#referenced/past child abuse

[bloody-bee-tea]

You're not a pet

This follows after No more soup, so you should read that first but the run down is as follows: Hizashi finds a ten-year-old Hitoshi muzzled on his way home and gets himself involved enough to get the kid away from his abusive foster family and take him home. From then on it’s just a lot of trial and error for the three of them and this is just one of those instances.

Hitoshi refuses to let his hands shake as he packs his bag. It’s—fine. It’s what he has to do, he knows that. The incident last week has shown him that he has to, there’s no way about it.

Yamada-san and Aizawa-san are clearly not going to send him away, like they should, like they need to, so it’s on him to bring it up. He waited all week for them to bring it up, but they didn’t and so it falls to him to say something first.

He can’t stay with them; he’s dangerous, his quirk is dangerous and they don’t take enough precaution to protect themselves. And Hitoshi likes them too much to put them in any more danger than this.

He’d rather go back to his previous foster family than to stay here and endanger the only two nice people he has ever met in his life. Hitoshi can stomach being locked in a closet, he can accept the muzzle and beatings and starvation as long as it means that Yamada-san and Aizawa-san are safe.

Safe from him, safe from his quirk and his villainous tendencies and the danger he brought into their nice home.

It’s totally fine and Hitoshi’s hands are not shaking. Not at all.

If he gets lucky, then maybe he can still get weekly visits with them, somewhere public, where Hitoshi’s slip ups would be noticed immediately, maybe with supervision or something. He’ll have to remember only to talk to Yamada-san, so that Aizawa-san can erase his quirk when he inadvertently takes control of Yamada-san, so they can be safe and Hitoshi would be alright with that. They don’t enforce that rule at home, have even told Hitoshi that they expect him to talk to both of them, but once he no longer lives with them he’ll have to make sure to never slip up in that regard again.

If he sees them once a week that would still be better than nothing and Hitoshi has learned ages ago that he needs to be grateful for the little things. Little things are better than nothing after all and still more than he deserves.

So he packs. He almost has a break-down when he realises that he can’t fit everything into his bag because he owns more than he ever has before and that means he has to make decisions on what to take and what to leave behind and it’s enough to make him hyperventilate into the soft purple sweater Yamada-san gifted him.

He has to leave it behind, he knows that, because it’s not practical and therefore has no right taking up space in his bag of necessities and it would also be considered a luxury where he goes and luxuries are not permitted.

Not for Hitoshi.

It takes him almost longer to calm down from his momentary panic than to pack everything up and when it’s all done, everything he might need in his new home packed away, he has to sit with the closed bag for a moment.

That, too, was a gift from Yamada-san and Hitoshi never understood why he insisted on Hitoshi having it but maybe it was for this all along. Maybe Yamada-san already knew that Hitoshi would leave them eventually and simply wanted him to be prepared for it.

Still, it’s nice to have this bag. He used to have to stuff his things into a trash bag so this is definitely a step up.

Hitoshi takes one last look around the room—his for only a few hours longer—and when he’s certain that he has everything he needs he takes a fortifying breath.

It’s time.

There’s no reason to drag this out any more, to put them into danger any longer and so his knees only barely shake when he steps out into the hallway.

Yamada-san and Aizawa-san are in the living-room, on the laptop and grading papers respectively, and Hitoshi just hopes that he won’t keep them for too long from it. He knows that they are both incredibly busy and they need every minute they can get, so Hitoshi promises himself to keep it brief and short. Half an hour max. It should be doable; he should be able to convince them in that time to get rid of him. It’s never been hard before, after all.

Yamada-san is the first to look up at him and he smiles as if Hitoshi isn’t a villain, as if he isn’t a monster clad in breakable skin, and it almost makes him throw up.

“Hey there, little listener. You wanna join us?”

It’s enough to make Aizawa-san look up as well and a silent counter starts up in the back of Hitoshi’s head. He’s already wasted ten seconds of their time by the time he finds his voice to speak.

“I want you to give me back,” he states, his hands clenched in the hem of his shirt but he keeps his head high.

He has to make them understand that this is for the best and if he seems scared or sad then he’ll have to fight them on this. And he desperately doesn’t want to do that.

Hitoshi watches how Aizawa-san and Yamada-san exchange a look before they both give him their full attention.

It’s been more than a minute by now. He’s wasting time.

“Come again?” Aizawa-san finally says and Hitoshi takes a deep breath that totally doesn’t rattle in his chest.

“I want you to give me back.”

“Kiddo, that sounds like you’re some kind of pet we adopted on accident,” Yamada-san says and Hitoshi nods, because he might just be.

He’s like a dangerous dog, going to snap without so much as a warning, when all Yamada-san and Aizawa-san deserve is a cute little kitten they can dote on and cuddle without the fear of him going for their throats.

Hitoshi doesn’t allow himself to think about the cats he’ll also be leaving behind because he knows he’s not strong enough to go on if he does. So he simply concentrates on the two men in front of him.

“You didn’t know what you were getting yourselves into, so it’s alright,” Hitoshi reassures them because they both don’t seem convinced. “I know my previous foster family isn’t available for me anymore, but there has to be a group home nearby, or a correction center even, whatever takes me off your hands faster.”

“Your previous foster family isn’t around anymore because they are behind bars on account of child abuse, Hitoshi,” Aizawa-san says and Hitoshi presses his lips together.

It’s unfortunate, because at least with them Hitoshi would know what to expect but ultimately it doesn’t matter. He had to adjust to a new house so often he’s basically a pro at it by this point. He’ll figure out what’s allowed and what’s not, what the rules are, and which punishments are easiest to take. It won’t be a problem.

“A group home then,” Hitoshi tries next and again, Yamada-san and Aizawa-san share a look between them before Yamada-san pats the space next to him on the couch.

“Why don’t you come sit and explain to us why we should ‘give you back’, as you framed it?” he asks and Hitoshi can’t bring himself to move.

It’s too close to them, too dangerous for them to have him that close—even though his quirk is voice activated, even though there’s nothing physical he could do to them—so he stays right where he is.

The knowledge that they are not safe with him at all, even with distance hits him hard and his hands tremble with the effort to not clasp them over his mouth. He still doesn’t know enough sign language to properly express himself, to make them understand just how dangerous he is, and writing it all out would take too long, would mean he steals even more time from them, so for now he has to put it into words and make very, very sure that he doesn’t activate his quirk on accident.

He almost asks Aizawa-san to use his quirk on him, just as a precaution, but he knows how draining it is no him, how it leaves his eyes hurting and Hitoshi doesn’t want to hurt them. That’s the whole point of this.

“Or you can sit in the arm chair, if you’re more comfortable there,” Aizawa-san says when he doesn’t move or speak and the illusion of distance, the illusion of keeping them safe that way is enough to finally get him to move.

He doesn’t like the way they both look at him, as if they are unsure, but he reminds himself that it’s not for much longer. They won’t have to deal with him much longer and they will be happier for it, Hitoshi thinks as he sees the frown on Aizawa-san’s face and notes the downturned corners of Yamada-san’s mouth.

“Okay, care to explain where this is coming from?” Aizawa-san leans forward on the couch as he speaks, his whole attention fixed on Hitoshi even though there’s work right in front of him.

Three minutes now, maybe even more. He probably could have checked an entire page in that time and still Hitoshi is wasting even more.

“I’m dangerous. You have to give me back.”

They only blink at him, and in a startling moment of clarity Hitoshi knows what he has to do to make them understand even though it makes him sick to his core to admit it. It’s his last refuge; if he tells them and they note it down in his file then he’ll never be allowed to speak at all.

And still, it’s the only thing to do to make them understand.

“I lied to you,” he tells them and he pretends that he doesn’t notice how his voice shakes. “I don’t need to ask a question to activate my quirk. Every response I get to something I said is enough.”

He expects them to rear back in surprise, to try to get away from him as soon as possible or to get out a muzzle they kept hidden somewhere in the apartment but Yamada-san and Aizawa-san simply continue to stare at him.

“We figured as much when you took control of Shouta last week,” Yamada-san gives back and Hitoshi flinches.

“Then why did you continue to talk to me?” he demands to know because if they know how dangerous he is, why didn’t they send him away sooner? Why did they continue to converse with him as if nothing could happen?

Why did they make him bring this up?

“We wanted to give you more time to acclimate to living here. And because we trust you,” Aizawa-san simply states as if that isn’t enough to flay Hitoshi wide open. “You never took control of us before, never took control of anyone maliciously as far as we know, and we allowed you to use your quirk if you ever felt unsafe. You were in the middle of a panic attack and clearly felt more than unsafe, so it was completely in your right to protect yourself however you saw fit.”

“I’m dangerous,” Hitoshi whispers out because he doesn’t understand anything anymore but he has to make them send him away, no matter what.

It’s more than clear to him that they don’t know how to care for themselves and they are too nice to fall prey to Hitoshi.

He ruins everything and he doesn’t want to ruin them, too. They deserve better.

“Dangerous how?” Yamada-san wants to know and Hitoshi wonders if they are just pretending, if this is a test to see if he knows just how dangerous he is or if they really somehow missed this.

He hopes it’s the former, because the latter is unthinkable—they are pro heroes, they have to notice potential risks.

“I can take control of you at any time. I can—” Hitoshi has to swallow back bile before he’s able to continue because just thinking about what he could do, what he can do is making him sick. “I can make you hurt each other. I could make you kill each other.”

He’s not sure what kind of reaction he expected but it’s certainly not Aizawa-san huffing out a laugh.

“Kid, if the capability of hurting someone disqualifies you from having a family, from people caring about you, loving you, then we’re all fucked.”

Hitoshi doesn’t understand and it’s Yamada-san who speaks next.

“Of the three of us, you’re the least dangerous, Hitoshi.”

Hitoshi shakes his head, because it’s not true, his quirk is dangerous and evil and he doesn’t understand how they don’t get it.

“I could—”

“But you wouldn’t,” Aizawa-san interrupts him. “Yes, you could. You could do what you just said, and even worse, but you wouldn’t. Because that’s not who you are, kid.”

“My quirk is dangerous,” Hitoshi desperately says and Yamada-san shakes his head.

“It really isn’t, kiddo. My quirk is dangerous, so I would know. I could kill you with a well-placed hum. If I lose even a little bit of control I could liquify both of your insides and turn you into a jelly pouch.”

“Disgusting,” Aizawa-san huffs out and Yamada-san gives him a smirk before he simply goes on.

“If I get angry and shout I could level this entire block. I’m sorry to say, but your quirk really has nothing on that."

“I could kill you in two different ways without even having to step away from the couch,” Aizawa-san neatly takes over. “I wouldn’t even have to use my quirk; if I manage to get close to you there are too many ways to count.”

“You don’t understand,” Hitoshi gasps out, even though he is the one who doesn’t understand right now. “My quirk—”

“Takes control of someone,” Yamada-san says. “It makes them freeze up. It’s scary, to not be in control of your own body anymore, but that’s about it. For something bad to happen you have to decide to voice that out loud, to make that a command. And Hitoshi, you’re a sweetheart. You would never. Even when you were scared and panicked all you did was order Shouta to get away from you. That’s not something a dangerous or evil person would do.”

Hitoshi doesn’t know why everything is starting to get blurry but he can’t let that deter him. He needs to make them understand.

“I lied to you. I lied to everyone.”

“With good reason, kiddo. You already went through hell when everyone thought your quirk is activated with a question. I don’t even want to imagine what would have happened if people knew it worked with everything you said. You just made sure to protect yourself and that was very smart of you.”

“And from what we’ve heard you never slipped up. You never took control of someone by accident, which means your control is amazing. Which is just another reason why you’re not dangerous, Hitoshi.”

Aizawa-san sounds as if he’s proud of him and Hitoshi just doesn’t understand.

“You don’t understand, you don’t get it, I’m dangerous! I’m dangerous and evil and I’m going to be a villain and you have to give me back!”

“Why?”

“Because you’re too nice to be settled with me,” Hitoshi whispers out. Because he doesn’t deserve to have something good in his life and they don’t deserve to have something rotten in theirs.

“Then make us,” Aizawa-san says and Hitoshi’s head flies up.

“What?”

“Take control of us and order us to bring you to the nearest group home,” Aizawa-san says again and Hitoshi’s breath starts to come out faint and fast.

“I can’t,” he gasps out and Aizawa-san nods as if he didn’t expect anything else.

“Why not? It’s easy. I’m responding to you all the time. Why not simply do it?”

“Because I can’t. It’s not right! I would never—”

“Exactly,” Yamada-san cuts in and gives Hitoshi a reassuring smile. “You would never. And that’s all we need to know. You’re not dangerous, kiddo. You’re not evil or cruel or anything else that might have been said about you. You’re a kid with a quirk and you’re doing your best to control it. And you’re amazing at that. And even if you were to slip up, you’re too sweet to make us do anything bad. There is nothing for us to be afraid of.”

He says it with such conviction that it leaves Hitoshi floundering and for a few moments he can do nothing but breathe. The time at the back of his mind is still going, so he knows that they let him try to wrestle control back for almost two minutes before Aizawa-san speaks up again.

“Hitoshi, can I hug you?” he asks and Hitoshi jerks with the visceral need that evokes in him.

He never liked being touched, never imagined someone wanting to touch him without the intent of hurting him but these two have flipped his entire world on its head and he’s almost mad at them for it because now he craves it.

“Please,” he chokes out and he doesn’t even see Aizawa-san move before strong arms wrap around him and usually that would make him panic again, but Aizawa-san keeps his arms gentle around him and he has done this enough times for Hitoshi to recognise him from the touch alone and so he can only concentrate on the warmth of the embrace.

He leans into the body in front of him, buries his face in Aizawa-san’s chest and Hitoshi isn’t sure why he deserves this, why they are still willing to allow him this but he doesn’t want to argue with them any further.

It already took all of his strength to bring this up in the first place and he doesn’t have it in him to do it again.

He jerks in surprise when another hand settles on his back, but he quickly relaxes when he realises that it’s Yamada-san.

“Hitoshi, we will not give you back. We’re very happy to have you here and we have never regretted taking you in for a moment. Not once. We’re not scared of you.”

It’s enough to rip a sob from Hitoshi and still they stay close instead of yelling at him to get a grip and shut up. They allow him to cry and cry and cry and not once do they give any indication that he’s an inconvenience to them even though he ruined their entire evening.

The timer ran out once it hit the thirty minutes Hitoshi set himself as the deadline and he can’t find it in him to mind that. Not when Aizawa-san is still holding him and Yamada-san is still stroking his hand up and down his back.

“I’m sorry,” he eventually sobs out and Aizawa-san hums.

“You have nothing to apologise for, kid,” he reassures him and Hitoshi almost doesn’t trust it, because he always has something to apologise for even if it’s only his general existence, but Aizawa-san sounds certain and sincere and maybe Hitoshi can trust it.

Can trust them.

“I don’t want to leave,” he admits quietly, almost hoping that his words get swallowed by the fabric his face is still pressed into but of course they pick up on it.

“Then you won’t,” Yamada-san says, as if it could be as easy as that and it brings new tears to Hitoshi’s eyes. “You’ll stay right here with us.”

It’s a promise as much as it is a reassurance and it almost makes Hitoshi cry again.

He gives himself another minute before he pulls away from Aizawa-san. He lets him go easily, though he does keep a hand on his shoulder, just like Yamada-san keeps his hand on his back and they don’t look at him with hatred and contempt.

They seem worried, if anything, and Hitoshi has a hard time wrapping his head around that.

“Sorry for ruining your evening,” he mutters out as he rubs away stray tears.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Yamada-san immediately says and he gives Hitoshi a blinding smile.

It used to be too much, seemed almost scary to Hitoshi in the beginning, but now it only makes him feel warm. Just like Aizawa-san’s steady gaze.

“Are you feeling okay?” Aizawa-san wants to know and Hitoshi nods, not sure if his voice will hold after crying for that long. “Do you understand that we have no intention of sending you back?”

It’s still almost unfathomable to Hitoshi that they don’t, that they haven’t even thought about it, that they don’t care about his quirk and what he can do. There’s still that nagging thought that he needs to decide it for them, that he needs to take care of them because they are clearly too nice to do the hard things themselves, but maybe—

Maybe he can trust this. Maybe they are sincere.

It takes him a bit longer to nod this time, but they only patiently wait until Hitoshi finally manages it.

“We’ll make sure to remind you,” Yamada-san says, patting his back because he clearly noticed Hitoshi’s hesitation and even Aizawa-san’s face softens into an almost smile.

“As often as you need to hear it,” he adds as if it isn’t at all annoying to have to remind Hitoshi again and again, as if he has memory problems.

“You don’t have to do that,” he croaks out, because he’s already enough of an inconvenience for them but apparently they don’t think like that.

“But we want to,” Aizawa-san easily says and wipes away a stray tear trailing down Hitoshi’s cheek. “Now, I’m thinking some tea for us and Hizashi can order some take-out, huh? How does that sound?”

“Good,” Hitoshi mutters, because his throat is scratch from crying and now that the dread of what is to come is gone, he feels kind of hungry.

“I’ll make sure to order your favourite,” Yamada-san promises Hitoshi with a pat of his head before he leaves for the kitchen and Hitoshi marvels at the knowledge that he means exactly that.

Yamada-san knows his favourite food and he doesn’t order something Hitoshi hates for the fun of it and then forces him to eat it and it’s a novelty that fills Hitoshi with warmth.

“We trust you, Hitoshi,” Aizawa-san says when Yamada-san is gone and Hitoshi almost instinctively tenses up at that, because he knows how this goes, what comes next.

So make sure not to disappoint us.

It’s a useless warning, because Hitoshi always disappoints everyone in the end.

“So trust us as well,” Aizawa-san goes on and it’s surprising enough to make Hitoshi freeze.

It almost doesn’t compute, what Aizawa-san says but it’s clear he’s waiting for a response so Hitoshi forces his mouth open, unsure what’s going to come out.

He wasn’t prepared for it to be a vulnerable truth.

“I want to,” he admits and he feels raw with how much he wants. “I’ll try.”

“Thank you.” Aizawa-san says it as if Hitoshi has given him a wonderful gift and Hitoshi ducks his head.

He doesn’t know how to handle that look, doesn’t know how to handle any of this, but maybe he can learn. Maybe Aizawa-san and Yamada-san will be there to teach him and to make him understand.

It’s a nice thought and when Aizawa-san hands Hitoshi a mug—his favourite, the purple one with a cat face on it—and ruffles his hair as well and then offers him the seat right next to him on the couch without expecting anything, without pressuring Hitoshi, he finally allows himself to hope.

Maybe he can trust them.

Not completely, not immediately, but enough to take the offer and carefully settle himself next to Aizawa-san, who gives him one of his rare almost-smiles before he goes back to grading.

It’s not long before Yamada-san comes back, promising them both that he ordered all of their favourites and when he inclines his head in a silent question, asking if it’s okay if he sits next to Hitoshi, he finds himself nodding.

It earns him another blinding smile before Yamada-san’s weight settles next to him and Hitoshi thinks that maybe he can do this.

Maybe he can be good, and trust and stay.

He would like that.

Next part: It's just me

[snowdice]

Little Kestrel (Part 55) [Birds of Different Feathers Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Logan & Patton & Virgil (future Virgil/Patton but not in this story)

Characters:

Main: Logan, Patton, Virgil

Appear: Thomas

Mentioned: Janus

Summary:

It was supposed to be a quick job either way. Either Virgil would assassinate King Thomas of Prijaznia or he’d be caught and get executed. Yet, when Virgil gets the wrong bedroom and gets caught by Prince Logan and his future royal advisor, Patton, the job ends up getting way more complicated for the 14-year-old. He also ends up sleeping in a (actually pretty comfortable) closet for a few weeks…

Notes: Implied/referenced child abuse, assassination attempt, knives, torture mentioned, captivity, teenagers being really dumb, sexual coercion of minors implied, a minor offering sexual favors, fire

This is a prequel to Kill Dear. I wrote it 100 words at a time on my blog, but this is the edited version. If you want to see how it was crafted (and possibly some future content), look at the tag proofread stories.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34 Part 35 Part 36 Part 37 Part 38 Part 39 Part 40 Part 41 Part 42 Part 43 Part 44 Part 45 Part 46 Part 47 Part 48 Part 49 Part 50 Part 51 Part 52 Part 53 Part 54

Virgil was beginning to be able to read some of the common instructions in magic books, but Logan still made sure to read out the instructions to him at least twice before setting him loose. He’d started to jot down notes to himself about things, though these notes were not words, but various symbols that only made sense to the boy himself.

Logan had asked about their meaning at one point and received an answer that, while earnest, was unintelligible. The symbols were mostly just pictures of things to represent certain steps in spell casting, but they were filtered through Virgil’s rudimentary penmanship and often bizarre perception of the world.

Though, despite the fact that Logan could not often decipher his chicken scratch, it did seem to help him produce more and more quality charms even as Logan began to introduce more complicated processes to make them. He was a very good student even if he didn’t have the best foundation for learning.

“I add lavender for the next step, right?” Virgil asked, his finger on a word in Logan’s magic book.

“That is correct,” Logan confirmed.

Virgil looked back at the book and mouthed the word ‘lavender’ to himself before turning back to his potion. He grabbed a few sprigs of lavender and threw them into the cauldron.

The liquid popped and bubbled violently, but Virgil didn’t flinch as he once would have, prepared for it now.

After the lavender, Logan knew that it would have to simmer for 5 minutes. Virgil looked down at the boiling liquid, contemplating it for a long moment.

“Can I soak a knife in it?” he asked.

“What?” Logan asked.

“Can I soak a knife in the potion once it’s done?”

“In that potion?” Logan clarified. “In the emergency hand warmer potion?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I think a hot knife would be useful,” Virgil said.

“For what?”

Virgil shrugged. “Cooking food on the road,” he said, “burning wood, stabbing someone and immediately cauterizing the wound.”

