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targaryenrealnessdarling · 1 year

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A Perfect Score - Chapter 3 - Goosebumps | FigureSkating!AU

Summary: You perform your first match with Aemond, and things are beginning to heat up in the figure skating business | Word Count: 6.8k~ | Warnings under the cut~

Series Masterlist | Links to my Taglists: General Taglist | Aemond Targaryen Taglist

Warnings: sexual tension, masturbation (f), reader having racy thoughts but nothing crazy, mentions of medical treatment for trigeminal neuralgia, mentions of an open relationship

A/N: shoutout to @asumofwords for giving me inspo for the 'stretch'. Also we love a slow-burn enemies to lovers moment, but we're heating up! 🔥

Comments, reblogs & likes are always appreciated in this household. I love u 😚

“Again”

You were covered in sweat, visible in the black tank top you were wearing and by the harsh lights that illuminated the ice rink. Your chest heaved noticeably as you placed your hands on your hips, the remaining momentum having you glide across the ice as you looked at Aemond, who stood tall, arms crossed and looking as stern as the day you met him.

In the weeks training with him everyday, you’d managed to at least try to be civil (save for a few choice words over dinner which had either of you leave the table instantly. One time you both tried to leave at the same time, and had a staredown, which delighted Aegon immensely). Aemond had not changed his attitude, neither had you.

Nor had Aemond apologised for what he’d said. And so much time had passed now, you were unsure if he ever would.

Anytime you would both pass one another in the hallway, every shared look at the dinner table felt like striking a match and depending on the day, it would catch and spread, and erupt into a fully blown argument. A clashing of personalities that were perhaps too close to one another to truly get on.

You straighten up, sucking in a breath, “Aemond, it’s late”

He checked his watch, the look on his face confirming that it was indeed late but that he didn’t care. He shrugged, “Again”

With a sigh, you get back into position, trying to ignore the way he so blatantly stares and picks apart quite literally everything you do. Even if he is right sometimes, it doesn’t make it any less annoying.

You can feel every muscle begin to ache from the everyday rigorous training you’ve been doing, and icing your muscles in between is helping but not entirely. Every night, you sleep like a freaking baby, since it takes all your brain capacity to tiptoe around Aemond wherever you go. You appreciate it’s his home and he can be wherever he wants in it at any given time, but not being on good terms is starting to drain the very energy out of you.

For what feels like the thousandth time you build up some speed (wanting nothing more than to just push him over on those stupid skates he’s wearing) and jump into a spin, stretching your leg as far and as high as it will go without assisting it with your hand.

“No, no” Aemond says quickly, shaking his head and gliding over, making you stop.

He stops behind you again, his skates crunching to a halt.

“Don’t bend your knee” he comments, “did you stretch?”

You throw him a pointed look over your shoulder, “I always stretch”

Aemond hums, which is becoming increasingly annoying as the weeks go on.

You gasp in surprise when his hand reaches for your leg and lifts it, his hand encircling the legging-clad skin near your knee, grasping with minimal pressure. It momentarily tips you off balance, not having expected it, and his other hand goes back around your waist, palm flat on your middle between your ribs to keep you standing straight, as it had been the first day you practised together.

“Don’t bend your knee” he repeats, lifting your leg higher, tightening his other arm around you to keep you level and inadvertently tugging you closer to him, so much so you can feel his leg against your hip. “That’s it”

He lifts your leg so that it stands at a 45 degree angle, as straight as your leg will allow. But aside from the way your leg is stretched, your brain feels like it’s short-circuiting. His fingers curl around the meat of your thigh, pressing lightly to keep you up.

He is so close to your back, that you’re sure you can feel the puffs of air out his nose as he breathes, making the hair around your face sway somewhat in your periphery. And more than anything, his other hand, firmly on your torso, presses in, drawing your bodies almost flush with your back against his hardened chest.

All this makes your skin go all warm, in spite of the harsh air conditioning, your chest entirely too tight and everything about what he’s doing, how close he is, how his stature looms behind, all serves to make you realise how small you feel in comparison. You swallow anxiously at the thought, hoping he doesn’t realise how your breathing is suddenly heavier.

Your leg firmly on the ice wobbles slightly off balance, and he moves his hand to your waist, squeezing tighter.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you” he says, hushed, probably the softest his voice has ever seemed.

You turn your face only slightly when he says that, not having to move much to look back at him behind you. Almost as soon as you do, Aemond lowers his face, his eye meeting yours.

He’s worn his hair down today, as he sometimes does, but several strands are tucked firmly behind his ear, swinging softly in the gentle breeze. It makes your skin tingle and goosebumps form on your arms.

His eye flits around your face, and you know he must be able to see the slight flush you feel in the centre of your features, spreading down your neck, all the way down to your belly. In the closeness of the gesture, he stands tall behind you, and you see his eye run over your tank top, from his angle the shadow of your cleavage just visible.

He looks back at you quickly again, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, which have now stolen your attention. They stay parted, and he breathes ever so slightly heavier out his mouth.

It’s so miniscule, the gesture, that if you weren’t paying attention you’d miss it. But his hand slips from your mid-thigh just that little bit lower, and both of his hands squeeze tighter, until he skates backwards, gently letting you go. Something tugs about your core at the action. It felt so intimate. So sensu-

“Good, that’s good” he says weakly, clearing his throat.

You lower your leg almost as soon as he retreats, the place where he had touched burning significantly, feeling like you’d touched a hot kettle.

The session ends like this. Like there's something unspoken, and a hammering in your chest that won't cease as you walk up the cobbled path back to the house. Now that you're outside, you feel cold from having exerted with the soft sheen of sweat over your body. Aemond looks the same, his shirt sticking to the front of his chest and the hem around his biceps.

Aemond walked quickly ahead, helped by his long legs, but he was walking faster than usual, as if in a hurry to get back inside. He threw the glass doors open and rushed through the kitchen, not bothering even to say hello to Helaena who was leant by the counter, idly eating cereal.

Helaena looked at him and then at you as you stepped through the door, "What's wrong with him?" She asks, gesturing with her head. It was a common question since your arrival.

You can still feel the colour to your cheeks. But at least you could blame the fact that you were training just now. Even so, Helaena looked at you with a mischievously suspicious look.

You shrug, trying to be as convincing as possible, "Don't know. We just finished training"

Helaena raises an eyebrow, looking at the clock on the wall, "At 10:30 at night?"

"Yeah?"

Helaena smirks, as if she's not convinced.

"Sure"

You sigh, opening the fridge for a cold bottle of water, "Don't be like that, he hates me"

"He doesn't hate you" she insists, "He's just…antisocial"

You look at her sharply after a good sip, "That's neither true or an excuse"

Helaena bites her lip, desperate to say something, but she shakes her head and looks back at her bowl.

Sighing you check your phone, seeing an email from Hightower Management. It must have come in while you and Aemond were on the ice.

"What's this?" you ask, showing Helaena the screen.

"Oh, we've got a match in a few days. It decides who goes on the championship tour and Otto is just giving us the details. What to wear, which routine we'll do etc"

You scroll through the email absentmindedly, taking in the more important details, "I'm supposed to wear white?"

Helaena nods, "Aemond always wears black. Me and Aegon always wear variations of red"

You bite your lip, "I'll have to see if I have anything white"

"If you don't, we'll go shopping," she smiles.

"I can't afford that"

She furrows her brows, "Babes, Hightower Management will pay for it"

There's something about them paying for everything which, deep down, doesn't sit well with you. But you suppose, now that you're working for them, they really should pay. It just feels wrong. Especially after all those years where you had to make your costumes yourself, bent over the desk at ungodly hours only to be awake training the next morning.

You quickly bid Helaena goodnight, feeling the sudden hit of fatigue in your muscles as you drag your feet up the stairs.

You're barely on the landing as you hear Aegon murmuring lowly in the hallway, barely standing over the threshold of his bedroom. Aemond is leant against the doorway, one hand gripping the frame at the top, his lips pressed together as he chats with his brother lowly. So quietly in fact you can't tell what either of them are saying.

Hearing your footsteps approach your room, Aemond looks over, the conversation grinding to a halt when he sees you.

Warmth and embarrassment blooms across your skin, settling deep in your gut. He's clearly had a shower, as his hair is loose and damp around his shoulders, his skin ever so slightly flushed from the hot water.

As much as you don't want to admit it, you can't deny that you sneaked a peek at his grey sweatpants, hanging loosely on his hips, which you can only see since the black shirt he's wearing is riding up slightly with one hand on the doorframe, the grip now tightened somewhat.

Just like that everything is hot again and something akin to dull excitement settles between your legs.

Stop it.

You can remember his firm grasp on your thigh.

Stop it.

His eye flits over you again, jaw tensing noticeably. Your breathing noticeably heavier.

You gather your breath, willing the heat to disappear from your face and quickly retreat into your room, finding solace in the quiet, cool sensation of being away from Aemond, thoughts having a moment's reprieve.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

It surely can’t be the birth control. Your hormones have never been out of whack before? They had been on that pill, but that was ages ago...

So why does it feel like all of a sudden, you feel like you haven’t fucked anyone in a while? And why does it suddenly feel so urgent?

You try and think of the last time you slept with someone. Gods, it must have been several months ago with that guy from Highgarden, the one who came in about forty seconds and spent the rest of the evening crying.

It was unsatisfactory, yes, but you don’t have time to date! There’s no room for someone else in the busy schedule that is being a professional figure skater. None whatsoever.

You briefly think if you packed your vibrator with you and realised very quickly, that you didn’t even think about it when you moved out, thinking that you wouldn’t be gone long.

So once you’re showered, hair dried and laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the patterns of the ceiling-rose with the domed light sat ornamentally in the middle, your stomach still carries that warmth you felt earlier.

The way his grasp lowered on your thigh.

The way his hand squeezed your waist.

The way his words had been whispered softly into your ear, warming your neck.

You shake your head in frustration, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. What the hell is going on? He’s a twat! It is against every moral cell inside you to find this man even somewhat attractive, after the things he’s said to you, nevermind his terrible attitude on top of that.

But as you have thought before. He can be both a twat and attractive right?

This is how you rationalise it, as your hand slips beneath the hem of your underwear, bringing yourself that dull buzz of pleasure as your middle finger teases your bud, aided with the surprise that you’re already wet. Your head tips back against the pillows, pressing your lips together to keep your sounds low in your throat, the other hand dipping beneath the oversized sleeping shirt you were wearing to cup your breast.

Not at all imagining they were someone else’s.

No, that would be weird.

It happens faster than usual. Your finger speeds up over your bud, pressing lightly as your hips move with the rhythm only slightly, and your orgasm sneaks up on you quickly, rolling through your body so fast that a quiet whisper of moan manages to slip out. By the time your hand makes it up to your mouth to cover your lips, the muted high is beginning to dissipate into your limbs.

You pull your fingers back, feeling the tiredness lingering in your body now that your orgasm has subsided, and close your eyes to sleep, just hoping, praying, that whatever you were even thinking about that asshole, would disappear by morning.

It absolutely hadn’t disappeared.

That said, there was still a lingering annoyance in the way your partnership brewed in this murky state. Not speaking properly to one another, not even really looking at one another, and just marching through your training together, having to be the kind of intimate that is more indicative of lovers than business partners.

The match was taking place at Summerhall. A sort of halfway point for all the contenders of each region of Westeros, to come together and determine who most deserved to go on the tour of Westeros, competing for the championship title.

Your body was filled to the brim with nerves the entire journey there, your stomach doing flips with every speed bump the minivan struggled to overcome.

That morning, Aemond had been entirely irritable until he was summoned to a closed off portion of their family home, confined to a room for several hours. You sat in the doorway entirely confused, until Helaena had the heart to explain once Alicent was out of earshot.

"He's having his injections" she had said.

"His what?"

Trigeminal Neuralgia. It was explained as.

As a result of this accident, which you still knew nothing about, Aemond had suffered with severe facial pain as the damage had interfered with the nerve. As a result, he endured glycerol injections in the side of his face, which provided relief for a few months, even stretching to a year.

But when the pain flared, Helaena explained, he was impossible to be around.

Your heart aches with a kind of sympathy, knowing that Aemond has to deal with this pain and recurring painful injections to keep it at bay. And as he finally comes out, with a plaster taped to the side of his face, he at least looks a bit more relaxed.

Or as relaxed as Aemond can be.

It results in neither of you speaking the entire journey to Summerhall. He'd put in his airpods, blasted his music and fallen right to sleep, his head only moving when the minivan took a sharper turn than expected.

Part of you can't help but look at him when he was asleep, stealing glances where you otherwise wouldn't get away with. Admiring the sharp angles of his face, his aquiline-shaped nose and most notably, the sharpness and definition of his jaw and cheekbones.

It was a shame he was a dick.

Knock knock.

You shake yourself from the trance, looking up at yourself in the vanity when you hear someone behind the door of the changing room, their knock signalling their presence almost so soft you didn't hear it.

"Come in"

Alicent peeks round the door, smiling in a way only a mother does, her hair pulled back into a ponytail.

"How are you feeling?" She asks, once she's closed the door.

"A bit nervous, but fine" you reply, trying to sound convincing. But it clearly doesn't land, as Alicent smiles softly, sitting down next to you.

"Come, let me put on your skates" she suggests softly.

In the end, you'd misread the email from Hightower Management that you should wear white. In fact it said would, and they provided you with an all white outfit, some of it decorated with rhinestones, and a flowy leotard, very much indicative of the usual sportswear. It looked more expensive than any outfit you'd worn, and it made you feel strange wearing it now.

Alicent tugs at your laces, tying them expertly like it was muscle memory, "You know it always makes me emotional. Watching Helaena skate" she muses, her attention on her task, "Reminds me of myself"

You swallow, unsure of what to say at first, "Helaena is a wonderful skater. You should be proud" you smile.

Alicent returns it, patting your skate-clad feet and plopping then on the floor, "And I am sure I will be very proud of you also, my darling"

Your heart squeezes. She says it with such sincerity and emotion, with not an ounce of patronisation behind it.

"You look beautiful" she praises, tucking a hair behind your ear. Your hair was half up and half down, with waves put into it (courtesy of Helaena, as you'd previously mentioned you had no idea what to do with it). And your makeup, as you've always done, is bright and non-descript. A 'barely-there' approach.

You smile in thanks, taking a calming breath as you follow Alicent out the dressing room, meeting the rest of the team on the benches near the rink.

