#she cared too much and i feel so had for admonishing her. like ill throw up or something

[horse-shit]

yknow sometimes it's kinda funny to say what the 'bare bones' of my maternal issues are

"oh did she hit you and punish you severely?" "no, she cared too much"

[usyrps]

A CORONATION IS ABLUTION, BESTOWED THE REALM IN THE EYES OF THE SEVEN. his mother's faith weighs on him as her presence does, and her voice comes instead of his own when he deems to speak. in soothe, he had not spoken much since the crown had been placed 'pon his brow, and the days had come and gone swiftly, lost in heeding his council members — when he opens his mouth, he wishes it were sunfyre's golden flame that would seep from betwixt his maw and burn down the keep, the city, the world. all that comes are the hoarse ramblings of a drunken king.

in the ill half-light of dying candles, amidst the king and queens chambers, this eve of blackest hue turns shades of red, deeper than the wine swirling in his cup. ❛ do they ever tire of their ambitions? ❜ the king rants into the air, more to himself than his wife, who surely has no shortage of her own desires. her house had waved his half-sister's banner in oath, yet she wears his ring. he does not begrudge her this, in his apathy, but his grandsire does. that, too, had been addressed at the meeting.

QUEEN BIANCA SAID, THE ODD THING ABOUT AMBITION IS THIS: YOU CAN ACQUIRE IT LIKE A FEVER, BUT IT IS NOT SO EASY TO SHED.

@zeitkeist speaks to him across the room, the shadow of her swaying on the wall and blurring with his own. THIS IS THE QUEEN IN CHAGRIN, IN CONTEMPLATION. she admonishes him. he knows, but does not care. for the better half of their marriage, he had not endured much of her company, nor she his own. when they had been privy to each other, it had been with their skins worn like armour, the formalities cold. gaze turns to his wife's irked figure, a brow arched in what might be gnarled amusement, wrought of frustration.

❛ i am not prone to sickness, ❜ aegon scoffs, throwing one leg over the other as he leans into the plush of the settee, ❛ even as a babe, fever never came for me. ❜ even as a child, his heart had been hollow, with none of his sister's whims nor his brother's vocation, only his own craven appetites. his council sees this, as does his hand, as does his wife. he cannot appease them with his silence, nor sway them with his words, and so he is bound to displease them all.

that his words keep spiralling is a testament to the fine constitution of the wine. that he manages to stand and stumble forth is testament only to his own tragedy. ❛ the blood of the dragon does not burn. ( arm wraps 'round the high frame of the bed, before he loses balance and clutches the edge of it to sit, ) are we not gods, above the caprice of men? ambition seems trifling now, that they've already crowned me, us. what have we left to do? ❜ he laughs, droplets of wine spilling upon the myrish rug, ❛ does the realm envisage me a god, i wonder— ❜

BIANCA GRIPS HIS JAW TO MAKE HIM LOOK HER IN THE EYE.

HER CLAWS SINK INTO HIS JAW WITH MORE KINDNESS THAN HE IS DUE. for a moment, in the haze, he imagines his mother's hand upon his cheek, and all he can feel is the sting of it. this is different. bianca demands of him his gaze, not his dignity. aegon think to snap at her, grasp her wrist, breathe his own fire — alas, she has right to seethe, for his frivolity. throat works to swallow, unshed tears sparkling with the violet of his eyes, ❛ i'm— i'm sorry. ❜ she knows this yet he confesses all the same, as though she might grant him penance. she wouldn't, and she does not. ❛ it evades me, the purpose of this. i've no wish to pursue their ambitions... ❜

[buckyownsmylife]

hold up - andy barber fluff

The one where Andy gets you pregnant but you’re young and haven’t been dating for long.

Warnings:  Age gap (Divorced!Andy w/ College!Reader, so she’s legal), pregnancy, light angst, supportive!Andy, mentions of abortion, fluff, mentions of smutty thoughts so I don’t think I advise minors to read this, AU! where Jacob is alive and in college and Laurie and Andy are divorced, minor medical scare from Andy’s confusion, miscommunication that leads to slightly asshole!Andy but it’s quick A/N: Special thanks to @navybrat817​ and @angrythingstarlight​ for helping me choose this collage. This fic was requested a while back. I ended up focusing more on the fact that the reader was younger than Andy (which wasn’t even part of the request) than on the fact that they hadn’t been dating for long, mostly because in my mind, this was happening in the same universe as this fic. Hope you guys like it and respect the reader’s decision to keep the baby the same way you should respect it if she decided to abort it or give it up for adoption. 

Andy’s P.O.V.

Another day, another case, another headache. Working in law gets more tiring every day, and yet I persisted. Even through a divorce and its subsequent complications, I persisted. Sometimes, I forgot why.

I missed the days I remembered why I got into law in the first place. Those idyllic mornings, when I still thought I could change the world. Now all I wanted to do was to get home and eat my girlfriend’s pussy until she passed out from pleasure.

Just the thought of her sweet cunt had me licking my lips as I drove back to my place, wishing I could stop by hers instead. It still weirded me out that I was now in a relationship with someone that was my son’s age, someone who was still in college, but then I remembered all the moments we shared and was overcome with the realization that I simply didn’t want to let her go.

I knew it was selfish of me, but I believed I deserved at least this good thing in my life after my separation. As long as she wanted me, I wouldn’t let her go. And I was pretty sure that if she decided to leave me, I’d still fight for her to stay.

I loved her. I loved her enough to get through the hazard that was coming clean about our relationship to Jacob. I loved her enough to dream about a future together, even if it looked too far away for now. 

Still, I’d caught myself daydreaming about coming home to her more and more these days. It seemed that the more exhausted I was, the more I wanted her to be waiting for me when I crossed the apartment’s door, and I found myself thinking about buying a ring too many times for someone who had gone through such a lousy divorce and was dating a girl who still had college exams to worry about.

I knew our future together - if there even was one - was still too far, but I couldn’t help but want it now. Like, right now. So the fact that I wouldn’t be able to see her for another week or so while she prepared for finals was the closest thing to hell I could go through right now.

Which only made the sight of her by my apartment’s door that much sweeter. “Baby girl, what are you doing here?” Not even giving her the chance to explain, I pulled her into a needy kiss, desperate to taste her again.

I didn’t even notice that, in my eagerness to have her in my arms once more, I had dropped my briefcase and coat on the floor, opting to pay attention to the girl I held in the middle of the hallway.

I only saw the tracks of tears in her beautiful face when I released her, too. Immediately, my heart started to pound against my chest. Could something bad have happened to her? Was she hurt?

Cradling her face in my hands, I automatically started to wipe away her tears. “What’s going on, sweetheart? Why are you crying?” For whatever reason, my words only served to cause her crying to become more frantic, her sobs breaking out of her chest freely now.

My heart felt heavy at the sight of her that desperate. The urgent need to do something, to help her, but not knowing what could be done made my throat feel like it was closing. So I did the first thing I could come up with - I picked her up, not caring about my personal belongings at all as I managed to open the door and take her to the couch with me. 

“Shh… It’s alright, baby girl. I’m right here with you. Just tell me what happened, I’m sure I can help you somehow.” Again, it seemed like it was the wrong thing to say. My words took her to the verge of a panic attack if her breathing pattern was anything to go by, so I bit my tongue and focused on what I knew I could do at that very moment to help her, even if it was very little. I pulled her even closer to me, so her head was resting on my chest, and softly cradled her while rubbing her arm with one hand, while the other played with her hair. “I love you,” I repeated, over and over again. “You’re okay.”

It took some time, much longer than I hoped for, but at last her sobs started to come in bigger intervals, her breathing becoming deeper again. Slowly, she started to calm down and focus on me, and I waited until she was ready to speak, terrified of making her start crying again by pushing her to share what had caused such a terror.

“I went to the doctor today,” she started, and if at first my mind drew a blank because I had in no way anticipated this to be the start of her explanation, my heart quickly started to pound against my chest when I managed to process what she had said. 

Was she sick? I knew she had been feeling a bit under the weather recently, even throwing up some mornings, but I thought it was a bug that had been going around. She was in college, after all, and those environments were filled with bacteria, just waiting to spread any sort of illness they could provoke.

Was it something serious? For her to be that way, it had to have been. My hands started to sweat at the prospect of losing her. Automatically, I held her tighter, in desperate need to hear more but terrified of what was coming our way.

But she didn’t seem able to say it, whatever it was. Her eyes that had finally connected to mine since she started crying, suddenly fell down to her own hands, and her sniffles warned me that she had started to cry again.

“Y/N…” I begged, covering her hands with mine. “Princess, please, please talk to me. I’m going crazy here, sweetheart. I feel like I might pass out any second now.” Surprisingly, that granted me a giggle, and then, through sniffles and tears, she finally looked up at me again.

Y/N’s P.O.V.

I didn’t know how to drop this bomb on Andy. How do you tell your much older boyfriend, who already has a child who’s your exact age, that you’re pregnant with his kid? I was terrified. Terrified that he wouldn’t want anything to do with me anymore, that he would try to force me to get an abortion.

Terrified that I would have to do this alone.

But I had to tell him. Of course, I had. So taking one last deep breath, I squeezed the hand that was holding mine before confessing, in the bluntest possible way, since it was the only one I could come up with right now, “I’m pregnant.”

I don’t know what I was expecting. I hadn’t actually had the time to figure out how to tell him the news - hence my blurting in the simplest possible way - but that also meant I hadn’t really imagined any outcome for this. I had a lot of fears, of course, but no actual expectation. Still, Andy’s reaction managed to catch me by surprise.

At first, there was nothing at all. He just sat there, his huge hands still covering mine as he stared at me with a blank expression in his face. My heart pounded in my chest, and I could even hear it, amidst the silence in the room. Then, out of nowhere, he pounced on me, effectively knocking me back on the couch when he captured my lips with his. 

I couldn’t catch my breath as he enthusiastically devoured me, his hands cradling my face and caging me in as he forced me to make out with him on his sofa, like two teenagers after school. Andy was such a great kisser that it was hard for me not to melt against the soft cushions, instinctively opening my legs further so he could fit perfectly between them.

The way his strong body made me feel when it was covering mine was precisely what had got us in this mess, in the first place.

“Andy…” I tried to speak and push him away, but he was still kissing me desperately, opting for quick pecks around my face since I didn’t let him deepen his kiss again. “Andy!” I admonished when he continued to ignore me, choosing to suck tiny little bruises from my jaw down to my neck, instead. 

“Baby, I’m terrified over here. Can you please stop trying to distract me and tell me what you’re thinking?” That caught his attention. He finally reduced his kisses, slowly going back to his seating position on the couch and bringing me with him, laying me over his lap again.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. It’s just… I’m so fucking relieved. First, I thought you’d break up with me. Then, since you talked about going to the doctor’s, I thought something was wrong with you. I was desperate, baby girl. Desperate. I figured, one way or another, I was going to lose you. And I don’t want to lose you.”

Hearing what was going on through his mind while I struggled to figure out how to explain what was happening made my heart feel heavy with guilt. I guess that, in the state I was in I kind of thought he would have realized what I was going to say, or simply not anticipate any sort of information whatsoever, so to hear that his mind jumped to these worst-case scenarios was heartbreaking to me.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” I assured him, reaching out for his hand and squeezing it in a small show of support. “I’m right here. But we need to figure out how we’re going to do this.” Andy blinked a few times before managing to voice his confusion.

“Do this what?” And then it was my turn to be confused.

“This… kid. What are we gonna do about this?” I watched as his nostrils flared, his grip on me momentaneously hardening, before he managed to get his emotions in check through a long exhale.

“You’re not seriously considering aborting my child, right?” The question - the tone - was like a slap to the face. In all honesty, that option had never even crossed my mind, but the way he was saying it, like I had no say in the matter, killed me inside.

“I’m gonna give you the time to figure out what the hell is wrong with you. I know that this is a pretty overwhelming situation and I just sprung this on you, but that is no excuse to address me in such a manner. Especially if you consider just how much I’m the one who’s really going to have my entire life turned upside down because of this.”

Andy’s P.O.V.

I groaned as I watched her leave the room in the direction of the bathroom, knowing this was her way of letting me know I shouldn’t look for her until I was prepared to apologize. But I was already ready. I knew how terrible my words had sounded, but it came from a place of love and happiness with the situation other than possessiveness. 

So, with that in mind, I rubbed my face before getting up and following her, just in time to find her reentering my bedroom. “I’m sorry, princess. I-I just didn’t know how to react when the thought of you getting an abortion popped into my mind. It’s not like you’re a fucking one night stand or a fling to me, but you’re absolutely right. It’s your body and you should do what makes you comfortable. I just ask you to keep in mind that I would love to have this child with you. I’d support you - I’d support the both of you unconditionally. I know we’ve only been dating for a few months, but I’m serious about you. I’m serious about us. I’d marry you tomorrow if it’s what you need to know how serious I really am about this. And yeah, it’s gonna be hard, but I’m here for you. I’m always gonna be here for you, every step of the way.”

By the time I was done with my speech, she had tears in her eyes again, only this time, I knew what it was about, so I only chuckled. “Come here, sweetheart.” I pulled her to me, hugging her close to my body as I caressed the back of her head. “We’re gonna be okay, one way or another.”

“You sure you’re not just gonna abandon me with a small child?” I knew that her question came from a place of insecurity, but I still couldn’t control myself as a growl escaped my chest, my hands tightening around her, as I reminded her, “You’re mine, baby girl. I’m never gonna leave you. Don’t even think that.”

Slowly, she stopped crying, until only a few sniffles were heard every once in a while. “Okay,” she mumbled in a small voice, clearing the bedroom from what was once a silent atmosphere.

“Okay?”

“Okay, let’s do this. Let’s… Let’s have a baby together.”

A huge smile slowly took over my face as I cradled hers in mine to make sure there was no trace of hesitation in her eyes. “We’re gonna be parents?”

“We’re gonna be parents,” she confirmed, accepting my hug again. “Well, you’re already a parent.” The reminder had me chuckling to myself.

“I can’t wait to tell Jacob about this. He’s going to flip.” The mischievous tone in my voice earned me a playful slap on the shoulder. 

“No teasing him more than necessary, Andrew. He’s already going to be pretty affected by this.”

“Can’t make any promises.”

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

Ruathym, part Three

Rating: NSFW Length: 2272 Pairing: Male Drider x GN Reader

The finale for the romance for @kim-monsterlings!

xxx

Much to your surprise, Ruathym gives you space. There are fewer summons and the spies make themselves ever scarcer, until you could swear there were long stretches of time in which you were truly alone. Even more surprising, you found yourself becoming restless and ill-tempered in these moments, losing your patience with even Tinki. (Of course, you make it up to the little, well-meaning creature; spiders, you learn, are surprisingly good at puppy-dog eyes.)

“You’ve been snapping at the staff left and right,” Ruathym says with no small amount of amusement some days later, braiding your hair down your scalp. It’s gotten longer, you realise, and you contemplate cutting it before your captor speaks. “Have I displeased you in some way?”

Yes, you wish to say, but you’re sure that the King has done nothing wrong. Not truly. “No,” you say instead, though it sounds unconvincing to your own ears.

“Hm,” hums Ruathym, tugging gently at your hair in admonishment. “With the way you’ve been acting, one might get the impression that you dislike being far from my side.” You twitch and he laughs, triumphant. “Is that it, my little bug? Have you come to crave the pull of my silk?”

“I wish you wouldn’t mock me,” you grouse, sighing heavily. “It reminds me why I prefer my own company.”

Ruathym chuckles, fingertips skating along the skin of your back before he picks you up and cradles you against him in his four arms. “I thought humans needed time to mourn their losses,” he says, searching your face with something sharper in his eyes than his usual derision. “I’m no reader of minds, my sweet. You must tell me if you have want of me.”

You scoff. You can’t help it. When has being vulnerable ever served you well? You almost bite his fingers when he turns your face to look into your eyes, sighing once again in your defeat. “And if I do?” you challenge, lifting your proud chin. “What of it?”

“Then you shall become my consort,” says Ruathym, with a simple frankness that flabbergasts you.

“Your—what?” you gasp, distantly aware that your lips are flapping like a fish on the docks.

“Do try not to make me repeat myself,” Ruathym replies in exasperation, pinching your chin. “My consort. My lover. Whatever you humans call those of our stations in courtship.”

“But I’m human!” you splutter, struggling to sit up straighter in his arms.

“I’m aware,” drawls Ruathym, helping you get your bearings—at least physically. “Did you think I was sleeping with you because you disgusted me?”

“I…” You don’t have the words. You don’t know what you thought, but it definitely wasn’t this. “You think I’m attractive?”

“What did I just say about making me repeat myself?”

You huff, scowling up into his handsome, angular face. “You wouldn’t be. I want answers, not riddles.”

Ruathym snorts indelicately, one of his few habits that doesn’t come with some modicum of damnable grace. “Yes, I find you attractive. No one else has the audacity to speak to me the way that you do. I find it thrilling.”

“You mean you like it when I’m cruel.” You frown. “That’s not what I’m after. I don’t want to be cruel to my lover. If you want to court me, you do it right.”

Ruathym carefully sets you down on the bed, curling his legs up under himself and draping his humanoid torso across plump, velvety pillows. “Teach me what humans do ‘right’, then,” he commands, gesturing for you to speak.

You flounder for a moment; this was not how you expected your evening to go. “We… We court,” you say dumbly, gesticulating helplessly. “We exchange gifts of trinkets and flowers, we write one another letters, we—well, usually there’s pining involved, I suppose.”

“How dull,” sighs the King, watching you beneath his thick, silvery lashes. “Driders kill for their lovers.”

The weight of his words isn’t lost on you. You think of your brother and his knights—of the entirety of the kingdom laid to waste at your feet. You feel lightheaded, blood creeping up your neck and up into your face. You have to resist the urge to hide from the slow, smug smirk of satisfaction that melts onto the Drider King’s face. Damn the man. Had he been courting you in his own way this entire time? Damn him!

“What about the Queen?” you ask, hedging around the obvious revelation and latching onto one of your more prominent doubts.

Ruathym blinks hard, clearly startled. “What about her?”

“You’re married,” you say, “and she hates me. Won’t she want me dead once she realises her lover’s attention has strayed?”

The King laughs, hard and loud, throwing his head back with his mirth and revealing his fangs. “She’s never loved me a day in her life,” he manages to gurgle after several seconds of laughter, “and the feeling is mutual. We married for politics and to spawn strong children. That’s all. If she so much as schemes to harm a hair on your head, I will kill her or die trying.”

“Ruathym!”

“What? Does it shock you? I protect what is mine, little bug, and you are what I wish to possess in your entirety.”

You bristle at this, though you curse your stupid heart for fluttering in your chest like a tizzied moth. “I’m not a thing, Ruathym. You can’t possess me. Either you love me, or our arrangement remains the same.”

Ruathym shrugs an elegant shoulder, expression shifting into something bordering on thoughtful. “What is love to a human may not be love to a drider, little one. I want you, more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. Is that not love? I would kill you before I allowed you to court another. Is that not love? I would lay down my life to protect you. Is that not love, this powerful, ugly thing?”