“That is… not a standard use for this potion,” Logan said.

Virgil titled his head at him. “Would it work though?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Logan contemplated. “Perhaps. The potion can cause burns if one uses too much of it or if it is used without an appropriate layer between it and the skin. If one were to pick a knife with enough surface area and let it soak long enough, it could in theory get hot enough to do as desired. Hmm…” he thought about it. “There would perhaps be the problem of the potion not sticking to the knife very long as it is intended to soak into fabric. However, cardamom could solve that issue as long as it doesn’t interact with any other ingredients. Let me see that spell.”

Virgil stepped out of his way so he could study the page. “Yes,” Logan said after scanning through all of the ingredients. “I think cardamom would work for something like that. Let me go find some.”

He turned to walk towards where he kept his supplies of potion ingredients. Virgil followed on his heals.

“Can we use a serrated knife?”

“Oh, that’s a good idea, Virgil,” Logan said, nodding as he searched through the cupboard that should hold the coriander. “The knife being serrated would help keep the potion stuck to the blade after many uses and would increase the surface area.”

“That was certainly my intention,” Virgil said smoothly. There was something odd about the tone that had Logan turning and blinking at him. Virgil just smiled at him innocently and Logan turned back to the cabinet finally locating the cardamom.

“So how are we going to use that?” Virgil asked.

“We’ll put it in right before the last step and let it sit for about 3 minutes,” Logan said. “If it doesn’t quite work, we may need to make another batch. There are options other than cardamom, but that’s the first idea that comes to mind and it’s a lot simpler if it works.”

He continued to speak of the many other options they could try as they returned to the caldron as well as how they could test the hot knife. It was already about time for the next step and Virgil did it without interrupting Logan’s rant.

Virgil listened to his suggestions with interest all while still making sure the potion he was making was progressing well.

Logan did eventually take over to finish the potion with the revised steps he’d come up with and they ended up with a potion that looked perfect except it was a few shades darker than the one they’d originally been planning to make.

“Well, it looks good,” Logan declared. “We will need to acquire a knife to test its effectiveness, however.”

“There are a few good ones in the kitchen,” Virgil pointed out. “I especially like the one 10 inch one with the black and white handle.”

“You have been eyeing up the kitchen knives?” Logan asked.

Virgil rolled his eyes as though that was not a perfectly reasonable question to ask him. “We should steal that one,” Virgil said.

“Do you think we’ll be able to sneak past Ms. Heart to steal a knife from her kitchen?” Logan asked.

“We can’t,” Virgil said. The ‘but I can’ was implied.

Logan almost didn’t believe him… and then he remembered the water pouch incident. “It’s the dinner rush,” Logan said. “We should probably wait for a bit.”

Virgil was shaking his head. “The dinner rush is the best time,” he said. “Everyone will be distracted, and all of the knives will be out and in prime stealing position.”

“And if Patton’s mother catches us messing around in her kitchen during her busiest time of day, she will have Father ground us for a week.”

“Then we just won’t get caught,” Virgil said.

“I’m not sure if it’s that simple,” Logan said with a frown.

“You can stay here if you want,” Virgil offered. “I’ll just go by myself.”

“No, I’ll come too,” Logan relented, though he did still have some reservations about the idea.

He let Virgil lead him towards the main dining hall. By now, Virgil knew the kitchens and dining hall very well.

“Stay here,” he said. They were in a hallway a few feet down from the staff entrance to the main kitchen. “I’m going to do some reconnaissance.”

“What type of reconnaissance?” Logan asked, but Virgil had already vanished before his very eyes. With a blink, Logan looked up and saw a dark figure disappear onto a balcony overhead.

Well, Logan really had no choice but to wait there for him. It wasn’t like he could follow him. He could hear the clatter of silverware on plates from the dining hall down the corridor as he impatiently waited. It only took Virgil a bit over five minutes to return. He dropped suddenly from above and landed in front of Logan in a crouch.

“Well?” Logan asked, letting a bit of irritation into his tone so Virgil knew he was displeased. Virgil did not seem to care.

“Got it,” Virgil said with a wide grin, brandishing a large kitchen knife.

Logan flinched back at the unexpected sight of a weapon.

“You said you were doing reconnaissance!” he sputtered. “Not…” he trailed off remembering that while they weren’t in eyesight of anyone right now, they could be in earshot of someone. He lowered his tone, “stealing the knife already.”

“I was doing reconnaissance,” Virgil said with a shrug, “and then I used the information gathered by that reconnaissance to steal a knife.”

Logan narrowed his eyes at him.

Virgil just smiled. “You would have gotten in my way.”

“I would not have,” Logan insisted.

“How many times has Patton’s mom caught you stealing food from the kitchens in the past?” he asked.

Logan pursed his lips. “That is Patton’s doing,” he said.

“Sure,” Virgil said with an eyeroll. “I’ll have you prove it some other day, but for now,” he twirled the knife around in a way that made Logan cringe even though he did seem to have an expert handle over it. “We have a knife.”

“Right,” Logan agreed with a nod. “We should continue the experiment.”

Virgil stored the knife away… somewhere on his person, and they snuck back to Logan’s rooms.

When Virgil handed over the knife, Logan did have to admit it was a perfect specimen for their project: long and saw-like with a heatproof handle.

Logan carefully set it in a shallow dish and proceeded to pour the potion they’d made onto it. They let it sit for a little under half an hour before carefully pulling it out of the concoction with tongs and letting it airdry. Meanwhile, Virgil suggested they set up a testing area with various old sheets and clothing. They’d even found and decorated an armor stand with an old suit that Logan particularly disliked.

“Well,” Logan said once he’d tapped the handle and had not gotten burned by the potion. “I think we can test it now.” For safety, he made Virgil put on thick heatproof gloves before handing him the knife.

“So how do I make it work?” Virgil asked.

“The original potion works through light friction,” Logan said.

“So just start stabbing things?”

Logan went to respond, but before he could, Virgil had already twisted around and sliced through one of the sheets hanging in Logan’s potion room. There was a sizzling noise as the knife cut through the sheet like it was tissue paper leaving two aflame halves flapping about.

Logan leapt forward to tear the pieces of sheet down and the two of them stomped on the flames to put out the fire.

“It’s perfect,” Virgil said with a grin once the charred remains of the sheet were extinguished.

“It does seem to work as intended,” Logan agreed.

“Let’s do it again,” Virgil said.

“Er, well, perhaps we shouldn’t…,” Logan started, but Virgil had already set his eyes on the armor stand they’d set up. That suddenly seemed like not such a good idea to Logan.

He stabbed the armor stand viciously. It went up in violent flames. Logan’s eyes widened as the blaze only seemed to get bigger as Virgil drew back the knife.

Virgil did not seem to share Logan’s worry as he turned and stabbed another piece of hanging clothing, setting it ablaze as well.

“Virgil, no! You’re going to burn the room down!” Logan yelped.

The armor stand, at that very moment, decided to fall to the ground. They had, perhaps, not set the testing area up as well as they should have because it fell directly onto one of Logan’s rugs and set that on fire as well.

“Oops,” Virgil said, eyes wide.

Above the sound of crackling fire, Logan heard a tapping on the door between his bedroom and work room. It opened slightly after a moment and Logan’s father’s voice called out as he was sticking his head into the room, “Um, what do you mean Virgil… is burning the room down!”

The moment Logan’s father fully processed the presence of the flames, he was bursting into the room. He at least remembered that there was a fire extinguishing powder stocked in Logan’s work room even though that fact had slipped Logan’s mind in the chaos. (Perhaps Logan should have thought to set it out when they were testing a fire knife, but Logan would just add that to his growing list of regrets.)

The king managed to put all of the fires out within 30 seconds of poking his head through the door, but the fire left in his eyes when he turned to look at them afterwards was perhaps more dangerous.

Virgil slowly hid the knife behind his back. It was probably a bit late for that.

“What were the two of you doing in here?” the king asked.

“Nothing,” Logan said. Virgil shot him a look that told Logan what the boy thought about his lying abilities.

Logan’s father put his hands on his hips. “‘Nothing’ set the rug on fire?”

“We may have been doing a small experiment,” Logan said.

“What experiment?” the king asked.

“…I do not wish to say.”

“Logan.”

“Virgil wanted a fire knife.”

“A what?”

Virgil frowned over at Logan. “Your resistance to interrogation techniques is deplorable.”

Father turned to look at Virgil and obviously spotted the fact that Virgil was holding something behind his back.

“Give it here,” Father said, though his tone was a bit gentler with Virgil than it had been with Logan.

Virgil debated it for a moment, but then offered over the knife with a pout on his face. Father gingerly took it and the fire-resistant gloves from him. “Where did the two of you even get this knife?”

“You can’t tell her,” Logan said.

“You stole a knife from the kitchens?!” the king asked.

“We borrowed it,” Logan said.

“Can it be used for cooking anymore?”

“…Well.���

“In the intended manner.”

“No.”

“Then you stole it.”

Logan just frowned and looked away.

“I’m going to go put this in a secure location,” Father said, grimacing at the fire knife in his hands. “No more experiments for you two for a month. I’ll sic Patton on you.”

With that, he picked up what was left of the fire extinguishing powder (just in case) and turned to exit the room.

“Well,” Logan said once he was gone. “That was irresponsible.”

“I could steal it back from him.”

“N-no don’t do that.”

“I definitely could though,” Virgil said.

“I did not hear you say that,” Logan said, putting his hands over his ears. “I am not responsible for any more of your actions in this matter. I am going to the library.”

He walked out of the room then and Virgil followed him to the upstairs library. He said nothing more about the fire knife, but Logan would be a fool to suppose he forgot about it.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

It Has to Be

For @amonthofwhump 12 Days of Whumpmas, Day 5: Ebenezer Scrooge |Power Outage | Time Loop | Overworked Whumpee | Comfort: Snuggling by the Fire

CW: Intimate whumper, past drugging and noncon, references to captivity and scars

The Motherfucking Gallaghers Masterlist

As always, Jax (and the mentioned Alfie) belong to @comfy-whumpee and are used with their input and permission.

-

Finley White is getting so tired of looking at Savvie Marcoset’s face. At least during the prepping stages, it’s mostly through videos and photographs. They can turn it off, turn away, take a break. 

But they’re still tired of seeing it.

Not half so tired, they muse, as their client must be.

“Miss Savvie Marcoset, is it really you?! How are you?!”

“It’s Mrs. Savvie Marcoset,” She corrects, prim and proper. Savvie has her hands folded in her lap, her hair pulled back with a clip. The shadows under her eyes are the only sign that she is, at the time this was recorded, someone frantically searching for her missing captive. In a long off the shoulder black sweater and leggings, she seems relaxed and happy. She smiles, gentle and sweet. It looks utterly sincere. “I am married, you know.”

She holds up a hand and waggles her fingers, showing off the brilliance of her diamond ring. 

The person wearing the camera device gasps with audible delight. “Did you really finally get him to put a ring on it? Gosh, Sav, I thought he would never propose!” 

“I know that voice,” Finley White's client says, leaning forward. He frowns, his knee bouncing beneath the table. “I remember she was a twat.”

The corner of Finley’s mouth twitches, a smile they can't quite suppress. “Virginia Marshall, goes by Jennie. Went to college with Savannah Marcoset. The Marshalls were longtime friends with the Marcosets, close enough to be trusted. Jennie was facing some low-level charges of her own and agreed to help build this case as part of a plea deal.”

“Twat and coward.” He snorts. “Sounds about right.”

“Well, technically I was the one who got down on one knee,” Savvie says. There’s something strange in her eyes, like always - she looks with too much intensity. She’s hiding it well here, acting with the best of them, but Finley’s been staring at her face for so long that they can see right through it even so. 

Finley saw Savvie Marcoset’s true talents on the stand, the first time. They had watched with surprised dismay as she charmed the jury, seeing how she could channel her intensity and terrifying focus into overwhelming charisma before an audience.

“Oh, that’s so modern,” The woman wearing the hidden camera gushes, cooing over the ring. “Did you write your own vows, too?”

Savvie laughs, abashed. “No, no. Traditional. I always wanted a traditional wedding. So did he, really, he's an old-fashioned kind of guy. You should have seen him blush during 'love, honor, and obey.'"

The noise Finley's client makes in reaction to that statement is indescribable.

“Traditional vows... makes sense. You’ve always been the romantic type. Where is that lucky duck today, anyway? The hubby? He isn't with you?”

Savvie's smile doesn't even flicker. “He’s at home with our babies. He loves being a stay-at-home dad, you know? It’s all he ever wanted to be.” 

In reality, at the moment this video was recorded, the escaped Jax Gallagher was in his father's apartment, likely pretending to sleep, but at least not sleeping next to her. His children would have been nearby, safe from Savvie's cruelty for the first time.

You’d never know anyone was gone. She's as good an actress as she is at playing music, when she wants to be. And she is clearly pretending that absolutely nothing is wrong. 

“Oh, well, bring him to my house sometime, yeah? Let me get a look at him and those little ones.”

“He’s… very private,” Savvie says, low and soft. She gives a little roll of her eyes. “Because of me being, you know, known, and he isn't from a famous family or anything… we like to keep his name out of things. His family is so toxic, plus you know how gossipy the press is about him…”

“Him? Him who?” The informant plays dumb. 

“You know… My ex..."

“Oh, your ex Bastian Brighthall?” 

“Ha! No, no. I just mean… you know. Since… prison. Which, like, can no one become rehabilitated in this country? Let me live! I’m a law-abiding citizen now, and, and a wife and mother! You have no idea what it's like just trying to raise babies these days..."

She’s so deeply offended. The informant pretends to be offended, too, and lets Savvie change the subject, turn it around to how hard it is to be a woman just trying to live out her happily ever after. It’s masterful, how well she can lead someone along and away from what she doesn’t want to share. 

Finley White’s eyelid twitches where they sit at a table, watching this conversation unfold on a television bolted to the wall on the opposite side of the room. Beside them, their client has lapsed back into stony silence, his jaw set, arms crossed. He doesn't look at Savannah Marcoset’s sweet and smiling face, not directly. 

He’s tense enough that Finley worries, more than a little, that one of his tendons will simply snap from the stress. He knows - he knew long before Finley said it out loud - what a farce this is, how utterly unnecessary. He knows better than anyone that Ms. Marcoset could have pleaded guilty and saved them all this expense and trouble. The evidence is thoroughly stacked against her. She has no way out, but it doesn’t stop her from throwing out every delay tactic she has. 

Jax had been the first one to vocalize the point of Savannah’s strange game, during their meeting with him and his father after the arrest. She’ll drag it out, make it take as long as possible, he’d predicted, sitting in his father's cozy living room in his apartment in England. Finley had flown to him, once again - they had sworn to him once, after the first trial’s conclusion, that they wouldn’t ask him to fly back to America unless they had to.  

He’d still been visibly recovering, a man made of shadows who sat with his little girl and her enormous curly hair clinging in wide-eyed silence to him. He’d held onto her just as tightly, as if even Finley might simply take her away if he let go for even a second. She’ll make it fucking miserable for everyone, just to get at me. She always fucking does. 

Language, Jax’s father had admonished in a distant and fond way. That's one for the chocolate jar. Or two, maybe. 

Jax’s child, who was so perfectly silent Finley kept forgetting she was there, had spoken for the first time. I don't mind, Daddy, she had said. She was so soft Finley barely made out the words. I know that’s grown up words. You don't have to do the jar. You can get chocolates. 

Both men had smiled, then - one with open affection for his grandchild, one with a faint shift of lips that vanished as soon as Finley took it in. 

Sorry, kiddo, Jax had murmured, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. More for you, then, yeah? Finley had wondered, then, what it must feel like to love a child - to love someone that much - who only existed because of this kind of assault? 

Jax had been angrier, or at least more obviously so, the first time they worked with him. After the first escape. During the first trial. The anger that had still flared up then was now a smoking skeletal forest, where you could feel heat against your palm when you laid it against the trunk of a tree, but not even embers were left to glow. 

Are the little girl and the baby boy the first green things to grow afterward? Or just… bones, blackened stones weighing him down? 

Shit, they need a drink. All their poetry electives from their own college days come out in florid metaphors on days like this one. 

More than a drink, they need  about sixteen hours of sleep. Not that Jax doesn't need both things more than they do, going through all this again, and again… they’d put it off as long as they could, but finally they’d had to ask him to fly here one more time. 

This will be the last time. Finley White will stake their career on Savannah Marcoset never seeing daylight as a free woman again, or they’ll quit and take up needlepoint or whatever it is lawyers who drop the ball that badly do. 

They failed him, once, in their own mind. That it could happen to him again feels like their fault, their responsibility, somehow. 

Jax had been angrier, before, but less determined than he is now. He had found it much harder, then, not to look at Savvie Marcoset. As if he couldn't break himself of having all his thoughts centered on keeping her from punishing him. The way he had seemed frightened when they took her away, after the verdict, had been painful to watch. 

Now he simply doesn't look at her on the screen at all. 

Finley picks up the remote, scratching a fingernail over its smooth plastic surface.  

Would it have been better, if they had managed to make it so she never walked free? It would have meant no second time held prisoner and therefore no children. Obviously it would have been better. Would he have chosen it, though, if he knew… chosen not to ever meet the quiet little girl and boisterous baby boy… maybe he would. Probably he would. 

They would never ask. 

In the present, Finley keeps their thoughts to themself. They lean forward, briefly pausing the video. “There’s a few minutes of going back and forth on this, Ms. Marcoset describing a… well, a very fanciful personal idea of the alleged wedding and honeymoon… I’m going to fast forward past it.”

“Thank fuck,” Jax mutters, scratching at the back of his head. His fingers twitch, involuntary, and he drops his hand quickly. 

He didn't tremble like that the first time, either. That’s a lasting effect of the shock collar he’d been wearing when he turned up on his father's doorstep after running away with the kids. He hides the scars beneath scarves and Finley pretends they don't see them even when they do. 

Those scars feel like visible evidence: Finley White fucked up, and here’s living proof. They’d gotten the conviction, decent prison time, parole within a limited area after release… and it hadn't been enough. 

They’ve gone over and over the case, when they can't sleep or think about anything else. They had done a good job. They and a single paralegal, alone, had taken on the Marcoset team of defense lawyers and wiped the floor with them. 

Jax seemed to think they had done a good job. Good enough that when he ran this time, he’d called them as soon as he was ready, anyway. He could have gotten a different lawyer, but he had called them, and trusted them, to put her away again. 

They just have to make sure it sticks this time. For life, bar the door, throw away the goddamn key. 

It was another thing Jax said first, although not in so many words - that if she ever left prison again, Jax almost certainly wouldn't survive it. He’d been hunched over a beer, that first in-person meeting at his father's place. Finley was still jet-lagged from getting on the first flight out, and nearly asleep on the sofa. He hadn't brought it up until the kids and his father were safely asleep. 

If she gets out again, or… comes h-here… that's it. He hadn't looked up at them, just stared down at his beer. The kids vanish first, probably. Dead or disappeared. Whatever she thinks will fuck me up worse. Actually, probably disappeared and then dead later once she thinks-... once she’s made me sorry. Then me, after them.

Then you? Last?

Yeah. Disappeared. Or dead. Or both. But she’ll go after them first. She'll-... He drank half the beer in three long swallows, wiped a hand over his face, and then exhaled and looked over at them. She can't hurt my kids. Okay? She can't. 

Finley had nodded, and lifted their own beer in a kind of grim salute. She won't. We nail her to the wall this time, Jax. I promise.

Fuck yeah. His expression stayed flat, but he clinked his beer glass against theirs and that was that, he was Finley White's once and future client one more time. 

Even though the case is open and shut, they’re throwing everything they’ve got at this, leaving nothing on the table. Leaving nothing to chance or luck. They have a promise to keep. 

“Our informant wore this camera to get an idea of what Mrs. Marcoset was thinking, how she was playing your disappearance from her life. It was recorded before she was arrested,” Finley explains. On the screen, Savvie's rushed dramatics are silent, her hands moving in gestures that constantly flash the ring. Her smile is absolutely radiant. She has always been a beautiful woman, layered over the cruelty beneath. “We probably won't need this at court-”

“Then why are we watching it?” He asks abruptly. Not angry or hostile, just wanting to get it all over with. 

They know the feeling. 

“Because I thought you might want to see this part,” They say, and hit play, the video shifting back into regular speed, the casual buzz and clink of the restaurant around them kicking back in. 

“-three years old,” Savvie is saying. She is every inch the proud and loving mother, pulling out her phone and then turning it around to show the informant. “Born in… in May, named after my grandmother. Isn't she beautiful? Doesn't she look just like me?”

“This was after I left?” Jax frowns at the photo Savvie has pulled up - of Jax holding his daughter back when she was a baby who already had too much hair and eyes too big for her face. Jax, his gaunt frame dressed in slightly oversized designer clothes to hide bruises and his unreliable access to food, is looking at the camera with a false and slightly hazy-seeming smile. 

“Yes,” Finley answers, nodding. “This conversation would be maybe… six months after that.” 

Jax’s eyes narrow. “That photo’s of Izzy as a baby, for one thing. For another… her birthday isn't in fucking May. Jesus. I didn't know the day, she never would tell me, but I knew what season. Also, Iz was four when we got back home, and she would have turned five by… whenever this is. We got her a fucking cake, my dad and I, when she turned five."

“You are absolutely certain that-”

“Yes,” He answers them, voice flat and cold as paper on stone.

“You may have to testify about that, Jax. Good evidence of a lack of connection to Isabeh-”

“Izzy,” He corrects automatically. 

“Right. Sorry. I’ve been elbow-deep in legal docs all day, everything is full legal names. This video might not be worth much during the criminal trial, but for the civil case regarding the children’s living arrangements-”

“Yeah, fine, I’ll testify. Yeah.” He snorts. “Also, I'm fucking drugged in that photo she flashed around. If that matters.”

