#our whole party ships them...................screams cries pounds on the floor

[raviollies]

small doodle page because they make me want to throw up

[talesofstyles]

Drs Styles

paediatric heart surgeon harry, husband harry and dad harry. honestly the holy trinity.

warning: they did it in the car. bloody animals.

Harry

“Move your car, please!”

“What are you going to do? Write me a ticket?”

“This is in the interests of safety for the children!”

I look at the time in the car. I’ve still got about twenty to twenty-five minutes to watch this drama unfold at the school gate. I just wish we had popcorn because drop-off and parking situations at the school gates are always more entertaining than Good Morning Britain. 

The school gate is a strange social scene, and honestly, I don’t blame my wife for trying to avoid it like a plague. Sometimes, you don’t even have to talk to these people to know everything about their lives and more. I swear there are more gossips in the class WhatsApp group and daily playground chattering than in the copies of The Sun and Daily Mail combined. You know who’s married, who’s getting a divorce, whose husband shagged the au pair again, whose party you haven’t been invited to, even who’s looking for a builder. 

I see the school caretaker chuckling to himself as he sweeps the autumn leaves off the pathway, no doubt also enjoying our morning entertainment. 

“Why is Mrs Chambers screaming like that?” Alma, our eldest daughter, asks from the back of the car. 

“Because that man parks his car in a drop-off zone,” I reply, still watching him as he removes a child from his car seat. “Do you know who that is?”

“I think the boy is your classmate,” Alma turns to her sister.

Fiona, our youngest, peers over to inspect. “Oh yeah, that’s Rufus and his dad.”

“Do we like Rufus?”

“Not unless we like boys who pee down the slides,” Fiona scrunches her nose up. “He stood at the top and peed down like a waterfall. I haven’t gone down the slide ever since.”

I shake my head and let out a chuckle. “M’sure they’ve cleaned it up since, button.” 

Did you know that choosing a school for your child after nursery can be a head-throbbing, stomach-twisting, heart-pounding experience? Well, it can. How is one supposed to choose a school anyway? According to the proximity? Leavers Results? Adorable uniforms? Parents’ agendas?

After many, many discussions and visits through more schools than I can count, we ended up with Thomas’s Kensington. It’s a great school, and only ten minutes away from our home, making school runs easier. The downside of this school is the fact that it costs us an arm and a leg and that they’re always trying to rip us off any chance they get. Also, they only take the kids until 11, so after that, we’ll have to look for other schools again. But since our girls are only seven and five, we can worry about that later. 

There’s a strange mix of parents at this place. I went to school up in the North and the school gate scene is nothing like this. Here there are more au pairs, fancy cars, nicer clothes and people coming with impressive tans from their last weekend break in Antibes. The kids here are suited up too: the PE kit is the size of a small weekender bag, and we put them in uniforms that make them look smart, hoping that will increase the size of their brains. A child walks past our car with a cello case, another with a hockey stick. It’s a different land here. One that my socialist in-laws constantly tease us about and one which my mum was hysterical about because she was scared her grandbabies would be little Tories. I promised her I’d keep them grounded by only giving them plain hobnobs. None of those luxury chocolate covered ones.

Jokes aside, my girls are happy here. They’re thriving. They learn French and Spanish and Mandarin, even if they share a class with kids who have ridiculous names like Kitty and Archibald. 

A knock at my window calls me to attention. I wind it down.

“Are you Fiona’s dad?” A mum asks me.

“I am.”

“It’s about Ophelia’s riding party this Saturday at the riding stables.” 

Like I said, it’s a different land here.

“I thought we RSVPed to that?” I look at her in confusion.

“Yes, you did, but we have to change the food options as one of the partygoers is allergic to nuts. I’m making everyone aware and we need to let the guests know that they can’t bring any nuts on the day.”

A dirty joke is right there on the tip of my tongue and I’m trying my hardest to keep it in. My wife would definitely find it funny though, I’ve got to remember this and tell her later. 

“Noted,” I mean, I wasn’t going to send my daughter to a party with a packet of cashews anyway but I nod politely.

“And just gift vouchers for gifts please. Smiggle, if you can.”

Again, I nod, biting my tongue at the presumptuousness. But then I suddenly panic, because we haven’t entered the realms of pony riding just yet. Do I have to buy jods and boots? If I don’t, will my daughter be the odd one out? But Ophelia’s mum saunters off before I’ve got the chance to ask.

“Do I have to go to that party, daddy?” Fiona asks. 

“Well, we’ve already replied, poppet,” I tell her. “Did you not want to go?”

“I’ll go if I have to.”

I don’t answer because I get distracted by a vacant space. I edge the car forward so my girls can hop off. 

“I love you both. Have a good day, make good choices.” 

“Bye daddy! We’ll see you after work!”

***

Evelina London Children’s Hospital is our second home. Of course, as a children’s hospital, we try to make the place as fun as possible as not to freak those little patients out at being ill. It is bright and primary coloured, and each ward is decorated according to its own theme with different colours and lovely artworks. There are televisions and toys almost in every corner. We have a giant slide on the ground floor, and even the bins are shaped like red London buses. The aim was to help the children to forget that they’re in a hospital and take their minds off their sickness.

Since my wife and I are in the same department, our offices are next to each other, both overlooking the Thames. It’s nice up here. Would’ve been nicer if we could sneak in a quickie, but that’s practically impossible with our shared secretary’s desk sitting literally in front of our doors. 

Speak of the devil.

“Good morning. Here’s your tea,” my secretary follows me into my office with a cup of tea and a tiny plate with a couple of rich tea fingers. “Clinic until 3 pm, scheduled PDA ligation in the laboratory for 4 pm and then evening rounds on the wards.”