All of the other competitors also wait by the side lines, talking to their coaches. A few you recognise based on their house colours, grey for the Starks, a brother and sister duo, Cregan and Sara. As well as gold and red for the Lannisters, Jason Lannister and his partner, Johanna (who he totally isn't cheating on).

More than anything, the one that pops out the most are the Dornish, with their dark hair contrasting with their bright yellow costumes. Qoren Martell, lovingly nicknamed 'The Scorpion' and his Dornish girlfriend Mara. They were known for being unbelievably cocky, and put on quite the suggestive shows with their moves out on the ice. For this reason, they always made it to championships, giving both of them alike a big head.

In the distance you can see Aemond, all dressed and ready entirely in black, including some brand new looking black skates. Unlike in training, he wears his hair down around his shoulders, looking somewhat mythical leaning against the wall, arms crossed and receiving a bit of a grilling from Otto.

"Miss! Miss! A word for the White Worm?"

"Is it true Hightower Management had you sign an NDA?"

"Could you tell us about your troubled childhood?"

A slew of reporters seem to block your path, each of them shoving whatever microphones or recorders they have in their hands right into your face. You're so taken aback, that you don't even have the brain capacity to say anything. Your mouth is just open, with only unintelligible sounds coming out.

Otto materialises, pushing several of the reporters away while Aemond wraps his fingers around your arm, gently tugging you away while they're dealt with.

"Ignore them" he says lowly.

You take yet another calming breath, suddenly hit with the sinking feeling that the arena is jam packed full of important people, and the judges are lined up at the front, looking stern as anything. It never fails to make you wince to see their expressions.

Your breath is almost taken away though when you look back at Aemond.

Where his glass eye would usually sit, nestled between the angry scar down his face, sits a sapphire, glimmering in the harsh lights of the hall. Your lips sit parted in utter fascination.

You shake your head when you realise you're staring, "Sorry, I-"

"It's fine" he replies quickly, "I wear it for competitions"

You nod, eyes flitting to both his good eye and the sapphire, as if transfixed, "It's…nice". You almost cringe at yourself for the way you've said it. But truthfully, it's so distractingly pretty, it's difficult to not be speechless.

He stands still for a long time, looking around awkwardly not knowing what to say, "Thanks"

The announcement over the speakers echoes that it's almost time for your performance, and you swear you feel cold all over. Your eyes scan the crowd, rubbing your hands together nervously, spotting Rhaenys at the very back with Rhaena. Upon spotting you they wave widely, and you return it with a grin, feeling your heart swell to see they've gone through the effort to come to see you.

Nerves eat at you, remembering the routine, the jumps, the landings. The incessant coaching of Otto doesn't go amiss either. You slip your blade guards off your skates, watching as several cameras pan around the rink, and the commentators up in the box talking into their microphones.

"This is the first match from famed Aemond Targaryen, aptly nicknamed 'The Ice Prince', since his former skating partner, Floris Baratheon, was injured significantly. His new partner has yet to perform in any championship deciding matches"

"Yes, an unconventional choice for the Targaryens, to have such a green skater to be paired with. Time will tell if she will crack under the pressure"

You're the first to skate out, doing a few laps to warm up and adjusting both your hair and your outfit, making sure your laces are tight and secure before Aemond also skates out, having had a few words with Otto.

Coming to a halt in the middle, you take another steadying breath, shaking the nerves from your arms, ankles crossed as Aemond stops behind you. The crowd goes quiet when you assume position, his hand splayed on your middle, with yours covering his, trying to ignore the way it stokes the fire within.

Mahler's Symphony, Adagietto begins to play. Part of you can't help but find it a boring choice, but now in front of everyone, the crowd as quiet as a whisper as you and Aemond begin the routine, it feels more magical.

With his hair down and the sapphire on show, he looks utterly majestic on the ice, donned entirely in black, contrasting starkly with your white outfit. You can't help but look over at him every now and then, enraptured by his appearance.

"Technically, wonderful performance so far. The couple seem distant though, which I wonder if it will tie into their performance"

The first several jumps and spins go perfectly well, by the book, landing with balance. All building up to the one jump that you can tell, everyone is holding their breath for. The jump you'd been practising with Aemond for the last few weeks, was now being watched and streamed for everyone to critique and see.

The throw triple lutz.

Your chest inflates, as you both skate backwards, Aemond's hands wrapping around your waist as he skates behind you.

"Will they land it?"

Aemond throws you in the air, twisting you slightly and aiding in your airborne triple spin. The crowd immediately erupts in applause and cheer when you land it, your foot stable, both you and Aemond skating and joining hands in the next move.

"They've done it!"

"She's mastered the landing"

"Wonderful performance technically"

You breathe out finally, relief and pride blooming in your chest as you complete the last few spins and moves with Aemond, who doesn't let a single thing show on his face. As stoic and stony as ever.

It isn't until the routine is over that you see Aemond breathe what could be a sigh of relief that it's over. He doesn't spare a look in your direction as you skate off, greeted instantly by an excited Alicent and Helaena, who are congratulating you in heightened vibrant voices. Aemond earns a pat on the back as he stalks off with Aegon, speaking lowly.

"That was amazing!" Helaena praises, looking the part herself in her red outfit, "such a good landing!"

"Thank you!" You respond, seeing both Aegon and Helaena taking off their blade guards for their turn, "Good luck" you smile at her, making your way over to the bench to get off your jelly-like legs.

Otto gives you a nod, showing his wordless appreciation. In that way, you suppose Aemond is a lot like him, using few words to convey what he thinks.

You sit beside Aemond at the side lines, watching the board and waiting anxiously before the scores come in. He sits still, only his left leg bouncing to show how he's feeling, his tongue poking his cheek.

Aemond murmurs something, so quiet that at first you don't even hear it.

"What?"

He turns his head slowly, his sapphire greeting you before his good eye does, stealing your breath for a moment.

"You were good" he repeats, clearer this time, "out there"

You bite your lip to hide your smile looking down into your lap, knowing it's hurting everything inside him to compliment one thing you've done.

He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose, turning away again, "Don't make me regret that"

You can feel the cameraman in your periphery move to angle in on both of your nervous faces as the scores come in.

With the exception of a few with some points knocked off, it's a clean score. The crowd erupts, and your heart hammers excitedly, the adrenaline making it feel like fire in your veins.

"A respectable score for her first pairs match. No doubt helped by her perfect landing of that triple lutz"

Alicent pulls you into a hug, offering her congratulations as you barely hear one another over the cheers. Your face burns from smiling so widely, relieved that you had done your bit and a damn good job of it as well. She moves on to hug her son, who offers a quick embrace, whispering something you don't hear to her.

"There she is. The Sweetheart of Oldtown offering her support to her son"

"The Targaryens make it to the championship tour yet again, Aemond Targaryen representing the Crownlands"

The last thing you see is Rhaenys and Rhaena in the crowd, clapping dramatically with wide, proud smiles. Your vision blurs with happiness for a moment, giving them a wide wave.

Turning to Aemond, you're not sure what to do to congratulate him. So you settle on offering your hand for him to shake. He eyes it for a moment, his brows pulled together, before shaking it, nodding in mutual thanks.

The camera doesn't miss it though.

Figure Skating is as much about performance, teamwork and performing for the cameras, aside from technical ability. You hate this fact more than anything. But every match, you're reminded it's true.

"Not a full house, but they have potential as a duo. No doubt points knocked off for performance"

"Let's hope the icy couple warm up once the championship tour rolls round"

Some of the nerves had begun to wear off by the time the after party rolled around. You bit your lip as you watched Helaena in the reflection, stood behind you and pulling the curling iron from your hair, making sure it was waved in the right direction.

She met your eyes in the mirror, smiling, the highlighter around her eyes twinkling, "Excited for tonight?" She asked, squirting some finishing oil into her hands and running it through your hair.

"For the free food? Yes" you smirk at her, "however, wearing heels, no"

When you arrived in the hotel after the match, the dress was already laid out with the heels and jewellery in a box on the bed, kindly paid for by Hightower Management once again, accompanied by a congratulatory note.

It was an all black outfit, a bit sexier than you otherwise would have picked, with a slit up one leg. But wearing something you wouldn't usually was kind of exciting and you touched the gold necklace around your neck, a simple chain with no pendant, and admired the neckline of the dress in the mirror.

"Done" Helaena chirped.

You stood, smoothing down the front of the dress, trying to get used to walking in the black heels, "How do I look?"

Helaena had helped to curl your hair at the back, fixing in place a gold hair accessory as she did so, "Gorgeous. Everyone won't be able to take their eyes off you"

Something flutters in your belly when she says that.

"Anyway, see you down there, I've got to go with Aegon" she smiles, slipping out the door in her fitted cream dress.

You look yourself up and down in the floor length mirror, fiddling with the ring on your pointer finger. Helaena had done a fantastic job with your hair, sitting in waves down your back. But you also couldn't help but feel weird wearing such a strappy dress, as it wasn't what you'd go for at all.

With a breath to psych yourself up, you swing open your door, going to step out, gasping back in surprise to find Aemond had his fist outstretched with the intention of knocking. Unlike you, he didn't move or say an inch, he just stares down, dressed in a black suit (this time with an off white shirt underneath), his sapphire still lodged in his left eye socket.

His eye briefly runs over you making your heart rattle faster, clearing his throat as he tucks his hand into a pocket, "Uh, Otto said I should come and collect you"

You swallow thickly, closing the door softly behind you, "Did he say we should go together?"

Aemond nods, rolling his eye somewhat as you make your way to the lift, pressing the button, "Everyone attends with their business partner" he says simply.

Oh, right. Just business partners.

The ride down the several floors is quiet, and feels longer than it actually is because of it. Aemond briefly adjusts his tie, trying to disguise the look he gives over the outfit you wear. Black to match him. Something flutters deep in your gut at the proximity, able to smell whatever aftershave he'd spritzed on himself as it clouds around your head, making your mind all foggy.

You both pause at the entrance to the event, absolutely heaving and bustling with the figure skaters, their managers, journalists and other important people, all dressed to the nines to impress. The classical music is barely audible over the chatter, laughter and clinking of glasses. The room has a smell about it, a sweet, saccharine floral scent flooding from the various expensive vases placed around. Lilies, you think. It's almost too overwhelming.

Suddenly, the slit in your dress makes you feel a tad self-conscious and you pick nervously at the fabric.

"Stop that" Aemond whispers, his fingers gently pulling your hand away, "Put on a brave face. It'll be over sooner"

Despite your skin burning where he'd touched, you nod once, taking a breath for courage.

Looking straight ahead, Aemond offers his arm, presumably to appear amicable. And you take it, barely putting pressure on the inside of his arm as you walk in together. Aemond keeps his steely stare, looking entirely uncomfortable in this environment.

The first people who approach you, arm in arm as you both are, are the Dornish couple, their dark hair curled and slick with gel. Qoren flashes a toothy grin at you, Mara on his arm looking somewhat doped out with her eyes hooded and kohl thick over her eyelids.

You surmise they must wear their rich yellow-orange colours all the time, judging by their outfits. And that the stereotype must be somewhat true, based on both of their plunging necklines.

"Here he is. The One-Eyed wonder!" He chirps. And you feel the way Aemond tenses up at the rude comment.

"Qoren" he greets flatly, biting his cheek.

Seemingly happy with his reaction, Qoren turns to you, "And who is this gorgeous flower?" He adds, hand outstretched for yours.

Politely, you offer your hand, introducing yourself and skin prickling when he kisses it for a little too long. Mara looks entirely indifferent, in fact she even has a smile on her face.

"So nice to see a fresh face in figure skating. I hope you are coping well with the Targaryens! Not everyone can handle their fire" Qoren muses.

What's that supposed to mean?

You're not quite sure what to say, so you settle for, "Thank you. Nice to meet you"

Otto appears suddenly on Aemond's left side, whispering something and easing him away. You feel somewhat apprehensive of being left alone when the two of them find a quiet corner to talk.

But when you look back at Qoren, your heart goes faster to find Mara on the other side of the room, chatting up Jason Lannister, which briefly makes your lips part in shock.

Qoren smirks, "Mara and I are open"

You shake your head quickly, "I didn't mean to stare I-"

He laughs, "It's alright. Really"

Luckily at that exact moment, a member of staff stops by your side and you quickly pull a flute of champagne off of it, sipping it slightly to take the edge off. You look at Aemond and Otto as you do. Aemond looks white as a sheet, staring at one corner of the room with a gaze that implies panic, with Otto still whispering in his ear.

When you follow their panicked looks, there's a woman standing alongside the strange brown-haired man from the schmoozing event, the one with the limp whose name you still don't remember. She is the epitome of beauty, with dark raven hair and blood red lips, her body filling out the emerald green dress with her hourglass physique and her neckline accentuating the fullness of her breasts.

"That's Alys Rivers" Qoren states, seeing your stare.

You look back at him quickly, cheeks burning from being caught looking, "Who?"

"Before our time. Retired figure skater. Represented the Riverlands"

"Retired?" You repeat, "she doesn't look very old"

Qoren scoffs, "She's older than she looks"

He points his pinky in her direction, leaning in to utter something quietly, "See that necklace?"

You follow his line of sight, eyes squinting in the low light. It’s true. A necklace hangs daintily in the middle of her chest, with a small pendant at the bottom.

"Sapphire" he tells you, "A gift from your One-Eyed partner"

What.

You look at Qoren, utterly dumbfounded. He just chuckles, seeing the supposed trouble he’s caused.

"Once upon a time" he says, gulping down the rest of his drink, "Not until mummy found out anyway"

You can't find it in yourself to reply. Too stunned into silence.

"Pretty thing like you shouldn't be stuck with him" now this does catch your attention, shocked at the blatancy of it, "If you ever find yourself bored of him. Mara and I are looking for someone else to sleep wi-"

"Oh no, no!" You reply quickly, forcing a laugh out, "No thank you, I uh - besides Aemond and I aren't -"

"There you are!" Helaena blurts loudly, coming to your aid, her eyes wide as if she knows exactly what she's breaking up.

She tugs you away before you have a chance to say anything, and you instantly feel relieved, "Thank you" you mouth.

She smirks, "It's alright, Aem shouldn't have left you alone with them hanging around"

You can't help but look back at the black-haired woman called Alys, now finding that Aemond has approached her. She leans close to him, speaking in a hushed and intimate manner, biting her ruby lips. Aemond on the other hand has his signature look, giving nothing away.

You want to ask.

You so want to ask.

"Do Alys and Aemond know each other?" You finally ask, giving in to curiosity.