“You are?” That's a surprise to them. They turn to rewind the video back to when the photo is held up, pausing it, scanning it over again. The slight smile, the way he gripped tight to the girl… almost white-knuckled… 

“Yeah. High as hell and terrified I'll drop her. Scared that that's her game this time. Get me to let Iz slip through my arms and then get goddamn mad at me for not being careful enough. I got her to stop putting shit in my drink when the kids were awake eventually, but she was still doing it, then.”

He isn't casual with how he drops these pieces of abject horror into conversation - no, Jax wields this information like a riddle, or a test. How you respond is to pass or to fail, and Finley knows him well enough by now to be aware that very few people come back from failure. 

So they nod, and wait to see if he plans to offer anything more. 

He looks over at them, then back at the photo frozen in time on the screen. “Had to tell her I liked that shit, just… you know. After the kids went down to sleep.” He meets Finley’s gaze head on, staring them down. 

But he knows them well enough that he knows he never has to spell any of it out, not anymore. 

So they nod again. “And it worked?” 

“Yeah. Mostly.” He looks away. Finley never knows for sure if they’ve passed the test, not until he keeps talking. “I could put her off with asking for it to happen later. Savvie forgets shit. Half the time by the time she went to sleep, she didn't remember she even brought it up.” 

Half the time. 

Finley looks back at the video, and hits the play button. Savvie is back to happily chattering about her perfect husband and perfect children, sitting in a café months after the bruised, battered, scarred man and children in question had escaped her grasping fingers and shock collars and cruelty, but before there was enough to bring her in. 

She had to have known they were coming for her, by this point. And yet she pretended everything was completely fine, that nothing had happened. She was either so sure her family would throw enough weight around to fix it for her in the end, or… 

“She’s completely out of her mind,” Finley whispers. Not that they hadn't said it before. But this… this is different. “She just. Can't deal with it, and so she just doesn't even acknowledge the problem exists. Jax-”

“Yeah, I know how she is. Lucky you, you didn't get that shit up close and personal like I did. This isn't even the worst of her bullshit.”

“Looking at her, you’d never know it.” Finley sits back, not allowing themself to slump. If they can pull this off, there's a four hundred dollar bottle of stupidly priced bourbon they’re going to buy to celebrate. “Look at her. No sign whatsoever of anything but happily ever after. You ran. It’s been months since she last saw you or your children… and she’s calm as can be. She doesn't even know where you are."

“She probably knew where I was.” Jax shrugs, outwardly unbothered. “I mean, she’s a stupid shitsnob, but she knows I'd go to my dad. She knew where I was gonna go if I got away from her.”

“She didn't go for you, though, didn't try to recapture you. At the time, if she knew…”

Jax gives them the stare again. “I know exactly what she did. She freaked out when we were gone, called her bastard shitstain uncle for help. He had people hunting me, until we got to the border. We barely managed to keep out of sight of them. We had to cross the border… we had to.” 

“Right, because in the UK… you’re, uh-” They hesitate. 

Jax prickles when they hesitate. His eyes narrow, and Finley straightens their posture, refusing to wilt before that stare. “You can say it,” He says, voice flat. “Fucking famous for being kidnapped, right? There were programmes about that shit. Fucking journalists. And I bet once we made it over the border, dear Uncle Isaac told her he wasn't going to risk it anymore, to pack her shit and go home, act normal. Be seen so she could act like she never left. See if they could wait me out.” 

Sometimes they forget how watchful Jax is, how well he understands not just Savannah Marcoset herself but the parade of Marcoset family members who treated him like Savvie's toy or worse. He didn't understand it all that well the first time.

Another thing he only has to know because they couldn't keep him safe.

“Right. But that's practical... from a criminal perspective. That's not… this.” They look over at the screen again, frozen once more on Savvie's cheerful, winning smile. 

“No.” Jax’s knee is bouncing again. There has always been a hum of energy in him, but even that is held more inside him now. Because they hadn't hammered their case hard enough. 

It just hadn't been enough. 

It has to be enough this time. 

“Jax… we have to show them that Savannah Marcoset. Not the one in this video, but the one who incapacitated you to make it easier for her to harm or control you. She is going to want them to see the act, try to get parole on the table, try to get at least limited access to the children-”

“Which she won't fucking get.” For just a second, the layer of self-protective hostility drops. It’s not panic, not visibly, but it’s close. “I told you, first thing I fucking said, she can't get at my kids. The whole reason I'm fucking doing this is to keep them safe. She can't get her hands on my fucking kids.” 

“No,” They say, voice firm, and meet his eyes. He scoots slightly back, arms crossed again, staring at them fixedly with his chin tipped slightly down. They watch him right back. “She won't. We talked about it, I remember. No access, full stop. No presents, no letters, she gets no photos and no updates. Absolutely nothing. Complete termination of parental rights. Complete. No exceptions."

“And prison for-fucking-life, and no parole.”

“No chance. It’s going to be rough, Jax, I won't lie to you. She’s going to put on a show, and we are going to need to systematically dismantle it. Take away all her charm and let them see who you saw, day in and day out.”

He nods, jaw set. Stubborn and determined, and maybe the fire still burns down in there somewhere. His smile is so genuine they nearly wonder if it's real. “Good. Yeah. Uh, how, though?” 

They look back over at Savvie, the face filling the screen. Savvie will be magnetic, just like the first time. Not so young, now, not able to play the innocent girl led astray. But she'll play all the greatest hits of sincerity, earnestness, contrition… Jax, by contrast, is all rough edges and bristling quiet. He won't charm anyone so readily. But his story will be what actually happened. 

They just need to prove it. 

“I had a couple more recordings for us to look at today,” They say, thinking, mind spinning. “But they aren’t urgent. Let’s break early, you head back to see what your little ones are up to, and I'll start drafting an outline of what we prove and how we prove it. I have some ideas. We’ll reconvene here tomorrow at 8 am.”

“Sounds good, yeah.” Jax shifts, restless, ready to get out of the room with Savvie’s face still on the wall. 

“Tomorrow we’re going to talk about some… difficult stuff, Jax. Make sure you take it easy tonight.”

He looks at them, then just turns away, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “Right. Yeah. Stuff about the kids, or the rape?”

It’s a test again. 

God, how Finley hopes they never fail this man, not this time. Not when they couldn't keep him as safe as he deserved to be. 

“Just the outline,” They say, casual as can be. “But.. both. All of it. No details yet. But later-”

“Yeah. I’ll be back at 8. Ish.” He leaves before they can say another word, and they sit back, staring after him. 

They have mountains of documents to finish sorting through, and a man carrying so much cruelty in his head that if he opens his mouth on the stand, a waterfall might come rushing out. He's covered in scars from Savvie's abuse, has two kids that are living evidence of assault. They have a traumatized little girl in therapy multiple times a week. They have Jax’s devotion to his son and daughter compared to Savvie not even knowing what time of year Izzy was born in. 

They have so much. 

It has to be enough. 

[mybrainproblems]

thinking about how 5x04 birthmarks actually sets up house's childhood as being more fucked up than i think the writers intended.

like okay. to run down: john house is abusive towards his son. house deduces that his dad isn't his biological father when he's 12 and confronts him about it. as a result, his dad proceeds to not speak to him for months besides leaving notes at his bedroom door. house's belief that his dad isn't his biological father is eventually vindicated after john's death and he realizes that his mother didn't like his father much either.

which. jesus christ. can we just take a step back and let that sink in? his mother had an affair and house is the result of that. and his mom just..... lets her husband abuse her son? it doesn't sound like she really stepped in at any point to stop it and the only time we see his parents together she makes excuses for her husband's behavior. and like. house is born in 1959 so yes, it's not like his mother could easily leave her husband and i'm not saying that blythe house is evil bc it is a difficult situation given the time period, but the way the narrative frames her (lack of) action in such a passive way vs acknowledging that she's complicit is... really fucked up tbh! and i'm not saying that a victim of child abuse can't love their parents bc it's really complicated! but it's just such a weird thing to toss out there like a dead fish to fester in the sun and do absolutely nothing else with it.

i really don't know that the writers fully thought through the implications of the back story they set up even tho it ends up explaining why house puts up with a lot of really messed up shit from the people around him.

[ollieofthebeholder]

And If Thou Wilt, Forget: a TMA fanfic

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] || Also on AO3 and my personal website

Chapter 8: Scarcely saved from the gulp of death

“I’m just saying, it seems weird that you’ve spent the last week working to make sure I can still walk fine on my own and now they’re saying I won’t be able to just walk out of the hospital,” Gerry said, easing down onto the side of the hospital bed he hoped to never see again.

“Yes, well, that’s hospital policy for you.” The physiotherapist, who’d told Gerry to call her Simone, smiled wryly. “They don’t want you accidentally falling while you’re still on hospital grounds, because then you can sue us. Once you leave, it’s your own problem, not ours.”

“You Americans and your litigations.”

“It’s the American dream. To get rich without having to do any heavy lifting.” Simone laughed. “Where’s your man? He’s usually here waiting when we get back.”

Gerry shrugged. He still wasn’t sure if he wanted to hug Gertrude or strangle her for putting Tim down as his domestic partner on the hospital paperwork. It meant he could stay past visiting hours—although the nurses had started kicking him out before midnight as Gerry passed the initial crisis period—which was nice, but it also meant people kept referring to him as your man, which was just…weird. They were friends…friends who had sex a lot, granted, a friend Gerry had desperately wanted to be there when he was sick and hurt and scared, but still, friends. “He had something to do this morning, something he had to pick up, but he’ll be back before I get discharged.”

Simone nodded. “Which should be within the hour. All right. I probably won’t see you again, so take care of yourself, okay? And remember what I said about the cigarettes. You’ve gone this long without them, you can keep going.” She shook her finger at him playfully. “And leave those stitches alone!”

Gerry gave her a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Simone laughed, fluttered her fingers in a wave, and sauntered out of the room. Gerry waited until she left before slumping back against the bed.

Unhappily, he raised his hands to his head, then lowered it. The spot they’d had to cut into in order to get at the tumor—which had evidently been fairly large—had meant they’d had to shave an awkward portion of his scalp, just behind his ear, and they’d gone to the crown because of how long it was. The resulting style had been awful and awkward, and they had been worried about the possibility of the hair on either side getting tangled up in the stitches or trailing through the wound, and in the end, they had shaved his head completely. Gerry literally couldn’t remember the last time he’d cut his hair, or had it cut, and his naked scalp made him feel exposed and vulnerable.

At least they’d promised to return his piercings before he checked out.

He was ready to go. Mentally if not physically. Well, physically he was ready to go, too, he was just still dressed in the scrubs provided by the hospital. His clothes sat neatly folded on the end of his bed, the black high-topped sneakers he’d worn for this trip in lieu of the thick-soled combat boots he preferred because Gertrude always bitched about how long it took him to lace them back up after going through the security checkpoints tucked against its side. His piercings were in a jumbled heap at the bottom of a paper cup with enough disinfectant to just about cover them, sitting on the bedside table next to the incredibly dense but surprisingly compelling novel Tim had been reading to him and the crossword puzzles he’d been doing to make sure his mind was still functioning. Everything was ready to go, except that Tim wasn’t there.

Gerry sighed, drew the curtains around the bed, and began, slowly and carefully, to dress himself.

He was just pushing the barbell through the top of his right ear when the door creaked open and footsteps approached. Tim’s voice floated from just the other side of the curtain. “Are you decent?”

“Rarely,” Gerry deadpanned. He snapped the fastening on with some satisfaction. “But I’m fully dressed.”

“Damn. Late again.” Tim tugged the curtain and stepped through, fixing Gerry with a bright, cheerful grin. The grin wasn’t the only thing that was bright. It must have gotten colder since the last time Gerry had been outside, because Tim, who’d got off the plane in a light jacket, was now wearing a double-breasted wool coat in a rich blue that brought out the color of his eyes and a knitted hat pulled low over his ears in every color of the rainbow. He was pulling off a pair of gloves as he came in, neon purple ones that somehow worked with the coat.

“Only you, Tim.” Gerry shook his head in mock despair, but he grinned. “Cold out there, is it?”

“They’re calling for snow later. I believe it.” Tim got the gloves off and tucked them into a pocket, then began unbuttoning the coat. “I brought a hat for you, too. Don’t worry, they had one that was as black as your soul.”

Gerry hummed skeptically. Knowing Tim, it was probably something blinding white, his little optimistic joke. For now, though, he decided to let it go. “Well, you might as well get comfortable. They haven’t even brought me the discharge papers yet, so it’ll be a while yet.”

Tim finished unbuttoning the coat and shrugged out of it, laying it over the back of the chair next to the bed. As he did so, he leaned forward to claim Gerry’s lips in a kiss. “You’re worth the wait.”

“Thanks. I think.” Gerry tugged playfully at the hat. “Still cold, or just going for a fashion statement? You can get comfortable, you know.”

Tim’s grin returned, and along with it the mischievous sparkle in his eyes that said he was up to something nefarious. “What’s the matter, don’t you like it?”

“Oh, it’s fine, but I’m shocked the brightness hasn’t melted any snow that might be on the ground out there,” Gerry drawled. “I can’t look directly at it without sunglasses.”

Tim laughed. “Well. If it bothers you that much…I’ll just have to take it off.”

With a flourish, he did exactly that.

Gerry stared, momentarily robbed of speech, and indeed of breath. Instead of the mop of tousled, every-which-way hair he’d been expecting, Tim’s dark hair flattened in odd places or perhaps standing on end from the static—the hat was definitely acrylic rather than wool, he was sure of it—beneath the garish knit was…nothing. Bare skin. Tim had shaved his own hair down to the scalp, not even stubble covering it. He tried to speak a couple of times, failed, and then just gestured weakly at Tim’s head.

Tim’s grin never faltered. “Well, how else was I supposed to know if you’d be comfortable outside the hospital if I didn’t try it out first?”

That got the words working again. “Tim.”

“Gerry.” Tim’s smile softened, and he sat down on the bed next to Gerry. He took his hand and laced their fingers together, the silver rings on Gerry’s hand clinking against the hammered black band on Tim’s. More seriously, he said, “I saw how much it was bothering you. I reckoned it might make you feel a little better if you weren’t in it alone. And, you know, it’s pretty common for people to shave their heads in solidarity with someone who’s lost their hair to cancer, so I thought this would make things look less suspicious.” He kissed Gerry’s temple lightly. “I’m with you. One hundred percent. Whatever that means.”

Gerry swallowed hard and rested his head against Tim’s. The words I love you bubbled up to his lips, but he swallowed them back. They didn’t…feel right. Not here. Not now. Not until he figured out what they meant for them.

“Thank you,” he said instead.

Tim nodded, and Gerry kind of wondered if he got what he meant without him having to say it out loud.

They sat in silence for several moments. Finally, Tim said, “Your coat should be warm enough, but if you need to, we can make a stop. We’re going to have to be here for a bit anyway, so we might as well do the whole tourist thing. Go to the Navy Pier, catch a sports game, whatever.”

Gerry hadn’t considered that they weren’t leaving Chicago immediately. “How long is ‘a bit’?”

“Depends on when your follow-up appointment is. I guess the doctors will tell you, if they haven’t already.”

“Damn. I didn’t think I’d have to come back.” Gerry sighed heavily. “You don’t think I can get away with saying I’ll go to my doctor back home, do you?”

Tim snorted. “You can’t fly for another six weeks at least, so no.”

“How do you know that?”

“Gerry, you just had surgery on your brain. They’ve got to make sure the bits are fitting back together properly before you can safely go up in something that affects the air pressure.”

“Just because you’re right doesn’t mean I have to like it. So we’re in Chicago for six weeks?”

Tim shook his head, surprising Gerry again. “Once you’ve had your follow-up appointment, we’re moving on. We just won’t be flying.”

Several more questions rose to Gerry’s lips, but before he could answer them, the curtain rattled back, exposing the lead nurse with a cheerful smile. “Well, Mr. Keay, it looks like everything is in order. Are you ready to start getting the hell out of here?”

“Yes. Please.” Gerry returned the woman’s smile. It was hard not to.

He had to sign about a dozen forms stating that he understood the hospital wasn’t liable for anything that happened once he left the doors, that he was responsible for his own care, that he would return for the follow-up or speak to his own doctor, that he wasn’t supposed to smoke or drink for a certain period of time, and probably that he owed them his soul, his firstborn, and a tun of port wine. He signed them all without doing much more than skimming and trusted that Tim would tell him if there was anything important in them. The nurse—Debbie was her name—also reiterated some of the information, which helped a little.

“You’ve got a follow-up appointment with Dr. Greene on the twenty-fourth,” Debbie said. “I know you boys aren’t from around here, so depending on how you’re doing, you should be able to make your next appointment after that with your doctor at home.”

Gerry didn’t tell her that he didn’t have a doctor back home, that he hadn’t been in a hospital since he’d fought with Diego Molina over that Leitner and didn’t have any intention of going to one again. “I will, thanks. Will you be here then?”

“I’ll probably be on rotation up here, but I’ll try to stop down and see you, sugar.” Debbie smiled. “We’ve called your prescriptions in down in the hospital here—make sure you take all of them, and follow all directions. And physical activity is important, but—“ She waggled her finger at Tim with a smirk. “Take it slow, and don’t overexert yourself.”

Tim grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of him.”

“Not if I take care of you first,” Gerry shot back, then paused. “That sounded better in my head.”

Debbie rolled her eyes so hard Gerry was surprised they didn’t fall out of her head. “I’m sending Izzy in here with the wheelchair. Get out of my hospital.”

Gerry saluted sardonically. “Yes, ma’am.”

Tim put his coat, hat, and gloves back on, then waited until Gerry had bundled himself into his own long leather coat before reaching into his pocket and producing another pair of gloves and a hat. To Gerry’s relief, both were actually black. “Here. Better bundle up, it really is cold out there.”

Gerry complied, and was ready to go when the short, stocky blonde nurse came in with the wheelchair. After another token protest, he seated himself in it and let her push him out the door. To his embarrassment, all of the nurses—and a number of the patients—lined the corridors and applauded as Izzy pushed him past.

“It’s tradition,” she explained in the elevator. “We celebrate that you get to leave the hospital and hope that everyone else will get to leave soon, too.”

“Even the nurses?” Gerry asked with a raised eyebrow.

Izzy laughed. “Especially the nurses.”

There was a taxi pulled right up to the front of the hospital. Izzy wheeled him right up to the side of the taxi, and Tim helped him into the backseat before sliding in beside him and giving the driver the name of what Gerry presumed to be a hotel. Then he put his arm around Gerry’s shoulders, and they rode the rest of the way in silence.

It turned out to be a place that specialized in stays of longer than a few days, and from the way Tim led Gerry in the front door with absolute confidence, it was obviously where he’d been staying when the staff made him leave the hospital. The building was tall—the numbers on the elevator went up to fifteen—but Gerry chose not to examine the small surge of relief he felt when Tim pressed the button for the sixth floor. When it disgorged them, he led him down a clean if dated corridor to a room tucked away in a corner, swiped the key card, and ushered him in.

Gertrude never put much thought into where they stayed. Her only criteria were that it be a fixed address and that it have free wi-fi; beyond that, she honestly wouldn’t have cared if there were beds, let alone if they were comfortable. This room was practically palatial by her standards. It was actually a small suite, with a bathroom, a kitchenette, and a sitting room. In the back of the suite, on the outer wall of the hotel, was the bedroom, small but neat, with a bed plenty big enough for both of them and a nightstand on either side. The heat was going, not too high but enough to be nice and warm. In short, it was cozy, a good place to stay for a week or so while he healed and while he waited for his appointment at the hospital, and it felt safe.

Gerry couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that way.

“Have you eaten?” Tim asked as he began pulling off his gloves again. “I laid in some groceries last night, just some staples, but I can make sandwiches or something. Or soup. You feel like soup?”

“Soup sounds good.” Gerry rubbed at his face. “I’m going to take a shower. They washed my clothes, but I still smell like hospital.”

Tim nodded and squeezed Gerry’s hand. “There’s some toiletries provided by the hotel in the bathroom,    but if you have a brand you like better, we can run to the store later.”

“No thanks, I’m good,” Gerry said automatically, focused on unbuttoning his jacket and hanging it in the closet right by the door.

It was only after he was stripped down and contemplating the dilemma of all travelers everywhere staying in a particular hotel or chain for the first time—how the hell to operate the damn shower—that his battered, stitched-together brain caught up to the fact that Tim had offered to buy him soap and shampoo, not help him with the shower.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, honestly. On the one hand, he would have said no even if he had—he had in fact said no when he thought he had—so maybe Tim had just picked up on that and was letting him be. On the other hand, it kind of hurt that Tim hadn’t even offered. True, when they showered together it usually had very little to do with getting clean, and since Gerry wasn’t supposed to overexert himself, shower sex was probably out of the question. And the last thing he wanted was to be babied.

Still…memories of trying to pull a brush through his hair with his dominant hand and arm immobilized in bandages to the elbow, of attempting to shower while bent double from the pain in his abdomen, of fevers that made him afraid of falling if he tried to stand too long, swirled through his head. His mother had always insisted he be presentable, that he not embarrass her by being dirty or unkempt, but at the same time she couldn’t be bothered to do anything for him herself, not once he was old enough to dress himself. He’d often wondered if she would have cared if he had drowned in the bathtub before he’d been big enough to take proper showers, or if accidental death would have been good enough for her to bind him into her Book. She’d never cared. Gertrude wasn’t much better, really, although she’d at least noticed before he collapsed and gotten him help, and she’d asked.

Gerry turned the water up as hot as he could stand it, then turned it up a little more. The shower had decent water pressure—better than—enough to sting. He picked up the washcloth draped over the bar, poured half the tiny bottle of shower gel onto it, and worked up a lather. There wasn’t any visible grime on him, but he could feel the hospital on his skin like a thin, viscous oil, so he set to work with a vengeance. He scrubbed hard at the raised ridge on his stomach, the impossibly white lines against his already pale arms, the irregular splashes where the jagged outlines of burns hadn’t quite settled into normalcy. His mother’s dabbling into the various Fears, not wanting to tie herself to one or the other, had meant she’d dragged her son into enough situations that he’d been Marked by fully half of them before he was old enough to drink legally, and plenty of them had left physical scars as well as emotional and mental ones.