“Mornin’ Rhonda, you look lovely today,” I greet her cheerily. She’s a stern-looking woman who definitely likes her tea as strong as tits and who has probably never cried in her life. With such severity, she runs a tight ship, but she secretly has this affectionate side in her too. Not only is she a great secretary, but she also takes care of us in a way as a grandma does. She makes us tea, feeds us in between surgeries with biscuits or nice baby cheeses and crackers just so we wouldn’t starve. 

See that sofa over there in the corner of my office? Rhonda got me that. It was around the time when I had just become a new father with the sweetest, most gorgeous little baby who did not sleep. Alma wasn’t a fussy baby though. For some reason, she just wouldn’t go back to sleep after her midnight feed for months. Believe me, I tried everything. I changed her nappy, I swayed and jiggled and rocked and sung her to sleep. Odd nonsensical songs like, ‘Alma darling go to sleeep. Sleepy sleep sleep. Pleeeeease. I’m so tirrrred. My eyeballs may actually exploooode. I don’t want you to see thaaat.’ And she would just look at me all wide-eyed like I’d lost the plot. Those were song lyrics? That was rubbish. Please don’t give up your day job. Also, it’s not sleeping time. I’m awake. I’m ready for life. Come on, entertain me, old man. Isn’t this nice, just you and me? Tell me everything you know. EVERYTHING. 

Except of course she didn’t say all that. She would just stare at me and I had no idea what was going on in her little head. 

I took over my wife’s patients at the hospital during her maternity leave, so I had longer hours at the hospital. One day Rhonda found me napping on the floor between surgeries, so she sweet-talked some porters into looking for any old sofas on the go and paid to have this one reupholstered. She even bought me a fleece throw for it too. We really don’t deserve her.

“You hittin’ on me?” She deadpans. “Yer wife not doing it for you these days?”

“It’s the blazer. I’m a sucker for a blazer.”

“If I’d known, I would’ve worn it more often,” she replies. “Did my nice dress yesterday not give you the fanny flutters?”

“It’s schlong shiver for me,” I roar with laughter. “And it’s the tartan, makes you look well old.”

“YN, yer husband’s a bloody git, did I ever tell you that?” Rhonda says loud enough for my wife to hear, and I can hear my wife’s laughter from her office next door. “Drink your tea. Your first clinic appointment is in twenty.”

“Yes ma’am,” I salute her. 

***

The Arctic ward in the Evelina is home to many of our imaging, heart and kidney services. The name is probably giving it away, but everything is decorated in blue and white to go with the theme. We have several zones, and since paediatric cardiology clinics are held in the Walrus zone, I spend a great deal of time each day looking at walrus and snowflake decals. 

“Doctor Styles!” I hear a little voice shouts in excitement as I walk towards the waiting room in the outpatient ward. I smile, because I recognise that voice even before I see the little person.

The waiting room is very open here compared to other hospitals. There’s a sea of noise, snacks, tiny juice boxes and colouring pages. There’s also always a look of expectation, judgement on the faces of parents and guardians every time I walk in. They want to see if their doctor is old or qualified enough to see their children. There’s always one child who has the whole gang with them; parents, two sets of grandparents and even several aunts and uncles, and there’s also at least one child running around in circles out of boredom. 

This little lad bounces off his chair and hurls himself at me in a way like a little puppy would when its owner comes home from work. I put an arm out, hoping that he’ll apply the brakes but no such luck and he bundles himself into my arms. “Nice to see you, mate.”

His parents smile as they watch their son’s antics, who then runs off as I shake their hands. I turn around to see what caught his attention, and I can’t help but chuckle when I realise it’s my wife. 

“Doctor pretty Styles!” He exclaims excitedly as he bundles himself into her arms. She gets a mouthful of curls in the process. 

“Hi Rory,” she greets him as she runs her fingers through his curly mop. 

“Oi,” I pout as I walk towards them. “You don’t think I’m pretty?”

“Your wife is prettier,” he says with a shrug, his tone matter-of-fact.

She laughs and gives him a high-five. “Rory, you are officially my favourite patient.”

She is right. Rory is one of our special patients for sure. We’ve both known him for about six years now, ever since Rory’s mum gave birth to this tiny human next door at St Thomas and his heart was literally broken. I remember watching proudly from the theatre when my wife replaced two of his valves when he was born. It was in our early years of training. Long time patients like Rory almost always feel like family. We’ve seen all their parents’ tears and watched over their children throughout the years. They send us cards and wine every Christmas and despite all attempts to keep a professional distance, their kids do feel like our own.

Rory shrugs off his dinosaur rucksack and unzips it, pulling out a drawing of a blue whale and an opened packet of KitKat. I like that the whale wears a top hat and appears to also don a moustache. 

“I drew you both a picture. Only one though, because I figure you can share,” he says with a big toothy grin and hands the packet of KitKat to my wife. “And I’ve got half a KitKat here. Do you want it?”

“I’m good for now. Keep that KitKat for later on the tube,” she smiles and waves at Rory as she begins to walk away towards the fetal cardiology ward just down the hall. “Bye Rory, thanks for the picture.”

“Bye doctor pretty Styles,” Rory replies, making my wife laugh as she walks away. I give her a wave and a wink. 

“Hey Rory, did you know a blue whale has a heart the size of a small car?” I ask him and his eyes widen.

“No way! That’s mega!” He exclaims. “Do you think you could operate on a whale heart?”

“I would need a very big ladder,” I tell him. “And a wetsuit. I’d give it a go though.”

A senior nurse from the outpatient ward, Florence approaches us with a junior nurse trailing behind her. “Dr Styles, always a pleasure.”

I smile at her. “Florence. How are we today?”

“Busy as usual,” she replies. “We’re about twenty minutes behind I’m afraid. We had Dr Goodridge in this morning and you know he likes to talk.”

