#nothing like struggling with pain for three days with no painkillers working

[hellofavillain]

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[flowersandskeletons526]

"Over the Edge" - Warriors Concept Album Fanfic (part 1/3)

Rembrandt's recovery after a fight gone wrong is going slower than she likes. While she struggles to get back to her old self, the world marches on past her.

This is a continuation work to my other fic titled "Don't Let Anything Happen To Her." Read that if you haven't yet or this one will not make any sense. Enjoy!

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Cochise lifted Rembrandt’s arm up from her side. “Does this hurt?”

“No,” Rembrandt mumbled.

She lifted her arm higher until it was level with her shoulder. “How about this?”

“That hurts.”

“Alright.” Cochise dropped her arm and leaned back where she sat on the edge of the coffee table. “Have you been wearing the knee brace I gave you?”

“Yes, for the tenth time, I’ve been wearing the brace.”

Rembrandt had, in fact, not been wearing the brace.

It had been three weeks since she’d been thrown off a fire escape on a tagging mission with Mercy. Well, three weeks since she woke up after it. She barely remembered that night. It came to her in brief flashes and fleeting nightmares she couldn’t decipher. She remembered running, remembered Mercy’s hand in hers, the weightlessness as she went over the edge. She remembered the sky above her when she hit the ground. Everything after was fuzzy, blurred by pain and terror, coming in and out with glimpses of faces and muffled voices in between all the agony. 

Cochise let her take off the sling after week two of being tied up in it. The knee brace had to stay on longer. She was allowed to leave it off at home but “not while you’re out walking around,” as if Rembrandt had been able to go anywhere but between apartments since that night. She hated the stupid thing. It was clunky and annoying and the way her pant leg bunched up around it irritated her. But no matter how many times she asked if she could just ice her knee and take it easy, Cochise insisted, and she had Cleon and Ajax backing her up so Rembrandt had no choice but to follow orders.

Maybe if it helped with the pain, she could get over it, but it didn’t. Nothing did. It didn’t matter how many painkillers she popped or how drunk she got. The dull, pulsing ache in her leg and shoulder was ever present, distracting her through the day and keeping her up at night. Most of the bruises had faded to ugly yellowish green blotches by then, but even they still hurt if she twisted wrong or bumped into something.

The scars were the worst part. The other Warriors let her get drunk when Cochise removed her stitches, not because it necessarily hurt, but because of how fucking uncomfortable it was. Rembrandt held Ajax’s hand in a death grip and screwed her eyes shut as she felt the pull of every single thread exiting her skin. The scar on her head she could mostly forget about, hiding it beneath her bangs and reminding herself to not touch it. The scars on her torso were a different story. 

She caught sight of them after getting out of the shower one day. Twisting in front of the mirror, she traced the long, jagged, angry red strip that carved its way from her hip bone to the bottom of her ribcage. Her back looked like someone had wildly taken a knife to it, crisscrossed with a patchwork of deep slashes and puncture wounds that she’d just barely been allowed to keep uncovered. 

She remembered the intense, stabbing pain when she hit the ground. She remembered something sharp dug into her flesh and the warmth of her blood soaking her shirt. The night sky. Mercy’s voice. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t-!

Ajax had found her with her arms braced against the edge of the sink, head hanging, face blank but with tears pouring from her eyes. She wrapped her in a towel and just held her for a long time before she was lucid enough to get dressed. She’d been exclusively wearing flannels and jerseys stolen from Ajax, anything loose that buttoned or zipped because she couldn’t lift her stupid fucking arm high enough to put a shirt over her head.

Back in present day, Cochise handed Rembrandt a book titled “An Introduction to Physical Therapy.”

“I don’t know much about it but this has good advice,” she said. “I marked the parts that talk about shoulder dislocations and knee sprains and highlighted the exercises I want you to do. You might need someone to help you with some of the stretches, so have Ajax do them with you. Okay?”

“Okay,” Rembrandt said quietly. “I’ll tell her.”

“How are you feeling overall?”

“Shitty.”

“Shitty how?”

“Shitty like I got thrown off a fire escape and landed on broken glass. Everything still hurts.”

“Is there a new type of pain or it just hasn’t gotten better yet?”

“It’s not any better. The only thing better is I can finally talk without almost passing out because my ribs hurt so bad.”

“Well, you know, that means you didn’t puncture a lung so that’s good.” Cochise moved to sit beside her on the couch and squeezed her hand. “It sucks and I’m sorry to tell you, but it’s going to hurt for a while. I’m not being dramatic when I say it’s a miracle you didn’t break your neck. This was honestly the best outcome we coulda hoped for.”

“Best outcome would’ve been not getting thrown off a building,” Rembrandt scoffed.

“You know what I mean. Just keep using the brace, take ibuprofen, and do the physical therapy and it’ll get better. Promise.” 

The front door opened. In walked Ajax and Cleon, whispering between themselves. Their conversation cut as they crossed the threshold so Rembrandt couldn’t discern the topic, but Cleon’s eye twitched with severe irritation and Ajax wore a scrunched up expression that Rembrandt knew was her “I’m pissed but can’t cuss out my leader” face. Rembrandt honestly did not want to know what the issue was now. 

Ajax sat beside Rembrandt opposite Cochise and kissed her temple before sinking back into the couch, sulking with her hands in her pockets. Cleon sat in the armchair across from the three of them wearing a similarly upset expression. Rembrandt looked between them as cold anxiety blossomed in her chest.

“Rembrandt,” Cleon said after a moment, “I’m sending you on a tagging mission tomorrow night.”

“What?” said Cochise. “She can’t-”

Cleon raised a hand. Cochise silenced herself so sharply that Rembrandt was acutely reminded of just how long Cochise had been under their leader’s command. “Those rich punks from Seagate have apparently forgotten what the word ‘territory’ means,” Cleon continued. “I sent some of the new recruits to pinpoint the blocks they’re encroaching on. I want to double the tags through there to remind them to stay behind their gate.”

“Okay,” Rembrandt said slowly. “I can find a way to get up somewhere.”

“You’re not climbing anywhere.”

“You want me to keep my tags low?”

“You’re not tagging. You’re supervising.”

“What?!”

Rembrandt jumped to her feet, only to immediately drop back to the couch as white hot pain shot through her leg. It was not the first time she’d done that. Any explosive movement in her knee landed her right on her ass. That meant no climbing, no running, no doing fucking anything that made her a good tagger and a useful member of the Warriors.

Cleon pointed at her leg. “That’s exactly why. Business has to continue but I’m not going to allow you to make yourself worse because I let you do something you weren’t ready for.”

“But I am ready.”

“Physically ready. Which you obviously are not.”

“I can-”

“Put your arm above your head.”

That was mean. Cleon knew she couldn’t, which was exactly the point. Rembrandt turned to Ajax, looking for a bit of support, but she didn’t find it. Ajax just bounced her leg impatiently and kept her eyes on the floor.

Rembrandt looked at Cleon. “You’re sending me, your tagger, on a tagging mission, but you won’t let me tag?”

“It’s just for now.”

“How long is ‘for now?’”

“Until you’re better.”

“Who’s gonna tag? Ajax?”

“You don’t have to say it like that,” Ajax said defensively.

“Mercy,” said Cleon. 

Rembrandt’s throat tightened. She held no ill will towards Mercy. Truly, she didn’t. Not one bit. Mercy was the only reason she got out alive that night. But… But Rembrandt was the tagger. Rembrandt had been the tagger from day one and now Cleon was sending their newest recruit to take over her job because - what? She wasn’t as fast as she used to be? She couldn’t reach far enough? She could tag just fine! Why was Mercy doing her job for her!

Out of the corner of her eye, Rembrandt watched Ajax sink further into the couch. No way in hell Ajax had agreed to this. No one trusted her to be in the same room as Mercy without Swan and at least Cowgirl there with them. 

“Swan and Ajax will be with you two,” Cleon went on as if she could read Rembrandt’s mind. “I don’t want a repeat of what happened. Honestly, I’d come with, but Masai and I are still figuring out exactly how to handle the Princes and neither of us can really afford to be away from the phone at the moment.”

Rembrandt bristled at the name of the gang who attacked them. She saw a flash of purple and a poorly embroidered crown. Rough hands grabbing her collar. The garish jacket rapidly fading from view as she plummeted-

“Rembrandt!” 

Ajax was shaking her, hand tight around her wrist. She blinked back into her body. Lifting a hand to her face, she found her cheek wet with tears. She looked up to see everyone staring at her, leaning in where they sat with expressions of confused worry. The only one who didn’t look completely weirded out was Ajax. 

Ajax knew exactly what it was, but Rembrandt had made her promise not to tell. She didn’t need anyone thinking she was more fragile than they already did. 

“Rem, honey, don’t be upset,” said Cleon gently. “It’s just for now. Once you’re better, it’ll go back to normal.”

“No, it’s… it’s not that. I’m fine.” Rembrandt shook her head to clear it. “Does Mercy know she’s doing this?”

“Yeah, I told her.” 

“And Swan?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Okay, yeah, fine. Whatever. I’ll teach her the tag.”

On the walk back to their apartment, Rembrandt refused to look at Ajax. She still held onto her arm but only because she kept tripping from the stupid brace not letting her fully bend her knee. Ajax kept glancing down at her, catching her when she stumbled, being there for her to lean on like always but waiting for her to start any conversation. Rembrandt hated it. She didn’t like starting conversations. Ajax was the one who talked and Rembrandt chimed in or played off of her, not the other way around. 

Rembrandt didn’t speak until they were in the apartment and getting ready for bed. “I can’t believe you fucking agreed to this,” she snapped as she struggled to pull on a tank top.

“I didn’t,” Ajax said from her spot on the bed. She looked up from the physical therapy book she held in her lap. “Do you want help?”

“No. I got it. I’m fine.”

“Alright. Whatever you say.”

“You’re seriously okay with Mercy taking over my tagging work?”

“I wanted to go kick the shit out of those Seagate bitches so bad they’d never go past their gates again. Cleon insisted we tag to send our message instead. If I had it my way, you wouldn’t be doing this at all. You think I want to be out with Swan and Mercy?”

“You aren’t going to start a fight with them, are you?”

“No, I’m not going to start a fight! I’m fine being around them,” Ajax protested. Rembrandt shot her a look over her shoulder. “I’m mostly fine being around them. I don’t want to punch either of them in the face, is that good enough?”

“Yeah, that’s good enough.” Rembrandt sat beside Ajax on the bed, leaning her head on her shoulder. Ajax put her arms around her and held her close. “I could tag just fine if she would let me.”

“You’re recovering. Just let yourself get better.” 

“I am better.”

Ajax sighed. She didn’t try to argue. Planting a quick kiss on Rembrandt’s cheek, she got up to turn off the lights before laying down beside her and pulling the covers over them both. Rembrandt laid on her side, keeping pressure off her hurt shoulder like Cochise said. She couldn’t bear to sleep on her back. Every time she tried, the ceiling morphed into the night sky and she felt the stabbing pain through every single scar. Ajax settled in behind her, curling around her and looping an arm around her waist. She rested her forehead against the top of Rembrandt’s spine. 

“I wish you would just let yourself rest,” she whispered, her breath warm across the back of Rembrandt’s neck.

“I hate this feeling,” Rembrandt muttered. “I can’t do shit.”

“You’ll get better soon.”

“You’ve been saying that for weeks.”

Ajax just held her tighter.

The next morning, Rembrandt stood with Mercy in the alley next to Cleon’s building. She laid out a couple sheets of cardboard pulled from the recycling and handed Mercy a paint can and a mask.

Mercy rarely looked at her anymore. Not fully. She would only give quick glances here and there, trying to hide the fact that they were aimed at her knee or her shoulder or the scar on her forehead when the wind blew her bangs out of place. Rembrandt knew she still blamed herself for what happened. She wore the guilt splattered across her face like blood.

After they talked the day Rembrandt woke up, she thought they were cool. She thought Mercy was okay. But during that first week, when Cleon insisted Rembrandt stay at her apartment to keep an eye on her, she would walk by their bedroom late at night and hear Mercy crying.

Grabbing her own paint can, Rembrandt sprayed a small version of the Warriors tag in the corner of a sheet of cardboard. “Copy that,” she said. Mercy did. Well, she tried. “No, move with your whole arm. Don’t flick your wrist like that.”

“I’ve seen you do that,” Mercy said, frowning.

“When I’m painting. You need strong, clean lines when you’re tagging.”

“I thought tagging was painting.”

“No, it’s-” Rembrandt took a deep breath and shifted her weight off her bad leg. “They’re different. Give me the can, let me show you again.”

She showed Mercy the tag again. She made Mercy copy the tag again. And again. And again. And again until she truthfully did have it down to an acceptable degree, but Rembrandt couldn’t look at any tag that wasn’t her own without finding fault in it. She could see Mercy growing more and more self-conscious every time she made her repeat the tag. Eventually she came around and took pity on the girl because she could admit she was being mean at that point, but in her defense, this was her job. Her tag that she designed. And now Cleon wanted her to-!

No. No. This was not Mercy’s fault. She would not be mad at the girl who got her out of that night alive because Cleon was keeping her benched.

While Mercy threw out the painted cardboard, Rembrandt sat on a busted milk crate to smoke. Mercy leaned against the wall beside her. She wordlessly passed her a cigarette.

“Hey,” Mercy said after a moment, “I’m sorry. I know you’re not happy about this.”

“I’m fine,” Rembrandt said curtly. “I get why Cleon wants you to do it. She’s still figuring out exactly where you fit. She does it with everyone.”

“I thought Ajax recruited you specifically to be a tagger?” 

Rembrandt gritted her teeth and stubbed out her cigarette. “She did.”

Rembrandt dreaded going out that night. She and Ajax met Swan and Mercy outside their apartment. Mercy wore her new vest that Cleon had finally finished making for her. Rembrandt had the very beginning of a new vest, only a few spikes and her tag across the back, missing all the scuffs and charms and paint stains that she’d gained over the years. The fall had destroyed her old one to the point where it was completely unwearable.

Ajax and Mercy stood far away from each other, neither of them quite over what happened yet, but Mercy could finally look at Ajax again and Ajax wasn’t trying to beat the hell out of Mercy anymore. Swan pulled Rembrandt into a gentle, lingering hug. Rembrandt buried her face against Swan’s chest.

“How are you feeling?” Swan asked.

“I’m fine,” said Rembrandt, which seemed to be the only answer she had for that question anymore. “Let’s do this.”

Ajax and Rembrandt walked behind Swan and Mercy. Rembrandt didn’t want them to see her stumbling, didn’t want them to see how she held onto Ajax just to keep herself upright. It was a long walk to the edge of Coney Island. When they reached the building Cleon wanted double-tagged, the Warriors stood in a line beneath the fire escape, looking up over the brick face. Rembrandt couldn’t look for long; she just kept seeing herself hanging over the edge of the railing. Ajax discreetly took her hand.

“Alright,” Rembrandt said, looking over at Mercy. “Go to the top of the fire escape to the ladder that goes to the roof. Lean out as far as you can and spray the tag.”

“How far do you go?” Mercy asked.

“Mercy, I love you,” Swan said under her breath, “but you can’t go as far as Rem can.”

Of course, she couldn’t! No one could! So why wasn’t Rembrandt doing it!

Instead of screaming that to the sky, Rembrandt said, “Just reach as far as you can.”

Ajax had a few inches of height on Swan and just a little more raw muscle, so she had to boost Mercy up to the ladder of the fire escape. Rembrandt thought of her first mission years and years ago, how Ajax’s strong hands felt on her waist as she lifted her, and for some reason the sight of Ajax helping Mercy do her job sent a fiery bloom of jealousy ripping through her chest. Pursing her lips, she put her hood up and glared at the sidewalk.

Swan put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not forever,” she mumbled.

Rembrandt glanced up at Mercy climbing the fire escape. “I know.” She raised her voice. “Mercy! Tag it there!” 

She watched Mercy reach out with the can and completely miss the wall. She held the can wrong, the nozzle outwards, and ended up spraying her hand and the top of a window. Rembrandt bit back a growl of frustration as Mercy fumbled the can and nearly dropped it. She recovered well enough and managed to correctly spray the tag to where Rembrandt could admit it looked official. 

Mercy was all smiles when she came down. Rembrandt plastered a smile of her own across her face, praying it didn’t look too forced. She was proud of Mercy - really, she was - but this whole experience left such a bitter taste in her mouth that she couldn’t think of much else. 

Mercy ran right up to her. “Good, right?” she asked. “That works?”

“Yeah,” said Rembrandt. “You did great. Ready for the next one?”

“Yeah! Let’s go!”

Swan smiled as she coaxed Mercy down the street towards the next building. “Don’t drop the spray paint this time.”

Rembrandt couldn’t hear Mercy’s indignant comeback over the ringing in her ears. The world rocked. 

The night sky. The taste of blood. Stabbing pain in her side-

Ajax touched her arm. “Rem?”

“I’m fine.” 

[dreamwatch]

Get in the Van

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest

Day #5 - Prompt: On The Road | Word Count: 999 | Rating: T | CW: chronic pain, language | POV: Eddie | Pairing: None| Tags: band struggles, touring in a van, author is not American, geographic inacuracies (probably) | AO3

****

“Fuck!”

“It doesn’t matter how many times you kick the van, man, it’s not going to make it start!”

“Maybe he just needs to kick it harder.”

“Shut up!”

****

Wasn’t this just fucking amazing? Wasn’t this just indicative of the bad luck that followed him around like some looming spectre? They’ve only been out on the road a few weeks, just a handful of gigs before the van broke down. Now they’re stuck at the side of the road in Somewhere, Minnesota, with a van full of equipment, dirty laundry and soon to be broken dreams. 

It started in Evansville, with a bunch of locals who heard about the satanists showing up to play their 'devil music' and decided to give them a warm welcome; there are dents and scratches all over the van that are definitely not going to buff out.

Then in St. Louis they had an amazing show, like objectively fucking brilliant. Eddie knows for a fact there was some local music journalist in the crowd, too. So of course that was the night Jeff’s amp decided it wasn’t just going to give up, it was going out in a blaze of glory. Literally. Fucking thing just went up in flames. Everyone thought it was part of the act, even when he stripped his shirt off to beat the flames out. So yeah, now they’re down an amp.

Gareth being plied with tequila before the show in Kansas City was another highlight. Don’t get him wrong, he loves to see Gareth happy and if a pretty woman wanted to buy him some drinks then good for him. He loved it less when they were on stage later. Eddie has no idea what songs Gareth was playing, but they definitely weren’t the same as the rest of the band. He also learned it’s really hard to get vomit out of a snare drum.

And then there’s the pain.

Thing is, its always there. It just is, there’s no point making a big deal about it. The doctors always told him it would be a life long thing but that it would get easier. It’s been three years now, and there’s been no improvement. Which is, well not fine, it sucks, but you know, it is what it is. But there have been days, shows, where he could cry. Where it feels like his skin has been flogged with a burning switch, where the muscles in his leg and back scream at him to stop, just fucking stop! But he pushes through, takes his painkillers, maybe doubles up sometimes with a couple of shots of JD to help them down, whatever. It’s all good.

And now they’re sitting at the side of the I-94 with smoke and steam billowing from the engine block, and nothing but truck after truck passing by. 

“What if no one stops?” asks Gareth, propping himself against the back doors.

Jeff rocks on his heels in front of him, hands jammed in his pockets. “Someone will stop.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Eddie mutters. He’s under the hood, poking his hand around into the hot engine parts; he’s only burnt himself twice so far. 

“Hey, don’t be bring your bad juju here man—”

Eddie storms to the back of van. “My bad juju? Are you kidding me? Gareth booked these fucking gigs!”

A huge semi screams past them, tooting his horn, making them all jump. 

“I booked some of them. Don’t blame this on me, man. It’s your van.”

“It is my van, correct, however we all benefit from it, and I don’t see any of you assholes dipping into your pockets when it needs work.”

Jeff shrugs. “Well, it’s never needed work.”

“It does now,” says Matt, merrily throwing pebbles into the long grass, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Eddie cuts him a withering look.

Another truck passes, whipping up dirt in it’s trail. When he’s done coughing, Gareth says “I kind of think we should stand further away, actually. This doesn’t feel safe.“ He’s probably not wrong.

“Alright, go and sit by the fence, I’ll stand here with my thumb out,” Eddie says, mumbling “like an asshole” under his breath. He drops his jacket into the front seat of the van on the off chance it might seem less imposing, and then heads to the side of the road, standing as far out from the van as he dares. 

“You should roll your jeans up, show ‘em some leg!” Matt shouts at him.

“Fuck off, Matt!”

“Have you seen how white his legs are?” he can hear Jeff say. “We want them to stop, not call Ghostbusters.”

Eddie pokes his head around the side of the van. “By all means, one of you stand here with your thumb in the air while eighteen wheelers fly past.” When he doesn’t get a response he snaps back, “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

Eddie stands in the blazing sun, hair whipping around his face as semi after semi speeds by; he’s sweaty and dirty and desperate for a shower. The nerves in his leg are starting to fire up, and he needs a cigarette but he smoked his last one just before the van decided it was done with this trip, so now he has the little tap tap tap of nicotine addiction to contend with as well. 

This sucks. Touring sucks. So fucking much.

But.

Last night they played a show in Minneapolis. The crowd was wild; a huge mosh pit opened up right in front of Eddie and it took every ounce of his being not to throw himself in the mix. They sold tapes and t-shirts and traded phone numbers with a band manager. They laughed all night and drank until three A.M.. It was amazing. It was everything he ever dreamed it would be.

Wayne always told him he was resilient, ‘more than you know, son.’ He holds on to that as another truck screams past.

[eemcintyre]

Repaying the Favor (Tom Cruise)

TW: discussion of blood/periods, one mention of throwing up.

Summary: Tom comes home one afternoon to find you in a great deal of pain because ~it's that time of the month amirite ladies~, and he does what he can to try and make things better, despite you insisting that you can handle it.

I myself have been on my period, so I have been nothing but angry, depressed, and h-word (more than usual I mean 🙃🔥) and this is what happened. So it was productive, at least, I guess?

After a hectic morning of back-to-back appointments, Tom was returning to the apartment he and Y/N shared. He was hoping to not only grab a brief lunch, but also some quality time with Y/N before heading back out for the second half of his work for the day.

Unlocking the door and crossing the threshold into the main living room/kitchen area, he was surprised at how quiet the apartment was. Scanning his surroundings for Y/N, she was not to be found, so he proceeded to check the bedroom, calling out “Sweetheart, it’s me, I’m home.” He was met at first with silence, which concerned him, but before he could panic about her being mysteriously gone, he heard a muffled groan. However, upon reaching the bedroom, he still couldn’t see her anywhere.

“Y/N? Are you alright? Where are you? What’s going on?” He darted across the room until he spotted her lying on the floor by the side of the bed. She was lying on her stomach, twisted in a position that looked odd and uncomfortable with one leg bent toward her midsection and the other straight out. Tom breathed a sigh of relief, ruffling a hand through his hair.

“Don’t do that to me, honey- I thought you’d been taken,” he laughed nervously at the movie reference, noticing that she was also clutching her stomach and had several heating pads draped across her body.

“I-I’m sorry, I- ow, ow, ow…” Y/N struggled to explain herself as several intense pains stabbed in her midsection. “It’s, I just…”

“When did it start?” Tom asked, quickly realizing what the problem was. He crouched down to where she was splayed out, gently placing a hand on her back. Y/N furrowed her brows, this time in confusion instead of discomfort.

“How did you…?”

“I grew up with three sisters, remember?” he chuckled. She covered her face with her hands in embarrassment over the whole situation, but he pulled them away with his hand that wasn’t comfortingly stroking her back. “Hey, don’t worry, I'm not one of those guys who thinks periods are gross. It's just blood. I really don't care. If you stick me with something sharp, blood's gonna come out." He paused, recalling an incident from a while back. “Like that time I knifed my hand really bad trying to make stir fry.” Y/N managed a quiet giggle. “I practically bled all over you, but you just rolled with it and didn’t freak out, and you got me all fixed up.” He smiled while reflecting on that eventful memory.

“C’mon, why didn’t you tell me?” he pressed as Y/N attempted to roll over into a new position, the old one no longer comfortable as new pains began to spring up.

“It’s just humiliating, it shouldn’t be such a big deal, and you’re so busy, and I ruined the sheets…”

“Ok, ok, hold on,” Tom interjected, lacing a hand into one of hers. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of; let’s get that straight. And I can wash the sheets; that’s not a problem.”

“No, I’ll take care of it; it’s not necessary-” Y/N, who had been trying to sit up, was cut off as she doubled back over in pain. Tom threw an arm around her shoulders.

“And as for me being ‘too busy’, I’m not going anywhere, angel. Not when you’re too sick to sit up. I don’t have anything going on the rest of the day that can’t wait.” He had made his mind up and could not be moved by any of her continued pleas that she was fine and could manage by herself.

After fetching her a dose of painkillers and reheating the lukewarm heat pads, he delicately scooped her off the floor, transferring them both to the nearby bed. He settled her on his lap while he rested his back against the headboard. She was curled up in such a way that her head was nestled in his neck and chest, and he could reach an arm around to knead her stomach.

Once the painkillers started to kick in, he felt comfortable enough to run out of the apartment to grab her a few things. Y/N insisted that he had done enough, to which he replied, “If you don’t tell me what you want, I’ll just have to guess.” He slipped into his leather jacket, making sure his wallet was still in the pocket.

“Do I also have to remind you of the time I was out of commission sick for almost a week? You practically waited on me; you cooked everything, you sang to me, you sat with me while I was throwing up-“

“Oh no, please don’t talk about throwing up,” Y/N implored, already nauseous from the consistently intense stomach pain.

“Oops, sorry,” he winced.

She begrudgingly requested her favorite hot tea and that he rent the new movie she had been wanting to see, blushing and trying not to smile.

“Yes, ma’am. Now, call me if you need anything; I shouldn’t be very long.”

He gave her a peck on the forehead and a peck on the lips before leaving on his quest, and Y/N replied, “You know you’re the best, right?”

[livingforthewhump]

I hope you are having a great night! Maybe I could ask for another part of civilian saves villain, please?

Thank you <33

the long awaited continuation is here folks, and still several days late! (part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six)

Whumptober No 1. A Little Out of the Ordinary

Adverse Effects | Unconventional Restraints | “This Wasn’t Supposed to Happen”

The next time Civilian woke up they were screaming. Something was crawling up the inside of their arm, a razorblade making its way through their veins. Their other hand flew up, blindly clawing at the pain. Somehow, their fingers caught around something round and flexible. They grabbed onto it tight and pulled.

“Civilian, stop!”

A voice, rapid footsteps, and then a weight on the bed next to them. Gloved hands wrapping around their own and lifting them away. A frustrated, agonized growl crawled out of Civilians's throat. The fire was all around them now, burning and itching under their skin. Their eyes were closed tight against the overwhelming onslaught, hot tears leaking out.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” The voice sounded frantic, somewhat breathless. Familiar. “Can you look at me, Civilian? Where are you right now?”

Their head spun. How were they meant to answer that many questions? They couldn't even remember the questions they'd been asked. The only thing they could think of was—

“Hhnn, h-hurts,” they managed, throat burning with the effort it took to breathe.

A slight tightening of the grip on their wrists. Their breath shuttered, choppy. In, out, in, in in inin…They were being bad, weren’t they? When it hurt, it was a punishment. That meant they weren’t supposed to make it stop. They weren’t supposed to be struggling. They hadn’t even apologized, never mind that they couldn’t remember what they had even done wrong. They slowly forced themself to fall limp.

The person—Hero, they were sure, seemed to sense the shift in them.

“Civilian…?” They sounded hesitant now.

They gasped, choking on air slightly. More tears wound their way down their face, cooling on their jaw, their throat. “H-Hero.” Their voice was a pathetic whine, but they couldn’t help it, and they no longer knew what shame felt like.