Did this count as an End Mark?. Logically, Gerry knew that sometimes people just got sick and died without the Fourteen interfering, but what if it wasn’t? What if it was something deliberately done to him? Was Terminus trying to claim him, perhaps as payment for letting Gertrude destroy his mother’s page? The rest of the Book was still intact, after all, surely it hadn’t been that bad…or was it Gertrude being tormented, trying to get her to sacrifice herself for him, or maybe just as a favor to the Stranger to slow her down, make her too late to stop the Unknowing? They didn’t think Terminus was all that interested in a ritual, but you never knew…

Gerry’s skin went from white to pink, a combination of the heat and the friction and the needle-sharp impact of the water. Still he scrubbed until he realized the washcloth was no longer producing suds. He draped it carelessly over the bar and reached for the shampoo. It was a tiny bottle, he wasn’t sure it would have enough to get all of his hair…

It hit him, all of a sudden, that he didn’t need much in the way of shampoo, maybe anything. They hadn’t exactly taken his hair down to the skin, except where they needed to in order to cut into his skull and get at his brain, but the rest of it was so short that it hardly mattered.

That was the final straw. Gerry couldn’t have said why, but it didn’t matter, his thoughts were no longer his own. He was drowning, suffocated in an overwhelming tide of thoughts and memories, rising up and tearing at him like a thousand angry ravens, plucking him raw and exposing all his flaws, all his faults, all his sins, everything he had ever done, everything that had ever been done to him, everything he’d been complicit in because it was easier and safer than saying no.

He sank to the floor of the shower, not even noticing, and clutched at his hair. Things only got worse when it hit him anew that there was nothing to grab. That was good, it was good, it meant nobody else could…but it was his hair, he’d always had it, he didn’t…what else had they taken from him? What had gone out with the tumor? Had they really only taken what wasn’t supposed to be there? What if they had decided there was something else important to remove? What had he lost that he didn’t even remember losing? How much of him was left? Was he really even him anymore? Again and again he tried to find something, anything, that he could get hold of, anything he could grab to ground him to reality, anything to reassure him…

“Hey, hey, none of that. Those need to stay where they are for now. Let the professionals handle that.”

Tim. It was Tim’s voice, low and gentle and tender and faintly teasing but only a little bit, and it was Tim’s hands carefully pulling Gerry’s away from his scalp and bringing them down. He put his arms around him, pulled him close, practically onto his lap, and held him, tightly but not too tightly.

Gerry couldn’t stop himself. He clung to Tim’s shirt, buried his face in his shoulder, and shook. He wanted to cry, to break down sobbing and let it all out, but…he couldn’t. He couldn’t remember ever crying, any more than he could remember when he’d ever laughed like Tim made him laugh. All he could do was tremble—not the violent, random spasms that had quietly worried him when he’d first noticed them, but the jelly-like quivering his mother always induced in him. He was lost, he was scared, he was…

“Shh. You’re safe,” Tim rumbled in his ear. One hand came up to rub his spine in gentle, soothing strokes. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”

Tim was warm, and solid, and safe, and Gerry hadn’t had a lot of any of those things in his life. He clutched him like a drowning man holding a rock in a storm, anchoring himself to the present. He was here. He was in a hotel room in Chicago. He was thirty-four fucking years old, and his mother could never touch him again.

He was safe. He had Tim. Tim said he was safe, and Tim had never once lied to him, not in the whole year he’d known him. He was safe.

Gradually, the shaking slowed, then stopped, and he could think rationally again…for a given degree of rational, anyway. He wanted to tell Tim something, anything, about what this meant, about what he was feeling, about how important it was that he was there.

What came out of his mouth, murmured into Tim’s shoulder, probably made no sense. “I didn’t think it would bother me that much.”

“Want to talk about it?” Tim’s voice was calm and neutral. The tone and the words told Gerry that if the answer was no, that would still be okay. He was allowed to say no. Tim wouldn’t press.

The thing was, that actually made him want to talk about it. “She never…when I was a kid, she wouldn’t spend money on things like haircuts. I don’t think she ever really cared, as long as it was clean and brushed. But she’d grab it when she—” He broke off with a shiver. Tim held him a little tighter, but said nothing. “It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. It’s just hair.”

“It’s not just hair,” Tim said firmly. “It’s something that’s been part of you your whole life. It’s something you’ve been reclaiming, making your own, taking the neglect you got as a kid and turning it into a triumph. It’s something you could control, even when everything else in your life was spiraling out of it, and it’s part of a decision you made about yourself and your life. And you didn’t get a choice about having it cut off. They didn’t even ask. Just one more decision taken out of your hands.” He pressed a soft kiss to the top of Gerry’s head. Gerry had to admit that he did kind of like that he could feel it better now. “But it’s not just about the hair, is it?”

Gerry exhaled heavily. Leave it to Tim. “No. Not really. It’s…like you said, it was one more decision that I didn’t get to make, one more thing I couldn’t control. I guess it all just kind of came crashing down on me, you know? I could have died. I probably would have died, if Gertrude hadn’t got me to the hospital as quick as she did. And the fact that I smoke could’ve had all kinds of consequences on the surgery, and I don’t even know where the tumor came from, and I just…it all got to be too much.”

Tim sat holding him silently for a few minutes longer. Finally, he said quietly, “I don’t think anything did it to you on purpose, Gerry. And it wasn’t because of anything you did. It was just bad luck and shitty genetics. The doctors are pretty confident they got all of it—your follow-up appointments are just to make sure you’re healing okay really. And I’m here to help you with that.”

“You didn’t offer to help me shower.” The sentence slipped out without Gerry meaning to say it, and he wished he could take it back. Tim was being so kind and supportive, and here he was complaining about something he wouldn’t have said he wanted anyway.

“I should have,” Tim agreed. “Even knowing you would say no. I guess I thought if I didn’t offer, and you didn’t refuse, you wouldn’t get upset if I had to come in and help after all. But I need you to know that I’m here for you. No matter what you need. Space or assistance, food or bad jokes, really hot sex or just someone to hold you while you break down. I’m here.”

“I know.” Gerry sighed and—finally—relaxed, slumping bonelessly against Tim’s side. “I love you.”

Tim laughed softly. “I know.”

“Arse,” Gerry grumbled, but his heart felt a little lighter as he said it. He knew Tim didn’t love him, but still…

“You like my arse.” Tim kissed his temple. “And for the record, not that I have to say it out loud any more than you do, but I love you, too. Now then. How about you put some pants back on and we go have some lunch?”

Gerry blinked and looked up at Tim. “Wait, what?”

Tim shrugged. His cerulean eyes sparkled with mischief. “I mean, you can eat naked if you really want to, but the soup is hot. Or should be. I left it on a low simmer.”

“No, I—” Gerry shook his head. “What do you mean, we don’t have to say it out loud?”

“Gerry, I told you. I know you love me. Or, well. You trust me with things you’ve never told anyone. You laugh at my stupid jokes. You looked like the world was ending when we said goodbye in London five months ago, and you looked like it had tilted back into place when I came around the curtain in the emergency room ten days ago. And you spent most of those five months waiting to tell me that you thought you were the allegro from the Winter portion of Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’ because you didn’t get the chance to answer my stupid question from the pub.” Tim smiled. “And I’d like to think you realized that if the only reason I flew halfway around the world was because Gertrude Robinson told me to come out and help her, I’d have gone back to London with her instead of staying with you. Maybe I don’t exactly get the whole romance thing, not really, but romantic love isn’t the only kind of love out there, and I think the way I love you is better.”

Gerry picked at that for a moment. Several things about the last year made a lot more sense in this new context. “I think I might be stupid.”

“I think that might be one of the things I love about you.” Tim grinned and kissed the end of his nose playfully. “C’mon. Get dressed. I need to change, too, I think, and then we can eat.”

“Sorry if I…wait, I didn’t cry on you. Or at all.”

“No, but it’s not like I took the time to wait for all of the water to drain out before I sat down.”

For the first time, it hit Gerry that they were still sitting on the floor of the shower. The water had been turned off, and it had evidently been long enough that the steam had dissipated, and he was still completely nude, while Tim was still fully dressed. His t-shirt and trousers were, as he’d said, rather damp, though. “I—I don’t remember turning the water off.”

“You didn’t. I did.” Tim got to his feet and offered Gerry a hand; Gerry accepted and let him leverage him upright. “Realized you’d been in here a while, so I came to check on you and found you curled up on the floor trying to yank your stitches off because you don’t have enough hair to grab yet.” He held onto Gerry’s hands as he tried to pull them away. “It’ll grow out, Ger. You know that, right?”

“It’ll come in red.” Gerry sighed heavily as he thought about the other thing he’d always hated about his hair, the other reason he kept dyeing it over and over again despite being terrible at it. “It was the same color as hers.”

Tim shrugged. “The doctors said you can start dyeing it again in another six weeks or so. Probably have to wait until the new year, and you’ll have enough to dye by then. You can pick the color. For what it’s worth, I think you’d make a good ginger, even if it is the same color as your mum’s, but it’s up to you. You can let it grow back out again or keep it short or whatever you want. It’s your hair. Who knows, maybe you’ll decide you like having it above your collar. But whatever you decide, I’ll help you with it. Later. For now, let’s just eat.”

Gerry smiled and felt the last of the stress and panic fade away. For now. It would definitely be back, but for now, he was okay. “Oh, yeah, I definitely love you.”

[excelsiorfics]

And I believe that yeah, dad, maybe no one is perfect. But I believe that you are pushing your luck.

Date: March 7, 2023 Author: thequiver Rating: Teen Word Count/Status: 10,079, complete Dynamic: David Haller & Pietro Maximoff, David Haller & Kurt Wagner, Lorna Dane & Kevin MacTaggert, Theresa Cassidy & Wanda Maximoff, Lorna Dane & Kurt Wagner, Theresa Cassidy & Pietro Maximoff, Wanda Maximoff & Rogue, David Haller & Kevin MacTaggert, Rogue & Kevin MacTaggert Characters: David Haller, Pietro Maximoff, Wanda Maximoff, Lorna Dane, Rogue, Kurt Wagner, Theresa Cassidy, Kevin MacTaggert Tags: past abuse, implied/referenced child abuse, child death, implied/referenced child death, past alcohol abuse/alcoholism, medical trauma, Daddy Issues, Angst and Feels

Summary:

“I have this dream that I am hitting my dad with a baseball bat/ And he is screaming and crying for help/ And maybe halfway through it has more to do with me killing him/ Than it ever did protecting myself/ And I believe that yeah, dad, maybe no one is perfect/ But I believe that you are pushing your luck.” - Father, The Front Bottoms ————— The Krakoan Era was meant to hallmark a new period of unity for mutant kind, but not everyone is accepted, and not everyone feels welcome. Old connections are reformed and new connections made, while other bonds deteriorate much faster than they were formed. David Haller, Lorna Dane, Rogue, Kurt Wagner, Kevin MacTaggert, Theresa Cassidy, and Pietro and Wanda Maximoff find themselves struggling to understand these changes as their lives are shaped by the island.

[bloody-bee-tea]

June of (minimal) Doom 2024 Day 26 - Don't lie to me

Suguru knows Satoru well enough to recognise the aftermath of insomnia on his face and he doesn’t even need to hear him walk around the apartment like a ghost in the dead of night for that.

The bags under his eyes and the pinched look, the hunched shoulders and the minute trembling of his smiles were all dead giveaways.

And yet Suguru still has to watch Satoru walk around their lecture hall as if nothing at all is wrong.

“Hey, Satoru!” Haibara greets him, clear enthusiasm in his voice and Suguru watches how Satoru drags up a smile that almost seems real before he turns around to Haibara. “How are you doing?” Haibara asks, clearly not noticing what Suguru is seeing clear as day and Suguru clenches his fist in his pocket.

He wants to go up to them, drag Satoru away so he can rest, so he doesn’t have to pretend but he knows that Satoru will only be mad at him if he does.

Satoru doesn’t like to show weakness to anyone and that sadly includes Suguru as well.

“I’m fine,” Satoru gives back, strained smile fixed on his face and the words rattle around in Suguru’s mind.

I’m fine, he says while his body language screams anything but.

Suguru wonders if the people around them are just wilfully ignoring the signs or if they truly do not notice how much Satoru seems to struggle these days. Suguru isn’t even sure what triggered the recent bout of insomnia; there hasn’t been a clear incident that he could identify, and that, above all else, is worrying Suguru more than he likes to admit.

He and Satoru have been living together for long enough by now for Suguru to identify a few of Satoru’s triggers. Of course nothing has come forth voluntarily, because god forbid Satoru ever confides in him, but he isn’t quite as adamant as hiding everything from Suguru as he normally is and Suguru learned to take that as a sign of trust.

So he knows that loud voices, yelling and the sound of doors being locked is enough to give Satoru trouble sleeping.

None of that happened in the last few days in their apartment though, Suguru thinks, and so he’s at a complete loss.

Suguru keeps a close eye on Satoru throughout the day; he isn’t quite as sociable as Satoru, doesn’t try to make himself that, either, and so he’s quite content to sit at his own table and wait for Satoru to come back around to him.

And he always does, Suguru reminds himself. No matter what’s currently going on with Satoru, he always comes back to Suguru as if he’s a fixed point that Satoru can’t avoid and that surely has to mean something.

“Eat something,” Suguru suggests gently when Satoru comes back to him from yet another friend group, slumping over the table as if all the energy has been sapped from him and he pushes a cup of pudding towards Satoru.

Satoru doesn’t like being taken care of, doesn’t like being catered to, and Suguru learned to act as if he’s not doing that. Paired with the fact that Satoru is a bit more tolerant towards any fussing from Suguru, it works out fine, most days, and even though Satoru eyes him suspiciously, clearly knowing that Suguru bought this pudding especially for him, he doesn’t say anything as he takes it.

“Thanks,” he mutters as he digs in and Suguru bites his tongue instead of asking if he’s okay.

He’s only going to get the same answer as everyone else here and Suguru is not about to do that to himself. There will be time to ask later, when they are back home, when he can gently bully Satoru into at least not lying to him but right now is really not the place for it.

So instead of saying anything he watches how Satoru drags up another shaking smile as he turns to the next person who comes up to their table, asking how Satoru is.

“I’m fine,” he says again, his hand gripping the spoon so hard Suguru is glad he brought proper ones and not plastic ones because those surely would have splintered in Satoru’s hand.

Suguru glares at the person who just came to talk to Satoru, annoyed that they can’t see what Satoru is so desperate to hide and Suguru knows it’s unfair.

Satoru loves being social, loves having someone to talk to at any given moment as if he could die and wither away if no one pays attention to him, and he’s trying so hard to hide how he really feels.

If anything Suguru is mad at everyone around them, for not knowing Satoru well enough to pick up on his cues, even as it makes him feel real special that he is able to.

It’s an entire mix of emotions swirling in Suguru’s gut that day, and he’d rather not think too hard about it.

Instead he contents himself with staring at Satoru and noting down every moment he seems down, as if that would make him feel better.

“I’m fine,” Satoru says to the next person who joins them and asks the same question and Suguru looks down at the table.

Satoru is not fine and Suguru is going to find out what’s going on the moment they get home because he just wants to help.

He wants Satoru to sleep well and he wants him to really smile at the people around them and not force himself to do that.

But it’ll have to wait until they are home.

~*~*~

Suguru waits until Satoru is flopped down on the couch, relaxed and apparently happy before he asks.

“Satoru, how are you doing?” he wants to know, keeping his voice low and soft in an attempt not to scare Satoru away, but of course he doesn’t miss the way Satoru tenses.

“I’m—” he starts to say and Suguru cuts him off before he can even finish that sentence.

“Don’t lie to me,” Suguru says, begs almost, and he reaches out to card his fingers through Satoru’s hair.

He stays tense, but he doesn’t move away and Suguru counts that as a win for himself.

“You’re not fine,” Suguru goes on and he pretends it doesn’t matter to him when Satoru glares at him.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” Satoru snaps out and Suguru reminds himself not to take it to heart, that Satoru isn’t angry with him. He’s just angry in general.

“Honesty,” Suguru simply gives back. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, if you don’t want, but don’t treat me like everyone else either. It’s okay if you don’t want to talk, you know it is, but—don’t lie to my face. I can see that you’re not fine.”

There’s a brief silence between them and Suguru is prepared to let it sit until Satoru goes and hides in his room, but to his surprise Satoru closes his eyes again, pushing a little bit into Suguru’s hand still in his hair.

“So what do you want me to say?” he asks, and he sounds lost in a way Suguru isn’t used to.

“The truth, preferably,” he honestly gives back, knowing that it’s a lot to ask for. “Not an explanation, just—if you’re not fine, then say that. I’m not going to push if you don’t want me to. I just—I just want to know how you’re really feeling. And if that is not well, I’d rather you just tell me that.”

Satoru hums, letting him know that he heard him, even as he continues to stay silent and Suguru resigns himself to being shut out for the reminder of the day, when Satoru turns his head towards him.

“I feel like shit,” Satoru rasps out and even though he can’t quite manage to meet Suguru’s eyes, he curls towards him.

“Thank you for being honest,” Suguru whispers and tugs gently on a strand of hair. “Now come here,” he cajoles him and moves around on the couch, dragging Satoru along with him until they are stretched out on it, Satoru’s head pillowed on his chest.

“You’re not going to ask?” Satoru wants to know after a long moment and Suguru sighs.

“Of course I want to know,” he honestly admits. “If only so I know what caused this so I can avoid it, so I can help. But I’m not going to push if you don’t want me to.”

“I trust you,” Satoru says as if that was ever in question and Suguru huffs.

“I know that, Satoru, this isn’t about that. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here, in this apartment with me. I know that trust has nothing to do with it. But trust and honesty are different. You can trust me and still lie to me, like you did.”

“It’s—a reflex,” Satoru admits and Suguru feared as much. “I’m not allowed to be a bother.”

There are several things on the tip of Suguru’s tongue but he bites them all back. Instead he starts drawing patterns on Satoru’s back as he gathers his thoughts.

“You’re not a bother,” he starts with because it’s important that he gets that out first. “You never could be, not to me.”

Satoru makes a sound as if he wants to scoff at what Suguru just said and Suguru pinches his side.

“Am I ever a bother to you?” he wants to know because for all that Satoru clearly has his issues, Suguru isn’t without fault either.

Their personalities clash, the way they live clash and just last week Suguru didn’t mange to get out of bed for almost three days, making Satoru look after him. Suguru’s depressive episodes might have gotten better over time and with the right treatment, but they still happen and Satoru still has to take the brunt of them.

“Never,” Satoru tells him just like Suguru expected and he allows himself a small smile.

“But you think it’s different when it comes to you,” he says, because he doesn’t need to ask about that. He knows how Satoru’s brain works most of the time.

“Of course it is.”

“Well, of course you’re wrong,” Suguru immediately shoots back. “Cause you’re never a bother to me either.”

“You were bothered today,” Satoru mutters. “You kept frowning and throwing glares at everyone.”

“I wasn’t bothered, I was worried,” Suguru corrects him. “Because you kept lying to everyone around you and hiding how you’re really doing. And I understand that need, especially with how many people you’re friendly with, but I don’t like it when you do the same to me.”

“I didn’t want you to ask questions,” Satoru admits and Suguru sighs.

“I’m not going to if you don’t want me to, I promise. Just—let me know when you’re not doing well. I can still help, right? Like this? This is good, isn’t it?” he asks, even though the way Satoru has gone boneless on top of him speaks for itself. “I can’t do this if you lie to my face about being okay.”

“I hate when you’re all logical,” Satoru grumbles, even as he pushes his face further into Suguru’s chest. “The stew you made two days ago,” he then suddenly says and Suguru frowns because he doesn’t understand what that has to do with anything.

“What about it?” he gently asks and feels Satoru freeze before he forces himself to relax again.

“It reminded me of home,” Satoru quietly says and Suguru immediately vows to never make it again.

He’s not going to apologise for making it, because he couldn’t have known and he knows it will only make Satoru feel worse so he simply nods.

“Okay. I won’t make it again. Thank you for telling me.”

“Now shut up, my pillow isn’t supposed to talk that much,” Satoru grumbles, clearly uncomfortable with the amount of vulnerability he just showed and Suguru buries his face in his hair.

“Sleep well,” he whispers, just moment before Satoru goes lax on top of him and for all that Satoru cares to grumble and hide things from him, he could never ever hide that he trusts Suguru, not when he does things like falling asleep on him like this.

Suguru knows that he is nowhere near to getting Satoru to spill his guts to him, to go into detail of what must have been a horrible home, and in all honesty, he doesn’t need that.

All he needs is Satoru to know that he’s safe, that he’s there for him and when soft snoring reaches his ear, Suguru knows that he manages to at least get that across.

[snowdice]

Little Kestrel (Part 56) [Birds of Different Feathers Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Logan & Patton & Virgil (future Virgil/Patton but not in this story)

Characters:

Main: Logan, Patton, Virgil

Appear: Thomas

Mentioned: Janus

Summary:

It was supposed to be a quick job either way. Either Virgil would assassinate King Thomas of Prijaznia or he’d be caught and get executed. Yet, when Virgil gets the wrong bedroom and gets caught by Prince Logan and his future royal advisor, Patton, the job ends up getting way more complicated for the 14-year-old. He also ends up sleeping in a (actually pretty comfortable) closet for a few weeks…

Notes: Implied/referenced child abuse, assassination attempt, knives, torture mentioned, captivity, teenagers being really dumb, sexual coercion of minors implied, a minor offering sexual favors, fire, minor character death

This is a prequel to Kill Dear. I wrote it 100 words at a time on my blog, but this is the edited version. If you want to see how it was crafted (and possibly some future content), look at the tag proofread stories.