Helaena snaps her head to you quickly, panicked almost.

"Qoren said something?" She asks, to which you nod, "They were together a few years ago, not for very long. That's probably all you should know"

Together…

The sapphire necklace.

It all makes sense. The urgency.

Otto was warning Aemond she was here.

Your lips part in wordless shock, "But…isn't she…"

"A fucking dinosaur? Yeah" Helaena says annoyed, sipping her own champagne and turning her back to them, "Disgusting is what she is" she mutters under her breath.

Dread descends on you, clouding the otherwise warm atmosphere of the after-party.

You look back. Aemond is watching Alys saunter away from the event hurriedly with a less-than-enthused look on her face. He looks visibly annoyed. Uncomfortable even.

It didn't look amicable.

So why would she wear the necklace?

Even when Alys has left, his jaw remains tense and you can't help but feel like he looks smaller, shrinking into himself with his shoulders rolled slightly forwards. His gaze briefly meets yours before you turn back, sensing you’d been caught, seeing how Helaena is also being tugged away by Aegon to chat with Cregan and Sara.

"You look nervous"

You jump out of your skin, almost dropping the flute as that Lars-Larry-whatever guy leans uncomfortably close, his eyes glinting with mischief as they roll over you.

Gods, this man is fucking creepy.

“You looked marvellous on the ice earlier” he praised, standing beside you, watching as you tapped your fingernails on the glass nervously, “Larys Strong. Skating Journalist” he introduced, allowing himself to briefly shake your hand.

You gave as polite a smile as you could muster, “Yes, I have seen you around” Lurking around, more like.

He hummed with a small wry smile, his blue eyes darting around the room, meeting Aemond’s, who was looking at them as if wondering what they were talking about.

“Are you enjoying your time with the Targaryens?” he asked in what seemed like an innocent way.

“Yes, thank you” you reply, clearing your throat, “they are very accommodating towards me”

Larys leant against the table to take the pressure off his leg, “It is a wonder…”

“What is?” you turn to him, confusion ebbing into your tone. He smiles, eyes looking elsewhere, apparently pleased that he’d managed to capture your curiosity.

“...it is a wonder why Hightower Management approached you, over say, an experienced Pairs skater.”

Your lips part. Where do men get this innate fucking audacity?

“...Jeyne Arryn. Maris Baratheon. Even Netta, of no notable house, would be good choices. Better even”

“If you have something to say to me, just say it” you reply, jaw tensed and eyes trained forward on him. Entirely sick of the patronising manner of speaking.

Larys meets your eyes, still smiling “I have some information that may be of use to you. Regarding your employment with Hightower Manage-”

“Excuse us”, Aemond’s tall form appears beside you, standing between yourself and Larys, whose face falls significantly into a stoic frown once he realises the conversation is over.

Your annoyance towards the so-called journalist is stunted somewhat by Aemond’s hand on the small of your back, pushing you away from the conversation, making colour bloom to your face and neck.

Even several paces away, his hand remains there, the contact making your skin erupt in goosebumps as it trails slightly higher up your spine. His body bends to whisper in your ear, “Stay away from him. He likes to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong”

Tell me about it.

“What did Qoren want with you” he asks, his voice low in a whisper, his hand moving to your arm to pull you along. There’s something angered about the way he asks it, his fingers somewhat digging into the meat of your flesh.

The warmth is tainted somewhat by all the frustration of feeling as if secrets are being kept from you as well as the flat, demanding manner of his voice.

You bristle away from him, the warmth of his hand disappearing, “I’m not your fucking girlfriend, Aemond. Stop treating me like one” you hiss, turning to look at him, “just business partners. Right?”

Aemond stands there, briefly confused. But the longer your eyes look at one another, the more his expression shifts into something that you’ve seen only a handful of times. Like that time he saw you training for the first time. And when he assisted your leg stretch only a few days ago.

He half blinks. Trying to hide the passing of his gaze over your form with it.

“You look nice”

Instead of feeling flattered, rage only floods through your veins. Who does he think you are? Some vain, empty-headed woman who can be so easily swayed with a compliment? Throwing yourself at his feet just because he said the most basic nice thing he could even muster?

“You fucking-”

Otto Hightower steps in, unapologetically breaking up whatever it was that was happening (but his face seemed like it couldn’t care less anyhow), hands behind his back, “There you both are”

You and Aemond hit pause on whatever argument was brewing.

“I’ve spoken with the staff. You shall both be on tour together in a week. Alone”

What.

Neither you or Aemond are capable of a cohesive reply, staring blankly at Otto, who just smiles, nods his head once and turns away.

Alone. On tour. With him?!

Fuck.

Taglist 1 (Bold means I could not tag!)

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aimportantdragoncollector · 10 months

Note

Hello, my favorite insect! How would Forgiveness Is The Attribute Of The Strong change if you used their canon backstory?

I'm your only insect. You ate all the others, you eldritch owl.

Oh my, this is a very interesting question. For background, "Forgiveness is the Attribute of the Strong" is my fic where young All for One and Yoichi travel forward in time due to a quirk accident and get adopted by All for One. It's a Dad for One AU so young AFO = Hisashi. Thank you to @gojifan97 for brainstorming ideas with me and causing this to get so long.

-Young Hisashi and Yoichi are completely feral. They can't even speak Japanese, instead speaking their own twin language.

-Immediately Hisashi starts attacking everyone in sight, stealing their quirks, and looting whatever he can get his hands on. He steals quirks from a dozen policemen before they arrest him.

-When All Might comes to the police station, Hisashi has been locked in restraints from head to toe and is panicking because he's been separated from his brother. All Might is horrified to see a child treated like this and demands that they release the brothers into his custody. Unlike the original fic, there's no question of putting the brothers into foster care because an ordinary person couldn't handle Hisashi. Only All Might, with his strength and his quirk that can't be stolen, is capable of looking after Small for One.

-Since being quirkless is bad in this society, the people who got their quirks stolen by Hisashi are very, very unhappy. All Might tries to coax Hisashi to return the quirks but it's a lost cause. In the end All Might pays a ridiculous amount of money to all the victims as compensation.

-In this AU, it's obvious from day one that Hisashi has the All for One quirk. However, because the brothers can't talk in Japanese, no one realizes that they time travel. People suspect that the brothers are lab experiments created by Dr. Garaki. (They could be All for One's sons but their poor treatment suggests experiments.) All Might is horrified at their condition. A lot of people treat Hisashi like a demon child but All Might only sees a scared, mistreated little boy.

--Adult All for One is the same in this AU: he wants Yoichi back because Yoichi belongs to him, and he views Hisashi as competition to be eliminated. When All for One first tries to kidnap Yoichi, he speaks in their twin language and calls both brothers by name. This is how All Might learns their names. All Might is puzzled about why All for One bothered to learn a separate language with his experiments.

-Trying to socialize two feral children is even harder than looking after the disaster duo from my original fic. All Might needs to take a leave of absence from teaching to look after the brothers. He can't even get assistance because everyone is too scared of losing their quirks. Doctors refuse to touch Hisashi until All Might spends a lot of money to bring over a quirkless doctor from abroad. Izuku comes over frequently to help All Might, because he's the only other person not at risk of a stolen quirk. Hisashi desperately wants to take One for All. The little tot is going crazy with how badly he wants the delicious quirk. All Might mistakes Hisashi clinging to him for affection. Izuku knows the brat is after his quirk.

-Yoichi's physical condition is even worse than the original AU. Hisashi is also extremely malnourished with numerous untreated injuries. They both spend a lot of time receiving medical care. The brothers are extremely codependent and they both become hysterical if anyone tries to separate them, so All Might builds a miniature hospital in Might Tower. All Might has to learn how to administer medical care because both brothers will attack anyone who comes near them. Also he hires experts on feral children to help him raise them.

-At first both brothers keep trying to run away but after they realize All Might feeds them regularly, they stick around. They don't trust him at all. They are constant trouble. They hoard food in their rooms until it goes rotten. Hisashi steals shiny things like a crow. Yoichi catches a mouse running around the tower and eats it for breakfast. Hisashi starts a fire messing around with the stove.

-After Hisashi blew up the stove, All Might ran in and shielded Hisashi with his own body, so Hisashi started to trust All Might a little more. The brothers still love comic books. All Might wins Yoichi's affection by reading the comic books to him. Since both brothers want to understand the story, they let All Might teach them how to read and speak Japanese. Yoichi believed that his comic books from the trash bin were all real and he cries when he learns Captain Hero never actually existed.

-At first the brothers can't sleep on beds because they are too soft. They're terrified of bathes. However Yoichi is delighted when he discovers hot water and shampoo.

-On one occasion, the brothers break out of the tower and root through the trash bin outside. Dabi finds them and takes pity enough to give them something to eat. As thanks, Hisashi swaps out Dabi's fire quirk for an ice quirk. No, he did not ask first.

-All for One has fewer opportunities to attack because All Might is on-guard from the beginning and does not take the children outside. While All for One gets distracted planning his break-in, League of Villain activity grinds to a halt. Tomura gets bored. Eventually Tomura and Kurogiri wander off for a global food and video game tour.

-Class 1-A comes over to visit the brothers later, after they have settled in. They teach the kids how to play Monopoly (Hisashi is still a menace and cheats.) Both brothers come to really love the modern world full of exciting toys.

-Hisashi and Yoichi still communicate with their older selves in dreams. Except Hisashi does nothing except try to bite adult All for One. Hisashi is so disconnected that All for One being the same person doesn't register or matter to him. Little Yoichi and his adult self get along better because vestige First is much more gentle with a feral child and doesn't say anything negative about his brother. Because of First's teaching, Yoichi learns how to speak faster. The vestiges are about to lose their mind with how cute feral Yoichi is (they have strange taste.) They're also teary-eyed at realizing just how bad Yoichi's childhood was.

-Although feral Hisashi is in a worse mental shape than my original Hisashi, he's also a clean slate. He has no conception of good or evil. In some ways, that makes it easier for All Might to teach him.

-Sir Nighteye never got a vision about Hisashi. Instead for some reason he saw a green-haired woman ripping out All for One's internal organs, which he supposes is good. However Nighteye and Hisashi have a somewhat strained relationship after Hisashi ate Nighteye's glasses. Hisashi irrationally blames Nighteye for the cuts on his tongue.

-All Might realizes who Hisashi is much sooner, it becomes obvious as soon as he knows about the time-travel. However since Hisashi's condition is so pitiful, All Might has less of a moral struggle and just sees him as a victim. In fact All Might woobiefies adult All for One and decides that he can't be considered responsible for his actions since he was clearly driven insane. (This is All Might's soft-hearted opinion not the author's.) All for One is extremely freaked out by an All Might who now wants to help him. It's creepy. He wants his old hatred back.

-The revelation that Hisashi is Izuku's father lands...weird. Hisashi doesn't understand parent-child relationships but the vestige of his mother once accused him of eating her. So Hisashi is afraid Izuku wants to eat him alive. With some gentle conversations, he gets over it.

-Yoichi slips out of the tower again and finds Eri wandering the streets. He takes her back home with him. All Might flips out because "No Yoichi, you can't just kidnap children because you wanted a new sister so you'd no longer be the youngest." Then All Might finds out about what Overhaul has been doing and flips out even harder. Overhaul and his team attack Might Tower to get Eri back and Hisashi gets a lot of new quirks. Yoichi bit clean through Overhaul's throat. Fortunately All Might arrived in time to stop him from dying and arrest everyone.

-Eventually All Might persuades Hisashi to give back the quirks he stole from the police because the HPSC offers to let him clean out Tartarus of quirks in exchange. Hisashi grabs Lady Nagant and takes her back home with him because Yoichi became a fan of hers from watching old TV. All Might flips out because "No Hisashi, you can't kidnap a high security prisoner so she autograph your brother's hero merch...wait, the HPSC did what?" After All Might learns the truth, he exposes the HPSC's crimes.

-Yoichi and Hisashi's antics cause All Might's hair to go completely white. Now they look even more like a family!

-Since All Might figures out who the brothers are sooner, he uses this information to lure All for One into a trap and capture him. All Might visits Tartarus once a week trying to redeem him. All for One would have preferred death so much.

-Inko sneaks into Tartarus to murder All for One. She decides against it when he begs her to finish him off. Once again it turns out the future can be changed!

#bnha #All for One #bnha spoilers #forgiveness is the attribute of the strong #Yoichi Shigaraki #ask game #Sorta

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thebadgerclan · 1 year

Text

Salvation

Pairing: Nikolai Lantsov x reader

Summary: You are his salvation...

A/N: This is based on the scene from Queen Charlotte where she finds out what the doctors have been doing to George (episode 5 I think?)

The demon was back. After months of peace, of Nikolai’s mind being entirely his own, it was back. The King had flown from his window three weeks ago, and since then, your contact with him had been limited. It was a protocol that your husband had drawn up after his last battle with the demon, a contingency plan that he prayed he’d never have to enact. But prayers weren’t always answered.

You now slept in separate chambers, your husband had returned to being chained to his bed and sedated. Even during the day, a time that had been proven safe from the demon, Nikolai was distant, subdued. You’d overheard him discussing it with one of his advisers: “Her Majesty is worried, moi tsar.” “I cannot risk her,” your husband had responded. “She is far too important.”

What little you saw of your husband broke your heart. He looked exhausted, and you might have been able to chalk it up to the stress of the situation, had it not been for one minuscule, almost imperceptible detail. Nikolai had brought in physicians from all over Ravka in hopes of finding a cure, and one, Doctor Laisia Orlov from Tsibeya, had some interesting theories. At this point, Nikolai was willing to try anything to expel the demon from him, so he allowed Doctor Orlov to set up rooms in the Palace to do her work.

It was nearly a month and a half into your husbands treatment that you noticed it. Nikolai had been meeting with his council when the Doctor entered, and when she walked near the King, he flinched. You didn’t claim to be a medical professional, but you knew that a patient shouldn’t flinch when their doctor walked past. From then, you noticed that Nikolai would mumble to himself, his hands would shake, his head would twitch. Something was amiss, and it had something to do with Doctor Orlov.

It was two weeks after that that you got a feeling deep in your gut that something was wrong. Not just wrong, but deeply, horribly wrong. You pushed aside the papers you’d been going over and tracked down Nikolai’s valet. He was flanked by four guards, which was extremely unusual, but they bowed when you approached. “My Queen,” Akim, your husband’s valet, greeted. “How may I assist you?”