“He always runs over,” I chuckle. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll skip lunch and get us back up to speed.”

“I’ll make sure to send some snacks for you. Here’s your chart, your files are already in your office. And this is Alice, your nurse today. She’s newly qualified so might need some instructions.”

The new nurse looks terrified so I smile at her to try and calm her fears. I totally get that. When you work in medicine, unfortunately, you’ll realise that there are a lot of rude self-important wankers. 

I look down at my chart and find Rory’s name on the top of the list. “Well, look who’s coming with me to the exam room.”

Rory reaches out to hold my hand and we walk towards the examination room. His parents follow us closely, carrying the usual coats and devices that people do when they know they’re bound for a hospital waiting room. I see them inside and sit behind the desk.

“So, young man, I hear we’ve had a touch of drama with you. Can you tell me what happened?”

I’ve actually already got the information in the file, but I like the way this kid tells a story. He reminds me of my youngest. 

“So… I was at school and we were doing PE and I wasn’t really feeling it because it was cold and really we should have been inside but Mr Witter makes us go outside because he used to be in the Army apparently and he says we should get used to the cold but that’s what they do in prisons.”

I smile. “Go on.”

“And then my heart started running.”

“You mean racing?”

He nods firmly. Racing isn’t even the word. It sprinted to the finish like Bolt at 252 beats per minute, three times the speed it should.

“It felt like bubbles in my chest and then the school went crazy panicky and they called the ambulance and they brought me to the hospital but not this one, it was another one and it wasn’t as good because you weren’t there and they had really bad biscuit.”

His mum adds. “And they gave him some drugs to bring it back to a steady rhythm; they were close to shocking him.” Her voice trails off and both parents’ faces look drawn and pale remembering the incident.

Rory looks absolutely unbothered by this. To be fair, we have put this little man through everything. We’ve cut his chest open more times than is necessary for someone so small, we hook him up to machines and put him on treadmills. His resilience and character amaze me, and I really can’t imagine what it feels like to see your child so vulnerable and helpless, to be paralysed and weighed down with such worry.

“Alright then, little man, we need to make sure that your heart is working as it should. This is Alice, and she is going to take you over for an ECG and we just need to make sure your tick-tock is in good shape.”

Rory nods and jumps off the chair. His dad offers him a piggyback, and his mum smiles at them. I can hear Rory offering that half KitKat to Alice as they leave the room. 

His mother turns to me as the door is closed, her shoulders relaxing, allowing herself to breathe. “And how are you?” I ask her.

“You just think it’s done and then something like that comes along to scare you,” she says with a sigh.

“Let’s have these tests and then see if it’s anything major to worry about,” I try to calm her. “Episodes of rapid heartbeat is quite common in Rory’s case, and we can look into drugs to remedy that if necessary.”

She smiles, nodding.

“Did you have any other questions for me?”

She studies my face for a moment too long. “I… well, it will show up in Rory’s records soon, but my husband I are… I mean we’re getting a divorce.”

I pause for a moment. Of course, I know these things happen in life, but I’ve known this couple for years. I’ve seen them at their lowest ebb, bound by friendship and their love for that boy. I really do feel sorry for them.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I mumble.

“We just… we’re terrified about telling Rory.”

“He doesn’t know?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “We’re scared of breaking him. I mean, look at him. All of this stuff he’s been through and he carries on like nothing has happened. We don’t want to upset him.”

“It took a team of us the best part of six years to build Rory’s heart. There's a warranty on that workmanship,” I reassure her. “Have that chat with him. He’ll be fine.”

***

“Have we got time for dinner first?” I turn to my wife as we walk out of the hospital. We don’t normally have the luxury of ending our shift at the same time, but today is exceptional. We have parents’ evening at the girls’ school so Rhonda made sure to clear up our schedule after our evening rounds at the ward. 

“No, but we can raid M&S and eat in the car?”

I’m starving and I almost cry with relief at the suggestion. “Always knew I married the right woman.”

She chuckles. “Damn right you did.”

We leave the car at the hospital and she drags me along the walkways to Waterloo, the breeze biting at our cheeks. I pull her into M&S, dodging the marching commuters and grab a basket. 

“I’ll look for some wine,” she says before she saunters off. “Oh and I want sushi. None of that crap with the mayonnaise please.”

“Alright.”

I skipped lunch today so the whole place calls to me. I start taking very random things off the shelves: a packet of raspberry iced buns. That’ll do. I also take some hummus for my wife because she bloody loves hummus. I’m not even joking, I’ve seen her down a whole pot of it. Then I take some sushi as requested, some coleslaw, a family bag of mature cheddar and red onion crisps and a trifle. I hope I don’t bump into Rhonda. Next are cheese twists, noodle salad and cocktail sausages. 

It takes me a while to notice that there is a man right next to me with a roll of yellow stickers in their back pocket. Hello there, you are one of my favourite people tonight. Have I managed to find that sacred hour when all the food is being marked down? He labels some prawns with dip and even though I get a little squeamish about eating fish near its expiry date, I put it in my basket. I then follow him around the corner. Now, this is dinner. I put all sorts of random food in my basket and smile at the thought.

Ooh, knockdown pizzas. I should get a pizza. That’s tomorrow’s tea sorted, the girls will love it. Although I can’t help but wonder, what’s the limit for us to feed our daughters frozen pizza in a week before they get taken away from us? But eh, we might be able to get away with it if we give them frozen peas on the side. 

“Look at you,” says my wife, depositing two bottles of red in the basket. 

“Yes, it’s me. I’m the yellow sticker bitch.”

She snickers as we turn to head for the tills. “Excellent work.”

***

“Mr and Mrs Styles, welcome.”

“Mrs Ebner, always a pleasure,” I shake the headmistress’ hand who’s standing at the door. 