Hero stiffened.

Oh. They weren’t supposed to call him by his name right now, was that it? If they’d just been punished, they should be groveling. Before they could make their voice work again, though, Hero started talking again.

“No, Civilian, Hero isn’t here. They’re not going to hurt you again, do you understand?” A long pause, during which Civilian stayed quiet because no, they didn’t understand. And everything still hurt like the worst of Hero’s serums. “Can you please open your eyes?”

That caught Civilian’s attention. It would be a cold day in hell before Hero said please to them. And so they forced their eyes to open, to blink away the stark white that covered their vision at first. Finally, their eyes focused on the face above them, and it wasn’t Hero at all.

Civilian’s brow furrowed deeper. Another whine slipped from their throat.

Villain—why was it Villain? Why were they here?—glanced down at Civilian's twitching hands and said, “If I let go of you, can I trust you not to hurt yourself?”

Civilian hesitated, then shook their head. They would start clawing at the source of the pain again, they couldn't help it. It was a burning need, to get this torture out of them, to make it all stop. Their skin stabbed and prickled, and they shifted restlessly as though it was on the bed they laid on rather than inside of them. Now they could see an IV pumping fluid into their arm right where the agony had started.

Villain muttered a curse. “Okay. I’m going to tie your right arm to the headboard. Just with a blanket. Nothing that’s going to harm you. Then I’m going to check on your injuries. Do I need to up the painkiller?”

Civilian must have looked confused, because Villain gestured towards the IV.

Oh. The “painkiller”.

They shook their head, biting their lip against another sob.

Villain huffed out an annoyed little sigh as they knotted the blanket around Civilian’s arm. “Could you tell me where it hurts so I know where to look?”

“E-ev, nnh, everywhere,” Civilian gasped out, tossing their head back against the pillow. They briefly wondered if they could hit their head against the headboard hard enough to knock them out. “Plea, pl-please make it s-stop-op,” they all but wailed.

Villain looked almost taken aback, but the gears were turning behind their harsh eyes. “The painkiller?”

They reached towards it, and Civilian nearly shrieked. “Hurts, ple-ease!”

If they hadn’t wrenched their eyes shut just then, they would have seen Villain’s widen in realization. Then horror. Then, as they sprung into action, guilt.

Moments later, both of Civilian’s arms were freed, and the all-consuming pain didn’t lessen, but it stopped building. They shuddered in relief, tears falling even more freely now. Villain just stood back and watched them, eventually moving to get a cloth and wipe Civilian’s face clean, silent as the grave. They were probably planning the ways Civilian would have to make up for this. The punishments for taking advantage of their kindness, for not taking a lesson as it was meant to be.

When Civilian had recovered themself enough, they sniffled out a small, “thank you.”

Villain jolted and quickly resumed their soothing motions. “I’m sorry,” they said softly, in that firm and almost dangerous way of theirs. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Civilian's forehead tightened again. “Hn?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. The IV was administering you painkillers, but I’m guessing they didn’t react well with your powers. I’m sorry.” And Civilian almost found a part of themself offended that Villain sounded so damn tired.

But that part of themself wasn't the part in charge of their mouth, so instead they ended up saying, “I was bad…?”

“No.” Villain balled the cloth up in their fist, fury rising into their voice now. “You are not bad, and you do not deserve to be hurt.”

Another tear slipped down their cheek.

“Civilian. Do you remember what happened before now?”

They thought very hard, and nodded.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened? Start from the beginning. Then we can figure out what we need to talk about, because I get the feeling there’s going to be a lot.”

—

taglist: @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @twistedcaretaker @lonesome--hunter @poppys-writing @endless-whump @multifandoms-multishipper @shadowylemon @utopian819 @whumpkitty @journey-the-panda @freefallingup13 @prettyboysinpain @1becky1 @chartreusephoenix @thelazywitchphotographer @onestopheroxvillain @smolxhero @mylifeisonthebookshelf @broadwaybabe18 @grizzlie70 @sunflower1000 @tobeornottobeateacher @wolfeyedwitch @canigetanamenforbritney @ladygwennn @onlywhump @suspicious-whumping-egg @lemongrass404 @alainayumira @icarusinstatic @will-ruadh @pumpkin-spice-whump @michelleswhumpyreblogs @cyberneticfire @tinyreadinglifelight @savagelysarcasticsilence @void-fireworks @dead-whispers @strawberryglitterball @writing-with-olive @rose-pinkie @didieatyourdog @bliss757 @nomadghost @cake-lovin-ace @viitalvoiid @hurting-fictional-people @melancholy-in-the-morning @lailan-rosie @deflated-bouncingball [the taglist is just one person too long so I will be tagging one (1) singular person in the replies]

[neonacity]

LUCID | NCT DREAM ‘00 LINE X READER | CH.4

LUCID DREAMS - A TYPE OF DREAM WHEREIN THE PERSON IS AWARE THAT THEY ARE CAUGHT IN A DREAM WORLD.

Summary: It was supposed to be a harmless, professional transaction. You were to tutor a group of boys, get your pay at the end of the day, and go home to your loving fiance. Kids aren’t supposed to be dangerous, right? So why, then, are you caught up in a web of madness that slowly makes you feel like you’re in a living nightmare?

NOTE:This is a yandere plot featuring NCT Dream ‘00 line which means there will be mature themes in the story as well as obsessive, toxic behavior. If you’re a minor, please refrain from interacting. If this isn’t your thing, then just scroll and skip. In no way am I condoning anything written here— this is not love, this is obsession—nor do I think that any of the people mentioned here will act any way like in this story. This is purely a work of fiction.

Genre: yandere, horror, suspense

TW: abuse, obsessive behavior, toxic relationships, suggestive scenes, stalking, possible kidnapping, mental health. Age gap–though nothing dramatic. Everyone is of legal age. Creepy, creepy, creepy! This will be updated as the story goes along.

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

“Deep into that darkness, peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared dream before”

— Edgar Allan Poe

"Is she going to be okay?"

"Yes. I checked the results of her scans and there seems to be no broken bones. But she did hit her head hard so I would suggest she take a rest for a couple of days."

The voices dipped in and out of your swimming consciousness like broken records. There were words that you caught and tried to grasp, but you couldn't quite make out what they mean while you struggled to emerge from your half asleep state. A searing pain ran down the left side of your head and you winced, before a particularly harsh throbbing there finally sent your eyes flying open.

The first thing you saw were the red velvet drapes hanging from the middle of what looked like the ceiling of a four poster. You frowned at it, not quite understanding what exactly it is you were looking at, when another painful throb on your temple had your hand flying towards it.

You were too focused on trying to grit back the pain that you missed the hurried rustling from beside your bed. When your vision finally focused again, you saw five heads peer at you wearing identical worried expressions.

"Hey. Are you okay?" Taeyong asked softly, concern written all over his face. He raised his hand slowly to reach out to you, but then something snapped deep down in your consciousness that sent you bolting up into a sitting position, your feet scrambling against the mattress until your back hit the headboard. Your eyes jumped from one face to the next, heart thudding harshly against your chest.

Taeyong's expression shifted from that of shock into pain at your reaction. He didn't make any other move, his gaze briefly moving instead to the person standing beside the head of your bed.

"Taeil-hyung…"

You felt a gentle hand rest on your shoulders then. For the first time, you noticed the man in a white jacket leaning towards you. He looked unfamiliar, but there was something about him that calmed you down. He peered closer into you now, brown eyes quickly scanning your features.

"Shh… everything's okay. How are you feeling?"

His soft voice slowed your heartbeat down a little. You tried to give him an answer, wincing at the scratchiness of your throat.

"Who are you?"

"I'm a doctor. Do you know where you are right now?"

Your gaze moved from him, then back to the others who are still standing on the fringes of your bed. Now that you are much calmer, you could finally properly recognize the rest of the group in the room. Taeyong sat closest to you while Haechan and Renjun hovered by the foot of the bed wearing identical frowns. Jaemin stood by the other side, his hand wrapped around Jisung's shoulders loosely. The youngest boy looked on to you, eyes rimmed with red.

You slowly nodded after swallowing the dryness in your mouth.

"The… manor…"

You visibly saw the rest of the group give a collective sigh of relief. Taeil moved to sit beside you and gently moved your face to him to quickly check your eyes with his pen light.

"She's still a little bit confused from the fall. She does look okay though," he said and you figured he was talking to the others instead of you. You frowned as you felt him take your wrist to check your pulse.

"I… fell?"

His brown eyes glanced at you briefly.

"You did. You don't remember anything?"

Before you could even respond, you heard Taeyong gently speak from your side.

"You fell on a ravine. We heard Jisung crying when we came back and came looking for you guys as fast as we could. You were unconscious when we found you…"

You let his words sink in slowly. Little by little, your memories came slipping back like little puzzle pieces that arranged themselves slowly in the back of your mind.

You remember Chenle's screams, you running into the forest, and then the feeling of falling into nothingness. Your hands balled over the blanket covering you as your head throbbed again.

"I'm so sorry, noona," your attention moved to Jisung who leaned just a little bit closer to you. He looked like he had been crying. "Chenle and I took our playing too far. We didn't think that this would happen…" he trailed off and you saw Jaemin try to soothe him by rubbing his arm.

"Where's Chenle…? Is he alright?" You asked, remembering that the boy was calling for help before your own accident.

"Yes. He's still unconscious from the anesthesia. He broke his leg from his fall but we were able to rush him to the clinic with you," Taeyong answered again.

"Is your head hurting? We had to make a couple of stitches on you, but your scans turned out fine," the doctor, who you figured out is named Taeil, asked again. Your hand raised once more to the side of your head and noticed the bandages there for the first time. One side of your skull alternated from throbbing dully to stinging sharply.

"Um...it hurts a little bit."

Taeil simply nodded and grabbed his pen to write something on the file he was holding. "That's normal. I thought you would have some short-term memory loss so it's good that you're only dealing with pain. I'll prescribe you painkillers for it."

You listened silently to what he was saying, only half understanding the context of his words. You still felt confused… like there was something you are missing.

As if he read your mind, Taeil glanced up at you again.

"Feeling confused is normal since you hit your head. You should also expect some intense headaches for a couple of weeks, maybe even some mild hallucinations. We'll try to control that with the medicine I'll give you but we're not sure how your body will react to them so just prepare yourself for the possibility, okay?"

You numbly nodded as you watched him finish scribbling something on a smaller piece of paper.

"Other than that, you don't need to be admitted to the hospital. But feel free to come back when you don't feel better after two weeks. You do have someone at home to watch over you, right?"

That made you stop, remembering that you would be alone for a couple of days. Taeil patiently waited for your answer, hand still hovering over his files.

"I… uh… I'm alone for three days but my boyfriend will be back after that…'' you finally managed to say. He frowned slightly at your answer.

"You don't have any relatives who can watch over you?"

You shook your head.

"You can stay here with us," you heard someone say and you looked over to Renjun who was still watching you with a worried expression on his face. "At least until you have someone with you at home."

The rest of the group seemed to have been taken by surprise by his suggestion as much as you were. The boy simply looked at his brothers in answer, however, a frown settling between his brows.

"It's the least we could do, right? Technically, it is our fault. And she got in an accident while at work. We can't just leave her on her own."

Taeil looked from the group, then at you. "That's not a bad idea… you do need to be under observation at least for a couple of days."

You honestly didn't know what to answer. Something told you to say no to the offer, but another part of you simply didn't have the energy to argue with the proposition. Before you could even give a reply, Jisung untangled himself from Jaemin to hold your hand. When you looked at him, he seemed on the verge of tears again.

"Please, noona? Can I make it up to you?"

You watched him, torn by the expression on his face. Finally, you gave a sigh.

"Okay… but I do need to tell my boyfriend that I'll stay over. And I don't really have anything with me…"

"You can borrow our mom's wardrobe. I think you are about the same size," Haechan offered. "Then we can just buy your other things."

You didn't know what to feel about that but nodded at the suggestion, at least for now. With the decision finalized, Taeil finally turned to Taeyong and handed him the paper he had been writing on.

"Here’s her prescription then. I have bottles of the painkillers with me but you might need to drive back to town for the sleeping pills," he said as he turned towards the older boy. "She might need it in case she gets trouble sleeping."

Taeyong nodded as his eyes quickly scanned the paper handed over to him. "About Chenle, do I also need to get him something?"

"We can talk about that separately. How about we go check him now? He must be up around this time, too."

The older boy threw you a glance and a parting apologetic smile before following Taeil who had already picked up his bag and started heading towards the door. Beside you, Jisung quickly let go of your hand to follow the doctor.

"Taeyong-hyung, I'll go with you. Noona, I'll be back later."

You watched silently as the group left and closed the door softly behind them. You still felt a little out of it that you didn't really give notice to the three boys left inside your room until you felt your mattress dip a little. A finger to your chin broke you from your reverie, and when you turned to your side, you saw Jaemin peering at you closely.

"Does it still hurt, noona?"

You blinked at his closeness, but you still felt too weak to even panic or move away. So instead, you simply nodded, goosebumps rising on your flesh as he moved to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

"I'm sorry… now your pretty face is all scratched up, too. I don't think they'll leave marks though… so we don't have to worry about that, hmm…?" His eyes roamed your features slowly and deliberately. You swallowed and finally moved away for a bit.

"Do you remember what happened? Did you slip?"

Renjun's question was the distraction you were looking for. Turning to him, you gave yourself some time to process an answer,  slowly shifting through the memories that were still painful and hazy for you to fully grasp. Still, you tried to recall what you could manage, your confusion only growing as you shifted through the bits and pieces of what you could remember.

There were a few things that didn't make sense to you and a few that you were also sure to be true, the most glaring one being the impossibility of you slipping down that cliff. No, you didn’t lose your footing. 

You were pushed. 

"No… I didn't. Something… something hit me," you finally managed to mumble. The three boys looked at each other, mild confusion in their expressions.

"Hit you? Like an animal?" Haechan asked with a concerned tone. You slightly shook your head as you thought over that possibility as well.

The thing is… you were sure there were no other people in the woods because everyone was accounted for when the accident happened. Taeyong and the kids weren't back yet from their trip and you were sure Jisung and Chenle were in another part of the forest since you heard them call out to you. Jeno is the only one left… but the chances of him being in the woods with you were also slim because of his injury. So that only leaves two possibilities—one, being a wild animal as the culprit behind your fall, or two, that someone else who isn't part of Rosewood manor was there with you in the woods.

Personally, you desperately wanted the first one to be true, but a gnawing feeling inside of you told you no. Your head might still feel a little hazy, but there's one thing you can be sure of.

The force that sent you hurtling down the cliff? That was no animal.

They were human hands.

"Might be… an animal," you whispered more to yourself than to address the boys in the room after a while. You didn't know what pushed you to lie through your teeth, but your gut feeling told you it is the right thing to do at the moment.

Haechan, Jaemin, and Renjun exchanged worried glances amongst themselves, obviously not buying what you just said. Fortunately, they didn't seem to push it for now.

"Well...we'll leave you alone tonight so you can rest. Haechan and I will try to look for clothes that could fit you so you can get changed. If you need anything, you can just press 0 on that intercom. It connects you to Taeyong-hyung," Renjun explained gently and pointed towards a small machine on the wall beside your bed. You nodded and gathered the blankets closer to you.

"We'll go now. Rest well, noona," Haechan said as he turned towards the door. Renjun followed after giving you another apologetic smile.

You waited for Jaemin to finally pick himself up from your bed as well before allowing yourself to relax. Silently, you moved your gaze towards him, only to be met by his smile. It was strange… how even though he looked so kind and gentle, the way he stared at you still sent chills running down your spine.

"Don't worry. We'll make it up to you. We'll take care of you really well…"

----- "I can drive back tonight and pick you up early tomorrow," Jaehyun said over the phone, his voice barely concealing his worry and agitation. You gnawed on your lower lip as you stared at the view outside of your room, the night sky looking foreboding without any presence of stars. You have managed to prop yourself up against the seat in front of your window out of your sheer desperation to temporarily escape the bed. It is quite ironic, maybe even strange, how you feel claustrophobic inside despite the expansive space of your quarters.

"It's fine, Jae. I'm doing much better now," you finally managed to say as you forced yourself to look away from the view of the forest beyond. Just looking at it gave you chills even though you know you should feel safe in the confines of the manor now.

"Baby, you have stitches on your head," Jaehyun tried to say that evenly, though you know just how much he is panicking right now. For a stranger, your fiance can easily pass off as unbothered and calm most of the time, but you know him enough to read him like an open book. To be honest though... you can't really blame him for how he is reacting right now.

"Yes, but I'm feeling fine now. I don't really want you to drive back this late…and besides, your workshop just started. It's only for three days anyway,” you tried to reason out, though another part of you desperately wants him by your side at the moment. You tried your best to fight it off, however, knowing how important this business trip is for him. “I think it’s okay if I stay here temporarily while I wait for you,” you added, trying your best to sound convincing. 

Jaehyun was silent at the other end of the line and you patiently waited for him to speak again, knowing full well that he is just looking for another possible compromise to the situation. Finally, he sighed. 

"Are you sure you are safe there though?" He asked quietly after a while. His question made you stop for a little bit, your eyes moving towards the view of the woods from your window again.

"...yes. I have a very private room right now so I can rest well," you answered as you tore your eyes away from it and forced yourself to look at the interiors of your quarters instead. Studying it now, it looks a lot like the layout of Jeno's room so you figured you must be in the same hallway.

"That's not what I mean," Jaehyun said, and you already know what he is going to say next. "What I mean is, are you sure you can trust the people there?"

It took you a few seconds to answer that. You would be lying to yourself if you say you don't feel strange and jumpy right now, but at the same time, you also feel a little guilty for harboring such emotions when the family was nice enough to offer you temporary space and care. Sure, your accident still remains a mystery, but it’s not like you can assume that anyone wanted it to happen, especially since Chenle also ended up injured. It’s because of that reason that you simply swallowed back your nerves, chalking up your odd feelings as after effects for your fall.  

"Yes, of course. They haven't really bothered me that much. I don't think we should worry about it…"

Jaehyun's silence said that he wasn't entirely convinced. It took a moment for him to finally give a resigned gust of breath.

"Fine. Keep yourself safe, okay? I will call you back again tomorrow morning. Make sure you rest tonight."

"Okay...Don't worry about me too much," you said, smiling even though you know he couldn’t see you right now.

"I will still try and see if I can cut my trip shorter, alright?"

You chuckled. There it is, the compromise.

"Okay…"

"I love you. Stay safe."

"I will… Love you too."

"Oh, and honey?" You were about to cut the call when his voice stopped you again. You pressed the phone closer to your ear once more, waiting for his last words.

"Lock the door."

Your eyes flew towards the dark oak door at the other end of the room at his words.

"Okay, I will. Goodnight, baby."

You let out a tired sigh when you finally finished the call. Maybe Jaehyun was right… Maybe it wouldn't hurt if he could cut his trip and go home earlier than planned. For now though, you don't have any other choice but at least spend the first night here to recover a little more. Your wound has honestly started stinging again, maybe because the effect of the first painkillers are finally starting to wear off.

You gave one long look around your quarters before throwing your phone on the wide four poster bed. When your gaze landed on the door once more, you heard Jaehyun's reminder echoing in your mind again.

Slowly, you walked towards it, feet padding over the lush rug that covered the whole floor of the room. You noticed that there was a double lock system installed on it at least—a knob one, and a bolt-type that can be maneuvered from the inside. You gave an internal sigh of relief when you took notice of the latter, knowing that you have at least a level of protection even from those who have keys to the house. You have started to reach out to fix both locks when the door swung open all of a sudden, causing you to stumble back a little in shock.

Haechan looked back at you with the same look of surprise on his face at the threshold. For a while the two of you just stood there, staring at each other.

"Ah, I'm sorry, noona. I forgot to knock. I'm not really used to having guests here," he smiled sheepishly as he scratched the back of his head. His apologetic chuckles finally made you unfreeze from your spot.

"Tha-that's fine. I was just surprised. Why… are you here?"

"Oh, I just have to give you this," he extended his hands over to you, and for the first time, you noticed the folded garment that he was holding. You gingerly took it, feeling the softness of silk brushing your fingers.

"Renjun and I tried to look for an old night gown of our mom's that would fit you. It is a little bit old fashioned but it's clean and still holds up together so I think that would work, at least for now."

At his words, you took a closer look at the dress on your hands before unfurling it to its full length. He was right, it does look a little dated with its long sleeves, laced collar, and embroidered hem that would probably fall mid-leg on you, but the size looks just enough for your frame. You looked up at Haechan again with a smile.

"Thank you. I think this will work… But, are you sure it is okay for me to borrow it?" You asked hesitantly, eyes falling briefly again on the dress. After all, you do know the story behind their parents, and there are some people who can get a little sensitive about the possessions of their passed on loved ones. The least you could do is to bring up the question. 

Haechan, however, looked the least bit bothered. You didn't catch it because you were studying the lacework on one of the cuffs under the light, but one end of his lips curled up into a smirk as his hooded gaze moved to study the dress on your hands before grazing your form from head to toe.

"No. We don't mind. It's the only female clothing that we can offer for now, unless you want to borrow one of our clothes~?"

That immediately made your eyes snap back to him. His words were innocent, but the way his voice curled made your cheeks feel hot all of a sudden.

"No, that's not what I meant—"

The embarrassment on your face must have looked too obvious because the boy suddenly burst out laughing, his giggles sounding like a lilting tune as it floated down the hallway. You've always noticed how beautiful his voice is, but it is only now that you realized how calming it is to the ears, despite your current flustered state.

"Yah, I'm kidding, noona. I was just trying to make you feel better," he said after his laughter calmed down. You tried to give him an apologetic smile and looked down on the dress in your hands, your fingers unconsciously finding comfort from the smoothness of the silk. Haechan drank your expression silently with his eyes in the brief moment that you were distracted. You have always had this independent and confident air around you normally, but you have a more subdued nature now, probably because you are hurt.

He studied you silently as a thought formed in his mind. He may like the way you carry yourself on an everyday basis, but the way you are now? 

He loves it. 

"Besides… I think you'll look pretty on it," he said softly, voice sounding like whispers on skin. You looked up to see him smiling at you fondly, as if he is remembering a distant memory.

You cleared your throat before nodding. "Thank you. I'll change to this tonight. Please say thanks to Renjun as well."

Haechan gave you his signature smile and clasped his hands behind his back.

"No problem. We'll check on you tomorrow again. Goodnight, noona."

You were about to close the door when you suddenly stopped halfway as you remembered something.

"Oh, sorry. Another thing."

The boy turned back to you to give you a questioning look. You smiled at him apologetically.

"Can I ask to have some of my medications? I don't know who has it but I think Taeyong was handed my prescription. It's just that, my head is hurting again so I’d like to take some before going to sleep…"

Haechan's brows raised slightly at the realization.

"Oh, Taeyong-hyung hasn't visited you yet then? Ah… I think it's because he is still busy with Chenle. I can get them for you, noona."

"Will that be okay? Really sorry for asking this."

"Stop apologizing, it's fine," he winked and you managed to return it with a grateful smile. "I'll look for Taeyong-hyung and bring you your meds. Maybe you can get changed for now."

"Thank you, Haechan."

"I'll be back," he nodded before turning on his heels again, a spring on his step. 

------- "Shhh… sweetie, don't cry. You know I don't like it when you do that, right?"

A woman bent over a boy not older than seven who was currently cowering against the shadowed corner of the room. The space didn't have any lights on, but the sliver of moonlight that passed between the small crack of curtains shone on the tear-streaked face of the child. The female in front of him gently reached out for his face, cradling his cheeks lovingly between long, slender fingers.

"Look at you, you look like a mess now… stop crying, okay?" Her voice was soft and angelic when she spoke, enough to calm down the sobs wrecking the thin frame of the child before her. The boy gave a small nod which made her smile, her dainty features glowing with happiness.

"Very good. Now… you do know we have to go through this, right? You've been a bad boy so you leave me with no other choice."

The child froze in fear but softened his stance after a few heartbeats. He mumbled softly, trying his best to keep his voice from breaking.

"Yes… mother."

The woman's expression remained somber, as if she was in pain. She gently moved her hand to run her thumb over the boy's cheek, wetting her sharp fingernail with his tears.

"You do know that even if it will hurt, mother still loves you a lot, right? Mama is doing this because she cares for you a lot and she wants you to be good... my sunshine... my precious, precious boy…"

Her soothing voice mixed with her words made the boy stop crying entirely. Instead, his eyes shone with pure adoration for her.

"Yes, mama… I know that."

The lady smiled. Her eyes scanned the features of the child momentarily before finally letting her hand holding his face drop to her side. Slowly, she straightened up again to her full height, but not before grabbing for something from the floor beside her. The moonlight caught it before it got swallowed by the darkness of the room again—a leather belt so thin it almost looks like a whip.

The woman raised her hand gracefully above her head before giving one last loving smile at the boy on the floor.

"Now, try not to scream too much… we don't want to hurt your voice."

---- Haechan softly hummed a happy tune as he walked through the wing of the house where their private quarters are. It was late at night and the rest of his brothers had retreated back into their own rooms despite all the excitement that  happened in the past few hours. His gaze touched each door as he passed them, a smile curling the tips of his lips as he did.

There are a few things that Haechan believes sets him apart from the rest of his family. He isn't as physically strong as Jeno, as charismatic as Jaemin, or as patient and quiet as Renjun. He isn't as friendly and likable as Mark, nor is he also as innocent and magnetic as Jisung and Chenle.

What Haechan is, however...is smart and cunning…

He is smart enough to always be two steps ahead of everyone and cunning enough to move the pieces that he set without having to lift a finger if he wanted to. There is a subtleness in him that doesn't make red flags flash in someone’s head unlike Jaemin does whenever he can't control his neediness, but he has enough pull to get under someone's skin if he wanted to unlike Renjun who prefers the quiet and watchful approach. Oh and Jeno? He knows how to use Jeno's strength well.

He knows it enough to suggest to his brother to give a little friendly push to the right direction—or rather, to the right cliff—so the wheel can finally move. Sure, it might hurt someone, maybe even break a bone or two, but that's normal. After all, when you love, you should be willing to hurt a little.

His hums died when he finally stopped at the last room down the hallway, mind trying to picture what's on the other side. His gaze quickly glanced at the small tray in his hands carrying a small glass of water and a variety of pills that gleamed under the dim lighting. He smiled. Finally, he raised his hand to gently tap on the oak door in front of him.

"Noona, can I come in? I have your medicine with me."

He heard a soft rustling from the other side before the door finally opened. Silently, Haechan took a calming breath and tried his best to look casual at the vision that welcomed him. Of course he was right. The dress looked perfect on her, almost as if she was the original owner of it. She looked like she stepped out from a dream… his dreams.

Oh and what he would do to keep her there.

He gave her a friendly smile now as he pushed the tray to her hands. She returned it with a grateful look before studying the oddly matched colors of pills there silently. They shone dully under the dim lighting of the hallway, as if officially warning the start of something.

Yes, Haechan believes that there are a few things that starkly sets him apart from the rest of his brothers. But if he were to choose one, he would say he is ruthless. Ruthless enough to drag someone down a little, all the while wearing that sunny smile on his face.

After all, a little nightmare won't hurt anyone.

"Don't forget to take them so you can feel better, okay noona?"

---

CHAPTER 5

A/N: Okaaay so the core four have finally been covered. Guess it’s time to ask now who is the scariest? JK. Taglist below! 

@negincho,  @jhornytrash, @jaeminhyuckiii, @jungwoosswhore, @jsturkey, @aj–7, @pukupukupawpau, @tomiesgirlfren, @vsszn, @those-winternights​, ---

[missymurphy1985]

The Medic (Part 2)

Warning - injury / accident / bit of flirtiness

Authors Note - I'm not medically trained in the slightest - forgive me for any inaccuracies!!