“Akim, where is my husband?” Before he could answer, one of the guards interjected. “He is occupied, moya tsaritsa,” he said, which only raised your suspicion. “Forgive me, but my question was not directed at you. Akim, where is Nikolai?” The valet shifted, and you pushed on. “I will not ask again, Akim.” “He is–” he cleared his throat. “He is receiving treatment. With Doctor Orlov.”

Again, your suspicion rose, but you forced yourself to remain calm. “Well then, I should like to observe her work. She is employing some revolutionary methods, is she not?” “You do not wish to see that, Your Majesty,” said another guard, and your expression hardened. “I am the Queen,” you said. “You do not presume to tell me what I would and would not like to see. Now, where are the Doctor’s rooms located?”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” the first guard said. “I’m afraid I cannot grant your request.” You drew yourself up to your full height, and while this guard was taller than you, he cowered a bit. “I am not asking,” you said, voice icy. “Now, tell me where my husband is, or I will have you charged with treason.” “This way, Your Majesty,” Akim said suddenly, and you hurried to follow him.

The King’s valet led you into the kitchens and the storage cellar below, your concern growing with every step. Then you heard it: screaming. Nikolai, screaming. You hiked up your skirts and ran down the corridor, panic bubbling in you. When you came to a door, you slammed it open, the sight behind it igniting rage and horror in you. Your husband was tied to a chair, a gag between his teeth, a red hot poker pressed to his chest.

“What is this?” you demanded, and Doctor Orlov paused. “Untie the King.” Akim and the four guards had trailed you, but all stood frozen. “Untie the King! I command you!” “Queen Y/N, you cannot–” “Do not tell me what I can and cannot do!” you snapped, composure completely slipping. “I will have you hanged for this, do you understand me? Torturing your King?”

“It is not torture, Majesty, it is medicine!” Doctor Orlov argued. “You cannot have me hanged for practicing medicine.” “I am your Queen!” you screamed, moving to stand nose-to-nose with the Doctor. “If I wish for you to be hanged, then you will be hanged. If I wish for you to be drawn and quartered, then you shall be. If I wish for you to rot in a cell for the rest of your pathetic life, then you shall! Get her out of my sight!”

The guards snapped to attention and dragged the Doctor out, and you turned your attention to your husband, who was being supported by Akim. “Oh, Nikolai,” you breathed, and he fell into your arms, clutching your gown. He was trembling, mumbling to himself. “My love, what have they done to you?” “Y-Y-Y/N?” he managed, and you nodded, cupping his cheek. “Yes, darling, it’s Y/N. Y/N’s here, I’m here. It’s me, sweetheart.”

You felt him relax in your arms, and he let out a shuddering breath. “Akim,” you called. “Have the guards clear the halls and get a Healer to our rooms.” “Yes, Your Majesty,” the valet said, hurrying from the room. “It didn’t like her,” Nikolai mumbled, and you stroked his hair. “What was that, my love?” “It didn’t like her. The demon.” You were about to ask what he meant by that, but Akim re-entered. “The halls are clear, Majesty.”

The two of you helped Nikolai to walk back to your rooms, and you changed him into his nightclothes, tucking him into bed. The Healer arrived soon after, examining the King and healing the burns, rope marks, and leech bites. “He’ll need rest,” she instructed. “And he needs you. After what he endured…” “Of course,” you replied, thanking the Healer and dismissing her.

Nikolai was dozing, and you climbed into bed at his side, pulling him into your arms. Already he seemed better, his face calm and relaxed, his tremor gone, no longer mumbling. “Nikolai, darling?” “Hmm?” “What did you mean earlier when you said ‘it didn’t like her’?” Your husband shifted in your arms so he could look at you. “The demon didn’t like Orlov,” he explained.

“When she was around, it came to the forefront of my mind, it tried to get out. And when she was…treating me, it would fight like mad to get free. But when you came in there…when you held me, it went away.” “Went away?” “Mhmm,” your husband replied. “When she was there, I had to fight to keep it at bay, but with you, it’s gone. I don’t feel it at all.” “Nikolai,” you said suddenly, clarity coming over you. “Do you remember the night the demon came back? When was it?”

The King thought for a moment before answering. “I think it was the 8th, why?” Suddenly, it all made sense. “I was staying with my mother in Balakirev then,” you said. “And that was the first night we’d spent apart since–” “Since after the war,” Nikolai finished for you. “Since I was infected with the demon.” It all made perfect sense now: it wasn’t chance that the demon re-appeared, it happened in your absence.

Now that he thought about it, more and more pieces clicked into place. He’d felt the demon clawing at his mind before, when he was anxious or stressed, but when you were near, it released its clutches and left him in peace. The Darkling had given him this curse, but the Darkling had never known love, never known the solace of another’s arms. But Nikolai did, and it was that love, that solace that was his cure. Not medicine, not science, not any religious ritual, it was you. It had always been you.

“Y/N,” Nikolai said. “You saved me.” “I’ll have that mad woman hanged for what she did to you, I’ll–” “Darling,” your husband said, smiling softly, brushing your hair behind your ear and cupping your cheek tenderly. “As attractive as it is to hear you threaten someone on my behalf, that’s not what I mean.” You heard a hint of his usual wit and banter slip back into his tone, and you knew that your husband was back.

“You are what keeps the demon at bay, my love,” Nikolai continued. “When I feel it coming on, trying to get out, all I have to do is look at you, and it vanishes. I have never felt its claws when I’m with you, when you’re in my arms. Y/N Lantsov, you are my salvation, my solace, and my greatest love.” Tears, happy tears pricked at your eyes, and you pressed your lips to his.

“If you’re making flowery declarations, then you must be feeling better,” you joked, but Nikolai was deadly serious. “I’m not joking, Y/N. The two months we were apart were the worst of my life. I couldn’t sleep, I barely ate, I was a shell of myself. But an hour in your arms and I’m a new man. You are my savior, Y/N.” “Nikolai, I–” “No, my love, you are. My Queen, my salvation.”

You smiled, kissing him again. “I love you so much, Nikolai,” you whispered, pulling him closer. “I love you, I love you, I love you. Saints, I’ve missed you.” Nikolai nuzzled his face into your chest, happy to be held in your embrace. “I love you too, my darling Y/N. And I missed you far more than I could ever say.” That Doctor would pay for what she’d done, but for now, you had your Nikolai, and he had his salvation. His Y/N, his wife, his Queen, his love.

#nikolai lantsov x reader #shadow and bone fanfiction #nikolai lantsov x you #shadow and bone reader insert

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mldrgrl · 16 days

Text

What Once Was Broken

by: mldrgrl Rating: PG-13 (violence, imagry) Summary: A sequel/prequel to Broken Things - absolutely imperative to have read to understand this story Notes: Special thank you to @carrie11 for officially being a cheerleader and unofficially ending up as Beta-extraordinaire for this piece! <3

He knows the precise time he first saw her. One, twenty-four in the afternoon. He’d just tucked his pocket watch back into his vest and as he’d looked up, his heart nearly stopped. In that moment, he was positive there was an apparition bumping towards him in a rickety wagon that looked like it had seen better days.

The red hair and fair skin had caught his eye from afar, but as the wagon neared, it was the slumped shoulders, the lowered head, the sullen and exhausted look of her that painfully squeezed his heart and made him short of breath. He was all too familiar with that look.

“Luisa,” he’d murmured, taking a step forward to the edge of the boardwalk and squinting into the sun.

Even before the man driving the wagon pulled the mules to a stop in front of the bank, it was obvious he was trouble.

*%*%*%*%*%

William and Katherine Mulder had recently celebrated their first anniversary and Katherine had never been happier in her life. She had friends, she had a position as an assistant to the town doctor, and a husband who supported her ambitions and wanted to make her dreams come true. It had taken time, but eventually she grew comfortable and confident in the independence her husband freely gave to her; driving her own buggy to and from town, doing her own banking, making her own purchases at the general store, and managing the household at the ranch. Even so, as joyous as she was now, she could never forget what she’d been through to get it.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Doctor Black made house calls and Katherine tended to his office. Mostly, she took inventory of supplies, transcribed patient notes, and occasionally treated minor wounds or infections. At first, some of the townsfolk had protested that a lady had no business in a doctor’s office, not unless she was nursing or tidying up the place, but Doctor Black had made it clear that if anyone was uncomfortable being treated by Katherine, they were free to ride on out to the next available doctor over in Abilene.

Only her third shift alone in the office, there’d been a drunken gunfight at the saloon and Katherine had to extract a bullet from the shoulder of one of the participants. The other had lost a finger. Both were hauled off in shackles by Sheriff Doggett to recover from their wounds, and their hangovers, in jail cells. After that, no one that ended up in the office questioned her skills or abilities, though of those that had before, none had said so to her face. Doctor Black was well-known in the area and highly trusted, so if he was vouching for her, so would they. Perhaps she took it for granted that she’d faced little to no opposition for so long, even though she still looked for it over her shoulder at times.

It was a Thursday when Walter Skinner knocked on the office door. She was in the midst of drafting a requisition for medications to be ordered from Fort Worth at the time. She greeted the bank manager with a smile. He was no longer as imposing of a figure as he’d once been when she’d first met him, having seen and spoken to him regularly for the last year. He’d always been polite and kind to her.

“Mr. Skinner,” she said, holding the door open for him to enter. “What can I do for you today? I heard from Doctor Black that Joey got himself into some poison oak recently.”

“He’s fine now, the rash is almost healed.” Mr. Skinner’s eyes darted around the room as he spoke and he stayed hovering in the threshold. “Is Doctor Black not here?”

“He’s on house calls today. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Well, I…I wanted to speak with Doctor Black.”

“Why don’t you come in and you can speak with me. I assure you that any treatment you might have, I can-”

“Not me.”

“Joey?”

“My wife.”

Katherine had never met Arlene Skinner, but had heard of her through Monica Doggett and Susannah Byers. They told her she wasn’t very social and rarely came to town, and when they did see her, she hardly spoke and was very meek. Consequently, they didn’t know much of anything about her aside from the fact that she and her husband came to town with their infant son six years ago so that Walter Skinner could open and manage the town bank.

“I’d be happy to see your wife,” Katherine said.

“No,” Skinner said, quickly, frowning. “No…I was hoping that maybe Doctor Black could provide more of the morphia he prescribed before.”

“The morphia he prescribed? What was that prescribed for?”

“Head pain.”

“Does she often have head pain?”

“No.”

A chill came over Katherine at the abrupt and harsh tone of Mr. Skinner’s voice. Muscle memory set her shoulders back and she flinched as though expecting a blow. She took a glance at his hands, looking for bruises or swollen knuckles. Her throat constricted and rose in pitch. “Has your wife…had an accident?” she asked.

“Accident?”

“Suffered head trauma of some kind.”

“No…nothing like that.”

“Well, I can not prescribe morphia to a patient without having seen them.”

“I’ll be on my way,” Mr. Skinner said, taking a step back from the door. “I’ll just come back when Doctor Black is available.”

Katherine started to follow, even though her knees had begun to shake and she felt somewhat breathless. “You’re out at the west end past the Morgan’s farm, aren’t you? I have my buggy with me. If your wife is ill, I should-”

“She’s not ill!” Mr. Skinner barked, turning sharply and glaring down at her.

She stumbled backwards, catching herself on the doorframe before she completely lost her footing. “I…”

The banker had the decency enough to appear chagrined. He lowered his eyes and then adjusted his spectacles. “She’s not ill,” he repeated, quieter this time. Sweat prickled his brow and an angry vein pulsed like a lightning bolt down his forehead. “Good day, Mrs. Mulder.”

Katherine’s throat had become too pinched to respond, not that Mr. Skinner had waited for her to reply. He marched down the steps and away from the office without a backwards glance and it was only after he’d disappeared that Katherine realized that she was trembling. She had to force her legs to move and she fell into the door as she slammed it closed, gasping for breath. She hadn’t felt that frightened in some time. She put her hands to her burning cheeks and then smoothed the wild hairs she felt curling up from the heat and perspiration accompanying her fear. When at last she felt her composure return, she pushed herself from the door and went to the filing cabinet.

The file on Arlene Skinner was thin. The last prescription, for morphia, was written eight months prior and a notation was made about patient’s adverse reaction to chloryl, but as she flipped through the records, she noticed a pattern: the middle of every February and in the first week of every October for the last four years, Arlene Skinner complained of melancholy and head pain. Each time her husband had made the complaints on her behalf. Each time she had refused physical examination. Low doses of morphia were recommended, as needed, since chloryl was not an option.

Katherine put the file back in place and then pulled the one for Joey Skinner. There was nothing of concern there that she could find. Earlier that week he’d been treated for a mild case of poison oak. Aside from a few runny noses and a case of tonsillitis, the only injury was the broken wrist from his fall during recess at the schoolhouse that she herself had helped set and wrap the year prior. There was no file for Walter Skinner.

Though the biannual regularity of which Mrs. Skinner made complaints and her refusal to be examined was peculiar, nothing in the reports seemed terribly concerning. Still, her exchange with Mr. Skinner had alarmed her and was too reminiscent of experiences she’d had in the past for her not to be suspicious.

*%*%*%*

Walter Skinner was born on the third of June of 1838 in Baltimore, Maryland, the only son of Edward Skinner, a Scottsman and a professor of mathematics, and Annegret Rossel Skinner, a match that her stern, German father did not approve of. Walter had two older sisters and two younger sisters, which meant he was equal parts doted on and depended upon by the women in his family. He’d become man of the house at the tender age of seven when his father, möge er in Frieden ruhen, as his mother would say, was killed in battle in the Mexican territory.

His father had been a staunch pacifist, enlisting under duress from the cajoling of his own father and four older brothers. Ironically, though all brothers succumbed to battle, Edward had lasted the longest. Walter only remembers that his uncles were loud, burly men and that his father had always seemed like the calm center of the storm.

His mother was of strong, Bavarian stock, and although she’d been widowed at the age of 26 with five small children to care for, she’d refused to feel sorry for herself. She’d gone to work as a seamstress, a milliner, a washwoman, taking on just about any job that could keep her home with the children, but also allow her to earn a wage at the same time. The children were allowed to help at times, but his mother was adamant that they receive an education and school was prioritized above all else.

Even for all her strength and determination, his mother had been a woman that had deeply loved her husband. She carried her grief with her at all times, trying hard not to let it get the better of her, but the loss impacted her greatly. For the rest of her life she’d had an intense and irrational fear of something terrible happening to her children and she’d fretted over them constantly, smothering them with her love, and her paranoia.

