#martin's class knocks me flat

[gerrydelano]

new fantasy au time

[hrefna-the-raven]

Star Born

Masterlist

Chapter 1 - Knowhere

Words: 1967

Warnings: Back to the Future reference because those movies fucking rock! Great Scott!

A woman popped up from behind one of the machines, the sight of her made Peter weak, sending him straight back to a part of his mind he'd almost forgotten. She was wearing a black leather jacket crested with studs on the shoulder parts, the same torn light grey long-sleeve like Peter's, ripped from the collar downwards, revealing a small part of her cleavage, messily tugged into a pair of tight black jeans, the earth style finished off in a knee high pair of Doc Martin boots. While shaved off on one side, the shoulder long strains of her wavy amber hair fell down, covering one side of her face. Peter's eyes were glued on her frame, she looked like she emerged from one of his many dreams about home. He couldn't believe he was seeing someone so beautiful and so strangely familiar in a place like this. His heart raced in his chest, and he didn't want to but couldn't help but stare at her.

"Hi, what brings you guys here?" you asked the Guardians, a mischievous glint in your eyes at the sight of this weird bunch of strangers, especially the human.

Rocket stepped passed Peter, kicking him chuckling as he addressed you directly.

"We need parts for our ship, M class spacecraft," he said, trying to keep a straight face at Quill's drooling love struck expression. You nodded, a smirk playing at the corners of your lips.

"I might have just what you need or even more," you said, walking towards a shelf full of mechanical parts.

As you bent down to push a piece of machinery aside, Peter couldn't help but stare at your well formed butt, the outlines perfectly highlighted by the tight fabric of your jeans. He felt ridiculous, staring at you like a hormonal teenager but he felt like he was falling in love with, not just your behind, but also you right then and there. You had this special something, a weird spell engulfing Peter's mind completely, rendering him completely defenseless. He still wasn't sure if you could be the earthling the Ravagers had mistaken him for earlier but everything about your outfit and the music coming from that old radio just screamed Earth to Peter and he would know, he was born there which technically made him the sole expert on this matter. You led them to your little junk yard behind the workshop, sifting through the pile when the two Ravagers emerged from behind a pile of spare parts.

“Earthling who names herself Star Born, you come with us!”, they yelled at you, merely earning a chuckle as you tapped on a device wrapped around your wrist.

“Oh this is gonna be good, watch this”, you cackled as you poked Peter, looking up to the intruders, “hey! Why don't you make like a tree and get out of here?”

The song from inside the workshop echoed louder now as the Ravagers ran towards you.

Every time I think that I'm

The only one who's lonely someone calls on me

And every now and then I spend

My time at rhyme and verse and curse those faults in me

As they were almost close enough to fight you, what looked like a glowing pink skateboard flew towards them and hit one of them in the head, before gracefully turning around midair to collide brutally with the other Ravager's face, knocking him out coldly.

And then along comes

MaryMary,

MaryThen along comes Mary

Mary, Mary

You leaped over, activating the rocket attached to your left boot, swinging around in the air, your right foot hitting the last standing Ravager's face hard, throwing him flat on the ground.

“And does she wanna give me kicks”, you sang along to the song as you landed back on your feet, grinning at the Guardians, your hips moving to the tunes.

“Why does this woman remind me of Quill, just with the skills”, Rocket asked, mouth agape in astonished confusion.

“Was that...is that...”, Peter stuttered, walking past you to grab the skateboard, “a flarking hoverboard?!” You laughed, bathing in the glorious moment that someone finally recognised the device you built.

“Yes, I tried to build the exact same as in Back to the Future II”, you beamed, “see it even has the Mattel logo on top. It's just a prototype for now though.”

“Oh my...hang on! There is a second movie?!”, Peter looked up at you, his eyes glowing.

“Oh no... here we go”, Gamora rolled her eyes.

“There are three movies, dude”, you laughed, “have you been living under a rock?”

“I-I-I was abducted when I was eight years old, 88, I-I didn't know”, Quill stammered, nervously fiddling on the edges of the skateboard before handing it back to you.

"Ooooh you missed the best. Sweet 90s baby, hell yeah”, you winked at him, throwing the board on the ground where it hovered a few centimeters above the floor before shoving it away.

You had been a space drifter for years after leaving Earth, trying to make ends meet before you eventually landed on Knowhere. It was a tough life, but it was what felt closest to a home, clinging to what would make it all worthwhile, your earthly treasures, the simple stupid gadgets that reminded you of a more calm time of your life. Neither Peter nor you knew at this very moment how important that connection would be, but the delicate foundations of a very important and fond friendship were laid on the day of this fateful random encounter. You whispered your name into Peter's ears.

“But you can call me Star Born”, your hand playfully tapped his shoulder.

“Peter Quill, also called Star Lord”, he grabbed your hand, swiftly kissing the backside of it.

“Nobody calls him that”, Gamora walked into the workshop, waving her hands dismissively.

“Yeah, nobody even knows his real name”, Rocket cackled, sitting on Groot's shoulder, “we need these wires and relays”, he held up a small box, “how much?”

“You know what?”, a finger moved to your lips, your brows furrowing in a thoughtful expression, “if I can borrow your Earth boy here for the rest of the day, I'll give you the parts for free”, you proposed hesitantly, almost sure that they would never agree to such an offer.

“Yeah alright, you can even keep him forever if you want to”, Gamora laughed, leaving the workshop without even glimpsing at Quill.

“I am Groot”, the tree shrugged and followed them, Rocket still sitting on his shoulder, turning his head to wave a middle finger at Peter.

“The vicious vermin speaks the truth”, Drax patted Quill's shoulder, “I'm sorry Peter Quill, but you will have to stay with the weird lady.”

A chuckle escaped your lips at the sound of Peter's annoyed huff, your fingers wrapping around his wrist, directing him to the desk in the corner of the workshop. You rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a small square electronic device. It somehow reminded Peter of his tape player, but instead of a cassette, a tiny floppy disc stuck inside.

"Check this out," you said proudly, pressing a button on the device, handing the headphones over to him, “waaaay better than your prehistoric device.”

To his amazement, he immediately recognised the track that started playing.

“Footloose?!”, his eyes darted to yours.

“Of course! Best dance movie of all times!”, a smile spread across your lips, “during my years moving from one planet to another, I kept telling others that we have this legend on my home planet where the great hero Kevin Bacon teaches an entire city full of people with sticks up their butts that, dancing, well, is the greatest thing there is.”

Peter stood in the middle of this messy workshop on Knowhere, feeling utterly abandoned by his crewmates and friends, leaving him behind, without a second thought, to get the parts to repair his ship for free while he was left to fend for himself. And yet he felt ecstatic, finding someone, not only from his home planet, but also someone with a weird humour that matched his own perfectly, you even twisted the plot of his favourite movie into the same silly tale. As the two of you chatted, he couldn't shake off the feeling that this encounter might have been more than mere coincidence. He never wasted any thoughts on the concept of fate or destiny, but this simply seemed too perfect to be a mere chance. As you continued sharing your memories of Earth, realising that, even though you experienced the planet during two completely different yet similar decades, Peter found himself more and more drawn to you. You were smart, obviously smarter than him, although he'd never admit that in front of the racoon, and definitely funny enough to keep up with his jokes, and by the end of the day, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had known you his entire life. He had scoffed at the ridiculous thought of love at first sight before, yet now he couldn't deny the way his heart raced as he looked into your eyes, that seemed like liquid pools of indigo threatening to drown him. As the day wore on, the two of you found yourselves wandering through the many shops and stalls on Knowhere, your giggles mixing into the steady noise of the bustling marketplace. Finally, as the evening grew late and the two of you reached the Milano, you turned to him, your hand resting on his chest, your mind loosing track for a moment as you felt the warmth radiating through the fabric of his long-sleeve. "I have to go now, Star Lord. But I think we should do this again...sometime." Peter's mind to screamed at him, to do something, kiss you, grab you and hold you back, asking you to join the Guardians, traveling through space with them but his body seemed detached, sabotaging every single wish whirling around his busy brain by simply standing there watching you walk away, his heart feeling the heavy crush of an unfair reality. With every other woman he randomly met during his adventures, he managed to hold up his smooth flirty demeanour which not only ended in him waking up in bed next to said woman but very often also in a lot of trouble. But you rendered him defenseless, all his careless flirts suddenly dissolved into thin air around you. You were more to him, his heart already clinging to you for dear life, leaving no room for anything else. He knew he had to see you again. As he made his way back to the Milano, he frowned at the image of you taking up every little space in his mind, ignoring Rocket's taunting as he went straight to his bunk, slumping down on the bed. Days turned into weeks, and Peter asked around in every port they landed at, hoping to find you after Cosmo told him that you left Knowhere one week after him. But it felt all in vain, it was as if you had vanished into thin air. Finally, as he sat alone on the bridge of his ship while the others roamed the local market, his fingers instinctively went into one of the bottom pockets of his jacket where they found a small piece of paper tucked and neatly folded. He unfolded the paper, not remembering when he ever would have put it there, let alone when he ever held real paper in his hands after he was abducted from Earth.

Meet me at the Quarantine zone in the Andromeda galaxy. See you soon Earthling.

Chapter 3

[mia-ugly]

Breakable Things

Martin is big.

Not in a strapping film-star kind of way. Not tall or broad-shouldered, not a ‘mountain of a man’ or a ‘tall drink of water’ or anything like that.

Just big (a dumb, blunt, smack of a word.)

He was big as a lad, he’s bigger now. He always had the kind of body that inspired too many teachers to push him toward wrestling, football, rugby even (apparently his dad had been involved with the clubs. Apparently he’d been a fair tighthead back in the day, before he left Martin’s mum, and left Martin to gather up the pieces, cutting his fingertips on every one.)

It didn’t take Martin’s teachers or schoolmates long to realize that Martin’s size did not equate to any sort of athletic skill. And once the - inevitable rumours started circulating around Year Seven, well. Any motivation he might have had to be ‘part of a team’ was drained out of him like a tire going flat (that metaphor needs work. Doesn’t really convey the violence, try again.)  His motivation left him like the air being knocked from his lungs, shove after hard shove against the lockers.

Martin is strong.

Physically. He doesn’t know why - got it from his father, didn’t he - his wide back, his thick fingers, his solid legs. He took a cricket bat to the face once - ought to have broken his nose, blackened his eyes, but it didn’t. Got in a car accident when he was seventeen, didn’t even crack a rib. Flipped the whole thing into the ditch, and his mum screamed herself hoarse when she found out, but Martin walked away from it. Physically. He walked away.

He doesn’t bruise easily. If he cuts his hand chopping vegetables, it heals quickly. He doesn’t have any scars (he has stretch marks though, all over his stomach and thighs, and for all that he is strong, he’s soft. He’s soft and he knows it, all pudding and poetry and fear, oh, fear most of all. It's pathetic how easy he is, how quickly he caves, rolls over and does whatever's asked of him.

In most situations, anyway. With most people.)

“Why don’t you want me coming with you?”

Jon is in his office, seated in front of that bloody tape recorder as always. The sight of him there is so familiar, like the negatives from a film camera. Like even if Jon wasn’t there, the imprint of him would still linger, white as a ghost against the darkness.

He doesn’t seem surprised to hear Martin’s voice. Neither does he glance up from the desk where he’s shuffling papers, gathering up books. His hands move constantly, restless and bird-boned and Martin is always looking at them, even when he tries not to.

“I don’t want you getting hurt.” Jon’s voice is low, rough with exhaustion, and it makes Martin wince. Makes him want to fuss (when is the last time the man got a decent night's sleep? Someone should bring him a cup of tea, someone should rub his shoulders, someone should do something -

He knows he has a caretaking thing. He knows it’s not - good. And the sharp ones get to him like anything, he wants to win them over in a pathetic, salivating way. It’s a sickness, but - 

- but there was a point when it suddenly stopped being about Martin’s Whole Thing, and just started being about Jon.

He’ll talk to someone about it, swear. A professional, even. If the world doesn’t end.)

“It’s fine if you get hurt, though, is it?”

Jon does look up now, and Martin forces himself not to take a step back under the dark-lashed scrutiny. The heavy eyebrows, the shimmer of scars.  Sometimes Jon’s skin reminds Martin of the surface of a planet, a rough and distant moon. He wonders how it is that Jon can be so narrow, so small, and still take up so much room in the Archives, and in the world, and in Martin’s big (and soft and so so stupid ) heart.

“It is my job.”

“No. This - this is not your job.” Martin struggles to put the words together in the face of this vast, ridiculous injustice. “Going off to - what? Do battle with some sort of evil, circussy death-cult, that’s not your job . You don’t get paid for that.”

Jon snorts, derisive, and Martin wishes he could be angry. It’d be easier if he was angry with Jon.

But he isn’t.

“Melanie needs you here. And I can’t be - there, thinking about -“ Jon stops. He swallows and looks back down at the scattered papers on his desk. A snowfall of horror stories, laid out neatly on Hammermill Bright White. “Worrying about you.”

(“Leave it, Martin, I’m fine just - leave me alone -” Mum smacks him away with a vein-bruised hand.)

“Because I’ll make a mess of things - is that what you think? I can help you, I want to help you-”

“I will feel better knowing you’re here.”

“And how do you think I’ll feel? Knowing you -  you and, um Tim and Daisy - are out risking your lives while I’m sat on my hands, drinking tea, being useless -”

“You aren’t.” Jon’s voice is suddenly loud, as if he’s in pain. He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “And I don’t - I can’t - you’ll be helpful here. The Institute needs you, and Melanie needs you, and I -”

-don’t, Martin hears.

Though Jon doesn’t say it, Martin hears it.

“Right,” he manages. “All right.”

He should go. He’s going to go. But he lingers for a moment more, committing as much of Jonathan Sims to memory as he can. The angles of him, compact and rigid with anxiety. The fall of hair across his forehead, ink black shot through with grey. Thin pink lines that a blade left below his jaw, a ripple of lacy scar tissue on his hand (and Martin mostly, mostly doesn’t wonder what those scars would feel like against his own skin. On his shoulder or - or sliding down the length of his throat. At the back of his neck, tugging him into a kiss.)

Come back, come back, come fucking back. Martin isn’t religious, never one for church, but it’s as much of a prayer as he’s ever said.

“Is there something else you want?” Jon asks, terse and tired and - for one thoughtless moment he is the Archivist and only the Archivist, and Martin can’t help but gasp out a shocked, “yes.”

Jon knocks a book off the desk. It slams to the floor loud as a gunshot, and Martin flinches.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, “I’m sorry, I -”

“No, I’m - I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking -”

“It’s fine - I know you didn’t -”

“I would never -”

“But you can.”

There’s a horrible silence, like the moment after the tape recorder shuts off, statement ends. Martin feels sick to his stomach and Jon looks like - like -

He doesn’t know what Jon looks like. Maybe that’s why he keeps talking.

“You can ask me. What I - what I want.” Heat is rushing to his face, a blush that feels like thorns. Jon just stares at him, and this was a bad, bad idea. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Jon doesn’t even need to ask the question, probably knows the whole awful story just by looking at him. “If you wanted.”

When Jon says nothing, just keeps staring, Martin tries desperately to double back.

“Never mind, that was -” He flaps his hands a bit, moving towards the door. His shoulders hunch, an old defense mechanism, useless body trying to make itself look as harmless as possible. Trying to make itself so small it’s beyond notice (it never works.) “I shouldn’t have. I can’t believe I -  just - be safe. All right? That’s all I -”

“Martin -”

“That was - stupid, such a - I’m sorry, I only -”

“-what do you want?”

The words are spoken quietly. Barely above a whisper. But Martin doesn’t need to hear them - his whole body hears them, and suddenly every syllable feels golden in his mouth. Saying it out loud isn’t frightening or humiliating, it’s easy. Answering the Archivist is like falling asleep in a patch of sun-warmed grass, or gasping for air after holding your breath underwater.

“I want you to come back.” It’s honey dripping off his tongue. “I want you to come back for me. And I want the world not to end, and I want to know what your hair feels like, whether it’s soft or coarse and whether I can tell the difference between the black parts and the silvery parts just by touching them.”

Jon is absolutely frozen behind his desk. He might not even be breathing, but that’s okay; Martin can’t remember why anyone needs to breathe.

“And I want to help you. And the others. I want to matter. And I want Sasha to be okay, and I want Tim to be okay, and I want Elias to finally face some fucking consequences for once. I want to take you on holiday and - and watch you while you sleep so you know you don’t have to be afraid. I want to wake you up if you have nightmares and make you tea in the morning and bake things for you, and - and I want to kiss you, even if it’s just once. Only once, just so I know, and only if you want me to. That’s what I want.”

The sweetness ends the moment the last word leaves his mouth. Suddenly the honey is cloying and acrid, suddenly his heart is unsteady with embarrassment, skipping beats like he’s just had a shot of adrenaline. Martin chokes on a breath and slams his eyes shut against the spinning room.

“Fuck.” His voice cracks on the word, insult to injury, and he claps a hand over his mouth. “Oh God - I’m - oh God. That was -” He barely remembers what he said, which is the only thing keeping him upright at the moment. He just knows it was soft, pathetically soft. Even his fantasies are as weak as his jawline. “I’m going to - go, I’ll go. I shouldn’t have -”

“W-wait.”

Martin doesn’t want to open his eyes. But he does. Just in time to see Jonathan Sims stand up. Start to walk around the desk.

And Jon is not big. Or strong, physically. Martin knows a bit about anatomy, took a couple art classes, was always fascinated by the bones of things. As Jon steps closer, Martin can only see the breakable things about him. Collarbones, fingers, bridge of his nose. What’s that bone in the arm that everyone’s always breaking?

Humerus.

Ulna.

Jon is not strong, and he is scarred, and he is small and fragile and God he is the bravest person Martin’s ever met.

“Martin, you -” Jon stops in front of him and Martin looks down, gaze almost level with the top of Jon’s head. “You can ask me. What - what I want.”

He’s shaking, Martin can see it - and it makes him realize that he’s shaking too. He barely manages the “What -” before he forgets how to say the rest, forgets how words work (but Jon, Jon is brave.)

“I think - I would like -” Jon reaches for Martin’s hand, and lifts it to his mouth. Presses a dry kiss right in the centre of Martin’s palm.

It’s a ruining sort of softness, and Martin’s big (physically) and strong (physically) but somehow Jon knows where his weaknesses are - the loose dragonscale, the slipped disc.

(And of course, after this the world will almost end (but not quite.)  After this, there will be Elias and Martin’s humiliating tears over a statement he knew damn well, a beholding that came as no surprise to anyone.

After this Jon will die.

Almost. Not quite.)

But now: Jon is murmuring, “I think -” as he leans up to kiss Martin (and his warm mouth is shocking and brief, a knife sliding home.)

But now: Jon is still shaking when their lips part, and Martin’s hands are on either side of his face, tips of his fingers settled lightly in Jon's hair (it’s softer than anything, as it turns out, and the silvery parts are softest of all.)

Their foreheads press together, both of them breathing harder than one kiss should warrant. And Martin doesn’t say any of those other things he wants, any of the white-hot words he’s scratched down on paper or typed into the notes app. He doesn’t say anything about the shape of Jon’s shoulder-blades through that thin grey t-shirt he wears, doesn’t bring up any metaphors about fading light or seaglass or breakable things that are also strangely beautiful.

Because what good is poetry at the end of the world?

“Be careful,” Martin says instead (and Jon won’t be.)

“Come back,” he says (and Jon isn’t going to. Not for a long, long time).

And hours later, standing in that empty office, Martin will see the lighter that Jon left on his desk. He will notice the black handful of ashes in the rubbish bin, and wonder what Jon was burning.

And Martin is soft. People-pleasing and pathetic and terribly, terribly in love.

But Jonathan Sims kissed him once (once) and for a moment, in that office, with a small blue flame leaping in his hand -

Martin is not afraid.

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Crutches- Prompt Fill

cw broken bones, food, internalized ableism, dizziness, headaches

Card by the wonderful @celosiaa! I am still accepting bingo prompts! Please send me more because the starred ones are back written already! Send me a prompt and a character and let me know if you want a drawing or writing!

Navigating the London underground on crutches had been trying to say the least.  But, Jon has gotten very good at navigating it with his cane, so out of sheer spite, he managed it without incident. 

He is still clumsy on them, and by the time he reaches the university, he is more than out of breath, having to stop and use his inhaler before he can reach his classroom.  (He will not be sharing that information with Martin, no way.  He is Fine, and that would only cause worry, and Martin has enough to worry about being an EMT).  