“Busy evening?” My wife asks her as she shakes her hand next.

“Always,” the headmistress replies with a smile, then proceeds to speak like she’s reading out of brochures. “But such a wonderful opportunity to connect with our parents and build on the special relationships we have with our school community.” 

Two uniformed minions appear.

“Lewis, Maggie, could you please show Mr and Mrs Styles through to the drinks reception?”

They both nod in unison. The boy holds his arms out like a waiter showing us to our table. We follow them through the school’s grand corridors to the main hall. It’s the one thing I like about this place. It’s very Hogwarts-like with hefty engraved name boards and sepia photos of successful sports teams. In the hall, a throng of parents mill around waiting to see respective teachers. It’s the same every year. We all dodge the people from the PTA trying to sell us quiz tickets, and the bowls of crisps out of hygiene concerns.

“Red or white?” Asks a lady in an apron.

This right here is the very reason we get through parents’ evening. From the look of the bottle, it’s decent wine too. I think that’s where a good proportion of our fees is going. 

“Red, please.”

We both take our glasses and walk to the corner of the hall. It’s essentially a holding area without the background music. The idea is that all the parents will get on and create a party vibe but it just becomes a strange family gathering. As terrible as it sounds, it’s sorted into cliques: parents who know each other via NCT groups, the international expat brigades who keep to themselves, the parents who’ve ostracised themselves by gossip, the ones who you know regularly brunch and ski together.

The boy from earlier suddenly appears in front of us. “Mrs Hughes is ready for you.”

I put my hand on the small of my wife’s back as we walk towards the classroom. Fiona’s teacher first and then Alma’s straight after. Right, we can do this.

“Mrs Hughes, we meet again,” I shake her hand. I’ve got no qualms about Mrs Hughes. She’s a seasoned teacher who likes a slack and sensible moccasin and we’re familiar with her since she taught Alma two years previously. When we enter the classroom, Lewis bows in reverence, taking his leave and I wonder whether to tip him. 

“It’s always lovely to have another Styles girl in my classroom. Fiona is a particular delight.”

My wife and I smile proudly. I’m sure Mrs Hughes says this to every parent here about their child, but that’s always nice to hear. 

“She talks a lot about you,” my wife says. “She seems to have settled in well.”

Mrs Hughes opens up a couple of books and it’s classic Fiona. Alma is ordered and neat—if she makes a mistake then she erases it completely and she underlines things with a ruler and listens to instruction carefully. She gets that from her mum. Fiona though, on the other hand, she’s all me. She has more wild abandon about her; no rulers, no rubbers. She puts giant crosses through things that don’t work and likes her bubble writing decorated with doodles of many, many cats.

I glance around the classroom as Mrs Hughes talks to us about standardised scores. The theme of the school is to show you how smart and educated these children are. Look at the copperplate handwriting, their reproductions of Van Gogh and our languages corner where they’ve all had a go at telling us what they like in French. I spy a contribution from my girl. J’adore les chats et le gâteau au chocolat. 

I’ve lost track of the conversation so I try to catch up.

“So to push Fiona into those top scores, perhaps we can look into tutoring? For maths, in particular, so she can grasp some of the concepts a little more tightly,” says Mrs Hughes. 

My wife and I look at each other confused. “Uh, I don’t think there’s a need, right? She’s only five.”

“It’s never too early,” replies Mrs Hughes. “We run an after-school tutoring club on Tuesdays that would help.”

Back when I was a youngster, clubs were fun endeavours that involved matching baseballs caps or were a chocolate biscuit that you had in your lunchbox. Maths tutoring session was not a club.

I ask her. “Is it free?”

“It’s fifteen pounds per session.”

See? My point being this should be a parents’ evening, not a sales session.

“Well, then it’s something to think about,” says my wife. “It could be that Fiona catches up with people throughout the year.”

“Possibly,” Mrs Hughes nods. Still, though, she proceeds to go into her folder and passes me a form. Sneaky. “Fiona has also shown great interest in languages and art. Her pictures have been a joy.”

Mrs Hughes goes to a file and pulls one of Fiona’s drawings. I glance down at it. It’s a standard child piece of art. The grass and sky are strips of colour to the top and bottom. It’s a family portrait, and we are as tall as the broccoli style trees. Wait, hang on a second. I count the number of people in the picture again. Is that-

“And Mrs Styles, I gather congratulations are in order,” she says with a smile. “Such lovely news.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Fiona told me it’s a boy,” she adds, and the sheer terror on my wife’s face at the realisation is priceless. “You must be very thrilled.”

I study the picture. There’s a house in the middle, and standing in a line in front of the house is our family. The one slightly taller than the broccoli tree is me. I’ve got my white lab coat, and I look like a serial killer because I’m holding a scalpel with the size of a butcher’s knife. Next to me is my wife, also with a white lab coat, but instead of a scalpel, she’s holding a very chunky baby who rather looks like a basketball with a head.

“Oh dear,” I chuckle. “Guess now we know what she’ll ask for Christmas.”

“Yeah,” my wife shakes her head. “We’re not expecting.”

“Oh, I apologise,” Mrs Hughes says with a sheepish smile.

“No worries, Mrs Hughes,” I tell her. “So, what else has our girl been up to here? Besides gossiping of course.”

Mrs Hughes laughs under her breath. “Well, in class, Fiona is attentive, bright and very helpful. She is a credit to you both.”

***

“I swear your daughter, Styles.”

We’re sitting in the car now. Finally done with parents’ evening, still laughing at the slightly creepy, chunky basketball baby in Fiona’s picture and the fact that three people, including Mrs Hughes, have congratulated us for the ‘baby’.

“You haven’t called me Styles in years,“ I turn to her with a grin. “Not since medical school.”