Though his father’s softness and pacifism had irritated the old man, Walter’s paternal grandfather had noticed how meticulous and fastidious his grandson was from a young age and took a keen interest in him. Authoritarian by nature and difficult to please, nevertheless the two were close. Having come from a long line of soldiers, he devoted himself to Walter’s training, using his connections to enroll his grandson at West Point at the age of fourteen, against his mother’s wishes, to prepare him for a prestigious career.

Walter began as an enthusiastic pupil, thriving on repetition and regimen. He excelled in sums and philosophy and ethics, and although he received high marks in military strategy, those courses made him uncomfortable. The trouble was that he’d grown up in the shadow of the effects of war and he had no desire to contribute to the cause. His grandfather had been furious when he’d ultimately declined to pursue a career in the military and instead moved back home with his mother after graduation, taking a job as a junior teller in the local bank.

Within weeks of his return home, he’d met the woman he would soon marry, Arlene Sullivan, a classmate of his younger sister, and the most charming and beautiful woman he’d ever met. He proposed a month later and they were married a week before Christmas. Life was peaceful, and routine, just the way he liked it. In short time, he moved up the ranks at the bank, promoted to manager by the time he was twenty-two, just as the war between the states broke out.

On his twenty-third birthday, Walter begrudgingly kissed his new wife good-bye, leaving her in the care of his mother and sisters, and boarded a train, along with other conscripted men, only to spend the next four years of his life in a waking nightmare. By the grace of God, he managed to survive through the end of the war and at long last was honorably discharged as Brigadier General under the command of Ulysses S. Grant. By unspoken agreement, no one asked about where he’d been or what he’d seen, even his grandfather, and he wasn’t eager to share the details of the hell he’d been through.

Walter never expected to make it out of the war alive, never expected he’d see his new bride again, or expected he’d return to the job he loved, but he survived, even though he felt like a shell of the man he’d once been. The war had hardened him, made him an angry, short-tempered, and restless man. And just when he thought he’d never find joy again, there was Luisa.

*%*%*%*%*%

The best part of William Mulder’s day was the nightly conversations he had with his wife on their front porch. On the days she worked for Doctor Black, he always enjoyed listening to what she’d done and who she’d treated. He was always baffled by how casually she relayed the stories to him, speaking so matter of factly about how she’d pulled a bullet from a gunslinger’s shoulder in the same manner she might tell him she bought a new bolt of fabric from the general store. He thought that being a doctor was extraordinary. He thought that she was extraordinary.

Those days that she worked in town, upon returning home she usually immediately put her apron on and tried to help Melvin with supper, but he would always try to shoo her away and tell her to go on and put her feet up. The ranch hands were proud of their lady doctor in training and if it were up to them she probably wouldn’t lift a finger, ever, but Katherine never liked to feel like she was pulling less than her weight.

He saw her come home that day from where he was working in the training pen. She gave her horse and buggy over to Trevor just outside the barn and seemed to trudge to the house with her head lowered, which was unusual, but he wasn’t that concerned. She was also quiet at supper, pushing her food around her plate, which did concern him, but he tried not to let on. Melvin seemed to take notice of her behavior as well and told some boisterous tales that night to distract them all.

Mulder hoped that whatever was weighing on Katherine’s mind, she would tell him all about it during their nightly porch talks. He waited for her after seeing that the horses were bedded down for the evening, but she didn’t come. Finally, he grabbed the candle he’d brought with him and went looking for her. She wasn’t in the second bedroom that they’d converted to a parlor during the expansion and she wasn’t in their bedroom either. She wasn’t in the washroom and she wasn’t in the kitchen. He finally found her in the little study he’d had made for her through a door hidden in the pantry, reading a textbook by the dim glow of a single lantern.

“Kate?” he asked, gently pushing the door open. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” she murmured, and then sighed. “No. I don’t know, actually.”

“Did something happen at Doctor Black’s today?”

“It did.” She sighed again and pushed the textbook away.

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

She seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then she got out of her chair and stepped closer to him. He could see tears in her eyes before she wrapped her arms around him so hard it almost knocked him back. He put his hand on her shoulder for a moment to set the candle down and then he returned the embrace.

“What is it, Honey?” he asked.

“Mr. Skinner dropped in this afternoon to see Doctor Black about his wife.”

“Is she unwell?”

“I don’t know. He became evasive, wouldn’t even entertain letting me go out to make a house call and see her.”

“We talked about the fact that some folks might be uncomfortable being treated by a woman. I never thought it would be Mr. Skinner, but-”

“That’s not it,” Katherine interrupted, shaking her head. “At least I don’t think so. It was the way he…he was very…very adamant. Very…gruff….” Her voice had dropped to a whisper and she squeezed him even tighter.

Mulder felt his jaw tighten and his back straightened. His stomach dropped and his chest burned. He took Katherine by the shoulders and pushed her back just slightly to look her over, but the neck on her blouse was too high and her sleeves were too long. Her downturned face was all shadows and he gently tipped her chin up to look at him.

“Kate, did he hurt you?” he asked.

“No,” she whispered, with a shake of her head. “No, he didn’t hurt me, but I thought that he might be hurting his wife.”

“He…are you sure?” he asked.

“No, I’m not sure,” she confessed. “I’m not sure at all, but I do know that something isn’t right.”

A wave of relief washed over Mulder, but then he raised his brows in surprise and Katherine sucked in a breath and came back into his arms, hugging him even tighter than before. He rocked her gently as he held her. It was hard for him to imagine Mr. Skinner being violent. He’d known the banker for six years and hadn’t even heard him raise his voice a single time. Then again, he hadn’t known the banker had a wife or a son until after he was married to Katherine. They weren’t exactly discussing their private lives to each other in their business transactions.

And then he remembered the day that little Joey Skinner broke his wrist at the schoolyard and he’d gone down to inform Mr. Skinner the boy was at Doctor Black’s office. The banker had gone white, rushing out the door so quickly he’d slammed his knee into his desk and hadn’t even flinched. And when Mulder had tried to calm him, to slow him down just a little, Mr. Skinner had flung him away like he was swatting a housefly. Mulder had thought nothing of it at the time, so palpable was the man’s fear, but now he could view it with concern.

“What about…what about the boy?” he asked. “Do you think…?”

“No, it doesn’t seem likely.”

Mulder puffed his cheeks and blew out a tuft of air as he nodded. “Kate, I know you enjoy doing your own banking, but maybe it’s best that you let me handle it for now, just until we’re certain about what’s going on.”

She tipped her head up, her chin on his chest. “You’re not thinking of confronting him about it, are you?”

“I might be.”

“And then what?”

“And then what?” he repeated, actually not sure of the answer. “And then…and then I’m not going to do business with a man that hurts his wife, I’ll tell you that much. I’ll ride out to Fort Worth every month if I have to.”

Katherine raised her brow and then pushed up on her toes and kissed the side of Mulder’s jaw. “You’re a good man,” she said. “But, I think that’s rushing things a bit. I’m going to ask Doctor Black for a more complete history when I see him. And I’m not going to let Mr. Skinner intimidate me.”

“But-”

“This is a medical issue, and I’m going to treat it as such.”

“Yes, but…” Mulder was hesitant, but the tone of Katherine’s voice told him she’d made a decision and that it was final. He was bothered, but he wasn’t going to argue. “If you think that’s for the best.”

“I do.” She nodded and then eased her grip on her husband, but he pulled her back up against him, his hands pressed to the small of her back.

“If I have a medical issue, would you treat it as such?” he asked, swaying her softly.

“What kind of issue do you have?”

“I haven’t been kissed in over twelve hours now. I’ve quite possibly forgotten how.”

“Oh no. That sounds serious.”

“What do you recommend, Doc?”

“Well, let me think…” She reached up and he closed his eyes as she caressed his face with both hands. His lips twitched as her thumbs brushed over his mouth. Her hands went to his chest and she nuzzled her face into his neck. “Bed rest,” she said. “Lots of bed rest.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, leaning into her. “You know I’m notoriously bad at that.”

“I think you’re quite good at it, actually.”

He opened his eyes with a smile. That was another thing he enjoyed about his wife. She wasn’t one to demure from his flirtations, she gave them right back to him. He scooped her up with a soft growl and she laughed, looping her arms around his neck. When he bent his head to kiss her, she leaned away, reaching back to put out the lantern on her desk and he ended up with his nose in the crook of her neck.

She giggled. “Let me just…”

He looked up as she stretched her arm out for the candle, but he leaned past her and blew it out once she’d had her finger looped around the brass holder. He found her lips in the dark and whirled her around through the door. He didn’t need a candle to guide him to bed, the moonlight and her little encouraging whimpers were enough.

*%*%*%*%*%

Walter Skinner had only been to the Broke In once before, going on four years ago, to see about a horse. He was friendly with William Mulder, but didn’t consider the man a friend. Walter Skinner had no friends. He had business associates and customers, but he hadn’t had a true friend since he was a boy.

He was nervous to leave his teller in charge of the bank for the afternoon, more nervous than he let on, but even more nervous to ride out to the ranch. He knew it must be done, though. He’d behaved badly in front of Mrs. Mulder yesterday and he owed her an explanation. He owed them both an explanation that was a long time coming.

The changes to the place came as no surprise to him. All the billing for materials and labor went through the bank for payment. He knew down to the penny how much it had cost to put in the expansion and that Mulder could afford ten times as much as he’d spent, but it was nice to see that the ranch was thriving.

As he pulled up towards the house, he saw Sheriff Dogget’s boy out by the first barn, planing wood. He knew Luke Doggett had stayed on past the expansion as a carpenter. After opening an account at the bank, every second Friday the boy deposited his handsome salary into a savings and one day hoped to earn enough to open his own business. Mulder had already spoken to Walter about the possibility of backing him as an investor when the boy was old enough and had a bit more experience under his belt.

Melvin Frohike came out of the barn at the sound of horse hooves and waved his hat at Walter. Walter nodded to him and turned his horse in the smaller man’s direction.

“Hullo, Mr. Banker,” Mr. Frohike said. “Ain’t seen you ‘round these parts in a coon’s age. Charlie Horse givin’ you any grievances?”

Walter dismounted the horse in question and stroked him under the jaw. “No trouble here, Mr. Frohike. Best horse I’ve ever had.”

“Mulder’s got a knack for pickin’ the right temperaments for the man that needs ‘em.”

As though he knew he was being talked about, William Mulder suddenly appeared from Skinner’s left, wiping his hands on a ragged bandana. “Mr. Skinner, what a surprise,” he said, in a tone that didn’t sound all that genuinely surprised. By now, Walter presumed that Katherine had told her husband what had transpired yesterday.

“Mulder.” Walter shook hands with the rancher.

“Well, hey Charlie Horse,” Mulder said, running his hand along the white blaze that ran down the horse’s face. The horse knickered and pushed his nose into Mulder’s shoulder. “Frohike, take Charlie Horse into his old stall and get him some water and oats. He might appreciate a carrot or two while he’s there.”

The horse followed Mr. Frohike into the barn, trusting the familiar man in a way that was unusual. Let anyone but Walter try to lead him, and he wouldn’t budge. This had been the horse’s first home, though, and the ranchers his trainers, so Walter wasn’t surprised by it. When it was just the two of them, Mulder and Walter, and the sound of Luke Dogget scraping wood in the distance, Mulder shoved the bandana in his pocket and then tipped the brim of his hat just slightly to squint at Walter’s face.

“I’m here to apologize to your wife,” Walter said. “I believe we had a misunderstanding that I’d like to clear up. If you’ll allow me, of course.”

“If she’ll allow you.” Mulder adjusted his hat and then bounced his head towards his right shoulder. “Katherine’s inside. You can go on in.”

“Actually…” Walter looked towards the house and then at the rancher, trying to get a read on the situation, but the man’s face was blank, revealing nothing. “I’d like to speak to the both of you. Not just your wife. What I have to say, it…pertains to you as well.”

“Well…come on in, then.”

Walter followed Mulder through to the back entrance of the house. The younger man called out for his wife and she emerged from a hidden door inside of the pantry. She looked startled by Walter’s presence and gave her husband a questioning look.

“Mr. Skinner’s dropped by to have a word with us about something,” Mulder said. “Should we go on in to the parlor?”

“Can I offer you something to drink, Mr. Skinner?” Katherine asked. “I made fresh lemonade this morning. We store it in the new ice box now so it should be nice and cool.”

A cool drink sounded like a good idea to Walter. The dust was thick on the ride out and it would probably help him find his voice. “I would appreciate a glass, thank you,” he said.

“I’ll help you pour,” Mulder said. “Mr. Skinner, let me show you to the front room and we’ll be just a minute.”

Mulder took Walter’s hat to hang on a peg in the hallway, beside his own, and then the banker was shown to a tidy parlor at the front of the house and he sat down in a chair upholstered with a soft green fabric to wait. He could hear low voices from the kitchen, no doubt the Mulders discussing why he had come, but they were quick to return, Mulder carrying a tray with three glasses of lemonade and a pitcher. The drink was perfect, not too sweet and not too sour, and blessedly cool. Mulder and Katherine sat beside each other on the love seat, across from Walter.

“I don’t want to take up too much of your day, so I’ll get right to it,” Walter said. “Mrs. Mulder, I want to start by saying how sorry I am for my behavior yesterday.”

“Thank you,” Katherine said, politely, but her gaze was critical. “My concern, however, is for your wife. If she has a chronic illness, she should be examined.”

“She has been examined.”

“That isn’t what her records indicate.”

“Doctor Black is familiar with her history.”

“That’s all well and good, but Doctor Black isn’t always available. If it’s my qualifications you’re concerned with, I can assure you that-”

“I’m sure you’re qualified,” Walter interrupted. He sighed and put his lemonade back on the tray on the table between them before removing his spectacles and pinching the bridge of his nose for a few moments. Finally, he put the glasses back on and picked up the lemonade glass to take a long drink. “Forgive me,” he said. “It’s difficult to talk about.”

“Take your time,” Mulder said.

*%*%*%*%*%

Walter wouldn’t learn he was a father until well into his second year in battle, when letters from home finally made their way to him. It came as a shock, as he was not even aware his wife was with child, but she must have been several weeks or months along when he’d been called up. Luisa Anne Skinner, a happy and healthy little girl that, according to the letters from both his wife and his mother, had a shock of red hair and the sweetest disposition on God’s green earth.

