of mind to not ask questions. The black bodyguard Doomer had produced at the courthouse, Dequan Corbett, kept vigil from the backseat. Jay observed the pedestrians striding purposefully along the sidewalks singly and in pairs, deliverymen, business people, students, all in their worlds, and he wondered how many of them were aware of his plight. He believed that most people who had heard about the story viewed it through the prism of a famous athlete’s bad luck, and that the general public would perceive him, Jay Gladstone, as a supporting player.

Jay had brought Dag to the team hoping to link their names through a championship trophy, the unassailable seal of NBA greatness and the longed-for apotheosis of both of their sporting lives. He could not give into negative thoughts now, much less despair. Despair was for people who did not have enough to do. Jay Gladstone had plenty to do. Plenty! To leap back into his life he had to believe a full recovery was possible for Dag. Yes, it was! Medical science had reached inconceivable heights. Dag was still alive, and because he had survived such a horrific accident, it was evident to Jay he was not going to die. Yes, he had suffered a traumatic brain injury, but the best brain surgeons in the world could be summoned. Just a few years earlier a madman had shot a member of Congress in the head, and she had survived the bullet! A bullet! People said it was a miracle, but that was science. If that brave member of the House of Representatives had recovered, so would Dag. He had to! The idea that Jay could one day be in the situation where he had caused the death of another human being, much less one as prominent as D’Angelo Maxwell, was too unbearable even to contemplate. He had to exile that thought from his consciousness. If his father had bequeathed a single quality to him, it was optimism. He thought of Bingo’s birth date, March 4th, a direct order.

But then Nicole invaded his thoughts and, as the car sailed across 42nd Street, his stomach twisted. Although he knew their marriage was beginning to fray, it hadn’t occurred to him that it could come undone quite so impressively. But had it? Had he not already decided to revisit the question of a child? He had intended to let her know about his change of attitude as he entered the pool house in Bedford less than twenty-four hours earlier. By any objective standard—if it were not for one unfortunate detail—the Gladstone marriage had not disintegrated; rather, it was experiencing some turbulence. But that detail, oh that detail. And how to deal with that detail? There were representations of the wronged husband in the arts from the time of the ancients, and they were nearly always farcical figures, older men with randy young wives who sought the company of more virile partners, in other words, exactly what had happened. Jay could not abide the role into which Nicole’s behavior cast him. But he was a modern man with a high degree of psychological acuity. Could he not see past his emotional response and reach a decision based on careful cogitation? Jay might look his wife in the eye, acknowledge the betrayal, the underlying tensions that had caused it, perhaps even take ownership of his part in what had occurred, and agree to move forward. Or he could let her know he wanted to dissolve the marriage as quickly as the State of New York allowed. Either way, he would have time to formulate a plan before confronting her.

A throng of about a hundred loitered on the sidewalk in front of the hospital. Gawkers with camera phones, media members, and a Senegalese vendor selling T-shirts with Dag’s smiling visage all jostled for space. Church Scott had caused an uproar fifteen minutes earlier when he got out of a cab and entered without answering questions. Several of Dag’s teammates were already there.

The SUV rolled up and Dequan jumped out to open the door for Jay. The sunglasses and Yankee cap threw no one off the scent, and the mob immediately converged, microphones, cell phones, cameras pointed like guns.

WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT, JAY? WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT DAG’S CONDITION? HOW SERIOUS IS IT? WERE YOU AND DAG AT THE OBAMA DINNER? WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU? WILL THE CHARGES BE DISMISSED? CAN THE TEAM MAKE THE PLAYOFFS NOW?

Dequan cleared a path into the hospital. To the volley of questions, Jay held his hands up, said, “Nice to see everyone. I hope you’re all having a terrific day,” to which Mayumi Miyata, who had driven down from Northern Westchester Hospital with her Lynx News crew, called out, “It’d be a better day if you answered a couple of questions.” Jay said, “You get around, don’t you?” before entering the revolving door and disappearing into the hospital lobby. Several reporters attempted to follow, but hospital security stopped them.

Three young black men huddled outside the room. Jay recognized one of them as Dag’s brother, who he had just seen at the hospital last night. He assumed the other two were part of the player’s retinue. Neither looked at Jay, unlike Dag’s brother, who stared down at him from his imposing height. Jay nodded at the brother, who blankly returned the greeting.

Jay was visibly upset by what confronted him in the room. Pulleys in casts suspended the long legs above the surface of the bed. The head wrapped in bandages, face obscured by an oxygen mask. Wires ran from the torso to monitors where bright green lines and numbers quantified the misery. A bag containing an inch of urine hung to the side. Afternoon light poured into the room and conferred an almost religious aspect on the broken body. The abstract nature that the situation had assumed for Jay instantly coalesced back into a reality whose sheer awfulness throttled him. He had a vague awareness of enormous figures looming over the bed, but could not look away from what he had wrought.

“Don’t worry, Jay. God only makes happy endings,” a tired-looking Church Scott said from a chair in a corner. “If it’s not happy, it’s not the end.”

The coach rose, and they exchanged comforting pats on the shoulder. Jay looked back toward the bed, and the behemoths revealed themselves to be spindly Odell Tracy and the Lithuanian, Giedrius Kvecevicius. Between them Drew Hill, the point guard. The players respectfully acknowledged Jay and did not mention his physical appearance.

“Thanks for coming,” Jay said as if this were an event he was hosting. The words felt wrong as soon as they emerged from his mouth.

“Praise the Lord, D’Angelo survived,” Church said.

“Praise the Lord,” Jay echoed. He did not as a rule say Praise the Lord but this was Church Scott’s room, and right now Jay was happy to cede power.

“Truth,” Drew Hill said. Giedrius and Odell nodded their assent.

The coach placed a soothing hand on Jay’s back and said, “We all know this must be incredibly hard for you.”

Hard for him? The statement amazed Jay. As the author of this disaster, he had anticipated, at best, a neutral response to his presence. The owner had incapacitated the team’s flamboyant cornerstone in ambiguous circumstances. No one would expect the coach to show sympathy for anyone but the injured party. After the quick calculation that occurred when he realized the coach was present, Jay anticipated matter-of-factness employed to disguise, at the very least, suspicion. But Church was a champion, a motivator, an athletic icon, and he had offered understanding.

“It’s terrible, just terrible,” Jay said. Then, because sometimes even the most composed individuals keep talking when they should not, “but a lot worse for Dag.” The players murmured agreement and looked at their coach. What were they thinking? Jay could only hope they would follow their leader and extend him the benefit of the doubt.

Church had spoken with the surgeon and filled Jay in. The situation had not changed: Medically induced coma, uncertain prognosis, watch and wait. While Church was reporting what he knew, Jay’s eyes roved from the coach to the injured player and back. The universe had shrunk to the three of them. Then his perception narrowed to just Church, a deeply sympathetic individual whose ministerial qualities shone in situations like this one, and Dag, a flawed man whose misery at this moment far exceeded anything he deserved. Jay’s attention pivoted from one to the other, then—

“Hello, Jay,” Nicole said.

Was this an aural hallucination? He wheeled around and—alarm and dismay mingled with a brief resurgence of vulnerability, a spasm of—what the hell? What was his wife doing here? Had she been in the bathroom? Wherever she had materialized from, her sudden and startling arrival was an unwelcome intrusion. In her absence, she was less a person than an idea. Wife distorted into Betrayer. Nicole’s presence obliterated the atmosphere of benevolent healing created by Church Scott, and forced Jay once again to confront the ur-story that had led them all to gather in this hospital room, not the accident but what had preceded it, and the memory of the previous evening burst the thin membrane that held it at bay, momentarily flooding his consciousness.

But success in the business world at Jay’s level does not come to the fragile, and in the startling arrival of Nicole, he was able to draw on deep reserves of mettle.

With calibrated sarcasm, he said, “Nice to see you.”

“You, too.”

Sleep had been a stranger to Nicole as well. Makeup, lightly applied, barely covered the dark circles under her eyes. Although she was putting up a strong front, the nervous tension was evident in the tautness of her jaw.

“How are you feeling?”

She seemed genuinely concerned. Jay noticed her voice was scratchy. Was she getting a cold? And why, why, why had she come to the hospital?

“Terrific,” he said, still searching for his bearings.