You don’t know what to say to this. You want to object, but your heart is pounding too loudly, your thoughts are too muddled. Never has someone felt so strongly about you, and while your feelings are conflicted, you can’t deny that there’s something intoxicating about the King and his firm command of you in and out of the bedchambers.

Courtship with Ruathym is… interesting. He sends you poisonous flowers at first for their beauty, unaware that their very touch could kill you. When you correct him, he expresses his disdain for human frailty, but then he sends for roses and takes the care to have their thorns removed so as to avoid any chance of injury. It’s excessive and obnoxious, but it’s endearing in its own way, even if you’ve never been particularly fond of roses. Still, each bouquet is a different colour paired with different complimentary flowers, and you begin to look forward to your weekly deliveries with something like anticipation.

Then there are the letters.

As expected, Ruathym’s lettering is swooping and elegant, more reminiscent of ornamental calligraphy than what one would use for writing to a lover. Still, each letter holds within it a terribly sweet awkwardness that lets you know that he’s never written a letter out of love in the whole of his life. He’s strangely formal at first, addressing you by all of your names in the greetings of his first few letters, but it isn’t long before he’s dropping them all in favour of addressing you as he does in person. It makes your heart flutter oddly in your chest to see ‘little bug’ written in such beautiful, glittering script, shimmering silver on charcoal grey parchment.

Soon, they become less letters and more little notes delivered on scraps here and there. Tiny doodles of advisors dying terrible deaths done in the throes of boredom, or tidbits of trivia from the kingdom at large. Did you know we had 5,363 cattle in the region of the L’Surba Caverns? Neither did I know nor care, one says, and you snort into your tea at the thought of the King sitting proudly while some poor sod with an abacus counted out their livestock from the sum of several reports. While you missed the weight of your crown, you did not exactly miss all of the bureaucracy attached to it.

He takes you on little outings, here and there. At first it’s a simple stroll through the gardens, sharing meals and speaking about your days. Then, as you both grow bolder, outings to meet—or, in his case, intimidate—the people. Finally, with glamours and enchantments, you take to the countryside for days at a time, disguised as a couple or adventurers on a quest. It’s during these outings that you get to know him best, away from the bustle of the castle, where his impetuous charm and rakish smiles lure you to him like a moth to flame, and you crash and burn in his heated embrace.

One evening many months later, you are summoned to a part of the palace that you rarely frequent, for it is usually crawling with servants and vassals of every kind. Now, however, the halls are quiet and still, and the servant who leads you to the chamber where Ruathym awaits disappears like a whisper in the dark. There, in the centre of the room, is a set of robes unlike any you’ve ever seen, woven in shimmering silk dyed the colour of rubies. You approach as if in a dream, running your fingers along embroidery in the shape of tiny silver spiderlings along the shoulders and hems—you nearly jump out of your skin when the King drapes himself across your back.

“What is this?” you whisper, looking over your shoulder at his soft, searching face.

“Your wedding attire,” he says, and he seems unperturbed when you draw away, stunned.

“My what? Your wife!”

“Is dead,” Ruathym simply replies, shaking his head at your unasked question. “We had a clutch of eggs. She went the natural way. The children feed on her yet.”

You grimace at this, though you can’t deny the relief you feel at her passing. “You’re a father now?”

“I am. You will also be their parent, when we wed.”

“‘When’? You’re assuming I’ll accept!”

“Would you deny me?” he asks sharply, eyes narrowing into gleaming slits.

Your stomach flips. “Well,” you say, flustered and at a loss. “This is all so sudden, Ruathym!”

“Is it really?” he asks, reeling you in against him again. “We’ve posed as newlyweds before. Why is it so different now?”

“Because it’s real now! We wouldn’t be pretending!”

“Who says that I was pretending before?” he demands, trapping you between his body and the robe on the mannequin. “It was practise.”

You feel your face burning, and you’re sure you might blend into the robe at your back if given just a little more provocation. “You despicable little—“

“Yes, yes, call me names,” he says, waving away your insults. “Later. Give me your answer now.”

“You know my answer,” you grumble, pushing ineffectively at his chest.

“I know it,” he confirms, smugness in every syllable. “I wish to hear it.”

You kiss him instead, drawing him into a passionate embrace and climbing up into his arms when he lifts you off your feet. You hadn’t seen the bed in the corner of the room, but that’s where he takes you a moment later, tossing your “irritating human clothing” over the edge of it and onto the floor. You expect him to bend you over the pillows. You expect him to claw at your skin, to bite at your shoulders, to whisper filth into your ears.

He kisses you instead.

He kisses you like neither of you have ever borne a crown—as if he could find the answers in the hazing of your eyes when he steals your breath with his tongue, hands in your hair and burning along your spine. He teases you open with his fingers until you’re reduced to begging for release, and then he presses into you with soft, shuddering breaths spilling from his lips, eyes on your face as you toss your head back into the sheets and writhe.

He sighs your name like a psalm when you come around him, and then he pushes into you again and again, his cool fingers threading between yours and holding you firmly against the bed as you shake apart beneath him. You feel something in your chest unbreak when he bites you without fang, staying present for every moment that his lips brush against yours and your name falls into the pool of heat between you.

This time, when he comes, he shatters like a shower of glass and sparks, cresting against you like a wave and pushing you over the edge all over again, throat trapped desperately—willingly—between his teeth. When your eyes focus again, you find him looking down at you with a tenderness you’d never thought him capable of, and it makes you want to hide. “What?” you whisper up at him, trying and failing to tug a bit of the sheets over your body.

“I love you, little bug,” Ruathym whispers back, tracing your lips with his thumb. “I have done and will do so until this heart in my chest stops beating.”

“That’s so dark,” you say, “for a declaration of love.”

“It is my declaration, and I am not a man of light. Would you deny me?”

“No,” you breathe, shyly reaching up to touch his face. “I love you, too.”

Ruathym smiles, and despite his words, it lights up the room. “I know.”

You snort. “Bastard.”

“I know that, too.”

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Reminiscing // Elijah Mikaelson

Summary: In a rare moment of peace, you find yourself thinking back over the centuries shared with the one you love.

A/N: I AM A FOOL FOR ELIJAH MIKAELSON. My taglist is open for The Originals - if you would like to be added, let me know!!

Warnings: fluff, history, established relationship, vampires, mentions of blood and death, mourning and grief, female pronouns, use of ‘wife’, dialogue heavy.

Word count: 1.8k

The house was quiet.

A rare occurrence in the Mikaelson household, but for first time in the months, the house was quiet. There was so furious shouting from Klaus, there was no attempts at mediation from Elijah. It was all quiet, and it was all peaceful.

When such a thing happened, it was very much the time to take hold of the rarity with both hands, gripping onto it for dear life in the hopes that the peace and quiet does not end too soon.

You sit in the library; finally put back together after one of Klaus’ anger fits. The books line the shelves in the correct order; a painstaking task you had completed after Klaus had apologised to you, knowing how much you cared for the almanacs and folios hidden away in the priceless Mikaelson collection.

The chair you had chosen to sit in was one that had come with you from the continent when the family had first settled in New Orleans. You had found it at a markets, immediately buying it and having it brought home with you that very day. Elijah had said nothing, indulging you with a roll of his eyes and a kiss to your lips. He very rarely argued with you, knowing that more often than not, you would have been right to make such a purchase.

The photo album remains open on your lap as you stare down at the images stuck to the pages. Time had aged the album; the pages becoming worn at the corners and browning further with each passing year.

This was the first album you had picked up; knowing it had the most pictures of the family in it. In particular, this album was home to perhaps your favourite photograph of yourself and Elijah. It had been taken spontaneously; unaware that a photographer even stood close by. Your bodies are angled towards each other as if each other’s true north. Elijah’s expression is soft as he glances down at you; the beginnings of a smile poking at the corners of his mouth as he readies himself to laugh at whatever you might have been saying in that moment. His hand rests delicately on your waist as your face is turned upwards; your eyes shining brightly as your hands gesture wildly, punctuating your story.

Footsteps sounding bring you out of your reminiscing. Instead, you greet the subject of the photo, smiling widely at your husband as he enters the library, adjusting the cufflinks on his tailored shirt.

“I knew I would find you here,” Elijah comments, a hand brushing over your shoulder and the back of your neck as he walks past you.

“I’m making sure Klaus doesn’t take out his anger on anymore of the family collection.”

Elijah chuckles, “I don’t think that will happen again. He’s too scared of your reaction.”

“As he should be,” You declare, puffin out your chest proudly at the fact that the hybrid would be too scared to even touch the precious books and histories housed in this very room.

“The Great War?” Elijah asks, pointing to the album in your lap, not expecting an answer. He reaches for the photo album, beginning to flick through the pages as he wanders around the room. “My dear, whatever brought this on?”

“It’s been so peaceful recently. I wanted to take a moment to remember.”

“To remember?”

“Our past, my love. We have been together for over a thousand years, married for just short of that. I wanted to remember the peace.”

Elijah doesn’t answer. He simply watches you, watches the emotions flit over your face as you communicate your feelings. The last few months haven’t been easy on anyone in the Mikaelson family; the permanent target on your backs making it hard to live everyday life. Klaus continuing to make enemies left, right and centre didn’t help the matter either.

A thousand years. A thousand years he has loved you; has never loved anyone but you. His life prior to being a vampire flashes before him; a strong man, destined for great and noble things and completely in love with you – kind and caring. The relationship happened quickly, but the both of you knew that your eternities were intertwined. The curse put on him by his mother perhaps made him more selfish of all; turning you to ensure your eternities would always remain intertwined.

“Why the Great War?” He finally asks after a moment of silence.

“It was the first time we got our hands on a camera. We had seen them before, in France, but this was the first time we had owned one.”

“Rebekah loved it. She was forever posing in some ostentatious dress.”

You chuckle, your body warming at the obvious fondness in Elijah’s voice. He would berate her fashion sense, but he would never speak ill of his beloved little sister.

“Do you remember the summer we spent in England? It had to have been 1812 or 1813?”

“And you let Rebekah promenade for the season?” You start to giggle, “She had so many suitors! I have never seen Klaus so mad!”

“It wasn’t just Niklaus,” Elijah recalls, “I had so many angry missives from mothers who wanted to marry their daughters off that season but couldn’t because of Rebekah.”

You snort, remembering the empire waists of those months spent in London. The weather had been particularly wonderful that year; the sun continuing to shine for days on end. More time had been dedicated to walks in the park than they had been to being cooped up inside. Whilst the fashion of the time could be debatable, the company of your husband was very much desired.

“You were the diamond of that season, my love,” Elijah comments, bringing you back to the present.

You roll your eyes at the love of your eternal life, “You have to say that. I’m your wife.”

“What would you have me say?” Elijah asks, eyes bright with happiness, “As I recall Lady Earnshaw was particularly handsome that year too.”

“Lady Earnshaw!” You gasp.

“She loved me,” Elijah defends, holding a hand to his chest as if wounded by your words.

“Of course she did! You flirted with her every chance you got.”

“Jealous, my love?”

“Never,” You snort, remembering the aged face of the stubborn matriarch, “Lady Earnshaw was a day over eighty if I ever remember her.”

Silence descends over the both of you; memories of a past once thought long forgotten now washing over you. There was much to think of when one has lived for over a thousand years. The first few months after your transition were blurry; the pangs of hunger making your thirst practically insatiable – unable to think of anything but feeding. Yet, as you aged and found your place in society on Elijah’s arm and in his heart, your memories become refined – punctuated with moments of joy and pangs of heartbreak.

It had not been an easy existence. Family’s often fallout and Klaus had no qualms about punishing his siblings. However, in and amongst those dreaded recollections were rare moments of peace. Moments that were sought after and savoured; relished by every member of the Mikaelson family.

“Do you remember the sixteenth century?” You ask, mind faraway in the past.

Tudor England had been where you were happiest. You loved New Orleans, adored the culture and the people that came along with it, but Tudor England had its charms as well. For the millennia that you had been walking the earth, you had always found home in Elijah, knowing that he would be with you for an eternity and more. Yet, Tudor England had a hold on you. Having to leave the court of Henry and not return until Elizabeth had been crowned; it had been the longest decade of your immortal life.

“How could I forget?” Elijah laughs, “You have our miniatures in your bedside table.”

“Nicholas Hilliard was a dear friend,” You admonish thinking of the artist with great fondness.

“Queen Elizabeth I was never my biggest fan, was she?”

“You did take her sugared violets away from her,” You remind him, a smile in your voice as you remember the anger in the monarch’s voice once she realised who had in fact stolen her precious sweets.

“Her teeth had rotted away completely!” Elijah protests, throwing his arms wide as he defends his actions from centuries ago.

“So what would more sugar do? She had already lost her teeth, love. As I recall, her breath wasn’t all too pleasant.”

Elijah grins, remembering your pinched expression every time the monarch sought your attention, “You were her favourite.”

You shrug effortlessly, lifting a single shoulder. “I can’t help that she had good taste.”

“You wound me, love,” Elijah moans, smiling widely. His playful side came out rarely, but when it did, it was a treat for those nearby.

“You also refused to call her Elizabeth,” You continue, ignoring Elijah’s noise of protest, “You would call her ‘Betty’.”

“She didn’t mind the name when I was in her father’s court. I still argue to this day that I didn’t deserve her shoe being thrown in my face when I let her nickname slip out of fondness.” Elijah argues, crossing his arms as he thinks back to the small redheaded child he had first encountered almost five hundred years ago.

“She wasn’t the Queen then, darling. She was five years old and in need of a mother.”

“You were wonderful as her closest confidant. She thought of you as her mother.” Elijah comments quietly; his mind still on the small child of five – bright red hair combined with a wide smile. Elizabeth had become attached to both you and Elijah; finding adoptive parents in both of you when you showed her the smallest of attentions. It was hard to say no to such a child.

“It broke my heart to leave her,” You reply, your non-beating heart lurching at the memory of not only the tearful teenager, beginning to question why you hadn’t aged, but also of the weary monarch. Elizabeth had been very ill at the end, and you had refused to leave her. Ignoring the wishes of your husband and your family, staying with her until the end.

“I know it did,” Elijah murmurs, his hand seeking yours as he sits down next to you. “You were solemn for months, nothing I did could bring you round.”

“I had to mourn, Elijah.”

Elijah brings your hand to his lips where he kisses the back of it before kissing your knuckles. He keeps your hand close to his mouth as he whispers, “I know.”

You sigh, “It has been a life of mourning, hasn’t it? Time passes and yet I remember every death.”

“You’re not alone, my love.”

You turn to him, a soft smile gracing your lips. “I know. I have you for it all, don’t I?”

“Always and forever,” Elijah quotes, pressing your hand to his chest, holding it above the heart that would never again beat but continues to love you just as fiercely as it had when it beat its familiar rhythm.

[chaoticpuff17]

A Dangerous Game

part 8

Masterlist

She was only unconscious for a few minutes at most, but the way that Namjoon reacted to it would have made anyone think that she’d been in another car crash. He’d very swiftly scooped her up from the floor and deposited her on the bed propping her up against the pillows and giving her a stern command not to move while he went to inform Miss In of the incident. Given the fact that her head was still swimming, she didn’t argue choosing instead to remain lying on the mattress willing the nausea to go away and the room to stop spinning.

When Namjoon returned a few moments later, he took the liberty of planting himself right next to her at the head of the bed.

“Could you move?” She glared weakly at him from her position propped on the pillows, but her only response was an unamused stare and an arm being thrown over her shoulder to pull her into his side. She felt too ill to really put up more of a protest.

“The doctor will be here soon.” He spoke after a few moments of silence. “His orders are to keep you in bed until he arrives.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.” She huffed groaning as she tried to shift away from him.

The man sighed tucking her back into his side. “Lay still. You’ve already fainted once today. I warned you that all of this upset wasn’t good for you.” She seemed to deflate at that. Of course he had to be right. It was the cherry on top of everything that had happened today. “I know that today has been hard on you, but you need to rest.”

“Today wouldn’t be so hard if you had just let me leave. I could have been home by now.”

He chuckled looking down at her fondly. “How could I let you leave? The game isn’t finished yet, jagi.”

“Is this all a game to you? Is my life a game?” she demanded pushing herself up against the pillows to glare at him.

“Rest, jagi.” He sighed leaning against the pillows with a sigh. “You can fight all you want after you’re better.”

A knock on the door pulled both of their attention. “Enter!” Namjoon called allowing a man she could only assume was the doctor he had called for to enter the room. And she had to do a double take. Were all the men who worked under him secretly super models? The man who entered was perhaps one of the most handsome men she had ever seen in her life.

“Namjoon!” The doctor greeted with a bright smile. The informality of the greeting surprised her. No one else had referred to RM by his name, even more odd was that Namjoon allowed it.

“Seokjin.” He greeted though without the same warm smile. “I expected you earlier.” There was an admonishment behind those words though it didn’t seem to faze the doctor.

“I was dealing with Jungkook. Kid got all bruised up during a job.” The man shrugged. “He’ll be fine. Kid’s built like a tank.”

“Is this the patient?” He asked moving over to the bedside medical bag in tow. “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting the lady yet, well not while she’s been conscious. I’m Kim Seokjin, the doctor for the knuckleheads that hang out around here, but pretty ladies get to call me Jin.” He flirted winking at her. “How’s that head feeling?” He asked her shooing Namjoon off the bed so that he could have better access to her.

She stared at the man sizing him up.  He looked kind enough, but looks could be deceiving in this world. If she had met him before her life had gone to hell, she would have assumed that he was nothing more than a kind doctor, but she knew better. If he willingly worked for Namjoon, if he was a friend of Namjoon, he couldn’t be as innocent as he seemed.

“It hurts.” She finally answered.

“I bet it does.” He hummed bringing out a thermometer to test her temperature. “I heard you took a fall. Can you tell me what happened?” The man seemed completely at ease even with Namjoon hovering over his shoulder.

“I stood up. I got dizzy…”

“She’s been agitated all day.” Namjoon interrupted crossing his arms over his chest. “She vomited once after she woke up, tried to jump out a window, and fainted after she stood up.”

The doctor hummed noncommittedly, but kept his focus on her as if waiting for her to answer for herself.

“I’m fine.”

“Y/N.” Her captor scolded.

“I’m fine.” She snapped back sick of the coddling, sick of Namjoon.

“He is right, Y/N.” Seokjin frowned bringing a flashlight up to her face. “Can you look right at my nose please? That’s great. Can you follow my finger without moving your head? Good, good. You took a rather hard hit to the head, Y/N. You’ve got a bit of a concussion. Normally I would do a CT to confirm, but I don’t think, Joonie will let us do that today.” He loudly whispered to her in a dramatically conspiratorial way.

“Hyung!”

“Joonie?” She snorted holding back a laugh. RM one of the biggest crime bosses in Asia was being called Joonie by his hyung. It was surreal.

“Let’s take a look at that cut shall we?”

“Go for it.”