After the war ended, Walter strongly considered returning to West Point and never coming home again. He was afraid of who he was and what he’d become and he didn’t know how to be a husband or a father after all he’d been through. He was tired, though. He knew he’d never be able to quiet the nightmares of war if he went on being a soldier. He needed the monotony of home if he ever hoped to find peace.

He’d told no one of his impending arrival back in Baltimore, but the army must have sent word on ahead, for as soon as the train pulled into the station, he saw his wife and his mother waiting on the platform. He’d taken no more than two steps off the train when a tiny slip of a thing ran towards him, a blur of pink petticoats and red curls. Papa, Papa, Papa. His army issue duffle fell to the platform as he knelt down and tiny arms wrapped themselves around his neck. His heart felt like it had burst open that moment and he immediately understood why his mother had smothered her children with so much love and concern.

Walter Skinner was determined to give his daughter everything in life, even though she asked for nothing. He outfitted her with new dresses from the best tailors in town and bought her new dolls and trinkets. He did his very best to spoil her and she did her very best to remain unspoiled. She had the purest heart of anyone he’d ever known and her schoolteachers always commented on how kind and empathetic she was. She was a friend to all she met, believing in the best of the world and in everyone in it, and Walter never tried to dispel her of the misguided notion, preferring that she remain naive to the harsh realities of life. In hindsight, that was probably his biggest mistake.

It was the day before her seventeenth birthday that Luisa met Edward Jerse, a sewing machine salesman from Philadelphia. Walter remembered the day precisely. When he’d returned home from the bank, the young man was in his parlor, demonstrating the machine to his wife and daughter, who had been planning for Luisa’s party at breakfast that morning. Though the young man was well-mannered, Walter did not like him, even though he couldn’t articulate why. He just knew that man was trouble.

Luisa was smitten, begging her father for the first time in her life to purchase one of the machines, even though she’d always had little interest in needlework and he could not recall the last time she’d done sewing of any kind. She’d clasped her hands and gone to her knees beside his chair as he read the evening paper. Please, Papa, please can’t we get one? He couldn’t refuse, and so the sewing machine sat largely untouched, as he knew it would, and it gave the young man an excuse to call on them for maintenance purposes, which is what he suspected his daughter was truly after.

Walter thought that the infatuation would fade quickly, but as the months went by, it only deepened, much to his dismay. By that point, both his wife and daughter were enthralled with Mr. Jerse, and Walter was forced to hold his tongue on the matter. The singular time he’d spoken up that he thought Mr. Jerse was spending too much time at their house and he should be on his way, Luisa had been devastated and fled from the room in tears and his wife had scolded him for being so harsh.

And then Mr. Jerse had proposed marriage, without even speaking with him no less. He was furious, but careful to rein in his anger when he told his daughter it was out of the question. She was too young and besides, Mr. Jerse had not yet established himself. No, marriage was out of the question. Luisa had quietly accepted his refusal to grant her permission and then promptly eloped with Mr. Jerse the very next day.

If only Walter hadn’t spoiled his daughter so obviously, perhaps none of it wouldn’t have happened. If he’d just put his foot down that one time then maybe it wouldn’t have been so much of a shock when he cut his daughter off financially and forbade his wife from contacting her. He’s certain that Mr. Jerse had counted on him to have a change of heart. After all, Luisa was his only child and beloved daughter.

Months passed and Walter’s wife was slowly deteriorating; prone to weeping, spending days in her bed, and suffering greatly from the separation from her daughter. He tried to cheer her with those things he knew she loved the most - tickets to the symphony, a bouquet of flowers, having the cook prepare her favorite dinners - but she would not be cheered.

Before Walter had the chance to relent, one dreary day in September, a breathless errand boy showed up at the bank with an urgent message from his housekeeper, imploring him to come home at once. He ran all the way there, leaving his hat and umbrella behind in his haste, and by the time he arrived he was soaked through.

At first, he did not recognize the strange lady in his parlor, but it only took a few moments to realize this pale, drawn, bedraggled girl clutching a bundle of dirty rags was his daughter. Her cheek was bruised and her lip was split, red with fresh blood, and it was apparent she had recently suffered a blackened eye. He knew, even though she stammered over weak excuses that she’d been clumsy and had taken a fall down some steps, that that no-good, sonofabitch Ed Jerse had done this to her.

Walter felt a rage bubble inside of him that he hadn’t felt since his days in the war and though he once considered himself a pacifist, in his mind he already had one foot out the door to track down that rotten excuse for a man and show him a real fight. It was then that he noticed that what he thought was a bundle of dirty rags in his daughter’s arms was a loosely swaddled infant. The baby raised its arm and let out a pitiful squawk. Walter was too stunned to even move.

This time, when Walter put his foot down, his daughter dutifully bowed her head and agreed. She would not be going back to her husband. She and the baby would stay with her parents. The family physician was called for and Walter made it known he wanted his daughter’s injuries to be meticulously recorded. He’d wanted to summon the police, but Luisa was adamant that she would not speak with any officers.

Though their daughter had returned to them, she was no longer his sweet, innocent little girl. A year apart was enough to harden her, to dull the light that had always been in her eyes, to hollow her cheeks and round her shoulders. She was easily startled and weepy and shrank from the slightest touch. The housekeeper, who had been with them since Luisa was born, was the one who confided in him about faded bruises and fresh scars after she’d drawn the girl’s bath. Walter had gone to the clapboard alley house where Luisa had been living, accompanied by his army pistol, but Edward Jerse was nowhere to be found. Lucky for him.

Three weeks passed and every day was a struggle. Luisa lacked the strength, and it seemed the interest, in caring for her child, but that was understandable. Walter’s wife, his sisters, and the women that so deftly ran his household, all took part in trying to help his daughter recover. Unfortunately, all their efforts were for naught.

Walter was at work when Edward Jerse showed up looking for his estranged wife. When Arlene Skinner tried to turn him away, he kicked in the glass-paned door and cast her aside. Their cook ran to the neighbors to summon the police. His youngest sister, who had been visiting with her young daughter, had the good sense to grab the infant and flee out the back of the house. Their beloved housekeeper took a protective position on the stairs in an effort to stop Mr. Jerse and she suffered a broken collarbone when he shoved her down.

Witnesses said that Luisa put up a hell of a fight, even as Edward Jerse dragged her down the front steps. She bit and she clawed and she screamed until she was tossed to the ground and silenced by a crushing blow to the skull under Edward Jerse’s boot. Neighbors rushed to stop the assault, but they were too late. A brawl ensued when they attempted to prevent him from fleeing, but he managed to escape before the police arrived.

The scene that Walter came home to could only be described as chaos. Policemen were everywhere, blowing whistles, yelling at neighbors to stand back, threatening to use their bully sticks on the crowd that gathered. Nervous cart-horses whinnied shrilly and stamped their feet. His wife was wailing on the porch while their family physician tried desperately to calm her. The county coroner was already rounding up eligible men for an inquest and to make matters worse, hadn’t even bothered to cover his poor daughter’s crumpled body with a blanket or a sheet.

An overzealous journalist picked the wrong moment to appear at Walter’s side and ask if he knew the victim and wanted to give a quote. Walter had him by the throat in an instant, his clawed fingers digging roughly into the man’s neck. He wanted to kill him and probably would have had a constable not intervened and pulled him off.

*%*%*%*%*%

Katherine felt a sting of tears and she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. That could have been her story. She knew exactly what Luisa had gone through. She felt her husband’s hand slip into hers and she squeezed his fingers tight. Mr. Skinner had stopped speaking for a few moments, staring down at the lemonade glass that was sweating on his knee.

“You know where the sonofabitch is now?” Mulder asked.

“Rotting in hell, hopefully.” Mr. Skinner finally looked up. “They caught him at the train station that night. Murder’s a hanging offense. Justice was carried out swiftly, though part of me wishes he’d suffered a little longer.”

“And then you moved west?”

“Towns are small and people talk. We didn’t want Joey to grow up in the shadow of it all.”

“Joey is your grandson,” Katherine stated, softly. She remembered Mr. Skinner’s panic when Joey had been injured at school and his fear now made sense to her.

“He is. Though he’s not aware of that fact. Luisa had named him Edward Jr., but we couldn’t call him that, under the circumstances.” Mr. Skinner paused and he seemed to struggle for a moment, his face contorting slightly as a frown tugged his mouth down. “My wife blames herself. She was the one that let Mr. Jerse into the house to sell that blasted sewing machine. She tried to…join Luisa in the hereafter several times. They wanted me to have her institutionalized. I refuse to do that.”

“Has she made recent attempts?”

Mr. Skinner shook his head. “The melancholy comes and goes, particularly around Luisa’s birthday, or the day she was taken from us, but she hasn’t harmed herself in quite some time. There’s an Indian woman that cares for her during the day. She’s been a godsend. You might know her, Mulder, Albert Hosteen is her brother.”

“The Navajo translator?” Mulder gave a brief nod. “We did some trading awhile back, but I don’t know him well.”

“His people have a settlement a few miles outside of town. They keep to themselves, mostly.”

“Mr. Skinner,” Katherine said, trying as gently as she could to bring the conversation back to Arlene. “I am deeply sorry for what you and your wife have been through, but it does not explain why you won’t allow her to be seen. Do you believe Dr. Black would try to force her to be committed?”

Mr. Skinner stood and slipped his hand into his vest pocket. He took out his pocket watch and opened it up, staring at it for some time before passing it to Katherine. She hesitated briefly, glancing at her husband first, and then gasped slightly when she looked at the photo insert under the lid.

“I…I don’t understand,” Katherine said, staring intently at the photo.

“We had this likeness made for Luisa’s sixteenth birthday,” Mr. Skinner explained.

Katherine showed the watch to her husband, who raised his brows in surprise and then looked at Mr. Skinner. “This is your daughter?” he asked. “But, she…”

“Bears a striking resemblance to your wife. I know.”

“And you think that if Mrs. Skinner were to see me, it would cause an upset?”

“I know it would. Arlene begged me to remove all the portraits of Luisa from the walls because she found it unbearable to see them. That likeness is all I have left.”

Katherine passed the pocketwatch back to Mr. Skinner. He sat back down, but kept the watch in his hand, running his thumb over the lid. The room fell quiet and it seemed that none of them knew what to say after that. Finally, Mulder cleared his throat and shifted forward.

“Uh, when we were outside earlier, you said what you had to say concerned both Katherine and I,” he said. “I’m not a medical expert like my wife, so was there something else?”

Mr. Skinner took a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and dabbed at his forehead. “Something I need to confess.”

*%*%*%*%*%

Jack Willis made no effort whatsoever to even pretend to be personable. Walter Skinner had all sorts of men in his office looking for land, but very few that didn’t try to charm him, especially when they were begging for a homestead. He watched the detestable man surreptitiously as he made like he was perusing his files. Watched him suck tobacco juice from his yellowed teeth and pick at the dirt under his fingernails with a small knife as he waited.

Walter could have easily refused Mr. Willis and sent him on his way. The man had no collateral to speak of, only a small purse of coins that didn’t amount to half a downpayment on a lease. He didn’t claim to have any prospects in the area, wasn’t a farmer or a rancher or a craftsman. Walter was certain, by the stench of whiskey that seemed to ooze from the man’s pores, that his only profession was drinking. When the man asked about the saloon in town, and if the hands were hot there, he knew he was dealing with a gambler as well.

Rarely was Walter distracted by the window in his office, but that day he couldn’t help but keep his eye on the young woman in the wagon outside. She was still as a statue most of the time, head down, shoulders slumped. Every so often she would start to rub her fingers and thumbs together, but then quickly pull her hands into fists in her lap. He gave her one more glance before he was going to break the news to Mr. Willis that there were no leases available and she suddenly tipped her chin up and the afternoon sun highlighted a fresh bruise on her cheek. She had a blank expression on her face, staring off into the distance, but without truly seeing a thing. He’d seen that look on many men during the war, usually after a hard battle. Some of them never recovered. His chest tightened and his heart hurt.

There was a lease available, he told Mr. Willis, which was not entirely the truth, but nor was it a lie. There were plenty of leases available, but he knew that if he put Mr. Jerse’s name on any of those, the bank would be repossessing in short time. The lease that he would draft up would be on a piece of land that he owned, one he’d purchased a few months before the former owner had passed on. The old man had known he hadn’t much time left and Walter had seen fit to relieve Bob Goodwin of his burden. Installing a surly drunkard and his abused wife on the property might not seem wise, but it would give him the time he needed to make an informed decision.

When Walter’s professors at West Point had praised him for his abilities to strategize, he’d humbly chalked it up to the hours he’d spent playing chess with his grandfather, but he also knew that the reason he took to the game at such a young age was because of the way his mind worked. He planned and he calculated and he did it quickly. He also wasn’t a gambler, by nature, but when he bet on something, he did it with the same certainty as moving a chess piece.

He drafted a standard five-year lease with an option, knowing he’d be lucky if he saw a single penny from Mr. Willis, not that it mattered. The land was bought and paid for and he didn’t need an income. He just needed a chance to do what he should have done for Luisa all those years ago.

Taking into account the little he did know of Mr. Willis, Walter offered to buy the man a drink later that evening at the saloon and just as he suspected, the man was more than happy to take him up on it. He gave him a copy of the lease, a rough map of how to find the place, and watched him turn his mules to the east, out of town. By the end of the night, after several rounds of whiskey and losing a few hands of poker to Mr. Willis, he’d devised a suitable plan.

*%*%*%*%*%

“Did you kill Jack Willis?” Mulder asked.

Mr. Skinner did not seem in the least phased by the question. “Do you play chess?” he asked, in return.

“Not much.”

“Chess is as much about manipulating your opponent’s movements as it is making your own. The same as battle.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t answer the question.”

“I had a mind to.” The banker nodded to himself. “But, I didn’t have to.”

“What does that mean?”

“I know what it means,” Katherine murmured, quietly. “The whole time we were here, Jack was either too drunk, too hungover, or not there at all. It means you kept him occupied. Away from me or incapacitated.”

“I simply worked out a deal with the saloon owner that Jack Willis should feel free to spend as much time there as he pleased, whether it was drinking or gambling or in the company of the working women.”

Mr. Skinner paused at that and an awkward silence followed. Mulder was feeling a mixture of emotions; appreciation and regret and heartache and confusion. Katherine, pressed next to him on the couch, was silent, but her grip on his hand was tight and firm.

“Anyhow,” Mr. Skinner continued. “I only told Mr. Smith that he was to see me about any debts that Mr. Willis incurred and I would see they were paid.”