Did anyone else in the room have any idea what had happened last night? Might Church have figured it out? Why did the coach think Nicole was here? One of the monarch’s favored warriors was wounded, and the queen wanted to pay her respects? Or did the coach discern a motivation more disconcerting? When not in a vegetative state, Dag exuded an ineffable grace that, combined with his athletic prowess and charm, made women all over the world want to inhale his pheromones. Church might have connected that to Nicole’s presence. Would he speculate that the two of them not only had sex the night of the Obama dinner, but were currently engaged in an ongoing violation of marital vows? And Jay didn’t know? Or, worse, Jay knew. Is that what Church thought? That Jay was aware of their behavior and countenanced it? What did the players think the owner’s wife was doing at Dag’s bedside? They must be aware of what had happened and if they did not know exactly, certainly they had some idea. But did they know? Could they even suspect? Dag’s behavior was so reckless as to be almost incomprehensible. From time immemorial, locker rooms were torn apart by one player dallying with the wife or girlfriend of another, but that kind of conduct, while reprehensible, was a hazard of the modern workplace. What had occurred here was beyond the pale. It was like visiting the White House and having sex with the First Lady. What kind of person would even think of it? Could these young men remotely apprehend the events of last night? Jay glanced at the players positioned at Dag’s bedside with bowed heads. He looked at Church Scott. Who knew what any of them were imagining?

“I’m glad you’re all right,” Nicole said. Jay could barely tolerate being in the same room with her. What was she implying? I’m glad you’re all right after you nearly killed this man for doing what you had no interest in doing. Is that what she meant? Or was she genuinely concerned? She placed a tentative hand on his arm but he tensed at her touch and she removed it. The sizeable diamond she wore on her ring finger in tandem with her gold wedding band glinted impressively even in the dull light of the hospital room. He wondered if she had taken her jewelry off last night before—but his thoughts were interrupted by the voice of Church Scott.

“Let’s pray.”

Although Jay’s belief in a Supreme Being wavered, he was aware of studies about the efficacy of prayer in situations like this one and, while beseeching the Supreme Being might not have occurred to him had he been alone, he was happy to try. A further benefit of prayer was that he would be spared having to make small talk around Nicole for a while longer and so could collect the febrile thoughts ricocheting around his skull.

“Please join hands,” Church said, grasping Jay’s right hand in his left.

Join hands? Jay had not anticipated this. It would be impossible to avoid physical contact with Nicole without making it clear that that was what he was doing. From across the bed, Odell Tracy gave his big left hand to Giedrius Kvecevicius then reached his right across Dag toward Nicole. With her left hand, she took Odell’s right and extended her right hand to Jay. There it was, hovering in the air between them. Waist high. Manicured and ringed, her fingers extending outward. Waiting for his. There was no way he could not take it. Jay moved his hand toward hers but rather than grasp it naturally as he ordinarily would have done, instead he took her fingers lightly in his, taking care not to intertwine them. It was as if he held a brittle autumn leaf, or a fragment of papyrus that might disintegrate on contact. From her response—she mirrored the airiness of his touch—Nicole seemed to understand, and was not going to pretend the circumstances between them were unchanged.

“Dear Lord,” Church intoned. “Our brother Dag needs you today. He needs your love. He needs your tender mercy, and he needs it right now. His body is damaged, but the man is a fighter, Lord, he’s had to fight for everything he’s ever received, and with your help, Dag’s going to fight through this, too, and he’s going to win, Lord! With your love, he’s going to heal. We know the body is a temporary home for our eternal soul, Lord, and for our soul to dwell for eternity in the Kingdom of Heaven we all have to vacate the premises. However painful it is to leave this Earth, in our hearts we understand. But we beseech you to hear our prayers today, Lord. Hear our prayers. Our brother D’Angelo Maxwell is not ready to leave his earthly incarnation. He’s not prepared to vacate the premises. We know you want him, Lord, and you’ll get him one day. But please, Lord, not today. Not today or tomorrow or the next day. He’s a young man, Lord. He’s a young man who tries to live right. His teammates love him, and his coaches love him. Jay and Nicole, they love him, too.” Turning his attention from the Lord to the supine figure on the bed, he said. “I love you, Dag.”

Taking Church Scott’s cue, Drew Hill said, “We love you, Dag.”

Giedrius cleared his throat. “I love you, man,” he said, in his rumbling Lithuanian accent.

“I love you, bruh,” Odell mumbled, tears sliding down his cheeks. The giant rubbed them away with the heel of his massive hand.

The outpouring from the coach and the three players deeply touched Jay, who found himself toggling between paroxysms of guilt about Dag, sympathy for the players and coach, and the desire to murder his wife.

“We love you, Dag,” Nicole whispered as if the situation had knocked the breath from her chest. We love you. At least, Jay thought, she did not have the temerity to say I love you to D’Angelo Maxwell in front of her husband. It was then he realized everyone in the room was looking at him. They were waiting. Why hadn’t Church resumed speaking? Wasn’t the coach leading this service? Then Jay realized. He was supposed to express his love.

Jay again bowed his head as if redoubling his efforts at prayer and gazed at the floor. The squares of oatmeal-colored linoleum gleamed. Somehow the person who had last mopped it had missed a scuff mark. Was it from a shoe? Or had the wheels on one of the machines jammed when an orderly was sliding it into place and left a trace of rubber? A tone was coming from one of the devices Dag was hooked up to. Beedink, beedink, beedink. It emerged at a steady rhythm, and from the bee to the dink there was a climb of several notes on the scale. It was almost musical. Had it been making that sound the entire time? Or had it just begun? No one was doing anything about it, so it had probably been making intermittent noise since Jay had arrived. Bile dripped, acid drizzling his stomach lining. When had he last eaten? Was it on the plane from Africa? He took in Dag’s damaged body, felt the kind eyes of Church. Across the bed, the players formed an imposing wall. He saw Nicole with her head down. Everyone waited. Several more seconds passed.

“All right,” Church said, delivering Jay from having to speak. “Some prayers are silent.”

Odell said, “Amen,” looked at Jay, and winked in approval. The enormous center believed he had been praying. In his way, he was praying. More than anything, Jay wanted Dag to recover. But to profess love? That was going too far.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The lounge down the hall from Dag’s room was unoccupied save for an Indian woman wearing a yellow sari dozing in a chair. A television mounted in the corner showed a news program. At a window overlooking the East River, Jay and Nicole faced each other.

“I came to the hospital because I thought you might be here,” Nicole said.

“So you could confront me in public?”

“This is not public.”

“A hospital room with four team employees there?”

“I haven’t slept,” she said.

“I spent the night in jail. Let’s not play who had it worse.”

“Oh, no. Poor thing.”

“I don’t recommend it.”

“Are you okay?”

“I survived.”

“How’s your nose?”

“It’s broken,” Jay informed her.

“I’m sorry. Does it hurt?”

“They gave me painkillers.”

“I’m going to tell you one thing,” Nicole said, “and you have to believe me.”

“After I hear what it is, I’ll decide.”

“It was one time.”

“Was it?”

“Yes! God, of course!”

“Really?”

“One!”

“Does it matter now? D’Angelo’s down the hall and—”

“Do you think he’s going to—”

“Die?” Jay asked. “I don’t know.”

“Fuck.”

“I won’t be able to live with myself,” he said. “I’ll tell you that.”

“I’m ashamed,” Nicole declared. “Utterly ashamed. It’s my fault.”

“Fault isn’t the issue now,” Jay said.

“I think I might have a drinking problem.”

“That’s your excuse? Too much chardonnay?”

“No, no, no, of course not. No. There’s no excuse,” Nicole said. “It was unforgivable. I can be as abject as you want me to be. I will do whatever you want.”

“I hope you’ll get past it.”

“Well, I have a mental picture nothing can erase, so I don’t know that I’ll be able to get past it and, honestly, it’s not even the worst mental picture that got burned into my brain last night.”

“I will apologize to my dying day.”

“No one should have to do that.”

“But I will,” Nicole said.

“I’m not certain we’ll be in touch at that point.”

“I love being married to you.”

“Funny way to show it.”

“Everyone’s marriage has problems,” she pointed out. “We’ve both been married before. Mistakes get made. I don’t know if you’ve ever cheated on me. I wouldn’t ask.”

“I haven’t.”

“I love you,” Nicole assured him. “I didn’t do what I did because I don’t love you.”

“You did it because you have a drinking problem.”

“Don’t twist my words.”

Jay regretted his role in this exchange. He did not want to reduce the cataclysmic nature of their situation to the back and forth of a squabble. He glanced at the Indian woman. She was still sleeping.

“You know, Nicole, a hospital lounge is probably not the place to have this conversation. I have a lot to deal with today, like Dag’s medical care. He needs an advocate.”

“And it’s going to be you? I love that.”

Someone was waiting to talk to them. Jay looked over and saw a tall, athletic-looking doctor. “Mr. Gladstone, I’m Dr. Bannister. I performed the surgery on Mr. Maxwell.”