I can’t help but flashback to the good ol’ days when we had matching university hoodies and we’d test each other on the parts of a kidney whilst walking into lectures, sitting next to each other, sharing pens and cans of Lilt. 

“Well, after that I became a Styles too,” she chuckles. “Would be confusing then, wouldn’t it?”

“True,” I laugh under my breath, then I grab her hand and pull it to my mouth so I can kiss her knuckles. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For being a Styles.”

“Aw, aren’t we soppy tonight?” She smirks. “Alright, stop the car.”

“What?”

“There,” she points to a dark empty spot and I oblige. 

Then, before I can even ask her why, she reaches over and grabs me by the collar. Pulling me close to her and gives me a kiss. I kiss her back, and I smile when she bites gently on my bottom lip.

“Oi, oi. Something’s got you randy.”

The next thing I know, she undoes her seatbelt and then rolls her trousers down her legs along with her knickers, fumbling and giggling at the awkward movement. I push my seat back and pull my trousers down. 

“Don’t fall on gearstick now,” I joke as she climbs over to straddle me. “Well, unless you want to, of course…”

She laughs as she lowers herself over my lap. I really can’t believe what’s happening here.

“Mrs Styles, we’re about to have sex in a car. Around the corner from our daughters’ school.” 

“I know,” she says with a smile before she runs her tongue along my neck. “Not our first rodeo though.”

“Oh right, we did it in our Volvo years ago, didn’t we? Thought the suspension couldn’t take it.”

“And it turned out fine. Told you that you needed to have more faith in the Swedes, they’re a reliable breed.”

“I love it when you talk about Sweden.”

“Ikea.”

“Fuck.”

“Meatballs.”

“Billy Bookcase.”

She throws her head back in laughter and I take this as an opportunity to run my tongue along her collar bone. She gasps. I reach down to lift her before I slowly lower her over my cock. We both sigh as I enter her, a long exhalation with our lips barely touching. 

“Viggo Mortensen.”

“Isn’t he Danish?”

“Tomato, Tomahto.”

I smile at my wife and push my hips up, silently telling her that we don’t need to talk about Swedish people anymore. She grabs onto the car seat and levers herself up and down. I look at her in the eye, a goofy smile still plastered across my face.

But then I squint. Light. Bollocks, what’s that? Where’s that light coming from? Crap, that’s bright. Shit. I see the flash of a hi-vis jacket, a knock at the window and someone shaking their head.

Oh sodding fucking bollocking shit wank.

[doctorgerth]

A New Light at the End of the Tunnel

Chosen Characters: Straw Hat Pirates

Chosen Word: Nightmare

Fic Type: Mostly fluff with a hint of angst

Appropriate Warnings: Blood, gore, implied character death

Nightmares were a rarity for Luffy.

It made sense, considering the life he was leading. He was a pirate captain. He was on his journey to becoming king of the pirates with all of his friends and the best part was he’s gotten his share of the best meat ever. With a life like this, Luffy’s never had many nightmares. Most of them just consisted of him not being able to reach the delectable meat before he woke up (which, granted, was a true horror). 

That was until two years ago. That was when the true nightmares began.

For the most part, they always end up the same, with a few variety in between. He was there, in Marine HQ, the scaffold where Ace stood unnaturally high against the dark clouds. Sometimes he’d be by himself, and other times, there would be the screaming pirates and marines all around him. 

But without fail, he’d always be looking for the most important person. The one he ran straight through hell to get to. The one that he needed to find. The panic would start to creep up his spine, his heart beating harder and harder. Sometimes his vision would twirl around, faster and faster, like his head was a spin top, with no end in sight.

And then, like a beacon of light, Ace would be standing there, fire surrounding him, chasing away the darkness. 

Luffy laughed, glee warming him up as the doubt retreated. “Ace!” he cried, throwing his arms up and out. “There you are!”

Ace turned back to him, with a grin as bright as the light around him. “You never could stop yourself from getting into trouble, could you, Luffy?”

Luffy giggled. “That’s no fun, Ace!” 

There was always something wrong, though. Something whispering in Luffy’s ear, words that he couldn’t quite grasp in tones that slicked down the side of his neck like tar. His stomach would roll, in ways different than when he was hungry. He’d push it aside, forcing the grin to stay on his face. Everything’s fine. Ace is here and he’s going to be fine. That thought would be his barrier, but nothing seemed to stop the icy fingers from crawling up his back. 

He ignored it. “Let’s go, Ace!” Luffy cheered, his fists in the air as an unspoken defiance against the people who tried to take his big brother away from him. “I’ve come to save you!”

That’s when the silence would hit him at full force. Regardless of whether he had been by himself before or only now was didn’t matter. He’d only realize it until that moment. His shoulders would tense, like waiting for an enemy to appear just before him. Would it be Aokiji? Or maybe Smokey was waiting for another chance? 

His eyes snapped to his sides and then behind him. His senses went on full alert. Until the bright red would catch his attention. Head whirling back around, no matter how many times he’d beg for it to be different, the results would always be the same. 

The whole in Ace’s chest was large, blood steadily pouring out and splattering onto the ground. A trickle of the red would drip down from Ace’s mouth to his chin. Luffy’s heart stopped, every muscle in his body frozen, despite how he desperately wished to run towards Ace. “You… were always… so reckless…” Ace was struggling to breathe. 

Run. Go. RUN. 

His legs wouldn’t listen. Had Aokiji frozen him like last time? He couldn’t tell. His eyes wouldn’t tear away from the sight before him. “A-Ace…” Luffy gasped. “No. Ace.” He strained his muscles, but something was holding him back, unseen hands grasping at his ankles to keep him in one spot. 