Part 1Part 2Part 3Part 4Part 5Part 6Part 7Part 8Part 9Part 10Part 11Part 12Part 13Part 14Part 15Part 16Part 17Part 18Part 19Part 20Part 21Part 22Part 23Part 24Part 25Part 26Part 27Part 28Part 29Part 30Part 31Part 32Part 33Part 34Part 35Part 36Part 37Part 38Part 39Part 40Part 41Part 42Part 43Part 44Part 45Part 46Part 47Part 48Part 49Part 50Part 51Part 52 Part 53 Part 54 Part 55

“Good day for a picnic,” Helen commented as she handed over the basket Thomas had requested from her a few days before. He was taking Logan, Patton, and Virgil to the cliffs today and it was perfect weather for it. Spring was truly here, which meant that those of Thomas’s duties that had laid dormant over the harsh winter were about to start up again.

The world had been on pause for a bit considering no armies or agents from any kingdom could get through the snow the last few months, but the concerns of last fall were showing their heads once again.

Thomas had just gotten word a day ago that the queen of Lamir had routed out a second assassin hiding in her ranks over the winter. The assassin had been sent shortly after it was made clear that the queen wouldn’t bow down after the assassination of her mother. Luckily, the assassin sent for Queen Cecil had not managed to complete her mission during the winter months.

While there had been no similar attempt on Prijaznia soil, Thomas couldn’t help but feel it was only a matter of time now that the snow had melted. They were already working on increasing security in the coming weeks and, though it was doubtful an assassin had managed to hide in the castle all winter without revealing themselves, they’d be closely scrutinizing all of the newer staff members.

It would be a stressful time in the coming months, which is why, despite everything Thomas needed to do, he was still going to take his son and his son’s friends on a picnic today. Logan had already started taking on royal duties as of late, but he still hadn’t taken them all on quite yet. Considering this was last summer before Logan was of age, they should at least try to take advantage of it where they could. Patton was a year younger, but the sentiment held for him as well.

Then there was Virgil. Despite their best efforts, they still didn’t know enough about Virgil, but Thomas was fairly sure he’d never had a summer to enjoy until now.

“Thanks for prepping lunch for us,” Thomas said to Helen with a smile.

“No problem,” she said waving them off. “I put in some of Virgil’s favorites.”

“Great,” Thomas said. “Do you know where the kids are?”

“Patton said they were going to go pet the cats, so I’d guess they’re in the gardens.”

Thomas thanked her again and told her to have a good day before exiting the kitchen. There was a nearby door that led straight towards the part of the gardens Patton and Logan had always favored. He figured they’d either still be around there, or they would have wandered towards the stables by now knowing that they’d be taking horses to the cliffs. So, he decided to simply walk the normal path from the door to the stable, hoping to find them.

His prediction ended up being hilariously correct. They were indeed on the path Thomas had chosen. It was clear they (or at least Logan) were attempting to make it to the stable. However, as was typical, a portion of the party had been waylaid by whimsy.

Logan was standing further down the path, arms crossed and frowning as he watched his friends. Patton and Virgil were surrounded by cats. Patton was sitting down, holding two of them in his lap and watching Virgil’s legs being swarmed by the rest of them, maybe two dozen in total.

Virgil looked confused, but not unhappy about the presence of so many cats. He was leaning down to try to pet them all.

Logan met Thomas’s eyes as he approached and waved a frustrated hand at the two of them. Logan couldn’t help but smile.

“Virgil fed one of them,” Logan complained as though he wanted Thomas to somehow go into the past and prevent this crime.

Patton and Virgil looked over at Thomas, noticing him when Logan addressed him.

“You’re going to make Princess Marisol jealous,” Thomas said. Logan frowned at Thomas as he used the ‘Princess’ label for the cat.

“Princess Marisol decided not to come,” Virgil said with a shrug. He continued to pet one of the cats.

“She’s probably sleeping on my pillow,” Logan said, sounding grumpy.

Thomas just chuckled. Princess Marisol was technically Logan’s cat, at least that’s what the kids said, and she did spend much of her time in the royal rooms. However, she was very clearly actually Virgil’s cat. Virgil just spent a lot of time in the royal wing as well.

In fact, Thomas still didn’t know where Virgil was supposed to be sleeping. He and Mr. Deknis had gone so far as to tail him a couple of times, but he always ended up sleeping in Logan’s room those nights.

Knowing Virgil, he might just sleep in the walls. Though that still did not answer the question of where his parents or guardians were. They still had not figured it out. Thomas would assume he was an orphan who’d snuck onto castle grounds for safety, but Virgil had told Mr. Deknis during their first meeting that he was supposed to be in the castle, and it had not been a lie.

Then again, it had slowly become apparent that Virgil was good at dodging the multrum’s powers. It was starting to seem more likely that he’d somehow inserted a second meaning into his answer to Mr. Deknis that night than he somehow had some ghost guardian no one was able to locate working in the castle.

“She deserves the pillow more than you,” Virgil said, bringing Thomas’s thoughts back to the situation at hand. The look of audacity on Logan’s face made Thomas chuckle.

Thomas cut in before it could become a fight. “I could get Princess Marisol a pillow, so she doesn’t sleep on yours. Or we can get you a new pillow if you’d prefer, Logan.”

“It’s not about the pillow for her,” Logan argued. “It’s about her inflated sense of superiority.”

“She deserves it,” Virgil declared. Thomas could tell he was just trying to rile Logan up, and Thomas was sure Logan knew it too, but still his son reacted exactly in the way Virgil wanted him to.

“You have enabled and encouraged this behavior from the start!” Logan seethed.

“She’s a princess.”

“She is not a princess!”

Patton shook his head while squeezing the cats in his arms, completely used to this behavior. He ran a chin idly over one of the cat’s heads while watching the argument.

“We’re never going to make it to the picnic at this rate,” Thomas said to him, “and after your mother made all of this wonderful food.”

“You’re the dad,” Patton said. “Make them stop.”

And, of course, Patton did just mean that he was Logan’s dad with that statement. However, when he glanced back up at the silly argument still going on between his son and the cat covered boy, it did almost look like a fight between siblings.

Especially with the dark hair and stubborn but mischievous look in Virgil’s eyes, Thomas could almost imagine the boy being his own child.

He shook away the thoughts and glanced at the picnic basket in his hand.

“We do have a lot of food in this basket,” Thomas said, pitching his voice up so that Logan (and more importantly) Virgil would hear them clearly.

Virgil immediately turned to look at him, abandoning all interest in antagonizing Logan to look at the basket curiously.

Thomas was never sure if he should be amused or worried about how food motivated Virgil often was.

“What’s in the basket?” Virgil asked.

“I’m not sure,” Thomas said. “Patton’s mom made it. We’ll just have to see once we get to the picnic area.”

Virgil nodded in understanding and began to gently extract himself from the droves of cats. Logan rolled his eyes, but didn’t seem inclined to continue the argument he’d been dragged into. Virgil and Patton got to their feet, and they continued on their way towards the stables.

The horses Thomas had requested be prepared for their trip were already in saddles, though the stable hand who had been handling Mr. Apples seemed a bit dirtier and more exhausted than the rest.

The stable hand seemed as happy to hand Mr. Apples over to Virgil as Virgil was to have Mr. Apples handed over to him. Thomas received Bella with a smile and Logan and Patton got their own horses as well.

The cliffs were about half an hour's ride from the main castle. There was a mostly well-maintained path to them, though it was easy to get lost if one didn’t know the way. Mr. Apples knew the way perhaps better than Thomas himself and seemed annoyed by the fact that Thomas was trying to lead the way. Virgil and Thomas ended up side-by-side whenever the path allowed it to placate him.

Thomas still marveled at how willing Mr. Apples was to let Virgil ride him, especially when he tossed his head in Thomas’s direction, a horse’s equivalent of giving Thomas a stink-eye.

“Are you excited for the picnic?” Thomas asked the boy beside him.

Virgil glanced over at him and nodded.

“I am too,” Thomas said. “It’s always beautiful this time of year. I’m glad I could find the time to take you all there this year.”

“Are you very busy?” Virgil asked curiously.

“I am king,” Thomas reminded, “and now that the world isn’t snowed in anymore things will be busy.”

“With the war?” Virgil asked.

Thomas paused for a few seconds. “Yes,” he confirmed. “With the war, but you don’t need to worry about that.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Virgil asked.

“You’re just a kid,” Thomas said.

“I’m 14,” Virgil said.

Thomas glanced at him. “Exactly,” he said, “a kid, and luckily, you’re in a place that can afford you the luxury of being one.”

“What do you mean?”

“The war has been mainly fought on Mocnejsi soil in recent years. Our boarders have held strong against invasions. Unless something goes horribly wrong suddenly, it would take a long time for the main conflict to get here. The only real threat in the castle would be assassins sent after me personally.”

“Right,” Virgil said. There was an awkward pause in conversation before he spoke again. “You’re winning the war then?” he asked.

“Something could always happen,” Thomas said, “but for the most part, yes, we have quite the advantage right now.”

“Oh,” Virgil said.

Thomas shook his head as they were coming up to a narrowing of the path. “Anyway, today is a day to not think about war. Today we’re going to have a lovely picnic and do some bird watching.”

“Right,” Virgil agreed from behind Thomas as Bella took the lead (to Mr. Apples discontent.)

When the path widened again, Thomas did his best to direct the topic to lighter subjects and soon they made it to the cliffs.

[laffy-taffy-creations]

Wooooooooo day 29!!!! >:D

This fic was cross-posted on AO3 here

Hot Seat

Scented Candle | Troubled Past Resurfacing | "What happened to me?"

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Words: 1,347

Warnings: trauma block, PTSD, childhood trauma, implied/referenced child abuse, past experimentation, implied kidnapping

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Mmmm, something smells good, whatcha making?” Jirou asked.

“Hm? Oh, just a small dinner for myself.”

She looked over at it. Her brow furrowed in confusion. “I dont think I’ve seen that before,” she commented.

“It’s called eintopf, it’s german! I actually…” I trailed off. I was gonna say something but I couldn’t quite remember.

“You actually…” she encouraged.

“I… I dont know what I was gonna say.” I tried to laugh it off. The nagging feeling something was wrong, that I’d forgotten something was ever present… But what was it?

“Yo, what’s that?” Kaminari asked.

“Ein… In… Vee help me out here…”

I giggled. “Eintopf. I can make you some if you like,” I offered.

“Please do!” he said enthusiastically.

I started up a second serving for him. He watched me make it, being sure to give me adequate space to work but still completely enthralled by it nonetheless.

I started the time for about 15 mins to let it sit on the stove and stepped away, checking the time on mine. Still about 5 minutes left.

“Where’d you learn to make this?” he asked.

“I mean it’s a pretty simple recipe, it’s not like-”

“I mean who taught you, like, who’d you learn the recipe from? There had to have been some way you learned about it cause I dont think I’ve ever seen it before.”

“There was someone who introduced me, his name was C-” I cut myself off. No, that couldn’t be right… who on earth would have the name C-7?

“C?”

“No… it… hang on…” My mind started racing. Who was C-7? That cant have been his name. Why am I getting flashbacks to… to doctors, and needles, and weird names-

“Vee!”

“Huh?” I looked up.

“We asked if you were okay, you started hyperventilating and spacing out…”

“Yeah, I- I dont know what happened, it’s like there’s some sort of… gap in my brain, I cant really-” The buzzer went off for my serving. I took a breath of clarity and put it in my mug.

“...Were you gonna finish that sentence?”

I got a spoon and sat down on the couch in the common room. The scent of strawberries welcomed my nose, Momo was burning another scented candle.

The other two followed me. “OV? Are you alright?”

I took a bite of my eintopf. “Make sure to get your share off the stove in about 9 minutes so it doesn’t burn.”

“That isn’t what we asked OV,” Jirou said sternly.

“I dont care, I… “

“What happened back there?”

“Woah, what’s going on?” Ochako asked, walking into the room.

“OV had some sort of moment in the kitchen and we’re trying to figure out what happened,” Kaminari answered.

“We can show you. OV, who taught you about einto… however you say it again?”

“It’s eintopf, it’s german, and I was taught about it by…” My mind knew the answer but wouldn’t give it to me. “There’s no fucking way that’s what his name was, it was something like…”

The flashes started again. Memories of a spider-like child, some sort of room I was at the center of, the feeling of obligation to something…

“BRAIN FUCKING WORK WITH ME!” I shouted.

The sound of a crash brought me back to reality. I hadn’t realized that more people had gathered around. Just… watching me.

Focus… anything but here… focus on the scent of strawberries, it’ll be fine…

The echoing words of ‘it’ll be fine’ from a voice not of my own clouded my mind. A girl. An older girl. With blue hair. Dark blue hair. And similar eyes.

Something touched my shoulder and I flinched.

“Woah, hey! It’s just me! I’m just… gonna take this so you dont burn yourself…” Sero said.

I nodded. Why is everybody staring at me?

Dont focus on that Clo, focus on the candle… the bright flame… flickering, calm… the sweet smell it’s flooding the room with…

I took a deep breath. “Why are you all staring at me.” It was not a question, because I already knew the answer.

“You know damn fucking well. Care to explain?” Bakugou demanded, receiving a smack on the arm for his rudeness from Kirishima.

“I-I dont know, just stop fucking looking at me! I’m not a show monkey!”

“No, you’re our friend, and we’re worried.” Kirishima said. “If some of us,” he said giving Bakugou a harsh side-eye, “leave the room, would you feel more comfortable talking about it?”

I thought about it for a bit with a few deep breaths then nodded.

About half of them left the room with whispers, leaving only Jirou, Kaminari, Ochako, Todoroki, Kirishima, and Bakugou who refused to leave probably just to spite Kiri.

“Sooo, what happened?”

I took some breaths. “There’s some sort of, gap in my memories? And, I cant shake the feeling something’s missing… When you asked where I learned the recipe…” I started.

All 6 of them were looking at me intently.

“I-I’m sorry I’m gonna need more of you to leave!” I ended up saying.

Kirishima sighed, and got up while Bakugou smirked. Whatever sort of battle they were having, Bakugou clearly won.

Jirou left as well, and so did Todoroki.

Which left Kaminari, Ochako, and Bakugou. An odd assortment to be sure, but a small enough group that I could feel my anxiety lifting off me bit by bit.

“Okay, so where you learned the recipe…?” Ocha offered.

I nodded. “Yeah, so, when you asked where, I got some sort of a flashback to… a place, I dont know where, just…” I took another breath and focused back on the candle. Just pretend you’re talking to the candle. There’s nobody else listening, just the candle… such a pretty, calming flame…

“The person that taught me how to make eintopf was… some person, I dont remember exactly what his name was, but for some reason he’s in my mind as ‘C-7’,” I told the candle. “When I tried to figure it out again, I got flashes of… doctors, and needles, and these people that I feel like I should know but I just, dont.” I took in another breath.

“There was… a girl, a some years older than me, reassuring me… she had, dark blue hair, and really dark blue eyes… and a nose piercing…”

Ochako’s brow furrowed. “What was her name? Do you… remember?”

“Uhh, yeah. It was Relena… But her other name was… MEQAT9?” The memories started up again.

“She called me… 3 for some reason…”

“OV, I dont know how to tell you this but uhm…” Kaminari started.

I looked up at them. Somehow all 3 of them, -Bakugou included- had a concerned look on their face.

“W-what?” I asked.

“That was-”

“You’re talking about Himokya Relena, and she went missing like 7 years ago,” Bakugou cut in.

“Huh?”

“Yeah, it was a really big thing a while ago, everyone knows about her… Didnt you say you were a foreigner?” Kaminari asked.

“Uh, yeah, I-” my mind flooded again. I dont know what with. Emptiness I suppose, what should be there but isnt. Someone reached out and grabbed my hand. Ochako. I took a deep breath and focused on what I knew. “I’m European-American, I was with my parents up until like… 9 I think?” I guessed. “I… dont know much after that… I know that I’m self-sufficient, there’s some sort of obligation I have to fill but cant… there’s… I dont…”

I started hyperventilating again as I felt tears running down my face.

“Wh-hat ha-appened to me-e?” I asked through broken sobs.

Ocha reached up and wrapped me in a hug. “Shh, shh, it’s alright, we’ll figure this out, dont worry, we’re here for you, okay? We’ll help you through this, just breathe for now, alright? We’ve got you, let it out…”

I dont think I ever managed to fully tell any of them how much that meant. Not when I remembered just who did this and what exactly happened during my time as MEQAT3.

I was going to kill the hero responsible for all this.

[flownintothesun]

 ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    [ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 ] : 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐧, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐭. 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐲

                              ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── 𝟒𝟎𝟒 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝. ( @batteredoptimist )

       𝐄𝐃𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐁𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 of some villain in a psychological thriller — right down to the gray London skies darkening by the minute in preparation for an autumn rain. He says that he doesn’t want to make a fuss about it — but there are police cars here, and neither Westley nor Muriel do well with the police. They’ve outgrown the helplessness involved with a police trip down to the station, but there are some things that just settle at your core as trauma — and a trip back to the Joneses almost always involved being in the back of a police car. Sure, they have security at the hospital, or cops that come in with criminals, or to investigate a case — but that’s different. Their eyes aren’t on him then. Right now, he doesn’t even need to listen to Doctor May’s victory speech to know what’s at cost here — his job, his degree, his prospects, his license, his freedom — and more importantly than all of that, James and Muriel.

      Muriel’s already on the phone with Coco, his features dark and serious — he tells the police it’s their lawyer — but Coco will know better than any lawyer what to do here, and Westley can’t just believe that something like this can happen. There’s no goddamned justice to any of it. He looks down at James’s small warm hand in his own as they all try to coax his lad away from him — and he drags him into an embrace, hand on the back of his head, whispering against his hair, “I’m not going to let this stand. We’ll figure something out, bloemetje. I promise.”

      It’s about now that Westley’s really regretting his decision not to attend law school because this is taking too goddamned long, and his hands are really tied, and Edward’s face is gradually turning the color of a disgruntled and angry turnip. How tragic, to not be in control of someone’s life. Westley will sift through every legal file in London’s hearings if he has to. There’s just no fucking way this piece of shit has any rights to James. His little flower is his own goddamned person and — fuck, he’s Westley’s person, too.

      His little dear fucking whimpers and Westley’s heart is out with that sound. He wants to wrap James up in his wings, stroke along his hair and kiss his forehead and tell him that they’re going to get him out — that he’s going to be safe forever.

       “I hardly need tell you,” Doctor May continues, “That a relationship of this sort with — a patient — Mr. Greene, is highly inappropriate.”

      Westley’s face turns into a grimace — one that shows a person capable of great cruelty and malice, should he choose to embrace it, as seaglass eyes turn into a tempest. “I hardly think it’s more inappropriate than a conservatorship.” Okay, so maybe it is, but you know, Westley’s pissed. Muriel’s hand is on his shoulder, grounding him. For what his husband does for a living — he somehow still manages to be the calm in Westley’s storm, not letting him do anything too rash and destructive. “And it’s Doctor Greene.”

       “We’ll see,” Edward says calmly. “As you gentleman can see, this — man — has confused my patient — hoodwinked him, as it were. James is confused, lost his memory prior to being found. Who is to say the trauma and abuse he may have experienced. The safest place for him is in psychiatric care where he won’t pose a threat to himself or others. Where he can’t be misled from the path of God to sin, or be given ideas of things that will never be. Come along now, James. I know you’ve had quite the adventure, dear lad, but I assure you this is for your own good.”

      Westley’s ears are buzzing, and he looks up to Muriel, whose golden eyes are flashing. They can’t let James just — go — they can’t. “Anything?” he asks, softly.

      “I’m afraid the law is on my side here,” Edward says again — “Everything documented quite plainly.”

      “We’re going to need you to come with us, Mr. Pollard,” one of the officers says, stepping forward.

      Westley’s grip tightens — not painfully, but in a show that he’s not just going to let this go. “Not yet,” he says, “Not until we’ve spoken to our lawyer.”

      “There will be time for that, still, Mr. McCarthy,” Doctor May condescends, “But the law waits for no one. James deserves a stable place where he can heal. Would you really deny him that?”

       That’s what Westley’s been trying to do this whole goddamned time. “Of course I wouldn’t. If only I could say I trusted that you had his best interest in mind. Amnesia doesn’t render him incapable of his own decisions.”

      “But it does give him the lack of background to make informed decisions.”

      The police officers look tired, one sighs, “Mr. Pollard — please come along, we don’t want to make this any harder than it has to be.”

       “Muriel — “ Westley pleads. He’s never felt so goddamned helpless in his life. What’s the point? In any of this? In all of it? If he can’t keep the two that he loves safe from the world’s harm. “Please — “ he chokes.

[pencil-n-pen]

I’M STILL TRYING EVERYTHING

⋆° 𐙚 ₊🧦☕🧸₊°⋆ ೀ₊°⋆

previous | kofi | masterlist

post prison!spencer reid x fem!reader

₊ ⊹

I'm still trying everything to keep you looking at me.

-mirrorball, taylor swift

₊ ⊹

summary: you’ve never had a date or a relationship that either didn’t work out or end in disaster. now that you have spencer, you’re determined not to let it happen again

cw: referenced bad past relationships, very very vaguely referenced past domestic abuse that honestly could be taken a different way, referenced child abuse (readers parents are STILL not it) again this is a criminal minds fic so references to graphic violence

tags/tropes: hurt/comfort (do i even need to say this? you all know who i am) insecurity, like one line of misogyny and it’s in the past and not brought up again, spencer being soft n worried, HEALTHY COMMUNICATION, spencer is just as gone for reader as she is for him honestly he's just a sap

a/n: back by popular demand !! seriously guys, you have no idea how much the support and comments and reblogs and asks means to me 🥹 the overwhelming amount of love for the first fic made me so happy when people started asking about a sequel i knew i had to !!

read the crossword on the collage for a surprise :)

this one goes out to all my girlies who’ve ever felt like they needed to be less in order to get a boyfriend or keep one. we’ll have our soft love just the way it was meant to be

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Spencer is a really good boyfriend.