Of course the annoying thing is that he broke his Good leg.  

Of course he manages to break his one more functional leg.  What a very Jonathan Sims thing to do.  

He sighs.  He does not want to explain this to his students.  (And he certainly doesn’t want to explain this to Tim and Sasha, but of course they are coming over for dinner.  Actually… he’s grateful that they don’t already know.  Somehow he actually managed to calm Martin down and talk him out of calling them.  Jon leaned hard into the look I’m fine!  It’s a clean break!  It hardly hurts!  It’s fine!  I’ve had much worse, please don’t fuss!  I’m still conscious and everything! Thing.)

Frankly, it’s embarrassing.  

He misses the days where he would just… heal.  

He might still.  Well, he certainly would the old fashion way, but his recovery might be faster than normal.  Physical injuries are still a little aided by his connection to the Eye, however weakened that connection might be.  Doesn’t do Shit for illnesses, but as much as his EDS causes him to bruise, the bruises don’t stick around for too long.  

Just have to wait and see.  

His students stare.  

Jon shivers.  

He tries not to think about the Institute.  He tries not to think about the prickle on the back of his neck… the feeling of eyes on him when there was no one around.  Don’t be daft, Jonathan, you can see the students right there.  You can see their eyes.  You are just their odd professor who looks even more haggard and beat up than usual.  

He Feels much more haggard than usual.  And he’s shaking from the albuterol.  

“Professor, what happened?” One of his students ask as he maneuvers the podium so he can drop his bag.  

He curses at the lack of chair in the lecture hall.  He’s asked for one.  Repeatedly.  And he’s dragged his office chair in with him before, but… he doesn’t exactly have the hands to do it.  

He has to balance on one leg to dig is computer out so he can connect it to the projector.  

“I’m fine,” he answers automatically.  He was.  He is.  Just tripped like the idiot he is, and broke his good leg.  His bad leg had been throbbing since he got on the tube.  

He ignores it.  

His students eye him with clear suspicion.  Which… Jon would have worried about if… they weren’t perfectly justified.  

They had seen him faint many times, pop his hip back in place, watched him dislocate and relocate his arm, and there was the time he had the concussion, and the time he had a migraine and had fainted when someone tapped him on the shoulder, and the time when he had come to class feverish.  

These students have called Martin so many times by now.  

He deserves those cautions glances.  These kids (not really kids, but sue him, they look like kids in his eyes) are ready to call him on his bullshit.  

“I fell the other day.  I’ll be fine.  Just a broken tibia.  I’ll be fine in couple months.  Let’s get on with the lesson.”

One kid raises their hand, and Jon calls on them.  “Yes?”

“Professor Blackwood-Sims, isn’t that your good leg?”

Damn these overly observant students.  If only they payed that much attention to his lectures.  (No, that’s not fair, they are all good students.  The ones who struggle, have good reason to, and Jon has managed to get them to all come talk to him and tell him what they need to do better).  

Jon smiles tightly.  “Well… it was.  Okay, on with the lecture.”

His leg hurts.  The not broken one.  The broken one… well that hurts a little too, but not nearly as much as the one full of holes.  (They are both full of holes, but one was wormed much more thoroughly and hasn’t been the same since.)

Balancing on one leg proves difficult as he’s hit by dizziness.  He’s been standing too long.  Too long on his bad leg, and the tension and pain have given him a headache bad enough that he’s had one of his students turn off the lights.  He can’t face the light of the projector, so he gives the lecture angling away from it.  

One of his students offers to run the PowerPoint so he can sit in one of the desks as he teaches, but he turns her down.  There are only a few minutes left.  He can make it.  Then he can get home and take some painkillers and shower before Tim and Sasha come to dinner.  

He knows he can cancel, but he doesn’t want to.  He’s more dreading having explain what happened.  

He reaches the flat quickly enough.  He should have time to shower and cook.  He hopes.  

He swallows some painkillers dry (just a few so he can still take more before bed and not worry Martin by pushing the recommended doses too far) and works his way out of his work clothes while sitting on the bed.  It isn’t fun.  

He swallows his pride and uses the shower seat.  He hates it.  He hates that he needs it, yes, but honestly it’s more an issue with the textured plastic under his naked skin.  It feels… wrong.  Both because it reminds him of the circus, and because it’s just a bad texture.  It also feels gross… as in unclean.  He cleans it vigorously often, but it still doesn’t feel clean to him.  

Between the headache, and the dizziness from the hot water and several nights of poor sleep (from nightmares and trying to sleep with a cast on which gave him More nightmares), and the pain in both his legs, Jon fights back the darkness around the edges of his vision.  

He will Not pass out now.  

No.  

Will not happen.  No thank you.  No.  

He fights to keep upright and conscious.  And, surprisingly, wins that battle.  He sits on the bed again while dressing, and while braiding his hair. 

It takes him a long time.  There is a lot of hair to work with, and his scalp hurts with the intensity of his headache.  He also dallies, the more time this takes, the longer he can sit.  He should consider dragging a chair in front of the counter and a chair in front of the stove.  That could make cooking less painful.  

Well, in some ways.  

The unnatural angles are hell on his wrists when chopping.  

Lesser of two evils, however, he supposes.  

Shit.  He isn’t going to have time to finish dinner by the time Tim and Sasha arrive.  

And Martin isn’t going to be home for another hour.  He knows, he knows (not Knows, though), that they won’t mind.  Tim might even Help him cook, but… he doesn’t like being a bother.  He wants… well frankly he wants to erase the years of hurt with food (Christ, Martin has worn off on him.  Not that he minds.  He loves Martin).  

The sauce is almost done, but he hasn’t even started the pasta by the time Tim’s voice drifts through the door.  Sing-song and loud.  No knocking (thankfully).  

Jon hates that he needs the crutches to get to the door.  He hates that his vision is swimming by then too.  The painkillers took the edge off the pain, but can’t do much about the other stresses on Jon’s mortal frame.  

“Be there in a moment, or you can just let yourself in,” Jon calls back.  He has to pause and lean on the wall.  This is all very irritating.  

Apparently, Tim had already been halfway through unlocking the door, because he’s in before Jon can even finish the sentence.  

“Jesus, Jon, what did you do this time?”  Sasha exclaims, quickly, but gracefully pulling off her coat, hanging it on one of the hooks by the door.  It’s less a question than a statement.  

“Hello Sasha, Tim.  Dinner isn’t quite ready, but it’s not too far away.  In the meantime there’s wine.  Martin will be here soon, but his shift isn’t over yet.”  His eyes are closed.  Head tilted back against the wall.  The room finally stops spinning around him.  

“What did you even do?”  Tim this time.  

Jon… doesn’t meet his eyes.  He knows he is blushing, but there isn’t much to be done about that.  He mumbles.  He doesn’t know why.  He knows it won’t work.  Shoving out the words too fast to be understood.  

“What was that Jonny?”  That is a cackle.  Tim is cackling.  Tim, is very irritating… but he does love him, even when he’s teasing.  

“Tripped over my cane.”  Jon says as quickly and quietly as possible.  

“Only you, buddy.  Only You, could do something like that.  Now PLEASE SIT DOWN BEFORE YOU FALL OVER.  I can finish making dinner!”  Tim herds him to a chair.  In the kitchen, because Jon knows that Tim knows Jon won’t actually relax on the couch or the bed if he’s told to.  

“Okay, Jon, what’s left to do… No buts!  This smells amazing and I can’t fuck up pasta, probably.  At least I assume you planned pasta, because there is a box on the counter.”  Sasha says this brandishing aforementioned pasta.  

Sasha makes him tea.  Tim makes the pasta.  (Tim is absolutely the chief between the two of them.)  

“When did you last have painkillers?”  Tim asks.  

“Not too long ago.  Really I’m fine.”

Tim hmmms.  

Jon finds himself nodding off at the table by the time Martin comes home.  

He knows he’s being talked about.  

“Hey, sweetheart.  Hey?”

Jon sleepily raises his head from the table.  “Sorry, I went to work.”  

“Love, I thought you were going to Zoom in today.”  Martin doesn’t sound Angry.  But he doesn’t sound happy about this.  In Jon’s defense, he did say he would see how he felt, and he felt fine in the morning.  

Jon whines, he hates disappointing Martin.  

“We can talk about that tomorrow.”  Martin presses a kiss to his forehead.  

“Hey!  No sleeping until we eat!”  Tim.  Mock serious.  Although he will be very serious if Jon tries to skive off to sleep without some food.  

“Dinner, then I vote we cuddle Jon until he gets some rest!”  Sasha this time.  

Just like old times.  

He knows he will be teased for How he broke his leg.  He knows he and Martin will have a serious chat about him pushing himself.  

But for now there is food, and cheer, and his loved ones.  

[bibliocratic]

legacies

or: Martin worries about being a father.

future older and married and hideously domestic jonmartin (with new baby)

(Because this fic discusses and hinges on Jon and Martin's own upbringings, there are some content warnings in the tags. Take care of yourselves, folks.)

Martin's done what he usually does when he needs space. Sure enough, Jon hears the heavy-handed tinkle of the summerhouse key being undocked from its moorings by the fridge, the thoughtless over-heated slam of the back door a moment later.

Jon gets Lewis settled eventually. Murmuring reassuring little promises as he rocks him, his arms growing achy with the solid weight, unhappy wails turning into a grizzling. Finally, finally these transition into sleepy yawns, sluggish-fisted waves of his tiny hands. Jon presses a tired but adoring peck against his forehead, smelling baby shampoo and talc. Once he's laid him down, he stays a moment, listening, watching the steady rotations of the night-light patterns leisurely sweep the room before he pockets the baby monitor, remembering to take off the slightly dribbled-on cloth draped over his shoulder to protect his shirt, all of which are by now mostly ruined and smelling of new parenthood.

He goes out into the garden. The light is on in the summerhouse, orangey light offset against the blanketing navy of the oncoming dusk.  It's a shed with pretensions, really if they're both being honest with themselves. They store the gardening equipment and lawn mower right at the back, leaving just enough space inside to manoeuvre a squashed DIY-upholstered chair and a pokey desk, a battered old boot-fair find. Martin can barely stretch his legs out when he sits down, and he's been in the process of 'doing it up' for about five years, but he seems content to potter about in it, adding little things according to his own logic. He sometimes sits down outside of its doors in a wobbly-legged camping chair when the weather's warm and the sun catches that corner of the garden, scribbling in his notebook and squinting at the light, and reddening past sun-blushed and inevitably getting a lecture from Jon for neglecting to use sun-cream again.

Jon knocks on the door and steps in slowly.

Martin's hunched over when he goes inside, elbows on knees, the curve of his back broad and uncomfortable looking. He has his hands over his mouth, rubbing anxiously at the scratch of his beard. His expression is sullen and sunken, bearing the wrecks of his unhappiness on his face. He lets out a breath that wavers, overstays its welcome, structurally unsound and liable to collapse into teariness.

Martin gets red-faced when he's angry, blotchy around his throat. The slow-fade splotching pokes out from under his shirt like ivy rash.

“He's sleeping, finally,” Jon says quietly.  “Out like a light.”

Martin nods heavily, hands still half covering his face. His breath spools out of him deep and ragged and coming undone.

The summerhouse is poorly designed for one, never mind two. Martin's cramped in the only chair,  so Jon takes the summit of the folding step-stool on his left, polka-dotted in paint thanks to last year's re-visioning of the master bedroom.

He puts a hand against Martin's knee.

“It's alright – ” he starts, but Martin's shaking his head like shedding water, rubbing at his eyes.

“No,” he replies, voice scraped flat, dulled featureless. “Just – no. Don't defend me, Jon. It wasn't – it wasn't ok.”

“You're tired,” Jon establishes a defence. “We both are.”

“That's no excuse,” Martin says. “Losing my – losing my rag like that, it's not – it's just not.”

He looks like Jon feels. Frayed and tired and buzzing with emotions that seem too big for the both of them.

“Today was a rough one,” Jon says. “We knew it wouldn't be easy, you can't beat yourself up every time you put a step wrong.”

Lewis just wouldn't stop crying for anyone today. Restless when he would nap, tired and unhappy when he was awake, bringing half of it back up when Martin anxiously tried to feed him, pacing the living room exhausted when Jon had come in from work. It's not the first time like that, when there's no puzzle piece to unlock silence, when no amount of feeding or changing or playing will settle him. That's just how it goes with babies, Jon was told by the books, and the veteran parents, and the forums Martin had scoured before Lewis arrived,

Martin's just never reacted so poorly before.

“That's not – ” Martin says, stops. Pulls his hands away from his face, his eyes puffy.

He takes Jon's hand, still perched on his knee, laces their fingers together. Over the baby monitor, Jon can hear the soft untroubled in-and-out of their son breathing.

“I sounded like my dad,” Martin confesses finally. Fat tears well up and stagger down his tear-prickled cheeks. “I sounded exactly like him.”

“Martin...”

“I frightened him.”

“You raised your voice.”

“I shouldn't have – I was the adult in the situation, wasn't I?” Martin's fingers not currently tangled in union with Jon's go to scrunch against his scalp again. He's so brimming with a miserable shame he has no space to listen. “Lew, god, he's just a baby, he doesn't understand, he doesn't know what's going on, only that he's unhappy. A-a-and then he-he sees his dad getting mad, and of course, he cried louder, because he was scared of me.”

Martin wipes fruitlessly at his eyes with the soaked and snotty cuffs of his jumper.

“I can't be like my dad, Jon,” he croaks. His words waver at the end. “I couldn't take – fuck, I never want Lew to – he should never be frightened of me, never, what sort of parent would I be if – ”

His grip gets tighter, his voice more pained.

“But what if I am. Like him?  Father like son, what if that's another legacy he saddled me with? A-and if I can't trust myself around my own son....”

“You aren't your father,” Jon interrupts. “You're not, Martin.”

“I wasn't in control...”

“You were.”

Jon had watched the horror overtake Martin's frustration like a tsunami making landfall as soon as the words left his mouth. He'd breathed out hard, his eyes gone wide, his arms still full of squalling, wailing baby, and then he'd passed Lewis over to Jon – still with such gentleness, holding him like some proffered treasure – and banished himself from the room.

“You were tired, and you reacted poorly,” Jon continues. “We... we're new at this, but as soon as – Martin, as soon as it happened, you – you walked away. You love Lewis. The minute you perceived yourself as a – a  threat to that, rightly or wrongly, you got out of there because you couldn't bear the thought of him coming to harm.”

Jon wishes Martin would meet his eyes, but knows he doesn't have the reserves for it right now.

He lowers his voice.

“You want him safe and happy, we both do. And I don't – I don't think you could have said the same about your dad.”

Martin sniffs. Shakes his head. Looks at his own hands like he's seeing the heft of them for the first time, the way they dwarf in comparison to the small shape of their son's palm, and Jon's heart aches. For the histories he cannot change, doesn't know, will never Know, for the ingrained fears he can't help Martin dig up like weeds exposed to air.

He continues cautiously.

“Is this – this is not the first time, is it? That you've worried about this.”

Martin gives him a no through gesture.

“I want to be better than that,” Martin says.  “I want him to have a – a better upbringing than what we were given.  I don't want him to ever feel we don't love him.”

Jon gets it. In this shed with them are the absent weights of their younger selves, when other winds were allowed to fill up the hollows of them that love should have rushed into.

“I know.” Jon replies, and he does.

“Have you....” he asks slowly.  “Have you talked to Siobhan? About your worries?”

“I – I will. Next session. Talk it through with her.”

Jon nods, squeezes Martin's hand with an encouraging tightness, and Martin gives a wet smile back, finally meeting his eyes again.  

“You're doing great,” he says sincerely, softly. “I happen to think you're a fantastic dad.”

Jon knew he would be. Oh, Martin can be fussy and anxious, over-thinks things, but he'd prepared for Lewis' coming to live with them like a military operation; the months of preparation classes and home visits and assessments and finalising court orders. There's a pride in Jon, thick and clotting like crystallized honey, when he watches his husband and child together. To know that they are his.

Jon doesn't think he's ever been so in love, watching Martin cradle and babble at their son, making nonsense sounds and singing gibberish songs and pulling faces while carefully preparing his formula. Lewis staring big-eyed and fascinated at Martin, trying to grab at his briar-bush of red curls and push them into his mouth, making little cooing sounds and generally looking up at him like his dad was hanging the moon. Jon understands the feeling.

“You're biased,” Martin mumbles back.

“Of course,” Jon replies easily, and knocks his lips against Martin's temple in a soft expression of reassurance.

“Let's go back inside,” he suggests. “You can go check on him, I''ll put the kettle on, ok?”

Martin goes up to the nursery room, making sure to avoid the creaking bottom step. Jon turns the volume on the baby monitor down while he flicks on the kettle, rummages around for the last of the semi-skinned. Whatever Martin is saying to their son, it's private, knotted and laboured with its own burdens of histories.

Jon thinks of his own as he steeps the teabags.

[localswordlesbian]

sweet talk

this is my submission for @martimweek for the prompt “club/pub/bar”! I’ve been wanting to write a martim one shot fic for a while and this gave me the inspiration to actually do it

read it on ao3 or below the cut

“I’m sick of this. I’m dropping out.”

“You say that every single time you leave an assignment to the last minute, Tim. You’d think you’d have learned by now.”

Tim glared at Martin from where he was dangling upside down off his bed. “I mean it this time. This paper is due tomorrow and it sounds like hot garbage. I’m probably just better off not handing anything in.”

Martin rolled his eyes, putting his own book in his lap. “You’re so dramatic, I’m surprised you’re not a drama major.”

“Why study for something I’m naturally good at?”

Martin groaned while Tim laughed. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love it.” Martin grumbled. “Screw this paper.”

“Oh, hand it over, you oaf. You’re not submitting nothing, especially after writing ten bloody pages.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a saint, Marto?”

“Literally only you.”

“You’re a saint.”

Martin skimmed over the paper, a historical analysis of the Cold War and its more violent clashes. Martin was no history buff, but this paper was far from, as Tim put it, hot garbage . It was actually pretty good.

He told his flatmate as much, but Tim just scoffed. “You’re just being nice.” Despite his dismissive words, a glow of pride lit up his face.

“Just hand it in, you insufferable twat. You already knew that, you just wanted affirmation.”

Tim clicked his tongue. “Is that so wrong?”

“No, not really.”

Tim leaned back against the wall as Martin picked up his book again. “We should go to the pub tonight, you and me. To celebrate.”

Martin laughed. “To celebrate you turning in a paper? We do this every semester, Tim. Multiple times.”

Tim threw an eraser at his head, and Martin squeaked indignantly. “Fine, then you come up with a reason. I want to go to the pub, and I want to go with you.”

Martin looked up at his flatmate, leaning casually against the wall with his laptop perched precariously on one knee. His black hair was sticking upright from the amount of times he’d run his hands through it in the past few hours, and his tanned and chiseled face looked tired. Despite that, his lips were curled upwards in his telltale smirk.

Martin sighed. “Yeah, alright. Wanna invite the others?”

Tim shook his head. “Sasha’s busy, Daisy and Basira scare me, and Melanie has a date with her new girlfriend.” Tim raised his eyebrows. “Unless there’s someone you’d like to bring along?”

Martin’s face instantly heated up. “Uh, nope. Just the two of us is good.”

Tim chuckled. “I’m sure Jon would love to have a night off from studying, head to the pub with some friends –”

“Tim, I swear to god–”

Tim put his hands up in mock defeat, his grin more infuriating than ever. Martin knew perfectly well that his face was an alarming shade of red, bright enough to put firetrucks to shame, and he also knew that this amused his friend greatly. “Alright, just the two of us then.”

Night fell while Martin finished up his reading for his English class – The Yellow Wallpaper, a story about a woman who spent so long trapped in a room that she began hallucinating a woman living in the walls and trying to rescue her. The ending of the story gave Martin chills, and he quickly scribbled some notes into the margins before closing the book and putting it back on his shelf. Stretching his arms over his head, he winced as several of his bones cracked and his muscles strained from being stuck in the same position for hours on end.

Tim wanted to go to the pub in a few minutes, so Martin pulled a white turtleneck jumper from his closet, throwing it over his shirt. When Tim knocked, he didn’t wait for a reply – simply opened the door and stuck his head in.

“Ready?”

“Christ, Tim! Normal people knock! I could have been changing or something.”