Taglist @queenshelby @margoo0 @being-worthy @peakyscillian @peakyciills @janelongxox @elenavampire21 @ysmmsy @cloudofdisney @lauren-raines-x @namelesslosers @misscarolineshelby @screemqueen @cilleveryone @peaky-cillian @misselsbells06 @datewithgianni @heidimoreton

You looked round, hoping to see him standing to the side, but no. He must've been under that rubble.. and the rigging...

You shouted for everyone to stay back to reduce the risk of any further collapse and slowly stepped onto the set, checking above you to make sure no more debris was going to drop. Once you were sure it was clear, you slowly edged onto the rubble, stepping where you could see the floor, careful not to dislodge anything.

"Cillian?! Cillian, can you hear me?" You called, hearing no response as your heart skipped a beat. You composed yourself and stood as still as possible, looking through the debris. You spotted his hand, sticking out from between the rigging.

You could just about make out his body, he wasn't moving. You could see his chest rising and falling, but the motion of it massively concerned you.

"Anto, call an ambulance - his breathing isn't right! Someone come help me move this stuff off him, slowly!" You called, not taking your eyes off him. His chest was moving up and down irregularly - all your years in A&E, you recognised a punctured lung when you saw one.

Three of the crew came over and following your strict instructions, they lifted each piece of ceiling off the pile, revealing more of Cillian's body. The movement and noise roused him, you saw his eyes flutter open.

"Cillian, do not move! Stay completely still until I've checked you over, say YES if you understand?"

"Y-yes...." He groaned, clearly in pain. Each item lifted caused him to cry out.

"Do not move..." You warned, making your way to him now a path had been cleared. Anto had brought your bag over and placed it at your side as you moved into Cillian's line of sight.

"An ambulance is on its way - you're fine, okay? I need you to tell me where it hurts."

"Chest... Right side..." He coughed and winced. You knew there was a small piece of rigging resting on his ribs and now you were closer you could see it had clearly broken his lower ribs.

"Breathing?"

"Can't.. get.. air..." He was struggling. Really struggling. You didn't have time to wait for the ambulance, he'd lose too much oxygen. Taking a deep breath, you took out a scalpel and plastic tube, along with bandages, a syringe and antiseptic spray.

"Cillian, I need to reinflate your lung. If I don't do it now, you'll suffocate. Paul, can you hold him still please?" Paul came over and you put his arms across Cillian's upper body.

"The... Fuck?" He gasped, seeing the scalpel in your hand.

"I need to do this. If I don't, you won't be able to breathe in around 2 minutes time... Trust me. I've done thousands of these.." You didn't give him time to argue. You injected a numbing agent into his side, and immediately sliced into the skin. He tried to scream but the sound didn't leave his lips, too breathless to make any noise. He struggled against Paul, and Anto came over to help pin him down. You ignored his whimpers as you inserted the tube, immediately feeling the rush of air escaping it. You inserted a syringe into the top of the tube and slowly pulled to release the air into it, closely monitoring how much came out so as not to pull too much.

Within minutes he took deeper breaths, his skin losing the blue tinge you'd noticed moments after arriving at his side. You removed the syringe but kept the tube in place, bandaging tightly around it. Your fingers moved to the back of his neck as you checked his spine.

"I need you to tell me if you feel any pain, or if you feel nothing. Okay?"

"Okay.."

You fingers moved down his neck, he confirmed he could feel it but no pain. You moved to his legs, the same response. At that moment, paramedics arrived.

You handed over to them, explaining what you'd done, and they took over as you stepped back. Your hands started to shake.

"Drink this..." Kate was next to you suddenly, handing you a cup of sweet tea. She wrapped her arm over you to comfort you as your whole body shook. "You're in shock, drink that. You'll be fine."

"I can't believe I just did that... I've never done one before!"

"I thought you said -"

"I lied, I didn't want to scare him.. I've only seen other doctors do them.. what if I've fucked it up?"

"y/n, he's breathing. You didn't fuck it up, I think you just saved his life! Shit me, y/n, have you seen your leg?" You looked down and saw blood - you must've caught your shin on a stray piece of rigging, a huge gash ran across it. Kate got to work checking it out, confirming you definitely needed stitches and let the paramedics know. They said you could jump in Cillian's ambulance.

Once you'd been stitched up, you asked the nurse about Cillian. She had left around ten minutes ago, promising to find out for you. Instead of the nurse coming back, it was a doctor. A doctor you knew from medical school, he'd been your teacher.

"Dr. Taylor?"

"I knew it was you when the paramedics told me! Y/n, you saved that man's life - he would have suffocated if you hadn't intervened when you did!" The relief flooded through you.

"I was so scared I'd done more damage... Is he going to be okay?"

"He's discharged himself - he just needs monitoring in fairness. Broken rib that will heal in time is the worst of it. He said you were the onset medic - can you take it from here?"

"Yes of course. I'll make sure he heals properly. Do you have any supplies?" He nodded and handed you a bag containing antibiotics, bandages and antiseptic lotions and creams.

"He's waiting outside for you. As soon as he found out you were here he refused to leave until you did." You smiled at his gesture. He must've been dying to get back to his hotel.

Heading into the family room, he was waiting. He looked exhausted, blood on his white shirt. Standing gently, he pulled you into a hug.

"Thank you. For what you did. Wouldn't be standing here with you now if you hadn't."

"Just doing my job."

"Don't be so modest. I owe you.."

"Well you can pay me back by taking this medication, resting for a few days and let me take care of you without giving me another death stare?" You smirked.

"Yeah.. it's not every day someone stabs you in the ribs!"

"All in the name of saving your ass Murphy!"

You got back to the hotel and followed Cillian to his room. He had to pause every so often to catch his breath and wince from the pain of his broken rib, to the point where you eased yourself under his arm and helped him across the hallway.

"Are you sure you should have left the hospital?"

"I hate hospitals, and I kinda hoped you'd take the reins."

"That's what I'm here for. Give me your room key." You took the key from him and opened the door, easing him through gently and sitting him slowly on the sofa.

"When can I get back to work?"

"You'll need a couple of days before your lung inflates back to full capacity, and your rib won't heal fully for weeks yet. I know you're on a tight schedule but I won't clear you for work for three days minimum Cillian." He rolled his eyes on frustration, slowly lying down on the sofa.

"Fuck..."

"I know, I'm sorry.. listen my room is just down the hall. Here's my mobile number. If you need me, just call okay?"

"You're going already?"

"You've taken your meds, all you need to do is rest now. Get some sleep if you can?"

"Fat chance of that, my ribs are on fire. They gave me paracetamol, like that's gonna do anything..."

"You allergic to anything?" He confirmed no, and you promised him you'd be back, quickly running to your room.

"Tramadol," you smiled, handing him one of the pills and a glass of water when you got back. "Only take one - it'll help you sleep. Come on, you need to be in bed."

He took the pill, and once it had kicked in a few minutes later he let you pull him up and lead him to his bed. His feet unsteady underneath him as the drug entered his system, you had to help him undress, chuckling slightly watching him attempt it himself.

"You look like a drunk old man!" You laughed, taking over from him and unbuttoning his trousers. Pushing them to the floor, his crotch in your immediate eyeline, you tried to remain professional - the temptation to look was too much though and you couldn't stop yourself stealing a small glance.

"Like what you see y/n?" He smirked, noticing your eyes widen and your cheeks flush. He wasn't even hard, but the outline was clear as day through his boxers - if he was that big soft, Jesus...

"What? Oh no, I uh..."

"No? Hmm. Might wanna tell your face." You looked away quickly, standing up to unbutton his shirt. Slowly easing it over his bruised shoulder, you couldn't help looking at his toned, hairless chest, the ripped muscles in his arms. You cleared your throat, and involuntarily bit your lip, you could feel your core throbbing and mentally scolded yourself.

"Look at me," he lifted your chin and your eyes met his.

"Once I'm healed, and able to move - I'll make it up to you my own way. Deal?"

"Your own way?" His hand caressed your cheek softly, eyes never leaving yours, as he gently leaned in to kiss you. As much as you tried to fight it, you couldn't, and you returned his kiss. You could tell he wanted to ignite things further, but the tramadol you'd given him was coursing through him, making his legs unsteady. You pulled away, easing him down into bed and pulled the covers over him. Quickly grabbing his mobile phone and putting it on his bedside table, along with the note with your phone number, you noticed he was out cold. You pressed your finger to your lips, a slight jump in your heartbeat at what had just happened, but remembering quickly that he was high as a kite on painkillers and wouldn't remember a thing come morning.

"But I'll remember, and that's enough for me," you thought out loud, smiled and headed out into the lounge area. You called Anto and updated him on what had happened.

"I'm gonna stay until he wakes up - Tramadol can have weird side effects, I'm going to keep my eye on him, if that's okay?" You asked, not wanting to annoy your boss on your first day.

"Y/n please - you're needed there more than here right now. Stay with him until he's healed up, we can film everything else while he's resting. Three days you say?"

"At least. I need to know his lung is back to normal before I can clear him for work again."

"Not a problem. His health comes first. Thank you for taking care of him y/n."

"Anytime. I'll keep you in the loop."

You hung up, and immediately heard him groaning. Knowing what was coming, you grabbed the washing up bowl and ran into his room just in time for him to throw up into it.

"Looks like I'm staying here until the Tramadol wears off at least..."

[primasveraas-writing]

"Kent v Linebacker" -Ted Lasso

Roy's knee is fucked. This is well known.

His fucking monster child, who he loves, accidentally fucks it up more. Such is life.

Part 2 // Accompanying AU

WORDS: 2631

XXX

Their first son is “built like a linebacker,” according to Ted Lasso. Roy shows his usual disdain at the reference to the wrong type of football, but Keeley wearily agrees- she was, after all, the one who carried then delivered their 10-pound baby.

Most people see their son and suggest rugby instead of football, even as they pile tiny Kent jerseys and footballs onto the new parents. Roy insists he doesn’t give a damn if their child wants to play rugby or football or join the damn chess club, but he also tears up the first time Keeley puts him in a tiny (or maybe just small) Richmond jersey.

Because of the way Roy and Keeley are, they balance each other out. Marriage and parenthood come to them relatively smoothly, save for typical growing pains and bumps in the road. But they figure it out, at least for the most part.

One of the more persistent bumps is Roy’s knee. Because, while he was forced to walk away from playing football, Roy is reluctant to accept other limitations. He’ll run or dance or carry around the baby’s new crib, and then swear and pop his knee back into place as needed. Doctors eventually find this out and inform him that this is, in fact, bad. Roy Kent tells them to fuck off. He doesn’t echo this sentiment when Keeley suggests that they’re right.

Because, as usual, she seems to have a point. It doesn’t always take a miles-long Christmas day walk or a rom-com style sprint to Ted Lasso to fuck up Roy’s knee. Somedays, it’s going down the stairs one too many times. Or standing up long enough to make Keeley a fancy dinner. Or jumping around in the coaches’ box after a Richmond win. So Roy concedes this matter, and anyway, he doesn’t particularly enjoy moving his kneecap around or Phoebe’s and Keeley’s face when he does so.

Roy scales back, reluctantly and unhappily. He does modified yoga with the moms and they suggest stretches to help him. Roy doesn’t push himself nearly as much, and so the pain in his daily life decreases.

Then Roy becomes a father, and then his son becomes a toddler.

Oliver is a fucking ray of sunshine. He’s inherited Keeley’s bubbly personality, something evident from his first dazzling smile and the peals of laughter that soon follow. When he starts to talk, he does so incessantly, and he puts every ounce of his energy into babbling and running literal circles around his parents. Even Keeley- even Ted Lasso, occasional babysitter- struggle to keep up. But Roy and Keeley and the Richmond team do their level best to entertain and supervise him, and it works.

Then, because they’re fucking daft, Roy and Keeley decide they want another fucking monster to turn their lives all upside down.

Oliver is three when they tell him he’s going to be a big brother. He’s overjoyed, then he cries, then he’s comforted, then he’s overjoyed again. Roy is the happiest he’s ever fucking been with his son, and Keeley pregnant, and then life comes along and fucks it all up again.

Father and son are just home from preschool, Oliver restarting his long-winded recap of his day when he sees Keeley. Roy hobbles through the door behind him, grinning at Keeley for half a second. She beams back at him, then returns her attention to their child, brows furrowing as she tries to decipher his somewhat senseless story.

Roy’s standing by Keeley’s side, hand on her shoulder as they listen the best they can. Oliver reaches a part of his tale that’s especially exciting- something about cupcakes and a classmate’s birthday, and he gives a shout, then springs up with his arms spread wide, and-

-forty pounds of force collide with Roy’s bad leg. He hears Keely gasp, which is what registers first, then his vision goes white as pain overtakes him, and he feels himself falling.

He opens his eyes a moment later, and Keeley is crouching at his side awkwardly, the swell of her stomach hindering her. Oliver gives a noise that indicates he’s probably about to cry, and Roy shushes him through a groan.

“Fuck,” Roy says, his voice strained. “I’m okay.”

Keeley purses her lips, which indicates she’s well aware of his lie, but she draws Oliver against her side, rubbing circles into his back as she takes Roy’s hand.

“It hasn’t been this bad before, has it?”

Roy shakes his head. “I think I’m fucked,” he confesses, trying to keep the uncertainty and pain out of his words.

“ER fucked?”

“Fuck no.”

“Can you get up, Roy?” Keeley would sound impatient if not for the way her tone wavers. Roy shifts, babying his leg, and Keeley watches as he winces, cringes, and swears again.

Keeley whispers something to Oliver, and he sniffs loudly before scampering off into the kitchen. His wife stands, unsteady and off-balance, and reaches down to help him. Roy uses only his left leg to rise, trying not to knock Keeley over, and he staggers before grabbing the back of the couch to steady himself. Keeley holds onto his elbow and guides him around so he can sit.

“I’m fucked,” Roy reiterates, and this time, Keeley just nods.

-

In the end, there’s no ER visit- just a few pulled strings to get Roy into the doctor the next day. Rebecca stops by to deliver crutches and a few bottles of painkillers once Keeley realizes that Roy can’t get to the bathroom- or anywhere else, for that matter- on his own. More reluctantly, Ted is called, and he promises to give Oliver the “best darn sleepover since the movie Sleepover.” Roy isn’t particularly keen on Ted being privy to this particular moment of weakness, but Ted leaves with Oliver quickly enough, and Keeley’s pretty sure that even just a few minutes of exposure to Ted is enough to force some positivity into Roy’s outlook, and for that, she’s grateful.

Roy sleeps on the couch that night, as stairs are out of the question. Even if he could manage to struggle up them, he can only imagine coming back down via a painful fall. He’s alone, too, because, despite Keeley’s protests, he’s not about to let his pregnant wife sleep anywhere but a proper bed.

He lies awake long after kissing and texting Keeley goodnight, and he contemplates the quiet of the house and the apparent severity of the situation. The doctor had wanted Roy to come in today, but she didn’t throw a fit when he insisted he could wait. Instead, he’ll see her tomorrow, first thing, and Ted will take his son to school, and Keeley and Roy will both miss work for Roy’s least-favorite type of doctor’s appointment.

-

“You dislocated your kneecap again,” Doctor Patel explains, gesturing to an x-ray of a very fucked up knee. “The first time, you twisted it.” She points to a slightly less fucked up x-ray. “But continually dislocating your knee weakened the ligaments. So, when Oliver collided with you, your ACL and meniscus tore completely.”

“That’s why it hurt so damn much.”

Patel nods, then sighs. “You mentioned chronic pain worsening over time- you did everything right, trying to keep it at bay, but this- along with additional trauma- can worsen a knee injury.”

Roy grunts. He expected as much. The first doctor he saw after his final match had warned of this, along with things like arthritis and all sorts of complications. His main worry was that his football career was over, and there was nothing he could do about that, so any accompanying outcomes seemed unimportant.

He was wrong, apparently.

“It’s not unusual for these injuries to get worse over time. Especially when you’re not gentle with yourself. But, your symptoms are indicative of severe tearing. I’m also worried about nerve damage.”

“So what do we do now?”

Keeley is the one who asks, gripping Roy’s hand. He glances at her, then squeezes her hand.

Patel hesitates. Roy likes this doctor- her knowledge and honesty have been extremely comforting to both him and Keeley over the years. She doesn’t take bullshit, not even Roy’s, and he appreciates that about her.

But it’s unusual for her to hesitate.

“I believe our best option is open knee surgery,” she says, and her eyes soften when Roy’s jaw clenches. “There are other routes we can pursue, but we’re at a point where they may not be as effective.

“What are they?”

“We can do more tests and try an arthroscopic surgery or other minimally invasive options, but-”

Roy tunes her out. He’s the last football player of his generation- he’s seen everyone he played with at the beginning of his career retire, and the various injuries that forced this fate upon his fellow footballers. Open knee surgery is a big fucking deal. Especially since he’s not a fucking grandma.

“It’s a long fucking recovery time,” Roy says finally.

A nod.

“We have a baby due in three months.” This time, Keeley squeezes Roy’s hand.

“If all goes well, you’ll be walking unassisted by then. Enough for midnight diaper changes, so long as you don’t sprint into the nursery.”

“And it’ll work best?”

“I can say with reasonable confidence that your case is severe enough to warrant this surgery, and that the other surgeries aren’t typically successful in similar cases.”

“Fuck. Let’s do it.”

-

They schedule surgery for a few days later, which is a quick turnaround, but it’s enough time for two Richmond matches to take place. The first falls on the day after Roy’s doctor visit, and the second one is the day of the surgery. This gives him pause- Roy’s first and longest love is football, and he’s loath to step away, even for a week. But he thinks of Oliver, hesitant to hug his father when they get home, and Keeley, sneaking glances at him as if expecting him to break when she’s not looking.

Roy trudges- or limps- forward. He stays home for the first Richmond match and tries to ignore Keeley scrolling through Twitter with a worried look on her face. They had debated what would be worse- to miss the match with no explanation, or for Roy to show up on crutches and in obvious pain. In the end, the desire for privacy (and maybe easing Roy’s discomfort) won out, and Keeley and Roy and Oliver watch the match from their living room. Roy and Oliver shout at the TV, and Keeley livetweets, and it’s okay until the post-match conference.

“Coach Lasso! Roy Kent was missing from the coaches’ box tonight. Can you explain why? Has there been a professional change or has something personal occurred?”

Ted holds up a hand, stemming the reporter’s flow of questions. He smiles at her easily, but Roy knows that no matter what Ted says, there’ll be speculation. A nonanswer is still an answer, but they decided as a team to keep the public in the dark as long as possible, to maintain any privacy Roy has.

“Roy and his family are jus’ fine, thank you. As far as I know, Roy hasn’t decided to leave our coaching team, so we’re all good there.” Ted clears his throat, and Roy wonders if his mentor is uncomfortable telling half-truths to the press. “Roy needed some personal time away, but I expect you’ll be seeing him back again shortly. Thanks.”

“Well, that wasn’t complete shit,” Roy muses in near-approval. Keeley hums noncommittally.

“No,” she agrees, pleased. “And I livetweeted the whole thing so nobody thinks one of us is dying.”

“Perfect,” Roy says, satisfied. So long as they don’t get hounded on the way to the hospital. He looks down at his lap, where Oliver is curled against him, fast asleep. Roy moves slightly so that he can wrap his arm around his son, and sighs.

Keeley looks up at them and grins as she takes in the sight. “Look at my boys,” she says softly, and Roy’s heart melts just a little.

-

Surgery goes well, and Roy leaves the hospital the same day. His memories of the event and the hours after are fuzzy, but Keeley informs him that he watched the Richmond match while the anesthetic wore off, and proceeded to shout an absolutely incomprehensible mix of words and swears at the TV. Richmond lost, but it was hard fought, and it’s days later when Keeley confesses to Roy that he actually cried once the final result was clear. Roy would be less concerned by this if he could remember it at all, but at the same time, he’s reassured that his plan of being totally unaffected by major surgery and attending the match in person didn’t pan out.

Roy quickly decides he’s utterly useless on crutches, instead letting Oliver expend his energy by fetching things like water and painkillers and phone chargers for his dad. There’s plenty for him to do; Oliver thrives with given purpose, and under the extra attention Roy has to spare. He hates being unable to carry his son, but he can still cuddle with him, and draw with him, and even though Keeley is burdened with bathing and chasing after Oliver, Roy can still fucking help here and there. Like telling Oliver to eat his broccoli or clean up his shit, because vegetables are fucking important and his son isn’t a slob.

His return to Richmond is less smooth. He doesn’t want anybody’s fucking pity, least of all from the boys on the team, or from Ted Fucking Lasso, but instead of the fearful reactions Roy’s used to, Roy’s treated with a gentleness he absolutely fucking despises. Nobody wants to push back against his heightened grumpiness (a side effect of knee surgery is that it fucking hurts and this makes Roy very unhappy), and Ted somehow feels obligated to hang back with him as he limps up to the field each day. His fellow coach also launches into several tirades about his and Beard’s and his great uncle Roger’s various injuries over the years, and Roy ends his first week back feeling, unfortunately, closer to all three men, including the one he’s never fucking met in the first place.

Keeley’s made sure to officially announce that he’s had surgery, explaining away his absence and all the speculation that went with it. The press will likely hound him anyways, but Roy already has his response planned (“Fuck off!”).

The crowd cheers him during their next match. He hobbles slowly behind the rest of the coaches, using one crutch even though he really should be using both, swearing under his breath at the soft terrain and his shit balance and fucking kneecaps for being so fragile in the first place. Keeley would say all this support is sweet, and he catches a glimpse of her beaming at him from the stands, Oliver bouncing on her lap, and the agony and humiliation dulls.

Richmond plays a great fucking game. It’s not their best match ever, but they win and celebrate accordingly. Roy makes his excuses earlier than usual; he knows he’s put Keeley through the wringer in the past week, and Oliver keeps rubbing his eyes, and there’s nothing more that Roy wants than to read his son a fairytale then cuddle with his wife in bed.

So they go home, and do exactly that.

Roy’s last thought before he drifts off that night, having tucked Oliver into bed and kissed Keeley quite thoroughly, is of how fucking perfect his life is. And, although he echoes that thought many more times, one of the more poignant occurrences is when his daughter is born, and he holds her in his arms for the first time.

Yeah. Pretty fucking perfect.

[ray-ray-writings]

Hey Ray! Could you write some soft Schlatt stuff? Soft or angsty really both are good!!! There’s just not enough schlatt content out there for me to spam my friend with. (I’d say go for soft things but my friend is an angst queen) thank you!!!!!

-🌻

I love Schaltt so much and am kind of sad that I don’t get the opportunity to write for him more lol. And how about a compromise? How about something angsty with a happy ending??? Did not mean for this to be as long as it is but it happens lol. Hope everyone has a great night, this is the last drabble for the night! More to come tomorrow!!

TW: Schlatt throws a glass bottle at you and a few curse words

So we’re going to say that you and Schlatt are engaged okay? So you and Schlatt have been together for a really long time server hopping. You kind of let Schlatt pick the places you go because you never really cared as long as you were with Schlatt you were happy. So when you moved to the DreamSMP you were honestly just kind of vibing. You quickly met Quackity and he very quickly became your best friend. You almost had a stroke when Schlatt announced he was running for president. (Joke intended lol). But Schlatt was a failed businessman who never showed any interest in politics so when he told you he was running for president of L’Manberg, you were super shocked. But nonetheless you helped him campaign and supported him 100%. And when Quackity told you that he was going to give all of the votes that Swag2020 got to Schlatt you actually began believing that he could win this thing. And to your absolute surprise, he did just that. He won. JSchlatt won. Your failed businessman of a fiancé actually won the presidential election of L’Manberg. You didn’t necessarily agree with his first decree, but you being the loving and supporting person you are, you stood behind your lover 100%, even when Wilbur stared at you with pleading eyes to do something. You forced yourself to look away and turn your attention to your fiance who was now celebrating with Quackity… Everything was good. Everything was happy…. 

But after the election, things started to get… bumpy. The presidency began to take a toll on Schlatt and instead of turning to you with his problems, he turned to the bottom of a liquor bottle. It really hurt. It hurt that he felt he couldn’t lean on you and come to you for support on these things. He would come home really late and leave really early so you didn’t see him at home. So you tried really hard to be there for him. You would swing by his office and try to get him to talk to you, but he would only shoe you out, or have Tubbo escort you out, claiming he had a lot of work to do. You’d try to convince him to go on walks or dates with you, but he would again just brush you off and tell you to go away. Finally you’ve had enough and so one night you stay up. You don’t fall asleep when you usually would and you wait for Schlatt to come home. He comes home at like 1:30 am, stumbling in through the door, barely able to stand on his feet with an almost empty glass whiskey bottle in his hand. “Welcome home,” You greet coldly, standing up from the couch with your arms crossed over your chest. Schlatt’s head snaps to you in surprise and he rolls his eyes before he takes a swig from his bottle, “What are you doing here?” He grumbles, wiping his lips after he drinks. You can’t help but let out a scoff and move around the room toward the wall farthest away from him. “Really? You come home drunk off you ass, barely able to stand up, and the first thing out of your mouth is ‘What are you doing here?’ Unbelievable” you spit out, rolling your eyes and leaning up against the wall. Schlatt grumbles something under his breath, slams the door shut and glares at you, “Hi!” he cheers in the fakest peppiest voice you’ve ever heard, “How was your day? Is that what you wanted to hear?” “Yes actually. I would have loved to hear my fiance ask me how my day was! But no, instead I get a bitter fiance who only cares about himself greeting me” you seethe, extremely pissed off at how he’s acting. Schlatt lets out another scoff, “Oh really? Only thinking of myself? You’re the one who wanted me to ask you how your day was, seems pretty selfish to me” he slurs, tipping the bottle back and taking another drink. You cannot believe the words you’re hearing. He really thinks you’re selfish for wanting him to ask you how your day was. “It’s selfish of me to want to talk to my fiance? It’s selfish to want him to look at me for more than three seconds? To talk about our days like we used to? To fall asleep in the same bed again and wake up just the same? That’s selfish?” “Yes! It is!” He blurts out, “I’m the president now and this country needs me and-” “Your the president but it doesn’t mean that you have to ignore me!” You finally shout, sick and tired of him not listening to you. But the raise of your tone sparked fire in Schlatt’s eyes and his voice booms right back, “I never wanted to be president, but you made me! This is all your fault! Being president does mean that I have to ignore you because I have to do the things that come with this goddamn job I didn’t even want!” “If you didn’t want to be president why did you even run?!?” You scream back at him. “Because you made me! I hate you!” He screams before hurtling the now empty bottle at you. It’s like slow motion. You watch the bottle fly from his hand and slowly fly in the air toward your face. You can hear yourself scream in terror as you're able to just barely duck in time for the bottle to shoot over your head and smash against the wall, thousands of glass shards falling to the ground. 

It’s silent. As you stand back up, tears are filling your eyes, but you’re able to see the horrified expression on Schlatt’s face. It’s obvious his actions have sobered him up and he now has a clear mind. “Y/N” he chokes out the whisper of your name, such a stark contrast from the volume level just a moment earlier. “Get out” you whisper back, a single tear falling down your cheek. “Y/N” he tries again, taking a single step forward, but you flinch back, your slipper stepping on the broken glass behind you, “Get out” you repeat a little louder. When he makes no move, you begin screaming again, “GET OUT! GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT!!” You scream as you sob. Again, Schlatt remains frozen in place, the whiplash of him being so drunk he can barely walk to him being sober due to him hurling a bottle at his lover has his head hurting and unable to move. When he doesn’t move, you do. “Fine, I’ll get out” You then quickly walk past him toward the front door. Schlatt catches your wrist, “Y/N, wait please” he begs, tears starting to form in his eyes. You rip your wrist from his hand, “Don’t fucking touch me Schlatt” you spit hatefully at him, “I’ve done nothing but wait for you for these past few months and now I’ve finished waiting. You’ve missed your chance” and then you’re gone. 