The doctor lifted up the bandage apologizing as she winced as the adhesive pulled. “Well that doesn’t look good.” He cooed taking note of the raw itchy skin under the bandage along with the cut that he had stitched up.

“I’m allergic to medical adhesives.” She murmured keeping her eyes on the bed spread.

“What?” Namjoon seemed to perk up at that information. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

The look she leveled him with bordered on disbelieving. “I’m sorry if that slipped my mind during the whole kidnapping thing.” She huffed before turning a far gentler eye to the doctor who was looking over the wound with concern. “I found out a long time ago. It’s fine. It’ll itch and blister a bit, but it won’t do any long term damage. How’s the cut, doc?”

“Well, it’s not pretty, but the stitches are fine. It should heal up nicely. I’m going to clean it and then put a fresh bandage on alright?” She nodded her understanding allowing the doctor to do what he needed to do and wincing at the feeling of the antiseptic. “I’m going to send over some ointment for the blisters okay?”

“Thank you.” She murmured. She may have hated Namjoon, but the doctor was nice enough. She had no reason to be rude to him.

“Let’s take a look at those bruises okay? Can you sit up for me?” She nodded again allowing the doctor to help her sit up. “Namjoon, can you step outside for a moment?”

“No.”

Jin sighed turning towards the other man in annoyance. “I need to check on her bruising. If you hadn’t hit her with a car I wouldn’t need to. Now, give the poor woman some privacy. You can come back in after I’m done.” Namjoon didn’t move. “I’m not going to let her jump out a window, Joon.” Still no movement. The poor doctor looked like he was about to punch the crime lord or at the very least slap him upside the head.

“You hit her with a car. You bruised her up. Now I’m going to have to partially undress her to check on the bruising, and the least you can do is give her some privacy.” No movement. “I’ll call you in after I’m done. Go.” He ordered.

Finally Namjoon moved giving them both a wary look but following the doctor’s instructions and leaving the room. Jin didn’t make a move to do anything until the door had firmly closed behind Namjoon.

“Okay, Y/N. I’m going to help you undress. You have some bruising on your side from the crash. Is that okay?”

He was gentle waiting to do anything until he had her consent. He carefully undid the zipper at the back of the dress slipping the straps from her shoulder and allowing the garment to pool at her waist before draping a throw blanket over her to preserve her modesty. She decided then that she definitely liked this doctor more than she liked his boss. He was kind.

“It’s not too bad. I don’t think you got the worst of the damage, but you’ll be tender for a few days at the very least.”

Her ears perked up at that. “Do you know how the other passenger is doing? Eun-ho. Officer Choi Eun-ho. He was in the car with me. Is he alright?”

He sighed the easy smile falling from his lips replaced by a more pitying look. “I think he’s at the hospital. I don’t know much though.”

“But he’s alive?” She asked choking back tears as she did. “He’s alive?”

“Yes, he’s alive. As far as I know, he’s alive.”

“Oh thank god.” She sobbed hunching in on herself and allowing the tears to fall.

The doctor sat down beside her gently rubbing circles into her back as she cried. “It’s alright. You’re going to be alright.” He cooed letting her get it out of her system. “Namjoon isn’t a bad person. He won’t hurt you.”

“I just want to go home.” She sobbed.

“I know. I know.”

They stayed like that until her crying had calmed down. He helped her back into her dress, and even helped her clean up her face.

“You’re going to be alright, but I have to let Namjoon back in the room now.”

“Okay.” Her whisper was hoarse barely audible, but it was there.

He hesitated looking like he wanted to say something more. “I know this is hard, but you can always call on me if you need anything.”

“Thank you.” He nodded leaving to go get Namjoon.

“How is she?” Namjoon asked striding into the room and back to her side his eyes scanning her from head to toe. “Why does she look like she’s been crying?”

“It’s been an emotional day.” He shrugged not giving away anything else. “She’ll be alright, but you have to rest.” He admonished her sternly but gently, almost motherly. “And you.” He turned a stern gaze on Namjoon as well. “No more upsetting her. I don’t want any more calls saying that she fainted.”

“She’ll be alright?” Namjoon asked moving to sit on the bed beside her again.

“She’ll be fine so long as you don’t go upsetting her.” Seokjin sassed. “Now, Y/N. I’ll be back in a few days to check on those stitches, okay.”

“Sure, doc.”

He smiled and ruffled her head like a brother would. “Only light activity. Light foods so that they won’t upset her stomach, and plenty of fluids.” He ordered.

“Thank you, hyung.” Namjoon nodded patting his friends shoulder. “I’ll take care of her.”

“No upsetting her, Joon. I mean it. She’s been traumatized enough as it is.” He waggled his finger in the younger man’s face, and Y/N had to stop herself from laughing.

“I understand, hyung. Don’t you have other patients to see?”

Jin laughed walking out of the room, and Y/N had to do a double take. It sounded like windshield wipers, actual honest to god windshield wipers.

part 9

[dearcat1]

[Unsteady shelves]

Part 1 of the Harriet Potter & the Stray Cat AU

Harri is bored. It's not something she had expected, to be honest. Though she probably should have. Magic makes people age slower, this is a fact. A fact that she had known. Peripherally, at least. Her magical core is on the same range as Dumbledore's and Tom's used to be. 

But looking at the way even her friends start ageing around her when she still looks just 17. It smacked her in the face mercilessly. Her core is bigger, she will age slower. It's starting to show. 

And she's so bored besides. 

Not even Hermione throwing interesting things her way has been enough lately. No matter that Harri's patience for investigation has grown greatly during the last 15 years. 

So she has opted for a change of setting. Italy was picked mostly at random, the bakery out of restlessness. She still has more than enough money to live comfortingly but Harri was never one to be idle. So a bakery it is.  

It's not in the best part of town. It's not even in a good part of town. It's in the middle of the slums, actually. That's no accident. Very few people will go looking for the famous Harriet Potter in a place like this. And, like it or not, folk in the slums have a very clear "I haven't seen or heard anything" mentality.

Better for her, honestly. Besides, the Italian Magical Ministry is far more relaxed about secrecy laws than its English counterpart. Something about an entire community of squibs using basic soul magic. 

None of that prepared her for finding the small beaten up form of a black-haired child trying to climb up the shelves of her bakery's kitchen. He can't have any ill intent, the wards wouldn't have let him in otherwise. Harri closes the door quietly behind herself, lips pursing as she observes the kid. 

He's going to fall. 

As soon as she thinks that, the kid loses his footing and tumbles down. Harri catches him just barely, arms pulling him up to her hip as she studiously ignores both the way she can feel his ribs and the ineffectual attempts at escaping her grip. "Careful," Harri admonishes, "that would have hurt." 

She's not sure whether it's fear or confusion that has him stilling, but still he remains all the way up the stairs and to her bathroom. Following pure gut feeling, Harri prepares a bath for him, water just high enough that he won't drown, and then lets him down cautiously on the cold tile. "Alright," she sighs after giving him a once over, "take the bath. Leave the clothes by the door so I can clean them for you." 

"Why?"

This is awkward. "Because your injuries will get infected if they're dirty." No cajoling, no soothing, just plain fact. Harri needs him compliant so she can take care of him, too much sweetness and he'll be suspicious. Her heart hurts. Harri ignores that studiously. 

The kid doesn't answer that, he just looks up at her with dark mistrustful red eyes, lips pressed tightly closed and arms crossed over his chest. But he does slowly move to check the water's temperature so Harri leaves him to that, closing the door softly behind her as she drags a hand through her messy black hair. 

What a mess. What is she even doing? Still, her gut feeling is usually somewhat reliable.

Ignoring all the self-doubt that has decided to come out now to play, she leaves some left-overs to heat up before taking the dirty clothes the kid left by the door. He didn’t run off at first opportunity, which is good. Harri leaves them to clean themselves up with magic and doesn’t bother trying to hurry up the process. 

Wet clothes are as good an excuse as any other to wrangle the kid into letting her feed him. A predictable excuse, too. So he’d probably fight Harri less on it. If he decides to fight her at all, he seems to be under the impression that compliance might be the path of less harm. 

It’s a start. 

The stone floors are cold to the touch, maybe she should add charms for that? Harri had only gotten them that way because the aesthetic reminds her of Hogwarts but now… it just doesn’t feel child-friendly? Too cold, too impersonal. Maybe her friends are right and she needs to start adding up some personal touches. 

A small crack takes her out of her thoughts and Harri goes to pick him up before she can think better of it. It’s just… the stone floors are cold. He doesn’t seem averse to it, though. Not if the way his hands twist around the fabric of her blouse is any indication. 

“I can lend you some of Teddy’s clothes while yours dry,” she offers and deliberately ignores the tenseness of him.

He does nod, though. And she takes that. Good enough. He’s dried up and clothed quickly enough and Harri takes it as a good sign that he willingly comes closer for her to pick up, settling on her hip calmly.

“Are you hungry? I’m heating up some left-overs.” 

That gets her another nod, a little more eager. She hides her smile against the top of his hair, taking advantage of the way he’s tucked his head under her chin. Harri knows what it’s like to be that age and hungry, though maybe not that hungry. And she has a people saving thing. 

It’s ok, isn’t it? What if this time ‘people’ turns out to be a small scrap of a child who somehow snuck up into her kitchen. He’s just hungry, she can understand that. “Careful,” she murmurs, “it’s hot, don’t burn yourself.”

[hyper-fixate]

Men will always find new ways to wage war

Here we are again for Whumptober! Day 3 (yes, yes. I'm late. But I'm working on day 4 right now so it might be done soon?)

#3: My way or the Highway: Force to their knees: Held at gunpoint

Triggers: descriptions of wounds & the aftermath of violence, mentions of violence, blood and gore. Temporary death only this time.

on AO3

------

Yusuf struggles to string his thoughts together in an orderly fashion. Every time he manages to capture one in his fingers, a sudden movement by Quỳnh scatters it to the four winds. She presses upon his side and he moans out a string of Arabic that is, undoubtedly, gibberish. Quỳnh responds in her mother tongue. Yusuf blinks slowly at her. He has begun to consider himself at least conversational, but in this state he’s not certain he can pin down the words. 

‘What are you saying?’ He manages to gasp out in Arabic. Or some words to that effect.  ‘I said to hang on little brother.’ She replies in the same. Her face is drawn. He wishes to smooth the tightness in her brow but once again the pain steals his thoughts. His breath rattles wetly in his lungs and she swears. He feels the cold trail of metal up his stomach, across his chest. She flicks the cut fabric of his tunic aside. Her hands are on him again, pressing, pressing, pressing. His vision goes dark again and in the thunder of his roaring heart he thinks he can hear Nicolò call his name.

Quỳnh had woken him early that morning. When they travelled, they bundled together in a pile; Andromache and Nicolò on the outside, Quỳnh and Yusuf in the middle. She had pressed her cold hands to Yusuf’s back and whispered in his ear.

‘Come little brother, let us hunt.’ Yusuf was loath to leave their bed rolls, his love warm and content in his arms. Andromache cracked open one eye, huffing out some words in a dead language as Quỳnh kissed her goodbye. He unwound himself from Nicolò. He moved away.

But his arms won’t move. He shifts and pain seizes his chest.  He wakes to Quỳnh’s face. She holds his face in her palms. He cannot place the expression on her face. She looks, for the first time since he met her, her age. She looks ancient. She is whispering to him. His side is still inflamed. The brush of his tunic against his skin is agony. His stomach twists. He feels bile rise in his throat. Why does he still hurt? He tries to take deep, soothing breaths, but his lungs will not fill. Quỳnh is checking his lungs, her hands slippery with blood. His blood.The thought is dizzying. Something solid, there, shoved through his skin and down into his lungs. Something sharp and small, but suddenly so large he cannot think around it. Quỳnh’s knife is in her hand again. Warmth blossoms over his skin. He is cold, so cold. 

She pulls out a thin slice of bamboo and holds it up between them. He draws air, but again he cannot. He is no longer pinned, he is drowning. This time, as the darkness rushes forth, he calls out for Nicolò. His throat is too filled with blood.

There were men. Soldiers, trained, alert. Yusuf had been so careless. His hands were tied. No, held. Held behind him. They crowd over him. Quỳnh was speaking. He knew the language but not as well as Quỳnh. What was she saying? He was on his knees. The men were louder, too loud. He cannot hear above the rush of his own heart.

The images are fracturing, falling apart, cracking. Like the pond ice four winters back. He was cold, so cold. He is cold.

Flashes now. Quỳnh moving. The light on her daggers. A man pulls back. A weapon. Quỳnh. Quỳnh!

The sound of thunder, a flash of fire. His side. His whole body was aflame. Quỳnh shouted. Moved. The sound of metal through flesh.

Hands on his face. Hands on his body. His name. 

‘That was stupid Yusuf.’ She admonishes. ‘You should not have done that.’ He feels raw. The broken, twirling madness of his mind throws up the image of a lion’s kill he had come across decades ago. The poor beast had been shredded, ravaged. He feels that way now. Torn apart. 

He forces his mind to grasp onto her words. Focus on anything but the sensation of his broken body and the fear that rises in him. His lungs are clear. His breathing is easier. He still tastes the blood in his mouth, but it no longer chokes him.

‘What was that thing?’ He asks, his tongue heavy and unwieldy. 

Quỳnh rattles off something in Chinese. He doesn’t try to understand her. His grip on the language is weak and he is tired. ‘What’s the word? A lance. With fire. Fire lance, yes. I have not seen one for many years.’ She is speaking Greek now. Yusuf, miraculously, can hold the words in his head and they do not filter out like sand. 

‘Men will always find new ways to wage war.’ Quỳnh does not respond. Yusuf wonders if he has spoken aloud at all. Then Quỳnh wipes gently, oh so gently, along his side. His mind is once again blinded by white, hot agony. It pulls a moan from his throat. But he pulls his thoughts back to him quicker. The pain seems less. The pain is less.

‘Quỳnh.’ She studies him for a moment. Her cold hand slides under his neck and lifts him slightly. 

There is… He is… his chest. Torn apart. Ravaged. The cut, pulled edges of his skin show black and burned. Pock marks bleed along his side. More delicate, glittering skewers of bamboo. Quỳnh pinches around a shoot and draws it from him. It is needle thin but draws such an ache from him. There is so much, too much. He wishes for Nicolò.

One day we stop healing and we don’t know why. 

Quỳnh grips the nape of his neck, calms his heart. They wait. They watch. She wipes again at his skin. He watches in horrified amazement as the metal shrapnel in his chest wiggles free, rolling to the dirt. The bamboo skewers are harder. Quỳnh helps them along as they press from his skin. The burning, itching sensation of his skin crawling along his chest and stomach makes him feel ill. He drops his head, closing his eyes. Quỳnh presses her forehead against his own. He is unsure whose tears wet his face and he does not care.

‘It is not your time, little brother. It is not your time.’ She breathes into his mouth. It fills his lungs deeply, for this first in a lifetime. Many lifetimes.

And there will be many more. It is not his time.

[jade4813]

Like Moths to a Flame, Chapter 10

Fandom: North and South

Title: Like Moths to a Flame

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: John/Margaret

Synopsis: “I hope you realize that any foolish passion for you on my part is entirely over.“ Margaret decides to confront John about his unjust judgment of her character, but the two have always been drawn to each other, and things quickly get out of hand. In the aftermath, she agrees to marry him to satisfy propriety, but she cannot forget how ready he was to believe the worst of her. Can love survive without trust, or will the two find a way to work through the misunderstandings that have plagued their relationship from the start?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Though John would never consider time spent with Margaret wasted – nor would he ever regret a single second of it – it did make the subsequent days longer as he strove to find a solution to his financial problem. The debt owed to the bank was a few hundred pounds – a paltry amount compared to what was owed him for orders that his workers had rushed through. He hoped each day for a miracle, that he would receive sufficient outstanding payments to satisfy the bank loan and secure his workers’ payroll, but he waited in vain. The bank’s deadline drew ever nearer, his coffers dwindled, and no miracle loomed on the horizon.

Had he been foolish to refuse Watson’s proposed speculation? If it succeeded, the profit from the venture would clear his debt and secure payroll for months to come. If it failed, however, what little funds he had to pay his people would be lost, with no hope of recovery. He would have left his workers destitute, and he felt he owed them more than to gamble with their livelihoods.

But if it succeeded…

He’d never before understood the siren’s song of speculation, which had led his own father to his death. In the aftermath of the elder Thornton’s self-inflicted demise, John had been forced into a life of poverty and self-deprivation, leaving school to care for his mother and sister and sparing as much money as he could each week to pay his father’s creditors, long after they’d given up any hope of satisfaction.

He’d worked hard, and in the secret recesses of his heart, he’d judged his father harshly for throwing away their fortunes on what amounted to little more than a game of chance. He’d never spoken of his recrimination or his shame aloud, out of consideration for his remaining family’s feelings – though his mother had never been one to mince words when it came to her own judgment, and Fanny had been too young and lacked the sentimental disposition required to be overly protective of either her affection for or her memory of the father she’d lost.

Now, however, he understood the temptation that had lured his father to his ruin, though his own sense of honor and the duty he owed those in his charge had caused him to shy away from the risky venture, no matter how high the potential reward. His refusal had angered Fanny, who had sworn that reward was certain and promised to be considerable, but John knew better than most that speculation was merely that, and not even the wisest of men could guarantee a positive result.

And yet, if it succeeded…

If he’d gambled his mill’s future on the speculation and it turned a profit, his business would be clear of debt. His workers would be paid. He could continue to care for his mother in the manner he had for most of his adult life. He could provide Margaret with the life she deserved, if not the life she’d wanted. And nobody would ever have to know how bad things had been.

John shook his head, running his hands through his hair in a gesture of frustration and despair. No, there was no use in thinking about what might have been. He’d rejected Watson’s offer. He’d refused to engage in speculation, not when the cost of one ill-judged gamble could ruin so many lives. If he’d thrown his hat into the ring and the speculation failed, he’d lose the mill. The house. His workers would be out of jobs and left to starve, if they were unable to find work elsewhere. His mother’s situation would fall to what it had once been, after many years spent in comfort and security. And his wife…

If he’d speculated with his workers’ livelihoods and lost, recklessly subjecting them possible starvation, to the poverty from which he’d once uplifted himself, he wouldn’t be able to look at himself in the mirror without feeling shame. A man who could be so inattentive to his responsibility to others could never hope to deserve Margaret or the love he still wished in his heart might one day be his.

So he applied himself to work, each day seeming longer than the last. His beloved Margaret never chided him for his absence or his neglect, though she always seemed to anticipate the point at which reason was driven to the edge by exhaustion, as she would come to him on those evenings and silently draw him home with her, to sleep by her side. He could not fully confess his fears to her, but neither could he resist her, and his love for her sustained him every bit as much as her tender consideration brought him comfort.

But as the days passed, a nagging sense of doubt grew in his mind, a quiet whisper that warned that Margaret might not be as content as he would wish. Even as his financial apprehensions eclipsed other concerns vying for his attention, he noticed her increasingly troubled expression when she thought him unaware, though the worry lines smoothed from her countenance each time he turned her way. But she never spoke of her concerns, and he – weak, lovesick fool that he was – couldn’t summon the courage to ask, for fear that her preoccupation lay elsewhere. If her distress stemmed from regret, perhaps exacerbated by increasing concerns that he would fail to live up to his promise to provide her comfort and security, his heart would break anew.