Like… a really good boyfriend. You’re not sure if this is how having a real boyfriend is or if Spencer is just like this.

He’s so good to you. He’s just so- so him. You can’t explain it. Can’t put it into words.

He’s very patient with you. You’ve never explicitly stated it, but he’s picked up on your previous relationship experience- or more accurately, your lack thereof. The morning after you’d gone home with him, night consisting of nothing but easy sleep and warmth, he’d asked you out for real. Asked you if you’d go on a date with him, and you’d agreed, a giddy smile fixed firmly on your face.

But you still worry.

All it takes it one conversation with your parents to push things over the edge.

“Yes, dad. He’s very good to me.”

A laugh crackles over the line. “I tell you, your mother and I never thought we’d see the day.”

The words twinge uncomfortably in your chest. “Hey, I’m not that bad. I’ve just been focused.”

“More like uptight.”

“Dad—“

“You know, you still haven’t come out to visit your poor old parents since getting this so-called cushy job. And now you’ve got this boyfriend. You’re too young to settle down. Don’t you think we should meet him?”

Sometimes conversations turn so quickly they leave you stranded— scrambling to pick up pieces of what you thought was going to happen and piece them together to make something new. Something for the new route the conversation has taken.

You couldn’t hold back your sigh if you tried. “We haven’t been dating for that long dad, I don’t want to spring this on him—“

“Sweetie, if we don’t meet him now, why might never meet him. Who knows how long he’s gonna stick around?”

(Sometimes, in moments like these, for just a split second, you wonder how a father could say something like that, to his daughter. You wonder why, wonder what you did wrong. And then, you imagine Hotch saying those same things, and you can’t, and it almost makes you feel a little better.)

Your blood runs cold. “What could you possibly mean by that?”

“Well, you know how things have ended in the past. I’m just saying I’d like to meet him before he’s gone."

You don't dignify his words with a response.

"Come on, honey. I'm just joking with you."

"It's not funny."

"Don't be like that--"

"Goodbye."

You hang up, snapping the phone shut with a sigh.

The older you've gotten, the more conversations with your parents end up like this. You suppose it's the way you 'wasted your potential' or 'never made something of yourself.' They've always held resentment ever since you decided to become an agent. So you know not to take what they say to heart, because their words only come from a place of disappointment and displeasure. It's not a reflection of who you really are or what you've really accomplished.

Or at least, that's what Hotch told you when he'd overheard one of your phone calls. It meant more than you'd let on.

But your Dad's words linger in your head. They're irritating and sharp where they claw around in your head because they're true.

You can count on one hand the amount of romantic endeavors you've had. And from those, they all ended horribly. Your parents lost sympathy towards the end of your attempts, muttered words of needing to try harder to keep them, that you should be satisfied that somebody wanted you at all, that you should try to be less... you.

Try to be less... you, dear. The books and the facts- nobody wants those. Put some more effort into your appearance. Otherwise you'll end up all alone.

You'd tried to take their advice, of course. But the relationships that were fathered your parents direction were not loving. There was nothing soft or gentle or warm about them. You'd never felt more unlovable.

So when the incident with the shooter happened and you were lying on the lecture hall floor, blood coloring the carpet deep scarlet, you'd vowed to never let it happen again. That you were going to use your intellect and wit and passion for what you wanted to do- you'd promised yourself that if you survived, you would try to make your life your own, one step at a time.

This, of course, is easier said than done.

It's easy enough to refuse to let yourself get involved with men who are clearly only interested in your for your badge or your body --though the latter happens so rarely you really don't have to worry about it-- because you don't care about them. They're blips on your radar.

But Spencer? Sweet, sweet Spencer who makes you hot-cocoa and binge watches Doctor Who with you, even the later seasons, which you know he doesn't like as much but you love. Spencer who always has a grounding touch to offer, or a quiet command when you need him. Spencer who puts you first.

But there's a limit to these things, right? As far as you've seen, romantic relationship's are transactional, or conditional. Sometimes both. He can't just... keep doing this forever. It's too kind. Too sweet. It'll come to an end soon. Like, like the honeymoon era in early relationships. That's all it is. Plus, he's older than you, and you have no illusions about your unavoidable impulsiveness and naivety.

You've been told that your standards are too high before. "Struck by the hopeless romantic's arrow," your brother had said once, back when you were still in school, crying over a boy who'd told you that he didn't want to date you because you were too smart for a girl.

"That's not being hopeless romantic. There's no such thing as being too smart for a girl."

"There isn't," He'd amended, "But you're not going to have an easy time finding a guy. You of all people can't really afford to be picky."

He'd been right, in the end. So you're just... having a hard time figuring out how genuine Spencer's actions are. Guy's don't really act all romantic in the context of you. You've been told your whole life to be happy with what you get, and what you've had in the past is decidedly not lining up with how Spencer treats you.

It's a nasty little thing in your ear. Is it real? Does it matter as much to him?

When is it all going to end?

--

Rossi make's an offhand comment during a mission that you talk a lot when you're excited about the subject at hand.

JJ agrees. "It's a little unnerving when the subject is the bruising patterns of strangulation."

That little voice comes back.

Too much too much too much too much too much--

"It's useful," You protest, mouth dry.

JJ snorts, "I'm not sure about that. We need to know that the victim was strangled, not what happens to the body during blunt-force asphyxiation."

You'd grown quiet then, let the chatter and musings of the rest of the team wash over you.

Is that something Spencer finds annoying? You have always found things other's view morbid and disturbing fascinating. But JJ is right. No one wants to hear about that.

You brush the comment off, square your shoulders, get back on with the case.

Be better. Try harder.

You don't seen the furrow of Spencer's brows from where he's been watching you, or the quick look he shares with Hotch.

--

You'd never really thought about how clingy you can be before Emily makes an offhand comment about it while the two of you wait in line at a coffee shop. There's a couple in front of you, the girl all over her partner, kissing and giggling and hugging them close.

"Ugh," Emily groans once the two get their coffee and move on. "I could never understand the appeal of all that. I mean doesn't it feel stifling?"

A little stab of ice in your stomach.

"I don't know. I think it's nice."

"No, thank you. If I were her partner, I'd feel smothered."

You think about that conversation every time you take Spencer's hand or lean into his simple touches. They're invasive little things, the thoughts. It's not hard to pull back on all the touching. You never really ask for them in the first place- always too nervous to come off clingy. But you suppose just taking, taking, taking is just the same.

A quick shake of your head, not leaning in, a quiet "I'm fine." and that little nagging fear of smothering begins to quiet. It doesn't leave, but it does get quieter. For a little while, at least.

--

The hard part is trying to be less without noticeably being less. Spencer's smart- and he's a profiler. If you pull back too much too quickly, he'll notice, and you don't want to talk about this yet. You just need to make sure he'll stay. That things won't—

That you won't find out too late that you don't mean as much to him as he does to you.

That's the kind of thing that can't happen again. But ascertaining his true feelings and desires is difficult, because this is all kind's of new territory for you. You want to believe it's real. You really, really want to believe it's real.

But it's never been real before, so why would it be real now?

--

You've asked around (subtly and carefully, of course) about the type of girl Spencer's dated or drifted towards in the past. You know he said he wanted something soft and sweet, but you can't help but think that you're not really either, nor are you in line with his type. All things considered, you're a mess. Something tired-eyed and hollow is how you feel most days. Some sort of creature perhaps? You're honestly not sure what you are. You've spent your entire life being singled out or otherwise othered- always too smart or too different or too weird or too much or too loud or too quiet or too shy or too, too, too. Always too something. You have never been called soft or sweet. In a demeaning way, sure, but never with the quiet reverence that Spencer said it with that night.

It feels like a balancing act, a bit. Holding all those too much parts so close to your chest with one hand and shoving the ones you think Spencer wants with the other hand.

You could probably drop the one hand. The one holding the bad parts. But you're just not convinced he'll stay. You're not sure that he won't look at them with some form of disgust or pity or something else terrible.

You know the balancing act isn't sustainable— you'll fall eventually, and everything will come crashing down, but until then, you just keep trying. Trying to see if he'll stay, trying to see what to do if he won't. How to ensure he will, if that's something that's possible.

--

The act does not hold up for as long as you hoped it would. It comes crashing down with a glass. Literally.

You and Spencer are in the kitchen on a rare weekend off, cooking and drinking wine and swaying to some little old love song.

It should be perfect, except you're worrying that you look ugly while you're dancing, and you're probably singing off-key, and he maybe wants you to shut up so he can hear the song or dance in peace.

He reaches towards you and you just— your brain shrieks for a moment, all senses going into overdrive and you jerk backward, and your elbow knocks into your wine glass, and it falls, shattering behind you with a deafening crash.

Your entire body tenses, waiting for yelling or sighing or something, because you broke the glass, there's crystalline shards everywhere, the wine red and it looks like blood, maybe it is, maybe you're bleeding because the glass was really close to your foot when it fell but you're not sure because you can't really feel your feet or your fingers or—

"Don't move," Spencer says, voice serious, and tears well in your eyes, because this is when it all ends isn't it? "I don't want you to— honey?"

"Yes?" You croak.

His eyes are swimming with concern as he takes in your hunched shoulders, shallow breaths, and scared expression.

Understanding flickers in his features, and you resist the urge to hold your breath.

"Nothing is going to happen to you because of the glass, okay? Everything is fine. We're fine. I'm not mad. See? I'm not mad. I just don't want you to cut your feet on the glass. I'm going to clean this up and get your slippers, okay?"

"Okay." You breathe, voice hoarse. You wring your hands nervously as he leaves to retrieve the necessary supplies to clean the mess, heart beating so fast and so hard you're shocked you can't see it through your shirt.

He's not mad. He's not mad. You're not in trouble. Your parents aren't here. You're not grounded. You're not in trouble. He's not mad.

You're silent while he cleans, focused on getting your breathing under control while he babbles quietly about the history of glass making and the significance of types of wine glasses. The facts and history wash over you in steady waves, easing the tension in your shoulders bit by bit.

"I didn't think you were going to hit me, Spencer."

He continues cleaning. "It's okay if you did. I would never blame you for that."

"But I don't," You say, suddenly desperate, "I know you wouldn't, I've never been hit, not like that."

He's quiet for a few minutes. "Does this have something to do with how you've been acting recently?"

You freeze. "What do you mean?"

He looks up, leaning back on his knees. Making himself smaller, you realize. He's trying not to scare you again.

"You're dating a profiler. Also, I speak fluent you, and you've been chewing all your hangnails again. You only do that when you're stressed and pretending like you're not."

Your finger's twitch at your sides.

His hands come up slowly, and he rubs the length of your waist and hips. "We don't have to talk about it right now, but I think we should soon. I don't want you hurting all by yourself. You've had enough of that. That's what I'm here for."

He finishes cleaning up the glass, and finishes cooking dinner- he'd assured you he'd turned off all burners when the glass hit the floor, so nothing's burnt.

Once you've both eaten, he steers you towards the couch and wordlessly puts on Doctor Who.

The Pandorica is just about to open when you finally decide that if you don't start talking, you never will.

"My parents think you're going to leave me."

Spencer makes a wounded noise in his throat. "Why do they think that?"

"Because it's happened before. I'm, um. I'm not very good at getting into relationships. Or keeping them."

"But that's not your fault."

You sniff hard, rubbing your face with your sleeve. "It is though, isn't it? At least a little. I know I can be a lot. I know I'm not easy to—"

You cut yourself off, but the words hang in the air anyway; unsaid.

I'm not easy to love.

"Anyway," You say, pushing through the lump in your throat. "I just thought. I don't know. I was worried that you'd get fed up with me."

"No," He whispers, voice raw and full of something a lot heavier than fond. "No, no baby. I like that you're clingy and you ramble when you get excited, because it means that we get to talk about something together."

He shifts on the couch, sitting criss-crossed, ducking his head down to catch your gaze. "You know what else I like?"

You scoot over, mirroring his position. "What?"

"I like that you always know when I need you. Even when I don't think I do, you're there. Because I do need you. This isn't a one-way street."

His words hit you straight in your chest. "Oh."

He smiles, brows a little scrunched, brown eyes a deep pool of fondness and a splash of concern. "Yeah. And I'm thinking you need me a little more than you want to let on."

The seam of your pajama pants suddenly becomes the most interesting thing in the world. Amazing, the wonders of a sewing machine.

"Maybe."

"Mmm," He hums, "So if I need you, don't you think that you're allowed to need me?"

Your fingers pick and twirl a loose thread around. "...Yes?"

A large, firm hand covers your thigh, giving it a quick squeeze. "Yes. Not only are you allowed to need me, I want you to need me. Cause you know how you're always worried about being the best girlfriend? Well, I'm always worried about being the best boyfriend."

That makes you look up. "Really?"

He chuckles again, a little puff of air fanning your face. "Yes, really. I assure you, contrary to your past experiences, this is one of those bare minimum things in a relationship."

"That does not," He continues, immediately catching the brief flicker of doubt and shame on your face, "Mean that it is your fault at all for how you were treated in the past. You wouldn't expect me to suddenly become an expert in veterinary medicine just because I've been to the vet's office a few times, right?"

"When did you go to the vet's—"

"Shh, I'm being a good boyfriend," He holds up a hand, lips quirking up when you can't suppress a tiny giggle, "But seriously. You had no frame of reference, right? And you were being told it was your fault. But it wasn't. You didn't deserve that."

He lets his words hang in the air for a little while and allows you time to process this new information.

"What do I do now?"

"Well," He leans in, brushing his nose against yours, curls tickling your forehead, "You've got a pretty sweet deal here. Just three things. You have to keep letting me need you, let yourself need me, and one last little thing."

"What?"

You're so close your breaths are mingling.

"Let me show you what this is supposed to look like. How a man is supposed to treat a pretty girl. His pretty girl."

"Oh, well," Heat rushes to your cheeks, your stomach doing flip-flops, "That sounds pretty hard. I don't know how I'll hold up."

His hand comes up to hold the side of your face, his thumb sweeping strokes under your eye.

"You say that now, but I know what happens to you when I get romantic. You swoon."

You laugh. "I do not swoon."

"You will."

He leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, gentle kiss. It isn't a kiss-kiss. He's kissing you just to kiss you; just to let you know that he's here, that you have him.

It's sweet and perfect and exactly what you need.

--

Letting yourself need Spencer is marginally easier now that you know he needs you. Now that you know you're not going all in for someone who isn't.

He also starts needing you a bit... louder.

It's late evening, and most people have gone home except you and a couple other members of the team, all still working on paperwork.

Except Spencer, who's decided to drape himself over your shoulders like a cat, his chin resting on your head.

"Don't you have work to do?"

"Either finished it or it can be done later."

You shift your shoulders, smiling at how his grumbles vibrate against your back.

He moves his head, pressing his cheek to your head instead of his chin, heaving a deep sigh.

"Your hair smells good."

"Like what?"

"You're shampoo. Yours always smell better than mine."

You continue to work through your paperwork, Spencer a continuous and solid weight against your back.

"Is this even comfortable for your back at all?"

"Doesn't matter. Need girlfriend time."

He can't see it, but you're sure he knows how hard you blush.

--

Spencer's cooking the two of you a late breakfast in the kitchen of his apartment, hair still all mussed from sleep. He's quite the sight. You can't stop staring.

You're sitting on the counter, still dressed in your pajamas, legs swinging.

"You wanna know something cool?"

"You know it,"

"Butterflies and moths can drink blood and tears. There's nutrients in them. Purple Emperor butterflies are especially known for this. It's called mud-puddling."

"So you're telling me I should make sure I bandage any open wounds before I go to a butterfly house?"

"I guess. I can't imagine they'd be able to drink enough blood to actually cause any damage."

"Maybe we'll have to go to a butterfly house. For research."

"Should we get dinner afterwards?"

"We'll deserve it, you know, for all the hard research we'll have done."

"Hmm. Yes, I suppose so."

--

Spencer's bed is infinitely more comfortable than your bed. You're pretty sure it's a combination of the fact that it's the only thing in the entire world that smells so much like him and the fact that he spent part of his large FBI paycheck on a fancy mattress. Back support is very important to him.

You're doing a little reading before bed, shamelessly sprawled all over him while he does his own reading. You've got a leg hooked over his hips, the other tangled with his legs, and your arms and head pillowed on his chest. You move a little every time he takes a breath, and more than once you've paused in your reading, mesmerized by the feeling.

He shifts under you, setting his book down on his night stand and making himself more comfortable.

"Should I move?"

"No," he says, voice deep and gravelly with sleep. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush to him, face pressed to the crook of your neck. He breathes deep, scruffy stubble scratching against your skin. "Like you close. Good for sleep."

Even with the lamp on, and your book in your hand, you fall asleep soon after him.

--

It's an ordinary evening for the two of you. Discarded dishes sit on the coffee table in front of the t.v, neither of you paying them any attention, wrapped up in each other and eyes glued to the screen.

You look up at Spencer who's watching Doctor Who with the focus of a man who's never seen it, even though you know for a fact he's seen it before, several times in fact.

"I want to know the things you like," He'd said simply, the one time you'd asked why he takes your nightly Doctor Who watching so seriously.

And tonight's no different. Tonight, he looks... well, he looks like Spencer. His face illuminated by the TV screen, his hair all mussed from you running your hands through it earlier.

And it just kind of all hits you at once. You know.

"I love you."

He looks down at you, his expression soft and surprised. When your words register, his expression is so sickeningly fond and happy you can't help but lean in, burying your face in his chest. He rubs your back consolingly, then presses a little kiss to the crown of your head.

"I love you too."

⋆⭒˚.⋆

taglist: @topsecret101 @slowdownpal @leeknowpegger @sunbl3achedfly @hiireadstuff @paige0103 @private190104 @beautyb1ade @coraline-jones353 @pleasenter-sandman @sttvrdustt @gluchie @thomasintheshadows @dessamira1001 @bbleeeeh @hufflely-puffly @bippityboppityboob1tch @buggys-space @redxfangirl @liauchiha147 @dreaming-potato @meandyoulollz @jobrosimp

[bloody-bee-tea]

June of (minimal) Doom 2024 Day 27 - Or what?

Suguru has been in a mood lately. Satoru doesn’t know what brought it on, or what he can possibly to do make him snap out of it, but he’s not about to let Suguru push him away.

Satoru has waited fifteen years to find a friend like Suguru, to find a person like Suguru, and he’s not going to let a weird mood change everything.

That’s just not happening.

So Satoru behaves like he normally does; he’s annoying and clingy and a glutton and Suguru suffers him like he lately suffers everything, which is to say with a frown and clipped words.

It’s almost enough to discourage Satoru, but his need to keep Suguru by his side outweighs the pain Suguru’s behaviour causes him.

“Hey, Suguru?” Satoru asks one day where he’s stretched out on Suguru’s bed as Suguru works on the report they still have to hand in to Yaga.

“What?” Suguru snaps, clearly annoyed but he’s still answering Satoru, and that is all that matters.

As long as he doesn’t ignore Satoru, it’s all good.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Satoru asks, not mentioning Suguru’s moods, because that should be more than obvious in his eyes and so he doesn’t understand why Suguru looks at him with a frown on his face.

“You never write reports,” he accuses and now it’s Satoru’s turn to frown.

“No, not that,” he waves off, because yeah, he never writes reports and he’s not about to start now. “You mood. You’ve been—off lately. Is there anything I can do to help?”

That makes Suguru freeze and Satoru does not like the painfully surprised look on his face. It even takes him a while to collect himself enough to answer Satoru and that, too, is not right. Suguru never has troubles talking to him and if he has now, that can only mean that Satoru did something wrong.

“It’s all fine, Satoru,” Suguru eventually says and it’s so obvious a lie that Satoru has to avoid his eyes.

“I see,” he mutters, not daring to push anymore, too afraid that Suguru will tell him to get lost, to get the fuck away.

If Suguru should start avoiding him, Satoru is sure he’s going to break down immediately, so it’s best not to push any further.

“Satoru,” Suguru says, sounding pained but Satoru only gives him a bright smile that is so fake it almost threatens to split his face apart.

“It’s all fine, Suguru,” he gives back and only realises that he’s throwing Suguru’s words back in his face when Suguru flinches. “I didn’t mean it like that,” Satoru mutters, once he thinks his voice will hold. “I’m just—”

“I’m sorry,” Suguru interrupts him and when Satoru dares to look at him, he seems like it, too. “Things are—changing right now and I’m not yet dealing well with it,” he admits and that answer only raises a million more questions for Satoru, but he bites his tongue.

He doesn’t want to overwhelm Suguru with questions when he’s finally saying something in the first place.

“Okay,” Satoru whispers. “I’m—here, though, if you need anything,” he then offers, because what else can he do and he knows that they are still fine when Suguru gives him a shaky smile.

“I know. Thanks, Satoru.”

Satoru nods, but Suguru has already gone back to the report so he doesn’t see and Satoru curls up on his side, facing Suguru and staring at him for the rest of the evening.

He doesn’t know what’s going on with Suguru, doesn’t know if he can help or if there’s anything he can do to make it better, but he has to trust that Suguru will tell him when he’s ready.

Satoru just has to trust him.

~*~*~

It doesn’t get better. Suguru tries to make an effort with Satoru but he can tell it stresses Suguru out. Which only makes Satoru feel worse, because he doesn’t want to make things harder for Suguru, he simply wants to help.

If only Suguru would let him.

“Let’s watch a movie,” Suguru listlessly says when Satoru shows up at his door one day, ready to sleep off their last mission but feeling as if he has to say something to Suguru and this is just proving it as well.