“Then you should…we should compensate you,” Mulder said, stuttering slightly. “I’ll pay for Jack Willis's debts.”

“I don’t want compensation.”

“But, what about the land? I…I assume you were after a profit if you bought it, but then why didn’t-”

“You own the land,” Mr. Skinner interrupted, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “The property was transferred to your wife, you just happened to purchase it from me and not the bank. Fortunately for me I happen to know how terrible you are at scrutinizing paperwork.”

Mulder grimaced, sheepishly. “Still, you should get a fair price for all you’ve-”

“I wasn’t after a profit, Mulder.”

“What then? You’re not a rancher, you’re a banker.”

Mr. Skinner shifted in his chair as though the question had made him uncomfortable or embarrassed. “I had it in mind that, should we become neighbors, that perhaps…perhaps my grandson might find his way here.”

“You want him to work on a ranch? But, he’s far too young to even consider-”

“No, not work. Just…to pass the time. I try to spend as much time with him as I can, but I’m at the bank most of the day, though I do try to shield him from my wife’s…my wife tries to love him in her own way, but I know she fears becoming too attached and Joey is so pure at heart. So much like his mother. He just…he just deserves a place where…” Mr. Skinner trailed off and he shook his head, quickly averting his eyes. “Anyway, he has school now to keep him occupied. It was a foolish notion.”

“Does he know how to ride?” Mulder asked.

“I’ve put him on Charlie Horse a time or two.”

“Well, it’s too far of a walk for the little fella. What if we sent Trevor out on Saturdays to come collect him?”

“I’m not going to put you out like that, Mulder. You asked me why and I wanted to answer plainly. I think that fate intervened and God saw fit that land be used for a higher purpose.”

Katherine sucked in a sharp breath through her nose and almost reared back as though spooked by something. Mulder turned to her, but she stared straight ahead, wide-eyed. He squeezed her hand and she startled and then pulled away, blinking rapidly.

“Kate?”

She gave a slight shake of her head and pulled her lightly-fisted hands into her lap. Mulder pursed his lips, wanting to know what had just happened, but he wasn’t going to press her in front of their guest.

Mr. Skinner rubbed his hands over his knees and then stood. “I should probably be on my way,” he said.”

“I’ll…get your hat,” Mulder answered. Normally, he might implore Mr. Skinner to stay, to have another glass of lemonade, but he hurried down the hall and back and handed the banker his hat, eager to get his wife alone.

“Thank you for the lemonade,” Mr. Skinner said, shaking Mulder’s hand.

“Anytime. And please think about sending Joey out.”

“I’ll think it over.” Mr. Skinner gave a slight tip of his hat to Katherine. “Mrs. Mulder. I hope I’ve resolved things for you.” He was about to walk out, but Katherine suddenly jumped to her feet and called out to him.

“Wait,” she said. “Things are not resolved. What about Mrs. Skinner?”

“I can’t let you see her, I thought I made that clear.”

“What if I’d run into her in town one day?”

“Impossible. Arlene doesn’t go into town. Her nerves are too unsteady for it.”

“Then we must do something about that. I’m…I don’t know the answer right now, but I will. I will write away for the appropriate texts and I’ll find something. I promise.”

“I do need to get going,” Skinner said, putting his hat on. His voice had gone low and husky. “You know, in the back of my mind I thought that perhaps out here on your own, with Mr. Willis occupied, you might find your way to a friendly neighbor’s place that could give you more help than I could. I’m happy things worked out the way they have, just sorry it didn’t happen a little sooner.”

“Mr. Skinner…” Katherine touched the sleeve of his jacket and when he turned towards her, she put her arms around him. He hesitated and then brought one hand up and put his hand very lightly at the back of her head. “Thank you,” she whispered.

They stayed in the embrace for a few seconds more and then Mr. Skinner stepped away. He gave a brief nod and then he was out the door on his way to the barn.

*%*%*%*%*%

Katherine stayed on the porch as her husband walked the banker out to the barn to collect his horse. His visit had brought forth her own recollections of the day she arrived in town with Jack Willis. A memory that she’d locked away not because she’d tried to forget, but only because she hadn’t tried to remember it.

The morning before they arrived, she had lost another baby, one she didn’t even know she was carrying. She’d awoken in pain, her skirts soaked through with blood down to the hard ground she’d been sleeping on beneath the wagon. She’d stumbled to a stream that was nearby to wash herself, retching a few times on the way there, and the bruise on her cheek was punishment for having woken Jack and for not having made up any breakfast.

She was still bleeding when they’d rolled into town, every bump of the wagon seemingly forcing another painful contraction of her womb, ridding itself of the burden that had proven impossible for her to carry. She wondered how much blood she would have to lose to pay for her sins, how much blood she’d already lost. She thought about how peaceful it might be not to even try to stop the flow.

It was those kinds of thoughts that turned her to prayer, but Jack had sold her rosary beads at the last town they were in to some gunslinger who thought his favorite whore might like them. She recalled sitting in the wagon outside the bank, asking God’s forgiveness for needing to end her suffering. One of the mules had shifted and the wagon creaked and she had the idea that when they were on their way again, she should throw herself under the wagon, let it roll over her, let it crush her and let the blood ooze out of her all at once until there was nothing left. Yes, she decided, that would be best. She had nothing left, no reason to keep going.

Just as she’d resolved to end her life, a breeze had ruffled her hair and set the back of her neck to tingling. She looked up, but the dusty road was still. Quite plainly, clear as day, a woman whispered in her ear just then, ‘don’t give up.’ Katherine turned, but there was no one there, only a glimpse of her own sad reflection in the window of the bank.

Jack returned to the wagon and shoved a piece of paper into her hands, which she recognized as a map. She studied it as Jack rambled about pulling the wool over on the idiot banker. He figured the town must be full of idiots if the smartest man there was that friendly. Maybe he’d see if he could start a new life as a bank robber.

Katherine didn’t say anything. Jack was never in favor of her speaking, even if it appeared as though he were trying to engage her in conversation. There was a little ‘X’ drawn onto the map and then a wavy line beside it that she determined to be a creek or small river of some kind. On the other side of the line was the word ‘horses.’

Once, as a little girl, Katherine had a dream about a horse. It was just after she’d read about Hippocrates, The Father of Medicine, and about how the ancient Greeks had once prescribed horseback riding to improve health. She’d thought that was silly, but that night she dreamed about riding a lovely chestnut horse with a red mane, running fast and free through an open field of grass as far as the eye could see, towards a setting sun. She felt sad when she woke up, but she wasn’t sure why. Maybe because she knew it was impossible to ever be that free.

“Hey,” Mulder said, startling Katherine as he came up to the porch. The banker was already past the sign of their ranch, his horse kicking up the dust on the main road and lost in her reverie, she hadn’t even noticed.

“Hey,” Katherine replied.

Her husband reached for her, bringing her hands up to his mouth to kiss her knuckles. “You looked a million miles away just then. What were you thinking?”

“Just about divine intervention.”

“So, nothing too complicated or existential?”

She gave him a small smile and he rubbed his bottom lip against her knuckles. She pulled her hands free and he opened his arms for her. Sighing, she stepped into his embrace.

“I’m sorry too, so you know,” he said.

“Sorry? For what?”

“That your friendly neighbor didn’t find his way to you sooner.”

She hummed lightly and crossed her arms behind his waist. “No, I think Mr. Skinner was right. Things happened exactly as they were supposed to.”

“I think you just said you believe in fate, Honey. I’ve been telling you that since Faithful Jenny threw that shoe.”

“I admit nothing.” She chuckled. “I’m only saying that by keeping Jack otherwise engaged in town, it did give me some months of peace I think that I needed. It made me stronger. I wanted to get away, but until then I thought my only way out would be if Jack had killed me or if I…did it for him.”

Mulder tightened his embrace and Katherine squeezed him gently in return.

“I’d like to think it’s providence,” she murmured softly. “That God put Mr. Skinner in my path that day for a reason.”

“So that he could help you.”

“No, so that I could help him. His wife.” Katherine tilted her head back to look up at her husband. He looked down at her with an expression she hadn’t ever seen, like someone pleasantly stupefied. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

“Fate, providence, divine intervention, kismet, destiny, serendipity, whatever you want to call it, how lucky I am to have such a wife.”

“Yes, you are.”

He chuckled as he lowered his mouth to hers.

*%*%*%*%*%

If anyone had asked him, the banker would say he did not believe in any such thing as fate. He had too much experience with the hubris and folly of man to believe that any bad or good that happened in the world wasn’t the direct result of free will. Besides, there wasn’t a philosophy on God’s green Earth that would have him believe that his daughter’s death was designed as part of a higher plan. As though God was maneuvering the human race like pawns in a game of chess. That would be illogical, and Walter was not an illogical man.

A few short weeks after his visit to the ranch, Katherine had convinced the banker to get his wife a kitten. She quoted a nurse named Florence Nightingale to him about the benefits of animal companionship. He thought it was silly. Arlene had never had an interest in cats, but Katherine was very convincing, and suddenly this gray ball of fluff that looked like he’d been in the dustbin, so he was called Dusty, had been acquired and he saw his wife laugh for the first time in years. She also managed to obtain a tortoise, a pair of lovebirds, an injured crow that she nursed back to health, and he was fairly certain she was trying to tame a family of prairie dogs in the fields behind their house. While the melancholy still took hold of her at times, it seemed that having Dusty close to her made it more bearable and her demeanor had been much improved.

Walter had finally let Doctor Black speak with his wife and he found her to be in overall fine health, but perhaps a bit of exercise would help with her nerves. Just a nice walk in the garden each day for fresh air and flowers. Monica Doggett helped with that, bringing fresh baked bread down as often as she could and teaching her the names of local herbs and how they’re used. It’s how she found the poor crow with the broken wing and the prairie dog tunnels.

The following April, the banker brought his wife to the Broke In on a Sunday morning, a day that had been arranged in advance. Joey was disappointed that it wasn’t his day to go to the ranch. He’d been spending Saturdays at the Mulder’s all winter and looked forward to brushing the horses every week and learning how to ride.

Arlene had been prepared to accompany her husband to the ranch. It had been weeks since even the mention of her daughter’s name had sent her into a fit of tears. She’d allowed Walter to hang the family portrait in the house and he had finally sat Joey down and given him a sanitized version of the truth. All the boy needed to know, at his young age, was that his mother, their daughter, had gone to heaven, and that she had loved him very much.

Walter slowed the gig down as the sign for the Broke In came into view. It seemed to him that he was more nervous about this meeting than his wife. She sat beside him almost serenely, her arm looped loosely around his elbow, Dusty purring on her lap. He hadn’t intended to bring the cat, but his wife had insisted and he knew the Mulder’s, of all people, wouldn’t mind the unexpected, additional guest.

Katherine was first to emerge from the house, followed by her husband. They waited on the porch while Walter guided the horse to the hitching post. Mulder stepped down and welcomed them warmly, saying how pleased he was to meet Mrs. Skinner and the little friend she cuddled close as he took her hand to help her from the small carriage.

Katherine approached cautiously and Walter held his breath when Arlene passed the cat to him and then reached out to touch the young woman’s face. She told her how pretty she was. She told her how she’d heard so much about her from Walter, and from Monica. She told her that her daughter had red hair as well, gently touching the ends of one of Katherine’s curls that coiled down by her jaw. And then she asked if she might put her arms around her, just for a moment.

Of course, Katherine answered, and Arlene brought her arms around her, placing her hands just behind Katherine’s shoulders and very softly, just for a moment, rested her cheek against the younger woman’s. She pulled away and then took Dusty back into her arms and rubbed one of his ears. She said that she would like to see the horses now.

The End

#i wrote this #xf fanfic #historical au #broken things #first time writing a Skinman POV!

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intheroomblog · 3 months

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snowe-zolynn-rogers · 4 months

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This is an essay on why I, as someone going into the medical field, don’t believe Glen died from the gunshot inflicted by Nica in the s2 finale. I paid too much attention to the scene and now I don't get how Glen was on death's door from being shot, let alone do I believe that being shot left Glen in a comatose state. So now you all have to deal with me ranting and raving yet again.

Glen had an almost perfect combination of positive symptoms that they would've been perfectly fine as long as Glen got treatment before they lost too much blood or had any complications.

The placement looks perfect to have not hit anything in their abdomen, they were able to walk (although assisted, they were able to stand so the bullet didn’t hit their spine), they were still breathing (so it didn't cause a collapsed lung), they weren't bleeding too heavily besides entry and exit wounds (which is normal for traumatic wounds to the skin), they were conscious, pressure was presumably kept on the exit wound to slow blood loss (since Tiffany was in the back seat with him when Glenda drove to the hospital), ect.

The only things it likely could’ve hit was Glen’s large intestine and Glen’s left kidney (if the bullet went in at an angle, which it looks in the scene that it was). However the prognosis for renal wounds (kidney wounds) has a just about 91% chance of survival and large intestinal perforations have a survival outlook of 50 to 70% depending on when the perforation is taken care of, and I doubt it took more than a half hour or so to get to a hospital, especially with Glenda driving when their twin was injured.

Not to mention that this is 2024, we have the technology and methods to have been able to save Glen. I just don’t believe that it was just the gunshot that left Glen near death. There had to be something else that was at play that left them comatose.

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sleepyfan-blog · 2 months

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Injuries and Boundaries

Author's note: this is the next fic in Cedric's adventures in the husbandry AU! Thanks to @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan for letting me borrow Hura! first. previous. next

tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @i-am-a-dragon34

warnings: corporal punishment, wound treatment, blood

Summary: More injured Black Templars show up at the clinic causing trouble. Cedric's asked to help wrangle and treat them.

"Cedric... We've got more feral injured Black Templars who refused to be treated by anyone but another Son of Dorn. Do you mind taking them? Normally we'd have them wait, but all five of them are actively bleeding, and their sergeant is really twitchy." Misty, one of the human aides who worked in the Astartes-run medical clinic that Cedric worked in asked. "We've managed to herd them into one of the larger exam rooms, but they're still very tightly wound up. "

Cedric heaved a sigh, shaking his head a little. This was the second group of badly injured Black Templars who've shown up in the clinic within a month. This did not bode well, especially as it seems as though multiple Black Templar warbands seem to be gathering near or in this city for... Throne knew what reason. "I'll tend to them. Just let me finish my lunch real quick. It shouldn't take more than a minute or two."

"Thank you, Cedric." The medical assistant answered, sagging gratefully in relief before leaving.