You run, and I mean run, to the nearest house, which just so happens to be Quackity’s. To your surprise, the light is still on. Before you can even knock, the door swings open and Quackity has pulled you into a warm hug. “I heard” he simply whispers in your ear. And it occurs to you that the two of you were in fact screaming at the top of your lungs at each other. “I’m sorry” you whimper in his shoulder, truly feeling bad for waking him and probably a few others. “Shhhh. It’s okay. I’ve got you now, let’s get you inside”. Quackity takes you in for the night, offering you a cup of your favorite hot liquid before tucking you in his own bed. When he tries to leave, you grab his wrist, “Stay… Please” you beg. Quackity hesitates for a moment before climbing in bed beside you. You snuggle yourself into him and put his arms around you so he was holding you. It felt really nice to fall asleep in someone’s arms again, especially your best friend’s arms. 

The night goes a lot rougher for Schlatt. He’s the most sober he’s been since he won the election. He has a raging headache and his heart aches, but he knows he deserves it. Schlatt stands there staring at the door for a long time. “Any minute now,” he thinks to himself, “any minute they’ll walk through the door and hug me and tell me they forgive me” but he knows that he’s just kidding himself. When the clock hits 3am he finally looks away from the door. Schlatt lets his eyes roam the living room and they freeze on the glass pile where you stood just a while ago. His heart thumps heavily in his chest and he has to swallow harshly to get the lump out of his throat. He did that. He threw that. Not only did he throw that, he threw that at you. His love. The best thing that had ever happened in his life. He had screamed that he hated you. Quickly, Schlatt rushes forward, drops to his knees and stupidly begins picking up pieces of the shattered glass. He thinks that if he can clean it up, if he can put it back together again, you’ll come back. You’ll come back to him and forgive him and everything will be alright. A sharp pain shoots through his hand causing him to drop all of the glass he’s collected. Deep maroon liquid pours from his finger causing Schlatt to let out soft curses. He quickly uses his other hand and wraps it around the bleeding finger, rises and walks to the bathroom. He holds the bleeding finger under running water while he struggles to pull a band aid out of the cabinet. “God. Y/N would be laughing at me so hard right now. Then they would just float in here and take care of me themselves…” he thinks out loud, “Fuck!” He curses harshly as he thinks about how bad he’s fucked up with you. He manages to get himself bandaged up before he takes a few painkillers, even though he really knows he deserves to hurt. He stumbles his way into the bedroom and flings himself down on your side of the bed, he really just wants to be comforted by you, even though he’s been so shitty. But Schlatt quickly becomes confused when it’s rather cold and does not smell like you at all. He lets out a sigh and rolls over onto his normal side of the bed and is immediately overwhelmed with the powerful scent of you on his side of the bed. The tears return to his eyes as he realizes that you spend every night on his side of the bed in hopes of getting even just a little piece of him. He sobs himself to sleep, face buried in his pillow that smells just like you. 

You wake that morning very confused because you wake up in someone’s arms. As you peel your eyes open, you take in messy black hair and the peaceful face of your sleeping best friend and the events of last night wash over you in one big memory wave. Hurt and sadness fall over your feelings again because you think you lost your fiance last night. You don’t get much time to ponder over it because Quackity’s eyes peel open and connect with yours. “You were watching me sleep. You fucking creep” He teases before letting out a huge yawn, moving his arm off of you and stretching. “I was not watching you sleep. I was simply staring at you while I was lost in my own thoughts you dork” you tease right back, also throwing your arm up to stretch. Quackity laughs and rolls his eyes, “Whatever creep” You roll your eyes at him in return, “Whatever’s right dork.” You two lay there for a moment before breaking out in giggles and pushing each other’s shoulder. It felt nice to laugh with someone while laying around in bed again. It felt nice to be happy. After a moment, you two climb out of bed. Quackity gives you some clothes of his to change into so you didn’t have to walk around in your pajamas. You change in the bathroom and do what you need to do before you Quackity in the kitchen for breakfast. You have a nice breakfast together, but as you eat there’s a knock on the door. Quackity gets up and opens it, “Tubbo! What can I do for you?” “Have you seen Y/N? Schlatt wants to see them so he sent me to find them. So have you seen them?” You can hear the young boy ask from the front door. You hear Quackity hesitate at the door, not sure if he should tell Tubbo where you are. So you stand up and walk into view. “Hello Tubbo” you greet the small boy kindly. His eyes light up at you, “Hello Y/N! Schlatt is looking for you! He’s in his office at the office! Shall I escort you to him?” He asks. It’s obvious he has no idea what’s going on. You give a little head shake and take a deep breath before you answer, “No it’s okay. Tell him that I’m having breakfast with my best friend and that I’ll… I’ll meet him afterwards. But also tell him that if he shows up here, I won’t talk to him ever again” Tubbo’s eyes widen slightly, but he gives you a small nod and a smile, “Okay. I’ll let him know Y/N” Tubbo then turns on his heel and runs off toward the office. Quackity shuts the door and turns to you with a concerned look on his face as he rests a comforting hand on your shoulder, “Are you sure you want to do that?” “No” you admit, “But I really should. It’s the adult thing to do” Quackity lets out a small laugh, “Then you’re more adult than I’ll ever be… Come on, let’s go finish breakfast” 

The two of you have a lovely breakfast together, but the whole time you’re thinking about what it is you’re going to say to Schlatt once you are in his office. Quackity gives you a tight hug before you leave. You metally prepare yourself on the short walk over to the office building. What you’re going to say, how you’re going to react, you know typical mental argument planning things. You take a deep breath once you’re in front of the door before you raise your fist and knock. “Come in” his deep voice calls from the other side of the door. You slowly open the door, step inside, and close the door behind you before you look up and meet Schlatt’s eyes. You feel your breath catch in your throat. He looks terrible. His eyes are red rimmed and bloodshot, his hair is a mess, the bags under his eyes were extremely dark… It was obvious he had gotten very little sleep last night.  ‘Good’ a voice whispers in the back of your mind. Schlatt scrambles to stand when you enter. You two stare at each other for a moment before Schlatt clears his throat and sticks out his arms. “Please. Have a seat… If you want” he stutters out. You cautiously move to one of the chairs and slowly lower yourself into the chair behind you and he quickly follows suit. There’s a little more staring before Schlatt speaks again, “So… Um. How was your breakfast?” he’s nervous, very nervous. “It was good… I know you didn’t ask me here to talk about breakfast Schlatt so let’s just get right to it shall we?” you cut straight through wanting to get this over with. Schlatt flinches slightly at the sharp tone but nods, “I’m so sorry for last night… No for the last few months. I have been an extremely shitty fiance and that hasn’t been fair to you. My behavior, especially these last few months, and especially last night was unacceptable. I’m so sorry and I really hope you’ll forgive me” You wait just a moment to make sure he was finished before you speak. And boy do you speak, “You’re right. You’ve been really shitty and it hasn’t been fair to me… But if you think a single apology is going to fix all of it. You’re dead wrong Schlatt. Dead wrong… These past few months have been hell for me. I’ve tried so hard to be supportive to try and have your back but you just kept pushing me away. I went to bed alone, I woke up alone, I had to take care of myself all while I was also trying to take care of you…. Schlatt last night you yelled at me, you screamed at me. You blamed me for the riff in our relationship. Blamed me for you having a job you claim you never wanted. I never forced you to run for president. I never forced Quackity to give you his votes. I never forced you to do anything you didn’t want to do. I simply stood behind you and supported you…. Last night you threw a glass bottle at my head. Had I not ducked it would have hit me straight in the face. I would have been severely hurt and it would have been your fault. But the thing that hurts the most, the thing that tears me up inside. Schlatt. You told me you hated me. You said you hate me.” 

Schlatt is in tears by the time you’ve finished and you’re nearly there too. “I know. I know. I’m so sorry baby. So sorry. I know I’ve been so bad. So horrible. I’m so sorry. It’s not your fault, it was never your fault. It’s mine and I know that. I take complete and utter responsibility. When I ran it was a joke, it was for a joke. I never expected to win, but you supported me anyway. You’ve always supported me and I know I don’t deserve you. I really don’t. Last night, when we were talking, well yelling, I was so drunk out of my mind. I thought you were me. I thought you were me and I was talking to a version of myself, a hallucination. That’s why I screamed at you. That’s why I told you it’s your fault. That I threw the bottle, and why I said I hated you. But when I heard you scream, everything became clear. I finally saw it was you and I knew I had fucked up. I know it’s no excuse, but it’s my explanation. I understand if you never want to see me again. I wouldn’t want to see me again.” Schlatt explains before breaking down into sobs. It all makes sense, the way he acted last night. Why he did and said those horrible things to you. You could tell he wasn’t lying. You know you still have a lot to talk about and work through, but for now, you quickly rise from your chair, move around the desk, before sitting yourself down in his lap and burying your face in his neck, pulling yourself close to him. His arms immediately shoot out and wrap around you and tug you to him so tightly, as if he’s scared if he let’s go, he’ll lose you. You cry in each other’s arms for a few moments, just letting out all of your emotions. The missing of one another, the sadness, and longing. You manage to get yourself under control first, pulling back to look him in the eyes “We still have a lot to talk about and you still have a lot of making up to do, but I’m going to forgive you. Not right now, but I will eventually. We’re going to make this work lover.” You promise your fiance, leaning forward and pressing a small kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I swear to you I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you. You’re my everything my love and I swear that I’ll make this right” he whispers before leaning forward and capturing your lips into a real and proper kiss. The kind you haven’t had in months. And you can’t help but absolutely melt in Schlatt’s lap. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer. You two are going to be alright. Schlatt will make sure of it.

[sequinsmile-x]

In Sickness and in Health

It was part of their vows, but they had been caring for each other long before they were married.

Part of the Glittering Mica series.

Read it below the cut, or on a03

Let me know what you think! 

The first time he sees her when she’s sick is when she’s been back from Paris for a few months. She wakes up in the morning feeling awful, her whole body feeling heavy and sore. Her head was pounding, and the light from her cell phone screen as she drops Aaron a text letting him know she won’t be in only makes the pain worse.

The day drags. She spends it between her bed and the bathroom floor as she struggles to initially keep even painkillers down. By the evening she feels slightly better and moves to the couch, the siren song of trashy tv to soothe her weary soul too much to ignore.

She has only just settled down when there is a knock at her door. She groans and considers just leaving it, hoping the person on the other side would go away eventually.

“Emily? It’s Aaron.” His voice travels through the door, making her sit up faster than she should have done, making her head spin for a moment.

She stands and walks over to the door, where she pauses when she takes stock of what she must look like. Hair thrown up into a bun, the shorter hairs falling out and sticking to her neck. A pair of leggings and an oversized FBI t-shirt, stained with god knows what. She thinks she might just talk to him through the door, and convince him she’s ok so he can go home. But he’s seen her at her worst. He’d seen her lying on the floor of a warehouse with a table leg through her stomach. He’d visited her in her hospital room when pain was still lacing throughout her entire body, wrapping around her like a snake, as she cried when he told her as far as everyone else was concerned she was dead.

She sighs and opens the door. “Hotch?” She sniffs, her voice cracking from misuse and the abuse to her throat that day from coughing and throwing up. “What are you doing here?”

He looks concerned, eyebrows furrowed together in a way that always made her stomach flip in a way she pretended she didn’t feel. He lifts up a plastic bag, a takeout from the place that does her favourite soup coming into her view. “I brought you soup.”

Her stomach flips again and she knows it’s nothing to do with the sickness that's been following her all day. There was always something between them, just simmering below the surface. Emily knows in another lifetime, maybe in one where they both weren’t so broken, they could have been something beautiful.

She smiles and steps aside and lets him into her apartment. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Well.” He turns back and smiles at her, an eyebrow quirked in her direction. “You aren’t well known for looking after yourself.”

Her protest dies on her lips as he guides her to the couch, tells her to sit whilst he prepares her soup for her. He makes fun of her for only having one bowl, but eight wine glasses, the tone to his voice soft and kind.

Aaron sits next to her and they chat whilst she eats, and she knows he is staying just to make sure she does. Once she’s done the energy feels like it seeps out of her, and she feels herself start to drift off, her couch cushion feeling suspiciously like one of his suit jackets.

She wakes in the morning in her bed, a note on the pillow next to her in his scrawl, telling her to take another day and that he will be back that evening too.

It makes her smiles sadly.

They really could have been something, _____________________

She gets a stomach bug when they’ve been together for three months. She tells him to stay away, doesn’t want to pass it on to him, but he ignores her like she secretly hoped he would. He uses his own key to let himself in, and leans down over her couch to press a kiss to the top of her head in greeting, a small chuckle escaping him when he sees she is watching trash tv.

He places the container of soup on her kitchen counter. “Do you want to eat yet?”

She groans, almost gagging at the thought of eating. “Oh god no.” She pulls the blanket she's got over her tighter around her body.

He walks over to her, places a hand on her forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”

She hums, eyes closing at the touch of his skin to hers. “I’m hot all by myself, Aaron. You should know that by now.”

He laughs, fully rounding the coach and staring down at her. “Sit up for a minute.”

Emily glares at him but does it, immediately grateful when he sits down and drags her upper body into his lap. She looks up at him. “This feels familiar. Although last time I didn’t have my head in your lap.”

They’d never spoken about it, never acknowledged those two days when he looked after her all those years ago. A passing moment between friends who could have been more. And now they were. He traces her jawline with his thumb and smiles at her. “No, but you did fall asleep on my shoulder.”

She opens her mouth in shock. “No I didn’t.”

He laughs at her indignation, cups her face in his hand. “Yes. You did. You drooled on my jacket and everything.”

She scrunches her eyes shut and groans. “Oh god, Aaron, that's so embarrassing.”

“You’re my girlfriend, sweetheart. If you can’t drool on me, who can you drool on?”

“I wasn’t your girlfriend then.” She grumbles, grabbing his tie and playing with it in her fingers. “You were my boss and my…” She drifts off, unsure how to explain it. Not sure what they really had been back then.

“We wasted a lot of time.” He says, a sad look on his face that always makes her heart ache.

“Yeah.” She grabs his spare hand, the one not cupping her face, and links their fingers together. “At least we have each other now.” _____________________

He falls out of the attic and scares the shit out of her, the loud bang as his body hits the ground reverberated throughout the house. She runs to find him, sees him sprawled out on the floor and for a moment he is worryingly still. Then he moans, loudly, sitting up as he cradles his head in his hands.

“Just so you know the ladder to the attic is broken.” He groans, attempting to look up at her but grimacing when he tries to move his head that much.

“Be careful, honey.” She kneels on the floor next to him, places one hand over the one he has on the back of his head, and the other on his thigh. “What the hell were you doing up there?”

“I was getting the Christmas decorations down.”

“Aaron...it’s early November.” She moves his hand off of the back of his head, winces when she feels a lump there. “It’s your birthday tomorrow.”

“We’ve always put the decorations up early. Haley used to love Christmas. She always put the decorations up on my birthday.”

She smiles at him, threads her fingers through his hair briefly, her adoration for him beaming out of her face in a way that she couldn’t control. His love of Haley, the way he kept her influence around for Jack, was one of the things Emily loved about him the most.

“Well next time, just for help ok?” She palms the back of his head gently and he winces again. “I think we should get you checked out, you could have a concussion.”

“No, I’m fine. I just need to get up.”

She rolls her eyes but stands up, offers him a hand he doesn’t take, his stubbornness coming through even though he clearly needed the help. He stumbles as he stands, his co-ordination off kilter.

“Ok.” She says, steadying him with a hand on each arm. “I am taking you to the ER and you aren’t arguing with me.”

She drops Jack a text when they get to the hospital whilst Aaron is getting a scan. She tells him not to worry, to have fun with his friends as planned for the weekend and that she will look after his Dad.

Two hours later they are home, Aaron with an official diagnosis of a concussion, and Emily with specific instructions from the doctor on how to keep an eye on him.

Aaron thought she would let it slide, her history of ignoring medical advice well known, but when he looked back on it he realised he should have known better.

She wakes him every two hours as instructed. The third time she does it he groans and switches the light on. She looks exhausted, tired eyes staring at him as she asks him basic questions to make sure his brain is still working.

“Em.” He interrupts her as she asks him if he knows what day it was. “I’m fine, you need to get some sleep. I do. Let's just sleep through until morning.”

She frowns at him, sits up in the bed to look down at him. Her sleep shirt slips down her shoulder, exposing her pale skin and he readjusts it for her, fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Aaron, I’m just doing what the doctor said.”

“Em.”

“No.” She says firmly, grabbing his hand and linking their fingers. “I don’t want to wake up in the morning and find that you can’t. I’d never forgive myself.”

He considers her for a moment, the raw honesty something he still wasn’t used to from her. He nods, regrets it immediately as the pulsing in his head gets worse, and leans forward to kiss her. “Ok.” He says when he pulls away. “But let's go to sleep. It’s only 95 minutes until you next wake me up.” _____________________

Emily gets horrendously drunk at her surprise bachelorette party.

Aaron had known it was happening, had kept the secret JJ, Tara and Penelope had sworn him to, and sent her off for what she thought was just a normal night out.

The furious text from her when she realised something was going on was evidence that she really had not known what was happening. She had been insistent that she didn’t want one, that she was too old for a night to celebrate the end of her single years. When all she really wanted to do was marry him and just be his wife.

When she gets home at 11.30pm, guided by a very amused and equally as drunk Tara up the porch steps, she is delighted to see him. Her eyes slightly unfocused with joy and alcohol as she throws her arms around his neck and kisses him in a way that makes Jack groan from where he is sitting behind them in the living room.

“I missed you.” She says against his lips, smearing the taste of tequila across his tongue.

He smiles at her, wide enough that his cheeks ache with it. “I missed you too.”

“You guys are disgustingly cute.” Tara says, turning around to leave their house. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Take me with you.” Jack pleads jokingly, getting a laugh out of Tara who closes the door behind her.

Aaron focuses his attention back on Emily, who sways slightly in his arms. “Let’s get you to bed.”

She smiles devilishly at him. “Sounds like a good plan Mr Hotchner.”

“Ok.” Jack snaps the book he was reading shut and stands up. “I’m going to bed.”

Aaron throws him an apologetic smile, but doesn’t hide his amusement well. “Night, Jack.”

He gets her up the stairs, her hands wandering the entire time, and he is quickly reminded just how handsy tequila makes her. He sits her on the bed, a kiss pressed to her forehead as he goes about getting her ready for bed. He changes her into her pajamas and takes her make off for her, wraps her up in their bed as he gets ready to get in himself.

She’s almost asleep by the time he joins her, eyes fluttering as she settles into his side.

“I can’t wait to marry you.” She slurs, words pulled apart by sleep and alcohol.

He kisses the top of her head. “I can’t wait either sweetheart.”

The next morning she feels horrendous and doesn’t cover it. She’s dramatic when she's hungover and he loves it, the only time she will all but demand he looks after her instead of trying to act like she didn’t need his affection.

He brings her water and aspirin. Sits with her wrapped up in his arms and strokes her hair until she falls back to sleep. When she wakes up she sees he’s been out and got her favourite breakfast from the cafe they go to frequently, with extra bacon and a cold brew.

They eventually move to the couch, cuddled up under a blanket watching old movies. Jack eventually joins them, makes some comments about Emily’s hangover that make her stick her tongue at him.

Aaron loves her, more than he ever thought was possible, and he wants to bask in it for the rest of his life. _____________________

Emily is in her office when she gets the call. An unknown number appearing on her cell phone screen was not unusual in her job, so she answers without thinking. “Agent Prentiss.”

“Hi, I’m calling for Emily Prentiss?” A woman’s voice comes down the line.

“Speaking.”

“I’m Sophie, I’m a nurse at St Sebastians. Your husband Aaron Hotchner was brought in an hour ago after suffering a heart attack.”

Her world narrows to the phone gripped in her hand and the sound of the nurse's voice. “He had a heart attack?”

“Yes ma’am. He’s in surgery right now, and will be out in the next half an hour or so.”

“Ok. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She clears her throat, tries to force the lump of emotion she can feel lodged there out of the way. “St Sebastian you said?”

“Yes ma’am.”

She hangs up the phone with shaking hands, grabs her bag and walks out the office. JJ stops her, a concerned look on her face and a gentle hand on her arm. “Emily, what's wrong?”

“I’ve got to go.” She tries to get by her friend, but JJ grips her arm, won’t let her move.

“Emily, what’s happened? You’re crying.”

Emily lifts her hand to her face and wipes away tears she didn’t realise were there. The rest of the team had gathered around them with looks on their faces that she hates. She takes a deep breath. “Aaron had a heart attack.”

JJ gasps. “Oh, Em.” She looks around at the team, a silent conversation that their boss doesn’t, and can’t, pay attention to. “I’ll drive you to the hospital, these guys can hold the fort here.” She watches as Emily opens her mouth, clearly going to argue. “You are in no state to drive. I’ll take you and keep everyone else updated. Let’s just get you to him, ok?”

Emily nods, relenting to her friend's demands. They leave the bullpen, words of support from the rest of the team chasing them out. As they get into the elevator Emily struggles to maintain her composure, more tears escaping past her lashes.

“We’ve only been married two months. I can’t lose him.”

JJ grabs her hand, squeezing it tightly. “You won’t.”

Emily doesn’t believe her until she is in Aaron’s hospital room, sitting on the edge of his bed with one of his hands caged in between both of hers. His warm skin and grumpy demeanor at being in a hospital loosening the tightness in her lungs.

This hospital holds bad memories for them, the actions of George Foyet still affecting their lives to this day. She remembers the feeling of finding him here all those years ago. When she first started realising her feelings for him were more than they should have been.

“Are you ok?” He asks gently, running his thumb over the back of her wedding and engagement ring.

She shakes her head at him. “You had a heart attack, Aaron. I don’t think either of us are ok right now.” She kisses him and then leans her forehead against his. “You’re going to listen to everything the cardiologist says, ok? I’m not losing you this soon after I got you.”

He nods his response and kisses her again. “Of course, sweetheart. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Her phone rings and she sees it is Jack calling her, desperate for an update. He was with Jessica and her father for the week at the family cabin. “It’s Jack, I should answer this.” He nods as she stands and exits the room, catching the start of her conversation with his son.

When they meet his cardiologist for the first time she takes a lot of incredibly detailed notes. He should have expected it, memories of her waking him every two hours when he had a concussion the year before flooding his brain.

She makes him take up running again, and goes with him despite it not being her thing at all. She insists he eats healthier, and makes Jack do the same, insistent that they were all going to do better.

Aaron gets frustrated at her once when they are at the grocery store when she throws the bacon he had just put in the cart back onto the shelf. She looks at him, long and hard. “I just want you around for a long time, Aaron. Is that such a bad thing?”

That, he realises, he can’t argue with. _____________________

When Elizabeth dies Emily has a delayed reaction. It takes almost a day for the tears to come, brought on by Jack’s kind words and reassurance, and once they start she cannot stop them. Grief for her mother, the only parent she had ever really known seeping out of her every pore, along with grief for the relationship they were never destined to have.

Aaron walks into their bedroom to find her curled up in their bed, body wrapped around his pillow, tears still streaming down her face. “Sweetheart.”

It makes her sob more, unable to deal with the unfaltering kindness he alway shows her. He settles on the bed next to her and cups the back of her head, pleased when she doesn’t shy away from his touch.

“What do you need?” He asks gently, thumb running back and forth over her temple.

She sniffs and looks at him through swollen, tear filled eyes. “Just you.”

“Then that’s what you’ll get.” He takes his pillow out of her hold and puts it back in its normal place, laying back on it as he pulls her into his arms. He holds her tightly as she presses her face into his chest. She’s close enough that her sobs vibrate through his chest. He runs his hand up and down her back until she eventually falls asleep, his embrace providing her with the safety it always had done.

He doesn’t move all night, and she tells him off in the morning when he can barely move his back from the position he slept in. _____________________

In the end, when they find out he is dying, they look after each other. Tears and reassurance from them both as they try to come to terms that after all their time together, the twenty years they got as them, that it was coming to an end.

It would be easy for them to think they could have had longer. That if they’d got their act together sooner they could have easily had another decade of their love. Maybe had a child or two of their own.

They don’t think that way though. Any regrets they had about the past are long gone, a sense of acceptance and peace that this is what they got, and that it is far more than they ever thought they would have.

His last words to her were ones of love, and she knows if she had the chance to do it all again she wouldn’t change a thing. _____________________

‘Promise me, In sickness and in health, In agony and in joy, In fights and in love.

I would still have all of you, In every part of me.’ - Isha Gupta

[writing-on-standby]

time of dreaming (part three)

Summary: Soulmates meet in their dreams from the age of 16 until they meet for the first time. Once they meet, they share their physical and emotional feelings with one another until they die. Tom Holland was just starting to learn how to take over the family business and ignore the urge to find his soulmate when everything changes and he’s found face to face with you. You’ve always wanted to meet your soulmate and spend the rest of your life with them until you actually meet yours and life changes forever.

Warnings: Drug use, swearing, alcohol, angst, mentions of scars/injury (not self harm) 

                                 part three: coping mechanisms

A few days after your last interaction with Tom and Harrison, you were discharged from the hospital. Jazmin had taken you home and spent the week after at your house, helping you. She didn’t ask for details about what happened, but word was quickly spreading that you were assaulted in a drug deal gone wrong. Wrong place, wrong time. And you didn’t have the heart to say otherwise.

After a week of time off, however, Jazmin had to go back to work, leaving you alone to take care of the hundreds of stitches you had that kept your chest closed. Your arm was still in a sling and wandering around the house was difficult. There was a constant dull ache in your stomach where Luke O’Malley had stabbed you. You didn’t know what happened to him and you had no idea what happened to Tom and Harrison, but you didn’t care. At least that’s what you told yourself.

Nothing was more heartbreaking, however, than to feel the hands of another woman on Tom, exploring his body and getting to know him. You’d wake up in the middle of the night, tasting cigarettes and whiskey while feeling the lips of someone on your skin. You’d try to block out the sensation of Tom sleeping with another girl, but nothing worked, not even you drinking.

Eventually, one night that Tom was getting frisky with another woman, you looked at the medication you were given to help ease the pain you were in. You took a deep, calming breath, determined to get this feeling out of your head. Without another thought, you popped two painkillers and laid down on your bed. A small smile lifted your cheeks as you could only focus on the comfort of the bed.

Maybe it wasn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, but in that moment, you were desperate to feel anything other than Tom fucking another woman. You nestled deeper into your bed while your body felt light and airy. You slowly closed your eyes and smiled. This was working. For once, you had a way to numb Tom’s feelings and the sensations he felt and for the next six hours, you’d finally pretend he wasn’t your soulmate.

*

Two weeks and some bad decisions later, you were out of pain killers and your body was screaming in pain. You groaned and crawled out of bed. The stitches  had come out of your chest, but the mark was still there; angry and harsh against your soft skin. You had been kicked out of the internship program due to your incident and while the director denied it was because if that, you couldn’t hide the nagging reminder of the scar that somehow showed through any article of clothing you tried.

Tom’s feelings and sensations weren’t making things any better, either. If he wasn’t hooking up with random women, he was drinking whiskey at the worst time of day and smoking cigarettes like he would die without them. On days you tried to be productive, Tom would get into fights. His knuckles constantly ached as did his throat. Having him as your soulmate was insufferable and when you got a particularly bad cramp during your period, you couldn’t help the petty joy you felt, knowing he was also suffering.

You dragged yourself out of the house. The shirt you wore showed off the jagged edge of of the scar you had. The worst part of having the injuries you had wasn’t the pain, but the combination of a massive scar on your chest and the need to wear specific shirts to accommodate to the sling you had to wear. You sighed, trying to ignore the sense of dread seeing the injuries filled you with, but nothing worked.