“I’d rather not,” Satoru says, not moving into Suguru’s room after he steps aside and it’s apparently surprising enough for Suguru to freeze on the spot.

“Huh?” he breathes out and Satoru scratches the back of his head.

“I want to help you,” Satoru starts with and he doesn’t get further before Suguru’s face closes off. “But it seems that me saying something that one time made things harder for you, and I don’t want to add to your stress,” he goes on, pretending as if he isn’t discouraged by the look on Suguru’s face. “So how about we just—chill separately for now.”

It’s hard to say that, Satoru has to admit that, but he needs Suguru to feel better no matter what. His own feelings hardly matter in that moment.

“But you don’t like being alone,” Suguru says with a frown. “It makes you feel like you’re not being paid attention to and you hate that.”

Satoru blinks at Suguru. It’s true what he said, but Satoru didn’t know Suguru figured him out so easily.

“I’m not some attention whore,” Satoru chokes out, his father’s words ringing in his ears and he knows what’s expected of him.

He has enough experience with this to know what he’s supposed to say.

“I didn’t say that,” Suguru softly gives back. “It’s just—you like knowing that someone is seeing you. So come in, let’s watch a movie.”

“But you don’t like knowing that someone is seeing you right now,” Satoru argues, not stepping into Suguru’s room. “I don’t know why, but you hate attention on you lately. And you’re tired; don’t think Shoko’s concealer can hide those eye bags from me. How about you get some sleep?”

“And you?” Suguru asks and Satoru can guess just how tired he is by the lack of an argument from him.

“I will survive one day,” Satoru says with a small smile. “Besides, with what you just said, I know you’re seeing me. I’m not forgotten and you’re not deliberately pretending as if I’m not there.”

It’s a bit telling, Satoru knows but the words are already out there and he trusts Suguru to not judge him for this.

“I would never do that to you,” Suguru softly says, briefly reaching out to tug on Satoru’s sleeve. “I see you.”

“Okay,” Satoru gets out, his voice strangely choked up but he still stands firm on his point. “And I see you, which is why we’re not watching a movie, so you can wind down.”

That brings a small smile to Suguru’s face and it’s the first one Satoru has seen in over four weeks, so he definitely counts this as a win.

“Alright, deal. At least for today. Tomorrow will be different,” Suguru promises him but Satoru shakes his head as he pushes Suguru’s bangs out of his face.

“Only if you feel like it,” Satoru softly gives back and then waves at him before he can think too hard about the way he trailed his fingertips over Suguru’s temple. “We’ll figure something out tomorrow. Now go sleep or whatever.”

“And you go eat your weight in sweets or whatever,” Suguru shoots back, which is just normal enough to put Satoru’s nerves at ease.

“Will do,” he cheerfully says with a little salute and marches off before he can do something stupid again.

He just hopes that Suguru gets enough sleep now so that they can spend at least a little bit of time together tomorrow because he misses Suguru.

But it has to get better eventually.

~*~*~

Things do get better, albeit more slowly than Satoru would like.

Suguru still has mood swings and he apparently barely sleeps, but he makes an effort with Satoru and no matter how many times Satoru tells him he doesn’t need to push himself, Suguru always waves him off.

“Satoru, will you shut up? If I don’t want to be here, I’ll tell you, alright?”

“Promise me?” Satoru still has to ask, because he needs to be certain that Suguru is telling the truth and he feels bad for making Suguru annoyed with him when he sighs.

“I promise.”

“Okay.”

~*~*~

Suguru is sprawled out on Satoru’s floor, limbs stretched out as far as he can and Satoru looks down at him from where he’s laying on his bed.

They learned that spending time together does help; with Satoru’s insecurities and apparently also with Suguru’s sleeplessness, because he swore up and down that he sleeps better when Satoru is around.

Satoru is not about to question that but he will take it, thank you very much.

“Will you ever tell me what’s going on?” Satoru can’t help but to ask because for all that they figured out what to do with each other lately, he still has no clue what caused this entire situation in the first place.

“Shut up,” Suguru grumbles, his voice heavy with sleep and even though he knows it’s stupid and mean and not something he should do, Satoru pushes because if he will ever get an answer it will probably be when Suguru has his guard down like he does right now.

“Tell me!” Satoru more insistently says and pokes Suguru’s shoulder.

Suguru grumbles and lazily swats Satoru’s hand away, but it still doesn’t prepare Satoru for what comes out of his mouth next.

“Or what? You’re going to beat me, too?” Suguru asks and Satoru’s breath hitches in his throat.

His reaction must clue Suguru in to the fact that something is wrong because he blinks his eyes open and then he goes rigid, his eyes going huge.

“Suguru,” Satoru breathes out because surely he doesn’t mean what Satoru thinks he meant but going by the way Suguru goes pale there’s no other interpretation of it.

“Don’t,” Suguru bites out as he sits up and Satoru scrambles to take Suguru’s hand in his.

Suguru doesn’t thread their fingers together, doesn’t curls his fingers around Satoru’s hand like he normally does, but he also doesn’t pull back and that’s all that Satoru can concentrate on.

“I’m not going to ask,” Satoru promises him, “I just need to know if you’re safe.”

Suguru is mostly here, stays even during the breaks, but maybe it’s not his family, but someone here, at the school and Satoru needs to know that so he can protect Suguru better.

“Satoru,” Suguru sighs out and then simply tugs on his hand, making Satoru tumble to the floor.

He catches Satoru before he can hit the ground and then flops back down, Satoru in his arms. Like this Satoru can no longer see his face and he thinks that maybe that’s the whole point of it.

“I’m safe,” Suguru then promises him and he silences Satoru by burying his face in Satoru’s hair before he can say anything else. “It’s why I’ve been so off, lately,” Suguru goes on and now that doesn’t make any kind of sense and Satoru frowns as hard as he can, hoping that Suguru can somehow feel it.

“I’m no longer—there, and Yaga got me a therapist who knows about curses and Shoko has me on medication. We’re still trying stuff out—and don’t tell her this, but I think she enjoys having me as her favourite lab rat—and that’s why my moods have been so off lately. It’s not easy talking about all of it and having meds that actually make me feel something again, so—”

He trails off there but he said enough to make Satoru’s eyes burn.

“You’re helping too,” Suguru goes on, as if things aren’t already bad enough and Satoru’s breath hitches again. “I know I’m always safe with you, you put me so at ease; it’s why it just slipped out. Sorry I just dumped that on you.”

“No, thank you for telling me,” Satoru rushes out because he cannot let Suguru think that this is something he has to apologise for. “I’m just glad that everyone’s helping you out.”

He refuses to let it sting that Suguru talked to everyone but him, and instead clings to the fact that Suguru said he’s helping too by simply being here.

“You’re helping, too. I didn’t tell you because I was afraid of you judging me,” Suguru admits after a moment and Satoru huffs out a weak laugh.

“You say that after you accurately clocked my abandonment issues and the fact that my family ignored me like it was a national sport. You really think I’m going to judge you?”

Satoru has never been hit by his parents but that’s more due to the fact that he has Limitless than any lost feelings on their side.

“No,” Suguru whispers and squeezes Satoru. “I should have known you wouldn’t.”

Satoru can feel it coming again, so he rushes out “Don’t apologise again” because he really doesn’t want to hear it. “Just. I’m here. For however much or little you need.”

It’s all he can offer, and he knows it’s enough when Suguru presses a kiss to the crown of his head.

Satoru doesn’t need to know the extend of Suguru’s trauma, all he needs to know is that he has people who are there for him now and who’re trying to help. As long as Suguru is safe now, that’s all Satoru needs.

Though it does help to know that he can do something for Suguru simply by existing.

[miles-prentiss]

Where is my mind

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Additional Tags: Mental Health Issues, Childhood Trauma, Psychological Trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Child Abuse, Past Abuse, Abuse, Physical Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Drug Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Substance Abuse, Schizophrenia, Hallucinations, Nightmares, Dreams, Panic Attacks, Short One Shot, One Shot, Angst, Heavy Angst, Angst and Tragedy

Words: 414

I walk down the long hallway the walls a saturated marron colour

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

"Hello!" I call out unaware of my surroundings.

I reach the end of the hall, I am met with a off white door, I open the door with hesitation not knowing what is awaiting my arrival.

The door open revealing a living room which seem familiar .

"Hello?" I call out once more.

... no reply .

I begin the gather what Is surrounding me, soft yellow wall, a dark green couch, a muted red carpet, off white lace curtains.

I turn around to see a man who was once standing behind me.

I stand in confusion not knowing who the man infront of me.

"What do you not know your own father?" He asked as if he was informing me on who exactly he was.

I couldn't believe it.

"I thought- you're in prison!?" I enquired.

"What do you not miss your pa?" I ignored his statement and walked away.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" He demanded grabing my shoulder and spinning me around to face him.

I flinched and his grip on my shoulder is getting tighter. He takes his free hand and wraps it tightly around my neck ,blocking my oxygen supply.

"Pleaae..." I let out a pathetic whimper.

"Ahhh!" I sit up walking myself up from my slumber in a cold sweat.

"Why?...why now?"

The past is catching up with me fast than I thought, I hang my head in defeat not wanting to deal with this at the moment.

I turn to my alarm clock which reads '3:12AM' 'the devils hour'.

I get out of bed and walk over to my bathroom. I flick on the light, illuminating the bathroom.

I stare at myself in the mirror, my dark curls framing my face, dark circles for eyes, the pale yellow-ish tone on my skin.

I turn to look at the shelf bellow the mirror which is filled with numerous boxes of pills

I look back up to the mirror to see Him behind me, his hand wrapped firmly around my neck, I turn around only for him not to be there.

I Fall back against the sink, knees coming up to my chest, hand falling into my arms, tears rolling down my face, slight ringing in my ear

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...." I repeat over and over knowing how I failed being my mother's perfect little girl

"Where is my mind?"

[snowdice]

Little Kestrel (Part 58) [Birds of Different Feathers Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Logan & Patton & Virgil (future Virgil/Patton but not in this story)

Characters:

Main: Logan, Patton, Virgil

Appear: Thomas

Mentioned: Janus

Summary:

It was supposed to be a quick job either way. Either Virgil would assassinate King Thomas of Prijaznia or he’d be caught and get executed. Yet, when Virgil gets the wrong bedroom and gets caught by Prince Logan and his future royal advisor, Patton, the job ends up getting way more complicated for the 14-year-old. He also ends up sleeping in a (actually pretty comfortable) closet for a few weeks…

Notes: Implied/referenced child abuse, assassination attempt, knives, torture mentioned, captivity, teenagers being really dumb, sexual coercion of minors implied, a minor offering sexual favors, fire, minor character death

This is a prequel to Kill Dear. I wrote it 100 words at a time on my blog, but this is the edited version. If you want to see how it was crafted (and possibly some future content), look at the tag proofread stories.

Part 1Part 2Part 3Part 4Part 5Part 6Part 7Part 8Part 9Part 10Part 11Part 12Part 13Part 14Part 15Part 16Part 17Part 18Part 19Part 20Part 21Part 22Part 23Part 24Part 25Part 26Part 27Part 28Part 29Part 30Part 31Part 32Part 33Part 34Part 35Part 36Part 37Part 38Part 39Part 40Part 41Part 42Part 43Part 44Part 45Part 46Part 47Part 48Part 49Part 50Part 51Part 52 Part 53 Part 54 Part 55 Part 56 Part 57

If Patton had not already been looking, he probably wouldn’t have had any idea what had happened.

Everything had been fine. Virgil had been sitting cross legged, idly watching the conclusion of the game they’d been playing when his posture had suddenly changed. Patton had looked over at him only to see an expression on his face he didn’t recognize, but it didn’t seem good.

“What?” Patton had asked, but the question didn’t seem to register to Virgil.

Logan had glanced up confused and had also noticed Virgil’s face. He’d just opened his mouth to ask what was going on himself when chaos descended.

Virgil was suddenly moving, crashing into King Thomas who hadn’t even looked up to see that something was wrong at that point. Patton realized after the fact that Virgil had swiped up the game board they’d been playing on as he jumped over it, the pieces previously stacked on it scattering all over the blanket. There were three thumps as some things hit the thick board, imbedding themselves into the surface.

When Virgil discarded the board in favor of the picnic basket, Patton saw there were three small darts stuck in it; they were oozing a dark black liquid. The parts of the board they touched were dissolving, the grass under the new holes beginning to wilt rapidly.

Logan seemed to notice the oozing liquid the same moment Patton did and was quicker to realize what it was. He grabbed Patton’s arm and yanked him away from the board so hard he almost dislocated Patton’s shoulder, not that Patton was too worried about that in the moment. He scrambled away from the board when he realized what it must be himself.

He could hear the sound of glassware smashing above them. Logan and Patton had rolled off the blanket in their quest to get away from the smoldering, melting board and apparently Virgil had pulled the picnic blanket fully over the king at some point.

Virgil himself had disappeared from where he’d been the last time Patton had looked and it took him a moment to figure out where the boy had gone. The person who had been shooting poisoned darts at them had been drawn out of the wooded area they’d been hiding in by Virgil’s attacks.

They were cloaked in dark green from head to toe, explaining why they’d been difficult to spot when they were in the woods. Whoever they were, they were significantly larger than Virgil, possibly an actual adult or almost adult assassin, but they were also clearly a long distant fighter. They had not been expecting resistance let alone resistance in the form of a so quick he was almost a blur fellow assassin.

They had a bow strapped to their back, but they hadn’t had a chance to get it. Instead, they were trying to fight Virgil off with an arrow they’d managed to draw from their quiver. Virgil, meanwhile, was lunging at them with a broken piece of plate in one hand and the picnic basket in the other.

Virgil dodged out of the way of the arrow striking towards his arm, though Patton didn’t think it was because he was afraid of getting scratched by an arrow, but because it may also be poisoned tipped.

Virgil was distracted by dodging for long enough that the older assassin managed to hit him in the face with the arm not holding the arrow.

He went down, but he took the older assassin with him, sweeping their legs out from under them. Patton hadn’t noticed (his mind working too slow for how fast they were moving) but they were on a slight incline. They went rolling in a tangle of arms and legs towards the edge of the cliff and skidded to a stop only a few feet away.

Virgil ended up on top, the piece of broken plate in his hands. He moved to slash it across the other assassin’s throat and managed to draw blood, but the assassin’s fist came out to shove at Virgil’s chest at just the right moment, causing the strike to veer off course and slice across the assassin’s cheek instead.

Virgil jerked to the side to avoid a second strike to the chest and went back for another slash. The other assassin rolled to the side as he did, and the plate only managed to nick their ear. The point of the motion hadn’t been to dodge, however. They were lunging for the arrow they’d dropped a few feet away while they’d rolled. They grabbed it with their right hand and in the same motion stabbed back behind them towards Virgil.

Virgil rolled to avoid the hit, already slashing up with his plate as the assassin turned back towards him.

He didn’t hit them this time but his swipe managed to stop them from stabbing him when they tried again. They shoved themselves back to avoid Virgil’s swing, putting a bit of distance between them. Both of them managed to make it to their feet during the momentary reprieve, but both also stayed crouched, eyeing each other.

They both lunged towards each other at the same time. The assassin went for a stab to Virgil’s neck with the arrow, but Virgil was already ducking down. This time, he wasn’t going for a kill shot. He grabbed the assassin’s wrist and at the same time drove his piece of plate into the assassin’s arm, slicing down from the elbow to wrist. The assassin spoke for the first time, cursing in a language Patton didn’t recognize as they were forced to drop their arrow.

Virgil took a moment to kick the arrow away from the assassin and it ended up falling off the cliff.

However, this pause gave the assassin enough time to regroup. Despite their arm bleeding profusely, they still decided to use it to backhand Virgil across the face viciously, leaving a long line of their own blood across his face.

Virgil lunged back forward, but the assassin was able to get a leg between them, kicking Virgil squarely in the chest and sending him flying back a few feet parallel to the cliff’s edge.

The assassin went to grab their bow and another arrow from the quiver still strapped to their shoulder.

Virgil, however, apparently went for another weapon too and he was much faster with a knife than any archer. A knife appeared in his hand, having been strapped to his ankle and was embedded into the assassin’s chest before they could even fully remove an arrow from their quiver.

The assassin promptly burst into flames, fire catching their clothes (and from the smell of it their skin) ablaze. Panicked and dying, they stumbled two steps to the side.

They stepped directly off the cliff.

There was a second of silence. Patton heard the sound of the body hitting the ground far below and then the flap of wings and screeching as birds nested in the cliffside fled from the startling sound (and possible soon to be forest fire).

…

“Uh, Virgil?” King Thomas said. He had managed to get the blanket off his head at some point. When, Patton didn’t know, but seeing any of it was probably enough.

Oopsie.

[nevereclipse]

father figure

Pairing: Platonic!Tim Bradford x femme!rookie!reader

Requested Y/N: no this came from my own brain !!

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: Use of y/n, yelling (standard TO Bradford style), domestic violence from a police perspective, light verbal sexual harrassment, mentioned vomitting, mentioned anxiety/nervousness, panic attacks, referenced/discussed past child abuse (emotional, with vague mentions of physical). Tim being a big ole softie (eventually).

Words: 5k+

Summary: How you went from being Tim Bradfords boot, to his unofficial kid.

this one got away from me a lot and has not been proofread!😭 enjoy! feedback is fuel.

----

“Officer Y/l/n, you’re assigned to Sergeant Bradford.” Sergeant Grey was standing at the front of roll call, having just asked you to introduce yourself to your new coworkers. It was your first day as a rookie at Mid-Wilshire, and your stomach was alive with nerves.

“Yes, sir.” You responded, sitting back in your chair.

“Alright everyone, you’re dismissed,” Grey continued, “Stay safe out there.”

Immediately, Sergeant Bradford was out of his seat and walking towards you, his face stony. You’d been warned about him by a… Officer Chen? You couldn’t really remember her name. Still, she’d warned you about his ‘Tim Tests’ and gruff demeanour. It wasn’t helping your nerves.

“Boot! Let’s go.” Bradford snapped, gesturing you over with a flick of two fingers. You smoothed your uniform and walked over. You forced a smile onto your face, wanting to make a good impression.

“Sir, I’m-,” you started.

“Save it, boot.” Sergeant Bradford cut you off. “You will address me as only Bradford, Sergeant Bradford or Sir. Is that understood?”

You nodded, the nerves settling comfortably in your stomach. Bradford was clearly not planning to calm your worries. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Go grab the warbags and meet me at the shop.” Bradford nodded his head vaguely in the direction of the supply room, and you hurried off to prepare the war bags. The last thing you needed was to make a bad impression on someone who was already making you nervous.

---

Tim watched you hurriedly walk to the war room to set up. As he watched you go, Angela Lopez approached.

“So, what do you think of the new blood?” Lopez asked, gesturing (albeit unnecessarily) behind you.

“Too soon to say.” Tim replied, crossing his arms as he turned to Angela.

“Come on, Bradford, you always know right away.” Angela pushed, nudging Tim’s side.

Tim couldn’t deny that. He had a knack for knowing whether someone would be a good fit for policework – it was why he was an excellent TO.

Still, he paused, considering. “She’s… eager.” He hedged. It was true, to a degree. You did seem eager. But he could tell there was something more bubbling under the surface.

“Uh huh.” Lopez grinned, “Don’t be a total dick today, yeah?”

Tim glanced over his shoulder just as you walked out of the storeroom carrying the war bags. “No promises.”

---

Office Chen had been right. Sergeant Bradford was extremely intimidating. You’d graduated third at the Academy, and you knew you were good (well, competent at least), but some part of you was still constantly second guessing. Maybe it was Bradford’s height and build, or his permanently pissed off energy but an hour into your shift and you were scared. Not of him (not really), but of what’d happen when you inevitably screwed up. You’d tried to chat initially, but it hadn’t gone down well.

“So. Why do you want to be a cop?” Bradford asked as he pulled off West Olympic.

After an hour of near-silence, since Bradford had firmly proclaimed that the shop was a personal-life-free zone, the question surprised you. “Is that a trick question?”

“No. If I’m going to train you, I need to know why you’re in this car.” Bradford didn’t even look at you as he drove, instead scanning the streets around you.

You looked out your window for a moment. It wasn’t exactly an easy question to answer. Not without revealing way more about yourself then you wanted to on your first shift. Then you wanted too ever, really.  “Um.” You swallowed. “I know it’s… basic, but I want to help people.” You hedged. “People who don’t have anyone else to-.”

The shop screeched to a halt, and you were suddenly cut off by Bradford yelling: “I’VE BEEN SHOT! WHERE ARE YOU, BOOT?”

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck- you didn’t know. “Um…” You looked around, trying desperately to find a street sign, or some clue as to where you were. After a few more seconds, you heard Bradford scoff.

“Now I’m dead. It’s your fault.” He didn’t even look mad. Just completed blank. That was almost more nerve racking.

“I-I’m sorry, sir,” You started, hating the way your voice shook.

“Not good enough, Boot!” Tim’s voice was loud and sharp, cutting through the silence of the shop. “Apologies don’t save lives, rookie. Get out.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“I said get out and walk, boot. You can get back in when you know where you are.”

In that moment, you knew you’d ruined it. This had been your chance to be a cop, and less than two hours in, you’d already fucked it up. You got out of the shop, walking along side it. Hoping Bradford didn’t notice how your legs had shaken as you left. You wouldn’t let yourself be upset by this. Bradford was just doing his job, you were perfectly safe. From him, anyway.

Still, when you finally got back in the shop, you didn’t talk again. All your focus went towards scanning your surroundings.

---

Your legs had shaken when you got out of the car. It was subtle, but Tim had noticed it. Unbidden, a touch of guilt settled in his stomach. He honestly hadn’t meant to frighten you. It was just a Tim Test – he didn’t need (nor want) you to be scared. It was hardly conducive to training a good rookie.