Jay shook the doctor’s hand and said, “This is my wife.” How strange the word “wife” felt to him.

“Nicole Gladstone,” she said.

“Well, I’m glad I have both of you, then,” Dr. Bannister said, turning his attention back to Jay. “I heard you got a little banged up last night, too.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jay said. “Don’t worry about me.”

Dr. Bannister did not press the matter. They listened as he walked them through what had occurred in the operating room, and Dag’s uncertain prognosis.

“Mr. Gladstone,” the doctor intoned, “I don’t have to tell a man like you what’s happened to medical costs over the last couple of decades,” and then began a fundraising appeal for the hospital. Jay and Nicole could have a room named after them, a wing perhaps, or if they liked, because a couple of their means could certainly afford it, a pavilion.

“Imagine that, Mrs. Gladstone,” the doctor said. “The Nicole and Jay Gladstone Pavilion.”

“It has a nice ring to it,” Nicole said.

Jay looked at her. What did she think she was doing?

The doctor said, “For a donation of a hundred million we could make it happen.”

“Only a hundred million?” Jay hoped the mild irony in his tone was apparent.

“And your company could build it,” the doctor reminded him.

The notion of their names linked for eternity, carved into the marble façade of a major hospital was repellent, but the doctor, having no idea, pushed on and inquired whether they would not like to stand in front of a group of dignitaries at the groundbreaking of the Nicole and Harold Jay Gladstone Pavilion.

“That’s an arresting image,” Jay allowed.

“Great families like yours are the backbone of New York.”

“The Gladstones have always been about family,” Jay said, glancing at Nicole, whose attention was focused on the doctor.

“Some generous, family-minded donors choose to honor their parents this way,” the doctor helpfully pointed out. “The Bernard and Helen Gladstone Family Pavilion. How does that sound?”

Dr. Bannister had done his research.

“Your father would have loved that,” Nicole said.

“I understand he was a great New Yorker, Mr. Gladstone.”

“He was,” Nicole said, “a titan.”

“I’m sorry I was never able to meet him.”

Jay wished the doctor would vanish, but he listened politely and nodded. It was torture for him to hear Nicole talk about Bingo. Perhaps he would tell her he wanted a divorce now. Did he want a divorce? He still did not know. But he needed to get Bannister out of here so requested that the doctor call his sister Bebe, who handled solicitations of this scope at the Gladstone Family Foundation.

“Bebe is terrific, the best,” Nicole said, working overtime to curry favor with her husband, who ignored this remark.

Attempting to bring the conversation to a close, Jay said, “You’re doing great work, and I commend you for that.”

“With your help, Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone, we can scale new heights,” Bannister replied, taking the hint. Jay asked for the doctor’s private cell phone number so he could call him directly to check on the patient’s condition and Bannister instantly provided it.

“Save D’Angelo,” Jay said.

“Please,” Nicole implored.

Dr. Bannister assured the couple he would do his best and departed.

Nicole said, “I don’t want a divorce, Jay,” as if they had not been interrupted.

“Did you just try to give away a hundred million dollars?” Fatigued and besieged already, the doctor’s request, and Nicole’s response to it, further overloaded his system.

“All I said was that having a hospital named after the family was an idea that your father would have liked. I’ll write the doctor a note and tell him I misspoke if you want.”

“Forget it.”

Jay felt enervated by the conversation with the doctor and Nicole’s ongoing presence was not helping. He craved solitude. To be alone on his horse, in the woods, riding along a quiet path. Nicole was quicksilver, mystification, and needs.

“I don’t want to split up,” she said.

“I haven’t mentioned that.”

“You just implied—”

“A lot of crap has happened. I’m processing it. There’s a legal situation and—” He didn’t want to get into it.

“What is it?”

“I feel like a lobster in a pot and, frankly, I don’t want to deal with your mishegas right now.”

“That’s fair,” she said. “I’m sorry for my behavior. I know you’re tired of hearing it.”

“Not as tired as I am of thinking about it.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Apparently, you can do whatever.”

Here she paused, as if trying to determine whether or not this was something she genuinely wanted to know. Jay waited. Her makeup barely concealed her pallor. She looked spent. He expected her to say never mind, or forget it.

“Did you run him over on purpose?”

“Of course not!”

“It would be understandable on some lizard brain level.”

“I told you—” Jay’s attention had wandered to the television over Nicole’s shoulder. His face darkened. “Oh, for godsakes.”

The reporter Mayumi Miyata was standing in front of the hospital. Footage of Dag nailing a three-point shot appeared on the screen followed by a still photograph of Jay in a business suit and a hard hat. The report cut to a shot of the Gladstones’ Bedford home, then to the site of the accident (Jay’s car no longer there), then to Northern Westchester Hospital. Even absent the sound, Jay could see they were hitting the highlights of the story. Mercifully, there was no footage of the pool house and nothing of Nicole. At least those details had not leaked. An African-American anchorwoman addressed the camera. As far as Jay could tell, she was not excoriating him. When a commercial for a life insurance company that featured two septuagenarians holding hands on a beach appeared, he turned his attention back to Nicole.

“I’m going to be in the apartment for at least the next few days,” he said. “I’m not ready to go back to the house.”

“I’m staying at the Pierre until we decide what we’re doing. I hope you can forgive me.”

There would be no commitment. When Nicole left he turned toward the window and stared at the Queens shore until he was certain his wife was gone. He texted his driver and requested they rendezvous at a side door to escape the attention of the media. A slow circuit of the hospital floor decreased the likelihood he would encounter his wife at the elevator bank. He reflected on his conversation with Dr. Bannister. Perhaps he would build the Gladstone Pavilion and name it after his parents. How had they managed to stay married for so long? As he reached the elevators one of the doors opened, and he saw the player agent Jamal Jones emerge with a striking black woman he recognized as Dag’s wife. Jay froze and waited while they proceeded down the corridor. It did not escape him that Jay Gladstone, this paragon of authority and success, a man admired and feted, was concealing himself from an agent and a reality TV star, skulking like a criminal.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Tightly packed storm clouds gathered over the borough of Queens. A high-pressure front had blown in from Canada causing the barometer to drop, and what started as an early spring day had turned blustery and cold. Winds whipped along the avenues. Scraps of newspaper caroused with discarded parking tickets and plastic bags on the sidewalks. The shiny black limousine stood out like a leopard in a herd of donkeys as it bumped along Astoria Boulevard surrounded by city buses, cabs, and delivery trucks. Nestled in the backseat, Franklin gazed out the window at the kebab shops, unisex salons, liquor stores, Greek diners, and discount furniture emporiums that comprised the neighborhood, relieved he did not have to live in a place like this. If high Manhattan rents kept those who lived here in the outer boroughs, then that was an added benefit to a landlord like Franklin, since Queens played a significant role in the Gladstone real estate portfolio.

The driver was a middle-aged Egyptian whose name Franklin could never remember. Ahmed, Ahmoud? It didn’t matter. He called him “Acky.” Why should someone like that expect to live in Manhattan? A person should live where he could pay his bills on time each month. Franklin couldn’t understand it when he would read articles that reported Manhattan was now “unaffordable.” Unaffordable to whom? It was only unaffordable if you couldn’t afford it. Plenty of wealthy Americans could, along with Europeans, Chinese, and Arabs. And many of the foreigners did not even live in the city. For most of the year, their apartments were empty. They were the best tenants, even the Arabs. To Franklin Gladstone, the ideal building was one where every unit was rented or sold, and no one lived in any of them. In Franklin’s perfect world, tumbleweeds rolled down the deserted hallways of luxury buildings. The proletarians scuttling along the Astoria sidewalks—old-timers, immigrants, hipsters—they belonged here. Queens existed for the Mets and the U.S. Open tennis tournament; as far as Franklin was concerned, there was no other reason to be driving down this street. But the man he was meeting refused to come to the office.

The previous week Franklin and Christine Lupo had dined at a dimly lit restaurant in the east Sixties. Although he would not dream of cheating on Marcy, it felt, at least from his perspective, a lot like a date. He sat across from the glamorous public servant and gazed into her dusky eyes so intently he could see a reflection of flickering candlelight. The button-front blouse she wore was open at the neckline where a diamond pendant glinted. There was a whisper of cleavage, but Franklin forced himself to keep his eyes on deck. For twenty minutes, they discussed various plans to raise campaign funds, but by the time they had finished their cocktails—vodka, rocks for him, dirty martini for the DA—and were decimating the first bottle of wine, she alluded to her personal life. That afternoon she had spoken with her divorce lawyer and learned her husband planned to sue for alimony.

“The scumbag,” Franklin said.

“Tell me about it,” she concurred. “The guy cheats on me, and now I’m supposed to write checks to him?”