You walked out of your dingy apartment and onto the streets of London. You were trying to find a way to get more pain killers, but the doctors had already refused your request. As much as you hated yourself for even entertaining the idea of illegally obtaining drugs, you couldn’t go another day with the feelings you had. Luckily for you, you lived in a sketchy part of town and happened to know where the drug deals went down.

Not even caring that your soulmate was a glorified drug dealer or that what you were about to do was definitely illegal, you approached the dealer who stood in the alley by your flat.

“Hey pretty thing,” the dealer spoke, gruffly. His face was ragged and covered with stubble. His blue eyes weren’t menacing like you always pictured a drug dealer to be. “Need something to help with that?” The dealer gestured to your injuries with a cigarette dancing between his finger tips. “Since you’re so pretty, I’ll give you a discount.”

How kind of him, you thought to yourself, sarcastically. You sighed and nodded, slowly. You ignored the spade shaped pin on his chest even though you knew it indicated who he belonged to - the Hollands. “How much?”

The dealer chuckled and told you his price. It wasn’t bad and you handed him the cash. With a sickeningly sweet smile, he handed you a bottle full of painkillers. “Don’t take them all at once, sweetheart.”

You ignored the smirk on his face as you turned and started walking away. Your heart was racing and your body was warm. You ignored every part of your instincts telling you to drop the painkillers and run, but you needed it. You tried to slow your breathing, knowing that Tom would be able to sense your anxiety. What did you care, though? He didn’t give two shits about you. He had made that perfectly clear.

*

Tom stood in his office talking with Harrison. It was the end of the day and they were waiting for the report on the sales his drug dealers had. It was a typical routine that happened almost every day. Tom filled two glasses with whiskey and grinned as he handed it to his best friend. Things were starting to look up.

Over the last three weeks since he had met his soulmate, he’d only felt the soreness in your shoulder along with a dull ache in his stomach. He shrugged off the pain, easily having worse injuries in his life. However, when your period came around, Tom struggled. While your cramps weren’t awful, Tom never had to get used to dealing with them and he simply found it way too uncomfortable.

As the days went on, Tom noticed you feeling more lightheaded and less pain came from your shoulder and stomach. Tom ignored it, assuming that you had finally healed up the wounds. He had tried to ignore any thoughts or emotions about you. It was too hard to think about the look on your face when he last saw you. Your eyes were wide with pain and a frown sat firmly on your lips. It was hard to process the fact that his soul was forever connected to another person and now he had a face to match with the sensation.

A swift knock sounded on Tom’s office door. Tom called for the person to enter and turned to see who it was. Jason, the drug dealer who was in charge of the southern part of the city, walked in. His blue eyes beamed and the stubble on his face added an extra disheveled look to the man. Tom greeted him and he nodded.

“How was the day? Did you make any sales?” Harrison asked, arms crossed. Harrison kept track of the finances in the mob. He knew that Tom was shit with numbers.

Jason chuckled and leaned back. “There was this one bird who came today. Poor thing,” he muttered with his thick cockney accent. He shook his head and lit up a cigarette. “Had her arm in a sling and a nasty scar.”

Harrison and Tom looked at each other. Without saying a word, they both were on the same page. “What arm was in a sling?”

“Where was the scar?” Harrison added, looking at Jason, intently.

Jason looked at the two of them for a brief second. Tom knew this sounded insane, but he didn’t care. Why would you be buying drugs? Jason took a deep drag off his cigarette and sighed, letting all the smoke blow out of him. “Her right arm was in the sling and the scar was right on her sternum. Looked like it went further, but the shirt covered it. What’s the big deal with her?”

Tom shook his head. “Jesus fuck,” he groaned. “Jason, if that woman buys from you ever again, call me as soon as she leaves. Got it?”

Jason furrowed his brows. “Can I ask why?”

Tom chuckled, but there was no humor in his laugh. He shook his head and threw his empty whiskey glass at the wall. It shattered right behind Jason, causing the drug dealer to jump to his feet. Most people had grown to fear Tom and despite his distaste for that power, he used it to his advantage more often than not. “No you fucking can’t,” Tom shouted. “Get the fuck out of my office.”

Jason walked out of the office without another word, leaving Tom and Harrison alone. Harrison looked at Tom in disbelief. Despite the two of them being best friends, Tom had grown distant from Harrison. “Tom,” he whispered. “What’s going on in your head?”

Tom shook his head, trying to ignore the massive amounts of guilt he was feeling. Most nights, before he went to sleep, he’d feel fear and anxiety build up in your bones. He felt you shake awake from nightmares in a cold terror. Tom could feel the ache still present in your body and worst of all, he could feel every time you took drugs. It just took you buying them illegally from one of his drug dealers to finally face the truth. Tom knew that this was a new behavior. In fact, he felt your anxiety earlier today, but assumed it was something normal, not a drug deal. The guilt was crawling into Tom’s lungs and nestling itself firmly on his chest. It was his fault that you were now breaking the law and abusing drugs. “It’s my fault,” he sighed.

“No, it’s not, Tom,” Harrison spoke, confidently. He took a step closer to Tom, but Tom shook his head.

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Harrison.” Tom looked at the open office doors and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and tried to think of his father. In moments like this, Tom could always count on his father to help him get his thoughts in order.

*

“I know you’re excited that you met your soulmate, Tom, but you cannot meet her. You know that you can’t, right?”

Tom took a bite of his cereal and nodded. Tom was getting better at focusing on the future of his mob rather than the vague-faced woman he saw in his dreams. “I know, dad.”

“Good,” he sighed. Tom’s father was always loving and encouraging to the boys, but when it came to soulmates, he wouldn’t budge. Tom knew that the distaste for soulmates was because of what happened with his mother, but Tom never dared to mention such a thing to his dad.

“Dad, what if I accidentally meet her?”

Tom avoided his dad’s cold stare from the other side of the table. It was a genuine question, on Tom’s part. He knew that meeting his soulmate wasn’t allowed, but what if she happened to be in the same store one day? Or what if she was a cop that he ran into one day? Tom’s dad finally sighed and shook his head. “Tom, you won’t meet her. And if you do, then you’ll start feeling her every thought, feeling, and emotion. That makes you weak, Tom. You can’t let yourself be weak. Not when you belong to this family and you have this job.”

Tom nodded at the bowl of cereal in front of him. His dad had been preparing him for the lifestyle that he was expected to continue, but Tom was still not ready to shut out normal emotions in the way that his father expected him to. Tom tried to ignore the nagging feeling he had in the back of his throat that meeting you in your dreams as frequently as he did was worse than actually meeting you. Tom had already grown attached to the way you laughed at his serious tone or the way you’d be able to tell when he didn’t want to talk about meaningless things. He was attached to the way you were so easily there for him, even when he was being a relentless asshole. Tom couldn’t help but feel like he was already breaking your heart despite only knowing each other for a few weeks. And even then, you didn’t even know what the other one looked like. Tom looked up at his dad who raised his eyebrows. Tom knew that his dad was expecting him to agree and to show submission to his father’s request. Tom sighed, ignoring the soul crushing guilt he felt when he slowly nodded at his father. “Okay, dad.”

*

You walked back to your flat and shut the door with a sigh. Your hands were shaking as you popped open the pill vile and took two pills. At this point, your body was so used to taking the pills that two weren’t enough for you, but you weren’t sure if there was a difference in illegal pain killers and legal pain killers. You took a deep breath, trying to ignore the overwhelming sense of guilt that you could feel coming from Tom. Your first instinct was to find him, hold him, and comfort him. After a few seconds you shook your head in disgust. If Tom gave a single shit about you, he’d come over every time you woke up with tears streaming down your face because of nightmares. If Tom cared about you, he would check up on you every time he felt you get high. If Tom cared, he wouldn’t sleep with random women nearly every day. If Tom didn’t care, why did you?

You ignored the ache in your heart that was now because of your own thoughts. Instead, you focused on the way your body felt lighter with each step you took. You focused on the soft fabric of your shirt and the way the rug under your feet felt. You sighed, drowsily, as the pain killers slowly took effect on your body. You flopped onto the couch and felt your body sink into the plush cushions. You turned on the TV, planning to watch some trashy reality while you enjoyed your high, but your phone ringing caught you off guard. The phone number wasn’t recognized, but you didn’t care enough to worry if it was something serious. You silenced the call without another thought.

The phone started ringing, again, however. You groaned and silenced it again, not wanting to talk to anyone. If it was that important, they could leave a message, you reasoned with yourself. The phone rang for a third time, and you felt anger prick at your cheeks and burn into your chest. You suddenly put the sensation with the incessant calling and realized that it was Tom calling you. Tom was calling you and you ignoring him was pissing him off. You smirked at this realization and chuckled. Before you could think of any reason why Tom would be calling you, you shut your phone off and turned the volume of the TV louder. You popped open the pill container you were given and took a third. With the smile still lazily spreading across your cheeks, you walked over to the kitchen and poured yourself a glass of wine. Without thinking, you guzzled the whole glass and poured another. “Fuck you, Tom Holland,” you muttered to yourself, as if toasting to this statement. You raised the glass to your lips and took another drink, already feeling sick.

Your stomach was flipping and lurching, but you didn’t care. All you could focus on was the fact that you were feeling a cigarette burning your throat and the warmth of Tom’s anger. You were pleased with yourself for dragging these feelings out of Tom. It was high fucking time that he was suffering because of you just as much as you were because of him. You finished the second glass, forcing the alcohol to burn every inch of your throat and stomach. You knew you were going to be sick, but the thought of making Tom feel your suffering and pain was too glorifying for you. You filled a third glass and took a drink as you stumbled into the living room with drunken giggles. Maybe you didn’t care so much about the scar you now held forever, or the fact that your future was put on hold because of Tom. Maybe you could pretend for a small minute that everything was okay.

You flopped on the couch, spilling the wine on your shirt, but all you could do was giggle. You were growing more tired and sick, but you couldn’t let yourself be bothered. All you could do was chuckle, lazily. You forced your eyes to stay as open as they could, but the alcohol mixing with the pain killers was making you so incredibly drowsy. It didn’t matter, though. You could never sleep, lately.

The last few weeks, you would wake up in a cold sweat, thinking of the man who held you against him and slashed your chest open. You hadn’t slept a full night since the assault, but the drugs were helping. You smiled at the thought of being able to sleep for a few hours without seeing or hearing that man. Maybe one day, you’d sleep through the night without the help of drugs, but for now, you were medicating yourself. What else was there to do?

Before you could stand up to fill a fourth glass of wine, your apartment door busted open. Your reflexes were slowed and your logic was out the window. You stood up and wobbled back and forth, trying to balance yourself. Ignoring the smallest rational voice in the back of your brain telling you that it was Tom, you still walked towards the door. You stumbled and peered your head around the corner to see Tom and Harrison both standing there. Anger filled your bones as you looked at their dumb faces. You could see Tom wobbling slightly, but he wasn’t nearly as affected by you. You stumbled into their view and threw the wine glass at Tom as best as you could. It missed his head, narrowly, and shattered at his feet.

Tom whipped his head to glare at you. “What the fuck are you doing?”

You chuckled. “Fuck you, Tom Holland,” you slurred. A laugh erupted out of your diaphragm, even though you knew this situation was far from funny, but this was all you could bring yourself to do in this moment. You shrugged at the boy. His brown eyes were concerned and his eyebrows were knitted, but the drugs in your system blocked his feelings from you. Tom took a step closer to you and you flinched backwards, causing you to trip over the rug behind you. Your ass hit the ground with a pathetic thud and Tom walked over to you. He knelt beside you and helped you up. “Get the fuck off me,” you whimpered as tears slipped out of your eyes. An uncontrollable sadness was washing through your veins and you knew it was yours. It was the sadness over your lost career, your lost soulmate, and the weight of the trauma that you’d experienced in your life.

Tom helped you sit on the couch as he pursed his lips. You could see the fear and the guilt dancing along his eyebrows. He shook his head as he wiped a tear from your cheek. He pushed the hair off of your face and slowly rubbed your back. The last thing you wanted right now was to be comforted by Tom, but you couldn’t ignore the ache in your soul to just be with Tom. “Why are you doing this?”

You sniffled as the world kept shifting around you. The alcohol was fully hitting you and all you could do was accept it. “I can’t sleep; I can’t eat. I have nothing. All I can think of is…is…him,” you sputtered. “All I can think of is the fear and the smell of him. I can’t sleep without seeing him and I can’t eat without feeling the knife against my chest. I can’t function with you sleeping around with other women. I can’t escape this-this anger and sadness.” You wiped your eyes, roughly and shook your head. “You’re not here because you care. You’re here to make sure I don’t fuck with your mob or the cops.” Your lips curled in a sneer as you spit on the ground. The more you talked, the more saliva filled your mouth. Or maybe it was the tears that were now uncontrollably falling from your eyes that were filling your mouth. It didn’t matter to you, not right now. “I won’t fuck with anything. I’m just trying to keep my head above water.”

Tom’s heart was breaking at the sight of you. The scar was clearly visible and tears were freely falling down your cheeks, but you were still speaking your mind. He knew that the universe made you his soulmate because you weren’t afraid to speak your mind to him. “Love, let’s get you into some pj’s and get some rest, okay?”

“What’s the point,” you spat. “I don’t sleep anyway.”

“C’mon,” he ushered, softly. He helped you stand and walked you towards the bedroom. You didn’t fight him as he wrapped his arms around you waist and you certainly didn’t fight him when he held you close to his side. He helped you with every stumble and wobble, but his grip never wavered.

Once in your bedroom, Tom held you up as you grabbed some sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. He covered his eyes as you changed, but his hand was still softly at your side. Maybe it was the drugs or the alcohol that was lowering your ability to think clearly. Two hours ago, you would’ve punched Tom so hard in his face, but in this moment, as he took care of you, you couldn’t feel the anger anymore. You could feel his guilt and his sadness, but you didn’t feel angry anymore. His brown eyes were so concerned as he helped you lay on your bed. Without asking, he took off his heavy knit sweater and climbed into bed, next to you.

“I’m so mad at you,” you whimpered as tears fell out of your eyes. “I can’t fucking stand you.”

Tom could hear the weakness in your tone and knew that you were trying so hard to come off menacing. He couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle as he heard Harrison sweep up the broken glass and tidy up the flat. “I know, princess,” he whispered. “Let me try to help you sleep, okay? You need to sleep, love.” Your eyelids slipped shut as he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’ll be right here. I promise.”

You couldn’t fight it anymore. You let the wave of sleep wash over your exhausted body. Tom’s arms were tightly wrapped around you, filling you with a sense of security. You listened to his steady heartbeat and felt your soul rest, finally.

And for the first time in weeks, you finally slept through the night without any nightmares.

                                                  part four

[slasherbastard]

May I ask for 31, 41, and 52 from the prompts for either Vincent or Brahms, whoever you want to choose. I hope you're doing well:))

(gif credit: stabhappyslashers)

Warning: Self Harm, Angst, Swearing,  Word count: 2120 Notes: Trigger warning,, this work is mostly about self harm so if you’re uncomfortable please don’t read it. Also “Y/N” is gender neutral in this

A string of curses fell from Vincent’s mouth as the shower water hit his thighs, stinging as the water fell in a light shade of an orangey-red. He tried to ignore the pain as he grabbed some shampoo and massaged it through his hair, trying to promise himself that this would be the last time - but that’s what he’d said last time. Vincent doesn’t fully know what caused his relapse but here he was assuming it was stress. The stress of expanding the wax museum to the whole town, although it’s a team effort it was still hard when he was the one making sure the figures looked human enough. It was also hard when Bo criticised everything Vince did, especially when he was still learning.

“What the hell is that? They’re supposed to look real, not like whatever that is. Do it again.”

There were times when Vincent wished he could talk back to his brother but even if he could he knew Bo wouldn’t have it and the scars would be worse. Vincent bit his cheek and groaned in pain as a sharp sting came from his leg again, moving himself so that only his head was hitting the water, a few drops trickling down his body and narrowly avoiding the scars. He had his eye tightly shut so he could also avoid seeing the scars that littered his upper thighs, they repulsed him but it was too late and they didn’t look like scratches that would fade in a few weeks or a few days if he was lucky.

Half an hour later he was out of the shower and trying to avoid staring at his legs as he slipped on a pair of sweatpants. Looking up and catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror made him freeze for a few seconds, he stared at the chunks of hair sticking to the scarred side of his face and pushed it behind his ear. He felt nothing but pure disgust as he stared into that foggy mirror at himself, how could someone ever love someone as disgusting as me? It scared him to think like that but he couldn't help it. He really couldn't see what you saw in him, he's a cold hearted killer and you're possibly the nicest person he's ever met - although the bar is pretty low, Vincent's definition of a nice person is someone who doesn't treat him the way his brother treats him, like shit. The only person’s company that Vincent enjoyed was yours. Ever since his parent's passing and being stuck in a town where the only person who could tolerate him was his abusive twin brother, Vincent felt so alone - that was until he met you. He really couldn't believe that someone like you existed, but what would you think if you found out about his secret?

A sudden knock on the bathroom door interrupted Vincent’s thoughts. He stepped out and grabbed a towel and quickly wrapped it around his waist as he waited for his brother to bang on the door and yell at him for not answering straight away but instead, he heard your voice. “Vincent?”

He opened the bathroom door and smiled as your face came into view. “Hey Vince, are you coming to bed soon?"

"S-Soon." He managed to get out, Y/N smiled at Vincent and leaned in, kissing him through the space in the door before leaving him to finish getting ready for bed. Vincent closed the door and his smile faded out. He took one last look in the mirror before and left, catching up to you as you finished descending the stairs.

---

You fell beside Vincent and he melted into your chest as you stroked his hair, he pulled the blankets over the two of you and snuggled up closer to you. "Hey Vincent?" Vincent looked up at you and made a 'mhmm' noise. "I don't want to seem like I'm rushing things but are we ever going to- you know, do it?"

Vincent widened his eyes and you quickly began apologising until he held up a hand and let out a mumbled laugh. "Okay. It's okay." He paused and tried to collect his words but he struggled. He didn't want to say yes because he knew you'd be disgusted by him and his scars, but if he said no then you'd be hurt and possibly leave him. Either way, one of you was gonna hurt. Vincent let go of you. "Tired."

"Oh. Uh, goodnight." You fisted the blanket and pulled it close for warmth before almost instantly falling asleep while Vincent laid there, questioning the choice he made and the things you said. Did you really want to have sex with him? No, that can't be. Vincent watched you sleep beside him as he moved a hand down to his leg and pressed down on his left upper thigh through his sweatpants and winced, quickly glancing up at you to make sure you were still asleep. He removed his hand and continued to watch you as his eyes began to drop and he fell asleep beside you.

The next morning Vincent woke up alone. He pulled himself out of bed and slipped on one a sweater that was lying on the floor and headed upstairs to the kitchen where you were making breakfast. "Vince! I'm making bacon and eggs, come on!" Vincent joined you in the kitchen and got out enough plates and utensils for three and set everything up on counter. "Oh, Bo isn't here. He's out looking for trouble." You let out a laugh and brought the pan over to the counter and dropped the food onto two of the plates before putting the pan in the sink and dousing it in water.

The two of you ate mostly in silence except for the occasional crunch from the bacon. "About last night-" You both looked up at as the front door opened and Bo walked in. "Hey Bo, I didn't realise you'd be back this early. Do you want me to make you some breakfast?"

"Nope, I'm just here to grab some supplies n' then I'm gone again."

You waited until Bo had disappeared upstairs before turning back to Vincent. "I-I can wait if you're not ready, it really doesn't bother me." Vincent just nodded in response and continued eating, thinking about the interaction between you and Bo. He just knew that you liked Bo more than him, it was so fucking obvious. Vincent finished his breakfast before you and dumped his plate and utensils in the sink just as Bo was coming downstairs holding a duffle bag. Vincent stepped out in front of Bo and stared at him. "What'cha want, freak?" Bo chuckled to himself and stepped to the side but Vincent followed him.

"D-D-D-"

"D-D-D- What? What the fuck do you want?" Bo started growing more aggressive, that's when Vincent shoved him into the ground and pounced on him, repeatedly punching and kneeing him. Bo threw him off and quickly stood up, Vincent following his actions. Bo reached up to his face and touched his cheek, he wiped the blood that coated his fingertips on his coveralls and picked the bag up again and slung it over his shoulder. "I'll be back late, don't wait up for me, asshole." He muttered the last part under his breath just loud enough for Vincent to hear, as soon as Bo left you turned to Vincent with a disappointed and shocked expression on your face.  

"What the hell, Vince? He didn't do anything." Vincent ignored you and ran upstairs, hoping you wouldn't follow him as he locked himself in the bathroom and grabbed the second best thing to a knife, his razor. He knew it couldn't do as much damage as the knife but a razor sure still hurt like a bitch. He did what he felt like he had to do, small trickles of blood forming over the cuts from last night. He wished he stop, he wanted to, but he couldn't. All he did was disappoint everyone around him, this was for the best. Vincent slid down and sat on the cool tiles and watched the blood pool and drip off his leg onto the floor, he knew what nobody liked him but this wasn't one of those situations where he could run away to a new town and restart his life. Vincent was cursed with the face he has and no mask could ever make him feel human or deserving of anything. "Vincent?"

History repeated itself. A knock on the door interrupted Vincent. "Vince it's me, open the door." Bo's voice was quiet, it was a side of him that Vincent thought died with his innocence. "Please. I want to talk. I promise I ain't gonna hurt 'ya."

Vincent watched the door as he backed up into the furthest wall which wasn't that far since the bathroom was pretty small. "N-No!" Vincent reached for the towel above him and tried to cover up his legs but it was too late. Bo had broken down the door and the sight made him freeze and even worse, you were standing behind him with wide glassy eyes. Vincent tried to open his mouth but he couldn't, he tried to speak but he couldn't. Bo took a step back and tried to process what was happening before him, he was fine with blood but seeing Vincent partially covered in it made him feel weird. You pushed past him and ran to Vincent's side, Vincent looked like he was going to faint either from shock or blood loss. "Vince? Vince? Hey, stay with me."

"Please."

"What is it? Anything-"

"Please don't l-look at me." Vincent's eyes closed, you looked back at Bo and started ordering him to get Vincent into the basement while you looked for whatever could help Vincent, since Ambrose doesn't have a hospital - and even if it did, it would still be completely useless. You tried not to cry as you gathered your equipment, painkillers, bandages, medical tape, towels, alcohol, all that good stuff. How did you not see this? How did Vincent get away with this? How long has he been doing this? You threw everything onto the table and watched as Bo placed Vincent on the bed, you quickly wiped away your tears and started tending to the wounds while Bo watched.

After playing medic for a good 15 minutes the surgery was a success - it wasn't too bad, Vincent thankfully didn't need stitches - you threw the bloody towels aside and threw the blanket over Vincent and turned to Bo. "Did you know about this?"

Bo was silent. You rolled your eyes and turned back to Vincent and stroked his forehead, moving the hair out of his face. "He used to, but I didn't realise he started again or that it was this bad."

You bit your lip and got up from the bed, rubbing your head and looking at Bo. "How long has he been doing this?"

"Since mom died, I think."

"I'll talk to him when he wakes up." Bo nodded and left you alone to wait for Vincent to wake up. You didn't have to wait long, he ended up shooting up and scaring the crap out of you about an hour or so later. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

Vincent looked at you confused. "What?"

"The- where did all these scars come from?"

Vincent's expression faded and he looked down. "I don't-" Vincent grew quiet for a few seconds. "I don't want to be like this."

"Be like what, Vince?"

"Me." It was just one word but it caused you so much pain. You loved Vincent more than anything in this world and the thought of losing him hurt - you never had to think about losing him, just the realisation threw you back. "I am disgusting." He mumbled.

"Vincent. No. You're not disgusting." You felt useless just saying that but you were lost. "Vincent. I can't lose you. I know that I can't say anything that'll make you stop and this won't stop overnight, is there anything I can do right now?" you swore Vincent could hear your heart through your chest as it felt like it was going to burst out like it does in Looney Tunes, Vincent took your hand and looked at you.

"I w-will try." You smiled and he pulled you in, careful not to touch his legs.

"I'm here for you, Vince. I swear I'm never going to leave you - especially for Bo." you jokingly made a disgusted face at the mention of Bo causing the two of you to quietly laugh. "You're way too important."

[kythed]

the fallen

futakuchi x reader

synopsis: it’s a fallen world, and futakuchi is a fallen man. apocalypse au.

Strength alone won’t carry you through the end of the world. 

Futakuchi Kenji knows this better than anyone. He’s seen countless men go down, most of them armed with machetes, rifles, and muscles three times the mass of his own. They walk around with the bravado of decorated generals only to get taken out by a single biter lurking in the storage closet of an abandoned gas station, destined to join the putrid ranks of the undead.

No, strength is not enough. You have to be clever, too. Extremely clever. 

That’s the only way Kenji’s stuck around this long, he thinks, shoving cans into his backpack. He’s kneeling in front of a shelf in an empty supermarket, replenishing his rations without even bothering to read the labels. He can’t afford to be picky. Nowadays, “good food” is just whatever doesn’t give you salmonella. 

He happens to catch the words on the last can as he gingerly places it atop the pile. Chicken noodle soup, it reads. Zipping the bag up and hefting it onto his shoulders, he wrinkles his nose-- he hates chicken noodle. 

Clever means something else, too. Before, it meant report cards littered with As, college scholarships, knowing how to find the differential of a function. Now, it means survival. It means being able to keep your body moving even when every single fiber of your being is screaming at you to stop. It means knowing how to find clean water, how to bandage a tourniquet, how to identify biter tracks and have the good sense to bolt the opposite direction.

It means being able to leave people behind. 

Kenji slips out the supermarket entrance, careful to avoid ringing the little bell that still hangs from the doorframe, a mockery of what was once civilization. Swiveling his head in every direction, he scans for even the barest trace of biters before darting out into the middle of the road, careful to keep the cans in his bag from rattling too loudly. 

He’d started out with a small group comprised of several guys from his hometown. In retrospect, Kenji thinks he should’ve split that first week. Then maybe he wouldn’t have had to see Iwaizumi trampled by a herd of rabid biters, reduced to a bloodstain on the sidewalk. He wouldn’t have seen Kamasaki torn limb from limb right before his eyes while he could do nothing but watch in horror, paralyzed by fear. 

Kenji is glad he’s run out of tears to cry. 

“Fuck off!” 

He’s shaken from his reverie by a string of cuss words and a drawn out scream, followed by the solid thwack of metal on flesh and the angry hissing of a biter. 

“Somebody! Anybody, please! Help me!” 

Sounds like a girl, Kenji thinks. He hates coming across girls-- that’s something he never, ever thought he’d say back before everything went to shit. But girls have always been more trouble than they’re worth, and it’s even truer these days. Kenji shrugs his shoulders, shifting the weight of his bag a smidge, and tries to trudge on. 

“Please!” 

Kenji cringes, halting in his tracks. Your voice is so achingly desperate, torn raw by terror. It’s the voice of someone who wants to live. And that, well, that’s something Kenji can relate to. 

Against his better judgement, he heaves a heavy sigh and turns on his heel, grasping the duct taped handle of a baseball bat protruding from his bag’s outer pocket and spinning it in a practiced motion. He sprints towards the sound of your voice, silently hoping he’ll arrive before a biter takes a nasty chunk out of your arm. 

Kenji is clever, and he knows it. He can find clean water, bandage wounds, and track biters. But leaving people behind? That’s something he has to work on. 

-- 

You’re backed into a corner, wedged between the brick wall of a storefront and a recycling bin. Three biters claw at you and you swing at them with a crowbar, but it seems futile-- they’re already dead, and you’re not sure if they can even die again. 