Ace’s eyes lifted up to his. “Sorry, Luffy…” Tears were already streaming down his face, mixing with the blood, turning the bright color dull. “This is it for me.”

A gust of wind and Ace would disappear. His fire was gone and Luffy was back in darkness again. Luffy screamed, but nothing could pierce through it. He didn’t care and continued to yell. He kept at it until his lungs burned. The darkness was suffocating him, and he couldn’t find his way out. He lashed out but there wasn’t any air. He couldn’t make sense of it anymore. 

He was all alone. 

He was all alone. 

Luffy wailed. 

Luffy’s eyes snapped open and he practically threw himself off his bunk. He crashed onto the floor. He gasped for breath, trying to make sense of where he was. I’m on my ship, some part of him insisted. I’m on the ship. 

The silence in the quarters encouraged him to scream, but he fought it as he scrambled up and towards the exit. Throwing open the door, he paused just before leaving and scrubbed his tears away. Then, he stepped out and onto the deck. The light blinded him for a second, and he couldn’t breathe. 

His eyes adjusted quickly.

The sun was starting to set. The darkness was closing in from above his head and his heart was thrumming so painfully in his chest. “Oi, shit captain!” Luffy caught Sanji standing over the railing, chewing on his cigarette. “Geez, I called you like a million times. It’s not like you to miss dinner.” 

Dinner. 

Luffy was already running across the deck, but the smile on his face was frayed at the edges as the darkness crept along his back. His muscles were tense and he wished more than anything that he could fight this off like any of the other men that he’s faced before. 

But you fought hard at Marineford and that did nothing to help Ace.

His shoulders tightened, trying to ignore the whispers. “Yosh!” He forced the word out, but it was stale at the back of his tongue. Luffy was always genuine with his emotions and this was as wrong to him as anything else. He didn’t like lying, but he also didn’t like these emotions. He wanted them gone, and he desperately hoped that this would quiet them. 

He threw himself into the dinning room, ignoring Sanji’s angry yelling about not breaking anything. The light in the room made his sight go bright for a second and his head ached and pounded for a minute. 

His vision cleared. 

His crew was sitting at the table. They all turned towards him when he entered. “Ah, Captain,” Robin greeted softly. She smiled over at him. “I was worried that you had died in your sleep when you didn’t come for food.”

“ROBIN!” Usopp smacked his hands on the table, leaning forwards towards her. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop saying such creepy things!”

Luffy walked over to the empty spot and sat himself down. His shoulders started to relax.

“Don’t you worry, Luffy!” He turned to see Chopper staring up at him earnestly. “I’ll always make sure you’re healthy.” 

Franky stepped in. “Luffy’s never going to worry about that, bro!” Franky yelled boisterously. “Not when we got such a SUPER doctor on our crew!” Franky stood up just to throw his arms together in his famous pose. 

Chopper gasped, and without missing a beat, started wiggling around in his chair. “Don’t think for one second that I’m flattered, you stupid human!” Chopper said with a giggle. “Compliments don’t work on me like that!”

“Pretty sure they’re working just fine…” Usopp muttered.

His heartbeat slowed.

“Here Luffy,” Zoro forced a mug of ale into his hands. “Maybe you finally just’ve grown enough in the two years that you’ve got a taste for alcohol finally!” The grin on Zoro’s face was vicious.

“Yeah right!” Nami came in and smacked Zoro hard in the head. His face hit the table with the force. “Like that’ll ever happen with Luffy!” She snatched the mug right out of Luffy’s hands. “How many times do I have to tell you, idiot?” Nami growled, waving the cup around wildly. “If Luffy is this much of an idiot, then we do not need to find out how what he is like if he ever got drunk!”

His breathing smoothed.

“Why you…” Zoro’s head snapped up, and even with a sizable egg now blooming on his head, he was still terrifying as he grasped onto his swords. Not that Nami even flinched. She gave his glare back to him tenfold. 

“Oi!” Zoro’s natural fighting instincts protected him from Sanji’s kick. “If you even think of using one of those ugly swords on my beautiful Nami, I’ll kick your ass so hard you’ll need a new wanted poster.”

“At least mine came out good the first time!” Zoro threw back, hitting Sanji right where it hurt.

Sanji gave an inhuman roar and Zoro responded instantly. They were already kicking and slicing before anyone could stop them. 

“Ugh…” Nami dropped herself back down onto her chair and rolled her eyes. Everyone knew it was useless to try and break them up. “What morons…” 

The whispers were getting farther away.

Robin giggled. “Seems like some things never do change.”

“Or ever will…” Usopp was happy to lend Nami some company in the pity party. 

“Yohohohoho!” Brook slid in with a joyous laugh. “Now, now, everyone! Why don’t I play us a song that will help those ears be just as full as our stomachs!” 

“That sounds like a SUPER idea!” Franky cheered.

Chopper clapped. “Oh yes, please Brook!” 

Nami put her head in her hand. “Well, at least the nice music will drown them out a bit…” she muttered.

“But first...” Brook appeared next to Nami. She raised an eyebrow. “May I see your panties, Nami?”

Nami didn’t even hesitate. “NO WAY IN HELL!” She swung a leg out and sent Brook flying across the room. He slammed into the other side. Nami flicked her hair over her shoulder. “Seems like this crew is full of idiots…” Nami grumbled.

You’re home.

Robin laughed. Usopp shook his head. “You’d think he’d get it after a while.” 

Nami rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that’s clearly never going to happen.”

You’re with your family.

“Sanji!” Nami called to him from where he was still battling it out with Zoro. “Ignore him and serve dinner already! Before the glutton decides to eat it all off the stove.” There was no question who she was referring to.

“Of course, Nami-swan~!” Sanji immediately abandoned Zoro to twirl his way back over to dinner with hearts bursting from his very pores.