Seeing the door open a crack, Franklin wasted no time dashing through. He asked what happened and she told him how she had hired a private investigator. Not only were there incriminating photographs, but the PI was also a denizen of the cyber world and the guy Christine hired retained someone who hacked into her husband’s various devices and produced the texts, emails, and receipts that enabled her to reconstruct the entire sordid mess.

Franklin had subsequently called the DA and asked for the name of the man who could tease secrets from computers and smart phones. “My marriage is fine,” he hastened to add. “It’s business.” Franklin contacted the PI, and this man passed along the name Arun Prakash. Franklin reached out to Prakash and, upon learning the computer specialist would not come to the Gladstone offices, agreed to meet at his Queens apartment. He had considered bringing Ari and Ezra along since this would be a valuable lesson, but thought better of it. The twins did not know what plausible deniability meant. Better to keep it that way.

Ten minutes later the limousine parked in front of a tan brick apartment building in Jackson Heights. Franklin told “Acky” to wait for him in front and scrambled out of the backseat. A cold drizzle was falling. As he turned up the collar of his topcoat, a Korean woman pushing a cart filled with shopping bags eyed the limousine and stared at Franklin. He ignored her and strutted into the building. In the vestibule, he located the name “Prakash”—below “Odigwe” and above “Rabindranath”—and pressed the buzzer.

“Yeah?” said a wary voice emanating from the intercom. Franklin identified himself, and the door clicked open. The deserted lobby was in need of a facelift. The kind of place a crime might be committed. Franklin glanced around nervously while he waited for the elevator and wondered if he should have asked “Acky” to accompany him. The elevator arrived, and an older white woman who smelled of talcum powder got out, a holdover from when a different group of immigrants populated this neighborhood. Grim-faced, she pushed past Franklin, ignoring his presence. Franklin got in and pressed the scuffed button. The elevator chugged to the fourth floor. He got out, and the smell of spicy cooking immediately hit him. It was a cuisine he did not recognize and this added to his general discomfort. He knocked on the dented metal door of apartment 4H.

Arun Prakash was about thirty. Dark skin and a luxuriant head of jet-black hair. Rangy and athletic, he wore jeans and a gray hoodie over a white T-shirt. Blue and gold sneakers on his feet. He did not resemble the gnomish geek Franklin had expected.

“Mr. Gladstone?” His accent was American.

“Guilty.”

Arun stepped aside and gestured toward the apartment. “Sweet coat.”

“Cashmere, from Barney’s.”

“Yeah, I got the same one. Mine’s at the dry cleaner.”

Whether this was meant honestly or not, Franklin didn’t react. “Where are you from?” he asked, as Arun closed the door behind him.

“New Jersey.”

Franklin acted as if this was interesting. He had yet to digest that the Indian immigration had begun four decades earlier and Arun’s generation was born here. While contemplating how someone who looked to him like a worker manning a call center in Bangalore could somehow have been born just across the Hudson River, Franklin took in the apartment with the practiced eye of a lifelong real estate man. The unit was a one bedroom that looked out at the apartment building directly behind it. A fixed wheel bicycle leaned against the wall in the otherwise barren entryway. The living room was sparsely furnished and anchored by a table constructed from a piece of wood the size of a door resting on construction horses, its surface littered with several laptops, two of which were running, one displaying a chart, the other a soccer game. There was a large screen television with an imitation leather lounge chair directly in front of it and several expensive gaming consoles Franklin recognized from the collections of his sons. On the walls were framed posters of obscure martial arts movies, the titles rendered in bold Hindi letters. Several houseplants were displayed, none of them reflecting an owner with horticultural aptitude. “High All the Time” by 50 Cent insinuated at low volume from one of the computers.

“What about your parents? Where are they from?”

“Tamil Nadu,” Arun said. “You know where that is?”

“Should I?”

“If you don’t want to be ignorant.” Arun paused, as if to gauge Franklin’s reaction to his effrontery. Franklin said nothing, not because he was offended but because he did not give a shit what someone like this thought of his geographical expertise. “It’s in southern India.” Arun took a swig from the quart bottle of Mountain Dew he was holding. “What do you want to talk about?”

“How come you wouldn’t come to my office?”

“I don’t like to attract attention. So.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Franklin said, not wanting to be hurried. “But you let a complete stranger come to your apartment.”

“I checked you out, dude. While we were talking on the phone. I’m not worried unless you’re here to evict me and I’m pretty sure this is one of the buildings you don’t own.”

Franklin was flattered by Arun’s acknowledgment of his status, something to which he was unusually susceptible.

“Yeah, but I could have been someone pretending to be me.”

The host regarded his visitor like he was a slow child. “Caller ID?”

“I’m just fooling around.”

“You’re hilarious,” Arun said, drily.

Franklin glanced toward the bedroom door where a beaded curtain hung. “Anybody in there?”

“No.”

“Mind if I look?”

“Shouldn’t I be the one who’s paranoid, Mr. Gladstone? You’re the one in my crib.”

“Why would you be paranoid?”

Arun let his eyes drift to the ceiling.

“Check the bedroom.”

Franklin parted the beaded curtain and peeked in. An unmade bed, clothes strewn on the floor, a bureau with a half-opened drawer. He listened intently, but the only sound was the murmur of the song playing in the other room. Satisfied they were alone, he took off his coat, folded it over the back of a chair, then plopped himself on the living room couch ready to gab.

Arun spun his desk chair around and sat. “Talk to me.”

Franklin put his hands behind his head and leaned back to give the impression that nerves did not consume him. What was about to occur represented the crossing of an invisible boundary and while he liked to believe he had the stones required for this kind of warfare, in quiet moments of self-reflection—because of the pain they engendered, these were exceedingly rare—it was not clear he was so endowed. His stomach gurgled, and he wondered if it was audible. Arun patiently waited, feet together, knees parted, hands on his thighs. He looked Franklin directly in the eyes.

“Okay, okay,” Franklin inauspiciously began. Why did this kid make him nervous? “There’s someone I’m—ahhh—” (You schmuck, he razzed himself, Enough with the hesitating, get to the goddamn point). “There’s a person I’m in business with, and I need to get some information.”

“A person?”

“Yes.” Still wavering.

“Are you going to tell me who that person is?”

An indiscernible sound trickled out of Franklin’s mouth.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“A relative.”

“Which one?”

“Jay Gladstone,” Franklin blurted.

Arun nodded, impressed. People knew that name. Jay’s membership in the family reflected well on all of the relatives, but once again, his less well-known cousin suffered this as belittlement. He suppressed the urge to inquire whether Arun was familiar with the name Franklin Gladstone before their interaction.

“Okay, what about Jay Gladstone?”

“I, umm—”

Could he go through with this? Franklin was tempted just to get up, throw his coat on, and leave without another word. But he remained rooted to the couch.

“You want me to mess with him?”

Franklin did not want to “mess” with Jay. He would have preferred just going about his business. For all of his pugnacity, he did not consider himself underhanded and regarded his current circumstances with ambivalence. But Jay had cornered him. There was no choice.

“I don’t know if I’d put it that way,” Franklin said.

“But you want me to hack him which, to be clear, is not something that I have agreed to do.”

“That’s right.”

“Please take out your phone and let me see you turn it off.”

Franklin complied with the request.

“Now, I’m going to ask you to remove your shirt.”

Franklin reacted as if he were being asked to perform calisthenics. “What?”

“Take your shirt off,” Arun said. “I need to know you’re not wired up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“With a microphone. It’s protocol. If you don’t want to do it, there’s the door.”

Arun leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. He was not going to do anything until his visitor granted the request. Franklin had not counted on this. He had no intention of disrobing. Arun waited.

Mustering all his available hauteur, Franklin said, “You do know who I am, right?”

“I don’t give a fuck if you’re the Queen of England.”

No one had spoken to Franklin this way in decades. Was Arun going to make him remove his clothes? He wished he could have asked the office IT person to help, but that was not an option.

“You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“I’m busy, so if you don’t want to strip down, I get it, but then you should leave ’cause I got stuff to do for paying clients.”

“You’re really going to make me do this?”

“I already said you could go.”

Reluctantly, Franklin heaved off the couch. He removed his suit jacket and placed it next to where he had been sitting. He loosened his tie then unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a white T-shirt beneath it.

“Okay?” This striptease was all he was going to do.

“You’ve seen this in the movies, right? Where one guy makes another guy prove he’s not wearing a wire.”

“Sure.”

“Then you know this is the part where you’re supposed to take the shirt all the way off and lose the T-shirt, too.” Franklin looked at him, incredulous. At least his sons were not here to witness this indignity. “Sorry, man. Gotta do it.”