What bothered him most, though, is your complete silence the rest of the day. You’d been annoying chatty the first twenty odd minutes of your shift (until Tim had, in traditional Bradford fashion, banned any sort of personal talk), but since getting back in the car, you’d stuck strictly to ‘yes, sir’s and ‘no, sir’s. It had been… unnerving.

Tim didn’t like changing his training style. After all, after half a dozen rookies, he liked to think that he’d perfected his TO methods. Everyone knew that he was an exceptional training officer. The only people he ever made exceptions for were veterans like him. But the thought of scaring you every time he yelled made his stomach drop in an unpleasant way. You’d been so eager when you’d first gotten in the shop – nervous, sure, but eager. And you were so, so young. You reminded him of himself in a way.

In the way you’d immediately changed he’d yelled, which even Tim could admit would’ve been… slightly scary. And that change had implications, ones Tim didn’t like. He especially didn’t like the implication of what that made him to you. A threat. So he’d never mention it, but he did quietly resolve to adjust – adjust, not change – the way he made sure you learnt what you needed too.

---

A few weeks into your training and Sergeant Bradford had significantly lowered on your rating of ‘scary people I know.’ While he was still harsh, and quick to criticise, he’d never shown you that cold, disappointment-infused yelling that he had on your first shift. It’d made it a lot easier for you to get comfortable around him, and you’d almost immediately started breaking the ‘no personal talk in the shop’ rule.

“Anyway, then she said that I was the one who needed to check my attitude. I mean can you believe that? Me? Having an attitude?” You said, watching your surroundings (you hadn’t forgotten your first Tim Test) as you rambled about some woman you’d run into grocery shopping.

At your comment, Bradford simply side-eyed you. He did that a lot, you were realising.

“Rude. That’s rude.” You said in response to the side eye. “It gets worse, though. She had the audacity-.”

Bradford held up a hand, cutting you off. “Boot.”

You turned, “Yes, sir?”

“Stop. Talking.”

You shut your mouth, but that was mostly to hold back a slight laugh. Bradfords hands were wrapped around the steering wheel, but they weren’t white like they were when you really needed to shut up. (You’d always been observant.)

“But this is the best part of the story.” You pressed.

“Boot, I swear to god-.” Before Bradford could issue whatever threat, he planned too, someone’s voice crackled over the radio.

“7-Adam-100, we have a domestic call at 4195 Clover Drive. Neighbours reported shouting.”

Tim’s face hardened. He glanced briefly at you, and you knew, even without a mirror, that your face had paled a shade. You’d been lucky so far to not have to deal with any DV calls. Guess that luck was over.

“7-Adam-100, show us responding, Code 6.”

Tim floored the breaks a little harder than he objectively needed too.

You could hear the yelling as soon as you pulled into Clover Drive. It was distinctly male, the words harsh and clear, and coming from a house halfway down the street.

It was an effort to clear your head.

“What’s the procedure for a domestic call, boot?” Asked Bradford as you switched off your sirens and approached the house.

You swallowed, “Um.  Get inside the house to assess any damage. Separate the assumed predominant aggressor from the presumed victim or any children if possible. If there doesn’t appear to be violence, there isn’t much we can do, though.”

Bradford nodded tightly. “Good. I’ll take lead on this one.”

“Yes, sir.”

 You knocked on the front door as Bradford called out, alerting the occupants to the polices presence. The yelling stopped immediately.

“Is there a problem, Officer?” Asked a man, probably in his forties. You and Bradford pushed your way into the house as you spoke with him. There was water spilt across the countertop, and a girl in her early teens standing in the kitchen. Her face was tear-streaked, but she appeared unharmed.

“We got reports of yelling from this area, sir.” Came Bradford’s voice from behind you. Your head was starting to spin as memories flooded back to you: late nights, angry words, the occasional smashed plate. Or worse.

You didn’t hear what the man (you assumed he was the girl father) said in response. The teen was watching you and Tim with wide eyes, shaking her head. She rubbed her wrist absentmindedly, and if you weren’t so stuck in your own head, you would’ve thought to ask to see if she was injured. You turned to her father and vaguely registered that he was wearing a wife beater under his button up. Ironic.

“Let’s go, boot.” Bradford snapped, beckoning you over. His jaw was set, and he obviously didn’t believe whatever the man had said. Your head felt like it was underwater as you walked out of the house, and your stomach turned. Memories flooded your head.

Bradford was grumbling under his breath, something about hating the laws around DV in California, when he noticed you stumble towards the bushes outlining the road.

“You good, boot?” He asked, frowning something.

You nodded frantically, “Mmhm… fine, si-.” The ‘sir’ was cut off by the sound of you throwing up in the bushes. You hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so nothing really came out, but still you dry heaved, clutching your stomach.

“Shit, Y/l/n, are you okay?” Instantly, Tim was at your side, one hand on your back. You nodded vaguely, gesturing for a drink of water. He almost ran to get it. When you could finally breathe, and had swallowed nearly half a litre of water, he asked,

“Jesus, boot, what the hell was that?”

“I’m fine.” You insisted, not wanting to get into some conversation about your past: Bradford wasn’t the understanding type. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Like hell it’s not.” Bradford snapped, guiding you back to the shop. His words were harsh, but his touch gentle. A strange combination, but one that left you feeling comforted. “Listen, boot, if you’ve got something that’s going to make you react to scenes like that, I need to know. Now.”

You shook your head frantically, refusing to open up. As much as you were starting to trust Bradford, you weren’t ready to give him that information. Not when he was the age he was, the build he was, holding so much authority over you

“It’s fine, sir. I swear. It won’t happen again.” You repeated, and you meant it. It wouldn’t happen again.

Tim surveyed you for a moment, watching the guarded expression in your eyes. It was one he recognised, having seen it in his reflection countless times after teachers asked about a suspicious bruise. It was for that reason he relented, though he fully intended to bring it up again. “Fine. But if have something you need to tell me… you can, kid.”

“Yes, sir.”

---

More time passed, and even though you still refused to open about your childhood to Tim (how do you even have that conversation?), you were starting to rely on him.

It was inevitable, you supposed. Unrequited, but inevitable. After all, he was in his mid-forties, an authority figure, admittedly a bit of a dick, but you were gradually (ever so gradually) starting to see a slightly gentler side of him. So of course you looked up to him. You had daddy issues, okay?

It wasn’t a crush. You knew that for sure. You’d half expected it to be, but it wasn’t. Instead, it was a healthy dose of admiration, paired with a slightly-less-healthy dose of please god be proud of me. But that was fine. It was entirely reasonable given he was your TO. You hoped.

---

“You’re under arrest for attempted grand theft auto and possession of illicit substances,” you said, hooking handcuffs around some criminal’s wrists. He’d been a pain in the ass to catch, and you could already feel a bruise blooming across your jaw from his escape attempts. Bradford had, predictably, been unhelpful in the arrest, instead opting to analyse your fighting technique as you’d taken the crook down. He’d even cracked a rare ‘good job’ smile as you’d put the cuffs on.

You pushed the perp against your shop, already halfway through the Miranda Rights: “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights?”

The thief mumbled slightly, and you nodded to Tim to take him off your hands. The second your hands were off him, however, he started complaining. Loudly.

“Aw, come on man. If you’re gonna arrest me, at least let the lady cop throw me ‘round.” He said, looking over his shoulder to grin at you. You scrunched your nose. It wasn’t the first time a suspect had hit on you, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“Nothin’? Dude, you gotta… I ain’t going to jail without gettin’ to feel some sweet lady cop ti-! Ow! The hell was that for?”

Tim scowled, hitting the suspect over the back of the head a second time for good measure (or something). “Get your eyes off Officer Y/l/n. You’re not fit to look at her.” He shoved the perp into your shop, rougher than was strictly necessary, and you couldn’t help the slight smile that crept onto your face.

“Really?” You asked, slipping into the shop’s passenger seat.

“What? You got a problem, boot?” Tim said, his voice flat. You just chuckled and shook your head.

“No problem, sir.”  

---

The silence in the shop was unbearable. It was almost lunch, and you’d scarcely said a word all day. You were preoccupied replaying your conversation with your parents from the night before over and over in your head, trying to figure out how them coming over for dinner had dissolved into fighting so quickly.

“You good, boot?” Tim asked after a particularly long stretch of quiet. “Usually I can’t get you to shut up, but you’ve barely said a word today.”

You nodded quickly, forcing yourself to focus. “I’m fine, sir. Sorry. Just tired. Besides, not personal talk in the shop, right?”

“When have you ever followed that rule? You sure you’re good, boot? Because if something’s going on that’ll affect your performance, I need to know.”

“Nothing’s going on. Sir.” You knew the words sounded thin, but what were you going to do? Complain about your parents?

Tim glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “Uh-huh. In that case, what colour was the Lexus we just passed?”

Shit. You hadn’t been paying attention to your surroundings, too lost in your own thoughts. “Uh… silver?”

Another side eye, this one harsher than the last. “There was no Lexus. It was a Camry. And for the record, boot, it was blue.”

“I…” You didn’t really have a defence.

“Seriously, kid. What is going on?”

“Nothing.” You said, and you had to admit, you sounded like a kid. “I just. Had my parents over last night, and it didn’t… go great.”

Instantly, Tim was on edge. He wasn’t proud of the reaction, of the way his stomach instinctively dropped. He knew, he knew, that his version of ‘it didn’t go great’ with family wasn’t the same as most people’s. But this was you. You who’d thrown up at your first DV call, even without any violence. You who’d completely shut down after being yelled at.

Which is why he couldn’t help the immediate questions if: “Are you hurt?”

You tensed. Why would he ask that? “No,” you replied, “I’m not hurt.” It was true, technically. You hadn’t been hit since you were fifteen. And even then, it’d been rare.

Tim’s eyes flicked over you, trying to find a lie. “What happened?” He asked, and his voice had a weird gentleness that made you feel... strange.

You swallowed. Shrugged. “My parents came over for dinner. I did something, I don’t really know what, ‘n pissed my father off.” Your explanation was purposeful vague, but you could help but add: “He broke my favourite mug, which really pissed me off. It’s my apartment, you know? He’s not supposed to be able to break my shit anymore.” A long pause, your father’s furious insults running through your head. “He didn’t like it when I told him that.”

Tim nodded slightly, knowing exactly what you were suggesting. “He insult you?”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before.” Despite your cool delivery, the words stung. You looked away, out the window, feeling tears prick at your eyes. You didn’t like talking about this, especially not with Tim. Just because you viewed him as... something, didn’t mean he thought of you ask anything more than a rookie he had to train. A burden.

“I’m sorry, kid.” Tim said, assessing you carefully. “I know what that feels like.”

“You do?” You looked at Tim, curious, and instantly regretted it. The tears welling in your eyes were all too obvious now.

“Yeah. My dad was like that too. I got slapped around my fair share.” Tim’s words were clipped. He clearly also wasn’t fond of talking about his childhood.

“Oh.” What else could you say?

“Listen, boot. I know it’s rough. And you don’t deserve it. But you’re not whatever he says you are, okay?”

You sniffled, hastily wiping your eyes. “Yeah. I know.”

Tim nodded tersely. “Good.” There was a small moment, where Tim placed a hand on your shoulder, and you felt like things might actually be okay. Like you might actually have someone. Then, “Come on, boot. We’ve got six hours of shift left. You gonna focus now?”

---

Tim kept an eye on you the rest of the day. He’d known there was a bit of him in you, but the parallels between your childhoods made his heart crack.

He could see the countless untold stories behind your eyes, ones he’d undoubtedly heard before. And the way you’d tensed when he asked if you were hurt... you hadn’t been hit last night, but you had been before.

He really had tried to not get attached.

And look. He knew you looked up to him. He’d seen the way you preened at praise, the shaky look over to him after making a decision, waiting for his nod of approval, regardless of how confident you were in the decision. He’d tried not to encourage it – limiting praise, refusing to approve your decisions unless you did first. It wasn’t good for a rookie to get that attached to their TO, not when they were only partners for a year. It was especially not good for them to view them as some sort of parental figure. More importantly, Tim Bradford didn’t get attached to his boots.

But goddammit it. The look in your eyes when he’d told you about his dad? It made him abandon all the principles he thought he held so strongly. He’d always wanted a kid, after all.

---

“Does anyone know what day it is today?” Sergeant Grey asked from the front of the roll call room.

You groaned internally. Of course he had to announce it to the whole it room.

A few rows behind you, Officer Chen perked up, grinning, you were sure, at Bradford.

“The day Officer Y/l/n takes her six month exam.” She said.

Cheers and whistles filled the room and you almost buried your head in your hands.

“Boot!” Tim called out. You turned to look at him. “I’ll take it as a personal insult if you don’t get more than a 93 on this exam.”

Great. Like you weren’t stressed enough about the exam already. “Yes, sir.”

As Grey tried to calm the room down, you swallowed, focusing on calming your breathing. You knew what you were doing. You just had to not disappoint Tim. Not forget everything. Not be a total fucking failure.

No pressure, right?

---

Three days later, and you were back in roll call. Grey had written three numbers on the white board. An 84. A 91. And a 95. Your stomach dropped at the sight of the 91 and the 84. Of course you’d failed. Of course. Why hadn’t you worked harder? You’d been a straight A student in high school, and university, why was this different?

“Can anyone guess which of these belongs to Officer Y/l/n?” Grey asked the room. Various answers were shouted out, most leaning towards the 95, until Grey cut them off and said: “The 91. Good work, Officer.”

You could only nod, your head already pounding. You’d failed. Not really, not truly, but enough. And Tim. What would he do?

You didn’t notice everyone leave the room. Didn’t notice Tim approach you, not until he was practically having to shout in your face.

“Boot? Boot! Y/l/n!” The sound of your name, paired with Tim waving a hand in your face, snapped you back to reality.

“Yes, sir?” Your voice had an almost unnoticeable tension to it. A shake. Please, please don’t be mad.

“Let’s go, boot. Why aren’t you getting the war bags?” Tim asked, completely ignoring your test results.

Completely ignoring your test results? What? Why wasn’t he yelling, reaming you out for disappointing him? He’d been very clear with his expectations and he’d never been one to let you down gently if you did something wrong.

“Sir?” You asked, confused.

“What is it, boot?” Tim asked, exasperated. You should’ve been on the road by now. Wait, where you okay...? Your eyes were wide. Almost afraid.

“Why aren’t you mad?”

“What? Why would I be mad-..? Oh.” Tim looked down at you, his face softening as he recalled what he’d said before your test. What you’d told him about your past. “About your test? No, kid, I’m not mad. I was screwing with you when I said you needed to get a 93. A 91 is an excellent result, boot “

“Oh.” You said quietly, looking away sheepishly. Of course he wasn’t mad. This was Tim.

Tim looked at you like you were an idiot, but somehow, you didn’t feel stupid or insulted. “Yeah, oh. You’re not a disappointment, kid. Not to me. Now hurry up and get the war bags sorted.” Tim clapped you on the shoulder as he sent you on your way, and you couldn’t help but think that this was what a father was supposed to be like.

---

“Red or black?” You asked Tim during one shift a month or so later. It was a random question, but you wanted his opinion.

Tim glanced at you. “As concepts, or…?”

“As dress colours.” You elaborated, before hesitantly adding, “I have a date.”

The shop skidded to a stop. “Woah, woah. You have a date? When? With who?” Tim was turning instantly, all his attention on you.

You bit back a laugh. “Tonight. With a boy. Jacob. And I don’t know what to wear.”

Tim frowned. “Where did you meet this ‘Jacob?’” He couldn’t help the protective instinct. The last time one of his rookies went on a date, she got kidnapped. And you weren’t Lucy (he wasn’t in love with you) but he did… care.

“At a bookshop. Calm your farm, Bradford. It’s one date. You really pulling the protective dad card right now?” You smirked, watching the slight red colour Tim’s face.

“I- no. I’m not pulling a card, boot. I’m just… curious.” Tim spluttered, not wanting to admit that he was definitely acting like a protective dad.

“Uh huh. He’s a good guy, Sarge. He’s funny, and sweet, and I actually like him.” You said, as if the concept of actually liking a guy was foreign. It had admittedly been a while since you went on a date. “So, red or black?” You repeated, crossing your arms. Your cheeks were the tiniest bit pink.

Tim glared from the corner of his eye. “Black.”

“Thank you.”

In signature Bradford fashion, Tim huffed and simply said, “For the record, I still don’t like this whole ‘date’ thing, boot.”

---

The date was a success. So much of a success, in fact, that three dates later, Jacob came to pick you up after work the next day. It was adorable, and he showed up with fresh flowers and a planned date, and it would’ve been perfect, if you hadn’t been leaving the station with Officer Bradford.

The same Bradford who’d been demanding more information about “this Jacob person” ever since you’d first mentioned a date.

So, while you were excited about the date, you weren’t thrilled at seeing Jacob stand in front of you, levelled by one of Tim’s many practiced glares.

“Who are you?” Tim asked, crossing his arms. He knew exactly who he was.

“I’m Jacob…?” Your boyfriend said hesitantly, trying to figure out why the man in front of him was staring at him so intimidatingly.

You winced and jumped in quickly. “Jake, this is Tim. My TO?”

Recognition clicked quickly in Jacob’s eyes.  He instantly stuck out a hand to Tim, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Uh huh.” Tim raked his eyes over Jacobs outstretched hand, but didn’t shake it. “You got a last name, Jacob?”

“Anderson.” Jacob supplied immediately, lips twitching faintly in amusement.

“What do you do, Anderson? If you say screenwriter, you’re going in a cell.”

Jacob chuckled. “I’m a teacher, sir.” Tim didn’t look impressed, but he didn’t look totally disgusted either. Which, to you, was a win.

“Is this the part where you tell me not to hurt Y/n?” Jacob asked with a barely contained grin.

Tim glowered. “Yes. In fact, consider this your one and only warning. Hurt her, and I’ll find a way to make you spend the rest of your life in a cell.” Tim crossed his arms over his chest, and God you were glad he’d never given you that look before.

Pitying your partner, you jumped in and placed yourself between the two most important men in your life. “Oookay, Bradford, chill. We’re going to go now. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay, sir?”

“Uh-huh. See you tomorrow, Boot.” Tim’s words came out tense, and he didn’t take his eyes off you until you were well out of the carpark.

---

The day had arrived. You’d officially been a police officer for an entire year. You weren’t a rookie anymore.

It was everything you’d dreamed of it being.

“Finally, congratulations to Officer Y/l/n for completing the FTO program and surviving her rookie year. Welcome, officially, to the team, Y/l/n.” Grey walked over to you, shaking your hand proudly. “Good work, kid.”

“Thank you, sir.” You beamed, returning the handshake. Grey dismissed the rest of roll call, and you walked out of the room. You could barely make it a few steps without someone grabbing you, hugging you or congratulating you in some way. You’d never been happier.

You reached the edge of the room and were met with Sergeant Bradford, a rare smile on his face.

“Congratulations, Y/l/n.” He said, reaching out a hand.

“Don’t even try.” You said, knocking his hand out of the way and pulling him into a hug. It was unprofessional, you knew, but you couldn’t help it. Aside from your boyfriend, Tim had managed to become one of the most important people in your life over the past year.

Tim froze for a moment, but gently returned the hug, patting your back a couple times. You thought you heard Harper snicker from across the room. You definitely heard Lucy say the word ‘Dadford.’ She wasn’t… entirely wrong. You had found a father in Tim. Maybe one day he’d even admit it – in actual words, not just actions. You still laughed every time you thought about his interrogation of Jacob when they’d first met.

You pulled back and only then did you shake Tim’s hand. “Thank you, sir. For everything.”

Tim nodded, the smile lines by his eyes crinkling. “You’re welcome… Y/n. I’m proud of you, kid.”

You smiled softly and forced yourself to only say, “Have a good shift… Tim,” before hurrying away. But as you got into your shop (your shop, for the first time), you didn’t stop a few happy tears from falling.

---

You were nervous. It was your second time riding with Tim since graduating the FTO program and you were nervous. It had nothing to do with riding with Tim, however, and everything to do with what you were going to ask him.

“Tim?” You asked, hesitant.

“Yeah, Y/l/n?”

“I have to tell you something.” You fiddled with your left hand nervously, already missing the weight on your finger.

Instantly, Tim was softening and frowning, “Are you okay, kid?”

“Yes! Yeah, I’m okay.” This time you actually meant it. “I have news, though.”

“Oh?” Tim turned to you for a second, before looking back at the road. “What is it?”

You swallowed, and then, “Jacob asked me to marry him. I said yes.”  

Tim had finally come around to Jacob a few months ago. Little did you know, but Jacob had actually asked Tim’s permission before proposing. You’d told him once about how you wished you had a father that you still spoke to, just for that reason. Jacob had known Tim was the next best thing.

Tim smiled widely, “Congratulations, Y/n. I’ll be expecting an invite to the wedding.”

“Actually, I wanted to ask you about that.” This was where the nervousness was coming in. You were pretty sure the butterflies in your stomach had reached your lungs too.

“What is it?” Tim tilted his head slightly.

“Will you walk me down the aisle?” Tim froze, shocked. You quickly rambled on, as you so often did when nervous, “You don’t have to, I just-.. I don’t talk to my bio dad, and you’re the closest thing I have to a father, and it would mean a lot to me, and-.”

“Relax, Y/l/n,” Tim cut you off with a smile. “I would be honoured to walk you down the aisle.”

The smile on your face then was the third biggest you’d ever smiled. The first had been when you’d graduated the FTO program, and the second when Jacob had proposed. But this… this was an entirely different feeling. This was the feeling of your whole life, finally working out. You had a career, a fiancé, and now, a father. A real one, who never insulted you or made you feel worthless.

What more could you ask for?

fin

!! DO NOT REPUBLISH OR FEED TO AI !!

[rockymountainqueen2]

Baby!Hunter angst courtesy of Darius.

hello late upload because it was my birthday last night and i was... celebrating accordingly. ahem. anyways. thank you @sergeantsporks for hosting dadrius week as always!!!!!