Zoro scoffed and sheathed his swords. “Erocook…” he muttered, even as he walked back over to the table.

What’s gone maybe gone, but you still have something left in this world to treasure, don’t you?

Luffy’s world brightened again. The grin that stretched from his lips this time around was as pure and as genuine as it ever was before. Everybody noticed. “What’s with that look, Luffy?” Usopp asked, leaning forward to catch his eye. “What’s got you so happy?”

“What else?” Nami scoffed. “Sanji’s about to serve dinner.”

“The captain does love his food,” Robin cooed. “Let’s hope he doesn’t eat so much he explodes.”

“Robin!” Usopped snapped.

His throat was no longer closed and his words came out easy this time. “I love my crew!” he yelled out from the bottom of his heart. He threw his hands up and out, the joy behind his words warming him to his very bones. “I’ve got the best crew in the entire world!”

There was a pause. Everyone shocked at such an outburst, but then, they all turned bright red. “Don’t think this will work against me~!” Chopper laughed and started wiggling again. 

Nami pressed a hand to her burning cheeks, trying to play it off. “Well of course you do, I mean, I’m the best you’re ever going to get!”

Brook laughed. “Oh dear me, I’m blushing as red as a cherry.” He paused for effect. “I mean, I would be if I had any skin! Yohohohoho~!”

“Aw shucks, Luffy, you’re making us blush.” Franky grinned and smacked Luffy on the back. “But you’re right about that! We’ve got a SUPER crew!”

Robin and Zoro just smiled, as they settled themselves in for the meal. 

“Alright,” Sanji called as he walked over with arms full of delicious food. “Bon appetit!” Luffy was more than happy to dig in. 

Yes, he would sometimes have nightmares. Sometimes the darkness would get a little too much for Luffy to handle. But, no matter where it happened or when, he knew one thing for certain. His crew would always be there to remind him of one thing. 

That, no matter what, there would always be a light at the end of his darkness.

[elleleuthold]

Astra inclinant, sed non obligant

A short sci-fi story written for @caffeinewitchcraft’s Caffeine Challenge #12. My brain took the prompts and veered off a bit, but this was fun to write! The title means “The stars incline us, but do not bind us.”

I was born on the Saratoga, a class 2 transport running supplies between the consolidated colonies of the outer ring planets. It’s down in the records as the middle day of seven in a Night cycle as we drifted between suns, all lights on emergency use only until we could make it in range of the next system to recharge the auxiliary batteries. Mom always said that Night stretched so long because I was hoarding all the light for myself, so I could burst to life as five pounds six ounces of screaming starfire. She said she knew I’d be fine out here in the black, that she knew I could make my life here and be happy without a sun and a planet because even from that very first moment she could see the light in my eyes; a true spacer, whose inner fire keeps them warm even in the darkest times.

I never had the heart to tell her she was wrong.

My defection started like this: I was seven sol-years old and setting foot on a planet for the first time. Gravity dragged at me. My feet and hands felt heavy, my head hurt. The floor seemed to roll out in front of me, curving and bucking when I tried to walk. I fell more than a few times, and my mother tried to get me to go back to the shuttle, but I refused. Everyone else in my class had been planetside, even Monica and Neil, both two years younger than me, and I was determined to have my turn.

One of the station attendants gave me a pair of crutches and I gritted my teeth and kept going, one shaky step at a time, until I was through the doors and really, really in-atmosphere for the first time in my life.

The heat of the sun felt like a caress over my hair. The breeze tugging at my shipsuit was a revelation. There were sounds I’d never heard before, smells I’d never dreamt of, more colors than I’d ever thought possible. Actual living animals flew above me. Vibrant green plants pushed between cracks in the stone path, utterly unplanned-for.

It was too much. I cried. I screamed. I curled in a ball on the ground—real, solid ground!--and bawled my tiny heart out while the sun beat on my neck, and I refused to move no matter how my shipmates coaxed and pulled and scolded. Mom always said after it was some kind of sign, that it was proof I knew I belonged in space, even that young. The rest of the adults laughed about it for years. They’d muss my hair affectionately whenever it came up at a party, or a holiday, or a community hearing, or a graduation ceremony, and say things like That’s our Astra, and A born shiprat, you are.

I wasn’t allowed off-ship again for a decade.

We have a tradition, when a youngling is finishing up their apprenticeship, that they share their favorite memory with the whole ship. It’s a way of officially joining the adult community on board as a contributing member, even though by the time you get there you’ve been doing an adult’s workload for five years already. Practically all your free time is spent on it as soon as you pass the last general proficiency exam and prove you’re not going to fuck up and get everyone killed during an emergency.

My friend Yumi shared the time she helped her father repair the aquaponic tanks. Dmitri talked about the first moment he realized he wanted to study navigation. Sara wrote a song about her pride in our traditions and the legacy we have as spacers, the good things we’re able to do and the challenges we overcome every hour to live this way.

You get the idea. It’s supposed to be about us. About the Saratoga and the black and the way we work together as a community. But I didn’t care about that. I mean, I cared, but not the way I was supposed to. By the time I was ready to finish out my mechanic’s license I was 19 years old and I’d spent a whole trade cycle dreaming about a girl back on Freya. Sixteen planets, month after month of travel time and two ship-wide panics and I couldn’t get her out of my head. I’d even sent her letters, saving up my share in the databursts for a chance to keep up a connection on a planet I knew I wouldn’t visit again for years.

No one onboard wanted to know about her. I knew that. All my tapped out notes and oblique references to hey, maybe my favorite memory is something planetside got laughed off as jokes. Oh Astra, you’re so funny. Everyone knows how much you love being out here. Come on, starfire, no need to keep us all in suspense, aren’t we your friends?

So I lied.