Franklin reluctantly displayed himself to Arun, naked from the waist up. Pale and flabby, upper body carpeted with hair, breasts nearly female.

“Satisfied?”

Not wanting to meet Arun’s impassive gaze, he looked toward the window. The rain rushed down the panes like it was late to a meeting.

“You should work out more,” Arun observed. Franklin chose not to respond. If this is what it took to get what he wanted, it was a fair price. “Turn around.”

As Franklin pirouetted, the image of a dancing bear popped into his head, further discomfiting him. He completed the circle and said, “Okay?” not bothering to hide his annoyance.

“You’re clean.”

Shaking his head at the humiliation he had been made to endure, Franklin quickly put himself back together. Rather than knotting his tie again, he rolled it up and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. He lowered himself back on to the couch and hoped the preliminaries were over.

“We had to do that?”

“Look, Mr. Gladstone, according to the laws of New York State some of the services I perform are a little sketchy, so I take precautions.”

“Didn’t you do work for the DA up in Westchester?”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

Franklin had not expected this degree of caginess on the part of someone being offered a temporary spot on the Gladstone payroll, even if it was off the books. Why wasn’t this Arun Prakash person just glad to have the opportunity? Franklin felt the need to reassert his primacy.

“Before we get started, why don’t you tell me some of the things you’ve done?”

Arun exhaled. Franklin was trying his patience. “Look, I could say I’ve penetrated the servers of major corporations, or looked at nude pictures in the private Instagram accounts of half the actresses in Hollywood, or I could claim I hacked the Defense Department for shits and giggles, but I would never admit to any of it. Maybe I did all that; maybe I didn’t. Hacking isn’t a business where a guy has a website. It’s trust-based.”

Franklin thought about this. It occurred to him again that he could just get up and go. The rain had gathered in intensity, and the storm increased his sense of isolation. If he did nothing, Jay would eventually discover everything. Franklin had to take advantage of whatever avenues were available. He knew this was a long shot and the path he was contemplating was not a righteous one. Jay led a life above reproach. Whatever he had done to D’Angelo Maxwell, Franklin suspected his cousin would ultimately swat it away. He told himself to leave. This plan was reckless and foolish. What was he doing in the apartment of some Tamil hacker in Queens?

Even without his topcoat on, the room felt hot. The rain had turned to hail and struck the windows like buckshot. But what was Franklin supposed to do, let the Maxwell situation play out in Jay’s favor (as he feared it invariably would), and then wait for the walls to close in, squeezing him until his nemesis invoked the Gladstone family contract that all of them signed upon entry into the business? The one that formally legislated upright behavior? He would be out on the sidewalk. The prospect was a loss of face he could not bear. He would never have been in this position if he had resisted the temptation to pilfer the accounts. Yes, he needed more than a hundred million to execute the purchase of the hockey franchise, but had he tried to obtain bank financing, he likely could have cobbled it together. Why, then, had he done it? To demonstrate that Franklin Gladstone was free-range, his own man, beholden to no one. Particularly his cousins. And he intended to pay it back. If only Jay hadn’t threatened him, he wouldn’t be in this degrading situation.

“Okay, I get it,” Franklin said. “Let’s do this.”

“Now, your cousin, he’s a public figure.”

“How does that figure in?”

“The price goes, like, way up.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“Do you mind if I ask what you’re looking for?”

“His correspondence. Emails, texts, everything. Where he’s been on the Internet, who he’s communicating with. The whole cyber footprint.” Franklin was pleased with his use of the phrase “cyber footprint,” recently encountered in a business journal, and believed it suggested computer literacy. Having already turned him into a dancing bear, Arun was starting to make Franklin feel unintelligent.

“Typically, those kinds of businesses have pretty tight security packages in place.”

“I’m going to give you the passwords,” Franklin said. “Where do you look?”

“More places than you can name.”

That sounded impressive. For a moment, Franklin considered asking Arun for additional details but he stopped himself. If in his sweaty desolation he chose to unleash a malevolent force, it was probably best not to think too much about what was being done on his behalf.

Chapter Thirty-Six

An African-American man behind the wheel of an expensive car must hew to the speed limit or raise the risk of being pulled over for “driving while black.” It does not matter how accomplished or famous or educated the black man is, the cognitive dissonance this sight causes across a swath of American law enforcement has created a phenomenon with which virtually all black males are familiar. For this reason, Lourawls maintained a steady sixty miles per hour on the Palisades Parkway behind the wheel of the Escalade. It was early evening. He and Babatunde had been at the hospital all day and were drained. They were going home to shower and get some rest before returning for the night shift. The ride uptown and over the bridge was devoid of their typical to and fro. They usually listened to hip-hop in the car, but this evening felt distinctly unmusical.

Running through both of their minds was the future and what it might look like without Dag in the picture. The pair shared an optimistic outlook, so neither wanted to mention it, but they were not comforted by the doctor’s palaver. Coma was a dangerous word. When they were all still living in Houston, a high school friend took a bullet in the head. He was in a coma for two weeks and then expired. If Dag somehow miraculously defied the odds and recovered, what were the chances he would play again? A guy with the chronic physical problems likely to result from this kind of trauma required a staff of nurses, not sidekicks. Where did that leave them? They were both around Dag’s age. Too old for life on the perimeter of someone else’s life.

Lourawls said, “They got hunting season for deer.”

Babatunde’s head swung from right to left. “You see a deer?”

“Naw, man.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

“Don’t need a hunting season for black men.”

Babatunde slumped in the seat. “I’m too tired to talk about this shit now.”

“Always open season on the black man.”

“Come on, Lou. Just drive, okay?”

“They’re not gonna put that cop up in Westchester on trial,” Lourawls said.

“If you say so.”

“I’m not predicting, man. Already happened. You gotta keep up with the news.”

“I follow sports,” Babatunde reminded him.

“The cracker motherfucker capped that kid down in Florida, Trayvon? Same thing. He’s gonna walk.”

“That happen already?”

“No, that’s a prediction,” Lourawls said. “But I’ll bet you.”

“I ain’t betting you.”

“You know I’m right.”

“I told you,” Babatunde said. “I’m too tired to talk about this shit now.”

“Same DA in Westchester who didn’t indict that cop? She’s in charge of Dag’s situation.”

Babatunde said, “You feeling McDonald’s?”

“I ain’t hungry. And I’ll tell you something else.”

“I know you will.”

“Jay Gladstone,” Lourawls said.

“What about him?”

“If he committed a crime, if there was some lawbreaking he did?”

“It was a car accident,” Babatunde said.

“That’s all they’re saying so far,” Lourawls said, “but you don’t know. If there was a crime.”

“Say there was.”

“You think that white DA lady is gonna indict Gladstone? He’ll never spend a day incarcerated.”

“They locked the man up already,” Babatunde remarked.

“All right, one night. But that’s it. No more jail for him.”

“Gladstone seems like an okay dude.”

“He cut Trey from the damn team,” Lourawls reminded him.

“Church Scott cut Trey. He’s the coach.”

“He runs everything past Gladstone.”

“How do you know that?”

“He works for him, Babs.”

“I got no problem with Gladstone.”

“The man is white,” Lourawls said.

“So?”

“So, you think he’s gonna be himself around you? Liberal white people be all friendly around black people. But when they’re by themselves.”

“What?”

“Watch out,” Lourawls said.

“You sure you not hungry?” Babatunde asked.

“How’m I supposed to eat, man?” Lourawls shook his head from side to side as if he could not understand how Babatunde could be so obtuse. “You always reading that civil war stuff, slavery stuff, the underground railroad and shit.”

“So?”

“That’s how white people still look at us.”

Babatunde declared: “The president is a black man.”

“Don’t let that deceive you.”

Lourawls took the exit for Alpine. They were on a commercial strip and then on a road lined with tall trees and big homes.

“How many black people do you think live in these houses?” Lourawls asked.

“Chris Rock lives around here.”

“Besides Chris Rock.”

“I don’t know,” Babatunde said “A few.”

“The black population is pretty much you, me, Trey, and Dag, and if Dag ain’t here—”

“Why wouldn’t Dag be here?”

“I don’t know, man. Weird shit happens. If Dag ain’t here, you think these people want us around?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“Dag is famous, and he’s rich. His color is money.”

“The man is black, Lourawls!”

“And green.”

“What’s your point?”

A flashing light appeared in the rearview mirror. Babatunde and Lourawls exchanged a resigned glance. It had been nearly two months since they had been pulled over for no reason. The cop must be new. Lourawls guided the car to the shoulder, put it in neutral, rolled down the window. Both men made sure their hands were visible. Then they waited for the routine to begin.