“Which you clearly should be. You’re not going in those jeans.”

“My jeans are fine!”

“Nope. I’ll be in the foyer.”

Martin groaned as Tim shut the door, rolling his eyes as he turned back to his closet. He didn’t want to wear his nice trousers to the pub, but his jeans were old and worn and a little bit gross. Making a split second decision, Martin pulled a galaxy-patterned skirt on and grabbed his wallet and phone on the way out the door.

Tim was waiting by the door, one of his signature hawaiian shirts unbuttoned over a plain black tee. Martin’s heart skipped a little – there was a reason Martin had had a sexuality crisis when he’d come to university, and that reason was standing in front of him.

Tim raised his eyebrows approvingly. “Much better.”

“Bossy arse.”

“Come on, you love it,” Tim teased as they headed out of the flat and into the dark London street. “Your type is clearly bossy.”

Martin sputtered. “My type is not –

“Oh, come off it, Martin. Sims?”

“You don’t need to call him by his last name, he’s not a professor.”

“Alright, Jonathan, the librarian’s special little boy.”

“I don’t get why you don’t like them.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. “Do you really think I don’t like them?”

Martin shrugged. “Well, yeah. You’re always so… snide and sarcastic whenever he’s brought up. Like now,” he added pointedly, raising his eyebrows at his friend.

Tim sighed. “Okay, fair. But I like them perfectly fine, I’ll have you know. He seems like a nice guy, if a little, what’s the word? Married to their work.” Tim threw his arm over Martin’s shoulders. “Look, Martin, I wouldn’t say anything if I didn’t know how you get, especially when it comes to people you fancy.”

“How do you mean?” Martin asked slowly.

“You have a tendency to give yourself away, until there’s nothing left of you to love. I don’t want you to pursue this guy and have your heart broken cause he’s got his nose too glued in a book to notice you. Or your tea,” he added lightheartedly.

They reached the pub, and Martin sighed as they walked inside and made a beeline for a booth in the back. “Tim, I’m not dumb.”

“No, you’re crushing on a guy. And those two things are sometimes interchangeable – trust me, I’d know.”

Martin sighed, gathering his skirt into the booth. “Yes, Tim, you’re a dating expert.”

Tim flashed a grin as he ordered a drink for each of them. “I should write a romance advice column in the school paper. ‘Timothy Stoker’s Guide to Love.’”

Martin snorted. “If you want to increase the number of breakups, maybe.”

Tim punched his shoulder, and Martin yelped. “Rude! I give amazing dating advice.”

Their drinks arrived, and the beer mixed with lighthearted banter was giving Martin a happy buzz. He loved all of his friends, of course he did, but there was something different about having a night out just with Tim. They had an easy rhythm, the two of them, bouncing conversations and teasing and laughter back and forth like a beach ball, pausing to sip their drinks and order more, and soon enough Martin was feeling properly tipsy, and a look over at Tim’s flushed face told him he was faring about the same.

After downing his last drink, Tim turned in the booth to face Martin, one leg crossed under his other knee. “Why don’t you just ask out Jon?”

“Because I can’t,” Martin shrugged.

Tim scoffed, his eyes slightly unfocused. “Seriously? Why not? You’re way out of their league, if you don’t mind me saying, and he clearly likes you back. So what’s there to lose?”

Martin sighed. “Come on, Tim. I’d have no idea where or how to even start. Between my mum, and then my transition and anxiety fucking everything up, I never let anyone get too close. It feels too late now.”

Tim rolled his eyes, but they were fond. “Martin, I mean this in the most loving way possible, but you’re a dolt. It’s not too late, you’re only bloody twenty-one! So what if you haven’t had a relationship before? It’s not like he’s got anything to say about you being trans or having anxiety, and if he does I have a crowbar I keep in my closet for that exact situation.”

“Yeah, I know he won’t.”

“So what’s the issue?”

“God, Tim!” Martin threw his hands up in exasperation. He wasn’t annoyed at Tim, and Tim knew that; he was annoyed at himself, and the alcohol made everything just spill out without a second thought. “I’ve never done this before, I don’t know how to ask someone out without making a blubbering fool of myself, it was hard enough even becoming friends with them because, what are coherent sentences, even, when someone you fancy is talking to you? I’ve never even kissed anyone!” His voice quieted at the last sentence.

“Oh, well if that’s all, that’s easily remedied.” At Martin’s confused tilt of the head, Tim leaned in slowly, slowly enough that Martin could have easily pulled away, easily declined.

Perhaps a sober Martin would have hesitated, would have considered the aftermath, had overthought every aspect of what he was about to do obsessively until Tim pulled away, regretting having made the offer.

Instead, he closed the gap, and then Tim’s lips were on his, soft and tasting of beer. His hands were in Tim’s hair, the curls soft and welcoming against his fingers, Tim’s breath hot on Martin’s face as he parted his lips, pulling Martin’s lower lip into his mouth. He gasped, dimly aware that this was a terrible idea, he was kissing his best friend in the back booth of a student pub that stank of beer and sweat, and Tim’s hands were gripping his shoulders and his lips were soft on his. Tim kissed like he was drowning, and Martin’s lips were air.

Tim pulled away first, and Martin slowly opened his eyes, the dim lights in the pub suddenly too bright. Tim’s hair was still bunched in Martin’s hand, and he slowly disentangled his fingers while Tim released his shoulders, never taking his eyes off Martin’s face. His lips were swollen and red, and he was grinning. “That, my friend, is how you kiss. You’re a natural, nothing to worry about.”

Martin exhaled a shaky breath, causing Tim to chuckle. “Nothing to worry about, yeah?”

Tim grinned lopsidedly, pushing a strand of hair behind Martin’s ear. “Nothing at all.”

Martin nodded. “Cool.” That made Tim laugh. “What now?”

Tim tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“Well, we’re best friends, and we just, well, made out in the back of a pub. Isn’t this supposed to make things awkward?”

“Does it need to?”

“Hm. I guess it doesn’t.”

Tim scooted, bumping his hip against Martin’s, and it took Martin a second to realize he was trying to urge him out of the booth. They stood, swaying and leaning against each other for support. They left the pub and emerged into the chilly London night, arms around each other, concentrating on not walking into the street. “I’ll tell you what now.”

“Hm?”

“We’re going to get food on our way home, then we’re going to fight over who gets to use the shower first, and I’m going to win with my devilish charm. Then we’re going to go to bed, and wake up tomorrow with horrible hangovers and more schoolwork. Deal?”

Martin smiled. “Deal.”

[beholdme]

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 5

Chapters: 5/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Library AU, Librarian Jon, Artist Gerry, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Ace Subtype - Sex Positive, Polyamory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Falling In Love, Boys in Skirts, Kissing, Demisexual Gerard Keay, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Flirting, Minor Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Adventures in Hair Dying, Happy Ending, Banter, Gerry has a lot of sass, Gerard Keay is Morticia Adams, Jon is a very grumpy Librarian, Martin adores them anyway.

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can't help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4]

Gerry has always thought it was very appropriate that his first kiss (with Jon, and overall) happened in the forgotten stacks of a local library. The scents of books and ink had surrounded them, something he still associates with Jon and youthful adoration to this day.

He was seventeen and desperately trying to pass his A-levels in the crumbling ruins of his fucked up life. Jon was nineteen and ready to have a breakdown and drop out of second-year uni. Their messes had conveniently lined up enough to give them space to fall in love. It was a messy, chaotic type of relationship, but that was who they were and it suited them just fine.

They somehow ended up as unlikely study partners after trying to check out the same book for their respective English classes, and then, almost without even noticing, they were inseparable.

Gerry was drawn to Jon because he was steady but in a frenetic, rebellious kind of way. His eyebrow piercing and painted nails also helped.

Jon was enamored with Gerry because he flirted and held his hand and accepted him for exactly what he was and nothing else mattered.

One night, after admittedly too little sleep and too much caffeine, Jon decided he wanted to try something new. It was impulsive. He should have asked first, but instead, he moved without thinking, and somehow Gerry was pushed back against a bookshelf, their lips pressed together in a rather forceful way.

Gerry laughed at him.

"Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for," Jon pouted, drawing away, but not so far that Gerry wasn't able to draw him back with his hands on Jon's hips. Jon's hands, previously bracketing Gerry's face, slipped up to tangle in Gerry's soft, badly dyed black hair.

Fortunately for Gerry, Jon was exactly the right height for Gerry to draw him close and press a kiss to his temple. "You just surprised me, is all. I wasn't expecting you to do that. Like, maybe ever?" He laughed softly, again, an incredulous well of hot affection opening in his chest.

"I was curious," he replied, shrugging. His face burned, with both embarrassment and sappy pleasure. "I thought maybe it would be nice."

"Oooooh." Gerry grinned wickedly, "We'll have to keep trying, then. You know, for investigative purposes. We can't leave a hypothesis improperly explored."

Jon silenced his nonsense by drawing their lips back together, and Gerry happily obliged him. At that moment, Gerry decided to make every kiss better than the one before, so Jon would always feel the need to come back for more.

It turned out they enjoyed kissing one another very, very much. Gerry still appreciated everything Jon offered him and never pressured him for anything more, or extra, or too much. Jon was still steady but wild. Gerry always seemed to end up shirtless. Young infatuation was a beautiful thing, both to behold and to endure.

*******

By the time Jon meets Martin, he's kissed a few more people.

Georgie, for two dizzy years in grad school. Tim, on one memorable and drunken misadventure. A few others sprinkled here and there.

But he couldn't remember ever feeling that same reckless drive to push himself into someone else's space and live in their gravity, the way it had been during those breathless months with Gerry.

As soon as he lets his unfounded anger for Martin's mere presence in his orbit fade, Jon feels himself drawn to Martin's magnetism. His kindness, his gentleness, his constant awareness of Jon's mood and wellbeing.

The way he brings him tea even though he would have insisted he didn't like it and didn't want it. Martin did it anyway because Jon could let it cool or drink it, but the gesture behind it stood all the same.

Jon doesn't imagine that Martin could ever forgive his months of snide remarks and cold disregard, but he does, and Martin somehow manages to like him anyway. Because that's just who Martin is, always finding something to love in even the most desolate places.

"Let me get you a taxi." Martin presses after a dinner date.

"Let me get you a taxi." Jon presses back.

"I live one block away!" Martin laughs and can't resist pulling Jon towards him by the elbows. Jon grabs his lapels with sloppy confidence born of laughter and wine.

The air is full of gentle moisture, not quite raining, just blanketing the world enough that they feel locked away in their own world for the moment. Nevermind that they live in one of the most populous cities in the world. At that moment there is nothing but Jon and Martin and the warmth between them, forging an intoxicating attachment to rattle the stars.

"I want to kiss you," Martin whispers the confession into the space between them, pressing their foreheads together and breathing Jon's air.

"I really wish you would," Jon offers him in return.

Their lips press together gently, deliberately. Martin is taller than Jon by enough that he gets the supreme satisfaction of dragging him slightly up towards him, crowding into his normally sacred personal space.

For a moment, they feel airborne, standing in their huddle of space and time. Their lips move together, dragging and drugging them.

Martin gasps softly as they pull apart to breathe, all their emotion pouring out into the space between them.

"Come home with me," Martin pleads softly. "Just- for time together. I don't want this to end."

"Yes," Jon whispers back, "I think I would like that very much."

It is only one block away, and they walk hand in hand, pausing occasionally to press soft lips together again and again.

*******

Gerry tries to keep a balance of spending time with both Martin and Jon and seeing them separately. He also makes sure to give them space to be together on their own, and never inserts himself between them.

Even after several months, he feels like a guest in their relationship, and for the time being, he doesn't mind existing in that space. He finally knows he wants to keep them both, and he is willing to wait for the natural progression of their relationship to carry them along.

He is still willing to do his part in it, of course.

Gerry likes to go into the bookstore, get flirted with by Tim, flirt with Martin in return. Drink tea or coffee and read books on the comfortable couch in the corner, all the while watching Martin brew drinks and care for his customers.

Martin works 5 or 6 days most weeks, often helping man the counter himself, between the admin of running the place and herding Tim and various baristas. So Gerry is quite taken aback when he goes in early one Monday afternoon to find Martin nowhere in sight.

After a quick check with Jon to make sure it's not a normal absence, Gerry makes his way the short walk to Martin's flat.

At first, there's no answer to his knock. He knocks again. He texts Martin's cell. He calls it too. A pit settles into his stomach, although he knows it's far too early to panic.

He knocks one more time and even calls out for Martin through the door, before going quiet to listen.

After a few nerve-wracking moments, Martin does actually open the door a crack, peering out at Gerry with red, tear-stained eyes.

"Martin? Are you okay, love?" Gerry tries to push forward, but the door doesn't open any further. "I brought you tea. From the shop, even, so it's definitely good."

"Why?" Martin asks in such a bleak voice that Gerry is taken aback.

"I-" He starts, mouth gaping at Martin's completely alien manner. "I thought you might like it. That it would bring you some comfort if you were sick or something."

"Or something," Martin says, the total blank sadness in his voice filling Gerry with biting concern.

"Please let me in." He presses his hand more firmly into the door, and Martin eventually yields, although Gerry knows from unfortunate personal experience that it's more from lack of caring than anything.

"Make yourself at home, I guess." Martin offers the space ahead of him as he moves further into his flat. He collapses on the couch, curling into a fetal position on the cushions.

Gerry's heart burns, both with sympathy and empathy. He has an idea of what might be causing such a bad relapse of Martin's depression, although the topic of mothers is always carefully danced around between the three of them. He puts the tea down in grabbing distance and he goes to Martin's wardrobe to fetch his favorite fluffy blanket.

"You don't have to tell me what's wrong. But I want to be here for you." Gerry tells him firmly as he wraps Martin up in it. "Is there anything specific I can do for you or do you want me to suggest some stuff?"

Martin blinks up at him. "I don't know…"

"I can put the TV on and sit nearby. I know I don't have Jon's voice, but I could read to you. Put on a podcast?" Gerry throws out the suggestions, keeping his tone gentle and neutral. He doesn't want Martin to sense that this is difficult for him in any way. He can process his own emotions later.

"Anything." Martin shifts over onto his side as silent tears resume a steady trail down his face. Gerry walks over to the bookcase and selects a book he has seen Martin reading a dozen times, the spine well broken and the pages yellowing.

He sits on the floor in front of Martin, near enough for him to hopefully be able to absorb some of the goth's errant body heat. He starts reading, keeping his cadence slow and steady, hoping to provide comfort and grounding.

He reads for almost an hour, and he thinks Martin actually sleeps through most of it. He drinks the tea, although it's already cold.

Eventually, he slows to a stop and closes the book, but doesn't move, hoping Martin will stay sleeping.

"I'm sorry." Gerry is startled by Martin's croaky voice and turns to look at him.

"You have nothing to apologize for."

"I do," Martin starts, rubbing at his checks and sitting up against the armrest. "I'm a disaster and you had to come all this way and waste all this time just because I can't get my shit together."

Gerry's eyes narrow at this nonsense, but his tone remains gentle. "None of the time I spend with you is ever wasted. I care about you and I want to be here for you. I wish you had called me or Jon so that we could have come sooner."

Martin's face falls at the mention of their mutual boyfriend's name. "Of course. You came for Jon. It would have been pretty bad if he had seen this mess."

"That is not what I said, and it's not what I meant." Gerry's voice rises, from hurt at Martin's words, at the way his mental state twists Gerry's heart in his chest. He pulls himself up onto his knees, putting himself firmly in Martin's personal space and leaning in close so Martin can't avoid his eyes or his words. "Martin, allow me to make myself completely clear. Because I won't allow you for one second longer to believe that you are some kind of consolation prize for me, that I tolerate your presence because I feel like you and Jon are a package deal. That anything I do to show you affection or effort is for Jon's benefit. You are a gift to me. The way I feel for you is completely independent of my feelings for Jon. I love us all together, but you. You fill me with hope and laughter and the warmth of a perfectly brewed cup of tea. I want you just as much as I want Jon, and my heart will never be the same if you were to walk away from me. Please don't push me away because you think I only feel this way about Jon. Because that is the furthest thing from my truth."

His declaration sits heavy in the air between them for a moment, almost shimmering where Gerry can practically see it hanging in the air.

"But, I-"

"No, no buts. I'll accept 'thank you, Gerry, you light up my life too, Gerry.' No arguments. No buts. This is a space where we can accept that people love us."

"Thank you, Gerry," Martin says slowly, pulling Gerry closer to hold the sides of their faces together. Gerry wraps his arms around Martin and rocks them gently. "You fill life with colour, my Gerry."

"Much better, love. I'd really like to kiss you now, if you-" Gerry breaks off as Martin pulls him closer and slots their lips together. The kiss is full of desperate desire to bring Martin closer to Gerry and further from his forsaken loneliness.

Gerry slides himself up off the floor, not breaking contact, and sits astride Martin's lap. Martin sneaks his hands up the back of his shirt, hands confident and familiar from months of tactile flirting and easy affection.

Gerry anchors himself to Martin, and Martin anchors himself to Gerry, and at that moment they feel the nexus of their relationship, both with each other and with Jon, lock firmly into place.

[katrandomwrites]

Wierdly Human

Alternate title was "Jon the Archivist is Kinda Hot"

Little in between snippets from the assistants and their impressions of Jonathan Sims.

I declare this a fluff and humor only zone! Episode 160 can kiss my butt.

You can also find this on AO3 under the same title.

I got the inspiration for this from a tumblr post about Jon being a clean boy despite crawling through hell and back but I think the writer deleted it because I spent forever looking for it and couldn't find it :n: Also 2 Drink Jon is a reference to 2 other fics I've read so his wild ass is not mine.

Supplemental Headcanons at the end.

--

Pre-Show

There was somebody new at the Institute. 

He was short and dark with black hair neatly trimmed and styled. A pair of browline glasses perched in front of wide brown eyes that seemed to absorb everything around him.

“Hey, uh, Tim,” Martin whispered as he leaned over to where his coworker was digging through a drawer, “Who’s that?”

“Hm?” Tim’s eyes widened as he looked up, “Oh shit, he’s cute.”

“Not helpful, Tim.”

“Um, I think he might be Daniel’s replacement. I think his name is Joe or something,” Tim swallowed, “I wonder what modeling agency Bouchard raided for him.”

Martin elbowed him in the ribs hard, his face going as red as his hair, “Shut up!”

“But look at him, Martin! He has to have a skincare routine an hour long and don’t tell me you didn’t notice that those trousers are bloody tailored. I see you looking at his arse!”

“SHUT UP!”

”What are you two fighting about now?”

Both researchers jumped away from each other as Sasha popped up behind them.

“Hot new guy,” Tim said, earning another jab and a hiss.

Sasha looked at Martin and grinned, “Short, scrawny, Persian, and angry?”

“He’s Persian?” Martin stuttered before slapping a hand over his mouth.

“Yeah, I got to talk to him during his follow up interview. Smart guy but kind of grumpy and super awkward. We got talking about foriegn food and he offered to give me his grandma’s recipe for chelow kababs,” Sasha said.

“What’s his name.” Tim asked, looking back at where the new guy was glaring at a row of filing cabinets with several drawers ajar.

“Jonathan Sims.”

--

Pre Episode 44

Basira watched as Sims limped away with the tape clutched to his chest like a lifeline before sighing and heading out to the car where Daisy was waiting.

“Well?” Daisy asked, “How’s our favorite murderer?”

Basira swatted her feet off the dash, “He looks like he hasn’t slept in 3 weeks and recently got hit by a car.”

“I wasn’t asking about his nasty, worm-eaten face, Basira,” Daisy said, “Does he know we’re watching him?”

“I don’t think so -put your seatbelt on- it seems like he’s more invested in what’s on those tapes for now. I get the feeling he’s more worried about watching the people he works with than us.”

“What a sad little librarian. I’m looking forward to how he managed to kill Robinsen without getting his ass whipped.”

“She was old.”

“Yeah, but Sims looks like he’d get knocked out by a light breeze even before he got munched on by some nasty fucking bugs. Did you see the surveillance from Robinsen’s initial investigation? I went back through to track Sims and watched him struggle move a box that was in front of a filing cabinet for a solid twenty minutes; the big ginger guy had to move it for him.”

“That’s-” Basira snorted, “That’s pathetic.”

Daisy grinned, “He has to be one manipulative bastard to get anything done.”

“Is that your theory?”

“I mean look at you.”

“What about me?”