Desiring to reassure her of the fidelity of his promise, John was determined to redouble the attention he paid his wife. To that end, he returned home one evening earlier than he typically had of late – the lure of Margaret’s company being far greater than that of the paperwork on his desk – to find her father in their drawing room, the other man having stopped by for a visit. Although slightly disappointed that his more amorous intentions would by necessity be delayed, John always enjoyed Richard Hale’s company and was pleased his calendar was free enough to appreciate it.

His pleasure was only heightened when he saw Margaret’s cheerfulness at the visit. “Mr Bell has invited Father to visit him in Oxford, and I’m encouraging him to go. Don’t you think it’s an excellent idea?” she explained, before turning her attention back to their guest. “It’s been so long since you’ve been to visit, and the weather’s turning warmer, so the roads will be a little easier.”

Mr Hale seemed encouraged by her enthusiasm. “I might go,” he acknowledged. Nodding, as much to himself as to her, he murmured, “Yes, yes. I think I might.”

With that decision seemingly fixed, their conversation turned to other matters for a while, until Richard stood to leave. “I think I will go to Oxford,” he declared, the idea clearly breaking him much joy. John and Margaret wished him well – the latter admonishing him to dress warmly, as there was still a chill in the air – and then he was on his way with their blessings.

Had John known it would be the last time Margaret would share his company, he would have begged the man to stay a while longer. Sadly, prescience was not among his accomplishments.

Although Margaret tried to find contentment in her present circumstances, the things left unsaid between husband and wife preyed upon her thoughts, seemingly increasing her anxiety by the hour. She loved John – more ardently than she ever would have ever supposed – and her silence on that score felt suffocating. She wanted to tell him of her feelings, but questions plagued her mind, sapping away both her contentment and her courage.

She had no illusions that John had come to trust her before taking her hand in marriage. Did he still doubt her integrity? Did he question her faithfulness? Would his opinion of her, once tarnished in his mind, forever carry a shadow of his distrust, even once the truth was known?

Even if she were to put her fears behind her, she couldn’t find the words to share her confession. It seemed impossible to do so without broaching the subject of the scene he had witnessed on the train platform, which had caused him such disgust and brought her so much pain. With so much weighing on his heart already, was it fair of her to upset whatever peace he’d managed to find thus far in their marital harmony?

What if he didn’t believe her? What if he was hurt she hadn’t spoken up before? His anger gave her no cause for alarm, but she couldn’t bear the thought of inflicting additional pain upon him. She would never wish to exact injury upon anyone, him least of all. Not her husband. Not the man she loved. And certainly not now, when his troubles were otherwise so great.

As the weeks passed immediately following her self-revelation, Margaret often found herself on the brink of confessing all to her husband. On each occasion, fear and inconvenient timing silenced her tongue. When the time was right, she promised herself that she would broach the topic of his suspicion and determine whether the trust she so needed to find true happiness in marriage had been regained. If so, she would tell him the truth. And confess to him her love.

In the meantime, she strove to provide him with such contentment, peace, and comfort as was within her power to give. She gave such assistance at the mill as she was able during the day and let her love wash over him at night, her body betraying the secrets of her heart, even if her lips could not. She felt his overwhelming weariness when they made love, pressing her mouth against the deep lines in his brow and offered him her strength when he sagged against her, his cheek pressed against her shoulder. In the aftermath of their coupling, he would fall asleep in her arms, the steady rise and fall of his chest and rhythmic beat of his heart soothing her own cares.

They had been married long enough for Margaret to grow accustomed to the idea but not long enough to overcome the full measure of her shyness – engrained in her from the time she was a child – at her husband viewing her nakedness when she awoke early one morning to see John standing before the fire, preparing his ablutions for the day ahead. He was stripped to the waist, his skin gleaming in the faint light. The fire in the grate was newly lit, its illumination weak and almost begrudging, but it was bright enough for her to see the ripple of muscles beneath his skin as he bent to splash cold water upon his face. She found herself entranced by the solid cord of muscle in his stomach and arms, the play of light and shadow against his upon his bare skin.

Though she doubted he would consider it a compliment, looking at him like this, she could only think how beautiful he was to her. How cherished. He stole her heart and took her breath away.

The sight of him drew her out of bed, the floor cold beneath her bare feet as she crossed the room, resting her hand gently upon his lower back as he straightened. He turned to face her, beads of moisture trailing down his face, and she placed her hand over his, gently tugging the towel from his grasp. He watched in silence as she tossed it aside and didn’t protest when she pressed her free hand against his chest and gave it a firm push, leading him into a nearby chair.

John didn’t say a word as he lowered himself into the seat, but his gaze missed nothing as she cast a critical eye upon the implements he’d laid out beside his washbowl. The shaving razor was open, its blade gleaming, already sharpened upon the strop in preparation for the task at hand. His soap had also already been prepared, the applicator brush resting nearby.

Margaret picking up the brush and mug of shaving soap, working up a lather as she turned back to her husband. His gaze had fallen to her hips, and she realized with a start that, standing before the fire as she was, the outline of her body would be visible through the thin fabric of her nightgown. The thought made her flush, but she feigned ignorance of the view she presented, even as she showed her body off to its best advantage, bending over him to lather his cheeks and chin.

John reached for her, bracing her hips in his palms. His hands were still damp from his morning wash, moistening the fabric of her dress. She shivered, biting back a soft moan of longing, when he pulled her forward until she straddled his chair, her thighs brushing the coarse fabric of his trousers. Unwilling to allow him to distract her from her purpose, she forced her attention to the task at hand, casting a critical eye upon his face to ensure the lather was sufficiently distributed. Then she reached for the razor, her hand trembling slightly as she lifted it to his cheek.

What had seemed like a good idea when she’d started was much more daunting now, when she held the sharpened razor in her hand and prepared to apply it to his bare skin. What if she made a mistake? What if she slipped and injured him? She hesitated, preparing to draw away, but he reached up and wrapped his hand around her own. His eyes were trusting, his gaze warm, as he drew the razor toward his cheek, adjusting the exact angle of the blade before pressing it gently against his skin. Then he dropped his hand, putting his fate entirely in her hands.

Margaret sucked in a sharp breath and narrowed her eyes, focusing the entirety of her attention upon the blade as she scraped it gently against his skin, breathing out a heavy sigh of relief when she managed her first pass without causing injury. Feeling more confident, she applied the blade again, her motions slow and cautious. As she worked, the back of her neck grew damp from the warmth of her fire, and the caress of John’s breath fanned her face as she leaned forward, intent upon her task. She could feel his gaze upon her, but it wasn’t distrust in his eyes. It was desire. Her answering need nearly overwhelmed her, and she required a moment to recollect her composure before she could continue.

With one side completed, John adjusted the angle of his head so  that she could complete the job. Her heart pounded when she felt his hands slide under the hem of her nightdress, teasing the soft, sensitive skin of her thighs, and she sucked in an unsteady breath.

As she pulled the razor away, he slipped his fingers inside her, stroking her gently. Her head fell back with a moan, but she strove to gather her wits and regain control. Bracing her free hand on his shoulder, she cast an accusatory glance at his face, only to receive an unrepentant smile in return. However, the consciousness of his own well-being  was such that he returned his hands to her hip when she wiped the lather off the blade, lifting it to continue her task.

Margaret’s heart pounded as she slid the razor along the curve of his jaw, and he tilted his head back to allow her greater access to his neck. Her efforts were perhaps not as clean as his would have been, but he didn’t seem to mind. When she finished her last pass, she grabbed a damp towel to wipe away the rest of the lather, but John gently tugged the blade from her hand, letting it fall to the floor. Then his mouth was upon her, teasing the bare flesh above the neck of her nightgown.

She opened her mouth to sigh his name, but the sound was captured by his lips as he pulled her firmly against him, pressing her against his hardness. Grabbing the bottom of her nightgown, he lifted it over her head and tossed it aside, and even in the increasing warmth of the room, she shuddered as she was bared before him. John didn’t seem to find anything amiss, however, as his attention was captivated by her smooth perfection.

Lifting his hand to cup her breast, Margaret found herself enthralled as she always was by his caress. The calluses on his palms were rough against her sensitive skin, but his touch was far from unpleasant. Her head fell back, exposing the curve of her neck, as he brushed a thumb against her aureole until her nipple beaded under his palm.

Her hands had fallen on his shoulders, and she gave in to the temptation to trail her fingertips down his chest, tracing the curve of muscle and bone. She felt first the rapid beat of his heart, then the muscles of his stomach shudder as he sucked in a sharp breath, and knew he wasn’t unaffected by her touch. In the light cast by the fire and the soft sunrise, his eyes were dark and filled with need. She wove her fingers into his hair, pressing him to her, as he bowed his head and sucked her breast into his mouth, teasing her with his tongue. She could feel the strength in his hands when he grasped her hips, guiding her motions as she rocked against him.

Only one layer of fabric separated their bodies, causing Margaret no end of frustration. Pressing her hands against his chest, she lifted off him far enough to reach for the buttons of his trousers. In her haste and her desire, her fingers were clumsy and awkward. Their hands tangled together when he attempted to assist her, causing her to laugh, the sound soft and strained.

She had only just managed to pull him free when he grabbed her thighs and pulled her into his lap once more, pausing only long enough to carefully guide himself inside of her. Margaret gasped as she sank onto him, her response inspired as much by the ominous creaking of the chair beneath them as the sudden fullness of his thrust. Anxious about the unsteadiness of their perch, she tightened her thighs around him and wrapped her arms around his neck, slowly rolling her hips against his.

John tucked his head against the curve of her neck, tickling her with the faint traces of stubble she’d overlooked in her earlier ministrations. His mouth scraped against her skin, eliciting a soft moan, while his hands explored her body, lingering in every spot which had previously brought her pleasure. He kissed the curve of her ear, her cheek, her chin, and Margaret rewarded his efforts with another slow roll of her hips.

Once again, she wrestled with the temptation to speak of her feelings, but this was hardly the time to do so. Her confession – or, rather, confessions, as she believed she had identified a multitude that must be made by now – deserved more consideration than a rashly uttered declaration in the midst of lovemaking. They also required more deliberation than to be hastily blurted over breakfast, or on the way out the door to attend to more pressing concerns and outstanding appointments.

Still, her secret feelings nearly overwhelmed her, swelling within her breast until she couldn't speak for love of him. Leaning back slightly, she wrapped one hand behind his neck to hold him in place as her gaze swept over the face that had engraved itself upon her heart. Their eyes met, and she found she couldn’t tear her gaze away, entranced as she was by the play of emotions upon his face and in his eyes…

Once again, she marveled that she ever could have thought him to be cold and cruel, that she ever could have mistaken his hardness for lack of feeling. Though his features were under his command, frequently schooled into either an impassive mask or a glower of disdain, his eyes betrayed him. Even when he had accused her of impropriety, when he’d told her his passion for her had ended, the chill of his words hadn’t wounded her half so much as that which lay behind those blue eyes, which revealed much, but also saw more than she wished.

Margaret was overwhelmed by a sudden wave of fear at what he might comprehend of her own feelings. In an act of self-preservation, she tore her gaze away, pressing her cheek against the curve of his shoulder as he lifted his hips, plunging inside her.

As she met each powerful thrust with a roll of her hips, Margaret clung to her husband, wishing for nothing more than to prolong this interlude. She felt the muscles beneath her tense and knew he was nearing completion, so she increased the rhythm of her hips, pressing her mouth against his neck to taste the saltiness of his skin as his muscles grew taut and he poured himself inside her. The momentarily respite didn’t last long, however, as he cupped one hand behind her head, holding her against him as he slid the other between her legs, stroking her deftly until wave upon wave of pleasure crashed over her and she found her own release.

She collapsed against him, spent and unwilling to let him go, although she knew she couldn’t hold him in this moment forever. The harsh rasp of their breathing filled her ears, but as their hearts slowed and breathing steadied, the room grew quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fire in the grate. When she could put off the inevitable no longer, she lifted her head off John’s shoulder, though she wasn’t yet able to meet his eyes, still uncertain of what her own would reveal.

“Margaret?” His voice was soft and uncertain, and her heart wrenched at the aching vulnerability it betrayed. She was unequal to the task of giving voice to her inner turmoil, so she stared at his lips as she stroked her fingers along the side of his face. Cupped his cheeks in her palms, pressed her mouth against his, drawing his tongue inside her parted lips. In unspoken reassurance, she deepened the embrace until she felt his lingering tension ebb away. When the kiss ended, she drew back to meet his eyes, confident that her own would no longer divulge her secrets.

Climbing off his lap, Margaret rushed to retrieve her nightgown from the floor, quickly pulling it on before turning her attention back to her husband. In the early morning light, Margaret was forced to acknowledge that she made for an imperfect barber, more than one small patch of stubble having escaped her blade, but John issued no complaint. Instead, he used a towel to wipe away what remnants of shaving soap remained, though Margaret noticed that a fair amount had transferred to her person.

Once he had dried his face with a towel, he began to toss it beside the bowl when Margaret grabbed his hand, staying his motion. There, on the bright white fabric, was a small red stain, a sign she had not been as careful with the razor as she had wished. Stretching onto her toes, she examined his skin and noticed the tiniest nick just below his right ear.

“I’m sorry,” she said, speaking as much for her continued silence as the injury she had inflicted upon him.

Touching a finger to the wound, he shook his head. “It’s not deep. It’ll heal soon enough.” He cast a glance at the window, and Margaret knew his mind was turning toward the mill, to the work left undone and the hours that lay ahead of him. Longing to steal just a few more precious moments with him, she helped him to dress, asserting the privilege of such intimacy that only a wife could claim.

The hour was growing late, and Margaret knew her husband was eager to begin his day, but still he hesitated, brushing a lock of hair off her cheek once she had finished straightening his cravat. “Margaret—” he began, a line of worry creasing the skin between his brows, “Forgive me for pressing, but you seem troubled. If something is bothering you, you can confide in me.”

Her heart twisted at the understanding that he had seen more than she’d wished, recognizing the fact of her preoccupation, although he did not yet understand the cause. Pulling him to her, she pressed a kiss against that telltale evidence of his concern. “It’s nothing,” she attempted, though she didn’t need to see his face to anticipate his answering skepticism. Taking his hands in hers, she remarked, “It’s getting late, and work is more important. I don’t want to keep you any longer than I already have.”

John wasn’t willing to be so easily deterred, tightening his hold on her hands. “My work may be necessary, but there is nothing in the world more important to me than you.”

His words gave her hope, and she smiled at him with all the sweetness she felt in her heart. “Very well, but it’s not – I’m not troubled, precisely, but – do you think we could steal some time alone together this evening? There are some matters we should discuss.”

With obvious reluctance at the delay, he agreed, capturing her lips in one more kiss before heading out the door. Little did either of them know that a visit from Mr Bell later that same day would bring news that would drive all other concerns from her mind. For a while, at least.

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader -”What Death Tastes Like”

Scarecrow’s daughter might be only 22, yet the terminal lung cancer she was diagnosed with six months ago didn’t discriminate against her age; the young woman didn’t show worrisome symptoms until it was too late. Y/N always had a fascination for the much older King of Gotham and despite the consequences, maybe it’s finally time to do something about it.

Part 2      Part 3      Part 4      Part 5

“Hi daddy,” Emma enters the kitchen and you follow, immediately greeting The Joker.

“Hello Mister J.”

“Pumpkin,” he acknowledges his daughter. “Miss Crane,” he growls at your presence and you can’t help it:

“I like your purple shirt Mister J; makes you look ravishing.”

“Oh yeah?” he scoffs, used to the 22 year old throwing this kind of stuff his way on a regular basis.

“Definitely!” you approach and point at his can of grape juice. “Can I take a sip?”

“Since when you like grape juice?’ The Clown Prince of Crime frowns but hands over the container anyway.

“I don’t,” you taste the sweet liquid and continue: “I just wanted to touch something your lips touched.”

“That’s a new one!” he rolls his eyes and snatches back his drink while Emma closes the fridge in a hurry, appalled you always flirt with her father.

“Keep her on a leash!” J advises his offspring and you snicker as she pushes you out of the kitchen.

“I can’t believe you say those things to him!” Emma gives you a nudge on the hallway, amused and horrified in the same time. “He could be your dad!”

“But he’s not,” you wink, dodging her grip. “He could be my daddy though!”

“You shameless jerk!!” she laughs and starts chasing you. “How dare you??!!”

“He’s really hot for being 40-ish!” the enthusiastic Y/N teases more, speeding up so she won’t get caught. “I’m going to marry him and I’ll be your step mom. You’ll have to call me mommy!”

“Whaaaattt??!!” Emma shouts and The King of Gotham shakes his head because he can still perceive your aberrations: the truth is he’s uncertain if that’s all they are, thus the dilemma J doesn’t care to solve regardless.

You quickly run into Emma bedroom and snatch a pillow in order to protect yourself from her attack.

“I love your dad!” you grin and she keeps relentlessly hitting you with her fluffy cushion, annoyed:

“I hate you!! I totally hate you!!!”

You suddenly start coughing and your best friend halts her rampage, concerned.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! Where’s your med?”

You pull the vial out of your jean’s pocket and she opens it while your cough intensifies; Emma fingers tremble at the sight of blood stains on the palm of your hand.

“Here, take this. Two?”

“Y-yes,” you struggle to talk and swallow the tablets, finding it difficult to calm down without the remedy you failed to ingest earlier before the worse happened.

“Come’ere,” she carefully sits you on the bed and begins wiping the red spots off your skin with a clean tissue. “There you go… Deep breaths, OK?” the young woman urges on the verge of crying: although she’s used to your episodes, she can’t cope with the thought of losing her best friend.

Scarecrow’s daughter might be only 22, yet the terminal lung cancer she was diagnosed with six months ago didn’t discriminate against her age; she didn’t show worrisome symptoms until it was too late.

“Better?” Emma analyzes your face and you can tell how upset she is, that’s why you try to distract her the best way you know how.

“Is your dad wearing a new cologne?”

“Huh?”

“He smells sooooo good, I swear I get this uncontrollable desire to kiss him all over,” you cough a bit more and she slaps your thigh, outraged.

“Would you stop it???!!!”

“I think he’ll miss me when I’m gone,” you playfully giggle. “Who else would flirt with an old man in his 40’s?!”

“Stupid girl…” Emma’s voice quivers since she doesn’t like to be reminded you’ll leave her. You both are silent for a few moments before she gathers the strength to continue the planned evening.

“I’m going to prepare you a nice, warm bath, then we’ll tag along with my dad at his Neon Devil club, alright?” she pouts and you don’t have the heart to admit you don’t feel like going out anymore.

“Sure… … sounds perfect,” you sigh and underline. “Only if I can spend some time alone with Mister Joker in the VIP section.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Emma concludes and you won’t quit.