A young police officer appeared at the window on the driver’s side. He couldn’t have been twenty-five years old. Lourawls handed him his license and registration.

“You can put those away, sir,” the cop said. “How’s Dag?” Lourawls and Babatunde looked at each other, confused. “This is his car, isn’t it?”

“He’s in a coma, man,” Babatunde said.

The cop chewed his cheek, unhappy to get confirmation of what he had seen on the Internet. “Everyone at the station is praying for him.”

They mumbled thanks, and the cop told them to have a peaceful night. Lourawls put the car in gear, stepped on the gas, and drove slowly away. For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Then, as if nothing had happened, Lourawls said:

“You best be thinking about your future.”

“I got Trey’s back,” Babatunde said.

“I got Trey’s back, too. But Trey goes hard in the paint. He can look after himself.”

“You burying Dag?”

“No, I ain’t burying Dag,” Lourawls said. “I’m praying he’s all right, like those motherfuckin’ cops. Full recovery.”

“Boy gonna bounce back.”

Lourawls guided the Escalade through the gates. The automatic lights were on, illuminating the trees and casting nervous shadows on the lawn. They got out of the car and trudged to the front door, each wondering how long they would continue to live in this house on this street.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.

Seth Greenland is the author of five novels. His latest, The Hazards of Good Fortune (Europa Editions), will be published in 2018. His play Jungle Rot won the Kennedy Center/American Express Fund For New American Plays Award and the American Theater Critics Association Award. He was a writer-producer on the Emmy-nominated HBO series Big Love.

The post The Hazards of Good Fortune, Part XII appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

from Los Angeles Review of Books https://ift.tt/2NGa2DC

#Blogger

0 notes

jameypants1-blog · 7 years ago

Photo

Reading Makes A Country Great MY PET GOAT Emergency 911 The Terror War begins Ignorance is Bliss stand Proud and United rally around the Flag cross your heart swear to Sacrifice thank the least among you for their military home invasion mass murder Service keeping Authority placated rock the Vote respect the Law and State's Finest army of police who serve and protect them, Respect the Honor and Authority of the blind justice arbitrated by ritual black robed Judges and the prejudiced juries of peers any skilled Liar can persuade to Verdict The educated are educated to Accept The Free are not Brave enough to Resist Swear to tell the Truth so help you God is an Obscenity and offensive to a populace bursting with the enlightenment of Science, the premise that Flesh is the Origin of Species and Intelligence a side effect of gas Love thy Leader Hate thy neighbor Kill and chain thy neighbor Earn your Keep Pay your Taxes Death is certain It is not the size of the horn but how it's used that betrays best gets praised for elite public service Performance How fortunate it is for leaders that men do not think, Hitler intimated, forthcoming as any candidate for Office who smiles kissing maggot babies and shaking fools hands telling each in line thanks for their support couldn't do this without them Hell hides behind details and simpering political correctness, kind words expressing best intentions the enemies of which are branded crazy and evil and dealt with. How fortunate men do not think. Lest leaders and the Hell they maintain be naked by Light of the Truth. You can handle the Truth. You can be brave and free. It's these so called elite who can't. Never ask what they can do for you or you for them. Don't give up your food stamps just yet they trade for drugs just don't Serve them, Loyalty to them is so universal I am ignored and insulted. In Contempt. That's the price of Love. Let's change that. Perception is reality is their constant refrain. It is not. Reality is this fraction of a single percent of the population is a basket of deplorables in perpetual conspiracy to violate and ruin every human being on Earth. It's shocking and horrific but people can handle the Truth. Here is Wisdom: Had a customer tonight guy in his sixties cropped back hair going gray one of those Freddy Mercury mustaches adopted by law enforcement to remind everyone they're tops cocksuckers not pigs bc pigs don't have mustaches. he was wearing a black tshirt and jeans, never seen him before, recognize most of the customers, we have the same regulars rotating through for the most part. He came in right after I did, like my second grill order after clocking in. Gave me the stinkeye, and instead of going to sit in the dining room until his order was called he stayed in the lobby, got behind the Pepsi ketchup fridge by register, from the nose up visible over the fridgetop. I was on second flip before I noticed him again, glaring at me still. Eye contact, rage in his eyes. Made his burgers to perfection, ignoring him but for sidelong peeks to see if he still there; he was still there looking pissed off. I strongly suspect him to have been involved with lie enforcement, that or ive got one of those faces brings out the hate in frustrated Dom bondage specialists. kept my face expressionless, sent the burgers out and he left not long after. Felt the loathing in the air leave with him. He hates me for my freedom, like to put me in cuffs and bugger me into some Respect for his Authority lavished from God unto Moses unto the Chosen People, the Elite, who gifted us all with the world's two biggest religions Islam and Christianity to refer to in the establishent of State, Islamic States still widely fundamentalist in extrapolations and ammendments to the fundamentals Law, even today stones striking pleading girls in the face until the glistening bone pulp shows, eyeball popped out shattered socket debt paid for her adultry of being raped by a man she wasn't married to, lacivious temptress women not tolerated, kept virtuous by Ordained killers sanctimonious witless butchers in judicious black robes black masks, love and peace delegates, spread the beautiful religion into Eastern Europe and jerusalm, effective Evangelical technique of the option to submit you are the slave of Allah, either submit or get your head looped off. Beautiful religion. The castles of Europe erected to fortify against the sacred Islamic state conquering all of Elite Europe, price of doing Business, business of giving people the business, keep them stoneage and in check until final act, today thousands of Muslim migrants fleeing Syria region where isis, the royal president, Russia and the United States are mass murdering the population in alternating sweeps all claiming success against the terrorists who are any one of the four mass destroyers depending on which regions fake news one watches, the cities in ruins, the people still left sparse and debilitated, the dregs, hundreds of thousands more turning sections of Germany France great Britain etc into ghettos, young girls being raped in public parks, a seven yo girl in France gang raped in Germany lone German teens stalked in the streets by packs of Muslim youth and beaten half to death teens boasting they will take multiple wives across region have dozens of children each and breed out the natives, conquer Europe with their cocks now that the dear leaders of the region had welcomed them in. Beautiful religion. on their knees five times a day to take a facefull of dirt groveling praises toward the black cube in Mecca which Abraham built and shat inside marking the turf, holy kabba, over ten feet tall and ten feet wide the wonder of the Islamic world which one day all of Islamic Europe shall pilgrimage to link arms and dance ring around the cubicle singing and shouting trampling each other then setting off across hard desert terrain, many every haj die along the route hail Allah that the prophet Mahomet, may he rest in stink took wandering the sand ocean from sand dune to sand valley to sand mount where pilgrims collapse into the sand and commune with Allah catching spiderwebs of shade from the spray of spindly limbed trees rising several feet high here and there, terrain as beautiful as Islam itself and straight to Judgement for those sun dried brain fried dead before completing the last leg of the blessed trudge to the sacrificial slaughter barns where depending on what slaves of Allah can afford to slice the throat of a variety of animals await blood ritual, goats camels sheep sand chickens and coming soon pigs once the half breed desert princes of Frankfurt introuce fat juicy pork weenies into the Islamic diet, blonde haired blue eyed pink bellied pigs recognized to be far too majestic to be interbred with Jews, fine swine imported from outside the East where the scruffy big snout kosher breed forages in feral packs, hear them oinking Hebrew and Yiddish gibberish rooting in alley trash like dogs, dirtiest animals in all of creation, howling and squealing together during crawl in place borg prayers tuned in to Abraham's outhouse ever amid ring around the square dancing, stumbling, trampled underfoot weaklings hoe down haj stop in the stadium built around the squat edifice that thousands may sit and cheer rendering inaudible the tinny prayers from around the globe every couple hours, dogs howling offended every prayer, kick the snarling curs at risk of losing toes and sandles get tangled up in black man dress and fall down surrounded by curly tailed rabbi and black dogs foaming at the mouth eyes rolling from echoes of lalalalalalalala eeeeeek eeeeeeek eeeeeeek barnyardesque broadcasts from loud speakers leading the haj hails between free time to marry and divorce multiple times a day and trade goats for girls to marry and divorce trade back for chickens or a dozen eggs if she's missing ears tip of her nose or digits from administering divine law rehabilitation mutilations, sometimes new divorcees only fetch a bucket of fertile shit, hobbled hunchback prolapsed asshole tounge sliced into fork for her hissing disobedience to swallow the donkey load of bountiful seed diligently fed her everyday in lieu of lunch meanwhile back at the last stop of holy haj long walk baby animals and ton tall spitting camels shriek and wail, hawk lunger loads of camel snot pink with slashed throat blood spew onto the walls, slick spots on the straw, bled out into tubs and running down beards drank in hot clotted toasts to Allah who the sacrificed animals were stacked like cordwood into earthen pits and burned to appease blessings to all and to all a good time at the hotel after parties where newly married couples meet, consumate, get divorced and the just single ladies reintroduced to next end of haj celebratent to be smitten and fallen in love until the boredom of domestic life after orgasm left him dissatisfied with this woman who used to be useful but went back to the singles mixer sore and cooperative awaiting true love perhaps next bus in full of blood spattered fresh inducties into the walkabout God's country for days purification event everyone owed it themselves to do at least once a lifetime to truly get the most out of Islam the impending new religion of the well served everywhere from Africa to Piccadilly square, to be renamed Mahomet Kaba King Boulevard erected in the center of the square a scale replica of the Kaba with Mahomet himself weilding scrimtar of faith from head to toe dressed in black mounted upon his goat horse chimera Pegasus thingy reared up like a reindeer representing the flight taken to heaven to lead the prayer circle in heaven where all had deferred to him to lead the prayer circle of Prophets in Allah's den, Jesus fresh as the Daisy he'd been since the day he'd cleverly avoided crucifixion by Jerry curling his big black bushy beard and sneaking out of town on his gf's ass while another fellow, whose beard was styled similarly to his and who had assembled a small crowd outside town to demonstrate a new stain removal product for even the toughest stains like days caked Hersey splats from loincloths see comes right out and with the herbal infused formula eliminates some of the stench of urine baked in since pissing it in a wine induced stupor earlier that afternoon as jews were known to do between assuming their posts begging for pennies outside the bank, that guy had looked and sounded like the upstart they were looking for and after his miracle product failed to impress the honorable pontus Pilate with any supernatural stain removal properties except when applied to soiled underpants, a demonstration he didn't need to see twice since his underpants indeed came out clean the first attempt, hardly a miracle but in a good mood since his ass felt and smelled so fresh after the man who kept persisting I am not the Jew you were looking for I'm just an alchemist with a revolutionary new product for removing stains the secret formula is just leavening soda and grapeseed pumice mixed with water and lavender leaves ofc it's not a miracle I am not the king of the universe I've never even met the guy no one does but he doesn't travel alone with a bucket of my new secret formula removing shit stains from underwear, he's a stand up magician or something, heard there's strippers too, Im just a humble asshole freshener your honor and feeling magnanimous floral fragrance of his anus clinging to the finger he scratched along his craft to sniff while contemplating opens the honorable Pilate said let's let these Jews outside demanding their picked pockets wallets and jewelery back stolen by the whores and at least a dozen confidence men known to be traveling with this wanted man who said fuck the centurions fuck the flag fuck hannaka fuck Elysian fields fuck the Senate fuck caesaer fuck Rome fuck caiphus fuck the Torah fuck yo mama and fuck all of you cringing sex slave submissives bending over and getting fucked everyday to earn wheat penny Caesars that aren't worth a tin shit except for your belief in Caesar says, Caesar says hail Caesar I say fuck Caesar render unto casear these piles of Caesars ugly cunt lips embossed nickles and dimes and shove em up Caesars ass let him go pawn these pieces of shit off on some other idiots bc we're Jews brothers and sisters and Jews don't need no stinking sick economy sicker fools who'd diminish themselves by going along with this madness, Caesar is a paper god you drunks this money charade is just a game and your the losers for playing so fuck him fuck Rome and fuck all these fake ass God's and curly tailed shit eating elites got us all playing along counting stacks of worthless legal tender whoopty Doo what caesar says and fuck his court of whimsy and don't bend over only ever acquire what he gives you and dont obey every stupid lie he tells you is the law, tell him to take this Nation of lies and the shiney lie sanctioned house chips he rode in on and shove it up his ass bc if you don't you'll all be spending your lives sucking Satan's cock doing as Satan says and get paid in Satan tokens worth your life loyalty and labors and in return a flag to admire and fight for a song of the murder glory of this shithole to cross your hearts and sing that all who hear it know how unified and proud you are and you'll be paid to with every Betrayal his crown can afford to give you now that you've given him lives to spend. Have a free flag coffin shroud a medal of Honor for service unto Casear human sacrife pin and a bedpan full of shiney Benjamin's to spend at super Caesars super savers everywhere Rome is maurading, hail Caesar full of grace give you nothing give him everything and that sumbitch drugged the watered down wine him and his whores and degenerates robbed us and fuck yes that's him I recognize the beard kill him set Barbarossa free and so despite insisting he was not their King nor a crook the wrong man was crucified that day and Jesus told this straight to Mahomet so you know it's true bc Mahomet word is gold then Jesus said I am the slave of Allah and Mo he's instructed me to let his biggest ho Mo lead the ass in the air prayers from now on bc I'm always broke have never tipped a red Satan cent to tithe and insist that Allah sound a dry heave so does every single thing you said Mo so you're deffo the man to lead prayer to that bullshitters bullshit, guess it keep you busy long enough not to butcher or mutilate anyone for five minutes at least. Raise your Voice be offended by this beastial religion we're diminished under by these sneering aristocrats who practice it, they're the crew can't handle the Truth. Lies are all they got. Be eloquent. Knowing and not choosing a side is just a mess. I bring you. Pallid incompotence hanging from a mic stand. Prime example of why there's no having it both ways. Fuck it 🌊 https://g.co/kgs/ACnHqS