“He gives you the puppy eyes once and now you’re smuggling him tapes from the evidence locker? I have never known the great Basira Hussain to ever cave to a suspect’s wishes in my life- and don’t say it’s to keep a closer eye on him. We have less illegal tactics for that.”

Basira opened her mouth to argue but found that Daisy had a point. She really only gave into suspects if the circumstances were dire. This was technically classed as a low priority case.

What was going on here? 

--

Post Episode 76

Melanie flopped dramatically onto Georgie's couch and let out a long winded sigh.

"Oh?" Georgie asked from the kitchen door.

Melanie sat up slightly to let her sit down before plopping her head down on Georgie's thigh, "I had to go talk to Sims at the Institute again."

"How's Jon?"

"A fucking bastard is what he is."

"Well I knew that," Georgie laughed, gently beginning to brush through Melanie's hair with her fingers.

"I don't know, he's was wierdly defensive and I think he was trying to gaslight me about one of his new assistants."

Georgie paused her brushing, "I haven't seen Jon in a while but that seems… out of character for him. He's a grump, sure, but I've never known him to be a bully -on purpose that is."

"Yeah, well…"

The pair lapsed into a tense silence.

"Would it make you feel better if I show you a picture of Jon in university that he is very embarrassed about," Georgie ventured after a few minutes, "He's still mad I have it.~"

Melanie twisted her head back and grinned, instantly breaking the tension and sitting up to look at the phone screen presented to her.

On it was a picture of Jon passed out, mouth wide open and drooling, on the ugliest couch she'd ever seen.

"He still owns that couch by the way," Georgie said. Melanie waved a hand in her face to silence her as she took in the details.

Jon was in a pink crop top that Melanie was sure she'd seen in Georgie's closet, union jack boxers, gladiator sandals, and The Admiral was planted square on his chest, though he was about half the size of the fluffball that roamed the flat now. Surrounding them where piles of papers and books on the paranormal.

Melanie began to cackle.

"Our friend group used to call him '2 Drink Jon' and this was after he'd done four shots in the kitchen and decided to lecture us on how ghosts are bullshit and he could beat one in a fist fight," Georgie elaborated, "I'm still not sure when he ended up in that outfit but honestly, if we had recorded his rant he probably could have used it for his Masters thesis."

Melanie wheezed into her shoulder as tears began to stream down her face.

"2 Drink Jon was actually a lot more charismatic than sober Jon. This one time he almost had us convinced that he could talk to plants after two gin and tonics, granted we were also drunk but-,"

"Stop, please," Melanie wheezed, "I'm dying."

"Gosh, one of these days I'll have to tell you about tequila and the alien conspiracy. Randall could almost recite the whole speech from memory."

Melanie fell off the couch.

--

Post Episode 109

Julia and Trevor exchanged a look as the Archivist powered through the spiciest Thai food they could find without even breaking a sweat. 

It was supposed to be a joke, spiking Jon's food, the cashier had even given them a panicked look at the restaurant and Trevor's eyes had been watering the whole way back to the safe house. They'd even waited by the door in case Jon tried to make a break for the case of water bottles in the car but he just unwrapped the plastic fork and dug in without even asking for a drink.

Julia picked at her own food but couldn't quite manage to eat it and glanced back at Jon, "Are you sure you don't need a water or anything?"

Jon looked up for a moment, his eyes were more alive than they had been all day and practically sparkled in the shitty fluorescent light. He shook his head and instead reached for another packet of chili sauce to add to his food.

"What the hell is he," Trevor whispered to Julia in horror.

"I don't know but he's definitely not normal."

--

During Episode 132

Daisy had misjudged Jon. She'd grossly misjudged him.

She flexed her fingers around his, ignoring the way the sand dug into her skin, and gently pulled him closer. The man she'd called prey gave her a soft smile and compiled, pressing against her side like she'd never held a knife to his throat, like she hadn't just admitted to planning his murder before she was trapped here.

Daisy turned her head awkwardly and dug her face into his shoulder savoring the human contact, her tears soaking into his shirt.

The Hunt in her blood tried to sing, tried to fight the Buried, "Safe, Mine, Pack, Protect", it echoed faintly.

Jon said something and began to move, pulling Daisy forward along with him.

"Safe, Mine, Pack, Protect"

Hours past as they shimmied through the coffin, the pain of being scraped and crushed was overpowered by the sheer ecstasy of moving more than an inch every few days.

"Safe, Mine, Pack, Protect"

There was a door, Jon tucked himself under her arm and pulled her up the stairs to the blinding lights of the institute. She ducked her head down to his shoulder again and grimaced as her joints popped and groaned.

"Jon, you stupid idiot! What did you think-"

Daisy looked up to the person she thought she’d never see again and smiled.

"Hi."

--

Post Episode 132

Martin had horrible timing really. He just needed to pee, was that really too much to ask?

Of course it was. The universe hated him.

So instead of slipping into the private bathroom upstairs which was magically broken, he had to go down a level and walk in on Jon shaking dirt out of his clothes.

Martin was going to die here but at least he'd die happy.

Jon didn't even seem to register that someone else had joined him (thank the Lonely) so Martin took a second to sneak a guilty look before darting back out and hiding for 40 years.

Jon was painfully thin. Martin got the idea that he could count every vertebrae and rib if he was allowed and even at a glance he could spot the sunken area where at least one rib was now missing.

Worm scars and burns were peppered up his back along with a few moles and freckles. Little red marks circled his chest in a way that Martin immediately recognized as being from the black fabric crumpled at Jon's feet.

And to top it all off, much to Martin's delight, were a set of three black gears tattooed down Jon's right shoulder blade. Sasha had mentioned once that she had gone out for drinks with Jon when he first started and they'd managed to get on the topic of tattoos. Tim had spent months trying to get Jon to show it to him before 'giving up'.

Martin stepped out and stood in the hall for a moment, red faced and giddy, before stumbling off in search of another bathroom.

--

Somewhere between Episode 132-154

"Hey, guys?" Melanie called.

Daisy and Basira glanced up to see Melanie holding a giant plate of the best smelling food they'd seen in weeks. Steam wafted up into her very confused face.

"Did either of you make this? I went to ask Martin and I can't find him."

"I didn't make it," Basira said, "Daisy?"

"I once made spaghetti and lit it on fire.

Basira grimaced and walked up to Melanie, "Kebabs, Tahdig rice, flat bread, and jam cookies. Those are Iranian dishes, or Middle Eastern at least.”

Daisy looked at Basira, "How do you know that?"

"Took a foreign cuisine course focused on middle eastern food a few years ago," Basira said as she made her way to the kitchen area with the group in tow.

Sitting on the table were three more huge plates of food and two empty plates sitting in the sink. Martin was standing next to the table with pure confusion on his face.

"Did you make this?"

Martin jumped and looked at the group, "Uh, no? I really only do pastas… this is a little outside my skill set. I think-"

"It could be a trap," Daisy interrupted, "Maybe it's laced with something?"

"No, I'm pretty sure-"

"Could be, but who would go to this effort, the Web?" Basira said.

"Guys, it was probably-"

"It was the Archivist!" Helen exclaimed from behind them, somehow having opened her door without making a sound and scaring the shit out of them, "He is an excellent cook."

"Bullshit," Melanie wheezed, setting her plate down before she dropped it.

"No, she right," Martin sighed, "Jon actually cooked something similar a few years ago for a company thing. He gave this whole speech about how grandparents immigrated here from Iran, well Persia at the time, and his grandma made him learn to cook what she called 'real food'."

"You mean to tell me that Jonathan Sims, the skinniest guy I have ever met, can cook like this," Basira said in disbelief before cautiously sitting down at the table with the rest following suit.

"He called it his grandmother's curse," Helen provided cheerfully, "He said that no matter what he does,  he always makes far more than he needs and never has people around to give it to. So he just never cooks."

"You talked to him?" Melanie asked. Daisy began to pick at a plate and made a sound of confusion and delight at the taste.

"Oh yes, he even let me help by getting things off high shelves!"

"This is amazing," Daisy said in disbelief before grabbing a fork and beginning to eat in earnest.

"It is! Jon and I had a lovely chat and I'm not much for 'real' food these days but he really convinced me!" Helen declared, spinning back around to re enter her door, "And I must say it was delightful."

"Huh," Basira shrugged and began to eat.

Not bad.

--

Post Episode 159

For the second time since he woke up, Martin pinched himself. He had to be dreaming, the smaller body smooshed up against his chest and the boney limbs clinging to him had to be a figment of his imagination.

Jon huffed in his sleep and burrowed deeper into Martin before settling again. A few stray rays of the morning sun slipped through the blinds highlighting Jon’s gray hairs and the raised edges of scars that trailed along his skin.

Gently, Martin carded his hand through the wild mess of hair, marveling at how soft it was despite everything. Jon sighed, leaning into the touch without stirring.

He could stay like this forever, with Jon safe in his arms and the dangers of the world outside, away from his happiness.

"Wha' time?" Jon mumbled, stretching before re-draping himself over Martin. He looked up and the light caught his eyes in a way that Martin could see all the blue heterochromatic spots in Jon's left eye through dark, heavy lashes. 

"Doesn't matter," Martin whispered as he pulled him closer, "We have all the time in the world."

--

Supplemental Headcanons: - Jon is a 3rd gen Persian/Iranian immigrant. His grandparents on his dad's side moved to England post WWII. (Persia became Iran in 1979) They took the last name Sims during immigration. - His mother was full blooded English. - He can out cook 87% of the local grandma's when he really gets into it - He built an unnaturally high tolerance to salt and spice as a kid to keep people from taking his lunch or trying to mess with his food and now thoroughly enjoys spicy foods. - Jon does care a lot but his grandma never taught him to show it in any other way but tolerance and mute acceptance. It's hard to know where you stand with Jon because of this. - Was a runner while in school. - Was forced to take violin lessons as a kid and Georgie taught him some piano in University. - Jon is and always has been feral little man though he is more bark than bite (unless he's under the influence of something). He learned it from his grandma. - He's one of those drunks that often wanders/ runs away from his drinking group. He has strong drunk college girl tendencies. - He changed his middle name to Ulysses when he got his first name legally changed because he’s a nerd. - Jon has had the same pen pal since he was 10. They are one of the few points of normalcy he has left. - Jon and Daisy are trans mlm and wlw solidarity. Fight me.

Fun Fact: Sims means "the Listener" which seems almost too on the nose.

[jovialyouthmusic]

Special Delivery

Fabio and I sample an English delicacy, and I make him an offer he might refuse...

Word Count 2500

No warnings, just a little fluffiness. If you want on or off the taglist let me know x

5 A Proposition

The next day I spent being kind to myself, and went to the other house to do some gardening. Spending time weeding and tidying up helped me ground myself and clear my mind. I practised my Tai Chi on the lawn that Martin had cut the day before. The sky was overcast but it was warm and still. I only went into the house to have a bite to eat at lunchtime, when my phone dinged with an incoming message.

Okay to talk? Sue’s out for a while. Did your new friend get handsy? I rolled my eyes at Martin’s text, and called him.

‘Hi Martin, my virtue is intact. He did hug me though – I lost it big time in Mum’s bedroom, blubbed like a baby.’

‘Did he try and cop a feel? Is he there right now giving you a foot massage?’ Martin asked, his tone making it plain he meant more than he said.

‘Of course not. I’m alone - all he did was comfort me, and any touching was entirely appropriate. You’re so suspicious of Fabio.’

‘I’m helping you keep your feet on the ground.’ He asserted ‘How long is he going to be about?’ I sighed.

‘I know he’s going back to Argentina at some point, but I’m prepared. It’s just a bit of fun.’

‘Not yet it isn’t. Or did he try it on later? Did you wake up alone or did he invite himself into your bed?’

‘Of course not – I drove him back to his place so he could go to work.’

‘There’s a ‘but’ hovering there, Lisa. Come on, spill the beans.’

‘He – he kind of kissed me.’ I heard Martin tutting but I went on before he could interrupt. ‘On the cheek, but he said he’d like – well he’d said he’d act like a brother, but before he got out of the car he said he’d like to be more than that.’

‘Well he’s a fast mover.’ Martin grunted. ‘Keep your legs crossed and your knickers on next time you see him. I take it you are seeing him again?’

‘We’ve not made plans, but he does want to take me out for a meal.’

‘Hmm, well that’s surprisingly chaste, but remember if a guy takes you out to eat he usually expects something in return.’ He paused for a moment ‘Sue’s back – you keep in touch, I’m going to be checking up on you regularly. I don’t want you with a sack over your head in the back of a van and whisked off to some shady brothel in South America.’

‘Make your mind up, last time you said he was a serial killer, not a pimp. You have an overactive imagination.’

‘Someone has to - gotta go – bye!’ I shook my head as I tucked my phone into my pocket. I decided to go home and do some last minute packing before the removal men arrived the next day. Halfway through the afternoon my phone dinged again. This time it was Fabio messaging me.

How are you today?

Good, thanks. Big move tomorrow

I know. Need help?

I sat down on the couch by the window and called him, feeling a little thrill as I heard his voice.

‘Hi Fabricio, thanks for texting. Are you working tonight?’ I thought he might be, but perhaps he would be free, and we could go out to eat. It was worth a try.

‘Yes, but only until eleven o’clock. Do you want company?’

‘I’ll probably be asleep then.’ I said, disappointed. He sighed and I could feel the same emotion in his voice. ‘I’ll call you if I can’t sleep.’ I said rashly. Why had I said that? I asked myself. The truth was, I wanted to see him again, and I missed him – his smile, his imperfect English, his accent, his little jokes. Martin’s warnings just went straight over my head. Something told me I could trust Fabio.

‘Yes’. he said. ‘any time.’

‘But not when you’re working.’

‘No, then I fall off my bike.’ he laughed

‘I don’t want you to end up in hospital.’ There was a short silence. ‘What time do you start work?’

‘At five’ I threw my head back and looked at the ceiling. It was half past three already. The next day I would be busy, and he would probably have a long shift as the weekend kicked off and folk ordered Pizza before going out clubbing, or afterwards when they staggered home drunk. I took my courage in my hands.

‘Do you have time for a cup of tea?’

‘Yes, I come.’ He rang off suddenly and I stared at the phone until the screen shut down. I jumped violently as there was a knock at the window just behind me and I turned to see him grinning at me and waving, a paper bag in his hand. I got up, cursing silently as I was still in the clothes I wore when I was decorating or cleaning. The thought that he had been planning to visit anyway came to me.

‘How did you get here so fast?’ I demanded as I opened the door. He leaned forward and kissed my cheek as he stepped inside.

‘I was close.’ he explained ‘I went for a walk, and found the baker’s shop.’ He waved the bag at me. ‘I have something called Eccles cakes. The woman there told me they are very English.’

‘Oh yummy, I like Eccles cakes.’

‘I hope they are scrumptious.’ he smiled. ‘We have them with tea?’

‘Oh yes, Eccles cakes need something to wash them down with, they’re quite sweet.’ I went to the kitchen to boil the kettle and he followed, leaving the bag on the dining table. He leaned on the door frame as I got the cups out.

‘You are well today?’ he asked. ‘Happy – no crying?’

‘No crying, and I decided to stay in my mothers house. Perhaps I can take a lodger, or perhaps I’ll meet the right man and have children. I’ll make more happy memories there.’

‘That’s good.’ he smiled as I got plates out for the Eccles cakes. He disappeared for a moment and came back with the paper bag, opening it up and peering inside inquisitively at the round pastries.

‘Okay, so this isn’t cake as such – it’s pastry, but inside are currants.’ I explained, and tapped away on my smartphone to look up the translation ‘grosellas – lots of them.’

‘Oh. They are big and very sweet. Lots of energy for me – and for you.’ I felt my face go a little hot thinking of how we might expend energy together, and busied myself with putting them out on the plates. I decided we should sit at the table to eat, as the pastry was delicate and would drop lots of crumbs.

‘Eccles is a place further south in Lancashire – near Manchester.’ I explained ‘In the past, they could only be made in that town, but now anyone can make them and call them Eccles cakes.’

‘You have been to Eccles?’ he asked as he picked it up and looked at it.

‘No, but I went to University in Manchester.’ He took a bite through the thin pastry and into the currant filling, and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘Nice.’ he said through his mouthful, and took a gulp of tea. A plan was formulating in my mind, and it made my stomach churn – or was it the Eccles cake?

‘How was work? Were you very busy?’

‘Not so much. It gets busy tomorrow and the day after. You know, the weekend.’ I nodded.

‘Do you have any days off?’

‘Yes’ he grinned ‘Sunday and Monday. Would you…’ he hesitated ‘Would you like to spend some time with me? Perhaps we go walking again?’ I was glad I was sitting down, as I could feel something inside me melting, and I couldn’t help smiling back at him.

‘Yes Fabricio, I’d like that. I’ll call you when I’ve finished moving house – if not tomorrow, the day after.’ He narrowed his eyes at me.

‘I call you tomorrow.’ he asserted. ‘We just talk.’ I felt my cheeks redden again, and took a bite of my Eccles cake. We ate quietly for a while, just enjoying each others’ company, and my idea carried on forming in my mind – one that started to make me feel dizzy.

‘How are your digs?’ I asked. He made a face.

‘Okay I guess. Big enough. But sometimes the other people are noisy when I sleep’

‘What’s the rent like?’ I asked ‘Pizza delivery can’t pay much’ He finished eating his mouthful.

‘Okay, I tell you.’ He said, gesturing in mid air. ‘I came to model in Spain. A company I hadn’t heard of, but I needed the work. They got into trouble and they can’t pay me yet. So I decided to find somewhere different to stay – you know, the pin in the map. When they pay me, I can look for more work.’

‘Oh. So are you making much right now?’

‘Not really, but it’s okay.’ he shrugged. ‘I miss home, but there are lots of summer shoots coming in Europe. I need enough for the air fare and a little more.’

‘Summer? I asked.

‘You know, the companies bring out their summer clothes, but they have to shoot in winter. I wear summer shirts and shorts, but it’s cold.’ I drew a deep breath.

‘The house I’m moving into – it’s bigger.’ I started. He looked at me expectantly, ‘Although I’ll eventually be renting out this place, I was thinking of taking in a lodger to make a little money until then.’ I paused, taking a deep breath. ‘Would you – Fabio, would you like to stay with me?’ His face lit up.

‘Stay with a real English woman in an English house? With you?’ he said ‘Of course – but are you sure? You don’t want to have the place to yourself? I have to go to work still.’

‘Oh, well either I can run you into town or you can get a bus or a taxi, but if the flat’s better for that…’

‘No, no, I like to stay with you. I will pay you.’

‘That would be okay – but not so much as you’re paying now, to make it worthwhile for you, or if you like you can just help pay the bills.’ In my mind I could hear Martin’s voice as he told me it was all a mistake and I’d regret it. But I pushed it to the back of my mind.

‘Lisa, you make me happy. I want to learn about what it is to be English. We will have fun together, yes?’  His face glowed with happiness and my stomach churned, and not because of the pastry and currants.

‘I guess so, but after next week I’ll be running my classes. But yes, we’ll do some fun things.’ Inside I was going hot and cold wondering what I had just done – but I wanted to take a chance and do something exciting for a change. I had always been cautious and taken few risks in life. Perhaps now that my parents had passed on I felt a little more free to do things I wanted to, I told myself. He sat down again, grinning widely.

‘I wait until you say I can come. The flat – Mario always has people who need somewhere to stay. He will be fine with me moving out. I had to pay extra to have it to myself. I need my beauty sleep.’ He winked at his joke.  

‘So that’s the secret of your success?’ I quipped. ‘Perhaps I should get more sleep, and I’ll soon be walking down the Paris catwalks’ He smiled.

‘Is not easy, you know. I have to be careful. If I want to work, no more chips, no more Eccles cakes.’

‘Well I can’t do that. I guess I’ll never be on the cover of a fashion magazine.’ I sighed in mock sorrow.

‘I go to the gym tomorrow, work hard.’ he said.

‘Hmm.’ I pondered ‘I have a lot of gardening that needs to be done, perhaps that would be a good workout too.’

‘It will be my pleasure.’ he bowed his head. ‘Perhaps I also run to work.’

‘Maybe, no need to pay for expensive gym machines,’ He looked at me expectantly, and suddenly I wondered what ideas he had about staying with me, and I knew Martin would have a field day telling me I was treading on dangerous ground.