“I didn’t say anything bad, you’re the perv for thinking indecencies regarding a man and a woman…alone… in the luscious VIP room… a few drinks… music blasting… attractiveness mooing to be unleashed…”

“Mooing???” she burst out laughing, forgetting she was about to admonish on your crazy ideas…again.

“Yup, mooing…” you proclaim with delight. “It’s a very sexy term, won’t you agree? … … Sexy like your dad!” you immediately blur out and stomp towards the bathroom while she hunts you down with the only purpose of shutting down the outpour of nonsense flowing out of you.

***************

Neon Devil Club, 10:36pm

“Are you going to dance?” Emma’s red cheeks pop up next to you.

“No, not tonight. Don’t worry, I’m having fun!” you point at the two empty cocktail glasses in front of you, still working on your third one. “I think I might call it a night soon, I’m tired.”

“OK, Y/N. Let me know when, we’ll both go!” she yells over the deafening tune.

“Stay and have fun, I can get a ride!” you glare at The Joker sitting at the bar a few inches away from you, totally absorbed by his text messages.

“Are you sure?” Emma hesitates and you poke J’s arm in order to get his attention.

He finally looks up and his daughter pleads:

“Daddy, can you take Y/N back to our house when she’s ready? I want her to be there when I return, this way we can gossip after the wild intercourse I’m gonna have with one of these lucky guys!”

The Clown Prince of Crime stares at her, displeased with the comments.

“Hilarious,” he growls and she jumps up and down, excited to see Bane’s son in the crowd.

“Don’t get mad, daddy!” she pecks his cheek. “I’m joking… Maybe…” Emma chuckles at his grumpiness and you are proud of her achievement in mocking the forever serious Joker: despite the nickname, the green haired menace is not the epitome of joyfulness.

“Are you supposed to have alcohol with the medications you’re taking?” he gestures at your cocktail.

“Nope,” you serenely confess and guzzle down more. “I’m a burden to my father and he doesn’t even know it,” you sniffle and J senses something strange about your affirmation. “He locks himself in the lab for days, researching on ways to overcome my terminal cancer. Did you know Evelyn left him two weeks ago?” you ask and The King feels cornered; you’re probably tipsy and in mood to chat while he’s not. “She’s perfect for him and he let her go… He would ignore her for days, immersed in his ridiculous project of saving me. The amazing Doctor Crane can’t take the hint this is a battle he won’t win. I made peace with what’s happening to me, but he can’t...,” you wave at the bartender for another glass. “Why won’t my father accept the inevitable outcome?” the pain in your tone prompts J to mutter:

“He just tries to postpone the inevitable.”

“I’m grateful for his help,” you ramble on. “I take remedies he makes for me and it’s nice to avoid the traditional chemo and losing my hair. I don’t look like I’m dying, correct? If you wouldn’t weren’t aware of my illness, you couldn’t tell, right?”

“Yes,” The impatient Joker signals the bartender to halt mixing your fresh drink; in his opinion you had enough.

“I got my test results this morning, “ you disclose, pouting. “They’re bad…” Y/N inhales the rest of her liquid courage and taps on the marble counter, disappointed at her own statement. “Did you ever taste death?” the weird question makes him taunt.

“Naahhh.”

“This is what it tastes like,” the heartbroken Y/N softly kisses The Joker and his remark hurts more than her disappointing routine evaluation:

“Strawberry margarita?”

You hop off your high chair so fast he realizes you’re flustered; it was the first time you kissed him, not that kind of kiss anyway and he completely dismissed your candor in the worst possible way.  

“Can we go please?” you intensely glare at your sandals and J opts out of attempting to patch up his callous reply; possibly the best decision regarding these circumstances simply because it doesn’t affect him at all.

“Sure, we can bail,” he grumbles and escorts you out of the club, wondering if you are done talking about matters of no importance to him.

****************

The master bedroom is cracked opened and you knock until The Joker bothers to acknowledge your existence.

“What is it?”

You sneak inside, adamant to request a tiny favor.

“Can I watch TV in here?”

“Why?” he wiggles in the middle of his bed, certainly not thrilled at your proposal.

“I won’t inconvenience you, ok?” you evade his inquiry and still being a bit tipsy briefly aids your plan; your drag your feet to the humongous mattress, then slip inside the purple sheets at the edge of the bed. “You know… If I would have lived longer, I bet you would have married me,” you gaze at the man relaxing close to your body.

The Joker nonexistent eyebrows go up so high it’s possibly a new record: why did Emma have to stay at the club instead of distracting you from whatever the hell this is?!

“We would have had at least 4 kids…” you continue your story. “ I’m young so every two years I could have been convinced to get pregnant; we would have had a small army of little Jokers and Y/Ns… I picked a few names already, would you like to hear them?”

“NO!!” he sucks on his teeth, irritated.

“Hmm…” you get discouraged yet it doesn’t last. “ You would have died at 65…”

“Why would I die at 65?!” J interrupts and his interest gives you a boost of much needed confidence.

“Car accident; you’re a shitty driver,” you lift your shoulders up, instantly correcting your sentence. “I meant reckless.”

The Clown Prince of Crime huffs and the fact that he engaged into this monologue of yours hopefully suggests he won’t chase you away until you finish.

“After your demise I would have mourned you for a decent amount of months, then I would have remarried a guy my age, this way I’m not in any danger of becoming a widow for the second time. I would obviously have our children too so not to worry, I would have survived without you.”

“Awesome, I was anxious you won’t overcome the grief,” his sassiness triggers your approval.

“Indeed; yet I have to warn you: if you ever cheated on me, I would have asked my father to create a special virus to obliterate you from the face of the planet!”

“Why are you shouting?!” The Joker scratches his chin, confused about your attitude.

“Sorry,” you take it down a notch. “I always get emotional when I think about this part…”

“Is this soap opera of yours almost done?” the impatience emerges; I suppose you tested his composure enough.

“I really like you,” you cut off his vexation. “You should be happy a young woman would crave an older man in his 40’s or 50’s,” you snort while adding to his growing restlessness.

“I think it’s time for you and the alcohol in your system to take a nap!” J hints at your departure and you abruptly bring it up since he’s basically throwing you out:

“Do you like me? You never get mad or chase me when I flirt with you…” you scoot over and cuddle next to him.

“What are you doing?!” J gets pissed at your boldness.

“I’m cold,“ you lie without a problem and he’s done with the dumb night he had to put up with so far.

“Get out!” The King of Gotham snaps and his sudden aggressiveness throws you off.

“I want to stay and watch TV; I promise I’ll be super quiet from now on. Cross my heart and hope to die!” you smile and your silly pun doesn’t have the outcome you hoped for.

“You know why I indulge a shallow brat’s idiotic flirting?!” he raises his voice and you shrivel because you realize he won’t utter anything nice at this point. “Who wouldn’t feel sorry for a walking corpse, hm? Despite what people think, I’m not that insensitive!”

You gulp and slowly roll out of bed, trying not to cry in front of him; you don’t remember sensing a stronger pain in your life, not even after you got sick.

“You’re so mean, “ you whisper and can’t stop the first tears streaming down your face. “I wouldn’t have married you anyway,” you rush out of the master bedroom and The Joker reprises his movie, undisturbed at the events he created out of spite.

“Fuck…” he mumbles when it hits: Emma will chew him alive if she finds about his behavior; would you mention this to her? Or she would guess something went wrong if you depart from the mansion when she asked you to stay? The only person that counts is bound to make him rethink his awful actions; his daughter wouldn’t forgive him unless he patches up things. Might as well get it over with before he lands in hotter waters.

“Uggghhhh,” The Joker puckers his lips and contemplates his choices: not too many, thus he ends up in front of your bedroom 10 minutes after the fight.

He can discern your sobbing and opens the door without knocking because another human’s privacy is simply not his issue. You are standing by the windows and turn towards him, mad you didn’t lock the entrance.

“Your company is required in the master bedroom,” J elaborates on the subject and Y/N’s silence evokes a faint apology. “I don’t think you’re a walking corpse… … …”

No reaction.

“Come on, let’s watch TV in my room…”

“Why would you need a shallow brat’s idiotic company?” you blow your nose in a tissue and emphasize. “I don’t want your pity.”

“Crane’s a genius but the trait is clearly skipping a generation,” his way of attempting to restore the mood totally sucks. “It’s not pity.”

“What is it then?” you wipe your tears and he has no clue himself.

“Not…pity.”

Are you debating on his offer?

“Come on,” J grabs your hand and your resistance works a miracle nonetheless. “I’m sorry, alright? Not a word to Emma, deal? Or your dad, he would probably create a goddamned virus to exterminate me from this planet. Don’t laugh, it’s not funny,” he sulks, crabby at the idea of being killed for offending Scarecrow’s princess.

“I won’t…” you promise and you’re actually surprised when he lifts you up, guiding your legs around his waist.

“You can sleep in my bed if you want to… until Emma gets back,” The Joker recommends and you hide your astonishment the best way you can.

“Sleep like in dozing of or…?” you wish to determine and the response doesn’t fail to deepen the mystery:

“As I said, genius sometimes skips a generation.”

The King strolls out of the bedroom with Y/N clinging to him while he lifts her higher in his arms, closing his eyes when she kisses him.

And the only thing The Joker can think of for the moment is that if death tastes like this, it’s not the worst way to go.

Also read: MASTERLIST

You can also follow me on Ao3 and Wattpad under the same blog name: DiYunho.

[fic-al]

Two Types of Stuffing

Prequel to Christmas 1958

Christmas Day 1957 Nonnatus House

Patrick Turner glanced over his shoulder once again. He looked longingly beyond the dining room door. He knew that staring repeatedly in the direction of the Nonnatus telephone was not going to make it ring, but he couldn't seem to help himself.

He turned back to the table and suddenly felt ashamed. He was positive everyone knew what he was hoping for. Timothy sat to his left, he certainly knew he could see it in the boy's eyes. He had grown up so much, in such a relatively short time. Wise beyond his years. Honed through the illness and eventual loss of his mother. Followed by almost a year of what? Grief, struggle, survival. Patrick tried to shake himself from his melancholy and self-destructive thoughts. He was so proud of Marianne's son, sat in his school tie and blazer.

The boy was animatedly talking to Sister Evangelina. He was glad Sister Julienne had sat Timothy between himself and the bustling nun. She was never short of conversation and had a soft spot for his son, as she also once had for the boy's mother.

Opposite the doctor sat three of the young nurses, he worked with on a daily basis. Nurse Franklin was dressed a little like she was having Christmas dinner at the Ritz, but he thought she carried it off. Nurse Lee a little less flashy, he could see Marianne in something like that. He knew the more diminutive Nurse Miller would also be wearing a new dress. Marianne always insisted a woman needed a new dress for Christmas Day. Apart from last year, last Christmas she asked for a new nightdress.

Absentmindedly, he glanced again in the direction of the still frustratingly silent telephone. What was wrong with him? He had accepted this kind invitation for Timothy's sake. Granny Parker always spent Christmas with Timothy's cousins in Liverpool and he hadn't wanted her to change her plans, there had been too much change. He had to snap out of this wave of self pity.

Please let the next call be a woman in labour, possibly breech or twins. A safe, but long labour, but get me out of here, please! Let no harm come to anyone, just free me from this odious obligation. Timothy is in good, safe hands. No need to feel guilty or selfish, is there?

"Would you care for some more stuffing, Doctor?"

The sudden question directed to him in a warm Scottish lilt shook him out of his malaise.

"No,no thank you Sister, I have ample."

"Mrs B has dared to be a tad adventurous this year and made two types of stuffing. I must say Dr Turner, I prefer the traditional sage and onion myself."

"I wasn't aware Sister until today that there was more than one type of stuffing." He interjected, trying to crack a weak joke. The poor girl, what had she done to be sat next to such a miserable, boring old sod at Christmas.

He looked around the table; The nurses sat together and whispered and chatted. Although Trixie couldn't be accused of whispering at present.

Sister Evangelina sat comfortably next to Timothy, the pair gently trying to heal each other's wounds. Sister Julienne at the head of the table as her seniority allowed, watching over her family, with a careful eye on Sister Monica Joan at the other end. Poor kind hearted, devoted Sister Bernadette had got the fuzzy end of the lollipop, when it came to the seating plan and was stuck next to him.

"More wine Doctor? I must say Constable and Mrs Noakes have been very generous in supplying us with beverages, before they decided to spend Christmas with Constable Noakes' mother."

"Erm, not much more for me Sister, I know Dr Enys is on call. Which is very kind of him, in the circumstances."

They both glance at Timothy. The boy takes a good slurp of his Dandelion and Burdock, another treat from the Noakes'. Sister Bernadette starts to wonder if the Fortescue-Cholmondeley-Browne empire had been built on off-licenses.

Patrick continues, "He is a fine young GP, but I did say I would be available, if you know he gets snowed under, or may need my guidance in a complicated maternity case. I gave him this number and told him not to hesitate to call…" He was interrupted,

"I see, Doctor."

Patrick looked at those piercing blue eyes. Oh yes, even as a very happily married man and devoted husband, he noticed the blue eyes. Even when she was a 22-year-old postulant and he an enthusiastic new father and war veteran, he noticed the blue, blue eyes. They saw right through him at that moment, the blue eyes knew he would rather be tending to a bad case of haemorrhoids than pulling a Christmas cracker, containing a very bad joke, with an increasingly giggly Trixie.

Sister Bernadette glanced behind her once again, looking longingly beyond the dining room door. She knew that staring repeatedly in the direction of the Nonnatus telephone was not going to make it ring, but she couldn't seem to help herself.

The Nonnatuns took turns on Christmas Day to be on call. Sister Julienne always attended the first call. Sister Evangelina the next, Sister Bernadette followed and quite often that order would repeat itself throughout the day. The Sisters understood that Christmas may have a different interpretation for their young colleagues, and they would want to mark it in a different way.

It had been Sister Bernadette a few years younger than the others, that had suggested that they took the strain over Christmas and New Year. To serve Him and to have the privilege of delivering a Christmas or New Year baby. Also, young enough and generous enough to realize her secular colleagues would greatly appreciate any time off during the holidays.

At this moment, Sister Bernadette wasn't contemplating such noble thoughts. Basically, she just wanted to get the Hell out of there. Alone in the work environment between the forceps and cursing mothers, she could ask him how Timothy was doing? How was he coping? Here it had to be so polite, so appropriate, she could see he was struggling for breath, for cover, for safety. All she could do in this situation was talk about stuffing.

She needed that phone to ring, this was stifling. Please let the next call be a woman in labour, a very long simple, safe labour, but get me out of here please! Let no harm come to is too anyone, this is too painful and there is so little I can offer in way of comfort.

Relief finally! Just as the plum pudding and brandy sauce was being served, again thanks to Chummy.

Dring, dring, dring! Sister Bernadette and Dr Turner nearly knocked each other over in their urgency to answer the blasted thing. However, while the pair of them were untangling chair legs and actually getting themselves more entwined. Sister Julienne beat them to it.

Patrick took a deep breath. Nothing too bad, too cruel on Christmas Day, but something, maybe a lonely old pensioner, just needs some company.

Sister Bernadette took a deep breath. Nothing too bad, a multiple birth, twins, that would take time and be joyous.

Sister Julienne answered, "Mother Jesu Emanuel, Merry Christmas."

Dr Turner and Sister Bernadette returned to their seats and looked their plum pudding square in the face. Silently and slightly sullenly, the pair focused on their dessert and rather rich sauce. Suddenly they both dropped their spoons in response to a rather loud noise.

No, this wasn't the telephone, but rather a call of a different nature. With its very own calling card, a rather pungent odour. Someone was suffering from a bout of flatulence.

Dr Turner immediately swivelled in his chair and glared at his son. Timothy, who was obviously well aware of why his father was glaring at him, was shaking his head furiously and mouthing, "Not Me," at his dad.

Dr Turner flicked his eyes from his wide-eyed son to the rest of the dining party. They incredibly continued chatting as normal and quite loudly, especially Trixie. He didn't mind; it was nice to see the young nurse enjoying herself and letting her hair down. She was a grafter; she deserved it. But the smell! Well, they were nurses after all, probably immune.

He was just about to admonish Timothy again when he felt a tug on his sleeve.

What was she going to say?

Not only had she had to endure Christmas dinner with the dullest man on Earth. Unfortunately, they sat only inches apart. She must have just had the same experience as him. His mind was racing. Now what must she think?

He turned his head slowly in response to the sleeve tug. The first thing he noticed was the pale almost opaque skin of Sister Bernadette was pink, very pink indeed. She had a rosy glow across her cheeks. Her eyes, those blue eyes, were throwing off a light show only he could see. When he was able to tear his eyes away from those northern lights, he noticed she was biting her bottom lip and seemed to be shivering.

Suddenly she was able to release her bottom lip for a moment and mouth to him, "Not Timothy." She cast a glance down the table past Timothy. Patrick's eyes followed and so did his son's and the colour returned to Tim's cheeks. Relieved he was off the hook and also because he wouldn't have to be the one to drop his dining companion in it.

Patrick now aware that he and his family had not disgraced themselves, looked back at Sister Bernadette. Who now seemed to be steadying herself, with her left hand firmly attached to the seat of her chair. Still pink, still quivering. She was in hysterics, silent, hidden hysterics. Trying for the life of her to not show it. He could only be about nine inches away from her. For the first time since Patrick Turner had walked through those convent doors that morning, a genuine ghost of a smile crossed his face.

He looked at her, really looked at her, maybe for the first time. She was pretty. Well yes, he knew that, but at this moment, she was simply radiant. She was sat only a few inches away shuddering with joy, trying to suppress an almighty laugh. In almost ten years of working with her, she had always been so proper, always been so professional, always been so self controlled. Right now, Sister Bernadette's control was slipping.

This was much more enticing than two types of stuffing. He was that close. He didn't sit him there-that was Sister Julienne's doing-he didn't even want to be there. Did he?

"You know if you hold on to that chair much harder, you are going to break it."

He was close enough, just for only her to hear the soft whisper in her ear. The rose pink turned to scarlet, not just across her cheeks but also down her neck, her shivering turned to a gentle rocking. He knew he should stop, of course he knew….

"If you bite that lip any harder, you might need me to take a look at that."

He didn't quite get the reaction he was looking for. Her head turned to face him, chin-up, and she stared straight into his eyes, blue into green.

"Best behaviour please, Doctor." She managed to squeak through gritted teeth.

It was at that point Sister Evangelina's battle with the sprouts came to its climax. Dr Turner and Sister Bernadette were somehow in suspended animation. The game had suddenly changed, they both knew the one to take their eyes away from the other would be the first one to break into fits of laughter.

Sister Bernadette found herself grasping the chair even harder, and Dr Turner found he was doing the same thing. Meanwhile, Timothy was making the adults to his right, look like primary school children. Hardly batting an eye or losing track in his conversation with his table mate. While she remained as unnerved as ever.

Suddenly, the stalemate was broken. Trixie trying to relate a story to a less than attentive Jenny, resorted in wild hand gestures and in doing so knocked over her wineglass. Fortunately or unfortunately depending on how you looked at it, it was only half full.