I lied, and I said my favorite memory was reassembling the tertiary engine during a four-day Night. I told them I loved knowing we’d get to the next system safely, and I loved pressing my hands against a working engine and feeling it purr up through my bones, and I loved the sounds of the ship, of our home, always in motion, always acting with purpose.

I lied through my teeth and they applauded me for it.

By the time I was 25 I knew I had to get off the ship. By then I’d seen Naomi again and I knew I wasn’t getting over her even if I spent the whole rest of my life in space, but it was worse than that. Some clever engineer on Ra-Prime had designed a new engine that could convert energy from galactic cosmic rays as well as starlight, and every ship with a hope of maintaining its place in the inter-colonial market was installing it. Also, there were more bots on board every time we stopped, scurrying around and making small tasks easier. The Saratoga had to keep up with the times, and that meant new tech, new training, new goals. If I left it much longer, I’d be demoted to supervisor instead of engine mechanic. Everyone tried to pretend that sort of thing was a promotion, really, but I’d watched it happen to Neil and Yumi and Monica already and they definitely didn’t look happier to have their jobs mostly taken over by bits of scrap with computers tucked in. Feeling useful was the only thing I had left by then. If I couldn’t have that, I didn’t have anything.

So I stood up at the next ship-wide meeting, and I said I wanted to be the new planetary contact on Freya. I could learn from Helena now, I could build on her contacts, and maybe in a few years I could take over so she’d be able to retire the way she kept hinting at. I said I would be an asset, because I could keep up with the new tech better than she could. Because I knew what the ship needed now, what to look for now, not what we needed thirty years ago when she became our liaison. Because I was a spacer, and I’d lived my whole life in the black, and she’d only even been up to orbit.

They didn’t believe me at first, but I insisted.

They said, “Why do you want this?”

And I told them: “Because soon you’ll have no use for me.”

I told them: “I can do it better than any colonist ever could.”

Sara frowned at me and said, “This is about that girl, isn’t it.”

And old Henri leaned forward and said, “I thought you were going to ask her to come up. All those letters, you said you might ask her.”

I told them: “I knew that would make you happier. I knew that was what you wanted to hear. But she was never going to come, because I was never going to ask.”

Jerome shook his head and said, “We all know you, Astra. A handful of letters? Two visits in eight years? You know we know you better. You hate it planetside.”

I said: “No, I don’t. I never have.”

They looked confused. Surely this thing everyone knew was true? Surely they hadn’t made it up my whole life?

Monica said, “Why would you give this up? Your family, your home?”

I said: “Because I love her, and I love Freya, and want my future to be more than watching robots do my job and planning for every breath of air I take.”

They told me she’d be older if I went. That spacers live longer, that we age better. They told me it’d been months since the last databurst already. They told me she’d have found someone else.

I said: “Let me tell you my favorite memory.”

Neil snorted, rolled his eyes. “You mean that one about fixing the old engines?”

I said: “No, not that one, the real one.”

And I told them about the sun on my neck as I walked through Freya’s largest outdoor market, and the breeze on my face, the smell of food cooked over a real fire in my nose and the taste of cinnamon on my tongue. I told them about little gardens set on windowsills, with herbs sprouting in crooked rows and ivy growing up the walls crumbling walls that no one needed to repair because even damaged brick was good enough to keep out the mild winter. I told them I’d never felt so alive, so real, aboard the ship as I did after just a few minutes walking those streets.

And I told them: When I met Naomi that day, the fifth day since our first meeting, she had perfect red flowers stuck in the dark cloud of her hair. She wore a flowing yellow dress that would never pass shipboard inspection, and when she stepped into the sunlight she glowed like a goddess. I told them that when she smiled at me her eyes were dark and warm and the everything the black outside the viewports wasn’t. I told them that kissing her made me feel safe and whole. That she didn’t care if I was clumsy and slow in Freya’s gravity. That she caught me when I fell, that she held my hand, dark fingers twined with mine, and helped me stagger to a seat when I got tired, and let me sleep against her shoulder, so that I woke with her arm around me and her warmth against my side, nothing but soft cloth and the smell of flowers between us. I told them that I knew, then, that I never wanted to be anywhere else.

Neil said, “We need you for the new installs.”

Monica said, “We’ve all crushed on a colonist, Astra, you know it wouldn’t work.”

Jerome said, “You belong here; if you want to be with her so much, ask her up.”

On and on and on, and it all came down to no. No, you can’t stay on Freya, no matter how useful you’d be. No, we don’t want you to leave. No, we don’t care how you feel.

I didn’t say: You don’t know me at all.

I didn’t say: I’m not crushing on anyone.

I didn’t say: I don’t belong here, I never have. Isn’t it amazing how you can sit right next to me, breathing the same air and sharing the same space and still know so little about me.

I didn’t say anything.

But the next time we entered Freya’s orbit, I packed my things: a tiny little pile of souvenirs and gifts wrapped in the one of Naomi’s headscarves. I checked the engines one last time, made sure they’d hold for a while without intervention. And as everyone hurried around, getting ready for deceleration, for the landing party, for two weeks of contract negotiations and repairs and supply runs, I serviced the shuttles.

No one questioned it. It was part of my job. And it meant that when we settled into orbit, I was ready. As the main settlement came into range, I locked the door on number 3 and took the pilot’s seat. As Freya’s star rose on the planetary horizon, I depressurized the airlock. And when Jerome got on the comms to ask me what I thought I was doing, I said, “This isn’t about you.” I said, “You can have the shuttle back tomorrow.”

I said: “Don’t try to look for me.”

And I shut off the comms and took myself down, out of orbit, out of the black, to where even the night was never really dark and the cold of space could never reach me.

I left my people, and my ship, and my work, and Naomi took my hand in hers, and she smiled and said: “Welcome home.”

Welcome home.