-------

As I had promised, I was indeed in bed at eleven that night, but I lay awake wondering if I had made the right choice. It had all happened so fast, and had I known nothing about my new housemate, maybe I wouldn’t be in the same situation. But I knew him from his Instagram profile, and it seemed a safe bet that someone with a public persona like his was legit. My gut told me he was exactly how he presented himself, and posed no threat to me. I wondered what my mother or my father would have said had they known, but I came up with a blank. They were of their age, and foreigners were looked on with suspicion. I tried balancing that out with them wanting me to be happy, but I couldn’t work it all out.

I jumped as I heard an unfamiliar noise at the window. It came again – a sharp little tap. Ginger, sitting at the foot of the bed, sat up and hissed, his fur standing on end. I wrapped my dressing gown around me and went to the window to look out, as the sound came again. I discovered that the cause was someone throwing stones up from the street below, and I saw Fabio’s face lifted up to the window. I threw it open and leaned out carefully.

‘Fabio, what are you doing?’ I hissed, not wanting to alert the neighbours.

‘I come to see you.’ he called in a low voice. ‘This is the last time I can do this. You move tomorrow.’ I saw him grin lopsidedly. ‘It is romantic, no?’

‘Fabio.’ I scolded, ‘you said like a brother’ He shrugged, and I realised he’d been drinking.

‘I’m sorry senora,’ he whispered, ‘I think of you too much,’

‘Go home, Fabio. Sleep it off’

‘But senora...’ he pleaded.

‘When was the last time anyone said no to you?’ He looked taken aback. ‘Really, I’m not letting you in. You’ve been drinking and I only met you a few days ago’ He swayed a little.

‘Okay, I go’ he said in defeat. I sighed in exasperation.

‘You’ll thank me tomorrow. Just ring me when you get back, don’t drink any more.’ I watched him turn and walk away before I closed the window and got back into bed, Ginger looking at me oddly as I settled down. Iwondered what he thought of it all before I drifted off to sleep.

[george-mackay-macfine]

Dear Diary. pt3

Requested

Word Count: 3, 188

A/N I have more written, let me know if you want it. 

September 14th 2011,

Dear Diary, 

What are your thoughts on parties? Not just any parties University parties. In my head, I didn’t think they’d be much different from High School parties, much different from the parties the people at school threw every year. 

How wrong was I, 

Harry had come home from his first introduction class with the news we’d all be invited to a huge start of year party at one of his classmate's houses when he’d said we’d all been invited I was sure it was actually just Harry who was invited. 

Harry, on the other hand, was adamant that Dean and I had in fact been invited, and he wasn’t just feeling sorry for Dean and me who were already being inundated with course work. 

“George will be there,” Dean smirked as he watched me pour myself a glass of juice. “Won’t he Harry?”

 “Yeah, He was in the intro class, the invitation was extended to everyone and he said he’d go.” Harry shrugged. 

“See Y/N,”

“Wow, thanks, Dean. It sounds so much more tempting now.” My eyes rolled as I picked up my juice. 

“C’mon Y/N. We’ve both already got a mountain of course work, and it’s only going to get bigger. So why don’t we use this time of minimal work to have some fun? You know… Flatmate bonding.” Dean walked over to our ‘liquor table’ (it was really just a small table we’d found on gumtree) “Let me add some vodka to that juice and you’ll be ready to party before you know it.” He swiped a nearby bottle of vodka, twisting the lid off as he walked towards me. 

“Don’t even think about it.” I put my hand over the top of my cup. “Apple juice is the only source of happiness for me right now, I don’t need it plagued with bad memories.” 

“That’s just sad,” Harry shook his head as a knock sounded from the door. “That’ll be George.”

“Why’s he here?” I looked at the door.  

“I figured we’d need help convincing you to come.” He stood up and walked towards the door leaving Dean and I, 

“Whose party is it again?” I pulled the juice towards me, afraid he’d pour some of the heartburn inducing liquor into it. 

To be honest, I wouldn’t mind some vodka, I was just worried that vodka-soaked Y/N would chase George down all night and end up like one of those girls you see crying in the gutter at two in the morning, or worse end up like Sarah. 

“I think Harry said his name was Harry?” Dean took a swig of the vodka from the bottle. “That’ll put some steam in your tank.” 

“Do I have to go?” I whined as Harry walked back, George following behind him. “Can’t you three go without me? Parties aren’t really my thing, I can just skip it.”

“Can’t let you do that, Dean says we need you.” Harry wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Remind me again why she needs to come?” Harry laughed as Dean went about pulling my bottle of juice over to him. 

“Don’t you dare Dean.” I reached back out pulling it back to me. “Apple juice is an innocent drink. Do not taint it.”

“We need Y/N because as soon as girls see us walking in with her they’ll see we’re good guys, and they’ll trust us easier,” Dean smirked. “Perfect plan.” 

“So you’re going to pretend that you don't want to get in with these girls, but really you do?” He nodded. “I still don’t wanna go,” I whined.

“Please Y/N,” Dean begged. “I need to meet someone to add to my roster.”

“You have a roster?”

“A rotating one,” He smirked. “But at the moment I’m missing a girl….” He looked over to George shrugging. “One got too clingy.”

“Wow, you’re such a good dude Dean.” I rolled my eyes. “Fine, I’ll go.” I pulled away from Harry and dragged my feet to my bedroom for good measure. 

“Has she been drinking?” I heard George whisper to Dean. 

“Only apple juice,” He whispered back. “She wouldn’t let me spike it.” I opened my door and slammed it closed behind me, pushing my back up against it for good measure. 

“One question,” I called through the door. 

“What is it?” Dean called back. 

“What do I wear?” 

“Let us in, we’ll help you pick something,” George spoke this time, the door handle turning. I pushed against it. “Y/N, you’ve gotta open the door.” I could hear Dean chuckle from the other side. I pulled open my door. The three men filed in, George sprawling across my bed, Harry sitting on the chair at my desk and Dean going to my wardrobe. I walked towards George, preparing to sit on the edge of the bed while Dean went through my clothes. 

“Try this one.” Dean threw something white at my head, I caught it holding it out. It was my white dress. I’d worn it on my first date with Julian. 

“I don’t know about this.” I pulled at the fabric. “It’s a bit tight around my boobs.” 

“Then it’s perfect.” Dean pulled me up, pushing me out the door. “Change.” The door shut behind me, I knew I had no choice but to change into the dress. Pulling my sweat pants down quickly, and my shirt off I threw on the dress. Pulling at the hemline trying to will it to go down my legs a little more. Even I had to admit my chest size had grown since I last wore this dress, and it was no longer hitting lower thigh. 

“Great you’re done.” I was heaved back into my room by Dean who stood me still again. “Boys?”

“Need’s a jacket.” Harry supplied. “Boobs look good though.” I crossed my arms over my chest trying to shield them. “That just pushes them up more.” I uncrossed my arms quickly. 

“Try the leather one.” Dean threw my jacket at me, tugging it over my shoulders. “There you go.” 

“Looks good.” George smiled, still laying on my bed, I know it was an off-handed compliment and he was probably trying to make me feel better about going, but it was enough to make my cheeks flush... “I’m getting a drink, anyone want anything?” He looked over at Dean and Harry who nodded, “Vodka for you Y/N?” 

“Uh, sure.” I walked over to my shoe rack, picking up a pair of black Doc Martins, should I wear these or my red heels? “I don’t really mind.” 

“I’ll help you.” Dean followed George out of the room. “Did you see the final goal of the game the other day…” 

“So Harry, Have you decided on what type of girl you’re going to try and get with tonight?” I made small conversation. If I was going to be in the flat when he brought girls home I could at least make sure that they were nice to me when they were leaving in the morning. 

“There are types?”

“Sure. You know there’s the one who thinks she can dance, but she’s not that great at it. The one who's looking for a rebound, The one who's always drinking…”

“They don’t sound half bad to me.”

“They’re always lovely girls, but every party has types.” I picked up a pair of my heels. “So what type?”

“Not sure, I’m not really looking right now.” I heard the chair move as he stood up. “What about you? You gonna find someone to take the plates?” 

“My virginity you mean?” 

“Yeah, That,”

“Harry, I’d sooner to lose my virginity to you than someone I’ll meet at this party.” I turned to face him. He was standing close to me, closer than I thought he’d be. 

“That can be arranged if you’d really like.” 

“Harry,” He smiled innocently. “If we’re going to live together, you’re going to have to stop flirting with me,” Harry smirked.

“And you’re going to have to stop being so easy to flirt with.” He countered. 

“Harry, I mean it. Haven’t you seen the movies or even read the books about the guy and the girl who live together, and they, uh….” I stumbled.

“Bone.” He suggested. I glared at him, shaking my head which only caused him to laugh and nodded his head. “Okay Y/N. Consider yourself officially in the friend-zone.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it.” I turned back around, focusing on the shoes I wanted to wear tonight.

Did I really want to torture myself and wear heels all night, or should I settle for my docs?

“But if you do ever change your mind, you just let me know.” I could feel Harry’s chest pressed against my shoulder. “Relax Y/N. I can practically see your brain overheating.” His chest bumped against my shoulder as he let out a deep chuckle. “But remember, all you have to do is ask.”

I didn’t turn to look at Harry as he walked away, I couldn’t. I was afraid I’d melt into a puddle of mush. 

Jesus, Christ Almighty, 

Between George and Harry, I was going to be flirted with to death. 

Here lies, Y/N Y/L/N. 

Cause of death, Heart attack, caused by the flirtatious comments made by roommates and friend. R.I.P

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          ��                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               1994 - 2011.

“Ready?” George stuck his head around the doorjamb. “You look good.” He smiled looking me up and down as I struggled to get my Doc’s on my feet quickly. 

“Are you sure? It’s not too much? Not enough?” I spun around. “I was never good at these things, Sarah always picked out what I’d wear to parties.” 

“Dean and Sarah look alike if you squint… kinda.” I couldn’t help but laugh. Even when I was feeling super anxious George had still managed to make me laugh. “C’mon Y/N. We’ll have a good time. We’ll drink and we’ll dance.”

“And what do I do when you pick up a girl like the rest of them?” 

“I’m not going too.” 

“You’re not going to pick up a girl?” 

“Don’t need to when I’ve got the best one right in front of me.” He winked. 

“You need to cut that out, someone might think you have a crush on me.” But if you really want too continue, don’t let me stop you. 

“I’m just saying, these clothes would look nice on my bedroom floor.” He crossed his arms over his chest as he looked over me again. “But one thing,” He took three long steps towards me. His hands running up my arms. “You should always leave your hair out.” He pulled the hair tie from my hair, letting it fall down over my shoulders. “It looks best when its like this.” 

Note to self; burn all hair ties. 

“You two done in here?” George looked over his shoulder, his lips falling into a straight line as he looked at Harry who stood in the door, glass in his hand, his face a mirror image of George’s. “Or should we put a tie on the door handle.” 

“No need, Virgin remember.” I growled as I walked past George and pushed past Harry out to the kitchen where Dean sat three full glasses in front of him. “What are these?” I fumed quietly, annoyed that Harry had interrupted whatever moment George and I were having. 

“Vodka and apple juice.” He passed one over to me with a devious smirk. “Couldn’t help myself. One for all of us, really get the party started.” 

“Ready boys?” I handed my glass off to George, picking up the final one. “Salute.” I tipped the glass back practically throwing the drink down my throat. “Another one,” 

“You’re using up all your apple juice Gracie.” Dean laughed.

“Look’s like we’ll have to buy more than won’t we Blakie.” I chimed back, slamming another one down. “Should we go?”

“You really get into the party mood quickly don’t you?” Dean laughed, grabbing my hand and dragging me out towards our front door. “George, you guys still catching a taxi?” 

“Yeah, mate. The boys ordered it for around now,” George pushed in front of Dean and I looking down at his watch. “I’ll stop in, make sure they’re ready.” 

“We’ll meet you out the front,” Dean looped an arm around my shoulder. “C’mon Y/N, Harry. Let’s leave the boy to gather the cavalry, and let’s all enjoy this minor buzz I’m feeling.” I looked over at George who’d stopped at his front door. I smiled. 

“See you down there?” He nodded his head. 

“Course, be down in a few.” He pushed open the door and fell into the flat, loud music poured out for a few seconds before the door shut behind him. 

“C’mon Y/N, you’ll see him in a few minutes, let’s go. I’m dying for a fag.” I turned hitting him across the stomach. “What the fuck was that for,”

“Don’t use that word.” 

“What fag?” Harry asked in place of Dean, as he pressed the elevator button. 

“Yes, that one! Don’t use it.” 

“Why not?” Dean rubbed his stomach as we stepped into the confinement of the elevator. 

“Because it’s ignorant.” I looked at both boys, neither of them were really getting it. “I know you think it’s just slang for cigarettes, and I’m sure neither of you actually have a problem with gay people, but the negative connotations that have been put on the word by stupid idiots really outweighs your necessity of the word.” Dean stands for a minute, thinking before he nods his head. 

“Alright, if it upsets you that much Y/N, I promise not to use the word again.” 

“Thank you, Dean. I appreciate that.” The two of us turned to Harry. He was leaning up against the elevator wall, hands shoved into his jean pockets. “Well?” Harry looked down from the ceiling, eyes meeting mine. 

“What was going on with you and MacKay in your room earlier?” I could see Dean turn to face me out of the corner of my eyes. “Was he hitting on you?” 

“No more than you had been, now what’s your answer.”

“You like him don’t you?”

“George is my friend, and that’s it, Harry.” I turned facing the doors, waiting for them to open. “Why does it even matter to you?” 

“Doesn’t, just wanna gauge how much he’ll be hanging around.”

“Thought you two were football friends?” Harry shrugs his shoulders indifferently at the question. 

“Doesn’t mean I want him hanging around the flat all the time.” 

“God, does it seem this elevator is taking a lot longer than most do?” Dean groaned. “Or is it just all this sexual tension.”

“There is no tension.” Harry and I snapped at the same time. I looked over from Dean to Harry who was slumped against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. His biceps bulging underneath his white button-down. God, he looked good tonight. Maybe there is sexual tension. 

THERE IS NO SEXUAL TENSION HERE,

“Thank fuck.” Dean praised when the doors slid open. We walked out and into the cold air of Scotland. 

“Took you guys long enough.” I looked up to see George and two other guys sitting on the steps of the building. “Haven’t you guys learnt yet that the elevator takes nearly three times as long as taking the stairs?” George stood brushing dirt off his jeans. “Y/N, Dean, Harry these are my flatmates Henry and Jordan.” 

“Hi.” I waved awkwardly. “No taxi?”

“Should be rolling up any minute now.” One of them, Henry looked off down the road. He was Scottish, with dark red hair and brown eyes. “Taxi’s in this country never run on time.” He laughed again. 

“The one time we need it too.” George sat back down on the steps. He looked up at me expectantly before tapping the concrete beside him. I walked over tucking the short material of my dress underneath me before sitting beside him. He moved in closer our sides flush against one and other. “You cold?” He pointed at my legs where goosebumps had arisen. They weren’t from the cold. 

“A little,” 

“Here,” He wrapped an arm around me and pulled me into him, he ran the arm wrapped around my shoulder up and down my arm vigorously. “Better?” 

“Thanks.” I nodded my head. But by all means, you don’t have to stop. 

“Look at these two.” Dean lit up a cigarette. “The girls are going to be falling at our feet lads when they see Gracie with us.” 

“Yeah,” Jordan snorted. “George told us about the master plan,” He looked over George and I. “Nice of you to play along Y/N,” Dean offered the cigarette to him. He took it popping it between his own lips. “Not many girls cool enough to help their friends get laid.” He kicked George gently with his foot. “Right MacKay.”

Alright Jordan, how about you go fuck yourself…  I’d almost forgot I was just being used as a pawn to help these guys get laid. 

“If you keep talking to her like that mate, she might not help you out,” Harry smirked sitting on the step on the other side of me. “Y/N only promised to help out the nice guys.” Jordan held his hands up in defence. 

“I am nice I promise.” He chuckled. “Y/N, if you wanna see how nice I can be...” 

“Don’t finish that sentence, Davis.” George glared. “She’s too good for you.” 

“Taxis here,” Henry called, “Time to go.” He pulled open the sliding door and motioned for me to hop in first. “Ladies first,” He smiled sweetly. 

“Thank you, Henry.” I smiled standing up from the concrete step and walking towards him. I tucked the skirt underneath me as I stood up into the van. “Hello.” I smiled at the driver, scooting across the seat to the window. George jumped in next to me and Harry sat in the very back seat with Dean. “Are you having a good night?” I asked the driver who smiled in the rear mirror. 

“I am Missy, yourself.” I nodded my head. 

“Can’t complain.” I smiled again. 

“That’s everyone,” Jordan declared when he jumped into the front seat. I looked out the window as Jordan rattled off the address to the driver. 

God, how was I going to last at this party? I know they said they wouldn’t leave me but they’re totally going to leave me first chance they get. I know how persuasive boobs and a vagina can be to a horny boy. Sarah fucking Olsen 

“You all good?” George’s voice whispered in my ear. I turned he was leaning down, lips right next to me. I nodded my head. “Don’t worry Gracie, I won’t leave you at all tonight.”

“But what if you find a girl?” I countered. 

“I told you, don’t need one when I’ve got the best one right in front of me.” He grabbed onto my balled fist. “I’m not gonna leave you all night.” 

[grell-writes-stuff]

A Self Indulgent First Chapter

Enjoy...something

Words: 2,549

Genre: Young Adult / Paranormal

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

Slam!

Gasp!

And then the apathetic yell of “Walk it off, Willow!” from Coach Martin. No stopping the game or running over to make sure I’m not deprived of air or dying or something. Just “Walk it off, Willow!”

I suffer for a second with the wind knocked out of my body. My inhaler finds its way from my pocket to my hand, and while I hold the one breath I force myself into and wait for my crap lungs to jump-start again, I contemplate the most-likely-illegal play that landed me flat on my back in the middle of the field. Quarterback Tom Styles’ outstretched elbow connecting with my neck at full speed in his chase for the checkered ball and high school sports glory, clearly confusing his claim-to-fame varsity moves with a pickup game of soccer since I doubt he has the brain cells to remember the rules to two sports at once. And probably a little bit on purpose. Because he’s a dick.

My chest wheezes a little, but at least it’s something, and the weak inhales finally start to catch as a sun-freckled face appears above me and blocks out the light. Ivy offers me her hand.

“Did th-that look a-as bad as it f-felt?” I sputter.

Ivy tilts her head from side-to-side like it’s the scale measuring how uncool I am. “Worse. Very pathetic. You will die alone.” She yanks me to my feet and acts like a support in spite of the height difference.

“P-Please stop making m-me take gym with y-you.”

“Nah. It’s too funny.” She ignores my scowl. “Come on. Let’s get you some water and wait for those shitty lungs to work again.”

She escorts me – hobbling like some eighty-year-old man with spine problems and not just what will soon be a terrible, ugly bruise – toward the bleachers, empty except for the water bottles of our classmates. I’m happy enough to sit on the sidelines, not just while recovering from having all of the air robbed from my chest, but for the rest of gym class, and also forever. Ivy is equally as happy, but only because it prompts the girls’ teacher, Coach Caruthers, to scream in her booming voice:

“Hammond! Back on the field!”

Without missing a beat, Ivy responds, “In the event of moderate injury, students are allowed to have a friend or fellow student for mental, emotional, or physical support. It’s in the code of conduct.”

I don’t know if that’s actually something in our school’s rule book, but Ivy has read the whole thing cover-to-cover for the sole purpose of seeing how many provisions she can disregard without getting into trouble through malicious acts of over-compliance or sheer dumb luck. So, she’s either following the rules to the letter or lying about them. As I sit, I see that Caruthers does not look impressed when Ivy plops onto the bench next to me. The whole reason our gender-segregated phys. ed classes collaborate so often is because they’re full of athletes – and me, the outlier – so more often than not, it’s just an extra practice for the varsity players. Even though Ivy was born with the “good at physical stuff” gene, and talented enough to be a forward on our girls’ soccer team, she prefers to rely on the natural part of her ability and not the practice part to the vexation of literally everyone.

“Hammond!” Caruthers screams. “On the field, or off the team!”

Ivy squirts a stream of water into her mouth and quickly swallows before passing the bottle on to me. “Cool. Who’s replacing me?” she retorts.