For the first time the table hushed and focused on one person, well almost everyone that is. Dr Turner and Sister Bernadette eyes flicked to Trixie and then back at each other. Not wanting the now mortally embarrassed nurse, to think they were laughing at her, they hung on to their self control.

The tables focus soon moved to another when Sister Monica Joan suddenly exclaimed out of nowhere. "Not only have I been subjected to a stench that would only be outdone by Vesuvius in eruption. Now, that inebriated young woman has just shed her wine all over the mince pies!"

The awkward silence that followed was broken by a sudden loud girlish giggle, that had lost any hope of censure and a deep masculine laugh, that had been begging for air, for too long. An eyebrow or two were raised in the direction of the ridiculous hilarity, but it was fleeting. The release of the built up tension in the pair seemed to influence everyone. Permission had been given for everyone to forgive, relax, smile and carry on and to clear up the mess.

Timothy took on the responsibility of rescuing the mince pies. Relieved that a reason to be excused from the table had finally presented itself. What no-one else saw was that on Sister Monica Joan's outburst, Sister Bernadette's resistance finally broke. She lost all control and could no longer contain the mirth mounting up within herself. Feeling unnerved and unbalanced, she felt unstable in her chair and grabbed the nearest thing available to steady herself. It wasn't until she required her left hand to help her remove her glasses and dry her tear stained eyes. That she became aware that what she was using to steady herself was in fact the doctor's leg. Just above the knee.

The one thing she was never able to comprehend, not then, not later that same night, not even in the sanatorium, was why before removing her hand from the doctor's leg? Did she first look left, to see if Timothy had noticed and then look right, to see if Sister Julienne had noticed. It was only when she was finally certain that neither had noticed, did she then and only then, remove her hand from its inappropriate mooring.

As people stood to clear the table, the was one person Sister Bernadette was definitely not going to look at. Even though she knew he was looking at her. Sister Bernadette had been searching all night for something to quell her school girl giggles, and now she had found it. Grabbing the doctor's knee in the possible full view of his son and her superior certainly did the trick. She had found her cure.

Sister Bernadette's back stiffened, her demeanour changed. She rose steadily from her chair. "Excuse me, Dr Turner," she said without a hint of a smile, eyes completely focused on his shoulder.

"Of course," he replied with just a hint of amusement, which she chose to ignore. She knew he was watching her walk through to the kitchen, but she wouldn't look back, she would never catch herself looking back for him. She remembered this silent promise, ten months later on a misty road in the Essex countryside.

[lacrossepapi]

Once Bitten Twice Shy

@steterweek Day three: Arranged Marriage and Emissary Stiles

Ao3 Link| words: 3261

“It’s not a good idea.” 

“We have to rebuild.” 

“We don’t have to have an emissary.” 

“You know that’s not smart.” 

“You’re the alpha, sister of mine. Whatever you want.”

Stiles grimaced at the patronizing tone the man on the other side of the door used at his own alpha. He wasn’t wrong, but standing up to an alpha took a lot of guts, especially when it was your own alpha. 

Alpha Hale opened the door to the office Stiles had been sitting anxiously in for an hour already. At the sound Stiles jumped out of his seat and turned to face the door, his neck bared and his eyes on the floor. 

A huff of amusement before the alpha said, “Please be seated Emissary Stilinski.” 

Stiles fought to control his limbs in a show of poise and elegance as he sat back down in the antique chair. 

“As you know, we recently fired our previous emissary.” 

Recently meaning three years ago and fired meaning turned him over to the Druid Council for attempted mass murder. 

Stiles nodded politely, despite his thoughts. 

“You are young, inexperienced, and unknowing of many things.” The slight tilt to her head gave away that she was actively monitoring his heart rate. 

“Yes, Alpha Hale, that is why I have applied when all of my teachers told me not to.” Stiles took a risk by being blunt. 

“I see your spine Emissary Stilinski, be wary or you will see it too.” the angry girl that had watched him quietly for the hour he sat in the office waiting for the alpha to see him finally spoke. 

Alpha Hale did not reprimand her for the threat, “I know what the community thinks about packs that have been hurt by emissaries, and I know what the world thinks of my pack. What I do not know is why you think these are good things for you.” 

“Forgive me, Alpha Hale. I spoke out of turn and I should not have. What I am trying to say is that, my teachers fear your pack will abuse their next emissary. I do not feel the same way. I remember Cora Hale biting Jackson Whittmore when he pushed me down in the park. I remember Derek Hale catching my best friend Scott McCall when he fell out of a tree. And Alpha Hale, I remember you permitting my best friend to join your pack when he was unjustly turned, I remember you allowing him to live a normal life outside of the pack instead of assimilating. The Hales are good people and my father thinks you will be the perfect home for me, which is the biggest factor in my decision.” Stiles took a long breath to calm his nerves as he finished, his honey eyes meeting the alpha’s coffee ones despite everything he’d learned telling him to never look an alpha in the eyes. 

She considered him for a long moment before nodding to herself, “If we move forward things will not be like a normal induction. We are not the trusting pack we once were. You will have to prove yourself, in skill and in heart.” 

“Thank you Alpha. I will give it my all.” Stiles sighed, his shoulders slumping minutely. 

-

“For your first test I need you to help my husband Adam collect firewood.” 

Stiles turned those words over in his head again and again trying in vain to see where the test would lie, but kept coming up with nothing. 

He knew that Adam Hale was the heart of the pack, a mediator and a skilled fighter. Other than that Stiles didn’t know anything about the man. 

His train of thought was broken by a handsome man brushing passed him on his way up the porch steps of the Hale mansion, the man exuded angry vibes at such a close range so strongly Stiles stumbled. 

The man, Peter Hale if Stiles remember from his notes well enough, stopped and turned his head back to glare at him.

“Excuse me, Enforcer Hale. Sorry I was in the way.” Stiles spoke calmly, knowing that the werewolf had to be monitoring his heart rate. 

The man smirked at him, his eyes flashing blue, “You’re not and you weren’t.” 

Stiles smiled a docile smile that usually ended in him being easily underestimated, instead of placating the man it only seemed to make him more angry and intrigued. Stiles deliberately turned his back on the enforcer and made his way up the last step of the porch to knock on the door. 

Adam Hale was the one whom opened the door, a bright smile on his face, “Hello Emissary Stilinski! I’m Adam.” 

The hand that shook his was warm and strong, and Stiles found himself missing his father despite that fact that he’d left the man only an hour prior. 

“Hello Mr.Hale! I’m eager to complete our task today!” Stiles beamed up at the Hale’s right hand unable to hide his excitement. 

Adam stepped out and closed the door behind him before turning back to Stiles as they made their way into the forest, “Please call me Adam, I’m excited to meet you Emissary Stilinski.” 

“If I have to call you Adam, please call me Stiles!” 

“Stiles? How peculiar! I like it!” 

Stiles spent the next several hours talking about his family and helping Adam collect firewood, he completely forgot that this was supposed to be his first test. Stiles talked about his mother’s illness, his father’s alcoholism, his magic well into the afternoon. Adam asked questions here and there, but mostly Stiles babbled about everything good he had in his life happily. 

There had been a tense moment when Adam had asked exactly how his magic worked and if he’d discovered his limit yet. Stiles had taken a moment to answer carefully, his magic a private part of himself and one that was both a weapon and a shield. When Adam’s next question was about where his weaknesses lied Stiles had laughed and changed the topic with ease. The Hales were his intended pack, but that did not mean he was their emissary yet. 

When the sun had set and Stiles was floating a stack of firewood taller than himself they returned to the Hale mansion where Alpha Hale was waiting with her hands on her hips. 

“That took longer than I expected.” 

“Times flies when you’re having fun darling!” Adam chuckled, throwing his arm over Stiles in a casual gesture. “

Alpha Hale smiled at her husband, a silent conversation happening in an instant before she said, “Why don’t you join us for dinner Emissary Stilinski?” 

Stiles smiled politely at her before declining, his father would go to bed without supper if Stiles wasn’t there to have it waiting for him. 

Alpha Hale nodded her understanding and brushed her hand down his arm to scent mark him as he took his leave. 

Saturday he was to work in the garden with Derek Hale.

-

Stiles hadn't expected to see any of the Hales out in town, but on second thought that was a foolish notion. He'd always seen at least one of them out and around the town, so why would that change now that he was in the interview process? It wouldn't, which was obvious by the fact that Stiles had just walked face first directly into Peter Hale. 

Stiles bounced off the wall of muscle and landed on a soft cushion of air before he could hit the ground. He blinked dumbly up at Peter as he gathered his wits. 

"I'd say quick reflexes, but if that was accurate you wouldn't have walked into a stationary person in the first place." Peter's smooth voice wash over Stiles and for a moment he almost forgot he was being insulted. 

"Oh, eat me. I was thinking about what groceries I needed not why someone would be standing in the middle of the aisle staring at chocolate bars." Stiles snapped as he stood. 

Peter blinked, a singular eyebrow rising in disbelief. 

"What a smart mouth you have."

"All the better to bite you, dear." Stiles chomped the air after his little red riding hood quip. 

Peter chuckled a deep rumbling sound Stiles would be thinking about for days. 

"I like you much better outside the interview process, darling." Peter used one tree trunk like arm to box Stiles in against the aisle as he smiled. 

"I'm much nicer on your terf I'm afraid. Out here we're just two strangers for all I care, Peter. And I will not listen to anyone mock me for an accident." Stiles' eyes were burnt honey as he stared into Peter's handsome face. 

"Strangers we are not, mieczysław. I know everything about you. And I will figure out what your true motives are." Peter's suspicion sparked a memory in Stiles' mind, he was the voice that argued that they didn't need an emissary. 

"You seem to have been against me from day one." 

"Don't take it personally, darling. I'd love to be against you whenever you want, but you're right I don't want another emissary. We don't need one. I can do enough magic to lay wards and I can protect my pack more than some kid." Peter leered. 

Stiles took one breath before swiping his foot behind Peter's feet and knocking the werewolf to the ground. " One man is not enough to protect a pack and you know that. And I am more than some kid." 

With those words Stiles left the shocked and pissed off Peter Hale on the ground in the candy aisle and continued his shopping trip. 

-

Saturday came quickly and Stiles found himself sweating anxiously as he made his way up the driveway to the Hale's door. What if Peter convinced the alpha that Stiles couldn't be trusted with their safety? What he told them that Stiles attacked him unwarranted and the Spark Elders were waiting inside to bind his power? 

Stiles took a moment to collect himself and calm his heart rate before he knocked on the door. Adam opened the door with a smile and a hug. 

"Welcome back Stiles! How has your week been?" 

Pleasantries passed easily between the two of them as Adam led Stiles through the house and out the back door. Outside on the back porch Derek Hale sat reading a book quietly on a swing, he didn't look up as they exited the house. 

"Der, don't be rude. Find a stopping point." Adam admonished. 

Derek sighed and placed a pressed and laminated flower between the pages before looking at up them with irritated green eyes. 

"Hello Stiles. How's the sheriff?" The question sounded forced, like he would rather finish his book than do whatever silly task he and the spark had to do. 

"He's good. Still sneaking burgers behind my back. If I had your nose he'd never sneak another greasy burger passed me, but oh well. What are you reading?" Stiles tried to see what the cover said but Derek had placed the book face down. 

"The Sun and Her Flowers." Derek looked bashful which was so cute Stiles smiled. 

"Oh! I haven't read that one. I must confess I only read milk and honey because everyone was and I wanted to be cool." Stiles laughed awkwardly as he rubbed the back of his neck. 

"It's okay. That's why I read it too, but I discovered I actually like reading this stuff." Derek shrugged. 

"Okay boys enough chatter! Go get my flower beds looking pristine! Chop chop!" Adam said with a frown and a clap, but Stiles could feel the warmth of his happiness. 

Derek and Stiles spent all morning picking weeds out of the soil, planting new flowers, and trimming the existing ones. By the time Adam returned with lemonade and sandwiches both men were covered in dirty and wearing happy, content smiles. 

"It was really good to catch up, man. This might be lame to say but I really hope your mom accepts me." Stiles sighed out as he sun bathed next to Derek on the porch. 

"You've only got two more tests, so don't sweat it too much. You're doing well." Derek looked bashful again, which made Stiles beam at him before bumping his head softly on Derek's shoulder. 

-

The next time Stiles made the journey to the Hale's mansion it was evening already and all he knew was that Alpha Hale had requested his presence. 

He entered the house with a muttered, "Good luck, mieczysław." From Peter echoing in his head. 

"Stiles! Welcome back!" Adam cheered.

"Hey! What's going on? Does Alpha Hale need me for something or is this another test?" Stiles asked looking from Adam to Derek, who was reading a new book at the dining room table.

"Neither. I did not call you Emissary Stilinski. My daughters seem to think I am taking too long in deciding and have taken the third test from me. Is your father okay with you being over this late?" Alpha Hale announced as she descended the large staircase. 

"Oh! Yes he's fine with it. He's training a new third shift deputy tonight anyways. I dropped off his dinner on my way over." Stiles informed his eyes down and neck bared. 

When the alpha reached him she dragged her hand down his arm in a gesture of scent marking before gently lifting his head. 

"You do not have to do that Emissary Stilinski. Have you eaten?" Alpha Hale's voice was warm and welcoming. 

"I had a couple bites of dinner before I came over." 

"I am sorry my girls called you away from your dinner. We are just about to sit down and eat if you'd like to join us?"

"I would be honored Alpha Hale. Thank you."

Two women entered the kitchen with his acceptance and grinned at their mother. 

"Hello Stiles. Long time, man." Cora Hale said with a sideways grin and a hand ruffling his hair. 

"Sorry about her Stiles. I'm Laura, it's nice to officially meet you and not just watch you intimidatingly." Laura laughed, dragging her hand down the arm her mother hadn't already scent marked. 

"I wasn't intimidated." Stiles replied petulantly.

Laura raised a disbelieving eyebrow at him. 

"Very. I wasn't very intimidated." Stiles corrected. 

Laura gave him a look that said exactly how clear it was that he was lying. 

"Dang werewolves can't even let a man keep his manly image intact!" Stiles huffed causing both women to laugh as they took their seats across from him and Derek. 

Alpha Hale and Adam sat at the head of the table sharing space in a way that made Stiles warm with the love they radiated. It made him nostalgic for his childhood and soon he found himself talking about his mother. 

As they ate Alpha Hale kept glancing at the empty seat at the other end of the table. 

"I wonder why Peter didn't stay for dinner?" Cora asked, receiving a sharp look from her mother immediately. 

"He's probably just sulking because he's about to no longer be the only protector." Laura snickered. 

"That's enough." Their alpha said calmly, though both women reacted as if they'd been yelled at. 

After dinner was over Alpha Hale took Stiles up to her office. She looked at him for a long moment before sighing. 

"Let me be completely frank here, Stiles. Is it okay I call you Stiles?" 

Stiles nodded, preparing himself to be sent away from the Hale mansion for the last time. 

"Thank you. Stiles, you're a really good match for my pack and my family. My children love you, my husband wants to adopt you and your father already, and even my pack members you haven't officially met yet have been telling me how much they like your father and liked your mother. You have amazing control over a powerful type of magic and you come from a good family. On top of that you yourself are a good person and a good fit." 

Stiles tensed, the unsaid "but" hanging between them as Alpha Hale sighed again. This was the moment the guillotine blade fell. 

"But, I have one more thing to ask of you. You are very young and if you say no, we would still be honored to have you and your father join us for dinner whenever you'd like. We were almost burned alive because Emissary Deaton was seduced by someone with an agenda. To combat this I would like you to marry a member of my pack. It does not have to be a member of my family. I can send for eligible and willing pack members to come meet you. But my next emissary will not be so easily swayed by a pretty stranger."

Stiles' mind was reeling. Married? He was only twenty and he was expected to marry someone he didn't actually know all that well? He started thinking of pros and cons immediately, his mind moving faster than it had in a long time. He could feel the alpha's eyes on him as he tried to think his way in and around this proposal. 

He could say no. He could decline and still have the Hales as a valuable ally and friend, but he would have to seek a pack outside of town and further away from his father. He loved this family and the love they had for each other. If he married in then he and his father would be exposed to that warmth whenever the echoes of Claudia Stilinski haunted them. He would have a big family like he'd always wanted. He would have someone to sit with him when he worried too much over his father's health. He'd have someone to hold him at night when he was lonely and wishing his father would spend more time at home. 

"I'll do it. What about Peter?" 

-

"You're crazy. Peter is a hellion and an asshole on top of that." Cora looked at him with big shocked eyes when he told her. 

"Holy shit. Peter being married. That'll be a sight. I wonder if he'll say yes?" Laura pondered. 

"He'll say yes." Derek muttered distractedly, his fingers buried deep in the soil around his favorite flowers. 

"You don't know that." Stiles sighed. 

"I do. He's been muttering about your 'smart mouth' and your 'fine ass' since the first day you came to the house." Derek replied, not looking up. 

"You're right! I have heard him cursing your 'sinful hands'!" Cora laid back as she laughed loudly.

"You guys look how red his face is now!" Laura pointed out before joining her sister on the ground. 

Stiles buried his face in Derek's back and wished he could skip this part and just hurry up and be happily married. 

"Well I would've preferred a ring and a real proposal but I guess this will do, darling." Peter's deep voice shocked Stiles out of his embarrassed misery and had him on his feet before he knew was happening. 

"This will do?" Stiles squeaked. 

"Yes, sweetheart." Peter caressed Stiles face before kissing him softly. 

"You'll marry me so I can join the pack?" Stiles tried to refrain from using his puppy eyes but they were unstoppable at this point. 

"I'll marry you. Period." Peter muttered against Stiles' forehead before he kissed it. 

"But if you knock me to the ground like that again I'll have to punish you, love." Peter's eyes held a wicked promise as well as a challenge and Stiles found himself rushing forward to smash their lips together.

[hamlets-ghost-zaddy]

st. jude (the patron of lost causes)

Part 5/8

Donald Malarkey x Reader

The ghosts crowding the corners of your vision, hanging in the dark corners of the hospital tent, under the cots, and behind the cupboards of medical supplies tell you time passes.

As the faces of the soldiers—cheeks soft and rounded with boyhood—fade in detail, you know it’s been days since Buck Compton was packed up into the back of a truck and Malarkey rode back into the Ardennes. The phantom of Buck himself (the ghosts were often undiscerning, not really caring if they were alive or dead, and haunted you regardless) had turned into a smudge of icy blue eyes and pale shocks of hair that you’d swear, if you glanced at his former cot fast enough, he still occupied. So, time has passed; exactly how much, you’d have to ask Constance, but then, it is almost better not to know. So, Malarkey still inhabits a corner of your thoughts, thoughts you’ve disciplined yourself to only turn to in the quiet moments of eating a meal or in the dark moments before you fall into sleep. And, it’s okay, you’re okay (or whatever ‘okay’ means in this damn war.)