“HEY!” Kenji calls, tossing his bag to the side. The biters turn towards him with clumsy, lurching motions, decaying flesh dripping from their bones and empty sockets where their eyes should be. “Come and get me, shitheads! Bet I taste a whole lot better!” 

One by one, they obey, snarling as they approach him. And one by one, Kenji takes them out with a violent swing to the head. Wide eyed, chest still heaving, you watch as their brains splatter on the sidewalk in foul pink lumps. 

When the last biter falls to the ground, Kenji looks up at you breathlessly. “You good?” 

He’s more than taken aback when you run towards him and throw your arms around his neck, squeezing tightly. Instinctively, he returns the embrace, pulling you close by the waist. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, and he feels your heartbeat thumping wildly against his own rib cage. “Thank you, thank you. I really thought I was dying today.” 

For a fraction of a second, he lets himself melt into your arms. It’s been a long time since he’s touched another human, and even longer since he’s hugged one. Sighing, he gently pries you off by the shoulders. 

“No problem,” he says. You’re still clutching at his sleeve, looking up at him with something like admiration-- or maybe shock. He clears his throat and nods curtly, carefully pulling your wrist away and turning to grab his bag. “Uh, good luck out there, I guess. I gotta go.” 

“Hey, wait,” you say, and he does, despite himself. More than anything, he wants to get out of there and back on track. He can’t risk the burden of company— in the apocalypse, company just means a broken heart waiting to happen. “I’m coming with you.” 

“Oh, no you’re not,” he says, a wry laugh threatening to rip from his lips. “I travel alone.” 

“Not anymore,” you say, and for a moment Kenji is speechless-- a rare occurrence. “Don’t give me that lone wolf shit. It’s a dangerous world out there, and two is better than one.”

Kenji raises an eyebrow at you. “You’re the one who was almost lunch just now. I can handle myself just fine.” 

“Can you?” you say, stepping closer. You stare pointedly at his forearm, and he groans inwardly. He’d forgotten about that. It’s a cut, fairly shallow but long, and it’s begun to turn an oozing orangey-yellow. He’d caught his arm on a chain link fence he’d been trying to vault over— lame. “That doesn’t look good.”

“I know how to bandage a cut,” Kenji insists. It’s not a lie. But the issue is really that—

“It’s infected,” you say. You tilt your head back towards the storefront. “I have Neosporin in there. And half a bottle of painkillers, which you might need, depending on how bad that little scratch gets.” 

“I’m fine,” Kenji insists. The “little scratch” throbs painfully as he lies through his teeth. “It’ll take care of itself.” 

“Like hell it will,” you snort, glancing towards the store again. A faded sign above the doorway reads Miyazawa’s Convenience Corner, accompanied by the image of a grinning cat. “Wait just one second, then we can get going.”

Kenji doesn’t know why, but when you scamper into the store, he stays. He glances at his watch, a silver analog whose glass is split in two by a crack straight down the middle. He’d found it on the wrist of the first biter he’d ever taken down. 

“Okay, let’s go,” you call, emerging once again. You’re bearing a backpack similar to his-- threadbare and distinctly not yours. He wonders who it used to belong to. “You got a camp?” 

“Woah, slow your roll,” he says. He crosses his arms and stares down at you-- you’re pretty, he notices, underneath that layer of sweat and grime. You’re the type of girl he probably would’ve tried to hit on in the past. “First of all, I don’t even want you to come with me.”

You scowl at him, ready to disagree-- he silences your protests with a raised finger. 

“But,” he adds, “if you insist on doing so, we need to set some ground rules.” 

“Sir, yes, sir,” you say, giving him a mock salute and a bright smile. He rolls his eyes. 

“First,” he says, sternly as he can manage, “I get all the canned oranges we find.”

You raise your eyebrows but nod nonetheless. 

“Second, we don’t interact with other groups. Humans can be just as fatal as biters.” Kenji’s had to learn this the hard way, and from the way you swallow, expression solemn, he thinks you must’ve too. 

“Lastly,” he says, allowing himself a small smile as he bends down near your ear. “Don’t fall in love with me.” 

“Like I’d ever,” you scoff, stepping back. “You’re not my type. You just happen to be the only other person I’ve seen for months.” 

“I’m everyone’s type,” Kenji says, with about as much confidence as he’d say the sky is blue and the grass is green. “Just be careful.” 

“Sure,” you concede, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “So long as you don’t fall in love with me, either.” 

“I’ll try my best,” Kenji says, and he will. He can’t afford to fall in love. Love is a painful, risky business-- and it’s expensive. Love costs a whole heart and about half a brain, two things he’s going to need if he wants to survive. 

Still, you’re pretty. Real pretty. You’re kind of funny, too-- a deadly combination, and he’s no Achilles.

When he starts walking towards the street, you follow, struggling to match his long strides. He shoots a glance over his shoulder, along with a wicked smile. He’s missed this. “But no promises.”

[chickensarentcheap]

Never Gonna Be Alone- Chapter 46

Title: Not Broken, Just Bent

Warnings: mention of suicidal thoughts, profanity, angst

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @tragiclyhip, @miss-smutty​

“I appreciate this,” Tyler says, as he and Desi work side by side in the front foyer; assisting the three littles with the zippers on their coats and the laces on their boots.

He’d called the neighbour on a whim; desperate for even the smallest bit of help. He’s never been one to just reach out to others; long drilled into him that only a pathetic and weak man needs a helping hand. But if the first nightmare in Dhaka had taught him anything, it’s that even the biggest and strongest need someone to lean on from time to time; his body and his spirit so broken that he’d required assistance with even the most basic and simplest of everyday living skills. Esme stepping up to the plate and never once complaining about the energy it depleted her of or the time it took out of her own schedule; never making him feel as if he were a burden. Accompanying -and chauffeuring, as both his physical limitations and pain medications made it impossible for him to function to that extent- him to doctors visits and physiotherapy sessions and counselling appointments with addiction specialists. Always wanting her right there with him even when the most difficult of subjects were broached or intense physical exercises caused excruciating pain. Her quiet presence and all of the patience and resilience inhabiting that tiny body both a source of strength and a tremendous comfort. Accompanied by the tender touch of her hands as they massaged his shoulders or rubbed his back or her fingertips cleared wayward strands of hair from his forehead and out of his eyes. Voice soft and soothing even during the moments where frustration and pain had him raging; a palm on the back of his neck and her nose pressed against his temple as she encouraged him to ‘just breathe’ and reminded him of how far he’d already come and how he was proving all of the doctors and the naysayers wrong.

Six years later she’d find herself back in that situation again; his babies growing and thriving inside her as she once more took on the role of his caretaker. Having to lend assistance with even the mundane things most people take for granted; helping him to the bathroom when the pain was too intense to make it even when the aid of crutches or a walker, keeping a well organized and attentively followed medication schedule, feeding him when the tremors in his hands -a side effect of the meds- made it impossible for him to even hold a fork or spoon. Giving him showers or sponge baths or washing his hair in the kitchen sink and trimming both his hair and his beard. And she’d willingly learned more intensive care as well; wound irrigation and cleaning and how to switch out the IV and medication bags when an infection in the lower back had forced him onto powerful antibiotics. She’d been overwhelmed and exhausted but had never shown it; never losing her patience or her temper with him and never reacting when his own -triggered by pain and frustration and vulnerability- kicked off.

Months of her constant presence, reassurance and steadfast care had opened his eyes to who his wife TRULY is; an incredibly strong and resilient woman that has been through hell and back -a number of times- but never lets the situation break her. Always positive and upbeat; gracing him with smiles or ruffles of his hair or kisses to his cheek and words of praise and encouragement. It had given him a new appreciation and respect for her; how easy she made it look while caring for him and keeping a home running and taking care of his children. Even now he remains in awe of her; the amount of determination and love that can exist in someone so small. And if it taught them both anything, it’s that they truly ARE a team; relying on one another in many different ways. What could have destroyed other couples only served to make them stronger. That foundation built upon a unique and powerful bond and formed through a complicated and dangerous situation never crumbling; holding them up with everything around them seemed to want to break them down. Everything became more solid; their marriage, their roles are parents, their friendship. And they’ve discovered they loved each other even more than they ever realized; a love so complete and whole and all consuming.

Now it’s his turn; shove all of his issues and his demons and monsters aside to take care of her. It’s the one thing he’s always been both good at, and consistent with; shelving all of his problems in order to focus on hers. It’s two fold. A chance to show her just how loved and appreciated and adored she actually is; a way of proving just how grateful he is for everything she’s done -for him AND their family- throughout the past twelve and a half years. And it keeps both his body and his mind busy; making her his number priority an effective way to battle back against his demons. But He realizes he can’t do it alone; the old adage of ‘it takes a village’ proving true. Seven kids in the house means a lot of noise and a lot of activity. Not the ideal setting and atmosphere for someone that is both mentally AND physically exhausted.

While Desi had been the obvious choice on who to seek out, it had taken Tyler nearly a half an hour to convince himself to make the call; feeling guilty for yet again turning to their neighbour to lend a hand. It’s primarily an ego issue; feeling like ‘less of a man’ for not only needing help, but outwardly admitting it and lowering his guard enough to ask for it. Esme would blame it on the toxic masculinity that still lingers deep inside; the ghost of his father telling him he should be dealing everything on his own and that not being able to is a sign of both cowardice and weakness. It remains a struggle at times; breaking away from that train of thought and reminding himself that everything his old man had taught him -or attempted to- had been unhealthy and toxic and nothing but complete bullshit. And Desi is like family; always stepping up when either of them have needed him. A loyal confidant and steadfast supporter, he’d easily and effortlessly blended with large broods; enjoying the time spent under their crazy and chaotic roof and giving the kids the kind of uncle they deserve. And while it normally takes Tyler months or even years to trust someone when it comes to his personal life and the safety and the well being of his family, with Desi it has come fairly easily. That laid back and enormously generous personality and the gentle and compassionate way he treats Esme and the kids had triggered Tyler’s instincts. Letting him know that the man was trustworthy and reliable and in no way a threat.

“Anytime,” Desi says, as he finishes with the laces on Takota’s boots and turns to help Brooklyn, allowing her to attempt the tying and only stepping in which she gets frustrated and gives up. “You know I’m here for you guys. Always.”

Tyler slips a purple and pink knitted beanie onto Addie’s head. “Seem to rely on you an awful lot.”

“It’s what friends do, right? Help each other out when they need it. They step up. Lend a hand. No one can go through life alone. No one.”

“You wouldn’t have been able to tell me that thirteen years ago. I was pretty sure that’s how I’d live out the rest of my life. And die.”

“Were you happy though? Living like that? All by your lonesome? Out there in the middle of nowhere?”

“I had company.”

“A dog and a chicken are NOT company,” Desi informs him. “Not by a long shot.”

“Dogs are man’s best friend, aren’t they? And it was a pretty smart chicken.”

“You can’t tell me you were happy like that. Living way out there, alone, no one to talk to. No one is happy living like that.”

“In all fairness, ninety percent of the time I was too out of it to be carrying on conversations.”

It feels like a lifetime ago; that rundown shack in the middle of the outback, surrounded by nothing but the sparse trees and dry earth and looming mountain ranges. It had seemed like the perfect place to let his wounds fester and his addictions take hold; no one trying to dictate what he could and couldn’t do, no attempts at trying to talk him into rehab or counselling, far enough out that not even Koen or Rata made it a habit of stopping by unannounced. Out there he’d been surrounded by nothing but emptiness; a perfect match for the gaping hole in his chest where his heart had once been. A punishment of sorts. Nothing but the mistakes of the past and his overwhelming grief and guilt to keep him warm at night. Out there he could let the demons run rampant; drinking himself into oblivion and abusing Oxy at an alarming rate. His last coherent thought before passing out would always be the same; that the substances he’d put in his body would be enough to ensure he didn’t wake up the next day. But he always did; usually coming to in the middle of the warped and dusty floor or sitting at the kitchen table. Surrounded by empty bottles of booze and tipped over vials of pills and crippled by a brutal hangover; the headache and nausea and the dizziness so intense he’d have to crawl to the bathroom.

When it became apparent that the mix of alcohol and painkillers weren’t enough to do the trick, he began taking the most risky and dangerous jobs possible. By that time, he was fully engrossed in his death wish; too chicken to pull the trigger himself so instead relying on someone else to do it for him. Every time he went out, he’d all but pleaded to a higher power that it would be his last. Resorting to begging and pleading with whatever -or whoever- was watching his ass to take break; take their eyes off him or shirk their duties long enough for him to catch a bullet to the head. Yet it never happened. No matter how many times he’d spun that barrel and taken the risk, he always lived to see another day. Which in turn had only made his desperation even more intense; feeding into that grief and the sorrow that threatened to drown him yet never took him right under. That day on the cliff when he’d plunged into the water below, there’d been nothing stopping him from giving up; the weight of his regret and self loathing enough to keep him below the surface and allow his air to slowly run out. He hadn’t been afraid. He’d been ready to die for a long time.

Yet something had told him to keep going. A little voice hanging onto a thread of hope; louder than those attempting to destroy him. And when he’d pulled himself out of the water, he’d found he suddenly felt lighter; as if some of the burdens and past mistakes had temporarily lifted and been replaced by the first shred of contentment he’d experienced in a hell of a long time. Less than forty minutes later, he’d be watching Esme as she climbed up onto his porch. Studying her as she crouched down and showered his dog with attention. Finding himself both curious and intrigued about the unknown, tattooed and pierced dark haired beauty that had suddenly shown up in his life.

“You gotta admit, that kind of existence IS lonely,” Desi says, as he opens the front door and motions for the three littles to step through. “All alone? Out in a place like THAT? I’ve been there, remember. I’ve seen what it’s like. It’s desolate and it’s isolating and…”

“And it’s what I wanted at the time.’

Desi cocks an eyebrow, then steps out onto the front porch. “What you wanted? Or what you thought you deserved?”

A smirk tugs at the corner of Tyler’s mouth, and he stands on the threshold with a palm flat against the door, effectively holding it open. “What seemed right at the time.”

“Were you? Lonely?”

“Never gave it much thought, to be honest. But in all fairness, most of my days were spent drunk and high off my ass, so…”

“You never once wished that you had someone around? Someone to talk to? Spend time with? Get...you know...PERSONAL with.”

“If I wanted that, I could get it. Easily. There was no shortage of that, believe me.”

“You never wanted more than that? I mean, there’s more to life than THAT. What about bonding with someone? Yeah, sex is great, but what about everything else? Companionship. Friendship. Someone to come home to at the end of the day or however long you were gone for some times. Someone that’s just...THERE...you know?”

“I was a fucking mess. Way worse than you could even begin to imagine. Why would I bring someone into that? Why would I do that to someone? Ruin their life like that? They get with me, everything’s great for a while, then they discover just how messed up I am and take off. What would be the point? Bringing someone into that? That’s just wasting their time.”

“Was it about them or you? Not wanting to get involved with someone.”

Arching an eyebrow, Tyler leans against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Seems like maybe you were using all that as excuses. To protect yourself. That maybe you were scared to get too attached. Just in case they DID decide it was too much and run off.”

A slow grin tugs at his lips. “ You’re starting to sound an awful lot like Esme. You’re getting into the psychoanalyzing business too, huh?”

“I’m just saying that maybe it ran deeper than worrying about other peoples’ feelings. Maybe you were worried about your own too.”

“I was dead inside, Des. I wasn’t feeling a damn thing.”

“Except for shame and guilt and regret. And a whole hell of a lot of self loathing.”

“You really ARE spending too much with my wife.”

“I just think it makes sense. You protecting yourself too. But not willing to admit it. At least not out loud. Wouldn’t it have been worth giving it a shot? Finding someone? Seeing if they could put up with everything?”

“I was an alcoholic mercenary with a drug addiction and a death wish. Who would put up with that?”

“Esme, for one.”

“Esme is an entirely different breed all her own. I highly doubt there’s many out there like her. That would willingly hook up with a fucking train wreck and put up with everything I’ve put her through. That I KEEP putting her through.”

“You know, you’re not as bad as you think you are. Do you have some issues? Yeah. But shit, we all do. We’re all a mess. In one way or another. You might be a little messier than most, but…”

“A little? That’s being awfully nice about it.”

“Look, she sticks around, doesn’t she? She’s still here. Twelve and half years later. You really think if things were THAT bad she wouldn’t have hauled ass a long time ago? Didn’t y’all split up for a while?”

“Six months,” Tyler confirms.

“And yet you got back together. She wanted things to work out. Not like she kicked your ass to the curb and hooked up with some other guy. You guys fixed your shit, made things better. She wouldn’t have taken you back if you were that bad. She wouldn’t have put herself or the kids through that.”

“Still a lot for one person to deal with. We’ve been through a lot shit. Way too much, actually.”

“Shit that would have broken weaker people,” Desi points out. “Both of you...separately... are strong as hell. But the two of you together? That’s a force to be reckoned with. And maybe she is a different breed of woman. Maybe it was the way she was raised that made her the way she is. Or the way she WASN’T raised. But let me tell you, she is a tough little thing. Feisty as all hell.”

“Totally a study in contradiction. You see that little body and that cute face and you think she’s all innocent and sweet and the next thing you know…”

“You’re married to her and seven kids?” Desi grins.

“I was going to say the next thing you know, she’s telling you where to go and how to get there and putting you in your place. Totally not what I expected, that’s for sure. Woman that size to be such a challenge. And so fucking bossy. If you heard half the shit that comes out of her mouth…”

“She keeps you on your toes. Challenges you. She’s definitely no push over. Which leads right back to my point. If you were as bad as you think you are, do you really think a woman like her would stick around? Hell no. She’d tell you off and pack her shit and take off. There’s no if’s, end’s, or butt’s about that. You brought that much shit and pain into her life? Things would have never gotten this far.”

“You know, you make a little TOO much sense.”

“I just tell ‘em like I see ‘em. You’re not the massive prick you think you are. Maybe a little bit of one…”

Tyler smirks.

“She showed up right when she was supposed to. That day at your place. Think of all the things in both your pasts that had to go wrong for you two to cross paths. If even just one of things went right, you probably never would have laid eyes on her. And that would have been a damn shame.”

“Yeah,” he nods slowly, considering his friend’s words. “It would have been.”

“The right woman came along at the right time. If your heart and your head didn’t think so, you wouldn’t be where you are now. You wouldn’t have the life you do. Hell, you probably wouldn’t have a life at all.”

“I’d be dead. If Esme hadn’t come along. I don’t doubt that for a second.”

“Daddy!” Addie clomps up the front walk and climbs the porch stairs; abandoning the task of helping her siblings build a messy fort of wet snow. And she wraps both arms around one of his thighs and leans her slight, tiny body into him. “Do we REALLY have to go out?”

“It’s just for a few hours.” He scoops her up into his arms and settles her on his hip. “ Go get some lunch, go see a movie, stop at the candy store. Doesn’t that sound like fun? A day out with Des? You always love your days out with Des.”

“It does sound like fun and I DO love going out with Desi, but…” she curls both arms around his neck and nestles her face against the side of his throat. “...I want to stay with you and mummy. She was gone this morning. And it scared me. That she wasn’t here to do our thing.”

“Well tomorrow you can do your thing. Sometimes OTHER things come up. Can’t help that.”

“And I only got to spend a little bit of time with her because she’s been sleeping a LONG time!”

“She’s only been sleeping an hour. Didn’t you spend some time with her? Didn't you take a bath with her? In the big tub?”

“Yeah, but…”

“I need you to cooperate, okay? Mummy needs some rest. And she can’t really get that with all you guys in the house. Right now, she needs to sleep and when she wakes up, I need to be able to take care of her. And if I’ve got all you guys to take care of, I can’t really do that, can I?”

“Is she sick?”

“She’s a little under the weather.”

“Like a cough due to cold?”

“Nothing like that. She’s just feeling a little rundown. Nothing some quiet time won’t help. So you think you can do me a solid? Go out with a Desi for a bit?”

Addie sighs heavily. “I guess…”

“We’ll have a great time,” Desi promises. “We always do. Mommy and daddy need some time alone. It happens. They’ve got some stuff to take care of.”

Addie reaches for him; allowing herself to pass from one set of arms to another. “Like making a baby?”

“No one is making any babies,” Tyler informs. “Not in this house anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Because our days of making babies are long gone. The shop is closed. All done. That’s it.”

“One more wouldn’t be so bad,” Addie reasons. “Another sister.”

“One more WOULD be bad. And a shock because neither mummy or I can have more babies. Now…” laying a hand on the back of her head, he leans in to press a kiss to the tip of her nose. “....be good. I don’t want any bad reports when Desi gets back.”

“Why you telling me? I’m always good.”

Tyler stares pointedly at his daughter.

“Well, ALMOST always.”

“Remember what I said. No taking off. You stay with Desi. Or with TJ. Got it?”

Addie gives a thumbs up. “Got it!”

“Have fun. And don’t worry about mummy. She’s fine, I’ll take care of her. I promise.”

“You better,” the five year old warns. “‘Cause that’s my mummy and if anything happens to her…”

“Your mummy is in good hands,” Tyler promises. “Daddy knows what he's doing. I’m not some rookie, you know.”

“You be nice to mummy,” Addie orders. “No arguing and no making her cry and no making fun of how tiny she is.”

“You’re kidding me, right? That’s my go to. Making fun of her height.”

“Speaking as a short person, it’s NOT funny. At all.”

“I wonder how funny it will be when I DO pick you and your mum up and put you in my pockets.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Addie’s eyes narrow as she glares at him.

“Don’t give me that look,” He pecks her pouted lips. “You and your mumma both know everything I say, I say because I love you guys. Can I help it that you’re both so tiny and cute?”

“Can we help it that you’re so big and have humongous feet and ears?” Addie counters.

“Ouch,” Desi chuckles. “Savage.”

“She gets that from her mumma. Little, but so full of rage.” He digs his fingers into his daughter’s side, tickling her until the pout turns into a smile and she begins to giggle. “Do I need to remind you that you got my ears? And my feet? You all do.”

“Poor us,” Addie quips, and then squeals and giggles even louder when he brushes his beard against her cheeks.

“I love you,” he says, and presses a kiss to the freckled bridge of his daughter's nose. “Be good, okay? I’m counting on you here.”

“I got this!” She flashes two thumbs up over Desi’s shoulder as he carries her down the stairs. “See you later, alligator!”

“In a while crocodile,” Tyler responds.

“Blow a kiss, goldfish!”

“Bye-bye butterfly.”

“Toodle-loo kangaroo!”

Tyler shoots her a wink and then steps out onto the front porch. Hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie as he watches Desi herd the noisy and excited and noisy bunch out the front gate and then down the slush covered sidewalk. Waiting until they disappear around the corner before heading back into the house.

*****

The shower feels damn good. Hot enough to sting and to cause a new layer of perspiration to form on his skin; gathering at his temples and along his hairline and above his upper lip. The latter he swipes away with the tip of his tongue and then places his palms flat against the tile; chin tucked into his chest and his eyes closed as the water beats down on his weary body. Physically speaking, he feels great; very little pain or tightness across the small of his back, a dull yet manageable ache in his repaired shoulder, the swelling of his right knee not as not as prominent as it usually is. The latter surprises him. He’d pushed himself extremely hard during his run that morning, greatly exceeding anything he’d ever put himself on the treadmill and far beyond the limits the specialists had put on him after his second surgery. And while he knows he shouldn’t ‘test the waters’ and there’s a legitimate risk of ligament tears and dislocations, he’s never been one to play by the rules. Refusing to let anyone confine him to what’s conventionally acceptable; always wanting to prove not only the naysayers wrong, but his own mind and body. An injury he can deal with; another operation and the recovery afterwards a lot easier to bear then the damage to the ego. His physicality has always been of major importance; strength, size, speed, stamina. And he’s had a hell of a time getting back to even seventy percent of where he’d been five years ago. When Nathan had managed to get the jump on him and achieved what no other foe had ever managed: breaking his body and mind.

He refuses to dwell on it. Nothing he can do will ever erase or lessen what happened; his body forever damaged and his entire lifestyle permanently altered. Physical injuries, mental health issues, the constant toeing of the line between addiction and sobriety. And he knows things could be a lot worse; dying that day on the bridge in Dhaka and never getting his second chance. He’d been given an incredible opportunity; an absolution for the mistakes of the past and a whole new life and a bright and content future. But it hasn’t been without its own share of pain and sacrifice and suffering; every blessing coming at an exceptional cost. Ones he’d happily paid and would do so again; willingly putting his own body and sanity on the line if it means keeping his family safe and sound.

A half an hour passes; hot water tank nearly drained when he finally steps out of the shower. Body still damp when he heads into the bedroom; a towel wrapped loosely around his waist and another being used to vigorously dry his hair. Slivers of light manage to trickle through the gap in the room darkening curtains, and he uses it to his advantage; quietly navigating the spacious master suite. She’s been asleep for more than an hour now; on his side of the bed with the heavy comforter pulled up to her chin and her cheek nestled into his pillow. Normally she would have argued with him; pointing out the list of things that -in her always busy mind- needed to be done before her sister’s arrival. But her ‘meltdown’ earlier had left her emotionally exhausted and she hadn’t kicked up even the slightest bit of fuss when he suggested she take time for herself; a long soak in the tub, her favourite ‘comfort’ clothes, a well deserved nap.

It’s been twelve and a half years of sacrifice and compromise on her part; giving up her old life in favour of a new one with him, adjusting to life in a new country only to have it torn apart and be forced back home, reluctantly agreeing to his return to the job and the worry and the stress that came with it. Five pregnancies that resulted in seven amazing and beautiful children; her physical and mental health paying a steep price each time, yet never denying him the desire for a big family. And the times she’s seen him near death. Horrendous injuries inflicted upon him; those long days and nights by his side in various hospitals and eventually the arduous and painful roads to recovery. Yet she’s done it without complaint; throwing herself into caring for him and their family and consistently putting her own well being on the back burner.

Lowering himself cautiously onto the end of the bed, he once more scrubs at his hair and then tosses the towel in the direction of the laundry hamper; sighing when it misses its mark and falls heavily to the floor. While mentally weary, his body feels great; relieved to be relatively pain free and filled with an uncharacteristic optimism. The silver lining within a very dark and immense cloud. A welcome boost of confidence he hasn’t experienced in years; brave enough to consider that maybe...just maybe...the worst is now behind him. And as he studies his reflection in the mirror atop the dresser, for once he’s not finding all the faults. No anger or disgust when his fingers lightly travel over the myriad of scars that inhabit his face, no thoughts of how battered and worn down he appears. Instead he notices that his eyes seem brighter; not as haunted and empty as they’ve been since his return from Cambodia. His face has filled out; the slight weight gain making the lines that accompany aging -and a hard life lived on the edge- not seem as prominent. His chest and arms are bigger; the slightest of flexes stretching the tattoos that decorate the insides of both biceps and shoulders. The positivity is surprising; years spent living in a state of self loathing and speaking self deprecating words long ago taking their toll and reducing him to a man that didn’t give a shit about his personal appearance. As long as he maintained his strength and his quickness and his skills, that had been all that mattered; not giving a second thought to his choice of attire or the thickness of his beard or the unruliness of his hair.

He’s still not what would be considered high maintenance; the opposite of a Desi who spends more time getting ready than the average female and has closets full of insanely expensive high end clothing. Still the most comfortable in bare feet and board shorts; jeans and a simple t-shirt considered ‘dressing up’ in his world. It’s an effortless existence; relaxed and content and low key. And it’s one the entire family -aside from a very ‘girly’ Addie- has adopted. Happy and secure; tucked away at the end of that dead end street and surrounded by nature and the smells and the sounds of the ocean. Their own slice of paradise; hard work, resilience, and a hell of a lot of money turning what had once been a modest residence into their dream home. It will be their ‘happily after after’; the place where they’ll raise their children, spoil their grandkids, and grow old and grey together. And for once, he’s confident that will happen. That they’ll get those moments Esme often speaks wistfully about. When their home is empty and it’s just the two of them; quiet breakfasts on the back deck and dinners down by the water. When there’s more grey in their hair and wrinkles on their faces, yet they still walk along the beach hand in hand or with their arms wrapped around each other; indulging in their bantering and their teasing and stopping to steal kisses in the surf.