The young apothecary glanced around the room, double checking that no one else was around before vox-calling Ramiel "There are more injured Feral Black Templars in the clinic. Please warn our older Bruders and encourage our fellow Primaris marines to keep away from the base until this city is clear."

"... Sure, but what about you, Cedric? You should either hunker down with one of our older brothers, or ask Apothecary Hura if he has a mission out of the city that he'd like you to complete as a favor or something." Ramiel responded, a frown on his face "I'm still on the chaplains' retreat, but I know that you're not safe right now. You're going to get yourself to safety, right?"

"I'll be careful, and if I can't be careful, I will be smart, You don't need to worry, Rami. I'll be fine. Remember, we figured out that I survived the longest Back There, of the five of us. I didn't even get killed to be sent back to Ancient Terra." Which was a damn sight better than his fellow Primaris marines. "But I've got antsy patients to deal with. Be sure to message bruders Roland and Arnault they need to know, if they don't know already." He suspected that Roland and Arnault were exiled from many of the Black Templar Crusades because of them embracing their bonds with their mortals... And despite the fact that the bonds were warp-creations, those bonds and their humans made them so happy, brought out the best in both of them. Why shun them for it? It made no sense to Cedric.

"I will... but I will also tell them that you're treating feral templars who might hurt you if they take a notion! So they will make sure that you are safe too!" Ramiel growled out, and he could hear the stubborn glare on the other's face.

"Honestly, I am fairly safe within the clinic. I am one shout away from dozens of well-trained first-born cousins who won't hesitate to sedate and restrain a rampaging Cousin." Cedric sighed before ending the vox-call with Ramiel. He really hoped that the stubborn Justicar didn't rile up their older brothers. Roland and Arnault could get very protective when the mood struck.

Cedric knocked on the closed door to the exam room that the older Black Templars had been brought into, waiting for a moment before entering the room, closing the door behind himself as he took in the sight before him.

Three of the firstborn Black Templars were pacing around the examination room in a standard patrol cycle, while the other two were sitting on the exam room table, leaning into each other with their eyes closed, breathing shallowly.

Cedric could smell the coppery tang of blood in the air, saw the tense, tight ways that these older brothers were holding themselves and knew that each of them was in a tremendous amount of pain. He asked "Would any of you like something for the pain you are in? I will need to treat your wounds, which is going to hurt more. I have both spray-on pain reducers which may be applied to the wounds you have directly, depending on what kind of wounds you have, injectable pain killers, or a pill to take orally. Do you have preferences, if any?"

The five firstborn templars stopped what they were doing and looked him over silently for several long, and awkward feeling eternities (which was probably closer to a minute, perhaps two, but it felt as if they dragged their silent appraisal of him for so very long). The Sergeant stepped forward and slightly to the right, blocking Cedric's view of the two sitting on the medical table. "I am Sergeant Alois Zimmer of the Sprechembriech Crusade. Identify yourself, Apothecary." His well-muscled arms were crossed defensively over his chest. He had a large blade sheathed on his left hip, a bolter on the right.

"I am Cedric, an Apothecary of the Black Templars." The Primaris marine stated. Technically he was also supposed to identify that he was both an apprentice and a Primaris Marine during this formal declaration but these firstborn brothers were wound very tightly. He didn't recognize these older brothers, and there was a high likelihood that they would have no idea what a Primaris was. They would, however, recognize that he was an apprentice and might start asking all sorts of obnoxious questions, which would delay their treatments and getting out of Cedric's hair before Arnault showed up, blade in hand and glaring at everyone who moved because Ramiel had wound up the Emperor's Champion. Again.

"Which Crusade are you part of?" Zimmer asked, looking him over closely "And where is your armor? Also... We aren't soft enough to need pain meds. Start patching up the two on the table."

"Came to Ancient Terra without any, as I was brought here in my sleeping clothes. I'm not part of an established Crusade. I haven't been on Ancient Terra long enough." Cedric answered, grabbing a wound repair kit from the cabinet and slowly approaching the two injured brothers on the exam table, not wanting to startle anyone. He opened the kit. It was unlikely that he was going to be part of one of the roving warbands of feral Black Templars. He liked having regular contact with his fellow Primaris Marines, and he sincerely doubted that he would be allowed to interact with two probable-outcasts. Even if one of them is an Emperor's Champion. "I got found by an Ultramarine and brought to the nearby Imperial Fist base and have been in this city ever since."

"That is some Lamenters level luck there, Brother." One of the other firstborn brothers calls out, before dodging the sergeant's reprimanding swat from Zimmer.

Cedric very carefully did not react as he pulled up one of the older Black Templar's shirts, revealing that his back was a mess of bleeding flogging markings, and the characteristic bruising and claw-marks of a mark 9 power fist.

"Quiet, Illus. No need to wind up the lad." Zimmer looked at him steadily for a couple of seconds before asking "From the look on your face, I am guessing you know the kinds of wounds all of us are suffering from. It was not our Chaplain who inflicted these wounds, and our Crusade Leader ordered us to get treatment. Are you willing to patch us up, or should we wait for the Fist Apothecary they've summoned from the base?"

"I'll treat your wounds. I do have a question, though. If this wasn't ordered by your chaplain, nor the leader of your crusade, how did you come by these wounds?" Cedric asked, biting back panic and nausea, his hands rock-steady as he treated their wounds one at a time, and step by step. Check, clean, bandage. Rinse and repeat, until every injury on each of the five marines was properly treated to.

"Miles here ran afoul of a different Crusade's chaplain when he swiped one of the little sweet treats that the bastard had a whole bag of. He was about to eat it when the chaplain appeared out of fucking nowhere and started screaming his bloody head off. Miles gave back the treat and tried to apologize, but Petras wasn't having any of it and started beating the shite out of him. Jamison and Illus tried to step in and got beat for their trouble. Neval voxxed me before distracting the furious fucker to keep the others from beaten until they couldn't move. By Him on Terra I've never seen a chaplain that furious before that fast. Ever."

Cedric couldn't help the full-body flinch that Petras in a temper provoked from him as an automatic reaction. Nor the momentary cringe as his body wanted to curl around itself defensively. He shook off the response and continued treating the injured. "He is... Very possessive of his food and gets highly aggressive, from what I remember of him. Especially of fast carbs like sugary sweets. That was before we were both brought to Ancient and Holy Terra... not that I think he is aware I am here."

"Ah. So you're from the same time period he is? If I had Brothers from the same time here on Ancient Terra, I'd seek them out. No offense to you lads, but it'd be nice to have Brothers like that with me, as a grounding force." Illus piped up, his eyes wide.

"Chaplain Petras is... Not someone whom I would call grounding or reassuring." Cedric's mouth said before he could stop himself. "Besides there's a good chance the he'd-" Nope, shutting that line of thought down right now. "Let's just say that he and I don't get along very well."

"Given that he's a heavy hand with punishment and your entire life's purpose is to keep us patched up and in fighting shape, I can imagine." The sergeant sighed, shaking his head a little.

"That's not the primary reason we don't get along, although that's part of it. Do you have any neophytes or aspirants in your warband?" Cedric asked, trying to project a sense of calm that he did not at all feel.

Hura and Zariel had talked with him, and near him about patterns of behavior in certain kinds of older brothers and cousins. And how these behaviors, for good or ill, could, and often did, spill over to how they reacted on Ancient Terra. Just because Petras favored killing- or nearly killing Primaris Marines that are between Neophyte to Battle Brother age, doesn’t mean he wouldn’t go after First Borns of the same age range. Or- so that thought suddenly seized Cedric with a cold, terrifying clarity.’Is that what they had been hinting at?’

"... Why are you asking that? We're looking for a couple of Apprentice-aged Black Templars, as a matter of fact. From what we've heard, they're being held hostage somewhere. Probably in one of the chaos bases, those foul bastards. We do have a couple, why do you ask?" Illus asked, eyes narrowing a little.

"Because he killed a dozen of Apprentices who were not found in need of culling due to disobedience, chaos-taint or xenos-worship. But merely because he was in a foul mood and they happened to be in his furious path." Cedric warned him "Do not allow him access to your youngest members without supervision with the ability and will to intervene on their behalf."

"That... That's... That's a hell of a thing to accuse any brother of, much less a chaplain, boy. Do you have proof?" Alois spluttered, staggering back a half step, his dark eyes widening in horror.

"... Four of the apprentices he beat to death in the 41st millennium ended up on Holy Terra, mostly dead. I was able to respond in time and get them to treatment for two of them so that they survived the experience. The other two died in my arms. Again. I brought them to the base so that their bodies could be properly processed and their geneseed and intact organs stored, for later use." Cedric answered, fighting back the tears and the bitter taste of failure in his mouth. "Between the three of us, we have enough physical scars left from his heavy-handed punishments to get him censured at least, should we come forward. If he were to be prosecuted."

"What do you mean, if? What, do you think because his alleged crimes were committed Before, that he wouldn't be punished for it? Or because he technically was punished by it - leading to him being sent to Ancient and Holy Terra - he wouldn't be punished here? And how do I know that he wasn't culling unworthy-" The Sergeant started to speak.

"So you and the five brothers you brought into this clinic to be treated fully deserved the punishment that Chaplain Petras handed to you, did you?" Cedric asked. "In the 41st millennium, it is standard post-punishment procedure for those with the injuries to tend to their own wounds, without medical aid or intervention. To heal on their own, or fester if they are deemed unworthy in the eyes of the Emperor Himself to heal properly. So which is it, sergeant? Are you seeking treatment for wounds you received after being justly punished and thus are seeking to undo it? Or were you punished excessively by a chaplain with a heavy hand?"

"What happened to us, versus what happened to your fellow Apprentices could be two completely different situations" Zimmer protested, his eyes narrowing a little at Cedric as he spoke.

Cedric resisted the temptation to growl at the older Black Templar, righteous indignation and fury making it really difficult for him to think. He crossed his arms over his chest and took a step back "So you say. You have given me no proof that you and your squad were punished unjustly. The only thing I have to go on is your word. Per the traditions of our Chapter, I should kick you out of this examination room and report you to not just the captain you obey, but the chaplain whose punishment you are trying to circumvent by coming here for wound treatment."

“Sarge… Just… Call the captain. I’d rather you not piss off the only known Black Templar Apothecary within a hundred miles of this place. He can refuse to treat us, you do know that, right?” Miles groaned from where he was laying face down on the examination bed, his back a mess of bloody wounds, some of them still bleeding.

“He… You wouldn’t, would you?” Zimmer growled, taking a half-step towards Cedric before pausing. Even with the older Templar in the bottom half of his armor and Cedric fully unarmored, the young Apothecary was still a good foot and a half taller than the Sergeant.

“You come into this clinic, demanding to be seen by a Black Templar Apothecary or another Son Of Dorn, causing a huge scene and disrupting the schedule that some of our Ultramarine allies have carefully made. You inform me of who did this to you, and when I give you a warning about his likely temper and behaviors you disregard them out of hand. So whyever would you trust my medical opinions and suggestions?” Cedric hissed, doing his best to keep the fury and frustration out of his voice. “I have half a mind to leave the five of you here and get an older apothecary to handle you all, since clearly you won’t listen to a single thing I say if it’s not what you want to hear!”

“Fine then. I don’t want a brat who’s throwing a temper tantrum to treat me or my Brothers, anyways! You sure you aren’t an Emperor’s Child with short hair and blue eyes?” Zimmer hissed, glaring up at him “Because you sure tantrum like one!”

Don’t attack your patients, no matter how much they upset you unless they physically attack you first.

Is one of the rules that he had been told over and over again. Cedric had thought that this would be difficult to keep to when dealing with Chaos Astartes. Right now, all he wanted to do was to launch Zimmer through the window and wash his hands of the smug bastard Sargeant. Instead he stated “Fine then. I’ll get the senior-most Apothecary who is working at the clinic today. He isn’t a Son of Dorn, but he is very, very good at what he does.” His lips twitch a little in vicious mirth as he voxxed “Apothecary Hura, would you please come to Group Examination room Two please? I am having difficulties with a squad of injured Astartes and require your insight and expertise.”

The door opened without a sound, slowly revealing the oversized and clearly Chaos-aligned Death Guard Apothecary. Hura’s helmet was off and he smiled pleasantly at Cedric “I just so happened to be passing by this room when you called me, young Cedric. Dealing with unruly patients is a difficult skill to master, especially since they are in a group like this.”

“You’re joking. This is a threat. Look, kid I get that we may have -” Zimmer started, going very pale as he stared up at Hura, a look of slow-dawning horror on his face.

Hura interrupted the sergeant, saying “Ah-ah-ah! Bad and naughty patients don’t get to be treated by adorable young apothecaries doing their best to patch up ungrateful bastards. They get to deal with me.” This is said with a serene smile that sent terrified shivers through all five of the injured Templars simultaneously.

“Hey… Uhm… Some… Some of us didn’t actively antagonize the younger medic and are hoping to maybe get patched up by him instead?” Miles asked, having slowly and painfully gotten up to his feet.

“I’ll deal with these five. You go on, and have your lunch. Shoo! You should be on-break anyways.” Hura instructed Cedric, having entirely ignored what the Black Templar had said. “Shoo! Taking appropriate breaks is important.”

Cedric nodded, smiling gratefully at Hura “Thank you, Apothecary Hura…Though are you sure I shouldn’t stay and assist you? I won’t be able to learn how to deal with difficult patients if I avoid them altogether.”

“A different time, young Cedric. They have already been quite bothersome and entitled by the way they burst into the waiting room and demanded immediate treatment by a specific set of chapters. They also need to learn that sometimes, there are consequences to their words and actions. And trying to treat patients while hungry is difficult. Go on, young one.”

“You… You’re not going to abandon us to him, are you? He’s a heretic! A Chaotic Traitor!” Illus called out, eyes wide and pleading as he looked at Cedric.

“Apothecary Hura has over ten-thousand years of medical experience, and is more than qualified to treat your injuries. You won’t listen to the warnings I gave you about the one who injured you like this, so why would you listen to me about how to care for your injuries?” Cedric answered, his voice an icy approximation of calm. “Thank you for taking over their care, Apothecary Hura, I leave them in your capable hands.” With that he turned on his heel and left the exam room, closing the door behind him.

#cw corporal punishment #cw blood #cw wound care #oc: cedric #oc: illus #oc: hura #oc: miles #oc: zimmer #space marine husbandry sentience #space marine husbandry #my writing #warhammer 40k

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