I focus on downing some water and breathing evenly again and not on the vein beginning to pop out of Caruthers’ angry-red neck. She can’t say anything back because, well, Kinross High School isn’t huge. Pretty much everyone who can play sports is already playing sports, and as far as Ivy’s tendency to disrespect anyone of authority can go, she’s also crucial to securing victory over visiting teams. Caruthers just grits her teeth and returns to refereeing the game where Tom Styles has once again stolen the ball that got away from him, this time without incapacitating anybody since the one guy with asthma has left the field. (Asshole.) I watch as Abby Jefferson starts to gain on him, and Tom makes the choice to skillfully send the ball flying across the grass to the next open player, Drew Young, the only person in our gym class who does even less than I do.

That’s not for lack of talent either. I’ve seen Drew actually try on the rare occasion, and he could absolutely score a spot on a boys’ sports team. But most games, like today, he receives the pass and kicks the ball along to the next open player – it’s intercepted by one of the girls – and continues pacing the field leisurely. Coach Martin yells at him to get his head in the game, but Drew doesn’t bother. If the activity doesn’t involve selling the pens that he stole from the cheerleaders to the football team, the little weasel has no interest.

The game continues on.

Ivy reclines until her shoulders are touching the bench behind us, tilting her head back and staring at the sky. I have to wonder how comfortable it is.

“My dear Sid,” she theatrically addresses me. She likes to be dramatic sometimes. She thinks it’s funny. “I have a proposal for you.”

“I told you I’m not training a messenger pigeon with you. We only live three houses apart.”

“I’ll wear you down eventually, but no, that’s not what I wanted to talk about.” She looks over at me without breaking her questionable position. “I know what we’re doing tonight. I’ve concocted a perfect plan, you see, for this most All-Hallowed of Eves.”

“You can say ‘Halloween’ like a normal person. It’s okay.”

“Let me bring you back in time,” she continues, ignoring me, “to the Kinross of yore. Just decades after its founding, the Salem Witch Trials came about and our town was no exception to the noose–”

“Salem is two hours away, Ivy,” I interrupt with the fact.

“Shut up. The Salem Witch Trials swept across the state of Massachusetts, migrated into Kinross, and thus the most famous trial of Kinross history was set in motion when one Ann Kelly was accused of being a creature of the occult!”

“Can I get the abridged version of this plan please?” I ask her. “Like, the part that takes place in this century?”

Finally fed up with my interjections, Ivy sighs exaggeratedly and rolls her eyes at me. “Blah, blah, blah, she was hanged, she’s buried in the historical section of Riverview, and we’re going there tonight during the witching hour to see” – she switches to her best spooky voice with elongated, trembling vowels – “her haunted grave.”

“Hard pass.”

That makes her sit upright again with a slouch to her posture. She’s wearing a fabricated pout. “Sid,” she whines.

“Ivy, I’m not sneaking out with you at three in the morning on Halloween to go see a ‘haunted grave.’” She opens her mouth, but I follow up with, “Our parents would kill us. Besides, what’s-her-name probably just angered a bunch of Puritans and got executed because of religious prejudice. That doesn’t mean she was a witch.”

“Well, of course. I think angering Puritans was a mandatory activity back then. But come on, Sid! The legend says she’s a witch, and it’s the perfect Halloween thing! I think we are obligated – if not encouraged by the spirit of Halloween herself – to go see a ghost witch.”

“Does the spirit of Halloween have a gender?”

Ivy pushes past that and waits to catch my eye dead-on. “Bet you a hundred bucks we actually see Ann Kelly’s phantom.”

My lips part to say no just a split second before I register the number. “Wait – a hundred?”

Something cocky has taken up her face, and she recites with inflated confidence, “Ten A-Hams. A Franklin. A thousand Roosevelts.”

“You know what? Fine. I’ll take your money,” I tell her. “You’re on.”

Her grin is smug as we fist-bump on it and close the deal, but I decide that I don’t care so much with the promise of an easy hundred dollars coming my way. Ivy ingests another stream of water, and swallows while her eyes quickly scan the grass to catch up with the game again. Suddenly, a yell flies from her mouth:

“Box him out, Julia! Come on!”

Then she’s up off the bleachers and jogging back out onto the field. As unwilling as Ivy is to make an effort and practice, she’s also equally as competitive, even if this is just a gym class where victory doesn’t really matter. I, on the other hand, take my time on the bench. Struggling to breathe isn’t my idea of fun. I need to stop letting Ivy manipulate me into taking phys. ed. If she keeps it up, she might kill me.

 ***

I can nearly be qualified as a mess by the time Ivy and I reach our lockers after final period, and she’s humming like she’s got live wires for veins despite just spending an hour burning off energy. Meanwhile, I’m still recovering from my last bout of airlessness after I returned to the field and ran for maybe ten minutes. And I feel gross. The benefit of having P.E. last period is that I don’t have to shower here and can wait until I get home or to Ivy’s. The con is the window of time in between. I usually try to keep the gap as short as possible, and therefore, my time at my locker brief. I think Ivy and I took enough time getting changed after gym to avoid most people – at least the non-athletes.

“Hi, Sidney! Hi, Ivy!”

A mixture of feelings suddenly rockets through me and don’t add up in the end. While my chest is beginning to slowly overclock, and the hallway seems a few degrees warmer and rising steadily, I’m ready to play dead as Naomi Park opens the locker right next to mine on the opposite side of Ivy’s. Her shoulder is a fraction of an inch from touching my arm which is probably too close when I’m still drenched in gym sweat. Ivy greets her politely with ease while my brain is trying to catch up with the mundane situation and not think about how she smells like some kind of flowery perfume and I smell like crap.

“Hey, Naomi,” leaves my mouth and sounds too drawn-out and weirdly cheesy, so I just try to smile to make up for it. That feels awkward too, but she thankfully doesn’t seem to react to that, and her glossy pink lips tilt up without much effort into a perfect grin.

She puts some books on the shelf in her locker. “Any exciting Halloween plans?”

“Nope,” Ivy says immediately, likely because our actual idea involves a wager and might not be entirely legal – it’s a misdemeanor at the least. I just take the hint and don’t add anything to refute her answer.

“You? Any plans? For tonight – Halloween?” I wish that had come out differently. It could have at least sounded coherent.

“Nothing tonight,” Naomi responds. “But Heather’s having a ‘Belated Halloween Bash’ on Saturday while her parents are out of town so I’m ‘required’ to be there.”

“Oh, cool. That’s…cool.”

“I guess so. Heather’s parties get a little boring after a while though. I bet your plans for Saturday are much more fun.”

“Yep. Pints of ice cream, horror movies, and making bets on how long it takes Sid to hurl when the blood starts gushing,” Ivy interjects.

“Ivy.” I mutter the snap of her name so it doesn’t sound as harsh as I want it to. The temperature in the hallway rises astronomically.

Naomi giggles, which hurts. Well, it would if her laugh wasn’t so musical and twinkly. It’s like a damn harp quartet. “Sounds like a good time,” she comments. Her locker door shuts. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Yeah, totally – tomorrow. See ya’, Naomi!” She’s nearly out of earshot down the hall, and I wait until I know she definitely can’t hear anything before I say to Ivy without daring a look at her, with the heat of embarrassment and shame boiling me alive from the inside, “Please say nothing.”

I can hear the grin on her face when she speaks. “You realize she’s just another human being, right?”

“Are you kidding? She’s at the right hand of Heather Loch. She’s popular. I’m shocked she still knows my name.”

Ivy shuts her own locker with a characteristic slam. “Dude, you’re ridiculous. She likes you back. If you just talked to her, and told her that you like her, you would have a girlfriend.”

“Ivy, she thinks I’m a loser.”

“I think you’re a loser and I still like you sometimes.”

I roll my eyes and can’t say anything to that. I don’t care if Ivy thinks I’m lame. It’s not the same. We’ve been together for as long as I can remember, so at this point, she’s locked into this friendship, no matter how easy it would be for her to hang out with the people at Kinross High who are actually popular and liked.

I close my locker and we start walking to the main exit of the building and eventually across the school’s student parking lot. Some groups linger, but most people seem to be dispersing and heading home for the day. Ivy and I walk straight through the lot as always, avoiding the cars pulling out.

I want to avoid the Styles’ Ford Everest – which is so bright red that it’s an assault on the eyes – but we have to walk past it and the clump of popular kids loitering next to it: blonde, perfect, popular Heather Loch, Asshole Quarterback Tom and his not-as-terrible twin, Ed, and my locker neighbour and secret crush, Naomi. The girls are under the guys’ arms like they belong there, popular with popular. There’s usually not much interaction between our pair and their group because I’m pretty sure most of the popular kids either don’t know who I am or just hate me for no reason, but today Tom decides to rub in his full-contact plays on the soccer field.

“Nice moves out there, Pussy Willow!” he shouts clear across the lot. It makes me feel the bruise on my back, still fresh, but I’m past the point of being mad about it. Really, Tom’s just an annoying jerk, and that’s all he’ll ever be.

I try to tap into Ivy-like sarcasm and passiveness. “I get it. Because my last name is Willow, and you’re insulting me. That’s really funny. It’s original.”

He yells something back that includes one of Ivy’s favourite swear words, but we disregard it and turn out of the parking lot in the direction of our houses. Ivy states that we’re going to my place because, in her mind, it’s easier to sneak out of a single-parent household. I don’t try to refute it because arguing with Ivy when she has her mind made up is like talking to a brick wall.

[dr0wning-in-hell]

Six Months - Derek Hale

Summary : 6 months ago Derek and Y/N broke off their one year relationship over a stupid fight. Y/N is in her last year of high school and all starts well until Theo Raken enters the party.

Word Count : 3.2 k+

Warnings : Angst, some heartbreak, flashbacks are italic,

Pairing / Characters : Derek Hale x reader, Theo Raken x Reader (only a little), Lydia Martin, Scott McCall,

Prompt “Hi darling!!! Can I request a Teen Wolf imagine where it's been 6 months since Derek Hale and y/n have broken up and currently it's the beginning of the new school year and Theo is interested in Y/N but y/n is skeptical partially because of how much y/n still loved Derek.” - @black-beautiful 

A/N : it’s been a hot second since I last posted and I’m very sorry about that. Enjoy this shitty piece:)

New masterlist | requests | prompt list

It all started with one single word. Who?

Who was Derek talking to behind Y/N’s back? Who was Y/N talking to behind Derek’s back. For some reason the couple had a suspicion that the other was cheating. We’re either of them right? No. Did their relationship split apart because of their stubbornness and ego? You bet.

Y/N was sitting in the Hale loft by herself, her legs outstretched on the couch as she waited patiently for her boyfriend of one year to come home. Y/N had gone to Derek’s loft in hopes of talking to him about her long and stressful day but to her dismay, he wasn’t home. At first she thought nothing of it, but as the hours began to smear together her mind unwantedly began coming up with horrible reasons as to why he wasn’t back.

He could be dead. He could be facing the town’s next evil with the McCall pack. He could be cheating.

He could be cheating.

The mear thought of Derek cheating on her made her stomach twist in unpleasant ways. In the back of her mind though, she kept thinking what if? What if he was cheating on her? Who would it even be with? Yes, Y/N was human, she wasn’t any supernatural creature but from the day she could walk until now her family had taught her to fight even without claws and sharp teeth. All the ugly thoughts took a toll on her already exhausted brain, causing her eyes to close shut after only a few more minutes of sitting in a sad silence. 

Thirty minutes later the door the loft swung open and then slammed shut, waking Y/N and scaring her half to death. Rubbing the gunk out of her eyes she saw Derek walk in, a little bit tipsy. He was out drinking. Why would Derek be drinking?

“Der?” Y/N said softly. Derek didn’t give her a second glance and Y/N was becoming angry. “Derek. Hey, look at me.” Y/N shot up from the couch and grabbed the back of Derek’s shirt, forcing the man to turn around. His eyes were different, almost cold as he stared down at her. “What is wrong with you?” Y/N asked, baffled at the sight in front of her.

Derek grunted, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

Y/N’s mouth dropped a little bit. How could he talk to her like that? She had done nothing wrong, at least she didn’t think she did. “Where were you? I’ve been waiting for hours, I thought something happened to you.” 

“I’m fine Y/N, just leave it alone.” Derek shuffled away, but Y/N followed. 

“No, I’m not just gonna leave it alone.” Y/N declared. “What’s been going on with you? Why have you been so distant, and-and why have you been treating me so horribly? Did I do something to hurt you?” Y/N’s voice started out hard and angry, but then fell to a soft and scared tone

Derek turned to face his girlfriend, his eyes intimidating her, “You really are that dumb aren’t you?” Derek shook his head, “Why don’t you ask whoever you’ve been cheating on me with those questions?” What the hell was he on about?

“What the hell are you talking about?” Y/N’s eyebrows furrowed together, confusion tracing every part of her face. “I’m not the one cheating!” Y/N let the words slip from her lips before she even realized what was happening. 

“So I’m the one cheating now?” Derek fired back. “Yeah, because I would so go and cheat on you. If I didn’t want you I would just flat out say it.” Y/N’s heart was speeding up so fast she thought she might pass out. 

“Then who are you talking to behind my back? I see the way you look at your phone, you’re always smiling. It’s the smile I’d see when you’d look at me, or my messages. So who is it? Who is so much better than me, that you decide to cheat on me?” Her voice was cracking now, reaching it’s limit as she was beginning to scream at the man.

Derek growled, “I could ask you the same thing. Who are you always texting when we’re together? Why are you always disappearing when someone calls you? Who are you slutting it up with?” 

He hadn’t even heard what he said. “I’m not cheating on you, and if you really want to call me a slut I think I’m done trying to defend myself to you.” She walked away, going to grab her bag and leave. Before doing so she threw down the necklace Derek had gotten her for Valentines Day, not only a month ago. Y/N left the loft, never looking back to see if he was going to call out to her. He never did. He never did anything to chase her, to get her back and explain. Derek simply let Y/N, a girl he was so madly in love with, walk out his door and never see her again. 

That was six months ago and now it was the beginning of Y/N’s senior year and she wanted to make the best of it. Y/N wasn’t sure what this year was going to bring, but she wanted to make it better than last years. Her hopes were high that this year there would be no threat to her friends, to her home. They had all gone through so much it was time for them to get a break. A break was good. 

As Y/N walked to her locker, she could feel a pair of eyes on her. Y/N didn’t turn her head in any direction to see who was watching her, she just kept walking forward until she was at her destination. Even as she grabbed the supplies she needed for the first day the feeling of being watched still hung in the air. Finally having enough of this Y/N twisted her head around and saw Theo Raken of all people starring her down like prey. Why would Theo Raken be starring at her.

Y/N shook her head, slammed her locked shut and walked to her first period class. 

Y/N didn’t have many classes, having taken so many electives and doubling up on her core classes her sophomore and junior year, she only had about two classes. When first period ended she headed to a familiar face, Lydia Martin. The two had become close after all the things they’d been through together, they were inseparable after Y/N’s nasty breakup and over the summer break. 

Lydia turned around and screeched as she saw her friend walking towards her. “Y/N/N!” The two had literally hung out two days before school started but for some reason she was acting as if they hadn’t seen each other in years. Lydia crushed her in a hug, restricting air from entering her lungs. Y?N was barely able to move her arms but she tried her best to pat her friend on the back.

“We just saw each other the other day, Lydia.” Y/N chuckled as her red haired friend pulled away. 

Lydia just shrugged it off and start walking with Y/N. “So, how are you feeling?” Lydia asked. Y/N knew what she was really asking. Are you still heartbroken?

Y/N never knew how to answer, she was still heartbroken, and she knew that the fight was six months ago but she couldn’t get it out of her head. It was a recourring nightmare, every day she woke up and every night she went to sleep.  “I’m alright.” Y/N said in hopes her friend would believe her/ Lydia knew when she was lying though, and she also knew that she was far from fine. Sighing, the banshee decided not to press it any further and the two walked to their next class, which thankfully they had together. 

The pair walked in and sat next to each other in the middle of the room, talking about absolute nonsense. Y/N hadn’t noticed it until a few moments later when she got that feeling of being watched again. Turning her head in the slightest way Y/N yet again saw Theo watching her. His eyes were trained on her and only her, causing her to become nervous. Y?N picked up her pencil and scribbled something down on a piece of paper before sliding it over to Lydia. Lydia, not being the most discreet turned around completely to see Theo starring at the two girls. 

“Well, that’s not freaky at all.” Lydia mumbled to Y/N. They both knew that the chimera would hear them, but they didn’t care. Maybe if he heard them he’d stop staring at them.

Seconds later the teacher walked in and the boring hour began. All through class Lydia and Y/N were passing notes about how Theo was still staring and how he had been all day whenever he saw Y/N. The pack didn’t trust Theo, not after everything he did to them and all the innocent people. Y/N honestly despised the guy, he was horrible and wished he would have stayed in hell. 

“Do you have a class after this?” Lydia quietly asked the Y/H/C haired girl next to her. Y/N shook her head no. “Good, we can go to my house and have a little talk.” Y/N was confused but when she saw Lydia’s eyes dart over the chimera she knew what she was talking about.

Class ended and it felt like the girls couldn’t;t get out of the building and away from the place fast enough. 

“Y/N! Hey, wait up!” It was Theo. Y/N and Lydia looked at each other and sprinted to the car the rest of the way. Theo kept shouting for Y?N but she just wanted to make it to the car.

The two girls jumped in the vehicle, buckling up in the blink of an eye. As Lydia was about to pull out of the parking stop she checked her rear view mirror and saw Theo standing behind her car. She creamed and slammed on the breaks before putting the car in park again. Y/N jumped out of her skin and turned around to see what had scared her so bad, but here was nothing there.

“Lydia, what he hell did you-” She was cut off by a knock on her window and then it was her turn to scream. Her hand flew to her chest, her breathing now rapid as she tried to regain breathe. Y/N hesitated to roll down the window, but as the nice person she was, she rolled it down and slowly looked up at Theo. “Hey Theo.” She said warily. 

Theo smiled at her a bit, “Hey Y/N, I was calling your name back there, seems like you didn’t hear me.” He leaned against the car, laying his arms over the window and almost poking his head in. 

“Oh, were you?” She tried to act like she hadn’t heard him, but unfortunately she did. “What do you want?” 

For the first time in Y?N’s life she saw Theo hesitate to speak. “I was uh- wondering if you’re free Friday night?” He said. Y?N’s puzzled facial expression gave away that she didn’t know what she was hinting at. “This new restraint opened up and I was wondering if you wanted to come with me to see if it’s any good.”  Y/N’s swiveled over to Lydia, her eyes silently pleasing for her to help. LYdia leaned forward and gave the boy a fake smile. 

“Hey Theo, sorry to interrupt but Y/N and I really have to go. Bye.” She carried out the ‘bye’ longer than she should have as she pulled away from the school parking lot, nearly running over Theo’s feet in the process. When they were far enough away she finally spoke again, “What the hell was that? Was Raken trying to ask you out?”  Y/N shrugged. “I have no idea, but there’s no way on Earth that I would go out with him, not after all the things he’s done to the pack.”

Lydia glanced at her friend before looking back at the road, “I don’t know Y/N/N this may be a good thing for you.” She sighed, “It’s been six months since you and Derek broke up, don’t you think it’s time for you to move on? Find someone new?” 

“As in Theo Raken?” Y/N shook her head and leaned her arm Afghanistan the open window, “No, no way. Not going to happen.” 

“Are you saying that because it’s Theo and you don’t like him, or are you saying that because you’re still in love with Derek?” Y/N’s silence told her that it was the later.

Y/N furrowed her eyebrows as she watched Lydia pull up into the parking lot of the Animal Clinic. Why would they be there? “I thought we were going to your house?” 

“Got a text from Scott, said he wanted to talk to all of us.” She said. Y/N huffed and got out of the car, slamming the door shut behind her. “You better knock off that attitude missy or you’re walking home.” Y?N put her hands up in defense, surrendering to her friend.

As soon as Y/N was at the door the sudden realization that Derek might be there scared her. Lydia walked in and was holding the door open for her but when she didn’t come inside she knew something was wrong. 

“Y/N/N? What’s wrong?” She asked.

“I just realized, Derek might be here.” Y/N looked at her friend, Y/E/C eyes wide. “I haven’t spoken to him or even seen him since it happened.” 

Lydia sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, “You have to get over him Y/N. He was the one who let you go, he was the one who made the mistake. Not you. You’re going to be fine, and if anything happens I’m right here.” Y/N nodded slowly, grabbing her friends hand and entering the clinic. 