And still giving her piggy back rides back to the house.

He feels the mattress shift slightly, and he watches her reflection through the mirror as she adjusts her position in bed. Rolling over onto her back and stretching languorously; a long, content sigh escaping her lips and the heels of her palms pressing into her eyes. When she props herself onto her elbows and looks at him, her hair is disheveled and her eyes are slightly narrowed; a pout of confusion and disorientation capturing her lips.

“Tyler?”

“Yeah?”

“What time is it?”

“Almost one.”

The pout transforms into a frown. “In the afternoon?”

“No. Morning.”

“Smart ass,” she grumbles, and then flops down onto her back. A foot kicks off the heavy comforter in favour of coming in contact with his back; toes slowly brushing along the top edge of the towel. “What are you doing?”

“I was in the shower. Didn’t get a chance to do it when I got home from my run. With everything that happened and you leaving and having to take care of the kids....” his voice trails off. It’s the last thing he wants to revisit. His panic attack in the kitchen, the way his oldest son had sensed the urgency and the stress and stepped up to the plate to care for his little sister, the worry that his wife either wouldn’t return or would walk through the door and tell him that it was over. That he was just too much for her to bear; a heavy and troublesome burden weighing her down.

“Why’s it so quiet?” she asks, and he’s thankful for the change in conversation. “What happened? Did they get a little too feral? Get on your last nerve so you tranquilized all of them?”

“I sold them all. On the black market.”

“I hope you got a good price for them,” she chides, and trails the tip of her big toe along his spine. “I put a lot of work into those kids. Not to mention what my body went through. I think that’s worth a good penny, don’t you? Doesn’t it deserve compensation? My body going to absolute shit?”

“Your body is amazing. It was incredible when we met, and it’s even more incredible now.”

“You really are the most biased husband on earth. My ass is bigger. My hips are wider.”

“You’ve had babies. MY babies.”

“Yeah, I have,” she smiles, and once more props herself up on her elbows. “Only guy in the universe I’d ever give that many spawn too.”

He grins at her through the mirror. “I’m honoured.”

“You should be,” she playfully retorts. “You’re naked under that towel, aren’t you.”

“Well considering I just got out of the shower and I don’t wear board shorts or underwear when I’m in there…”

“Honey, as incredible as your body is and I could lie here all day admiring it, I’m going to need you to put some clothes on. It’s far too tempting to engage in X rated activity when you’re naked. Or next to naked.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. X rated activities. With me.”

“Normally it’s not. But I think I’m PMSing.” That dramatic, adorable pout again. “ I’ve got wicked cramps and I’m feeling bloated as fuck and you know my hesitancy on having sex when all of that is going on. I know it doesn’t faze you and as much as orgasms DO help, it’s just not my jam.”

“Say no more.” Sighing, he gets to his feet; grateful that the normally bone deep pain that resides in his right knee has settled into nothing more than a dull, manageable ache. And he grabs a pair of discarded jeans slung over the back of the chair by the balcony door; releasing the towel from around his waist and tossing it in the direction of the laundry hamper.

“Now that’s just evil,” Esme declares. “You are a bad, bad, BAD man.”

He smirks at her through the mirror. “Why’s that?”

“Don’t play innocent with me. You know exactly what you’re doing. Just dropping the towel like that. That’s so, so, SO mean.”

“Gotta give you something to stare at, yeah?”

“I prefer to call it admiring. And I have done a lot of admiring over the last twelve and half years. You never disappoint, husband.”

“I aim to please.”

“And do you ever hit your mark. Each and every time.”

Grinning, he tugs the jeans up over his hips and ass and tends to the button and zipper; pushing a hand through his damp hair as he approaches the side of the bed. “Move.”

“I like this spot. It’s YOUR spot. It’s got all your grooves in it. It’s comfortable.”

“Yeah, but it’s MY spot. And you know how anal I am about my spot. So haul ass. Please.”

“Grump face,” she mutters, but wriggles her way backward across the bed; rolling onto her hip as he joins her; sliding under the comforter and laying on his side facing her.

“Come here…” Reaching out, he curls an arm around her petite frame and pulls her into him. Hand resting in the middle of her back as his other arm slips under her shoulder; thigh wedging between her legs.. “...I’ll make you feel better, baby. In a non X rated way.”

“You’re so selfless.” She presses her body against his; a hand pushing through his hair and her head tucking under his chin. Eyes closing and a long, content sigh escaping her as she breathes in his familiar scent. Clean and crisp; notes of sandalwood and citrus. “So generous. Where ARE the kids?”

“Desi took them out. Lunch and a movie. Candy bar afterwards.”

“He just offered or....?”

“I called him. Told him you were having a rough day. That I needed some time and some space and some quiet. To take care of my girl.”

A smile plays on her lips as she pulls back to look at him. “Your girl, huh?”

“That’s what you are, aren’t ya? Or would I rather I call you my old lady?”

“I would definitely NOT rather that. I like it; being called your girl. It’s cute. I like the sound of it.”

He presses a kiss to the bridge of her nose. Palm sliding up her back, across her shoulder and then gently cupping the side of her face ; thumb repeatedly brushing against the top of her cheek.

She likes these moments with him. Quiet and content; bodies pressed together in a pure and innocent form of intimacy. The way his gaze never wavers ; as if he's intently studying every inch of her features and committing them to memory. Love and adoration written as plain as day upon his face; the softness of his expression, the gentle touch of a callused palm and fingertips, the tender smile that plays on his lips. A beautiful man with a not so beautiful past. A childhood filled with torment and abuse and anguish and tremendous loss, followed by years of substance abuse and a life lived on the edge; hounded by immense grief and guilt and regret and anxious for death to claim him. It’s no surprise that he has the issues he does; no one can go through a lifetime of trauma and come out of it unscathed. But it’s a shock he isn’t worse than he is. Still filled with so much strength; resilient and brave and never backing down from even the biggest of challenges. Loving and compassionate and sensitive. A striking juxtaposition considering his choice of career. A hardened and highly skilled mercenary that kills as a means to an end, not because he enjoys it.

“So you actually CALLED Desi?” she inquires. “For help? That’s a little...out of character.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice. Your sister won’t be here until later and I wasn’t waiting that long. So I got a hold of him and asked him to do me a favour. If he could take the kids so I could concentrate on you. That’s kind of hard to do when there’s seven plus one under the same roof.”

“That’s HUGE for you. You didn’t just acknowledge and admit you needed help, you actually ACTED on it.”

“What’s so huge about that? I’ve asked for help before.”

“You’ve asked ME for help before. Never someone else. That’s not you, Tyler. You’d rather wear yourself thin or completely burn yourself out than rely on other people.”

“It’s one of my issues,” he admits. “For many reasons. But you know how I always say there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you?”

Esme nods.

“That includes swallowing my pride and asking for help.”

“You doing THAT? THAT’S love right there. And probably some lust, too.”

“There’s a little bit of that in there too,” he teases, and then places a soft, lingering kiss on her lips. Their eyes closing when the tip of his nose comes to rest against her forehead; hand slipping from her cheek and finding the back of her neck, fingers gently and deftly massaging the tense muscles.

For several minutes neither of them speak; basking in the silence and the warmth that radiates from one another's bodies; his slow, even breaths ruffling her hair, hers tickling his bare neck. These moments are rare; the chaos of raising seven children and their respective work schedules and responsibilities. Both are looking forward to her being home more. The opportunity to actually be alone; walks on the beach or time in the water, hikes in the woods or strolls through town. And the road trips. Needing nothing more than gas in the tank and money in their pockets.

*****

“Feeling any better?” Tyler asks, and slips his hand up into her hair; fingertips gently kneading the scalp.

“A little. Have a headache though. Not sure if it’s PMS or my moods or my meltdown earlier. But it’s a bitch. A mean, old bitch.”

He pulls away. Hand moving to the top of her head and fingers pressing on her well known problem areas; along the tops of both brows, the inside corners of her eyes, the bridge of her nose. Attempting to alleviate at least some of the pain and pressure. “Good?” he asks, when she reaches up to push her fingers through his; drawing their joined hands down to her lips and pressing a kiss to the side of his wrist.

She nods, a smile curving her lips. “Good. You and your magic fingers. They certainly know their stuff. In many ways.”

“They have a talent all of their own.”

“They certainly do. MANY talents, actually. Are YOU feeling better?”

“Not bad. My body feels pretty good. Thought maybe I’d be in agony after my run, but…”

“You pushed yourself, didn’t you. HARD. Harder than you’re supposed to.”

“Come on now. Would I actually do something like that? Not listen to the doctor’s orders?”

“You most certainly would. And you definitely have. Be careful, Tyler. Don’t push the limits too much, okay? I realize you know your own body, but you don’t always listen to it. I don’t want you hurting yourself. Screwing something up and needing surgery. AGAIN.”

“I won’t go too hard,” he promises, and pecks her lips. “But right now? I’m taking care of YOU. Not the other way around. You’ve spent a lot of time looking after me. Worrying about me. Probably too much.”

“It’s not like it’s a job or something like that. You’re my husband. I love you. That’s why I do it.”

“And I love you. Which is why I need to step up and take care of you. Don’t be so stubborn, Me. Let me look after you. We’re a team, yeah? We’re supposed to be in this together? Let me pick up some of the slack.”

“It’s a bad habit of mine. Doing everything myself. I mean, in high school I was the one that got saddled with all the work during group projects. My classmates would fuck around and I’d be stuck having to do it all by my lonesome.”

“Well you don’t have to do this by your lonesome. It’s a two way street, right? You and me against the world?”

Nodding, she presses a kiss to his chin, then his lips. “You’re a good husband. I think I’ll keep you.”

“Good. Because I think I’ll stick around. I kinda like it here.”

Smiling, she lays a hand on the side of his face. Her fingers press through his beard; nails lightly scraping along his jaw. “Do you think we could talk?”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing? You already said no naked time, so…”

“I mean a serious talk. Piggybacking off what happened this morning. More specifically, what happened with ME this morning. And WHY it happened.”

“I thought we already talked about it. When you got back. Didn’t realize there was anything more to say. You’re going through some shit. Depression. Probably PTSD. You got a lot of stress. And probably most of that can be blamed on me.”

“I’m not blaming anything on you. I never have. I never will. My brain was screwed up way before you ever came along.”

“I’m sure I made it worse. I’ve put you through a lot of crap. Twelve and a half years of it.”

“We are not doing this. YOU are not doing this. That’s all water under the bridge, Tyler. Things we went through and dealt with. It’s behind us. Can we leave it there? Can YOU? Because it’s not doing you any good; holding onto so much guilt and regret. I don’t want you doing that. That’s the last thing I want, actually.”

“It’s kind of hard NOT to do it. To think back on it all and not see how badly i’ve fucked up.”

“It was all beyond your control. Things went bad. That’s all there is to really say about it. Things went to shit and you reacted badly to them and you made some pretty crappy judgement calls. But we got past all of that. I don’t hold grudges against you. I don’t hate you. Or blame you for anything. It’s time you stop blaming yourself, okay?”

“You know me. I’m willing to try anything once. Except for maybe eating ass. That’s a little too far out of my comfort zone.”

“Well lucky for you, it’s WAY out of mine. But can we? Have a serious talk? Without it turning into a fight? I don’t want to fight with you. We’ve come a long way since those days; everything turning into a big blow out.”

“I don’t want to fight with you, either. But if it’s something THAT serious…”

“I mean, it’s serious but not THAT serious. It’s not life or death or anything. It’s just...I don’t know…” her fingers nervously fidget with the chain around his neck. “...it’s a pretty big deal.”

“Is it about us? Are we having problems I’m not aware of? Is there someone else?”

“No! Oh my god, no. Nothing like that. Other than dealing with our own mental stuff, we are fine. We are MORE than fine. And there isn’t anyone else. There never has been. And there never will be. You’re it for me. For the rest of my life. There’s no one else I want. I could EVER want.”

Smiling, he presses a kiss to her lips.

“It’s to do with me. What’s going on in my head. What HAS been going on in there. And I need you to promise that you won’t freak out. That you won’t hear the worst of it and shut down and lose your temper and…”

He frowns. “Esme…”

“Tyler, I love you. More than you could ever possibly know. And right now, I need you to promise me that you won’t lose it. That you’ll just listen and let everything sink in. Not just hear a bit and react. Can you do that? Promise me?”

He nods. “I won’t lose my shit. Promise. What’s going on? Are you okay? Are you sick? Is there something wrong and you’ve been holding out on me?”

“I’m not sick,” she assures him. “Not physically anyway. It’s all to do with my brain. I’ve struggled for years. Long before I ever met you. And I’ve had some down moments; since we’ve been together. Especially after each of our babies. When postpartum was a real bitch to me. So it’s not like you don’t know what I deal with. In my head.”

“I’ve known for years. You told me pretty much right from the start. A couple days into Dhaka. About having depression. Being diagnosed after your dad died. And I’m pretty sure you’ve got PTSD too. After everything that went on in Bangladesh, ESPECIALLY on that bridge? You can’t say it would be a surprise. If you were diagnosed with it.”

“The furthest thing from a surprise. Now you promise? Not to freak out?”

“I already did. Can we get to it already? Because you stall any longer and my anxiety is going to go off the charts.”

Sighing, she curls a finger around his necklace and gently yanks him into a kiss. Lips lingering on his before finally pulling away. “I lied to you. About a year ago,”

“About…?”

“Do you remember when you were in Brazil? For a couple weeks? The whole drug cartel thing?”

He nods. “What about it?”

“Remember how when you came back, I mentioned a girls weekend. In Cairns. With Riley and Shaena. And how I was worried you’d be pissed because I wanted to go on it? Because you’d been gone for two weeks and me leaving meant we’d only have a couple days together?”

“Yeah, and I was fine with it. You needed a break. I didn’t have a problem with you going. What…?”

“There was never a girls weekend,” Esme admits, and his frown intensifies; deep furrows inhabiting his brow. “We made it up. So you wouldn’t know what was really going on.”

“Babe...what…?”

“I was in the hospital. For three days. And not just any hospital. A psychiatric one.”

“A psychiatric hospital? Why? What…?”

“When you were gone, I had a really bad time. I mean, I always do when you leave. I don’t sleep, I worry constantly, I stress over everything and even little stuff gets on my nerves and drags me down. But this was worse. WAY worse. And even though I knew you were okay and that you were coming home, I still had all that dread, you know? All that worry. Constantly wondering if maybe I’d never see you again. That maybe the last time you walked out the door really WAS the last time.”

“That was an easy job. I wasn’t even out in the field. I was strictly behind the scenes. I never even left the hotel. Not until I had to go get everyone out. I told you I’d stay behind and I did.”

“I know. But I still freaked out. I was still worried. I always worry about you, you know that. And one night it was really bad. I felt like I was losing it. I hadn’t heard from you that day and you didn’t return any of my voicemails or texts and…”

“We had problems with coms. I told you that. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to you. There were legit issues.”

“And I tried telling myself that. That there were issues. But it didn’t help. And I lost it. Badly. I’m pretty sure it was actually a mental breakdown. And I called Riley because I was freaking out and I couldn’t get control of myself. I thought I was going crazy. And I told her that I felt like I was going to hurt myself.”

He blinks at her confession. “What?”

“I don’t think I actually would have done it. I think I was just feeling desperate at that moment. I don’t think…”

“You wanted to kill yourself? You wanted to die?”

“I guess. I don’t know. I was looking for a way out. An escape. And my brain wasn’t exactly in a good place and that’s where it went. Like I said, I don’t think I would have actually done anything. But I called Riley and she came over and stayed with me and the kids. Just in case.”

“What if she hadn’t been around? What if she couldn’t have come over? What if she still lived in Colorado? Would you have done it? Hurt yourself?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t THINK so? Esme…”

“I wasn’t exactly thinking right. I was in a really bad way, Tyler. REALLY bad. And I needed help. So I called her.”

“Why didn’t you call ME?”

“What would you have been able to do? You were in Brazil.”

“I would have come home. Right away. I would have dropped everything and had someone else be in charge. Do you really think I wouldn’t have? Come home? There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Why didn’t you call me?”

“You were so far away,” she attempts to reason. “And I needed help right away.”

“I would have talked you down. I would have gotten you through it. Why wouldn’t you get a hold of me? I’m your husband.”

“I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was just thinking in the moment. And getting ahold of you in Brazil wasn’t the first thing that came to my mind. It wasn’t personal. You should know that. That you’re the one person that’s always been able to help me. But you were thousands of miles away and you were busy and I didn’t want to put something else on you. Burden you.”

“Burden me? You’re my wife. You could never burden me. What the fuck, Esme? Why didn’t you at least tell me I got home? Why lie to me? Why make up this whole fucking story about a girls trip? Why…?”

“I didn’t want to put that on you. Especially when you had to stay with the kids. They needed you to be focused and all about them. And you wouldn’t have been able to do that if I told you. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“You didn’t want me to worry? You’re my WIFE.”

“I was trying to protect you. I’m always trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” Tyler argues. “I’m not a fucking child, Esme. I’m a grown ass man. I don’t need you coddling me and babying me and protecting me. I would have stepped up and took care of you. That should have been on me. Not your sister. Not Shaena. Not anyone else. Me.”

“I needed you to take care of the kids. You’d been gone for two weeks and they missed you and I didn’t want them to be without BOTH parents. It’s not personal. I didn’t make the decisions I did to hurt you. I made them to help you. To help our family.”

“How much help would it have been if I’d come home and you were dead on the floor? How much help would it have been if one of our kids had found you? Do you know how bad that would have fucked them up? Losing their mother like that? Do you know how bad it would have fucked ME up?”

“I wasn’t thinking of those things. I wasn’t thinking about anything. That’s the problem. All I wanted was an escape. That’s it.”

“An escape from what? Your shitty life with your shitty husband?”

“No!” She clasps his face in her hands. “I love my life. And my husband. You know what depression is like. It doesn’t care where you live or what you have or how many people love you. It’s all in your head. It’s a fucking monster you can’t escape from. You know EXACTLY what it’s like. I never meant…” her voice cracks with emotion. “...I never meant to hurt you. I would NEVER hurt you. I thought I was protecting you. And I know you say you don’t need me to. And maybe you don’t. But I do it because I love you. Because I want to make things easier on you. That’s all. It’s not to hurt you, Tyler.”

“You can’t try and convince me I’m not broken when you treat me like I am.”

She frantically grabs at the chain around his neck with one hand, his shoulder with the other. “That’s not what I was doing. You AREN’T broken. I don’t treat you like you are.”

“You are when you do shit like that. When you lie to me. Especially about something like this.”

“I’ve never lied to you. About anything. I’ve always been honest. About my childhood, about what Mark put me through, about…”

“What about the guy?”

“What guy? What…?”

“The one you went out with. When we were separated. Took you years to tell me about him.”

She frowns. “There was nothing to tell you. He was just some single dad I met at daycare pick up. That’s it. It was nothing important. Just some guy.”

“That you went out with. While we were still married.”

“Have you been just waiting to throw that in my face? Have you been holding onto that all this time? Just looking for the opportunity to hold that over my head? Why would you…?”

“I was faithful to you. Whether we were going to work shit or not. I wasn’t looking for someone else. I didn’t want another woman. And I could have had one. I could have had tons of them. It wasn’t for lack of opportunity, believe me.”

“Then why didn’t you do it? If you had so many chances. Why didn’t you take any of them?”

“Because I wanted my wife. I didn’t want anyone else. You, Just you.”

“And I wanted you! But you were a fucking mess and I was hurt because you weren’t fighting for me. For your family. So yeah, I went out on a date. Because someone showed interest in me and made me feel special and beautiful and wanted. Because I was hurt and I wanted you to hurt just as much as I was. I was so pissed at you. For not getting your shit together and coming home and fighting for us. So I went out on a date. And I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the attention."

“Did you fuck him?”

“No. I told you what happened. I told you he tried and I turned him down. I told him that I couldn’t do it because I was still in love with my husband. That I was still hoping we could work things out. That’s the truth. And that’s how I got that black eye. Because he didn’t handle the rejection so well. That’s the truth. All of it. I never slept with him. I’ve ever been with anyone but you. For the last twelve and a half years. Just you.”

He nods slowly, letting her words sink in.

“Tyler…” her nails dig into the back of his neck. “...don’t do this...don’t shut me out. Please don’t do that. I don’t want you to do that.”

“What do you want me to say? What…?”

“I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to lie to you. I…” tears flow freely down her face. “...I’m sorry. I am so fucking sorry.”

“Come here,” he gently orders, and pushing a hand through her hair, settles it on her back and pulls her into him. “It’s okay, Me. Everything’s okay.”

“I didn’t mean to lie to you. Not about the guy and not about the girls weekend. I was just trying to protect you. I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know you weren’t.” Pressing a kiss to her temple, he rolls over onto his back; both arms wrapping around her and pulling her with him. “And I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have brought that shit up. I haven’t been holding onto it. Or waiting to use it again. I reacted. Badly. And when I do, nothing is off limits. I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t mean to say that shit.”

“It’s okay,” she sniffles, and curls her arms around his neck. “I know how you get. When you hear things you don’t like. But for the record? This is what I meant when I made you promise not to lose it.”

“I am so fucking sorry. I’m an asshole. A huge asshole.”

“No. You’re not. You just have no chill sometimes. I’m used to it. Or fairly used to it, anyway.”

“I never should have said what I did. About the guy you went out with. You had every right to. Go on a date. I wasn’t exactly stepping up. I just lost it. Hearing about you wanting to hurt herself and how you spent time in psychiatric hospital. Kinda kicked me in the nuts, ya know?”

“I was going to tell you,” she says, chin resting on his chest as she looks up at him. “When I got home. But I was feeling so much better and you and the kids were so happy to see me. I didn’t want to ruin that. And then we got on with life and there never seemed to be a good time. So I kept it to myself. It wasn’t to intentionally hurt you., I’d NEVER do that.”

He presses a kiss to her forehead. “I know you wouldn’t.”

“And I don’t mean to treat you like you’re broken. Because you’re not. A little bent, maybe…”

He manages a laugh. “I’ve been put through the ringer a few times. Got a little too many miles on me. Quite the collection of dents and scars going on.”

“They’re beautiful. Every single one of them.” Wriggling further up the bed, she pushes a hand through his hair; tightly gripping the longer locks as she pecks the corner of his mouth. “I’m sorry, Tyler. That I lied to you. I had good intentions. I really did.”

“You always do.” He curls an arm around her neck and kisses her. Long and soft and sweet; tasting the salty tears that linger across her top lip. “It’s okay, Me. Don’t cry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I’m sorry.” He tangles his fingers in her hair, gently pushing her head back down onto his chest. “ Has it happened again? Feeling the way you did? Have you wanted to hurt yourself? Or worse?”

“No. I haven’t felt that way since. I’ve been depressed, but not like that.”

“And you’d tell me? If you did feel that way?”

She nods.

Sighing heavily, he places a forearm over his eyes. Lying in silence and feeling her body tremble against his; knuckles repeatedly ghosting along her spine as he attempts to get a grasp on the situation. Her mental health issues have never been a secret; she’s been on medication for years and has occasionally needed it to be tweaked. But to hear that she’d been THAT low? Considering hurting herself? Or even attempting something more permanent? It’s devastating. Feeding right into his worst fear. The thought of losing her to an event totally beyond his control. A wedge of emotion settles in his throat and tears prick his eyes; the realization of how close he’d come to losing. But he fights it off. Needing to stay strong for her. Always willing, ready, and able to put his own problems aside. Her rock and her protector.

“Tyler?” Her voice is impossibly tiny. Apprehensive. Scared.

“Yeah, babe?”

“I love you. So much. You’ll never know how much.”

Smiling, he slides his palm to the back of her neck and drops a kiss on the top of her head. “I love you too.”

[prettywordsyouleft]

MonX Hospital | Shownu

Pairing: Son Hyunwoo x reader

Genre: physiotherapist – hospital au / strangers to lovers

Warnings: medical terms, injury and recovery, a water scene, basically you will fall madly in love with Shownu by the end of this >_>

Word count: 4296

Index: Shownu | Wonho | Minhyuk | Kihyun | Hyungwon | Jooheon | Changkyun

You didn’t know why your neighbour was acting over the top like this. Sure, you had taken a nasty fall from your front step four hours ago, tripping on the welcome mat outside your door, of all things, before tumbling off into your garden. You had assured Cassidy then that you were fine and some rest would help. However, she had watched the whole thing, even heard the crack when your ankle had twisted during your accident.

She wasn’t about to let you rest up in bed with just an ice pack and ibuprofen.

However, you had walked into the emergency department and surely that meant nothing was broken, right? There was a little swelling and that was to be expected with a nasty sprain. You had told Cassidy you’d go to your general practitioner in the morning if it was any worse. That would be much better than sitting in the ER department’s waiting room for hours as you had thus far.

“You’ll thank me for this one day,” she told you after your umpteenth sigh and you turned to the woman, shooting her an imploring gaze. She patted your lower arm gently. “You’re too young to be messed up from an injury.”

“You’re not that much older than me, Cass,” you pointed out and she shrugged. “Don’t act like you’re wiser than me over this.”

“Take it from a professional klutz, you’ll ache from morning to night if you don’t get things checked out.”

“It’s probably just a sprained ankle.”

“Do you have a medical degree?” the woman shot back and you slumped into your chair, defeated. Cassidy grinned smugly. “Precisely why you and I are going to wait until some hot doctor comes and-”

“Miss L/N?” an older, balding doctor called from the doors and you gave Cassidy another look.

She helped you up to your feet. “Okay, so he’s not hot but there are always the technicians and other doctors you’ll be seeing today to brighten your mood.”

As you expected, the long hours of waiting around the hospital hadn’t confirmed a break in any of your bones. It wasn’t all good news either. “I’ve done what?”

“You’ve torn a ligament in your ankle called the anterior talofibular ligament. When you rotated your ankle like this,” the doctor picked up a foot model and re-enacted a similar movement as to what you believed had happened before continuing. “It caused the ligament to tear. There’s good and bad news in this. The good is that you came in immediately after the incident occurred so we can begin treatment right away. The bad news is that ligaments vary in recovery rate. Normally they heal within six weeks, and with a solid physiotherapy plan, your motion and strength should return to normal or as best as a normal can be within two to three months. However, as I said, they have a tendency to take their own pace so what we like to see in recovery might not be the actual prognosis time you face.”

“Aren’t you glad I brought you in now?” Cassidy breathed from the chair beside you and you nodded slowly, deciphering all the information given by the doctor. He proceeded in filling in a few pieces of paperwork, one for medication, another for a referral to the hospital physiotherapy clinic, and two more for work and your usual doctor. He then placed your now considerably swollen ankle into a support bandage and issued you some crutches for the next few days.

“It would be best to head up to physiotherapy now and book in an appointment. They get pretty busy by mid-week and so you’ve caught the start of their week well by being injured now,” the doctor mentioned with a wry smile and gestured for the door. “Good luck with your recovery, Y/N.”

“You sure you can hobble up there?” Cassidy asked as you struggled to get a hang of the crutches once out of the orthopaedic department. She smiled gently. “I can dash up and book the appointment if you like.”

“That’d be good and I’ll go fill my prescription while you do that,” you proposed, meeting back up after attending to your different tasks. You frowned at the dazed expression upon your neighbour’s face. “Did it go well?”

“I don’t know if I’ve just sealed your fate or not,” Cassidy breathed out and you cocked your head to the side, waiting for more information. “The therapists up there are something else. And your one, Hyunwoo is his name. I don’t know if you’ll survive your first meeting with him.”