0 notes

fntstory-blog · 8 years ago

Text

Jaws of Neptune (part VIII)

Haru’s dreams were strange that night. He dreamt of broken teeth and tempests and the haunting, unseeing eyes of the Vodacce Fate Witch. When he awoke, it was to a pounding on his door and Mr. Beckett’s voice coming from the other side.

“Rise, if you please, Mr. Haru! I run a tight ship!” Hard wooden soles shuffled outside the door, more than like the young lieutenant pacing back and forth. “We’re going up in the rigging, so it’s shoes or nothing!”

Haru rose slowly, though it was still with more speed than he would have demonstrated were he comfortably back home. The alcohol from the night before had his head feeling cotton-stuffed and his throat dry. With some dismay he realized he had fallen asleep fully dressed; a first in his life.

Splashing some water on his face - there was still some in a pitcher from some days before, he couldn’t rightly recall - he pulled his hair up into a topknot and set to answering the door. His ribs still ached, as did his head, but he would work through both.

“Good morning, Mr. Haru,” Beckett said brightly, eyeing his newest charge. “Come along, then.” He began to walk briskly out onto the deck and into the odd silver light. “I do trust you remember some of the knots you were able to untie, because we’ll be tying some today.” A grin broke across his face at the prospect.

Dutifully, Haru followed the lieutenant across the deck, nodding at his question before remembering himself and adding a “Yes, sir.” The words sounded and felt strange; he counted Beckett more a friend than a superior, but it was how things were done here on the Ivory Maiden.

Without much ado, Beckett hopped up into the rigging, pulling himself up as agile as any monkey despite his clunky shoes and woolen uniform. “Come on, then!” He called, spurring Haru on. A few men were sitting atop the smaller mast they ascended; the smallest of the three on the ship. “This is the Mizzen-mast and, like the others, she’s tall to catch the wind!”

At first, Haru’s climbing was slow, painfully so for the more experienced Beckett, but the novice sailor didn’t much relish the thought of escaping a beating death to only do himself in through carelessness. However, as he grew more familiar and comfortable with the precarious perches the ropes presented, his speed and dexterity increased.

Strange as it might have been, Haru found that his time in his daimyo’s court helped in this new task. There he had need to remember not only faces but names and titles, familial connections, enemies and lovers, peculiar interests and eccentric dislikes. This attention and retention of detail served him now in recalling the names of the crew he met as well as the strange names for the ship’s anatomy.

Once they had reached the top of the mast, there was a crossbeam and Haru saw where the ropes on the deck actually lead. It was so much more complex than the Rokugani vessels he had sailed on back home. The two men he sighted were not familiar and Beckett grinned down at him as he made the introductions. “Mr. Haru, this is Swann and MacConnell.”

Swann, a ginger-haired man with small and flinty eyes muttered a greeting. MacConnell, larger than his fellow and sporting a dark beard, wore what appeared to be a skirt and offered a curt nod. “Laddie-buck.”

Swann and MacConnell were greeted with a polite “Good morning” and smile; he was still unsure what the proper protocol was amongst the crew. The captain he knew was greeted with knuckles pressed to the forehead and a deferential ‘sir’, Berek rated low bows and a ‘m’lord.’ But amongst the men, he had witnessed curt nods, hurled insults, and cheerful words; having no real experience amongst the more common elements, it left him slightly off-balance socially.