Everyone was in the usual meeting spot, the conversation of the current problem already being talked about. As soon as she stepped into the room her heart nearly stopped. This meeting was going to be more than just awkward because Y/N’s ex was going to be there, but also because Theo was going to be there. She had no idea as to why the Chimera would be there, he wasn’t even apart of the pack and everyone hated him, but here was, standing in the corner being all moody. 

Swallowing the lump in her throat that was preventing her from breathing properly her and Lydia joined the conversation. Y/N could feel Derek’s eyes on her, burning holes into her body, and she could see Theo staring Derek down from his dark corner. 

“Y/N? Do you think it’s a good plan?” Scott asked, grabbing the girls attention. Her Y/E/C eyes shot up from the metal table and looked at the Alpha, obvious confusion gracing her features. Scott sighed, not waiting for an answer. “We can talk about this more tomorrow, until then just stay on alert and if you hear or see anything call one of us. Don’t go at this alone.” The rest of the group nodded and walked out. 

As Lydia and Y/N headed for the door someone grabbed her wrist and turned her around. Her eyes were met with a broad chest, and she knew that it was Derek. She didn’t have to look at him directly to know that. 

“I think we need to talk.” His voice was low and soft, something Y/N was not quite used to. 

“There’s nothing to talk about.” She mumbled, looking down and pulling away from him. “There wasn’t anything to say then and there isn’t now.” 

Derek sighed and looked away from the girl, his heart hurting. He had been hurting from the moment she left him, from the moment she threw the necklace on the ground and walked out of his life. “I’m sorry about what I said, I didn’t mean it.” He mumbled, still not looking at her. 

Y/N shook her head, “You had six months to say that to me, Derek. Why now?” 

“I don’t know, I didn’t- I didn’t know how to say it, how you would reactt or what  would happen.” Lame excuse. 

“Whatever Derek, you never gave me a chance to explain and after calling me a slut I had no need to.” Y/N sighed, “I need to go, Lydia’s waiting on me.” Y/N began to walk away when she heard Derek’s voice again.  “I never cheated on you.” He said, his eyes piercing her clammy skin. 

Her head turned back a frown lacing her lips, “And neither did I.” Y/N walked out without another word to him, her heart hurting too much for her to get another word out. Waiting at Lydia’s car wasn’t just the banshee herself, but Theo Raken as well. 

“What do you want?” Y/N’s voice was cold, only because of the conversation she just had with her ex.  “Woah, what’s with the attitude?” Theo said, pushing his body off of the side of Lydia’s car. The glare Y/N sent his way was enough to get him to ease up, “I was just talking to Lydia about how you’re trying to get over that jack ass Derek in there, and I was wondering if I could help by taking you out on a date.”  Y/N let out a sigh, her hand gripping the handle on the car door. She didn’t know what to say. She wanted so badly to get over Derek, but at the same time she didn’t because of how much she loved him. When she looked up at Theo again she saw Derek standing at the entrance of the clinic, watching them. 

“Let me think about it.” 

Y/N got into Lydia’s car, looking at the stunned look on Theo’s face, and the sad expression across Derek’s. 

[bluenet13]

Marty’s Wish - A Densimber Christmas Story

The little boy lay flat on the ground collecting the pine needles that had fallen from the Christmas tree that loomed over him. Sitting on the corner of the cluttered space, and decorated with a few ornaments, and a single string of light, the tree was the only bright spot on the otherwise dark room.

Lost in thought, the boy jumped with remembered fear when the door swung open and an adult voice spoke from behind, but upon recognizing the voice of his mother, his shoulders slumped down and his breathing evened out.  

“What are you doing, baby boy?” Roberta Deeks asked, as she set the grocery bags down, taking notice of her son under the Christmas tree. The object unfamiliar on the Brandel household, but it’s blinking lights still able to push the shadows into retreat. 

Crawling back from under the tree, little Marty slowly lifted himself off the ground, careful not to knock any ornaments down and always protective of the tree he had begged his mother to get. “I’m collecting pine needles, mama.” The boy answered in a cheerful tone, before extending his small frame until he was able to press a kiss onto his mother’s cheek. A single Ziploc bag cradled on his hand.

“I can see that, Martin. But why?” Not easily surprised by her son antics anymore, Bertie still felt perplexed seeing the clean tree skirt that only that morning had been covered with pine needles. The pointy leaves now collected on a series of small bags on top of the coffee table, a pot of water next to them.

“Air fresheners.” He answered matter-of-factly, his small hand pointing to the coffee table. “Pine needles, and water, mama.” He continued to explain, confident his reasoning and wording all made perfect sense.

Head turning sideways, Roberta silently wondered what had brought this new silliness to her son’s mind. Part of her wanting to laugh and smile, but the rational part of her brain counting the minutes until her husband would come home. “I don’t think it works that way, baby.” She answered softly. “And we don’t need artificial pine scent, Martin. We have a real tree, remember? Cut in front of us and all…” She continued to explain, the memory of her son begging for said tree fresh on her mind, and the consequences fresh on her skin.

“They’re not for us, mommy.” Little Marty said doubtfully, having felt the uneasiness radiating from his mother, his own worry increasing as guilt started deep on his gut. The boy not wanting to cause any troubles or for his mama to be hurt. “I know we have a tree. I… just…” He stalled.

“You can tell me anything, Martin. You know that.” Bertie coerced as she continued to stare at the ticking needles of the clock out of the corner of her eye.

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Marty eventually went back to the table and picked up one of the bags, little pine needles swimming in the bit of water that he had dumped on top. “I… wanna sell them in the neighborhood.” Noticing his mother’s eyes starting to go wide, and wanting to stop the explosion that would surely come, he lifted his one empty hand in a placating motion. “I just want some coins in exchange, mama. Maybe some little boy or girl with no Christmas tree could get it and bring some joy into their rooms.” He finished his justification, the certainty of before gone, and his voice sounding shaky this time around.

Bertie’s eyes softened as soon as she heard her son’s explanation. The kind gesture not unfamiliar to her, her baby boy always displaying a heart much larger than his body. “But why are you selling them, Marty? Wouldn’t it be better to just give them for free?” Choosing not to delve on the inaccuracies of her son’s ideas and the fact that air fresheners were more complicated than that, Bertie instead focused on the one thing that remained unexplained.  

Looking down at his feet, Marty tried to make himself small. His blue eyes losing their spark, and his grin turning downwards into a sad smile. “Just a selfish reason, it was a bad idea after all.” He then grabbed the bags and moved to drop them on the kitchen’s trash can, but his mother stopped his progress with a commanding hand on his shoulder.

“Tell me, baby boy.” She said simply, as she pulled her son’s hand towards the sofa until both Deeks’ sat down.

It took a few minutes for the blonde boy to gather his courage and for his thoughts to turn into words, but the reasoning eventually came out. “Just wanted some coins to get myself a Christmas gift. I get it, mama. Santa is busy and there must be some other little boy or girl that deserves it more than me, but I really wanted…” The rest of the words falling into a deep abyss, and Marty slumping back onto the couch, still trying to make himself small. “I’m sorry. It was a dumb idea… I will clean up the mess and go to my room.”

“Stay.” Bertie directed as she tried to gather her thoughts. The idea that her son believed that he didn’t deserve a gift from Santa, and thus needed money to get himself one, breaking her heart. And the knowledge that the real reason was that her husband spent their money at the local bar and liquor store making her son’s words hurt even more. “What do you want to get, Martin?”

“A train…” He responded softly. Eyes still looking down and his usually happy words sounding uncharacteristically dejected.

Old letters to Santa flashed back on her mind, Marty having asked for a model train for the past 3 Christmases and his father always denying him the joy. “How many do you have available?” Bertie asked, spinning the conversation around.

Turning to look at his mother with confusion all over his features, Marty remained silent as his young mind tried to decipher her words.

“Bags? How many bags do you have available, sir?” Bertie asked again. Speaking to her nearly 7 year old son as if he was a salesman. “I would like to buy some.”

Slowly catching up to his mother, little Marty turned back towards the table so he could count the bags. One little finger touching each as he slowly said the numbers under his breath, not wanting to mess up in front of his mama. “6.”

“I want them all. How much would that be?” Bertie inquired as she stood up and walked to her purse so she could get her wallet.

“…But mama, we don’t need them. Tree, remember?” Marty said, one hand pointing at the tree, the other pushing his hair backwards, a gesture he always did when he was nervous.

“I’m not your mother, Martin. I’m a customer. I can give them away to some of those kids you mentioned… bring some joy into their rooms, yeah?” Using his own words, Bertie tried reminding Marty why he had started this whole ordeal in the first place. “So again, how much is it going to be?” Sensing her son wouldn’t answer, Bertie opened her wallet and started counting small bills. “Would this be enough, kind gentlemen?” She asked, pushing a few dollars and coins onto his hands.

“Hmm.” Marty murmured, his eyes shining and looking past the money on his hand, his imagination running wild and already picturing the train he could get.

Grabbing the Ziplocs, Bertie went into the kitchen to get an empty grocery bag to set her purchase inside. Knowing the bags weren’t really air fresheners and that she couldn’t give them away, but her son’s idea starting a fire on her heart, and a desire to help during this holiday season.

Walking back into the living room Bertie motioned for his son to get to his room, time running out and both knowing that nothing of this could be visible when Gordon walked through the door. “Get on your pajamas, Martin. I will be up to kiss you good night in a few minutes.” Marty did as directed and silently got up the couch and started walking up the stairs, feet dragging and shoulders slumped down. “Tomorrow I will pick you up after school and we will go get your train…” Bertie finished. His usual grin back on Marty’s face upon hearing the words all Roberta needed to remember why she got up each day to put up with her husband while she tried to carve some happiness for her baby boy.

When Marty was out of sight, Bertie quickly cleaned the coffee table and then started making some quick calls. Anything to make sure the following day wouldn’t be a disappointment for her son.

-x-x-x-

Next morning came and Marty was ready for school in record time. The smile never leaving his face and the boy laughing and joking even more than in other days. School went by quick with the boy daydreaming during each class, math and science not nearly as interesting as the train he would finally get.

A few hours later, when the bell rang, little Marty grabbed his backpack and ran outside, his grin turning even bigger when he saw his mama’s car parked in front of the school.

Roberta smiled as her son got inside the car, in a single motion kissing her on the cheek, one hand hugging her, while the other pressed play on the car stereo. Little Drummer Boy then started playing from the single Christmas CD the family owned, the thing almost scratched from how many times the blonde boy played it on repeat.

“Ready, Martin?” Roberta asked as she parked the car in front of a thrift store located a few miles from the family’s home.

Marty nodded eagerly, the excitement so big that he wasn’t even rambling as he usually did. “Yeah, mama. I will finally have a biiiig train.” He eventually said with a happy smile on his face, his arms spreading wide as he jumped out of the car.  

“Isn’t that too big for your room, baby boy. We will need a tow truck just to haul it inside.” Roberta’s eyes sparkled while she said the words, every moment with her son making the nights with her husband worthwhile.

“Not that big, silly mommy.” Marty giggled. “I promise it won’t be that big.” He continued more seriously this time. “Small so I can hide it in my closet, promise no one will see.”

Her son’s grasp on reality never failing to amuse her, even at just 6 years old, Marty instinctively knowing that things would be better if his father didn’t see the train. Nonetheless the words making her smile no longer mirror her son’s, as her lips turned downwards and the spark left her bright blue eyes.

“Why are you sad, mama? We don’t have to get the train if you don’t want.” Marty said with certainty, the boy already used to disappointments.

Shaking her head, Bertie reminded herself her son’s words the previous day. She couldn’t let him grow up thinking the world was a sad place in which little boys didn’t deserve the trains they wanted. As much as possible she was determined to preserve his innocence so he never saw how truly unfair the world could sometimes be. “I’m not sad, Marty. I’m just thinking you will be so happy with your train, you will forget all about your mama.”

“Nope. Never, mommy.” Succeeding in her effort to distract her son, Bertie smiled as her son’s little arms moved to hug her legs.

“Let’s go then.” Mother and son then walked hand in hand into the store.

Walking inside, Roberta moved to speak to the old man behind the counter, asking to see the trains they had available and casually mentioning their names hoping Marty wouldn’t think anything of it. The store, known for their eclectic arrangement of hobby-style items, had a nice assortment of collectible trains and some more colorful, toy ones.

Seeing the little boy, the store’s attendant looked inside a box and placed a bright blue Thomas the Tank Engine toy on the counter. Waiting to see a smile on the boy, the man was disappointed to see a frown instead. “What’s wrong?” He asked in confusion.

“I don’t want Thomas... I want a real train.” Marty muttered under his breath.    

The man turned to look at the mother and after receiving a nod of approval he grabbed another box and, this time, placed 5 different Märklin model trains on the counter. His smile returning after the boy’s eyes went wide and his small hand moved doubtfully to touch one.

No one said anything as Marty inspected each train and rearranged them in a different order. The boy ranking them on his mind as he tried to decide which one to get. After around 15 minutes, when he had seemingly decided, he grabbed two and asked the attendant for the price. Smiling the man gave him amounts that were much lower than the actual cost of the collectibles, one still being more than the other as the size was bigger, but both amounts Marty could pay with the money his mother had given him.

“This one.” The boy said. Picking the smaller and cheaper one, and setting the money on the counter.

“But why, son. If you have enough to get the other one. Your mother here, mentioned you wanted a big train.” The attendant then spread his arms wide echoing the gesture Marty himself had done before.

“How much for that?” Marty asked instead, ignoring the man’s question and pointing to a single chain necklace with a heart pendant that hang from a display located on top of the counter to their right.

Head twisted sideways, the man was at a loss. Turning to the mother he saw her nod, and again gave the boy an amount under real market price. One he could still pay with the money he had available.

“I will take it too.” Marty said with a smile. Putting all of the bills and coins on the counter, the small train he had picked never leaving his hand.

The man moved to unclasp the necklace from the display and put it inside a small bag which he passed to the boy after making an act of counting the money. “Merry Christmas, Marty. I hope you enjoy your new train and necklace.” He said bidding goodbye, then shaking the mother’s hand, little Marty never noticing the other exchange that went through.

-x-x-x-

“…And that’s how Martin got his first train.” Roberta finished her explanation, the little train they had bought from the old man at the thrift store sitting on her palm. A few scratches on the paint, but the train shining as bright as it had done on that day 35 years ago.  

Kensi wiped away a single tear that had managed to escape during Roberta’ story. While at the same time she smiled thinking of the little, happy boy Deeks had been, even in between what she knew he had been forced to live at home. “What did he want the necklace for?” She eventually asked, although she thought she knew the answer.

Roberta reached under her shirt, revealing a necklace with a heart pendant that she always kept locked around her neck. “It was his Christmas present for me.” She said simply, showing Kensi the piece that had also been part of the story. A tear now escaping her eyes as every time she thought back to her baby boy picking a smaller train just so he could also get something for her. “My Martin sure was a good boy.” Bertie finished absent-mindedly.

“And now he’s a good man. Thanks to you.” Kensi said to her soon to be mother-in-law. “Did he ever find out you had called the owner in advance and passed him more money as you shook hands?”

“…Not until now.” Deeks said as he walked into the attic. “What’s going on here?” He asked as he noticed the empty boxes and little train that sat on his mother’s palm.

Eyes wide, Kensi’s check instantly colored in embarrassment and she turned a panicky stare to Roberta. “I’m sorry.” She slurred the words as she tried to cover her slip.

“It’s okay. It’s been a while that I suspected something more went on that day.” Deeks explained, not wanting to make Kensi feel bad. “So… what’s going on?”

Roberta placed the toy back into his box and moved to hug her son. “We were just getting the Christmas decorations out of the boxes when we found this one that Kensi didn’t recognize. We found your train and Kensi wanted to hear the story.”

Deeks hugged his mother back and a sad smile started on his face. The memories of that train some of the happiest of his childhood, from how he got it, to the many nights he played with it under his bed. But the happy memories also hiding how he had hoped the imagined noise of the engine would silence the sounds coming from outside his room.

“I’m sorry I never told you, Martin. That night I called some stores before your father got home. I wanted to make sure you would be able to get one and not end up disappointed. I arranged with the owner the prices he would tell you and he knew I would get him the rest.” Bertie explained hoping her son would understand and this wouldn’t start an argument.

“Why didn’t you just get it for me, then?” Deeks asked, understanding her mother’s reasoning but not that part.

“I wanted you to know that with hard work you could make your own destiny, Martin. Be it something as simple as a train, but also… you know, becoming a lawyer… a cop… making something of yourself… getting married. Having a happy family better than the one you grew up in.” She finished lowly as one hand grasped Kensi’s and she smiled sweetly to her soon to be daughter-in-law. “As you have known for a while, Santa is not to blame for you never getting that train, but…”

“I know, mama.” Deeks answered, cutting her off, and mirroring the words he used to speak so often as a little boy. “You wanted me to know I could grow past Gordon.” He summarized.

“And you did.” Bertie said with pride, taking a look at the happy household around her. The strings of lights, many ornaments, and garlands peeking out from the recently opened boxes, the complete opposite to that small tree decorated with a single string of light and few ornaments under which little Marty had gathered pine needles.

A loud awww broke the moment between mother and son, Kensi having taken advantage of the opportunity to take a peek at the box from where the train had come out. Her sights zeroing on a photo album and her hands quickly moving at the same pace as her mind.

Now she stood to the left, with a picture of a little, blonde boy wearing a way too big chef hat that fell over his eyes, and a younger Roberta standing next to him with a spatula on her hand. The kitchen around them a mess of flour, eggs and cheese.

“Oh, that’s the day I taught him to make Bertie’s famous frittata.” Roberta started, again reminiscing old times. “I asked him to put a whole egg into the mixture and he went to throw in the whole thing, shell and all.” She explained as she flipped the page and the next picture showed little Marty with tears on his eyes, a broken egg on the floor and Bertie giggling next to him.

While Roberta and Kensi shared a good laugh, Deeks looked mortified. “No time for stories. Let’s go, we have some Christmas decorations to set.” Picking up boxes full of Christmas stuff, Deeks urged his mother and girlfriend to follow.

Ignoring her fiancé, Kensi continued to flip pages of the album until she reached another picture that caught her attention. Mother and son standing behind a kitchen counter, Santa Hat on Deeks blonde locks and a bowl of soup boiling at their backs. “Is this…?” Kensi left the rest of the question unspoken.

“…The first time we volunteered at the soup kitchen.” Deeks finished for her. “I never thought about it, but… that tradition started on the same year as the train.”

“You weren’t the only one that learned something that day, Martin. Your idea of giving the air fresheners to kids that might not have a tree for Christmas made me think of other ways to help and I realized many families didn’t even have food for the holidays. So, I did some research and found that nearby soup kitchen. It became our tradition after that.”

“And now it’s ours.” Deeks said with a smile as he grabbed Kensi’s hand and pulled it to his lips so he could press a sweet kiss over her ring finger.

“And this Christmas we could all go together.” Kensi proposed as she continued to stare at the photograph of another event in the Christmas that had helped shape Deeks into the man she would soon marry. “I’m sure my mom will be eager to join us… And to hear some more stories.” Kensi finished with a wink.

“No, no. No more stories. Decorations, we need decorations.” Deeks took the album from Kensi’s hand and pushed a box in its place and motioned mother and fiancé towards the stairs. He then went to turn off the lights, but not before he reached into the box and grabbed the little train. Hoping to be unnoticed but Roberta and Kensi watching from the corner of their eyes, and smiling to each other. Mother, son and future wife agreed, that train didn’t belong in a box.

[letterfromtrenwith]

Prescription Passion - Ch.1

My cheesily titled but I hope not cheesily written Carolight hospital AU :D

Dr Dwight Enys, coming home from several years abroad, takes a job in the A&£ dept of St Neot's hospital in Truro, not intending to be completely knocked for six by meeting a certain lovely dermatologist - Dr Caroline Penvenen.

Posting the first ch. for Carolight Week. 

~

Maternity Ward

“How in the Hell – “ Dwight glared at the blue plastic sign above the double swing doors, as if staring at it hard enough might change it into something that made sense. While he’d admittedly only been working here a week, he couldn’t fathom how anybody found their way around this hospital. It was like a bloody labyrinth. Although that was all relative considering that the last hospital he’d worked in had essentially been three wooden huts stuck together. The St. Neot’s Infirmary was something else altogether.