“Of course I will,” you replied, hobbling towards the exit. “Stop dreaming of me meeting someone special within these hospital walls, Cass. I’m coming in for treatment, not anything else.”

You were kind of grateful that Cassidy had work when your appointment in the physiotherapy clinic came around three days later. Because you really didn’t want to hear her tell you, “I told you so”.

Boy, was Hyunwoo something else, indeed.

It wasn’t even just the fact that he was physically attractive. He was too comfortable to be around, joking with you not even five minutes into the first meeting.

“So did you throw out your welcome mat?” he mused, reading over the notes and you chuckled softly.

“Not yet.”

“I figured it might not be as welcomed in front of your home after your nasty fall the other day,” he continued and then looked up at you with a smile. “How’s it been feeling?”

“Pretty sore and stiff,” you admitted and Hyunwoo nodded, ticking a couple of boxes. The initial part of your appointment continued with him asking you questions about your injury and general health and you answering them as best as you can, smiling and laughing along the way. By the end of the questions, you had almost forgotten why you were even here, just enjoying your time with the man.

And then Hyunwoo stood up. “I’m afraid the fun part of today is now over. I have to be a little mean to you now.”

“Mean?”

“I need to examine the amount of movement you have but I promise I’ll end it with a soothing massage afterwards,” he expressed, reaching forward for the crutches you had walked in on and tucked them under his arm. He then held out his other arm. “Here, allow me to help you over to the cubicle we’ll use today.”

Your eyes nearly popped out of your head once attached to his arm for support. It was as strong as it appeared, helping you maintain your balance as you hobbled with him to the space for your treatment.

Hyunwoo was watching you avidly, or at least, how your leg moved, murmuring encouragingly until he had you seated on the bed. He smiled warmly at you. “That was pretty rough, huh?”

“I haven’t walked without the crutches yet.”

“That’s okay, I won’t take them away from you just yet, I promise. But they will be leaving you later next week with all things going well, so let’s help you get to that point, shall we?”

Even though Hyunwoo’s examination hurt, and brought you close to tears twice, he was so gentle and soothing throughout that you remained rather relaxed.

“You okay?” he asked when he was done and you nodded softly, which made him smile yet again. You wondered if you would need any painkillers after this session or if his smiles would continue to remove the pain from your awareness. He patted you on the leg gently and then hopped up. “I’m just going to get the ultrasound machine. Don’t go running off anywhere, will you?”

You laughed at his sentence and once he returned with the machine, Hyunwoo pulled the back of the bed up and helped you sit up before moving to the end of the bed, lifting your leg so he could sit down, placing your ankle on his lap. You were so focused on his actions that you failed to feel the cold squirt of the gel he put on your leg but you did feel the warmth of his hand supporting your leg, and of course the machine, as the wand began to move in slow, circular movements.

“Ohh,” you hummed appreciatively and Hyunwoo chuckled.

“Told you, I’ll make you feel good, Y/N.”

“Well you’re good at it,” you replied mindlessly, your cheeks reddening when you realised what you said. Hyunwoo sheepishly chuckled.

“Good to know my years at school training are paying off.”

“Right, of course,” you agreed awkwardly, fanning the flames licking at your cheeks.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret though,” Hyunwoo mentioned, leaning in towards you a little. He grinned. “It’s the machine doing all the work right now.”

That deflated the tension, both of you laughing together. It beeped three times to let you know it had finished after several more minutes of treatment and Hyunwoo wiped away the excess gel, handing you a sheet with three gentle exercises to try at home and your crutches too.

“I’ll see you on Monday, Y/N.”

“You will.”

“Have a good weekend, and make sure to get rid of the mat until you’re better. I don’t want you hurt any more than you are.”

Did he want you to swoon any harder instead? Nodding in reply, you fare-welled the man before hobbling out of the department, sucking in a deep breath.

You hoped come Monday you would be in better condition to squish down your rising affection for your physiotherapist.

Monday came and went, with much of the same banter and comfortable company from Hyunwoo. As your sessions continued, you grew closer to Hyunwoo. He would ask what you were doing outside of work or plans you had and share tidbits about himself. He was always joking around with you and his touch was just as warm as it had been the first time you met him.

Perhaps he had healing powers within those hands of his. Your leg over the past five weeks had healed a great deal.

“Yes, that’s it Y/N!” Hyunwoo praised as you managed to handle the gym activities today. You were exhausted but felt good to notice the strength returning to your ankle. He gave you a high five that lingered a little before handing you your water bottle. “I’m proud of your recovery so far.”

“Those exercises at home you gave at the last session helped me.”

“Well I’m going to give you a new instruction this time around,” he enthused with a bright smile. “How’s your Thursday looking?”

“Thursday I’m pretty flexible for time, why?”

“I’ll book in the pool.”

“I’m sorry, the what?” you shot back immediately, your eyes rounding as saucers.

Hyunwoo examined your expression for a moment before smiling again. “Are you afraid of water?”

“No,” you replied, your eyes darting away from his torso. Surely he wouldn’t insist on getting in the pool with you, right?

“Good, hydrotherapy is a great form of exercise and strength building-”

“I mean I’m not scared of water but I can’t exactly swim either.”

“That’s fine our pool is designed to be able to reach the floor at all times. It’s not really used for swimming, it’s a series of exercises done in the water to take the weight-bearing aspect out of the equation. I think you could benefit from this. Besides, I’ll be right beside you the whole time. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

This knowledge didn’t ease you any. Not only was Hyunwoo going to see you in a swimsuit, you would potentially be seeing him in his. Your heart began to race with the anxiety building and Hyunwoo noticed, rubbing your shoulders gently. “Hey, have I ever done anything to make our sessions unsafe? I promise you it’ll be fine. Okay?”

“Oh-kay.”

“That’s my girl!” he enthused and nodded happily. “Let’s go book in the appointment now, shall we?”

And despite trying to slow down the clock, Thursday arrived and you were seated in the lobby of the therapy clinic, waiting for Hyunwoo to call you in. Fiddling with the strap to your beach bag you had brought along to carry the extra things you needed for today’s session, you gulped when you heard your name called.

Hyunwoo normally wore a polo shirt and sports track pants so when you noticed his uniform was that of black swimming jammers and an equally form-hugging black sports shirt, you actually needed a moment to find the strength to return to your legs.

Today wasn’t a good idea.

“Shall we go? The pool is all ready,” he called and you nodded faintly, hauling yourself up onto shaky legs. Hyunwoo came to your aid, assuming it was sheer nerves.

Which it was, just not about the actual pool.

Once helped into the room, Hyunwoo walked down the ramp with ease into the water. He looked so natural within the pool and you assumed that some of those toned muscles must come from being a swimmer. He then gestured to you to join him. “There’s a changing room off to the side there but it looks like you have your suit on underneath?”

You blushed at his observation, nodding numbly. “Yeah, I could just take it off here.”

“Allow me to give you the privacy to do so then,” he replied, turning around so you could take off your outer layers.

You had opted for your favourite one-piece suit, deciding anything else would be not very appropriate for today’s session. You were here to exercise, nothing more! And that’s what you told yourself repeatedly as you approached the ramp. Hyunwoo turned then, coming up to meet you half way and took your hand. “Ready?”

“I guess.”

“We’ll start easy with just walking up and down the pool, okay?” Hyunwoo instructed and you nodded, soon feeling comfortable to walk without his guiding hand. He was still at your side just in case you needed him.

You didn’t dare look in his direction.

“Alright, let’s try some stretches,” he announced, coming over to the side of the pool and demonstrating a leg lift. You executed them with relative ease, and the next four exercises also. Hyunwoo then went to get a weird looking hollow dumbbell and returned, laughing at your confusion. “It doesn’t look like much but this bad boy can actually be really hard to push through the water. Have a go.”

You gasped when you pushed it under the water, your gaze snapping back up to his in surprise. “Wow, it’s really heavy now!”

“Clever isn’t it. Try walking up and down whilst pushing it through the water as you walk. It’s going to take a bit more out of you so remember, slow and steady. Ready?”

“Sure!” you replied, heading off down the pool. It was definitely work and when you reached the end you were puffing. Hyunwoo left your side, walking backwards so there was some distance between you. He then encouraged you to return to his side, watching you intently.

You don’t know what came over you then. Walking back to him felt as if you were making your way towards someone you craved. You walked with purpose, pushing the weight through the water with more ease this time. You were determined to get back to his side, your gaze never faltering from his. You gasped softly when he held out his arms as you near him, seemingly as permission for this moment to exist between you both.

And just as you almost reached your goal, you lost your footing somehow, your leg slipping out from beneath you, the weight you were holding tipping you further forward. Before you could save yourself, Hyunwoo was there, fully wrapped around you, holding you flush to his body.

For a moment, all you could hear was each of your heavy breathing from the incident. And then he swallowed, his mouth near your ear. “Are you okay, Y/N?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Sure?”

“Mm.”

“Are you scared?”

“Only of you,” you admitted slowly, despite clinging onto him firmly. Hyunwoo tentatively pulled back so he could look you in the eyes.

“The feeling’s mutual.”

“It is?”

He nodded honestly. “I could get fired for the thoughts I have in my head right now.”

“There’s no security cameras in here, right?”

“No, but why wo-”

Your lips on his cut the sentence short, the tension snapping between you passionately. You hadn’t realised just how long it had been building, how long you had craved a moment like this with Hyunwoo. You had blurred the lines between therapist and patient long before this moment though.

And it wasn’t just you.

Hyunwoo was kissing you back with just as much need, his hunger overwhelming you. Backing you up slowly into the side of the pool, he finally pulled away, reaching to grip onto the bar gently pressing into your back to steady himself.

“That shouldn’t have happened.”

“I know,” you replied dazedly, watching Hyunwoo attempt to rein in his evident desire. You smiled weakly. “We’re coming to the end of my sessions soon, right? So I guess it’s not as if you have to feel-”

It was him cutting you off now with a kiss, groaning into as he caressed your lips. Sliding your hands up his chest, you joined them behind his neck, leaning away from the bar and into him completely.

You knew this was breaking several medical practices, for sure. Yet you couldn’t pull back, wanting to taste more of Hyunwoo the longer his lips were on yours.

Reality called you both back from the heady embrace when his stopwatch beeped to let him know the new hour had arrived. Jerking away from you, Hyunwoo instantly ran a hand through his hair. “Wow uh, we need to wrap up here.”

“You must have other clients to work on,” you mentioned and caught his startled look. Shaking your head and hands you laughed awkwardly. “Not like this, I mean, I hope not but-”

“No, only you. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

You disliked how easily that made your heart leap about with delight to hear. Still, Hyunwoo looked panicked and you could tell he was overthinking the moment the longer he stood in the pool.

Heading towards the ramp, he stopped and then backtracked to your side. “Here, let me help you out.”

“I can hold the bar.”

“Right, you should hold the bar.” You both made it out of the pool and Hyunwoo made a beeline for his towel. “I’ll get you to make an appointment for next week. We’ll give the pool a skip, okay?”

“Of course.”

“See you then,” he said as he walked through the door quickly.

You sat down slowly, looking back at the pool before you. It wasn’t the heated water that had caused your mind to run away with you.

You didn’t quite know how you would face him next time.

Deciding not to cancel your appointment as you had convinced yourself all weekend long to do, you turned up on Monday to the hospital clinic, waiting for Hyunwoo to call you in for your session. Instead, a young woman called out your name and you felt your hopes crash immediately. Had he really avoided you like this?

After asking about Hyunwoo, the woman who introduced herself as Beth shook her head. “Hyunwoo’s off sick. He never gets unwell, so it’s a first. He sounded awful on the phone earlier.”

“Really?” you replied, worry etched within your eyes. “I hope he’s going to be okay.”

“He should be, he’s a healthy guy usually! Anyway, shall we start our session?”

You worried about Hyunwoo for the next two days in between your sessions, hoping that today you would see him back in the clinic.

He was there, though he still looked pale. As soon as he ushered you into a cubicle, you went to reach out to feel his forehead, stopping midway. What were you thinking?! You had told yourself you wouldn’t make him any further awkward in your presence than you had a week ago.

He chuckled weakly. “I’m okay, honest.”

“You look awful.”

“I didn’t want you to worry about me any further than you no doubt were,” he admitted quietly and you merely stared back at him. Hyunwoo sighed and looked at your chart. “This is your last week of physiotherapy here. I still think you need some extra sessions so I’ll give you a leaflet at the end of today’s session with approved private clinics who will take you on as a patient with a surcharge. It’s not too much and you’d only need weekly sessions. But let’s talk about that later.”

“You came in to say goodbye,” you concluded, dropping your head. What did you expect? The other day was a slip up between a professional and his patient. Even you knew the logistics behind it.

“Shall we start on our training today?” Hyunwoo asked, clapping his hands together to try and energise you both. It didn’t work, and by the end of the time together you were equally distracted and quiet.

You didn’t know how to thank him for his time and generosity. Even if you had kissed him and given into your feelings for him, you could still recognise he was great at his profession.

And now, your time with him had come to an end.

“Thank you, Hyunwoo,” you managed to say, looking down at his sneakers, knowing you’d cry if you looked up. “I’m grateful for your help with my injury. I’ll ensure to continue with therapy until it’s back to normal.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Is our session up?”

“We have five minutes left,” he replied and you nodded, reaching down for your bag.

“I think we can end it here. Thank you again.”

“Y/N, wait!”

You couldn’t stop there; you knew the tears were going to spill down your cheeks any second now. You chided yourself for falling trap to them, watching as they ran down your cheeks through the mirror in the bathroom you darted into after leaving the department. Allowing yourself a few minutes to acknowledge the ache in your chest, you then gathered yourself back up, dabbing away your tear stains and stepped out of the bathroom.

Promptly into a waiting Hyunwoo. He relaxed visibly, scratching at his head as he smiled weakly. “I was right to wait here then.”

“Did you forget something?”

“Technically I could have looked in your file for it but I figured I’ve already broken enough rules that I should ask you instead.”

“Ask me about what?”

“Your number. Please.”

You merely stared at him, processing what he said. Jarringly, you reached for the phone he held out and punched in your number. Were you dreaming just now? Hyunwoo chewed on his bottom lip, trying to curb some of his satisfaction in gaining your personal information. And then he gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze.

Well, you were definitely not dreaming. Snapping your stunned gaze to his face, you watched him grin shyly. “Can I ring you tonight?”

“Really?”

“If you’re busy, then I can wait but-”

“I’ll be free after five.”

“I’ll ring you at six,” he confirmed with a giddy smile, feeling yourself mirror the expression. He waved you off with a laugh.

When six arrived, you jumped as the phone you held went off right on time. You waited a moment as not to seem as if you hadn’t just spent the last thirty minutes staring at the screen or anything.

“Hello?”

“Y/N? It’s Hyunwoo here.”

“Hyunwoo,” you called, trying not to giggle happily. “Are you sure this is appropriate? You won’t get in any trouble?”

“I closed your file today so you’re officially no longer my patient.”

“What am I then?”

“Yeah, that’s the culprit.”

“Well, I have a confession to make,” he said with a quick breath and you frowned. “I might have looked at something I shouldn’t have before I closed your file. Is this the same welcome mat that tripped you up on that fateful morning?”

Getting up with a start from your couch, you dashed to the front door and opened it, finding Hyunwoo kicking gently at the mat under his feet. He looked up at you and grinned, still holding the phone up to his ear. “Is it?”

“I hope it’s alright, but I brought a replacement one,” he mentioned as he ended the call, lifting the bag he held up and shaking it. You laughed and he grinned. “The salesperson said this one is so heavy duty that it won’t even move in a storm.”

“What about you? Will you move in a storm?”

“Only into your arms to comfort you, I hope.”

“Want to come in?”

“Are you sure you want to let your therapist in? I might find all the flaws within your home that could injure you and want to fix them all,” he admitted and you stepped aside to welcome him inside.

But before you shut the door, you leaned down and grabbed the welcome mat, throwing it down into the garden bed where you had fallen last. Smiling brightly, you then turned to Hyunwoo. “Have you eaten? I could make us some dinner.”

“I’ve been dying to try your food ever since you told me about that party you threw for your family two weeks ago.”

“You might think I’m a horrible cook, I had help then,” you pointed out and Hyunwoo followed you down the hallway, leaving the new mat by the door and expressing that you have help in him right now.

You hoped that he would keep showing up on your doorstep like this.

_________________

Next: Wonho

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[blitzturtles]

Title: Tre

Rating: Mature, for implied adult activity (though it isn't detailed.)

Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Golden Wind

Pairing(s): BruAbba

Summary: “Is… Bucciarati avoiding anyone else?” Giorno asks, quiet. Unsure. By the look on his face, it’s something that’s been bothering him for a few days.

Abbacchio looks up with raised brows, “Don’t think so, why?”

Notes: Please note that Bruno experiences quite a bit of gender dysphoria here. It's reflected in his internal dialogue and could be triggering.

Also, missing doses of T doesn't necessarily guarantee the return of someone's period, but Bruno has a whole lotta bad luck, too much stress, and not enough time.

-

“Is… Bucciarati avoiding anyone else?” Giorno asks, quiet. Unsure. By the look on his face, it’s something that’s been bothering him for a few days.

Abbacchio looks up with raised brows, “Don’t think so, why?”

Giorno frowns. How does he explain that he feels like he’s seeing more glimpses of zippers and Sticky Fingers than the man they belong to? That he feels like every time he turns a corner, Bruno is already leaving? Maybe even fleeing?

“No, no, I think Giogio’s onto something,” Mista cuts in before Giorno can answer.

Abbacchio’s neutral expression shifts to something less sure. His frown reflects Giorno’s, and he seems to lose himself in his thoughts for a moment. He recalls the last several days and tries to replay the interactions in his head.

“I’ll check it out,” he decides, finally. He pushes himself up to his feet and heads out the door before the other two can think up an argument.

“Uh?” Mista looks to Giorno, then the door, and back again.

“I don’t know,” Giorno admits. Something in Abbacchio’s features had only validated his worries.

______ ______

“Bruno,” Abbacchio calls, rapping the back of one hand against their shared bedroom door. He hates to admit it, but the kid is right. Bruno’s been quieter. A bit more aloof, but he isn’t fully avoiding Abbacchio. He knows better than that, which is exactly the problem. The bastard knows just the way to adjust his behavior to avoid suspicion.

The room remains quiet on the other side. No one moves, and the door stays shut. Abbacchio isn’t buying it for a minute.

“Bruno, I’m coming in if you don’t let me in.”

He waits approximately ten more seconds-- no one has ever accused him of being a patient man-- before he digs out his key. The only reason he has it on him at all is because of Bruno’s borderline refusal to use doors. There’s been a time or two where Abbacchio has been locked out because Bruno used his zippers and forgot to flip the lock. It’s not a frequent occurrence, but it’s happened enough to make Abbacchio more diligent about having his copy on his person.

His chest aches with the burning need of oxygen, reminding him to take a breath. He has a vague idea of what might be happening, but he can’t be sure. Can’t know that Bruno isn’t half-dead somewhere beyond the threshold.

One blue eye pops out of a pile of blankets and disappears just as quickly. There’s a quiet groan and possibly a few words, but none of it is audible to Abbacchio.

“Cramps?”

The blankets shift like someone might have whacked them.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” Abbacchio says with an undeniably fond tone. He doesn’t take offense to the attempt to shoo him off, but he does feel guilt for not recognizing the signs earlier. To his own credit, it’s been many months, possibly more than a year since last this happened. He’s gotten out of the habit of identifying the warnings. Bruno is a lot like a wounded animal. Unless it’s killing him, he won’t make his pain known (and even that’s up in the air, sometimes. It’s the blood trail that gives him away more often in those cases.)

He bypasses the mass on the bed to slide into the bathroom. He notes the painkillers on the counter and finds some relief in the fact that Bruno at least has those on board. Absently, he brushes his thumb against Bruno’s toothbrush and winces at the dampness of it. That’s one of those things he’s learned from being with Bruno for so long: when his cramps are particularly awful, his stomach crawls its way up his throat. Sometimes more than once, but Bruno being in bed is hopefully a sign that he’s finished with that for now.

With the painkillers taken and his stomach emptied, there’s only one thing that Abbacchio can offer. He crouches down in front of the sink and starts digging through their unholy collection of toiletries and makeup. A not insignificant amount of it is Abbacchio’s, but he finds a crushed box in the back after several frustrating minutes of digging and rearranging.

There’s one left, but it will do. He can bribe the kids to go get him more. Something tells him the reusable is missing in action. Probably tossed after one too many times of someone bleeding on it.

Bruno hasn’t moved since Abbacchio’s break in, and he doesn’t look like he intends to move when Abbacchio makes his way to the bed.

“C’mon. Stretch out for a second,” he holds up the packaging for Bruno to see and gives one of his rare, soft smiles when Bruno unhooks his arms from around himself and uncurls his body.

Abbacchio carefully peels the blankets away to find that Bruno has stolen one of his night shirts and a pair of his shorts.

“Sorry,” Bruno breathes.

The pain in his voice is heartbreaking, and the fact that Bruno thinks Abbacchio gives two shits about a pair of lost shorts (to blood of all things, as if they haven’t both bled on every other thing they’ve ever owned) only makes the ache worse.

“I really can’t emphasize enough how much I don’t care,” Abbacchio says and immediately wishes he had thought his words out, “About the shorts.” He sees the way Bruno tenses for a moment before he relaxes again. He’s on edge. Less sure of himself than he usually is, which means he’s second guessing everything. Even definite truths. And one of those is that Abbacchio would give him anything he asked for without question. A singular set of clothes-- that he knows Bruno will probably replace without his noticing-- mean nothing to him.

“I know,” Bruno admits. His fingers dance at the hem of the shirt. He’s buying time.

Abbacchio doesn’t push him. He waits patiently until Bruno slides the shirt up his belly enough for Abbacchio to place the heating pad. He’s mindful of the dark patch of hair that peeks out from above the shorts. Bruno usually prefers them to be placed higher up anyway, and his belly is relatively hairless.

“There. That’s the last of the peel and sticks, but we can get more,” he reaches to tug the shirt back down but hesitates a moment to press a kiss to Bruno’s hip. He knows that Bruno feels the most dysphoric when he’s bleeding. Sees himself in a way that Abbacchio doesn’t. Being in agony doesn’t exactly help his mental state any.

“I don’t want to be trouble.”

Abbacchio snorts-- if only because the idea of that is so preposterous. “If they knew it was for you, they’d kill each other to get to the store first,” they won’t know. He won’t tell them. They might guess that it’s Bruno that’s out of commission, given his absence, but Bruno isn’t full-time anymore. It’s easy to dismiss his lack of presence as his attention being elsewhere, but Giorno’s made it apparent that he’s noticed. Mista, too.

Bruno might have gotten away with it if he weren’t feeling so poorly. The pain clouds his mind and disrupts the smooth way that he and Sticky Fingers work together. It’s probably why Giorno kept catching glimpses. It’s all Bruno can do to stay upright when the cramps kick in at full swing.

Speaking of, Abbacchio reaches up to gently wipe the tears away from Bruno’s cheeks.

“You can roll back. I’m going to change, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Truthfully, he isn’t changing for his own comfort. Abbacchio has fallen asleep fully dressed more times than he can count, buckle included. He could care less about what he’s wearing, but he knows that Bruno’s nerves are already frayed.

In the time it takes him to switch to his softest night clothes, Bruno has curled back up, facing away from him. Abbacchio takes a moment to shoot off a text before he climbs in behind him. He carefully scoots his body as close to Bruno’s as he can without putting any pressure against him. Bruno uncurls enough to lean a fraction of his weight back into him, and Abbacchio counts that as a win.

Abbacchio reaches up to undo the clips in Bruno’s hair. The braid needs to come out, too, but he doesn’t have the angle he needs to work on it. He settles for petting along Bruno’s arm, a slow drag of his calloused fingers from wrist to shoulder. His nails drag lightly against tanned skin. It’s all about distracting without being overwhelming.

“I missed three,” Bruno says eventually.

“Three? Oh,” well, that explains it. Bruno’s had problems with his cycle coming through in the past. It’s the reason he switched to shots in the first place, and he’s suspected his dose has been too low for a while. The problem is that his own health and wellbeing always comes last. He doesn’t pursue the doctors the way he could; he’s always too busy taking care of everyone else at his own detriment. Sometimes Abbacchio thinks Bruno does it as self-flagellation, but he feels like a hypocrite if he points it out.

The dysphoria creates something of a feedback loop. It’s the one aspect of himself that Bruno struggles with the most. He can typically climb his way out of his cycles of grief. The flashbacks are generally ignored. It’s amazing, Abbacchio thinks, that he ever sleeps at all. There’s enough trauma and stress there to last several people their entire lives. Bruno ignores it all, but he can’t ignore this.

Abbacchio carefully drapes his arm around Bruno and presses his face against the back of his neck. “I love you,” he says, the words pressed against Bruno’s nape.

There’s a wounded sound from Bruno, and he curls up tighter.

Abbacchio moves with him. Careful, but without hesitation. “I love you no matter what, in any way that you’ll have me. I will follow you to the end, and I will give you all that I have.” He can’t refute the words playing in Bruno’s head, but he can make sure he knows that he’s loved. “None of us would have made it without you.”

“That’s not-”

“Shut up,” Abbacchio’s tone is far from harsh, but Bruno does as he’s told, “Fugo might have stayed out of legal trouble, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be dead from pissing off the wrong person. Narancia would have died of an infection. You said it yourself, Narancia was on death’s door when Fugo brought him to you. Mista wouldn’t have survived jail,” another one of Bruno’s assessments that was exactly on point, “Giorno would have probably gotten himself killed trying to take out the boss by himself, and Trish would be dead if you hadn’t killed yourself to save her.” Being revived after doesn’t change the fact that Bruno had died in the first place, “And I would be passed out drunk. Maybe dead.”

Silence settles over them for a long few minutes. Bruno only occasionally tensing and squirming from pain. The over-the-counter stuff barely touches the cramps, but he won’t take anything else. At least the heating pads seem to help some.

“Thank you,” Bruno says eventually.

“Sure,” Abbacchio presses a kiss to soft skin, “I’m always available to grind the truth into that thick skull of your’s.”

Bruno huffs in response, but his hands find Abbacchio’s arm. He curls his fingers around pale skin and finds himself admiring the muscle underneath. Neither of them are particularly built, but Abbacchio has the thicker, wider frame that Bruno had longed for for so many years. It’s odd to remember when they first met, when Abbacchio had a bit more muscle. Bruno’s own body had been a hated thing. Something he used to wish he could shed with curves he could see if he looked for them.

Sometimes he wonders which of their memories are distorted. Abbacchio’s, from the alcohol and the depression and not actually knowing better. Or Bruno’s, from the self-hatred and the dysphoria and the abuse inflicted on him.

He can still remember the first time they managed to lock themselves in the bathroom, all hands and teeth, and Leone-- god help him-- had been surprised.

It had been the first time they made it past making out like teenagers, and Leone had stared up at him from his spot on his knees with big, gold-violet eyes. Confused and at an obvious loss. Bruno can still remember the way his stomach turned as reality kicked in, and he had realized the significant misstep on his part. He had thought, with his waist and the scars on his chest and the width of his shoulders, that it had been obvious. Had thought himself lucky that Leone still wanted him.

”Tell me what to do,” Leone had demanded, all determination and enthusiasm.

Bruno almost laughs at the memory. It’s not funny, really, but he can remember the overwhelming endearment he had felt. Still feels. That’s the thing that Leone can’t accept. Can’t understand about himself: all that he does for Bruno. All the ways he makes Bruno a better man. He can’t imagine doing this on his own. He’ll have to find a way to better show his appreciation when his insides aren’t threatening to tear him apart.

“I love you,” he says, squeezing Leone’s arm.

“I love you, too.”