Over the next few hours, Haru got used to moving around on the net, raising and lowering the sails, and learning where the ropes went to the deck. By the end, his arms and legs ached from holding onto the rope, but much of the mystery of the men’s duties were beginning to unravel.

Pausing in his morning’s work, with Beckett’s leave, Haru turned his attention from sails and ropes and masts and looked out on the water come sky. Though they were far removed from its shores, he could almost believe that any one of Rokugan’s sea demons and spirits lived in these sterling seas.

A series of bells rang and lunch was called for, interrupting his reverie and bringing to light that he must have slept through breakfast. He was informed that he would dining with the lieutenants, a group that weren’t much better than the men. They were all younger, teenagers by and large, their elders having been lost during battles at sea and their time in Rokugan. Lunch was a less formal affair than dinner the previous night and Haru, unfortunately, experienced the food of the common man.

A cut of beef, still somewhat rare and smelling of salt, a serving of nearly wilted vegetables, and a hard roll which, to his horror, contained a weevil. Beckett laughed, pointing with a fork at the invader. “Here, now, you’re evicting him, Mr. Haru!” The lieutenants shared a laugh, only somewhat at his expense.

He took lunch as well instride as he could. Self-conscious not only for his unfamiliarity with the younger men, but also because of what had just transpired between Barrows and himself, Haru did his best to answer the questions put to him. The lieutenants were a friendly, curious bunch and put just as many, if not more, questions to him regarding Rokugan as he had put to Berek and Lannigan the prior evening. The food presented was only partially eaten and, then, only because he knew he needed to eat something to avoid fainting from hunger during the day.

As lunch ended, the bells rung again and everyone fell back to formalities in the face of resumed duties. Each lieutenant filed out of the mess hall, returning abovedecks and to his workcrew. Mr. Beckett approached Haru, a wry smile on his be-freckled face. “I hope lunch wasn’t all that terrifying …”

“I’m not … much accustomed to finding insects in my food, but I think I’ll survive.” The sardonic grin that accompanied his words faded to something more genuine as he added, “Your fellow lieutenants seem a good sort, though …”

“Weevils are a fact of navy life, Mr. Haru, though I do agree that it’s quite distasteful.” Beckett nodded in agreement with his secondary statement. “Aye, they’re fine lads. We’ve grown closer ever since we arrived in your lands. We see each other more … honestly.”

Beckett walked with Haru across the deck and pointed up to the bow of the ship. Captain Hayes and Doctor MacMorgan were there, Hayes with his sketchbook and MacMorgan with a small squeeze-box. “Meeting with the brass, Mr. Haru,” Beckett explained, catching Hayes’ eye and pointed nod. He saluted his captain and took a step back. “We’ve knots to tie when you’re finished!”

Haru stepped forward and, again, wished something could be done for his appearance; barefoot and battered, his clothes now two days old and slept in, hair sloppily tied and just beginning to show new growth, face bruised and sun-pink, he hardly resembled the courtier he still viewed himself to be.

“Captain Hayes, doctor,” he said in greeting, bowing in the habit he maintained. The shadow of a grimace passed over his face as a stab of pain shot through his side and, if he were honest, the awful sound coming from the box in the doctor’s hands.

“Mr. Haru,” Owen smiled, his sketching stopping for cradled in the crook of one arm was a sketchbook and in his opposite hand was a stump of a pencil.

The doctor ceased working his awful instrument as well and waved his patient closer. “Ah, yes, let’s see to those bruises. What a face to make, ser, are you in pain?” He asked, the strange tentacle-like instrument falling off his knee and squawking like several angered gulls as it extended to its full length.

“It’s not so bad, more discomfort than actual pain,” Haru answered, lying in a misplaced effort to protect what remained of his pride as he removed his shirt. “The rest you prescribed has helped.” This, at least, was the truth.

His movements were stiff from rope climbing and damaged ribs, and his cheeks colored slightly at the immodesty of the situation, standing half-naked for all the crew to see. The bruising along his one side had gone ugly in its healing; deep purples fading to sickly yellow-green. The scrapes and cuts along both arms were scabbed over and the worst of them would undoubtably leave scars.

The damage rendered to his face remained a mystery. He hadn’t seen his reflection since before boarding the ship, though tentative touches told him he was healing. Or so he assumed; as of yet, no one had recoiled in horror at the sight of him. The thought of carrying scars forever wounded his lingering vanity, though, but then so did the sight of his red-raw, blistered hands. This voyage, it seemed, was determined to rob him of everything he had once been.

“There’s jaundicing, that’s good,” Doctor MacMorgan said, leaning his bulk forward. He tapped at Haru’s ribs lightly, then his sternum. Arms were raised and lowered, his patient turned ‘round and chin grabbed to better look at the state of his pupils. His examination lingered for a moment over the twin scars in Haru’s breast; arrow wounds, long since healed.

“Theus’ sake, man, he’s not a side of beef,” Hayes objected, frowning as the doctor continued his poking and prodding.

MacMorgan chuckled, “We are all made of meat, good captain; a doctor, it should follow, would make a more than passable butcher.” He reached down to the black satchel by his seat and pulled out a neatly wound length of clean linen bandages. With quick, experienced fingers, he wrapped Haru’s ribs tight and replaced the bandages around his wrist. His expression said that was healing well, too.

Owen tsked, standing just that much closer to Haru, as if to support him with his presence. “It isn’t anything to -“

The doctor held up a hand. “Nothing to worry about.” He cleared his throat, giving his patient a pointed look. “It will do no good to lie to a physician, ser, and worse if he is a Highland Marcher like me. I appreciate your stoic nature, but I know better, laddie.”

“You may dress yourself, Mr. Haru. I’ll make it a point to prepare more bandages and perhaps a salve, for the bruising. Ah.” MacMorgan reached into his pocket, coming out with a watch on a chain. He hung it in front of Haru; the front served as a small mirror. “A salve will help with … your face as well.” He smiled apologetically.

Haru gladly slipped his shirt back on and carefully cupped the watch-come-mirror in one hand. Gone was the carefully cultivated complexion, cool fawn always so perfectly accentuated by rich blues, replaced by something more wan, unhealthy. High cheekbones, so prized, now bore blue blossoms where once they had been perfectly palest pink; once pillow soft lips showed cracks and a red line just caught the bottom edge, running to the chin where another bruise bloomed.

It felt silly, stupid, petty, to be so dismayed by the injuries inflicted. Surely Lannigan didn’t care so much about the state of his nose. But then the sailor hadn’t been born into a family, a clan, that prided itself so deeply on beauty and perfection. He didn’t expect any of the Thean crew to understand, though he suspected Owen would make an effort, so he cleared the disappointment from face, if not mind, and handed MacMorgan back his time piece.

“Thank you, doctor. I appreciate all your ministrations; surely, that I am here is testament to your skill …”

The doctor replaced his pocketwatch into his vest - and the flash of a silver flask could be seen as he moved his coat - and he nodded. “Quite welcome, Mr. Haru.” He cleared his throat and reseated the spectacles on his nose, uncomfortable with the high praise. “Well, I do try my best …”

Perhaps because he saw something of that sadness and disappointment in his lover’s expression, Owen passed along the sketchbook he had been working in. Prominent on the page were a self portrait of the captain and a portrait of the doctor. In one corner, though, a hidden detail could be picked out: Haru climbing the rigging with Beckett a step or two above him.

“When will I have this chance again?” He asked with a sly smile.

Haru met the captain’s smile with his own, murmuring, “I would sit for something closer if you wished …” as he handed the book back to its owner.

“We can make a night of it, Mr. Haru,” Owen promised.

Doctor MacMorgan, happily oblivious to his captain and patient’s flirtations, hefted his strange instrument once more and began to play it; he hit several sour notes. “It drives Lord Berek MAD,” he grinned ferally, relishing the reclusive lord’s dislike.

Haru’s expression shifted from coy to one of polite interest as he looked to the doctor. Biting back a wince and grimace the thing’s atrocious noises aroused within him, he forced his smile wider saying, “Ahh, yes, I can see that such a unqiue instrument would not be … appreciated by just anyone …”

“Aye, well, a surgeon I may be, but I can never seem to tune my oldest friend.” The doctor the instrument and buckled it together with a clever arrangement of straps. “A pity; once it was a raiser of spirits and entertainment. Now it’s been relegated to my petty revenge on that — that —“ He glanced up to the captain and cleared his throat once more. “Lord Berek.”

#fascinating new thing #fntstory #7th Sea #L5R #Seventh Sea #Legend of the Five Rings #original fiction #fanfiction #fanfic #oc #ocs #my ocs #haru #owen hayes

0 notes