You find yourself reaching for St. Jude in the first few days after you give it Malarkey; your fingers brush against the soft cotton of your nursing uniform, against the smooth skin of your collarbone, and for one stomach-yanking, swelling moment, you think you’ve lost it. Yet, the memory will resurface—flooding your senses with rich soil brown eyes and a laugh just how you’d thought it’d be—and those nerves calm. You become entirely calm. And, when you can, you step outside the hospital tent to let your breath fog in front of you, holding your arms tight across your chest, and you look to the tree-line crowding the hospital’s field.

The string—you’ve started to think of it as a string, something that tugs taut when he’s gone and goes slack when he’s near—seems to vibrate, plucked with an invisible hand, when you look at the trees and think that somewhere (maybe a mile away, maybe ten miles away) Malarkey is looking toward the hospital and pretending to see you, too.

It’s Constance, infinite in her facets and multitudes in her wisdom, who tells you.

You’re organizing the supply tent, trying to resort some semblance of order after a swarm of orderlies practically threw the latest replenishment of plasma in without any regard (and you don’t really feel like being yelled at Schroder again, thank you very much). Constance hurries through the tent flap, practically tripping over her feet in her rush. She’s puffing, but manages to get out, “Stop what you’re doing; we’re moving.”

Turning away from digging through a box of plasma, you blink up at her, clipboard falling limply to your side. “What? Seriously? I just finished that side of—” you begin to gripe.

Constance rushes on. “They’ve finally taken Foy.”

“Foy?” you repeat, the name sounding familiar. “And I’m hoping you mean ‘us’ by ‘they.’”

She shoos a hand at you. “Of course I do; our troops, at least. Easy Company,” she concludes, face splitting with a grin. Her eyes are fucking twinkling.

You eye her warily. “Okay?”

“Easy Company,” she repeats, expression slackening slightly when you don’t react. She tsks, tossing her hands. “Oh, come on; it’s the company Lieutenant Compton and your Sergeant serve in. They’ve taken Foy, and they’re on to some other towns today and tomorrow. They’re coming off the line.”

Your stomach does acrobatics at the phrase ‘your sergeant,’ at the thought of Malarkey in the fever pitch of battle for three days in a row over some tiny provincial French villages (you decide with an iron conviction that if Malarkey is hurt while fighting over a goddamn village, you’ll take on the entire German Army and give them a piece of your mind). Tempering the nerves making your voice wobbly, the excitement stoking like a fire in your chest, you manage: “What does this have to do with us moving?”

“Well, we’re following the front,” Constance replies practically, not to be put out by your sensible response. “So, they move, we move.” Your lips twitch, a barely repressed grin, and Constance beams. She steps to your side, squeezing your hand and you squeeze back. You both look around at the heaps of supplies around us.

You say: “Let’s get going moving this shit, then.”

The locations of the evacuation hospitals are a continuous parade of fields with crackling dried grass underfoot and thin, gray-barked trees standing sentry at the perimeter. The new location isn’t any different.

Your shepherding the few new patients already received from the line—all the ones you had before were moved on to a field hospital, no point hauling them along with the cots and pillows and threadbare blankets and crates upon crates of red-cross emblazoned medical supplies—when an orderly roars up in Jeep. “Nurse!” he calls, waving to get your attention as he takes a flying leap from the Jeep.

(It takes a mighty feat of restraint to keep from rolling your eyes; the hotshot’s going to hurt himself driving and throwing himself around like that.)

“A moment, Private,” you reply, waving a corporeal to a cot near the door and settling him before turning back to the orderly. Only to yourself would you admit you enjoyed making Jeep-driving orderlies wait on you. They always came roaring into the hospital, a Hermes with ill omens on their heels, hat akimbo as if they thought it made them look dashing. Only after you’ve fixed the corporeal with a second pillow, a generous serving of stew, and a glass of watery lemonade, you turn to the orderly, hands in your uniform pockets. “What can I do for you, Private?”

He perks up. God, he’s young. “You’re needed on the line, ma’am.” Pausing, he tacks on, as if you protested: “Nowhere dangerous, of course. A convent where some guys are staying for the evening.”

“What’s the injury?” you ask.

The orderly hesitates, worrying his hat in his hands.

“Out with it, Private.”

He coughs and finally manages: “Shot in the, uh, bottom, ma’am. The medic says it needs stitches, but doesn’t have the supplies.”

“Right,” you reply, carefully clinging to your professionalism for fear of laughing. Someone getting shot is never a laughing matter (even if it is the ass). Still, you can’t wait to tell Constance. “I’ll grab some supplies to give this medic, my bag, and I’ll be ready to go.”

The Jeep skids to a stop in the yard of a gray-stone abbey an hour or so after dusk, and you grind your teeth to keep from admonishing the orderly for his driving. You feel like your brain has been whisked around in your skull.

Between clenched teeth, you say, “Thank you, Private.” Clambering down from the Jeep, you could kiss the ground. Instead, you content yourself with arranging your medicine bag’s strap on your shoulder and lean to grab the box of supplies for this company’s medic.

“Sure thing, ma’am,” the orderly replies. “Do you want me to wait for you, ma’am?”

“If you’re not needed elsewhere, I’d appreciate it,” you reply, wanting to point out that, if he didn’t wait, you’d be literally stranded. Politely, you keep this to yourself, and turn away as the orderly turns off the Jeep’s engine, lounging back and (by the looks of it) readying for a nap.

Gusting out a sigh, you crunch across the convent’s gravel yard and into the main abbey. The inside is modest, a choir singing behind the pulpit and—music, it’s been months since you heard music. You stop, closing your eyes and sighing as the women’s voices soak into your ears, your mind, your heart. They’re singing in French, but the language doesn’t matter. It’s universal.

A cough near you, and you open your eyes to the rest of the church. A collection of soldiers—haggard, streaked in mud and sweat and flecks of dried blood—are draped on the pews, in the choir loft, all sleeping or on the verge of it. They look hollow, completely empty inside their drab green uniforms, and you’ve only seen shadows like those living on their faces on the soldiers who came through the hospital with a diagnosis of battlefield fatigue. You want to help, yet, your eyes catching on a man propped up on a stretcher next to a pale-skinned medic, you only have time for the one. There’s never time for saving everyone, and physical wounds are easiest to heal.

You go to stand before the medic, announcing yourself with a gentle: “Hey. I’m Nurse Y/N.”

He blinks up at you, mouth twitching into a fleeting smile. You wonder when the last time he smiled was. In a low drawl, lower than you expected from such a slight, pale man, he replies, “Good to see you. I’m Roe.”

The man on the stretcher at Roe’s shoulder props himself up on his elbows, a grin quirking up along with a thick, Italian eyebrow. “And I’m Frank.”

“Nice to meet you both,” you say, before nodding to the box of supplies in your arms. “These are for you, Roe. The orderly mentioned you were low on supplies.” His eyes spark as they look at the box, and he accepts it with eager hands. His barely-contained joy reminds you of a teenager on Christmas, attempting to pent up a boyish delight with a perceived dignity. You offer: “Everything I could get my hands on: morphine, sulfa, bandages, plasma, surgery thread, some extra scissors and needles, too.”

His head perks up to you.

Not sure what that expression means, you add: “I hope you won’t need it much, though. I hear you’re coming off the line.”

Roe nods. “Yeah, that’s the word but I really appreciate this still.” He gestures with the box.

“Don’t thank me,” you say, the sincerity in his voice making you shift. You determinedly face Frank, presumably the man shot in the, uh, ‘bottom.’ “Are you the soldier I was sent to patch up?”

Frank, without a measure of abashment, says, “Guilty, ma’am.”

You snort, you can’t help it in the face of his bravado, before asking Roe, “Standard procedure?”

“Sure: sulfa, bandages. Sewed him yesterday morning, but the stitches tore,” Roe says, mouth twisting with regret and you know he blames himself for causing Frank more pain.

Your fingers twitch at your side, wanting to rest a comforting hand on Roe’s shoulder. You bury your hands in the fold of your skirts to keep your hands at your side. “Good, well, we’ll get you patched up and moving again, Frank. Get you off this stretcher.”

The convent’s abbess shows you, Roe, and Frank to a cloister brightened by a heavy candelabra stand blazing with candles. It’s more than enough light—and privacy—to sew up Frank’s ass wound (done without blushing on your part, with an extraordinary amount of puns on Frank’s part, and multiple chuckles and put-upon head-shakes on Roe’s part). When you’re done, you wash your stitching needle from a basin provided by the abbess before sterilizing it over one of the candle flames.

Roe assists Frank in arranging himself before going to fetch another man to help with Frank’s stretcher.

Frank watches you as you move around the cloister, eyes tracking how you pass the needle through the flames. “What are you doing?” he asks after a beat.

“Sterilizing the needle,” you reply. “It helps kill germs and makes it clean to use for another ass injury.” You throw a grin over his shoulder.

He snorts, shaking his head. “Do you have specific needles you only use for ass injuries?”

Quite seriously, you assure, “Of course. I have a whole box of needles labeled ‘ass, toes, fingers, nose.’”

Frank hoots at that before cutting himself off with a groan. You frown, moving to his side but he waves a hand at your concern, settling to lay on his back. “Don’t worry about it, just a little pain but it’s gone now.” He folds his hands on his stomach, shooting you a grin before his eyes rove back to the ceiling. Silence as you stow away the needle and the other supplies used. Then: “How did you get to being a nurse?”

You still, fingers suspended, and turn the question over in your head: how did you get to being a nurse?

“I…” you begin, only to sputter into silence. “I...” No words come. You can’t remember what took you to the Army Nurse Corp recruitment center nearly two years ago.

Roe returns then, followed by two men, their faces shadowy beyond the reach of the candlelight. One of the men steps forward to grab one end of the stretcher as Roe gets the other, and you maneuver your way into a corner of the cloister to allow them space to finagle the stretcher out and Frank on it. You wave a hand to Frank as he calls his thanks to you, shaking your head as he sings your praises as ‘the smartest, most talented nurse in the whole damn war.’

Only when the stretcher is out of sight, the cloister falling to silence, that you realize the second man still stood in the shadows. You squint against the gloom, but can’t distinguish his features. “Soldier?” you say. “Is there something I can do for you? Are you injured?”

A pause. He steps into the light.

A breath, halfway down to your lungs, rattles and cuts painfully short in your throat.

“Don,” you manage to get out when you remember how to breathe. Later, you’ll try to remember who moved first, because his arms are around you before you can think of another word, your nose is pressed into the lapel of his uniform, your fingers buried in the folds of his uniform. Into his chest, you whisper, “You’re safe, you’re safe, thank God, you’re safe.”

His nose is against your hair, his breath hot against your forehead, and the string between you is entirely slack. Entirely at ease. Memories no longer flood your senses; instead, it’s his physical presence—the solid goodness of him being so near—and you both allow time to drag by, taking minutes with it. The weeks between when you saw him last feel like an instant and a yawning expanse all at once. How can I live without him? you wonder, eyes closed and memorizing the feeling of his chest rising and falling under your ear. How can I, when I know now what his arms around me feels like?

He’s the next to speak. “I’ve lost so many people. So many friends.”

You want to look into his face, you want to check how many ghosts you see there, but his arms are tight around your ribs and you don’t want to pull away for anything. What he needs from you isn’t a nurse to diagnosis the horrors he’s seen and deduce the amount of sympathy and care to dole out. So, you move your arms around his neck; the twin chains of his icon and St. Jude’s necklace are slivers of coolness against your skin. His fingers bury into the blue cotton of your uniform, and he clings to you desperately. You cling to him, equally as desperate.

“I saw them die; a shell fell directly on their foxhole and…”

‘And nothing was left,’ is implied. Nothing left for Malarkey to grasp tightly in his hands, in his heart, and remember them by. The only thing that remained, the only indication of their lives, was a burnt-out foxhole. You remember that feverish expression he wore last time you saw him, and wondered how recently the loose of his friends had been.

You don’t say you’re sorry—though you are—because you’d just be repeating yourself. He knows you hurt for him by your hands against his neck, your body pressed against his, and words would be entirely redundant. Tears, tepid and heavy, seep into your hair as his shoulder begin to shake, and you let him cry into you. You will hardness into your arm muscles, so he’ll feel their weight and now you’re here—you’re not going anywhere—and he can cry into you as long as he needs.

When his shoulders still, slouching with the effort of silent sobs, you move your fingers to tangle into his hair, pressing a kiss against the skin just above St. Jude’s icon. He stills, his arms going rigid, and then a wave floods his limbs, making his droop and melt under your lips. He presses a kiss against your forehead.

It’s appropriate you’re in a church, tucked away into the dark recesses of a holy sanctuary, because you send a silent song of thanks to St. Jude, to anyone listening, for the perfectness of being in his arms. For the goodness of Malarkey, for allowing you to comfort him and him to comfort you.

(You could curse the orderly, bumbling and loud and calling your name, that he had to get going and you needed to, too, if you wanted a ride. You draw out of Malarkey’s arms, feeling like you were tearing away a part of yourself from a whole, and see your regret reflected back in his eyes.)

[ryderreturns]

Snapped || Sanderley

Tagged: Santana Lopez, Ryder Lynn, Marley Rose

When: 3rd November, around 5:30pm

Where: Sciron Square 405

Why: Santana goes to find Ryder, only to discover the state he is in. Marley, looking for her missing friend, comes across the same thing. 

What: Major Trigger warnings for Drugs, Mental Illness, Mental Breakdown, Hallucinations, mentions of Animal Harm, Guns, Death

Santana waits for Ryder to answer his phone. She checks her phone every second. Waiting for Ryder to answer. 4 minutes later which feel like torture, she decides to pay him a visit to his own room. She gets out of her room, and hates she has to check it in person because she has to pretend to act normal. She knocks at Ryder's door. "Ryder! It's me, your best friend Santana. Open the door!" C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, or I will have to open it myself.

Ryder sits in his room that is more than just a complete mess. Birds, squirrels, raccoons, and rats move about freely. There's one in his hair. The only thing he keeps them away from is his mini fridge, which is running dangerously low. He looks up at the sound of knocking and calling. "That's Santana, my dude," he tells the room, repeating it in a set of different animal languages until everybody understands. He stands up and walks over to the door, not taking the common Starling from his head. As he opens it, he reveals the state of himself. His whole body is trembling, his eyes are open just a little too wide, and the whole room smells like pot and animals. "Hey, what's up?"

Santana covered her nose at the smell of dirty animals and pot, the worst combination of smells. 'You can't be like this, Ryder. You're supposed to help me,' she thought, desperate. "What the hell, Ryder?" she said, trying to sound more worried than desperate. "What's going on?"

Ryder stepped back into his room, going over to sit on his bed. "We're just hanging out. Lola," he said, pointing out a raccoon, "Was telling us about this mean guy she ran into while trash diving for food."

Santana fucking hate dirty raccoons. She hated this room full of dirty animals and was the last thing she wanted to see right now. But Ryder was the first thing she wanted to see right now. "Ryder. Ryder." She put her hands on her face, trying not to scream. Who cares about a fucking raccoon life. God, this is the fucking worse. She breathes, calming herself. "I didn't ask about the raccoon. What's going on with YOU? Why are you doing this? Something's obviously wrong," she says. "C'mon, Ryder, I'm your friend, please, just tell me."

Ryder doesn't lose his spaced out half-smile. "I'm just chilling," he shrugs. "Everything's good here, my dude." He looks around his room, vaguely aware he was missing something, but not sure what. Not his necklace, he has his necklace. So what? "San, do you smoke? I've got more," he offers, turning to root around in his nightstand for another joint. "Or I've got harder stuff. Trust me, it's good. Just makes it all go away." He gets distracted and looks to a squirrel, answering back in its language, "No, she doesn't have any nuts. Don't try to check her."

Marley feels pulled in a million directions presently between the collars and her own personal shit, but Ryder's never not answered a text from her. And given that it's been a week and a half since the last full moon, no answer leaves her feeling uncomfortable. So when Olivia leaves for a class, she takes her opportunity and ducks out of her dorm to head down the hall to his room. She's assaulted by an overwhelming potpourri of scents though that leaves her stomach churning the remnants of her meager breakfast. "Aether in all hell, Ry, how much have you been smo-" Her vocal admonishing cuts short at the sight of Santana in the doorway. She raises a brow, then moves to join her, just about stumbling over her own feet upon seeing what she sees. Animals. So many animals. And a haze that almost makes her eyes water. She can feel a headache already beginning to form behind her eyes between that and the smell. "... Ryder, what the hell happened here?" she asks in disbelief.

Santana is not even going to enter that room. "Is not. Running away won't make your problems go away," she says, with determination. Oh, escapism. Classic. "No, thanks. I like smelling good." She sighs, trying to not scream. "It's not... it doesn't go away. Ryder. You have a problem, we fix it, together." If any animal touches her, she will kill them. No, fuck, I can't do that. "C'mon, Ryder. Tell me what's the real problem." She glares at Marley. Just great. A room full of animals and Marley, her favourite combination. "Someone doesn't want to face his problems," she summarizes.

Ryder: As Santana gets angrier, a few of the animals begin to scamper out through the window. Ryder jumps up to call for them out of his window. "Wait, come back!" He turns around and glares at Santana, noticing Marley had joined her. "Jesus Christ, do you know how long I've waited for them to be cool with me again? After every fucking full moon, I have to work back to this." The flip in his mood doesn't just get thrown at the women. He turns and starts telling the others to leave in chirps and squeaks and growls until his room is emptied out except for the three of them. "What do you want?" he throws at them.

Marley's positive she's never been on the receiving end of so much yelling on his part before. It only serves to make her mad. "I tried texting you and you didn't text me back," she answers, realizing a split second later how lame she sounds. Whatever. "You always text me back. And if you don't, clearly something's amiss." She steps inside, looks around at the various stains and scuffs and evidence of the sheer number of animals that have trafficked their way through his room as of recent, the downturn of her lips becoming more pronounced. "How long have you been holed up in here?"

Santana feels so damn uncomfortable about this. But she has to endure. "What if you didn't have to wait anymore?" she asks, with a little bit of 'I'm asking but I know the answers, Ryder Lynn'. If Marley wasn't here, she would tell him more.

Ryder gets a lightbulb over his head. His phone, that's what he was missing. He turns and chews on his thumbnail, seeing more to his room than there was. "King, get off the ceiling," he says. "Say hi to them." His brow furrows when he doesn't spot his phone. Santana's confusing question has him shaking his head. "Nope, no. He said that. There's no gun. I don't want to - I can't do that."

Marley's eyes float to the ceiling, though why, she couldn't begin to tell you. King wasn't there. He wasn't in the room at all, actually, now that she was looking around again. Her gaze turns back to Santana, brow furrowing as she asks, "What the hell is he going on about?" She turns back to Ryder and asks, "How much have you had? To smoke? To drink?" To, Aether only knew what else.

Santana was frustrated. God, the Old Bastard was so fucking right, you scream for help but everyone is just in their own shit. "This is useless. Who is he? What gun? You can't do what?" she asked, but didn't have much hopes for a decent answer. She doesn't look at Marley to answer her. "I don't know. Ugh, let's just take him to Avicenna before the barricade starts."