Technically, his shift was over for today, but since the A&E dept. was currently running a little understaffed he was still on call until late that evening, before having 48 hours off. He had been planning on going home, since his flat wasn’t too far way to make getting back in an emergency unworkable, and he still had some serious unpacking to do. However, what he’d intended to be a quick trip to the HR department to swap his temporary staff card for a permanent one – hideous passport photo and all – had turned into a trip down the rabbit hole.

Blessedly, he knew someone in the maternity unit who would be able to give him directions. Verity Poldark was a senior midwife at St Neot’s, and had been the one to suggest Dwight apply for a job there. He’d met her when he was at medical school with her cousin, Ross, and she’d been a trainee at the university’s teaching hospital.

Verity was standing at the nurse’s station when he went in, looking harassed, her hair coming loose from its pins. It didn’t really look like the time to bother her – maybe he could ask someone else – but she managed a smile when she saw him.

“Hi, Dwight. What brings you here?”

“Being horribly lost, I’m afraid. I was going to ask if you could show me the way but I’ve obviously caught you at a busy time.” The whiteboard behind the desk showed that four o’clock in the afternoon on a Tuesday was apparently a popular time to be in labour.

“No, it’s – “ Before Verity could finish her sentence, the doors swung open again behind Dwight, and Verity looked behind him, breaking into a much wider smile of what seemed like relief.

“George! Thank God!” Dwight turned to find that George was a fair-haired man of about the same age as him.

“Somebody call for an anaesthetist?”

“GET ME THE FUCKING DRUGS!”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” George passed by Dwight without a second glance, heading into the room where the shout had emanated from. Verity made to follow him, but stopped.

“Are you doing anything at the minute, Dwight?”

“Er, no, not really.”

“Want to come and help deliver a very angry lady’s twins?” Dwight thought for a minute; about the pile of boxes he had to unpack and the papers from his aunt’s solicitor he still had to read.

“You know, I would.” 

~

Dwight suppressed a yawn as he signed off on yet another patient form – a 14 year old boy who’d suffered an asthma attack during a PE lesson; he would fine, but Dwight had strongly advised him that it probably wasn’t the best idea to leave his inhaler on his bedside table when he was going to be playing rugby.

This morning had been a complete whirlwind. Five minutes after he’d clocked on, four victims of a car accident had been rushed in, all of whom needed stabilising before surgery; and then an 89-year-old woman with Alzheimer’s who was incredibly distressed after a fall at her care home; two workmen who’d sustained mild burns after a piece of equipment had caught fire. On and on and on they’d come. Friday was often a busy day in A & E – no Saturday night, but it could get chaotic. Just before the 14 year old boy, Dwight had seen a time of death pronounced on an overdose case, so he wasn’t feeling his best.

His 48 hours off hadn’t given him much rest, in the end, although he had collapsed face down on his bed first thing on Wednesday morning after Mrs Teague’s 12 hour-labour, which had ended in the arrival of boy and girl twins, seemingly hale and hearty.

Unlike most of the British hospitals Dwight had worked in, St Neot’s actually had a pretty decent canteen, and he thought a ham salad baguette and packet of posh crisps would hit the spot.

“Dwight! Over here!” Verity waved at him from the corner, and he weaved his way between tables occupied by a mix of uniform clad nurses, doctors in scrubs and patients with dressing gowns over their hospital nighties – the odd one with a drip. He hoped none of them were skipping out on ‘nil by mouth’ orders.

“Hi, Verity. Hello.” Verity was sitting with George, the anaesthetist from Tuesday night, and another woman who’d also been at the delivery. In the chaos, Dwight had never got her name, but he’d gathered she was the on-call obstetrician. She was very pretty, with short, dark brown hair and soft features; her smile was wide and friendly, her eyes warm. Dwight could imagine her being a soothing presence for nervous mothers-to-be. Today, she’d swapped her scrubs for a smart sleeveless blouse, her glasses tucked into the neck.

“Didn’t get a chance to introduce you all properly the other night.” Verity smiled. “Dr Dwight Enys, this is Dr George Warleggan and Dr Elizabeth Warleggan.”

“I assume that’s not a coincidence?” Dwight sat, putting down his tray to exchange handshakes with the other two, who smiled at each other in a way which made their connection rather obvious.

“No. They’re our resident lovebirds.” Verity grinned and Elizabeth shook her head.

“Thank you for your help the other night, by the way.”

“How is Mrs Teague? And the babies?”

“Mmm,” Elizabeth took a pull on the straw of her drink. “All well. They were discharged yesterday – we kept the twins for observation since they both had low blood pressure, but they were right as rain after 24 hours or so.”

“Mrs Teague seemed very…overwhelmed by the experience.”

“Ha! I’ll say.” Verity shook her head. “It takes women lots of ways but, Ruth…”

“All that screaming…” Elizabeth sighed. “And for such a straightforward delivery, especially for twins. I blame TV, you know. People see all those histrionics and they think that’s how it should be.”

“Says the woman who gave me a black eye when she was giving birth!” George cried and Elizabeth gave a dramatic sigh, looking up in an exaggerated appeal to the heavens.

“That was an accident!” She looked at Dwight. “I reached out for his hand during a particularly hard contraction and he happened to be bending forward at the same time…”

“That’s her story!” Dwight laughed. This was obviously a well-worn argument, and he couldn’t help but smile at the obvious affection between the two of them.  He hadn’t got a proper look at George the other night – after administering the epidural he’d only needed to monitor Mrs Teague for a short while before the delivery team could take over, and then he’d been called away for a surgical procedure. Blue-eyed and fine-featured, he certainly made a handsome match with Elizabeth.

“So, how many children do you have?” Dwight asked.

“Two.” Elizabeth picked up her phone, scrolling through before handing it to him. The picture showed an adorable little boy of about three, with dark springy curls, peering curiously at a tiny light-haired baby. “Valentine, he’s nearly four now, and Ursula, she’s just turned one.”

“ – “ They obviously sensed his surprise at the unusual names, and Dwight was briefly afraid he’d offended them, but George smiled.  

“Valentine was born on Valentine’s day, and Ursula was Elizabeth’s great-aunt, she died just before the baby was born. Also, there’s surprisingly little that goes with ‘Warleggan’.”

They chatted more as they ate, Dwight telling them a little about his time with Medicines sans Frontieres – although nothing about why he’d joined the organisation in the first place; even Verity didn’t know the full details there, and he certainly wasn’t ready to talk about it with strangers, even ones as nice as these. He did explain that he’d come home to Cornwall to take care of his Aunt’s estate, and that Verity had persuaded him to join the staff at St Neot’s.

“She’s the best recruiter this place has got!” Elizabeth laughed. “She got her brother here, too. And Demelza!”

Dwight had known Francis for a while, too, although not as well as the other Poldarks – he’d gone to a different uni, and practiced in Scotland for a few years. He was now a consultant ophthalmologist at St.Neot’s – the only one, actually.

“Demelza?” He’d met an awful lot of people since arriving at the hospital a couple of weeks ago, but he couldn’t remember her. He was sure he’d remember someone with such an unusual name.

“One of the hospital pharmacists.” Verity explained. “I met her at a yoga class, and she told me she wanted a change from her old job…”

“I think Dr. Martin said we were short a few A & E nurses if you fancy taking that on?” Verity elbowed him and he laughed. Suddenly, there was a beeping noise, and all four of them rummaged in their pockets.

“It’s me. Emergency surgery. Nice to meet you, Dwight.” With a quick kiss for Elizabeth, George was gone, his wife smiling after him.

“Aww…” Verity cooed.

“Shut up.” Elizabeth said primly, fighting a grin.  

“No, I love it. You give this sad singleton hope for true love.” Verity sighed with exaggerated dreaminess, and Elizabeth snorted. After a moment, Dwight became aware of someone standing behind him, just as Elizabeth smiled widely.

“Caroline! Here, meet the new A & E registrar I told you about. Dwight, this is Dr Caroline Penvenen.” Dwight turned to greet the new arrival, and found himself completely lost for words.

[lindsaywesker]

Good morning! I hope you slept well and feel rested? Currently sitting at my desk, in my study, attired only in my blue towelling robe, enjoying my first cuppa of the day.

My beautiful friend Tracey Lewis came home from her holiday yesterday and, to use her words, it was a “shock to the system”. For most British people, when we return home after a week (or two) in the sun, we come off that plane into the cold and it’s like, “Christ, back to reality!” But I wonder what it’s like for people from hot countries? What does that feel like? I’m sure they don’t intentionally go to Greenland or Lapland to experience ‘cold’ but, even if they go to the UK or Germany or Switzerland, it’s going to be markedly cooler than home. When they disembark from their plane home, it must be like, “Aaaah, warmth!”

Tumblr keeps sending me an email saying, “Need distractions? Try these?” No, Tumblr, I don’t need distractions. I am already distracted as it is! Do you not find distractions a problem in your life? I do. Procrastination – as far as I can see – is a very serious illness. These bloody distractions!

“Poor people are richer than you think.” (Therese Coffey on BBC Radio 4) Tories think that working class people are essentially shifty liars and cheats. Tories think that all working class people are doing tasty cash-in-hand jobs and extracting every benefit possible. I think we all know which set of people are stealing millions (sometimes billions) of pounds of public money every year.

Naturally, I subscribe to Martin Lewis’s Money Saving Expert’s Weekly Money Tips. Top of the list this week: ‘Free Wills’. As we’re all going to be dead soon, might as well get it sorted now?

Some people feel that, as CEOs, directors and shareholders are experts and have worked hard to get where they are, they deserve big rewards! The truth of the matter is that it’s not WHAT you know but WHO you know! Many of these ‘senior’ people are relatives or friends (or friends of friends) of existing employees. Inherited positions and inherited wealth.

Last night the Evening Standard reported, “Shock fall in monthly growth leads to new fears of recession.” Erm … let’s unpick that. Who was shocked? I wasn’t, and I’m not an economist! Secondly, “fears” of a recession? Ain’t we IN a recession? How much more depressed does this country have to be? Consumer confidence is shot to shit! People don’t want to come out of their homes, people don’t even want to turn on the heating or boil the kettle! If we want people to SPEND money, we need to reduce prices and reduce bills! Wholesale energy costs have plummeted recently. Ofgem notes that wholesale electricity costs have seen an annual fall of 23%, with gas prices plummeting by 38% over this timeframe. This means that electricity is the cheapest it has been since September 2010, and gas has not been so cheap since April 2010. And yet my monthly payment has gone up! Oh, I get it! The CEO has a holiday home in The Algarve and the Olympic-sized swimming pool needs upgrading. I totally understand. Also, I hear the main shareholder has a mistress who is demanding her own flat in Central London. This all makes sense. Now I see why my energy bill has increased.

I don’t have a culture. I don’t feel part of any race or religion. So, no one will be able to cancel my culture. I have a lifestyle. You can try and cancel that, if you want, but I like me and I like the way I live, so you probably won’t be able to cancel my lifestyle either! There have even been some people who’ve tried to cancel me! Go ahead! Knock yourself out!

Have a throbbing and thrusting Thursday (with hopefully a few thrills through your thoroughfare?) I love you all.

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Medicine

I’ll be fully honest, I’m not a Marvel nerd. I enjoy the movies but I have gaps, some I haven’t seen due to being broke. I just love all the hot ass sassy men, mkay? It’s been almost 3 years since I’ve written anything, let’s see what happens, shall we?

     Summery: Doctor Reiko Martin is a world leading Diagnostician, the youngest in her field. Daughter of Doctor Paul Martin, she was always in a shadow. When she gets a 4am call from Doctor Stephen Strange, she want’s nothing more then to ignore the man. However, he will not be ignored and insists that he needs her. Maybe this is her chance to be the better Doctor. Maybe this is her chance to be more then just a Doctor. 

Stephen Strange x OFC

Series Warnings: Language, illness, possibly future smut. 

Chapter 1

     Dr. Reiko Martin glanced at the chart in front of her. Pass, a simple case of phenomena was hardly worth her time. The chart below it belonged to a old woman with chronic kidney stones. Boring. Borning. Borning. Most of the cases that came to her desk were just that, boring.

     Her father was a legend in the field. The Doctor Martin, master diagnostician regarded around the world as second to none. He spared no penny in his daughter's education. Private tutors, long hours and constant drilling. It all paid off, she was second in her field until the day he died. The anniversary of his death was quick approaching and she couldn't help but find herself feeling reflective. It lead to her being antsy and short tempered, more then usual at least.  

     She didn't cry at his funeral. She didn't feel any sadness at his passing, not really. She didn't really feel anything when he passed, not even relief. Maybe, she should have felt joy at finally having freedom? He would no longer be pushing her to excel. She was in her late twenties and her life hardly lived. Graduating High School early with college credits already under her belt, she was pushed ever onward.

      With her father's support and constant pushing, she took as many classes as she could, flying through her college work and soaring though Medical School, an unstoppable force. Many were envious of her, oh how they wished they had someone like her father in their back pocket. His support was believed to have been amazing. They were sure she worked hard to make him proud

     Only when she began her residency did her world begin to slow down. She stopped being the star and started being tested. The attending physicians wanted to break the star student, to stump her and knock her down a few pegs. It was a time she truly loved. An ego in a young doctor could be deadly for a patient. They never found a fault in her. Maybe that was ultimately her fault.

     Father's lectures were never far from mind. Her specialty- Diagnostics, just like him. She was interested in surgery but alas, as she was always reminded a surgeon is only as good as their hands. She was young now, her hands steady and sure but any number of things could take that from her. It was better to go with diagnostics, something prized, something that she could continue even as she grew old and gray. All she needed was her mind. She didn't need to be a part of the boy's club in the Surgical Theater.

      Sometimes she wonders “what if”, but quickly puts those thoughts out of mind. Regrets were useless. A waste of time.

      With a sigh she closes the chart. Maybe she would find something tomorrow. The hospital director wants her to take more cases in house, or else she could expect to be ordered to be on loan to another hospital or worse, increase her clinic hours. Spending time helping with colds, coughs and broken bones at the walk in clinic that served to decrease minor visits to the hospital ER were not something she liked.

      Her most recent patient would be discharging at the end of the week into a inpatient psychical therapy program. It was an interesting case of a hidden brain tumor. The surgeon reporting finding teeth inside the mass. How fascinating. Or at least it would be to someone else. She'd seen it before. Most things she'd seen before.

      With a sigh, she turned off the light in her office. Her life was boring. Her cases were boring. Her home, boring. So why bother going home? She didn't see a good reason to bother with the trip and so plopped herself down on the couch. At the very least, her office was a step up from the call rooms from her residency days.

      She drifted off into the embrace of sleep. One more day down. If she gave herself a moment to think, she would likely wonder what she could have in her life. Would she find love? Have a family? Did she even have friends? As long as she kept herself busy, as long as she kept looking for the next case, the next challenge, she can ignore those pesky thoughts.

      It didn't matter. The world was over populated. Love was over rated. The only thing that mattered was the next puzzle.

      Maybe.

      Maybe not.

      Ringing attempted to drag her from the depths of her sleep. It wasn't her pager. It wasn't her night on call. She was groggy, tired. What time is it? She slapped at her phone, rejecting the call. With a glance at the window she saw it was dark outside. Still night. Good.

      She was just descending into sleep again when the infernal ringing started again.

      “Fuck off” she drawled and declined the call again without even opening her eyes.

      Off on the other side of the country a man she had known years ago growled in his own frustration. Goddammit, he was just trying to help an acquaintance and Martin wasn't even answering. Again her voice, cold and flat on the voicemail. He slammed the end button and just as quickly hit call again, redialing her number.

      She was like him. That's not true, she was like how he was before. Cold, indifferent. One could offer her all the money in the world and she wouldn't take the case. It had to be just right, it had to catch her attention. If he could just get her to answer, he could sell her on the case.

      Voicemail. Again. What damn Doctor doesn't answer their phone?! Again, he listened to the ringing. Behind him his...friend? Acquaintance perhaps was a more correct term, paced.

      Across the country, Dr. Martin finally roused. Whoever it was calling had better have a good reason. She groped blindly at her phone, wincing at the bright light of the screen, displaying the name and number of the caller, 'Dr. S. Strange'. The phone went dead in her hand and she breathed a sigh, thinking maybe, just maybe she would get back to sleep.

      The joke was on her however as after the briefest of moments, it began singing her it's song yet again. She saw 12 missed calls and assumed they were all from this man. Why on earth he would be calling her was the question. They hadn't gotten on well nor had they spoken in at least a year, maybe as much as four years. It was hard to say, they would often see each other in passing at medical events.

      “What do you want?” Her voice didn't sound nearly as harsh as she had intended, more tired then anything. Without waiting for his answer, she pulled the phone from her face, glancing at the time. “It's 4AM, go away”, she snapped, cutting off the voice on the other side as he had just started speaking.

      He and her father had a history. Years ago when Strange was just a resident, her father was an attending physician. Father would talk of that time as if Dr. Strange was his shinning star. In reality, the man likely gave the young Doctor a hellish time. Father never really cared for surgeons, they were the Jocks of the hospital. She assumed she inherited that view, they did always annoy her. They never did have a puzzle, the path was nearly always put forth for them. Just jocks doing as they are told. Even one as renowned as Dr. Strange wasn't immune to the hospital cliques.

      He wasted no time with pleasantries, none on “hello”s or “how are you”s. Rather, the first thing he said was, “Martin, I have a case for you.”

      He never did call her “Dr. Martin” outside of formal hospital events, unless in front of patients. Rarely, had they ever shared a patient. It always irked her. He was just another doctor to dismiss her. She was both young and a woman. Medicine was still very much a boy's club and even with the female medical staff, she didn't fit because of her age.

      “Call back in the morning.” She snapped and disconnected the call. Before she even had the phone out of her hand, he was calling again. She answered, sighing in defeat and glancing at the analog clock on the wall. “You have 4 minutes. Time starts now.”

      “Female, age 46, admitted four days ago with high BP, aches and fever over 104. Sores present on extremities and mouth. Patient presents with extreme fatigue and isn't retaining new information well.” Behind him, the patient's fiance glared at Strange, not feeling comfortable with the cold and clinical way his fiancee was being spoken about.

      “Recent travel?” Reiko hadn't even bothered to move from her position lounging on the couch.

      “Extensively within the last 90 days.” She sat up. The possibilities could be endless with extensive travel.

      “Labs?”

      “Depressed but mostly within normal range. Whatever this is, it acts both viral and bacterial, yet beyond the fever there is minimal immune response. Supportive treatment has slowed the progression but beyond that, treatments tried have been ineffective.”

      “You are no longer practicing.” He had hoped that she wouldn't point that out.

      “No, the patient is a... acquaintance of mine, you can say.”

      “Mm-hmm,” likely story. She knew his reputation. Women had been in and out of his bed on a revolving door for as long as she could remember. “Have her Doctor send me her chart.”

      Swiftly she stood and made her way to the computer. Within a few seconds, the ping went off in her ear. “That was fast, considering.”

      “I may not be practicing but I still have sway.” Age, reputation and experience granted him that much.

      She didn't really offer much of a response but he could hear the clicking away of her keyboard. In the background, she could hear a man talking to Dr. Strange.

      “Just wait, give her time.” His voice was muffled, clearly not speaking to her.

      Someone was clearly not appreciating the wait. Page after page of lab results, treatment plans, patient history all flashed across her screen. She dismissed some pages with little more then a glance, others she read in detail. Patient Potts has lost weight, regardless of effort to prevent it. She was failing to retain liquids and solids both for more then a few minutes at a time.

      GI tract appeared normal, yet nourishment and fluids introduced via feeding tube caused immense pain and bloating. Interesting. Labs appeared mostly in normal ranges.

      “I'll take it. Proceed to have her transferred.”

      “No. She's not stable enough to travel,”  

      “Good luck, then.” She was bluffing. If she could get leave from her hospital and be loaned out, she could travel. With a few keystrokes she pulled up flights while she let him simmer. She could hear background talking but paid it no mind. May as well play hard to get.

      She'd be looking at 5-8 hours travel time, including a possible layover to get to New York. Plus time in the airport and delays. Let's face it- there are always delays. In a short moment she was up out of her chair and on her way out of her office, cellphone held to her ear.

      “Come to New York to treat her.” Doctors had a way of making questions into statements. It seemed as if Strange hadn't lost the talent with his career.

      “Talk to the Chief, I'm on my way to do the same and touch base.” With that, the call was disconnected, thankfully to not ring again. He knew he had her.