Ryder closes his eyes, his face twitching. "If I stay in here, they can't get me. If I stay in here, I can't get me," he mumbles, shaking his head. A laugh leaves him, almost sounding like a choke. "Who's afraid of the big, bad wolf? Big... bad... wolf." He spins on his feet, eyes opening to look at Santana and Marley. "Don't let me die. I don't want to, not really, honest."

It's like being doused in ice water, hearing those words. Marley purses her lips against whatever expression threatens to break through as her eyes now flit to empty, broken bottles on the floor. Potion bottles. There's no telling what exactly he's done to himself and it's nothing either her nor Santana can readily fix. "Alright, let's get him out of here," she agrees.

Santana tries to make some sense of the words. "You can't get yourself?" She will ask him later, when he is acting normal. Big bad wolf, that's what you have been reduced to, Ryder. Just a werewolf. "I would never let you die." Lied Santana like she really believed she could stare at Death in the eyes and tell her she was her bitch. Santana entered to pick up Ryder to take him out with Marley.

Ryder nods at that, confident in Santana in the moment and believing her. He takes his water flask out of his pocket, clasping it in his right hand as one of his arm goes around Santana's shoulders and the other around Marley's. "I'm hungry," he muses. "Can we go get food together?"

In any other instance, Marley would've found a way to brush off this behavior with the offer of donuts and pizza and all manner of junk food, but seeing Ryder like such a mess has her scared. She shouldn't have let it drag on for this long without talking to him about the drinking and the using. Clearly it had been to the detriment of something. "We have to go see a friend first," she told him, steering them towards his door and out into the hall. It wasn't a lie. Nurse Penny might as well be part of their weird, dysfunctional friend/family group at this point. "Then we can get donuts."

[pinkletterday]

WiP Week Day 2

Fandom: The Flash

Pairing: Barry Allen/ Iris West

Rating: All Audiences

Characters: Barry Allen, Iris West, Joe West, Wally West, Francine West, Cecile Horton

Summary: A year after Barry had inexplicably run off to join the Starling City Police Department, he is finally home for Christmas with the Wests. And this time he seems ready to actually tell them who he's dating for a change.

Problem is, Iris is pretty sure she doesn't want to hear it.

A/N: Part of a Barry-and-Oliver-come-out-to-their-families prequel to my Coldflash vs Olivarry polyam AU. Despite the name, Westallen plays an important part in the story because it's polyam and therefore complicated.

I really want to finish writing this monster dear Lord but there is so MUCH and Im not sure if this little snippet, so near and dear to my heart, will make the cut.

A Christmas Revelation

On the face of it, this is the best Christmas they've had in years. Certainly since they had found out Wally existed six years ago. Actually, even before that, because the whole reason Iris had been in Keystone to run into her mother and Wally was because she and Barry had been spending the whole summer avoiding each other. On account of Barry having ruined everything the Christmas before, by declaring himself in love with her.

Obviously he was well over that now. There had been...a lot...that had happened afterward between them, and even more that had not. But now, seven years on, everything was back to normal.

Iris watched her so-called best friend sprawled on the floor, teaching her teenage brother the secrets of Jenga, while the rest of the family did actual work, like decorating the Christmas tree. This used to be hers and Barry's favourite Christmas ritual, after exchanging their gifts for each other on Christmas eve rather than Christmas day. But he hadn't been around last year, having inexplicably abandoned them all and run off to a job in Starling City of all places. And the year before that...

Iris viciously pokes the Christmas ornament from her eighth grade handcrafts project onto the tree. Why did Dad keep hoarding all this stuff? It's not like any of them actually gave a damn.

"Hey! Careful!" says Joe appearing at her elbow. "That's my favourite!" His hands are full of eggnog and his Santa hat lopsided.

"They're all your favourite, Dad," says Iris rolling her eyes.

"Damn right," says Joe, passing a glass to Cecile. "It took years to carefully collect that much junk I couldn't bear to part with."

"Junk is right," says Cecile sharing an exasperated look with Iris. "I don't know where on earth you even stored your LP collection before Barry moved out."

"Oh yeah, that's right," Barry looks up from his Jenga tower with a faux-injured expression. "I forgot I'm homeless now. I've been edged out by Joe's jazz memorabilia. I see how it is."

"And here you were worried about Wally," says Iris, serenely tying a bauble.

She revels in the slightly awkward pause that follows, even though she knows she's going to pay for it later. She can feel her Dad's "what-is-going-on-with-you" glare burning her ear.

"Nope, it's true. I love you kids, but Duke Ellington's never given me the grief you have, so he gets to stay with me and the rest of you can move your asses out." Joe stretches out on his arm chair with his eggnog and a sigh of satisfaction.

"And where does that leave me?" Cecile perches on the arm of Joe's chair to look saucily down at him.

"I'll have to ask Duke about that," deadpans Joe. The room cracks up as Cecile gasps in indignation and swats him.

"What are we laughing at now?"

Francine has finally come down to join them. She had been ill with a migraine all day, the only pall over an otherwise perfectly amiable family gathering. Her face still looks drawn and she's wearing her silk bed scarf over her hair.

"How are you feeling, Francine?" Cecile's slight shift from genuine warmth to a touch too polished concern is hardly noticeable, but Iris sees it in the minute way she straightens her back and evens her features.

"Oh, it was just a headache, Cecile, thanks for asking," her mother replies in the same cordial "company voice". Iris stares intently at the tree as the two exchange pleasantries. She quite likes Cecile and...doesn't hate Mom anymore but it's still new and weird, the two of them in the same house she grew up in and her Mom walked out of. They probably feel the same.

"So Joanie isn't coming," says Wally, oblivious to Cecile's slight flinch, "and Aunt Edna got snowed in, so is this everyone that's here for dinner?"

"Do you ever not think about your stomach?" Iris teases, throwing a bunch of tinsel at her little brother's head.

He kicks it defensively towards a laughing Barry. "I'm a growing boy!"

"You can stop any day now," says Iris, pouting. "You were so cute and cuddly when I met you! And now you look like a pool noodle with ridiculous ears."

"And you were a lot nicer when I met you," complains Wally. "But I still have to put up with these insults and serious damage to my adolescent self-esteem!"

"She's just bitter, Wall," says Barry sagely. "She used to be the tallest kid in class in elementary school and lorded it over everyone. And then I got taller than her when we were twelve and she couldn't win playing keep-away anymore. Been a bitter Oompa Loompa ever since."

"I am not an Oompa Loompa," cries Iris, throwing more tinsel at the idiots now snickering and fistbumping on the floor. "You two are just...freakish. Abnormally tall. And slow and lumbering. Like the giant tree people in Lord of the Rings."

"Ents," Barry and Wally chorus.

"Also nerds," says Iris agreeably.

Cecile, Joe and Francine are laughing at them and Iris feels a smile pulling at her own mouth until she realizes that none of them know...anything. And that this probably looks to them like an amusing picture of sibling rivalry. With Barry. Iris fights down a stab of nausea and looks away lest she catch his eye.

"To answer your question, we're waiting on two more people," says Joe.

"Chyre's coming, right?" says Barry, with vague interest. "Haven't seen Frank in a year. How is he?"

Well, he'd know if he had actually gone anywhere and looked anyone up during the two weeks in fall that he had spent holed up in her Dad's house, using up nearly all his vacation days and not even telling her he had come home. Iris glares at the last bronze bell in the box. It's just like Barry - a useless tool.

"Dad invited Officer Pretty Boy as well," she interjects brightly as Joe brings Barry upto speed on the CCPD goings-on.

Her father rolls his eyes and Barry's eyebrows rise. "Officer Pretty Boy?"

"Really, Iris?"

"Well, you called him that, Dad!"

"I may have been a bit unfair," admits Joe. "He's just young and eager to prove himself."

"And he can't help being pretty," she nods, earning a stern pointed finger from Joe.

"Who are we talking about?" asks Barry, lost.

"Eddie Thawne. New transfer from Keystone. Turns out Francine knows him."

"Nice kid," her Mom volunteers. "Son of a very unpopular mayor, but he's nothing like. Took one of my first aid courses at the hospital and volunteered at the youth center. I asked Joe if we could have him for Christmas."

"I'd rather have the goose," Wally moans into the floor, now lying dramatically spread-eagled on his stomach. "I'm going to die of hunger before these people ever get here."

"If you did, I'm sure you'll rescurrect in time for dessert," retorts Iris.

Wally sticks his tongue out at her. Then makes a face that his embarrassing seventeen-year-old self probably thinks is sly. "Hey, Dad? Are any of these guys single?"

"Well, Chyre's been divorced for fifteen years and he isn't seeing anyone," says Joe idly. "I can ask, if you swing that way, Wally."

Everyone bursts into laughter at the boy's spluttering discomfiture. Iris turns to exchange grins with Barry in triumph and notices that he isnt laughing. He just looks...squirrelly. Again.

"There's nothing wrong with liking boys, Joe," admonishes Cecile and Barry's shoulders relax incrementally.

"I never said there was. Wally's the one who wanted to know."

"For Iris!" the boy pouts, his ears still glowing red. "Cause life is bad enough as a bitter Oompa Loompa without spending it alone."

"Thank you for your concern," says Iris acidly. "But I can find my own boyfriends."

Barry coughs something into his eggnog that sounds a lot like "Brad."

She smiles at him, sweet as a knife. "Did you have something to say, Barr?"

"Nope." Wide-eyed and innocent.

"I liked your last boy actually," says Francine, arranging herself on the sofa with a plate of cookies. "Will something. He seemed decent."

"Dry white toast," snorts Wally and Barry smirks at the floor.

"He was not!" He totally was. "Will was perfectly nice. You liked him, didnt you, Barry?"

"He was a nice guy," he shrugs and Iris feels again that stab of irritation. "Just..."

"Just what?"

He finally looks at her, face unreadable. "Just didnt seem like your type, that's all."

Oh he thinks so, does he. "And what is my type, Bartholomew?"

Barry looks clearly discomfited and the others are looking at her in slight surprise. Iris realizes she is coming across rather confrontational and forces herself to relax.

"Bitter Oompa Loompas," warbles Wally through a mouthful of cookie.

Iris looks incredulously at him amid everyone's laughter. "It's like being related to a parrot."

***

[thethespacecoyote]

instead of working on any major project or any prompt I did this because I’m sick and sand and I wanted to write something with Jack being sick and sad

it’s not very good but orz just take it

“Rhys,” Jack mumbles around a spoon, “this soup sucks.”

Rhys acknowledges him only with an annoyed hiss and a slight roll of the eyes as he pulls the spoon back from between Jack’s lips and soaks it back into the bowl. Sure, the celery kind of dissolved into the broth and turned it a bit green and he might not have added enough salt, but the carrots and chicken and noodles are all good quality and taste fine to Rhys, so he doesn’t know where Jack iss coming from.

The older man snorts, and coughs, and audibly sucks snot up through his nose. Rhys cringes as he stirs the soup, trying to seek out a heartier morsel.

“I dunno what you’re talking about. It’s not that bad. Also I’m not sure I trust the taste buds of the guy who’s stuffed to the gills with mucus.”

“A palate as mighty as mine can’t be defeated by a friggin’ cold,” Jack waggles his finger from within the folds of the blanket wrapped around him like a cocoon. Only his head and hands pop out from the butter yellow comforter, making him look like some kind of weird monster. The Great Golden Hyperion Sniffler, or something.

“All right, Mr. Master Chef, open up ‘cause you’re not gonna get anything else until you get better.” Rhys waves the laden spoon in front of Jack’s lips, holding the bowl underneath to catch any dripping. Jack frowns deeply, breathing through his nose muffled as he narrows his eyes at the spoon.

“Think I’d rather starve…”

“Nuh-uh, no starving. The King of Hyperion isn’t going to die just because he doesn’t want to eat his boyfriend’s soup,” Rhys admonishes as he wiggles the spoon in front of Jack’s lips.

“C’mon now don’t be a wimp. See, here’s comes the bandit, launching out of the airlock!”

Luckily for Rhys, that gets Jack to snicker, leaving him an opening to slip the spoon between his boyfriend’s lips. Jack grunts and glared, but swallows down the spoonful nonetheless, his grimace this time around a little less dramatic.

“When I’m back to full strength, I’ve got to give you some friggin’ cooking lessons, pumpkin,” Jack grouses as he settles back against the headboard, shaky hands dragging the comforter tighter about himself.

“That’s plenty of motivation for you to get better, then. Once you kick this flu, I promise you won’t have to eat my soup ever again.” Rhys dids around the bowl for a big piece of chicken and a couple of dripping noodles. “But until then…”

Jack moans, flopping his head back as he snorts mucus back into his swollen nose.

“Please, kiddo, no more torture….and I’ve like, actually been tortured so I know what I’m talking about.”

“Okay, drama queen.” Rhys nestles the soup in his lap, holding up a finger. “One more bite, and I’ll put the rest in the fridge, okay?”

“In the fridge? Kiddo, I think you know where that belongs, in the tras—“

“Shush.” Rhys shoves the last spoonful into Jack’s helpless mouth, quickly dropping it back into the bowl as Jack struggles to swallow it down. “You’re really mouthy for someone who is apparently sick.”

“I am sick.” Jack licks his cracked lips as he snuggles back against his pillow, eyes starting to flutter shut. “What….do I need to be….blowin’ chunks everywhere for you to believe me…”

“I’d prefer if you kept my soup down, thanks,” Rhys chuckles as he rises, cradling the soup in one hand as the other tugs the blankets tighter around Jack’s body and checks his temperature. Mollified for now, Rhys pats Jack atop the head, earning a sleepy grumble and an abortive swat. He dims the bedroom lights on his way out, leaving Jack to rest in the dark and quiet as he returns to the kitchen to keep the soup for later.

Things are fairly  boring around the penthouse with Jack laid up and ill.

Rhys usually occupies himself with organizing Jack’s inevitable clutter or spending his time watching television or playing on one of the many game systems, and if neither of those tickle his fancy he browses the ECHOnet on his palm display. He usually flips through new options for his wardrobe or plays any of the little mini games that have come installed with his operating system, but the needling fact that Jack is ill, even with something as mundane as the flu, keeps him from relaxing enough to properly enjoy any of the aforementioned activities. He hops from one to the next to the next, with not enough focus to linger on one for much longer than a few minutes. After about an hour of foiled distractions, he finally decides to make himself a grilled cheese and curl on the couch, where he gratefully ends up falling asleep snuggled around one of the firm throw pillows.

He wakes up for no clear reason sometime later, moaning softly to himself as he drags into an upright position, rubbing his eyes and ruffling his fingers back through his hair as he squints towards the digital clock on the entertainment center, though considering he can’t remember when he fell asleep, it doesn’t particularly help.

Rhys wobbles to his feet and retrieves two cool glasses of water from the kitchen, draining the first himself as he carries the other to the bedroom.

He creeps softly inside, letting the door drift shut behind him as he approaches the bed. Jack had rolled out of his previous cocoon and now lies on his side, sleeping curled up in the fetal position and facing the huge space window.

Rhys sits on the bed and knocks the glass against the nightstand a little too loudly, and he expects Jack to stir and groan at him for being so loud, but to Rhys’ surprise Jack stays motionless and—more surprisingly—quiet.

Rhys leans sideways on his hand, peering over Jack’s form as his heart picks up, puzzled. The comforter curls around Jack’s head like a hood, hiding his face from view. Rhys worries his lip, reaching forward and tugging the blanket away.

Jack isn’t asleep.

His eyes are half open, lids vibrating like they’d been plucked, fluttering between wanting to shut and forcing themselves open. Rhys can’t see any pupils or irises, only mottled white, even in the eye he knows to be undamaged and seeing. Jack’s skin has lost the reserve of color, even around his swollen nose and eyes, making the scar slashed across his face stand out, stark and cold. Rhys puts a hand against his forehead and gasps at the heat, even as Jack’s whole body shivers underneath the blankets.

“Jack? Holy shit, Jack!” Rhys’ voice rises urgently above a whisper as he rubs Jack’s shoulders, shaking him in hopes he’d snapped out of the fugue and tell him to screw of, but Jack only whines in a tone Rhys has never heard before, that sends his stomach twisting into one big worried knot.

Rhys ends up summoning Jack’s personal doctor in on a house call after a couple more panicked moments. He stays by Jack’s side until she comes, keeping a rag cool and wet as he rubs it over the older man’s forehead. He whispers to him until he’s lost track of what exactly he’s saying, the constant mumbling as much a comfort to himself as he hopes it is to Jack. The sound of the security door chiming finally breaks him out of it and he rises on shaky legs, taking glances over his shoulder at Jack until he manages to break away and skirt through the living room, quickly opening the door and inviting the doctor in.

He wrings the end of his tie in hand as he watches her tend to Jack. The lump in his throat refuses to go down as he looks on. He isn’t really listening to what the doctor is saying, but her voice was cool and calm and her hands assured, even as Jack’s limbs flop limp as she turns him onto his back and parts the sweat-stained blankets around his chest. Rhys knots his tie anxiously between his fingers as she records Jack’s temperature and presses her stethoscope to his chest, taking stock of his breathing.

“I’m going to put him on a fluid drip just in case,” the doctor’s measured, calm voice is a balm to Rhys’ anxiety as he nods, letting her go about her business as he numbly watches, trying not to think about the reedy, thin breaths drifting in and out of Jack’s open mouth. The doctor thankfully hides Jack’s arm with her body as she slips the needle into the vein in his forearm, wrapping it up with gauze. She hooks the bag up on a collapsible stand, letting the saline drain down with the aid of gravity.

She gives Rhys two small white bottles—one of fever reducers, one of painkillers—and a request to call her if things grow worse, then leaves Rhys alone in the dim light of the bedroom.

He sits back down heavily against the bed, before scooting to the edge, afraid to jostle Jack any more. He keeps his hands in his lap, the pills in the bottles clacking softly as he turns them over in his hands before leaning to set them against the nightstand.

It’s far too quiet.

Rhys can hear only the weak, raspy sound of Jack’s breathing, in time with the shallow rise and fall of his chest. It’s both too much, and not enough, and he can’t take it.

“You scared the hell out of me, you know that?” Rhys murmurs as he rests his hand against Jack’s shoulder, rubbing slowly down to the crook of his elbow before traveling back up, careful not to disturb the IV pulsing into his forearm. Jack’s doesn’t respond, but he seems calmer, now, less caught up in the throes of fever. Though peaceful resting doesn’t exactly suit him either, Rhys feels. If Jack hadn’t been ill and needing to recover, Rhys might be tempted to poke and prod him until he wakes up and gives Rhys a chance to hear the bite of that comforting snark.

The awkward quiet is a rough pill to swallow, so Rhys fills it aimlessly, murmuring aloud to his boyfriend about anything at all as he carefully strokes Jack’s arm, occasionally changing and wetting the cloth on his forehead.

Maybe, Rhys thinks, if he speaks like Jack is awake and acerbic as always instead of listless and hooked up to fluids, he soon will be.